The Fourth Door, page 16
‘You have nothing to worry about. Nobody will ever know what really happened. I’ll see to it that Mr White’s death is recorded as an accident, after which your friend committed suicide. As for the Latimers, their deaths will be easy enough to explain: one of the people they were duping simply turned on them and took revenge.’
On the banks of the Thames, searchlights pierced the dark-ness; they swept across the surface of the water like luminous brushstrokes.
Footsteps echoed all around; the other officers were approaching.
‘Come on,’ said Drew. ‘They’ll never find your friend alive. Come with me, I’ll take you home.’
‘No, thank you, Inspector. I don’t want to go home just yet. I need to be alone.’
Two days later, Mr and Mrs Stevens reported the disappearance of their son, James. He was never found.
PART FIVE
EPILOGUE
Amazing. Somehow, Dr Twist found his way out of the maze. I could hardly believe it; his solution seemed to be the only natural and logical one. And yet, the whole thing fitted together so perfectly, it was as though the original author had known the answers all along – which was certainly not the case, I can assure you. Not only had he provided explanations for the deaths of Bob Farr and Arthur White, but he also managed to shed some light on all of Henry’s strange behaviour.
There were two possibilities: either Dr Twist really was extraordinary, or else I’d somehow had the solution tucked away in my subconscious all along. Typically, my daily output was three pages or so. I took many breaks in order to gather my thoughts, and consulted all kinds of reference books. This time, though, I had written non-stop every evening for two weeks, using only one resource: the Houdini biography.
I could hardly believe it myself. And why had Dr Twist made James Stevens go missing at the very end? It added nothing to the story, and was actually rather ridiculous.
Come to think of it, the covering letter was strange too. There could be only one explanation, after all. I admit that I had the benefit of some outside assistance, not in solving the mystery but in writing the epilogue. I shall say no more for the moment. We can discuss everything at our next meeting. What was that all about?
Better not to waste time trying to fathom it out. I decided to call him instead.
Just as I was dialling his number, I had a change of heart. Better to let him stew for two or three days – if I were to call him as soon as I had finished reading, it would only flatter his ego, and I wasn’t in the mood to hear him crowing on the other end of the phone. I was frankly a little irritated that he had solved the mystery so quickly after I – ‘John Carter’, mystery author extraordinaire – bet that he couldn’t.
It was almost noon and Jimmy still wasn’t back. We had planned to lunch at the White Horse, but I didn’t have much appetite. Presumably Jimmy didn’t either, given his absence.
I hadn’t set foot outside yet that day; it occurred to me that a walk in the fresh air might do me some good. My house is located deep in the countryside, over a mile from the nearest village. It’s a perfect setting for peace and solitude; I find it particularly inspiring.
I strolled over gently rolling fields, deep in thought. A few confused ideas cluttered my brain, but eventually these began to subside. Soon my mood was calm and serene. I was in such a good mood that I completely lost track of time; it was well after two in the afternoon when I got home.
As I entered the study, I found Jimmy sitting at my desk. He jumped to his feet when he saw me; in his hands were the papers I had received from Dr Twist.
‘Have you read it?’ I said.
‘Read?’ He glanced at the papers in his hand, then replaced them on the desk. ‘No, I was just waiting for you. I picked these up automatically. I haven’t read them.’
‘Well, I’m sorry to have kept you. I was walking around and completely missed lunch.’
‘It doesn’t matter, I’m not hungry anyway. But I’d better go now; I have an appointment.’
Jimmy did not come back that day. Nor did he come the next day, or the day after that. I was starting to worry about his curious absence, so I telephoned his apartment. No answer. Then I called the concierge at his building.
‘Could I speak to Jimmy Lessing, please?’
‘Mr Lessing no longer lives here,’ she answered in a surly voice.
‘What do you mean, no longer lives there?’
‘He’s gone. He left two days ago.’
‘Well, where on earth has he gone?’
‘I don’t know, he didn’t leave an address. All I know is that he’s left the country. He mentioned something about America, but I can’t tell you anything more than that.’
I hung up. I could feel the blood rushing to my face. Jimmy had left the country, completely without warning! What did it mean?
The ringing telephone brought me back to my senses.
‘Yes?’ I growled.
‘Ronald?’
‘Dr Twist! I’m so glad to hear from you. I got the papers you sent, and I have to congratulate you. I never would have thought—’
Alan Twist cut me off. ‘Can you come and see me later on this afternoon?’
‘Let me just check… Yes, I think I’m free. I can stop by at around five o’clock if that suits.’
‘Yes, that’s fine. I – Ah! Doctor! I’d better hang up, Ronald. My doctor has just arrived. I’ll see you later.’
‘No tobacco. None at all!’ Dr Twist fumed. ‘He says it’s bad for my heart. I ask you! As if a little puff here and there could do me any harm. Besides, it helps me think! And do you know what else he told me, old Doctor Death? That I should consider myself lucky I’m still allowed to have whisky – in moderation, of course. To hell with that.’
With these words, he produced his large meerschaum pipe, stuffed it with tobacco and lit it. Then he sat back in his armchair and contemplated the sea, which could be made out in the distance beyond his French window. The window frames rattled in the wind; the distant waves raged and crashed.
‘What weather,’ he continued, drawing his smoking jacket tight around his shoulders. ‘A drop of whisky will help to stave off the chill. I’ll do the honours.’
He stood up, uncurling his wiry frame from the chair, and went to the drinks cabinet to pour the whisky. It must be something more than gardening that keeps him in such excellent shape, I thought.
The whisky did indeed hit the spot, but I wasn’t about to let it distract me.
‘Dr Twist,’ I said, ‘why did you have James Stevens disappear at the end of the story? I could see no reason for it.’
Twist stared at me for a long time from behind his pince-nez. ‘I don’t know if you recall our last conversation,’ he said, running a hand through his silver hair, ‘but I suggested that you write a mystery story without a solution.’
‘That’s exactly what I did.’
He shook his head. ‘No, no, you didn’t. You didn’t play by the rules. You wrote a story knowing precisely how it would end.’
‘I assure you, I didn’t,’ I protested.
‘Wrong. There were so many clues leading to that conclusion. There could have been no other possible explanation. It was so obvious that I spotted it almost immediately.’
‘Dr Twist, I can assure you that—’
‘You’re also going to tell me,’ he interrupted, ‘that you invented Arthur White. Arthur White, the famous novelist!’
A light flashed in my memory. ‘Wait a moment – Arthur White. Yes, now that you mention it, the name does ring a bell…’
‘I thought it might,’ he said, pluming a ribbon of smoke from his pipe. ‘Arthur White did indeed exist. He died accidentally, while cleaning a rifle. That was in 1951. Two days later, his son Henry – who was deeply affected by his father’s death – committed suicide by hurling himself into the Thames… just like in your story.’
‘I wasn’t living in England at the time,’ I informed him. ‘But, yes, now that you mention it, the details are coming back to me. So you’re saying I must have unconsciously used the facts of that case when I was writing the story? Incredible.’
Dr Twist cleared his throat. ‘You didn’t write a story at all. You narrated the events as they really happened. When I finished reading, I immediately phoned my old friend Hurst, a retired Scotland Yard Chief Inspector. We had a long conversation; he remembered very well the death of the author, White, and the son’s suicide. I then gave him another version of events; the version contained in your story. Can you guess what he said to me?
‘No? Well, the official version of events had it that Arthur White’s death was accidental. Until one day around eight years ago, when Inspector Drew was lying on his deathbed and decided to reveal the truth for the first time.’
‘So Drew was real too? How bizarre! I could have sworn I’d made him up…’
‘My dear Ronald, you didn’t make any of it up.’ He adjusted his pince-nez. ‘Not Arthur White, nor his son Henry, nor James Stevens, who disappeared without trace the day after his friend’s suicide. Every single character in your story really existed. Of course, some of the names are slightly different, but apart from that the whole drama unfolded exactly as it did in your story.
‘Naturally, Drew’s confession was never made public. You can imagine what the press would have made of it: following an accusation from a Scotland Yard inspector, the son of a famous author comes to believe he is a reincarnation of Houdini, then murders his father! What a scandal it would have created.
‘Apart from a few nuances here and there, the text I sent to you describes the outcome of that sinister affair just as it happened. I pieced it together using Inspector Drew’s statement, which Hurst shared with me. Just as I said in my letter to you, I had solved the mystery, but I had a little help in writing the epilogue. Yes, this little drama unfolded just as you and I wrote it.
‘And the day after Henry White’s death, in December 1951, James Stevens disappeared. He was never seen again.’
As the echo of these words faded, Dr Twist looked me straight in the eye. He continued, ‘This, my dear Ronald, raises a question. How could you possibly have known this story? Because you knew it; there can be no question of coincidence, I’m sure you’ll agree.’
I felt uneasy. I tried in vain to reorder my confused thoughts. ‘Dr Twist,’ I said after a long moment, ‘I can assure you I wrote that story purely by instinct. All I used was a book on Houdini…
‘Wait a moment. I’m about fifty years old – just as James Stevens would be if he were still alive. You see, I know nothing of my childhood or adolescence. One day in March 1953, Canadian police simply “found” me. I was wandering down a road – a long road – and I couldn’t answer any of their questions. I didn’t know a thing. Absolutely nothing. Not who I was, or where I came from. I had no identity papers. They tried to find out who I was, of course, but they didn’t get anywhere. I didn’t match any missing persons reports in either the United States or Canada. They guessed I was about twenty-five years old, and I eventually took the name “Ronald Bowers”. But I remain an amnesiac to this day. I’ve consulted all kinds of specialists over the years – all in vain. Since then, I’ve learned to accept my condition. I left Canada for England in the early sixties, found work as a journalist, and then – well, you know the rest of my career.
‘Do you really think I could be this James Stevens, who disappeared in 1951? The dates are a perfect fit! I can hardly believe it…’
Dr Twist sat slumped in his chair, his eyes closed. A look of dreamy satisfaction crossed his face. He adjusted his pince-nez again, then smiled at me. ‘It could be, my dear Ronald. It could be. When I realised your story wasn’t fiction at all, and that James Stevens had disappeared mysteriously in 1951, I started asking a few questions about your background. That’s how I learned that you’re an amnesi – well, that you suffer with amnesia, and that your origins are a bit of a mystery. Yes, my friend, I think there’s a good chance that you are James Stevens.’ He paused, then added, ‘Either way, we’ll know soon enough.’
I was speechless.
Dr Twist leaned sideways, grabbing a large envelope from a nearby table, which he brandished triumphantly.
‘I asked Hurst to send me some extracts from his file on the White case –including a photograph of James Stevens.’ He studied the unopened envelope. ‘It came this morning, just before I phoned you. I wanted you to open it.’
With my heart pounding, I grabbed the envelope from his hand, ripped it open and took out the papers. After a moment’s sifting through them, I gave a cry of triumph. ‘It’s me! James Stevens! Look at this photograph, Dr Twist. It’s me – minus a few years, of course. So I am James Stevens.’ I took my wallet from my inside pocket, and extracted from it a small photograph. Holding the two side by side, I said, ‘Look here. This photograph is me at about thirty years old. Compare it to this one here – there’s no doubt about it. I am James Stevens!’
‘The faces are identical,’ said Dr Twist with a nod.
While he was examining the photographs, I confided, ‘To think I’d begun to suspect Jimmy Lessing – do you know him? He used to be a playwright, but he’s fallen on hard times. We’d developed a sort of collaborative partnership. He used to give me ideas for my novels. And I wondered if it might have been one of his stories that had seeped into my unconscious. He’s not English by birth either; he’s American. So I wondered if perhaps he was James Stevens – or even Henry White! It was a possibility, after all; three days ago I caught him reading the solution you sent me, and since then he’s disappeared. It looks as though he’s left the country…’
Dr Twist did not seem to be listening. Looking at me rather vaguely, he observed, ‘You wrote the story in a very interesting way, you know. I’m talking about your narrator – James Stevens. He’s a difficult character to pin down. Rather a dull sort of person, bereft of passion, taste or humanity… The only aspect of his personality that emerges in the story is his misogyny: all the women he discusses are stupid, silly, authoritarian, insipid or deceitful. There’s only one woman he describes favourably – Mrs White. Mrs White, whose kindness and gentleness of spirit clearly made an impact on him…’
Irritated at being ignored, I raised my voice, ‘As I was saying, Jimmy Lessing has left the country and I’d begun to suspect he might be the real Henry White. But Henry White drowned in the Thames back in 1951.’
‘Or so we thought,’ said Twist. ‘His body was never found, of course. But the water was freezing… no normal human being could have survived it.’
‘Well,’ I sighed, ‘it doesn’t matter now. I can still hardly believe it – I’m James Stevens. Put yourself in my shoes, Dr Twist – Doctor? What’s the matter?’
His expression had darkened. There was a look of great sadness in his eyes, and beads of sweat had begun forming on his forehead. He was staring intently at the photograph from the file.
‘The man in this photograph is you, Ronald. There can be no doubt about it. But there’s an inscription on the back. This isn’t a picture of James Stevens at all. It’s Henry White.’
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo courtesy of Paul Halter
Paul Halter is a French crime writer, known for his locked room mysteries.
His first published novel, La Quatrieme Porte (The Fourth Door) was published in 1988 and won the Prix de Cognac, given for detective literature. The following year, his novel Le Brouillard Rouge (Red Mist) won the Prix du Roman d’Aventures.
BEDFORDSQUAREPUBLISHERS.CO.UK/PAUL-HALTER
Copyright
This eBook edition first published in the UK in 2025 by
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© Paul Halter, 2025
This English translation © Tom Mead, 2025
A Maxim Jakubowski book
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