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  THE MADMAN’S ROOM

  Paul Halter books from Locked Room International:

  The Lord of Misrule (2010)

  The Fourth Door (2011)

  The Seven Wonders of Crime (2011)

  The Demon of Dartmoor (2012)

  The Seventh Hypothesis (2012)

  The Tiger’s Head (2013)

  The Crimson Fog (2013)

  (Publisher’s Weekly Top Mystery 2013 List)

  The Night of the Wolf (2013)*

  The Invisible Circle (2014)

  The Picture from the Past (2014)

  The Phantom Passage (2015)

  Death Invites You (2016)

  The Vampire Tree (2016)

  (Publisher’s Weekly Top Mystery 2016 List)

  *Original short story collection published by Wildside Press (2006)

  Other impossible crime novels from Locked Room International:

  The Riddle of Monte Verita (Jean-Paul Torok) 2012

  The Killing Needle (Henry Cauvin) 2014

  The Derek Smith Omnibus (Derek Smith) 2014

  (Washington Post Top Fiction Books 2014)

  The House That Kills (Noel Vindry) 2015

  The Decagon House Murders (Yukito Ayatsuji) 2015

  (Publisher’s Weekly Top Mystery 2015 List)

  Hard Cheese (Ulf Durling) 2015

  The Moai Island Puzzle (Alice Arisugawa) 2016

  (Washington Post Summer Book List 2016)

  The Howling Beast (Noel Vindry) 2016

  Death in the Dark (Stacey Bishop) 2017

  The Ginza Ghost (Keikichi Osaka) 2017

  Visit our website at www.mylri.com or

  www.lockedroominternational.com

  THE MADMAN’S ROOM

  Paul Halter

  Translated by John Pugmire

  The Madman’s Room

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First published in French in 1990 by

  Librairie des Champs-Élysées as La Chambre du fou

  Copyright © Paul Halter & Librairie des Champs-Élysées, 1990

  Copyright © Paul Halter 2006

  THE MADMAN’S ROOM

  English translation copyright © by John Pugmire 2017.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Cover design by Joseph Gérard

  For information, contact: [email protected]

  FIRST AMERICAN EDITION

  Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  Halter, Paul

  [La Chambre du Fou English]

  The Madman’s Room / Paul Halter

  Translated from the French by John Pugmire

  PROLOGUE

  What can one expect to find in a coffin?

  It sometimes happens that it’s necessary to break ground in a cemetery in order to exhume a body. It’s fairly rare, admittedly, and there has to be good reason to do so.

  When the coffin appears in the light of day under the fixed stares of those present, and feverish hands get ready to raise the lid, the same question is on everyone’s lips. What are we about to discover?

  In detective novels, such events occur most frequently at dead of night or in the pale light of dawn. In real life, for the sake of discretion, they are usually arranged to take place outside of normal cemetery visiting hours. In deathly silence, the awed attendees stare fixedly at the coffin which is about to be opened. The slightest noise is amplified, the rustling of leaves becomes a moan and the creaking of the coffin lid sounds ominously sinister. Those watching are on the alert… some are expecting the worst, others are secretly hoping for it, but all have the same nagging, tormenting question: what shall we find?

  There are obviously several possibilities: the body—or what’s left of it—is still there and is the same as the one which was buried. This is the most frequent case, but some witnesses, their morbid imagination influenced by the circumstances, anticipate a different outcome.

  It can also happen that the body has disappeared, a curious phenomenon, particularly if it can be demonstrated that there was indeed a body in the coffin when it was interred and that the ground has remained unbroken prior to the exhumation. It’s also been known for the coffin not to be empty, but to contain the body of another person altogether!

  Crypts offer other interesting variations. For example, when opening the door to a crypt—sealed, needless to say—as a result of a recent death reveals the incredible sight of smashed coffins lying in total disarray. Or, worse still, every coffin in its place, but skeletons scattered everywhere!

  A particularly twisted mind might be able to imagine other baffling and shocking situations, but surely none more so than the incredible discovery which confronted the protagonists in the tale which follows. The opening of the Thorne family tomb revealed something absolutely inadmissible and completely inexplicable, but which was merely one episode in a tragic affair replete with incomprehensible events.

  At the end of this tale, it will be hard to deny that destiny is indeed a very strange thing, and to ask whether, in fact, it wasn’t written by a malicious hand guided by an evil force, a particularly devious—even demonic—spirit. In it, there was a chain of facts and circumstances, regulated as if by clockwork, and of an extreme complexity, in which each element was indispensable. The reaction of each one of the individuals involved was critical. The slightest variation, the slightest change of nuance, could have brought down the edifice so patiently constructed to achieve the tragic conclusion. But that’s also true of everyday life: if X’s mother hadn’t put salt in her husband’s coffee, and if the latter hadn’t smashed the service which had been a gift from his mother-in-law, and if the cat hadn’t given birth in his sister’s wardrobe, X would never have walked about in the blazing sun wearing waterproof boots and carrying an umbrella and thus met the woman who was to play a disruptive role in his family life, etc.

  Destiny, luck or fate? What to call the gigantic, monstrous puppet theatre guided by the hovering hand of he who controls the strings—he who knows what will happen, because it is he who has decided it shall be so?

  It’s obviously not possible to go back and trace every action of each protagonist in our tale from the moment they were born, what are their principal characteristics, and how they were influenced for better or for worse by events. But the scene which follows—which took place in a Cornish cove on a baking hot summer day in the 30s—is of particular importance, even though it occurred one year before the main events in our story.

  First Part

  1

  ‘When was the Great Fire of London, exactly?’ asked Paula Lyle, shooting her companion a mischievous glance.

  Patrick Nolan pretended not to hear. Looking straight in front of him at the beach which sloped gently down to the sea, he preferred to listen to the waves rather than the stupid history questions his friend insisted on asking. She appeared to be revelling in his ignorance. Or, rather, she was enjoying his embarrassment. But the days of him blushing like a schoolboy were over. He remembered the exact date of their first encounter, several years earlier. She had straightaway asked him Queen Victoria’s date of birth. How could she possibly have known how limited his knowledge was about historical matters and how embarrassed he would be? The only facts he remembered pertained to times of tragedy, such as the plague which ravaged the capital in 1665 and the macabre details of London Bridge and the decapitated heads on spikes. He’d also made a study of the mo
st celebrated crimes. And, of course, he did know all about the fire which had engulfed the capital.

  Still maintaining his silence, he studied her thoughtfully as she lay beside him on the beach. Roughly the same age as he—barely twenty—he would have been hard put to judge her repugnant. Light brown hair, high cheekbones, an adorable chin and mischievous blue eyes with long black lashes. Medium height and seemingly very well proportioned. Of course, to be sure, he’d have to see her without that annoying swimsuit covering her anatomy. He tried to forget about that obstacle.

  ‘I say,’ observed Paula, ‘if you’re going to undress me with your eyes, you could at least do it more discreetly. You’re like an entomologist in front of a new species of insect!’

  ‘Then how about like this?’ asked Patrick, rolling his wide-open eyes in wonder.

  The young woman stood up, looked towards the horizon and said, very seriously:

  ‘You don’t understand, my dear: we’re alone on a deserted beach, where you’re free to contemplate my knees at your leisure… If anyone should see us, my honour would be compromised.’

  ‘Don’t exaggerate, darling. Pudding Lane, one o’clock in the morning, second of September 1666.’

  ‘What?’

  Patrick regarded his fingernails nonchalantly:

  ‘You asked me when the fire had started. Is there anything else you’d like to know? The direction of the wind, the human and material losses, the consequences, both direct and indirect….’

  ‘It’s true, I’d forgotten: once death is involved you’re a veritable encyclopaedia. I never understood why you didn’t join the police… or a detective agency. I’m sure you’d have been in your element. Your obsession with the morbid….’

  Patrick Nolan raised his arms to the sky.

  ‘There we have it! You can’t show an interest in certain aspects of history or in police investigations without being treated as a pervert or a homicidal maniac.’ He lowered his arms and frowned. ‘As a matter of fact, I did apply to a couple of detective agencies. But the work was more often adultery rather than serious crime investigation. And helping cuckolds is not how I intend to spend my life.’

  ‘I should hope not,’ retorted Paula. ‘If ever I marry, it could never be to—.’

  ‘—someone like me!’ interrupted Patrick, laughingly throwing a handful of sand on Paula’s bare legs.

  Paula laughed as well:

  ‘No, that would be a catastrophe for both of us!’

  The two young people exchanged complicit glances and fell into silence. Lying on the sand, eyes closed, they savoured the warmth of the sand, the caresses of the sun’s rays and the silent calm of the cove, rocked by the unceasing murmur of the sea.

  Silently, Patrick looked back on his long friendship with Paula. She was the only girl of his age with whom he could carry on a relationship without there being any question of love. No flirting, even: just comradeship, pure and simple. She was certainly attractive, he didn’t deny that, but he’d known her for too long for there to be any feelings deeper than that. As a companion, she was never dull: whenever they were together she would tease him mercilessly and pester him with a thousand questions. He had not appreciated the time when she had subjected his nose to a detailed examination and commentary in front of several of his friends. Neither had he been amused when she’d cut the sleeves off one of his shirts on the pretext she didn’t think they were suitable—he’d almost put her over his knees to administer a spanking. Paula was certainly a handful—and that may well have been the aspect of her he found the most interesting. One day, on what she’d claimed would be a “cultural voyage” to a church near Salisbury, she’d profited from the fact they were alone inside to ascend to the pulpit and launch an inflammatory tirade in which he participated. They’d laughed so hard on the way out they’d had tears in their eyes. There were many similar incidents, but once the impish adolescent grew up to be a charming young woman, their relationship had changed. When a brief love affair of Paula’s had fizzled out, he’d taken advantage of the situation to play the wise father and offer sensible advice. At first, it was nothing more than a game for Patrick, a sort of payback. But, once he realised she listened to his recommendations, he started to take himself more seriously and vowed to become the guardian of her happiness.

  He shot a glance at his companion who, head turned to one side, appeared to be asleep. Noticing a frown on her normally smooth forehead, he asked light-heartedly:

  ‘Any worries, my sweet? An affair of the heart?’

  Paula sat up, looked at him for a long moment, then contemplated the circles her index finger was drawing in the sand.

  ‘I got a letter from Francis this morning.’

  ‘Good old Francis. What’s become of him since last summer?’

  Paula stopped drawing circles and became tight-lipped.

  ‘I saw him again last December in London. He’d invited me to spend a few days at his parents’ house. He was very nice and… made me a certain proposal.’

  Patrick smiled indulgently.

  ‘But I already know all that, Paula. You told me about it in detail, don’t you remember?’

  ‘I certainly didn’t tell you he asked for my hand in marriage!’

  ‘You didn’t need to, I guessed it anyway. He fell for you like a ton of bricks the moment he saw you. It was right here, about a year ago. I recall the scene as if it were yesterday. His parents were installed in deck chairs further up and he and his sister walked past us on the beach. As soon as he saw you his eyes lit up. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.’

  Paula looked down:

  ‘And I suppose you don’t remember the look you gave Sarah?’

  Patrick affected a casual sigh.

  ‘She’s very beautiful, I must admit. But….’

  He stopped, unable to find the words. Paula looked with amusement at her companion. He was tall and slim, and she liked to gaze into his big brown eyes full of tenderness mixed with irony, especially when he was feeling uncomfortable, as was the case now.

  ‘But?’ repeated Paula, full of smiles.

  ‘How can I put it?… She’s very beautiful, I’ll be the first to admit, but she’s not… desirable, if you see what I mean.’

  Paula raised a quizzical eyebrow:

  ‘I could almost swear I saw the two of you kissing, out there on the rocks. Don’t tell me it was an optical illusion?’

  ‘Simple politeness on my part,’ declared Patrick, stiffly. ‘Any other reaction on my part would have… offended her. It was the least I could do. Let me remind you that it was already late, it was a warm night and… Anyway, what were we talking about?’

  ‘Francis.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Francis. A nice chap, and quite interesting—at least, when he’s not talking about you.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means that, besotted as he is with you—and even that’s putting it mildly—he won’t stop asking me questions about your precious self. Just so as you know, I’ve painted a rather favourable portrait: good family, well brought up, good education, agreeable personality, conduct above reproach….’

  Paula, who seemed not to be listening, declared glumly:

  ‘I don’t know what I should do.’

  ‘What you should do? I assume the letter is to ask you if you’ve thought about his proposal?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, that’s terrific! I’m sure he’ll make you the happiest of women. I don’t know why you’re hesitating: he’s not bad looking, he loves you, he’s got a good job, he….’ Patrick put a protective arm around his friend’s shoulder and lowered his voice. ‘Now listen, I don’t want to influence you, just give you a piece of good advice: marry him. I know him well enough to say he’s the right man for you. Trust me. I knew right away….’

  Paula stared absently at the sea.

  ‘You haven’t understood anything. It would mean I’d have to leave here; and London isn’t exactly next door.’


  ‘But when you marry someone, you have to live with him. With him and nobody else. Who cares about family, friends and all the rest!’

  ‘Maybe… But that’s not the problem.’

  ‘So what is the problem?’

  ‘I—I’m not sure I love him.’

  Patrick smiled broadly:

  ‘Paula, my sweet, every woman has those same doubts. Your reaction is perfectly understandable. I’d be worried if you felt differently. You’re at the crossroads, on the brink of a new life and you’re hesitating before the unknown. There are several directions, but which to choose? You can’t avoid making a choice, you know. And it might as well be the best one….’

  Looking anxiously at him, she replied:

  ‘I’m not sure I love him.’

  Patrick gave a deep sigh and got up. He picked up a shell, threw it into the waves and came back to stand right next to her.

  ‘Listen,’ he said solemnly, ‘there’s no such thing as love at first sight, love with a capital L. Obviously, there are exceptions, cases of physical attraction with no tomorrow….’ He sighed again before looking her straight in the eye. ‘Between the two of us, we’ve clocked up forty-four years, correct? Well, has either one of us experienced a true grand passion?’

  Paula shook her head.

  ‘Neither have I,’ said Patrick, in a tone that sounded almost sinister. Satisfied with his demonstration, he stopped.

  ‘Speaking of Sarah,’ murmured Paula, ‘it appears she’s going to get married soon.’

  ‘That’s great. Who’s the lucky fellow?’

  ‘A certain Harris Thorne. Very rich and quite a bit older than she is. Francis didn’t tell me any more in his letter.’

  ‘Well, well. Wedding bells are about to chime.’

  ‘So you think I should accept….’

  ‘Yes, Paula,’ concluded Patrick firmly. ‘Marry Francis. I guarantee you won’t regret it.’