Chapter 40
While Madame Mélias and Brian held their breath, scanning the room nervously, Josée sat poised, her gaze fixed straight ahead.
As the doujinshi was handed out, the literary salon fell into a silence so sudden and complete it was as if someone had poured cold water over the gathering.
“Everyone, I’m sure that story gave you quite a shock, didn’t it?” Josée said, her voice calm and composed. “Well then, Madame Mélias, shall we begin the review?”
Prompted by Josée, Madame Mélias nodded. Having already read the manuscript, she spoke with practiced ease.
“The key to this mystery novel lies in the suspicious death of the novelist Leo in the Fourth Avenue fire. The detective realized it wasn’t an accident but a murder because—although Leo didn’t smoke—the fire was attributed to cigarettes, correct?”
“Yes. At first, the bumbling detective just went on instinct. But later, he uncovered more evidence. That’s how the story develops,” Josée explained.
From across the room, Bernard let out a small cough of annoyance.
“There was a character named Hans, Leo’s relative, who provided the critical hint. He told the detective that Leo never smoked,” Madame Mélias continued.
“Right. And because of that, the detective’s initial theory was thrown out the window.”
“Yes. Cigarettes were ruled out as the cause. But what was even more concerning was something Hans said afterward.”
“According to him,” Madame Mélias said, “Leo had received a box of cigarettes from the 'organizer of the literary salon.' After that, he started breaking out in rashes and couldn’t hold a pen anymore.”
A murmuring stirred through the room. Despite the growing tension, Madame Mélias remained composed.
“So what does that suggest? According to the detective, the cigarette box was made out of ‘manchineel wood,’ right?”
“Yes,” Josée confirmed. “‘Manchineel’—it’s an extremely poisonous tree. Just touching it causes severe skin irritation, and burning it releases toxic fumes. It’s among the most dangerous natural poisons known. Only Leo’s cigarette box was made from that wood.”
“That’s a terrifying tree~,” someone muttered.
“Exactly,” Josée said. “It’s deadly whether touched or inhaled. And when it burned, even the local residents were affected by the poison.”
Madame Mélias moved on to the next pivotal point.
“Now then... let’s talk about the actual cause of the fire.”
As if she had been waiting for that cue, Josée stepped in.
“Yes. The testimony from a local resident who saw a strange glow in the window in the middle of the night, correct?”
“At first, people thought it was just the glow of a cigarette. But Hans’s testimony ruled that out. So then, what *was* that light?”
Josée turned her gaze toward Bernard as she responded.
“When the bumbling detective questioned the locals, one of them mentioned that something always glowed faintly at Leo’s window after the salon meetings—like a firefly. That’s when the detective realized... maybe the cigarettes contained yellow phosphorus.”
Barnabé perked up at that.
“Phosphorus? Isn’t that the stuff they use in matches?”
“Exactly. It’s easy to obtain, and it glows in the dark. But it’s also highly flammable and dangerous. Under the right conditions, yellow phosphorus can ignite on its own.”
“Huh...”
“It doesn’t always catch fire, but if it’s hot and dry, it can. On the other hand, if it’s kept wet or in a humid environment, it won’t ignite. In fact, yellow phosphorus is usually stored in water to prevent combustion. So—”
Josée shifted her gaze, locking eyes with Count Phil.
“The organizer of the literary salon soaked cigarettes laced with yellow phosphorus in water and placed only those in Leo’s box. After receiving the box, Leo developed rashes and couldn’t hold a pen anymore. But since he didn’t know anything about poisons, he just left the box by the window. That was the second misfortune. The cigarettes dried out, and eventually, the phosphorus ignited while he slept—and he never woke up.”
Count Phil looked away, but Josée pressed on, her voice unwavering.
“Then came the third trap. When manchineel wood burns, it releases toxic fumes. And in a closed room, the effect is even more lethal. That’s how Leo died. And the fire kept burning long after, spreading the poison. The reason there was no ash in his mouth was because he didn’t die from smoke inhalation—he was poisoned. That’s the truth behind the case.”
With that, Josée stood up.
“That’s how it happened, isn’t it, Count Phil?”
Every head in the room turned toward the Count.
He let out a booming laugh, but his eyes darted nervously.
“What ridiculous nonsense. You don’t even have any proof...”
Josée wasn’t fazed.
“Hmph. You think a fire destroys *all* the evidence? There’s plenty left—*outside*.”
“...What?”
“The police have already begun their investigation. Since you import cigarettes, you’re well-connected to the tobacco and match industries, aren’t you? There are documents showing you purchased yellow phosphorus from a match manufacturer.”
“...”
“It’s a hazardous material, Count. Of course there are records of it. And as for the manchineel tree—you recently had one cut down on your estate. Officially, you claimed it was to prevent accidents. But we now know you had a craftsman weave a box from that very wood.”
“...”
Count Phil sneered and snorted through his nose.
“So what? Even if I did make a box, get some phosphorus, and give it to someone... you really think that’s enough to charge me with murder?”
Josée bit her lip.
He wasn’t wrong. Unless it was an obvious weapon or explosive, simply giving someone a dangerous item didn’t automatically count as attempted murder. If he denied intent, the punishment would be far lighter.
But Josée had one last card to play.
At her signal, Bernard opened his notepad with a dramatic flourish. The entire room held its breath.
Now came the final blow.
“Count. Then tell us—why did you give that box *only* to Florent? There must be a reason, right?”