WE GREETED THE DAWN AFTER A NIGHT OF exertion and high anxiety, gathered again in the dining room, smoking, drinking coffee, listening to the Commissioner’s harsh proclamation.
“Atwell has carried out all the actions that Manning has laid at his door,” Aubry finally summarized, “except one: he did not kill Miss Mary. From the start he realized that Emilia was the culprit. In order to save her, he was clumsy, unscrupulous, even heroic. He didn’t hesitate to vilify a child. He didn’t hesitate—when all appeared lost and he tried to convince us of his own guilt—to commit suicide. But now there is no doubt: Emilia committed the crime. She attempted to take her own life with the poison we searched for in every corner of the house, with the poison that killed Miss Mary.”
On the table was Mary’s suitcase, the same suitcase Atwell had inspected the evening I spied on him from the darkened hallway. The Commissioner opened it and handed each of us a stack of handwritten pages. I leafed through mine (I cleverly made off with them and keep them as a souvenir); some, numbered consecutively, contain chapters of novels; others, paragraphs or just sentences (sometimes repeated, with variations and corrections). For example, on one page I read: I took off my stockings, and a little lower down, the corrected version: I took off my socks. Another page read: But four days after I arrived there, a man arrived, and further down: a man came (which is proof of Mary’s fine ear and rich vocabulary). Aubry told us:
“One of these minutes was the dead girl’s ‘message.’ The Inspector, who knew her well, knew that the young lady kept all the copies of her translations. When he realized that his fiancée was in a compromised situation, he remembered the dead girl’s compulsion, recalled the letter in the English novel by Phillpotts and looked for the drafts in her suitcase. He was lucky, and it was to be expected, because the Inspector is an intelligent man.”
Presently, one of Aubry’s policemen came into the dining room. He had dark circles under his eyes and was covered with mud. The night before he had accompanied the other policeman and the chauffeur, for whom the crab bogs held no secrets, in search of the Inspector. They found him asleep next to an esparto bush. The Inspector had counted on a few hours of freedom. In that space of time it was easier to get lost and tired and fall asleep in the crab bog, than to cross it or die there. Now Atwell was awaiting us in the office. I didn’t want to see him, but I was glad he was alive. Very soon I would give him my permission to see his fiancée, who was already out of danger. The presence of a doctor in that hallway, beside that door, had been providential. A few more minutes and a life blossoming with hopes would have been cut short. The tragedy had paralyzed my brain; but my hands, my obedient professional hands, had administered emetics to induce vomiting.
I breathed deeply and felt my chest expand with immense pride and timid joy. I promised myself, resolutely, the hot bath, the change of clothing, and breakfast. With an alert spirit I greeted the morning, not with the contrite fatigue resulting inevitably from a sleepless night, but rather with the joy and faith of a pleasurable awakening.