The Dream Killer of Paris by Fabrice Bourland Read Free Book Online Page B

anything had disappeared?’
    â€˜No, nothing had been touched.’
    The superintendent opened one of the two windows to let more light into the room and poked his head outside to assess the height. I joined him, to see for myself.
    â€˜I think the theory of criminal activity is looking increasingly unlikely,’ he muttered, tugging at his moustache.
    It was at least fifteen feet from the bedroom window to the ground. It was impossible to get down the wall using only one’s bare hands, particularly as there was a bed of flowering shrubs just beneath the window, which ran right along the façade of the château, and anyone landing there would have left clear traces.
    Obviously, there remained the possibility of a ladder. But given that, on the morning of the Marquis’s death, the windows had been found locked, just like the doors, then either scenario would imply that one of the three people who had entered the room together (the Marquise, the servant and the gardener) was an accomplice who had closed the window without the other two knowing. Admittedly, this seemed far-fetched.
    â€˜Well, as you said, Superintendent, we must look at the problem from all angles.’
    While Judge Breteuil questioned Second Lieutenant Rouzé and the clerk, Bezaine, recorded the information in his little notebook, I moved over to the four-poster bed and lightly tapped the wall with my hand. In detective novels the policeman always does that when confronted with a case of murder in a locked room. A secret passageway hidden behind a piece of furniture or a bookcase, a door concealed in a thick wall, and all of a sudden an impenetrable mystery finally begins to unravel.
    â€˜Are you looking for something, Monsieur Singleton?’ enquired the examining magistrate with an almost comical air of bemusement.
    â€˜I’m checking that the walls aren’t hollow in places and that there are no doors, niches, cavities or secret alcoves. You’d be surprised at the ingenious hiding places in these old houses.’
    The operation didn’t yield any results and after a few minutes I dropped to my knees and meticulously examined the floorboards.
    â€˜Absolutely nothing!’ I said in frustration, getting up. ‘This room leads to two others, doesn’t it?’
    â€˜Yes, the study and the library,’ replied the gendarme.
    â€˜Were the doors opening on to the corridor locked in these three rooms?’
    â€˜Yes, they were.’
    â€˜And this one,’ I continued, pointing to the door in front of me,between the corner wardrobe and one of the armchairs. ‘Was it closed like it is today?’
    â€˜Yes, but not locked. Actually, there is no lock or bolt.’
    â€˜And what about the door to the library?’
    â€˜That one doesn’t have a lock either.’
    â€˜So these three rooms are a single space in which one can move about freely.’
    â€˜That’s right.’
    â€˜Singleton,’ said Fourier, seeing where my thoughts were leading, ‘don’t you waste your time. Dupuytren, go and search the study and the library. See if there’s anything unusual about the floor or walls.’
    The faithful Sûreté constable, who until then had been discreetly standing by, calmly carried out the order.
    â€˜Why don’t we have a look at the other rooms?’ continued Fourier.
    â€˜An excellent idea,’ said the judge, inviting us to go first with a gesture of his hand.
    The so-called study, where Dupuytren had rolled up a large threadbare rug and pushed it against the wall in order to begin examining the floor, was a kind of antechamber between the bedroom and the library. It was filled with heavily laden bookshelves (in fact, the entire room was collapsing under the weight of words) and its only furniture was a desk buried under a heap of papers, notes, notebooks and magazines, and a worn armchair.
    A few steps away, a second door opened on to the