He didn’t go to any more of the matches, hers or anyone else’s. He stayed in his cheap motel, smoked cigarettes, watched the television set.
When he smoked, he removed the white cotton glove from the hand that held the cigarette. Otherwise, he kept the gloves on while he was alone in his room.
And periodically he emptied his ashtray into the toilet and flushed the cigarette butts.
He was ready. He knew where she was staying, had driven there twice and scouted the place. He had a gun, if he needed it. It was untraceable, he’d bought it for cash at a gun show from a man with a beard and a beer belly and a lot to say on the subject of government regulation. He had a knife, equally impossible to trace. He had his hands, and flexed them now, imagining them encircling her throat.
And there was nothing to connect him to her. He’d never sent a letter, never met her face to face, never given another human being the slightest hint of the way he and she were bonded. He’d always driven to the tournaments he’d attended, always paid cash at the motels where he stayed, always registered under a different false name. Never made a phone call from his room, never left a fingerprint, not even so much as a DNA-bearing cigarette butt.
He would stalk her, and he would get to her when she was alone, and he would do what he’d come to do, what he had to do. And the world would never know why she’d died, or who had killed her.
He was confident of that. And why shouldn’t he be? After all, they’d never found out about any of the others.
The Robber’s Grave
by Paul Halter
© 2002 by Editions du Masque; translation © 2007 from the French by John Pugmire and Robert Adey
“Paul Halter, a forty-something Frenchman, has donned the mantle of the great John Dickson Carr and has to date produced twenty-nine novels and a collection of short stories, all replete with cunning clues, brain-twisting puzzles, and always fair-play solutions,” says his translator John Pugmire. This is the pseudonymous Halter’s fourth appearance in EQMM.
“Why is there a gravestone here? Well, because grass doesn’t grow there anymore!”
Silence followed the words of Rene Baron, a jovial little man with a Charlie Chaplin moustache. There being few customers at the Two Crowns inn that evening, Baron, the owner, had come out from behind the bar to join his friends Charles Bilenski and Mike Felder and a passing visitor, one Dr. Alan Twist. From the start, Rene Baron had been intrigued by the presence of the tall, thin, elderly stranger at that time of year — the end of winter — when strangers were a rare sight. Even though, like his two friends, he was unaware that the man before him was an amateur sleuth so gifted that Scotland Yard frequently availed itself of his services, he had nevertheless sensed something out of the ordinary about him. With his calm demeanour, his unhurried movements, and his old but immaculate tweed jacket, Dr. Twist effortlessly commanded respect.
If truth be told, the eminent detective was feeling far from sure of himself. He was coming to realise, with some bitterness, that he was now well past the age when he could, on the spur of the moment, jump into his car and get away from the noise and bustle of London to lose himself in the peaceful English countryside. That evening, he had finished up in some desolate spot far across the border in darkest Wales, having started his journey heading west in total abandon. His early enthusiasm had gradually dissipated the further he traveled along narrow roads winding between barren hills and seemingly leading nowhere. In fact, the absence of signposts coupled with his increasing tiredness and the fading light had nearly proved fatal, and it was only by luck that he had managed to brake in time to avoid driving off a cliff. He had quickly decided to find refuge if he were not to spend the night under the stars, another old custom that had fallen victim to his advancing years.
Having just passed through a small village, he had turned back to try his luck there, and that was when he had noticed the strange plot of land on its outskirts, a remarkably flat field totally empty except for a large monument at its centre: a moist stone slab glistening dully under the pale light of the moon. What was it? Probably some kind of grave or memorial to the dead, for what else could it have been? He had shivered without knowing why. Was it the sight of the grave or the cool of the night? Or perhaps the wind moaning mournfully over the rooftops?
Even after getting a room at the inn, and despite the owner’s warm welcome and the heat of a roaring fire, he had been unable to shake off a feeling of unease, as if the shadow of the strangely moist stone had followed him into the rustic hostelry. In an attempt to rid himself of the feeling, he had struck up conversation with the others, hoping to find an explanation. But the reaction of the three men had not been what he had expected: Their faces had clouded at his question.
Dr. Twist swallowed his scotch and frowned. “You say the grass doesn’t grow there anymore? It seems to me that I saw a wide green field back there.”
“All around it, yes,” replied Mike Felder, a forty-year-old of military bearing and frank expression. “But at that particular spot, no. That’s why we laid that stone, so that nobody would notice the bare patch.”
The detective’s astonishment grew. “I don’t understand... Are you telling me the grass doesn’t grow only on those few square feet?”
“Yes.”
“But that’s—”
“Absurd. Quite so, but it’s nevertheless true. Everyone around here knows it. The grass stopped growing in that particular spot more than a hundred years ago. And it’s stayed that way despite several attempts to remedy the situation.”
Charles Bilenski, the shortest of the three friends and also the most discreet, interrupted the discussion in an accent that betrayed his Slav roots: “You have to understand, the grass cannot grow there, it’s no longer possible.”
“No longer possible,” echoed Twist. “Why the devil can’t it grow there?”
With a placid smile tinged with a touch of malice, Rene Baron declared: “That, my dear sir, is a mystery that science cannot explain. But I imagine you would like to learn about the origin of this curious phenomenon?”
“Yes, I’d be much obliged.”
The innkeeper replenished the glasses before starting his strange tale. He spoke with the singsong tones of his native southern France. His accent, in contrast to that of Bilenski, was scarcely noticeable, but Twist was able to detect it, having vacationed frequently in the region. Furthermore, he had noticed a framed photograph hanging behind the bar which showed Rene Baron in his youth. He was playing boules with his friends against a background of an old Mediterranean port. An adjacent photograph was even more revealing: It showed three young men in R.A.F. uniform standing proudly in front of a Spitfire. Despite the passage of time, Twist had no difficulty in recognizing his three companions.
“About a hundred years ago,” his host began, “a certain Idris Jones, a traveler in the region, was arrested for murder, denounced by a couple of blackguards who claimed to have seen him beat an old beggar to his death while robbing him. Jones claimed that it was, on the contrary, the two ne’er-do-wells that had killed the old man. I don’t know what tipped the scales — possibly it was because he wasn’t a local — but the fact is he was strung up high despite his heated denials.”
“Justice was pretty swift in those days,” observed Mike Felder. “But it seems very likely it went awry in this case.”