Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 125, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 763 & 764, March/April 2005
- Автор: Dean David, Dempsey Timothy F.
- Год: 2005
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines
- ISBN: ISSN 1054-8122
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 125, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 763 & 764, March/April 2005». Краткое содержание книги:
“When you say this escalator has killed people,” the man continued, now looking at Roussel with eyes of a strikingly clear blue, “I assume you mean there have been accidents?”
“No, not accidents. The escalator has killed three people, from revolver shots.”
“From revolver shots? You must be joking! An escalator couldn’t...”
“When it has been established beyond doubt that no human being could have done it, there is no other conclusion possible. Old Django warned us, by the way. He kept telling us: ‘Don’t shut down the escalator, don’t do it. It will take its revenge, you’ll see.’ Nobody listened to him. Three people are dead, in circumstances which, as I said before, preclude any possibility of human involvement. An insoluble mystery, which has haunted me for years and which, every so often, brings me here at night. I stand here, in front of the fence, and I try to find an explanation. But maybe I should start at the beginning, if you’re interested?”
“Very much so. But I must warn you, I’m a sceptic by nature. I don’t really believe in haunted castles or other such things.”
“You’ll see, the facts tell it all. Several years ago, it was deemed preferable to put this escalator out of service because the funds couldn’t cover the running costs. The municipal authorities set a date to shut it down, without taking into account the resentment of the people who used it, nor the warnings of old Django, a local gypsy and soothsayer. As I told you, he warned the municipal council members, buttonholing them in the street, telling them that the escalator would take its revenge if they insisted on closing it. The first murder took place the same week that the decision was announced, just at the time when people were returning home from work. In other words, at rush hour. There was the sound of a shot and a man in the middle of the escalator fell down, a bullet between his eyes. None of the people present had seen anyone pull out a weapon or make a suspicious movement. Which is pretty strange, you have to admit. There the people are, in Indian file on the moving stairs taking them to their destination, in a concrete tunnel offering no place to hide, each with eyes fixed on the person ahead. Nobody sees anything, and yet one of them is shot dead, right in the middle of the escalator. A few days later, the same scenario: a new victim in almost identical circumstances.”
The stranger nodded his head, a smile playing on his lips. “It’s certainly strange, but an insoluble mystery? Maybe not. A lapse of concentration and someone could very well have—”
“I admit that. But now listen to what happened next. Shortly after the second murder, old Django alerted Bertrand Charpie, a rich industrialist of the region and one of the country’s wealthiest men, telling him that he would suffer the same fate as the two others if ever he decided to take the escalator. Needless to say, Charpie hardly ever used that means of transport, but he was the type of man who could not resist a challenge — quite the contrary! That was how he had acquired his reputation and made his fortune. And so the day before the escalator was due to be shut down, Bertrand Charpie, in defiance of the prophecy, turned up... here, in fact, where we are standing right now.
“It was a grey September afternoon, and there had been several showers that morning. Charpie arrived with his wife, probably to underline his unswerving disregard for danger. Even so, he was accompanied by his bodyguard Martin, an ex-policeman, and by Pierre Picard, his young brother-in-law, a past master of martial arts. The police were also there. Needless to say, the escalator had been searched with a fine-tooth comb, and two officers had been posted here to guard the entrance, with two others at the exit.
“Imagine a seemingly endless concrete tube, three metres wide and almost two hundred long, dimly lit, with wooden steps about a square metre in size, slightly wider than deep. How could anyone hide in there?
“It was about three o’clock when Bertrand Charpie stepped on the escalator with his wife, his brother-in-law, his bodyguard, and two inspectors. There was nobody on the moving steps apart from those six people, divided into three groups: Pierre Picard and one of the inspectors on the same step, ten metres ahead of Charpie and his wife, also side by side; then, ten metres behind them, Martin and the other inspector. It was in mid journey that the shot rang out: a terrifying noise, in that tunnel, and with an echo every bit as frightening. Bertrand Charpie collapsed, mortally wounded by a bullet in the chest. He died that evening. Now can you see the problem?”
“Perhaps there was a hidden passage, or some opening that would allow the killer to fire a shot?”
“Nothing like that. As you can well imagine, after a crime like that the police examined every square millimetre with a magnifying glass. Furthermore, remember that the entrance and exit were being watched by police officers. They were adamant that, except for those accompanying Charpie, nobody left the tunnel after the murder; and prior to that, there wasn’t even so much as a cat inside. The weapon was found on the side of the escalator, between the wall and the handrail, level with the spot where Charpie fell. A Browning 7.65, with no fingerprints.”
The stranger shrugged his shoulders. “So the killer can only be one of the five people who were with the victim.”
“I was expecting you’d say that. First of all, please understand that the shot wasn’t point-blank. The experts put it at a minimum of five metres. Which rules out Charpie’s wife. In any case, the other four people were watching the couple closely and were ready to swear that there was no suspicious movement on her part at the moment the shot was fired. As for Martin and the police officer with him, standing ten metres behind the couple, each is ready to swear that the other could not have fired without being noticed. The same is true for the two people in front of the Charpies on the escalator. And I am particularly well placed to assure you that Pierre Picard could not have fired on his brother-in-law. He was as close to me then as you are now. I could see his hands; with the one, he was stroking his chin, and with the other he was holding his raincoat against his chest, a little bit like...”
The stranger looked at his arm in the sling with some amusement.
“Please excuse me,” said Roussel. “I wasn’t—”
“That’s all right. No offence taken. If I’ve understood you correctly, you were the inspector next to him.”
Roussel nodded.
“So you saw the murder committed before your very eyes?”
“Precisely. Picard and I were standing facing backwards, as we didn’t want to lose sight of Charpie for an instant. We were literally petrified by the sound of the shot, and watched him clutch his chest before collapsing. His wife started to scream... It was difficult to determine the angle of fire because Charpie had just turned — or was still turning — at the moment the shot was fired. It was hard for us to work it out, and we weren’t helped by the extraordinary effect of the echo. According to Madame Charpie, the shot had been fired right next to her. To me, the sound seemed to have come from several places at once.”
“Seen from that point of view, things look pretty strange, I have to agree. But tell me, apart from the weapon, did you find any other clues?”
“Nothing, apart from cigarette ends and scraps of paper. No, wait, there was one object that did intrigue us. We found it next to the exit, on the side of the escalator: a piece of wood with a leather strap at the end. Nobody could work out what it was. In any case, the murder could not have been committed with it.”
Roussel stopped, intrigued by the gleam of amusement in the stranger’s eye.