Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 125, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 763 & 764, March/April 2005

The Tunnel of Death by Paul Halter

Though Paul Halter is French (from Alsace-Lorraine), it isn’t easy to find short stories by him set in France, since he mostly writes about an English detective called Dr. Twist. This new tale, the author’s second for EQMM, is set in Le Havre, France. Mr. Halter is a great admirer of John Dickson Carr, and what he’s created this time would probably qualify as a locked room mystery — the genre for which Carr was renowned.

“You seem very thoughtful, sir.”

Roussel turned and studied the man who had just spoken to him and was approaching him with a friendly smile. There was un-doubtedly something elegant about the fifty-year-old with the long, carefully groomed hair, but his clothes had seen better days, and he held his arm in a sling. Roussel had already made his diagnosis: one of those brave unfortunates that a stroke of fate had thrown on the street, struggling to maintain a vestige of dignity, and more in need of human contact than money.

Roussel offered a brief smile before answering:

“Thoughtful? Hard to be otherwise when we have a tunnel here that kills people.”

For a few seconds, not a sound could be heard on that bleak October evening except the moaning of the wind blowing through Montmorency Street, in Le Havre.

“A tunnel?” gasped the newcomer, wide-eyed. “A tunnel that kills people? Which tunnel?”

“Why, the tunnel that houses the escalator there,” replied Roussel absent-mindedly, staring in front of him through the wire-mesh fence which protected a short passage open to the sky, leading to a wooden door.

“An escalator? Ah, yes! That’s what it says above the door.”

“The biggest in Europe, nearly two hundred metres long. Thanks to this monster, it only took five minutes to reach the top of the town, otherwise... You’re not from this region, are you?”

“No... No, I’m not from around here.”

So saying, the man lowered his eyes. He was standing in front of the mesh fence next to Roussel, who inspected him discreetly, but not without a measure of sympathy. Evidently someone more used to sleeping under the stars than in a bed. Roussel was on the point of asking him how he had injured his arm, but held back.

“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.

“Life is made of coincidences,” he observed, with a sort of dreamy contentment. “On the one hand, you’re a flatf — detective. And now this strange object. It’s incredible...”

“Don’t try and tell me that stick has something to do with the murder. I warn you, if you’re thinking that it’s some kind of ultra-sophisticated firing mechanism, you can forget about it. The experts were quite clear on that point.”

“I never said that.”

A long silence followed his words. Roussel had the distinct impression that the stranger had just solved the mystery. His calm and slightly condescending expression seemed to confirm that.

“From what I understand,” he said, eventually, “the victim had a very forceful personality.”

“Yes, indeed,” agreed Roussel. “Bertrand Charpie was not at all your typical captain of industry. His audacity was legendary, he launched an extraordinary number of new endeavours, and always successfully. He had also made a very promising start in politics. Yet, despite all that, he remained a very simple man of the people. He could often be seen buying one of his workers a drink...”

“...The more to exploit him. I see. I suppose that he also made grandiose philosophical speeches, preaching the love of one’s neighbour and disdaining all base material things, such as money and property.”

“Yes, he—”

“Do you honestly believe that it is possible to succeed as he did by following the philosophy that he preached?”

“Well, I—”

“Wasn’t he really the worst kind of hypocrite?”

“Maybe,” replied Roussel, noncommittally. “But what is your point?”

“Just this: Almost anybody could have held a grudge against such an individual, not least his relatives.”

“That may be. But it’s not the motive that’s the problem, it’s how the killer managed to do it. And I get the feeling,” added Roussel, his eyes narrowing, “that you have an idea.”

“Idea?” said the stranger, with a smirk. “I’d say I was certain.”

He stopped, looked furtively about him, thought for a moment, then continued:

“Listen, I can’t tell you right now, but I’m sure you’ll understand everything a few minutes after I’ve gone. For the time being, I’ll give you a clue. The killer is obviously one of the people in the tunnel at the time of the murder. Someone who has been carrying out a diabolical plan — sacrificing two innocent people so that Charpie’s death would look like some kind of curse. And I’ll bet the old gypsy’s palm was crossed with silver so he would utter his dire warnings. The challenge to Charpie was also part of the scheme: being the boastful braggart he was, he couldn’t have ignored it without damaging his reputation. As to how the trick was worked, I think the killer threw an exploding cigar, which he had just lit, an instant before he drew his gun, so as to create a diversion. I have to go now but, believe me, the rest will become clear to you. I’m sure of it.”

Taken by surprise, Roussel watched the stranger vanish into the night. Only the flutter of a few dead leaves marked the spot where he had been standing just a moment before.

I can’t tell you right now, but I’m sure you’ll understand everything... a few minutes after I’ve gone.

Mad as a hatter, thought Roussel. Not only had he tried to pretend that he had succeeded where a professional like himself, Roussel, had failed over the years, but, to cap it all, he had claimed that the solution would become clear in a few minutes, as if by magic. A candidate for the loony bin, no doubt about it.

Roussel started back towards his flat, but sleep was out of the question. He ducked into a bar, ordered a double scotch, and looked at his watch: eleven o’clock. Fifteen minutes had gone by since the stranger had disappeared. He shrugged his shoulders, emptied his glass, and ordered another one. In his mind’s eye, he saw the stranger with his arm in a sling. A curious individual. A tramp, as he had first thought? His eyes had been clear, not those of a wandering drunkard. Alert and mischievous...

Ten minutes later, he decided it was time to head home. He called for the bill and reached into his pocket, only to find his wallet had gone!

His wallet, which had contained more than half his pay.

Not only had it gone, but there was a large hole in his pocket, cut cleanly, as if by a razor.

“Listen, Roussel,” said the detective superintendent, trying to remain calm. “You’ve got a good many years left before you retire, and probably a couple of promotions. So, if I were you, I wouldn’t go stirring up old cases which neither you nor anyone—”

“Picard threw the fake cigar away just before Charpie fell, I’m absolutely certain of it. He threw it on the side, and it exploded just as the Charpies drew level with it. He was waiting for the explosion and fired on Charpie the same instant. We took the two almost simultaneous explosions as an echo. Besides, do you remember there were different witness accounts about the direction of the shot?”

“Okay, okay. Suppose that’s true. How do you explain that you didn’t see him fire, even though he was only standing a few centimetres from you?”

Roussel opened a bag and pulled out a wooden rod about thirty centimetres long, with a short, wide leather belt attached at one end. “This isn’t the actual object that was found at the scene of the crime, but it’s very much like it. Now, tighten the belt around my biceps, so that the rod crosses my chest horizontally. There, that’s good. Now, take one of the gloves in the bag and the raincoat to hide the rod completely.”

“A false arm,” murmured the superintendent, in utter astonishment.

“Yes, a false arm. An old pickpocket’s trick. There’s also a false plaster arm and a false arm in a sling, but let’s not bother with them. It’s a perfect illusion, isn’t it? It really looks as though the raincoat is on my arm, but my real forearm is free, behind my back. I remember Picard was wearing gloves. He was standing just as I am in front of you: almost facing me, but slightly turned so as to observe Charpie. And he simply fired on him with the hand behind his back. Granted, it’s not everyone who could aim accurately in those circumstances, but easy for an experienced marksman. And I recalled that he was a combat sports enthusiast.”

“Hell’s bells, Roussel, you’ve almost got me convinced. But, tell me, how did you tumble to the answer?”

“You probably know that I often used to walk around near the escalator after it was shut down. Thinking calmly, soaking in the atmosphere of the crime scene...”

Looking down, and fingering the stitched-up jacket pocket, Roussel said: “One of these days, it was bound to... pay off.”

Copyright ©; 2000 by Paul Halter, originally published in La Nuit du Loup (Hachette Livre); translation ©; 2004 by John Pugmire.