To recapitulate: it must be taken as certain that Dupont killed himself without the help of either the doctor or the housekeeper; consequently he did it when he was alone-that is: either in his study at seven-thirty, or in his bedroom, while the housekeeper was calling the clinic from the telephone in a nearby cafe. After the old woman’s return, Dupont remained with someone at all times-the housekeeper first, later the doctor-and either one would have kept him from making a second attempt. He might also have fired a first shot in the study and a second in the bedroom, but this complication would not settle anything, for in any case he didn’t seem seriously wounded at the time of the doctor’s arrival. As a matter of fact, it is not plausible to question the housekeeper’s good faith (only the doctor is an accomplice in the distortion of the truth). When he left his house, Dupont wasn’t dead, he could even walk, more or less-the doctor was forced to indicate this, in order not to be contradicted by the housekeeper. All of which, moreover, could be calculated ahead of time: the housekeeper not being in on the secret, it was necessary to avoid having her find the body holding a revolver-which would give her more opportunities to suspect suicide and would also permit her to call in any doctor-or even the police.
Consequently the solution is as follows: Dupont shoots himself in the chest, knowing the wound to be mortal but giving him time enough to shout that he has been attacked. He takes advantage of the housekeeper’s deafness to get her to admit to a murderer’s hasty flight through the house. Then he waits for his friend the doctor to arrive and explains to the latter what he must do after his death. Juard takes the wounded man away^ and then attempts to save him in spite of himself…
There is still something that does not fit: if he seemed in such good condition, Dupont could not be so certain that his wound was mortal.
Which leads back to the hypothesis of the apparent failure followed by a last-minute retreat when faced with death. Dupont aimed badly; he gave himself an apparently harmless wound which nevertheless frightened him enough to make him abandon his plan. He then called for help, but being unwilling to admit the truth, he invented the preposterous story of an attack. As soon as the doctor arrived, Dupont had himself taken to the clinic and operated on, without waiting for a stretcher. But his wound was more serious than was supposed, and an hour later he was dead. Hence not only are the housekeeper’s declarations sincere (she could even have seen some door open that wasn’t supposed to be), but it remains possible that the doctor’s are, too: the gynecologist need not have discovered that the bullet was fired at point-blank range. The minister, who knows the ins and outs of the case because of a letter from Dupont sent just before, has had the inquest stopped and the body removed.
Commissioner Laurent knows that he will now recapitulate all his hypotheses once again, for it is precisely this last solution he finds the most unsatisfactory. Though at each new attempt since this morning he has come out at the same point, he refuses to accept this conclusion. He would prefer any unlikelihood to that banal reversal generally attributed to the instinct of self-preservation, but which fits in so badly with the professor’s character, the courage he has shown in many circumstances, his behavior at the front during the war, his refusal to compromise in civil life, his unquestioned force of character. He could decide to kill himself; he could have reasons for wanting to disguise this death; but he could not abandon his plan so suddenly, once he had embarked upon it.
Yet aside from this, there remains only one explanation: murder; and since there is no possible murderer, it is Wallas’ theory that has to be adopted: the phantom “gang” with their mysterious purposes and inscrutable conspiracies… Commissioner Laurent laughs to himself over this, so preposterous does he find the minister’s latest notion. This case is mixed up enough already, without looking for such nonsense to add to it.
Then too, it is really too absurd to go on wracking his brains over a riddle from which he has been so opportunely excused. Besides, it is time for lunch.
But the rubicund little man cannot make up his mind to leave his office. He expected to have some word from Wallas during the morning, but he has received neither a second visit nor a phone call. Has the special agent also been assassinated by the gangsters? Vanished for ever, swallowed up by the shadows?
Actually, he knows nothing about this Wallas, nor about the exact nature of his job. Why, for instance, did he need to visit Laurent before starting his work? The commissioner possesses nothing but the testimony of the doctor and the old housekeeper; the agent sent from the capital could question both of the latter directly. And he had no particular need to ask permission to enter the dead man’s residence-open henceforth to anyone at all, under the protection of a half mad old woman.
In this respect, one might say that the minister’s behavior is at the least frivolous: in a criminal case you don’t…But isn’t this offhandedness the best evidence that the case is one of suicide, and that they are well aware of this in the capital? All the same, it may cause them some difficulties later on, with the heirs.
And Wallas, if this is so-what is he doing here? Is it by an error of transmission in Roy-Dauzet’s orders that the illustrious Fabius has started this counter-investigation? Or does the special agent also know that Dupont committed suicide? His job could be merely to pick up important papers in the house in the Rue des Arpenteurs, and his visit to the police was then only a sign of courtesy. If you can call it courtesy to come and make fun of a high official by telling him old wives’ tales…
No, that’s not it! It’s obvious that Wallas is sincere: he believes strongly in what he says; as for his unexpected visit, wouldn’t it be one more sign that Laurent is respected in the capital?
The chief commissioner has reached this point in his reflections, when he is interrupted by the arrival of a strange character.
Without any announcement from the officer on duty, without even a knock, the door opens slowly and a head appears in the aperture, glancing around the room with an anxious expression.
“What is it?” the commissioner asks, ready to throw the intruder out.
But the latter turns his long face toward Laurent and, placing his index finger vertically across his lips as though to ask for silence, he begins making a series of clownish gestures, both imperative and suppliant. At the same time he enters completely and closes the door behind him with a thousand precautions.
“Now, Monsieur, what do you want?” the commissioner asks.
He no longer knows whether to be annoyed, amused, or disturbed. But his loud voice seems to terrify his visitor. In fact, the latter, who is trying to make as little noise as possible, stretches his arm out toward him in a pathetic exhortation to be still, while approaching the desk on tiptoe. Laurent, who has stood up, instinctively steps back toward the wall.
“Don’t worry,” the stranger murmurs, “and please don’t call any one or you’ll ruin me.”
He is a man in late middle age, tall and thin, dressed in black. His measured tone and the middle-class dignity of his clothes somewhat reassure the commissioner.
“To whom have I the honor of speaking, Monsieur?”
“Marchat, Adolphe Marchat, wood exporter. I apologize for this intrusion, Commissioner, but I have something extremely important to tell you, and since I wanted no one to know I am here, I thought that the gravity of the circumstances would authorize me to…”
Laurent interrupts him with a gesture that means “In that case, of course!” but he is irritated: he has already noticed that the rotation of the floor men was not efficient between service hours; he must have that taken care of.
“Sit-down, Monsieur,” he says.
Returning to his desk and his familiar position, he spreads out his hands on top of the papers.