The Madman's Room

‘“Eliminate the impossible and whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,”’ sneered Inspector Archibald Hurst. ‘Come on, Twist, you make me laugh with your maxims!’

‘That one’s not mine, it belongs to—.’

‘In any case, you’ve adopted it. Not a month goes by without you trotting it out.’

‘And why does it make you laugh so much, my friend?’ asked Dr. Twist, pouring two cups of tea.

‘Why? Because it’s false. Completely false. You know as well as I do that every time we tackle a case, nine times out of ten it’s the “impossible” hypothesis which turns out to be correct.’ The inspector’s ruddy face darkened suddenly. ‘But, come to think of it, every time you pronounce the phrase, there’s a problem you’re mulling over.’

Twist nodded and Hurst looked as though he’d been slapped in the face. He listened to the clock strike five and turned to look out of the window at the light fog which was settling on London, telling himself that Tuesday evening didn’t look as if it would be much fun.

‘Don’t tell me it’s a locked room problem,’ he said, forcing himself to remain calm. ‘Not that, Twist. Anything but that. Last month’s kept me from sleeping during the entire investigation. I spent a whole week racking my brains for a solution — which turned out to be so simple I spent another couple of nights wondering why we hadn’t found it earlier. Frankly, I’m not ready for another one so soon.’

‘If that were all… The affair I’m thinking about seems to be much more complex than a simple locked room. Don’t pull that face, Archibald, and listen before you drink my tea. It’s just occurred to me that you know about it already. It was you yourself who told me about the Thorne case a year ago!’

‘Thorne… Thorne,’ repeated the policeman, frowning. ‘I remember: the strange suicide, the clairvoyant and the sealed room.’

‘That’s the one. There have been some recent developments. No murders, as of yet, just new prophecies that have come to pass. Do you know Patrick Nolan? The young detective who has an agency near Piccadilly?’

‘Vaguely,’ grunted Hurst. ‘Get to the point.’

‘Well, he came to see me yesterday evening.’

Whereupon Alan Twist repeated the details of what Patrick had told him.

He didn’t mention the idyll with White Camellia for the simple reason that Patrick hadn’t confessed to it.

In the silence which followed, Hurst lit a cigar, a sullen expression on his face.

‘Thoughts can’t kill,’ he growled. ‘It’s impossible.’

‘That’s a strange maxim, my friend,’ teased Twist. ‘In the first place, the young woman isn’t dead yet. And secondly it’s a prophecy, not a thought… and one that only announces misfortune — a grave misfortune, admittedly, but a misfortune nonetheless.’

‘Whatever the case may be, I’m sticking to my first impression: that Brian is a shady character.’ Hurst brought his fist down on the table and Twist winced as the porcelain rattled. ‘Hell’s bells, don’t tell me you’re taking that charlatan’s tall tales seriously!’

Still holding up to ridicule all prophets and soothsayers, Hurst, after having crumpled up an empty envelope which was lying on the table, got up and started pacing the room, kneading it with his large hand. He finished his speech by throwing the rolled-up ball of paper into the fire. His expression changed to one of alarm when he saw his friend Twist watch with amazement as the flames devoured the mistreated envelope.

‘Good grief,’ he stammered. ‘Excuse me, Twist, but with these damned soothsayers, I got carried away. Nothing too serious, I hope?’ he added contritely.

‘Archibald, you’re a genius!’

‘But the envelope…’

‘Don’t worry about that, you deserve a medal.’

The inspector had become accustomed to his friend’s enigmatic remarks, but this one took the cake. Twist was mocking him! Once again, he brought his great fist down on the table, this time ending the days of one of the cups which spilt its contents over the immaculate tablecloth. Catastrophe! He closed his eyes, his features tense, and couldn’t believe his ears when he heard:

‘It’s extraordinary, Archibald, extraordinary.’

He opened his eyes to see the criminologist looking in delighted surprise at the scene of the disaster.

‘Extraordinary,’ repeated Twist. ‘Fabulous! My dear Archibald, I don’t think you realise the full extent of your discovery.’

‘My… discovery?’

‘You’ve lifted the veil on one part of this mysterious affair, and not the least important. Come, come, don’t play the innocent. You know very well what I’m talking about. Your first gesture may have been just pure luck, I admit, but not the second. Your double indication….’

‘I can assure you I don’t—.’

‘Really?’ said Twist. ‘Well, it’s quite possible. You have the gift of pointing me in the right direction without knowing it. Forget everything I said, then. In fact, it was only a detail. An important one, but a detail nonetheless. Now, let me think.’

Archibald Hurst settled his considerable bulk into his chair and watched his friend puff on his pipe. Several minutes elapsed before the eminent detective spoke.