HOW DEATH STALKED ABROAD AT NOONDAY
A little later, I found myself in the lower parlor of “la Louve,”
tete-a-tete with Mme. Edith. I attempted to reassure her, seeing how
restless and nervous she was; but she buried her pale face in her hands
and her trembling lips allowed the confession of her fears to escape
them.
“I am frightened!” she murmured. I asked her what frightened her and
she looked at me wildly and said, “And aren’t you afraid, too?” I kept
silence, for I was afraid, myself. She said again. “You know something
of what is going on--here or there or all around us! Ah, I am all
alone! all alone! And I am so frightened.” She turned toward the door.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“I am going to look for someone. I won’t stay here alone.”
“For whom are you going to look?”
“For Prince Galitch.”
“Your ‘Feodor Feodorowitch!’” I cried. “What do you want with him? Am I
not here?”
Her nervousness, unfortunately, seemed to increase in proportion to my
efforts to drive it away and I began to realize that a fearful doubt as
to the personality of her uncle, Old Bob, had entered her mind.
“Let us go out into the air!” she said, impatiently. “I can’t breathe
in this place.” We left “la Louve” and entered the garden. It was
approaching the hour of noontide and the court was a dream of perfumed
beauty. As we had not donned our smoked spectacles, we were obliged
to put our hands before our eyes in order to shield them from the
glaring rays of the sun and the too glowing hues of the flowers. The
giant geraniums struck on our eyeballs like bleeding wounds. When we
had grown a little more used to the dazzling sight, we advanced over
the shining sands, Edith clinging to my hand like a little child. Her
hand burned hotter than the sun and seemed like a veritable flame. We
looked down at our feet in order to prevent our eyes from falling on
the blinding expanse of the waters and also, it may be, in order not to
glance toward the buildings in which so many strange things had taken
place--perhaps, were taking place even now.
“I am afraid!” murmured Edith once more. And I, too, was
afraid--overwhelmed after the mysteries of the night by the vast,
desolate silence of the noon.
The broad glare of daylight in which one knows that something strange
and terrible is going on is more awful than the deepest and darkest
night. Everything sleeps and yet everything wakes. Everything is dead
and everything is living. Everything is wrapped in silence and still
there are sounds everywhere. Listen to your own ear. It sounds as loud
as a conch shell filled with the most mysterious sounds of the sea.
Close your lids and look into your own eyes; you will find there a
throng of crowding visions more mysterious than the phantoms of the
night.
I looked at Mme. Edith. Beads of perspiration stood out on her forehead
and her face was pale as death. I was trembling and chilled, for, alas!
I could do nothing to help her and destiny was weaving its inexorable
web all around us and that nothing which we could say or do would
hinder in the slightest degree its slow, undeviating march. Edith led
the way toward the postern gate which opens upon the Court of the Bold.
The vault of this postern formed a black arch in the light and at the
extremity of this tunnel, we perceived, facing us, Rouletabille and
M. Darzac, who were standing at the edge of the inner court, like two
white statues. Rouletabille was holding in his hand Arthur Rance’s
ivory-headed cane. Why this latter fact should have disturbed me, I
do not know, but so it was. Motioning with the cane, he showed Robert
Darzac something on the summit of the vault which we could not see and
then he pointed us out in the same way. We could not hear what he said.
The two talked together for a few moments with their lips scarcely
moving, like two accomplices in some dark secret. Mme. Edith paused,
but Rouletabille beckoned to her, repeating the signal with his cane.
“Oh, what does he want with me now?” she cried like a frightened child.
“Oh, M. Sainclair, I am so miserable. I am going to tell my uncle
everything and we shall see what will happen then.”
We went on until we reached the vault and the others watched us without
making a movement to meet us. They stood like two statues, and I said
aloud in a voice which sounded strangely in my own ears:
“What are you two doing here?”
We had come up close to them by this time, upon the threshold of the
Court of the Bold, and they bade us turn around with our backs toward
the court so that we could see what they were looking at. There was
on top of the arch, an escutcheon, the shield of the Mortola, barred
with the mark of the cadet branch. This escutcheon had been carved
in a stone now loose, which seemed in imminent danger of falling and
crushing the heads of the passers by. Rouletabille had without doubt
noticed this danger, and he asked Mme. Edith if she had any objections
to its being pulled down until it could be replaced more solidly.
“I am sure that it will fall before long and it might do serious
damage,” he said, touching it with the end of his cane, and then
passing the stick to Mme. Edith.
“You are taller than I,” he went on. “See if you can reach it.”
But both she and I tried in vain to touch the stone; it was too high
for us and I was about to inquire what was the meaning of this singular
exercise when all at once, behind my back, _I heard the cry of a
dying man in his last agony_.
* * * * *
We turned with one impulse, uttering an exclamation of horror. Ah,
that cry of mortal agony which rang out on the air of the noonday just
as it had through the night! Would we never be free from murder? When
would that fearful sound which I had heard for the first time that
night at the Glandier, never be done with announcing to us that a new
victim had been struck down among us? that one of our own number had
fallen beneath some fatal blow, as suddenly as though by some frightful
pestilence? Surely, the mark of the epidemic itself is less invisible
and terrible than that of the hand which kills.
We all stood there, shivering, our eyes wide with horror, questioning
the deeps of the sky still vibrating from that cry of death. Who was
dead? Who was dying? What expiring breath had emitted that terrible
sound? One might have thought that it was the clearness of the day
itself which cried out in suffering.
Rouletabille was the most terrified of us all. I have seen him, under
the most untoward circumstances, maintain a composure which seemed
greater than any human creature could hold; I have seen him, at a like
horrible cry of death, rush into the danger of the darkness and cast
himself like a heroic rescuer into the sea of shadows. Why should he
tremble so to-day in the full splendor of the noon? He remained fixed
to the spot, as weak as a baby, he, who a little while ago, declared
that he would prove himself the master of the hour. He had not foreseen
this moment then? this moment in which a human life had been snatched
away under the noonday sun!
Mattoni, who was passing through the garden, and who had also heard the
cry, rushed up. At a gesture from Rouletabille he stood rooted to the
spot an immovable sentinel; and now the young man had gained sufficient
power to advance toward the cry--or, at least, toward the center of the
cry, for it seemed still to echo everywhere around us and to circle
about in the all embracing space. And we hurried behind him, our breath
coming fast, our arms stretched out, as one holds them when one is
groping in the dark and fears to stumble against something which one
does not see.
We approached the place from which the shriek had come and when we
had passed the shade of the eucalyptus we found the cause. The
cry had come, indeed, from a soul passing into the unknown. It was
Bernier--Bernier in whose throat sounded the death rattle, who was
trying in vain to rise and who was at the last gasp of his life. It was
Bernier from whose breast flowed a stream of blood--Bernier over whom
we leaned, and who, with one last, fearful struggle, summoned strength
enough to utter the two words: “Frederic Larsan!”
Then his head fell back and he was dead. Frederic Larsan! Frederic
Larsan! He who was everywhere and nowhere! He always and forever. Here,
yet again, was his mark. A dead body--and no one anywhere near who
could have committed the murder, by any possibility of human reason.
For the only means of egress from the spot on which the crime had
occurred was by this postern where we four had been standing. And we
had turned, with one impulse and one movement, at the very instant
that the cry rang out--so quickly that we had almost seen the stroke
of death given. And when we looked, there had not even been a shadow
before our eyes--nothing but the light!
We rushed, moved by the same sentiment, it seemed to me, into the
Square Tower, the door of which still stood open; we entered in a
body the bedroom of Old Bob, passing through the empty sitting room.
The injured man was lying quietly on his bed within, and near him a
woman was watching--Mere Bernier. Both were as calm and still as the
day itself. But when the wife of the dead concierge saw our faces she
uttered a cry of affright, as though smitten by the knowledge of some
calamity. She had heard nothing. She knew nothing. But she rushed into
the air like a streak of lightning and went straight, as though
impelled by some hidden force, directly to the place where the body was
lying.
[Illustration: It was Bernier! It was Bernier who lay there, the death
rattle in his throat and a stream of blood flowing from his breast.]
And now it was her groans that sounded on the air, under the terrible
sun of the Midi, over the bleeding corpse. We tore the shirt from
the dead man’s breast and found a gaping wound just above the heart.
Rouletabille looked up with the same expression which I had seen at the
Glandier when he came to examine the wound of the “inexplicable body.”
“One would say that it was the same stroke of the knife!” he said. “It
is the same measurement. But where is the knife?”
We looked for the weapon everywhere without finding it. The man who had
struck the blow had carried the knife away. Where was the man? Who was
he? What we did not know, Bernier had known before he died and it was,
perhaps, because of that knowledge that his life had been forfeited.
“Frederic Larsan!” We repeated the last words of the dying man in fear
and trembling.
Suddenly on the threshold of the postern, we saw the Prince Galitch,
a newspaper in his hand. He was reading as he came toward us. His air
was jovial and his face wore a smile. But Mme. Edith rushed up to him,
snatched the paper from his hands, pointed to the corpse and cried out:
“A man has been murdered! Send for the police!”
The Prince stared at the body and then at us without uttering a word
and then turned hastily away, saying that he would send for the
authorities immediately. Mere Bernier kept up her wild lamentations.
Rouletabille seated himself on the edge of the shaft. He seemed to
have lost all his strength. He spoke to Mme. Edith in a low tone:
“Let the police come then, Madame, but remember, it is you who have
insisted upon it!”
Mrs. Rance gave him a withering glance from her black eyes. And I knew
what her thoughts were as well as though she had spoken them out. She
felt that she hated Rouletabille, who had for a single moment been able
to make her suspect Old Bob. While Bernier had been assassinated, had
not Old Bob been quietly in his chamber, watched over by Mere Bernier
herself?
Rouletabille was examining the iron bars and heavy lid which closed
the shaft, but his manner was distrait and discouraged. After he had
finished what seemed to be a very careless inspection he stretched
himself out on the ground as if it were a couch in which he was trying
to get some rest. Turning once more to his hostess, he said in the same
low voice:
“And what will you tell the police when they get here?”
“Everything!”
Mrs. Rance fairly snapped out the word between her teeth, her eyes
flashing fire. Rouletabille shook his head sorrowfully and closed his
eyes. He seemed utterly exhausted and vanquished. Robert Darzac touched
him on his shoulder. M. Darzac wanted to search through the Square
Tower, the Tower of the Bold, the New Castle--all the dependencies
of the fort from which no one could have made his escape, and where,
therefore, the assassin must still be concealed. The reporter shook his
head drearily, and said that it would be of no use. Rouletabille and I
knew only too well that any search would be in vain. Had we not made
a search at the Glandier after the phenomenon of the dissolution of
matter, for the man who had disappeared in the inexplicable gallery?
No, no! I had learned that there was no use in looking for Larsan with
one’s eyes.
A man had been murdered just behind our backs. We had heard him cry
out when the blow struck him down. We had turned around and had seen
nothing except the daylight. To see clearly, it was better to close the
eyes as Rouletabille was doing at this moment.
And when he opened them, he was another man! A new energy animated
his features. He stood erect as though he had thrown off a weight. He
clenched his fist and raised it toward the heavens.
“That is not possible!” he cried. “Or there is no more good in
reasoning.”
And he threw himself on the ground, creeping on his hands and knees,
his nose to the earth, like a hound following the scent, going round
the body of poor Bernier and around Mere Bernier, who had blankly
refused to leave her husband--around the shaft--around each of us. He
moved about like a pig, nosing its nourishment out of the mire, and we
all stood still, looking at him curiously and half in alarm. Suddenly
he started to his feet, almost white with dust and uttered a shout of
triumph as though he had found Larsan himself in the gravel. What new
victory did the boy feel that he had achieved over the mystery? What
had given this new firmness to his step and steadiness to his glance?
What had given back to him the strength of his voice? For when he
addressed M. Robert Darzac his tones were full of vigor and resolution.
“It’s all right, Monsieur! _Nothing is changed!_”
And, turning to Mme. Edith--
“There is nothing more to do, Madame, except to wait for the police. I
hope that they will not be long.”
The unhappy woman shuddered. I knew that she was again struck with
mortal fear.
“Yes, let them come!” she cried, taking my arm. “And let them attend to
everything! Let them think for us! Whatever may happen, let it come as
soon as it will.”
Attracted by the sound of voices we looked around and saw Pere Jacques
approaching, followed by two gendarmes. It was the brigadier of la
Mortola, who, summoned by Prince Galitch, had hurried to the scene of
the crime.
“The gendarmes! the gendarmes! They say that murder has been done!”
exclaimed Pere Jacques, who as yet knew nothing of what had happened.
“Be calm, Pere Jacques!” exhorted Rouletabille, and when the old man,
panting and breathless, drew near to the reporter, the latter said to
him in low tones:
“_Nothing is changed_, Pere Jacques!”
But Pere Jacques was gazing at Bernier’s body.
“Only one more dead man!” he sighed. “This is Larsan’s work again!”
“It is the work of destiny!” answered Rouletabille.
Larsan and destiny--both were as one. But what did Rouletabille mean by
his “Nothing is changed,” if not that, despite the incidental murder of
Bernier, everything which we dreaded, which made us shudder and which
we had no understanding of, continued just as before?
The gendarmes were busy examining the body and chattering over it in
their uncomprehensible jargon. The brigadier informed us that they had
telephoned to the Garibaldi Tavern, a few steps away, where at this
moment the delegato, or special commissioner, stationed at Vintimille,
was even now breakfasting. The delegato would have power to begin the
investigation, which would be continued when the examining magistrate
had been notified.
The delegato arrived. It was easily to be seen that he was enchanted,
even though he had not had the time to finish his repast. A crime!
actually a crime! And in the Château of Hercules. He was fairly
radiant; his eyes shone. He was full of business, full of importance.
He ordered the brigadier to station one of his men at the gate of the
château with directions to permit no person to pass in or out. Then he
knelt down beside the body while a gendarme, despite her protestations
and tears, led Mere Bernier away to the Square Tower, where her groans
sounded louder than ever. The delegato examined the wound and said in
very good French:
“That was a magnificent stroke!”
The man was enchanted. If he had had the assassin under arrest, he
would assuredly have paid him his compliments. He looked at us. Then he
looked at us again. Perhaps he was seeking among us for the criminal to
tell him of his admiration. At last he rose from his knees.
“And now how did all this happen?” he asked encouragingly, smacking
his lips as though in the anticipation of hearing a story of thrilling
interest. “It is terrible!” he added--“terrible! In the five years
that I have been delegato, we have never had a murder. Monsieur the
examining magistrate----.” Here he checked himself but we knew well
what he had been on the point of saying: “Monsieur the examining
magistrate will be very much pleased.” He brushed away the white dust
which covered his knees, wiped the perspiration from his forehead
and repeated “It is terrible!” his Southern accent seeming to grow
stronger. And at that moment, he noticed in a new arrival who entered
the court, a doctor from Mentone who had come to continue his treatment
of Old Bob.
“Ah, doctor, I am glad that you are here! Just look at this wound and
tell me what you think of such a knife stroke. But be as careful as
possible about changing the position of the corpse before the arrival
of the examining magistrate.”
The doctor sounded the depth of the wound and gave us all the technical
details which we could desire. There was no doubt about it at all.
It was a truly magnificent stroke of the knife which had penetrated
from high to low in the cardiac region and the point of the knife had
certainly opened a ventricle. During the colloquy between the delegato
and the doctor, Rouletabille never took his eyes off Mme. Edith, who
was still clinging to my arm as though she knew that I was her only
refuge. Her eyes fell before the eyes of Rouletabille which seemed to
hypnotize her and to command her to be silent. But I knew that she was
trembling with the desire to speak.
* * * * *
At the request of the delegato, we all entered the Square Tower. We
took our places in Old Bob’s sitting room, where the inquest was to
be held and where each of us in turn recounted what we had seen and
heard. Mere Bernier was first questioned, but little or nothing could
be gained from her testimony. She declared that she knew nothing about
anything. She had been in Old Bob’s bedroom, attending to the needs of
the injured man, when we had rushed madly into the room. She had been
with Old Bob for an hour, having left her husband in the lodge of the
Square Tower, ready to work at making a rope.
It was a curious fact, but I was less interested at that moment in what
was going on under my eyes than in what I could not see and yet knew
_that I expected_.
Would Edith speak? She was looking out of the open window, her lips
compressed, her brows drawn. A gendarme was standing near the corpse
over the face of which a handkerchief had been laid. Edith, like
myself, was paying very little heed to what was going on inside the
room. Her eyes were fixed upon Bernier’s body.
An exclamation from the delegato struck upon our ears. The further the
evidence of the witnesses progressed, the greater became the amazement
of the Commissioner, and the more and more inexplicable he found the
crime. He was on the point of finding it impossible that it should
have been committed at all, when it came Mme. Edith’s turn to be
interrogated.
They questioned her. Her lips were already opened to answer the first
question when Rouletabille’s quiet voice was heard:
“Look at the end of the shadow of the eucalyptus.”
“What is there at the end of the shadow of the eucalyptus?” demanded
the delegato.
“The weapon with which the crime was committed,” replied the reporter.
He jumped out of the window to the court and picked up from the bloody
stones a sharp, shining piece of flint. He brandished it in our eyes.
We all recognized it. It was “the oldest dagger of the human race.”