They took me at my word and placed a gendarme with a bared sabre at the
gateway by the hedge.
"Give me your parole," said poor Durand, "and I will let you go
where you wish." But I refused, and began prowling about the cottage
looking for clews. I found lots of things that some people would have
considered most important, such as ashes from the Red Admiral's pipe,
footprints in a dusty vegetable bin, bottles smelling of Pouldu cider,
and dust--oh, lots of dust!--but I was not an expert, only a stupid,
everyday amateur; so I defaced the footprints with my thick shooting
boots, and I declined to examine the pipe ashes through a microscope,
although the Red Admiral's microscope stood on the table close at hand.
At last I found what I had been looking for, some long wisps of straw,
curiously depressed and flattened in the middle, and I was certain
I had found the evidence that would settle Yves Terrec for the rest
of his life. It was plain as the nose on your face. The straws were
sabot straws, flattened where the foot had pressed them, and sticking
straight out where they projected beyond the sabot. Now nobody in
St. Gildas used straw in sabots except a fisherman who lived near St.
Julien, and the straw in his sabots was ordinary yellow wheat straw!
This straw, or rather these straws, were from the stalks of the red
wheat which only grows inland, and which, everybody in St. Gildas
knew, Yves Terrec wore in his sabots. I was perfectly satisfied; and
when, three hours later, a hoarse shouting from the Bannalec Road
brought me to the window, I was not surprised to see Yves Terrec,
bloody, dishevelled, hatless, with his strong arms bound behind him,
walking with bent head between two mounted gendarmes. The crowd around
him swelled every minute, crying: "Parricide! parricide! Death to the
murderer!" As he passed my window I saw great clots of mud on his dusty
sabots, from the heels of which projected wisps of red wheat straw.
Then I walked back into the Red Admiral's study, determined to find
what the microscope would show on the wheat straws. I examined each
one very carefully, and then, my eyes aching, I rested my chin on my
hand and leaned back in the chair. I had not been as fortunate as some
detectives, for there was no evidence that the straws had ever been
used in a sabot at all. Furthermore, directly across the hallway stood
a carved Breton chest, and now I noticed for the first time that, from
beneath the closed lid, dozens of similar red wheat straws projected,
bent exactly as mine were bent by the weight of the lid.
I yawned in disgust. It was apparent that I was not cut out for a
detective, and I bitterly pondered over the difference between clews in
real life and clews in a detective story. After a while I rose, walked
over to the chest and opened the lid. The interior was wadded with
the red wheat straws, and on this wadding lay two curious glass jars,
two or three small vials, several empty bottles labelled chloroform, a
collecting jar of cyanide of potassium, and a book. In a farther corner
of the chest were some letters bearing English stamps, and also the
torn coverings of two parcels, all from England, and all directed to
the Red Admiral under his proper name of "Sieur Louis Jean Terrec, St.
Gildas, par Moëlan, Finistère."
All these traps I carried over to the desk, shut the lid of the chest,
and sat down to read the letters. They were written in commercial
French, evidently by an Englishman.
Freely translated, the contents of the first letter were as follows:
"LONDON, _June 12, 1894_.
"DEAR MONSIEUR (_sic_): Your kind favour of the 19th inst.
received and contents noted. The latest work on the
Lepidoptera of England is Blowzer's How to catch British
Butterflies, with notes and tables, and an introduction by
Sir Thomas Sniffer. The price of this work (in one volume,
calf) is £5 or 125 francs of French money. A post-office
order will receive our prompt attention. We beg to remain,
"Yours, etc.,
"FRADLEY & TOOMER,
"470 Regent Square, London, S. W."
The next letter was even less interesting. It merely stated that the
money had been received and the book would be forwarded. The third
engaged my attention, and I shall quote it, the translation being a
free one:
"DEAR SIR: Your letter of the 1st of July was duly received,
and we at once referred it to Mr. Fradley himself. Mr. Fradley
being much interested in your question, sent your letter to
Professor Schweineri, of the Berlin Entomological Society,
whose note Blowzer refers to on page 630, in his How to catch
British Butterflies. We have just received an answer from
Professor Schweineri, which we translate into French--(see
inclosed slip). Professor Schweineri begs to present to you
two jars of cythyl, prepared under his own supervision. We
forward the same to you. Trusting that you will find
everything satisfactory, we remain,
"Yours sincerely,
"FRADLEY & TOOMER."
The inclosed slip read as follows:
"Messrs. FRADLEY & TOOMER,
"GENTLEMEN: Cythaline, a complex hydrocarbon, was first used
by Professor Schnoot, of Antwerp, a year ago. I discovered
an analogous formula about the same time and named it cythyl.
I have used it with great success everywhere. It is as
certain as a magnet. I beg to present you three small jars,
and would be pleased to have you forward two of them to your
correspondent in St. Gildas with my compliments. Blowzer's
quotation of me, on page 630 of his glorious work, How to
catch British Butterflies, is correct.
"Yours, etc.,
"HEINRICH SCHWEINERI,
P.H.D., D.D., D.S., M.S."
When I had finished this letter I folded it up and put it into my
pocket with the others. Then I opened Blowzer's valuable work, How to
catch British Butterflies, and turned to page 630.
Now, although the Red Admiral could only have acquired the book very
recently, and although all the other pages were perfectly clean, this
particular page was thumbed black, and heavy pencil marks inclosed a
paragraph at the bottom of the page. This is the paragraph:
"Professor Schweineri says: 'Of the two old methods used by
collectors for the capture of the swift-winged, high-flying
Apatura Iris, or Purple Emperor, the first, which was using a
long-handled net, proved successful once in a thousand times;
and the second, the placing of bait upon the ground, such as
decayed meat, dead cats, rats, etc., was not only disagreeable,
even for an enthusiastic collector, but also very uncertain.
Once in five hundred times would the splendid butterfly leave
the tops of his favourite oak trees to circle about the fetid
bait offered. I have found cythyl a perfectly sure bait to
draw this beautiful butterfly to the ground, where it can be
easily captured. An ounce of cythyl placed in a yellow saucer
under an oak tree, will draw to it every Apatura Iris within
a radius of twenty miles. So, if any collector who possesses
a little cythyl, even though it be in a sealed bottle in his
pocket--if such a collector does not find a single Apatura
Iris fluttering close about him within an hour, let him be
satisfied that the Apatura Iris does not inhabit his country.'"
When I had finished reading this note I sat for a long while thinking
hard. Then I examined the two jars. They were labelled "_Cythyl_." One
was full, the other _nearly full_. "The rest must be on the corpse
of the Red Admiral," I thought, "no matter if it is in a corked
bottle----"
I took all the things back to the chest, laid them carefully on the
straw, and closed the lid. The gendarme sentinel at the gate saluted me
respectfully as I crossed over to the Groix Inn. The Inn was surrounded
by an excited crowd, and the hallway was choked with gendarmes and
peasants. On every side they greeted me cordially, announcing that the
real murderer was caught; but I pushed by them without a word and ran
upstairs to find Lys. She opened her door when I knocked and threw both
arms about my neck. I took her to my breast and kissed her. After a
moment I asked her if she would obey me no matter what I commanded, and
she said she would, with a proud humility that touched me.
"Then go at once to Yvette in St. Julien," I said. "Ask her to harness
the dog-cart and drive you to the convent in Quimperlé. Wait for me
there. Will you do this without questioning me, my darling?"
She raised her face to mine. "Kiss me," she said innocently; the next
moment she had vanished.
I walked deliberately into the Purple Emperor's room and peered into
the gauze-covered box which had held the chrysalis of Apatura Iris. It
was as I expected. The chrysalis was empty and transparent, and a great
crack ran down the middle of its back, but, on the netting inside the
box, a magnificent butterfly slowly waved its burnished purple wings;
for the chrysalis had given up its silent tenant, the butterfly symbol
of immortality. Then a great fear fell upon me. I know now that it was
the fear of the Black Priest, but neither then nor for years after did
I know that the Black Priest had ever lived on earth. As I bent over
the box I heard a confused murmur outside the house which ended in
a furious shout of "Parricide!" and I heard the gendarmes ride away
behind a wagon which rattled sharply on the flinty highway. I went
to the window. In the wagon sat Yves Terrec, bound and wild-eyed, two
gendarmes at either side of him, and all around the wagon rode mounted
gendarmes whose bared sabres scarcely kept the crowd away.
"Parricide!" they howled. "Let him die!"
I stepped back and opened the gauze-covered box. Very gently but firmly
I took the splendid butterfly by its closed fore wings and lifted it
unharmed between my thumb and forefinger. Then, holding it concealed
behind my back, I went down into the café.
Of all the crowd that had filled it, shouting for the death of Yves
Terrec, only three persons remained seated in front of the huge empty
fireplace. They were the Brigadier Durand, Max Fortin, the chemist
of Quimperlé, and the Purple Emperor. The latter looked abashed when
I entered, but I paid no attention to him and walked straight to the
chemist.
"Monsieur Fortin," I said, "do you know much about hydrocarbons?"
"They are my specialty," he said astonished.
"Have you ever heard of such a thing as cythyl?"
"Schweineri's cythyl? Oh, yes! We use it in perfumery."
"Good!" I said. "Has it an odour?"
"No--and, yes. One is always aware of its presence, but really nobody
can affirm it has an odour. It is curious," he continued, looking at
me, "it is very curious you should have asked me that, for all day I
have been imagining I detected the presence of cythyl."
"Do you imagine so now?" I asked.
"Yes, more than ever."
I sprang to the front door and tossed out the butterfly. The splendid
creature beat the air for a moment, flitted uncertainly hither
and thither, and then, to my astonishment, sailed majestically
back into the café and alighted on the hearthstone. For a moment
I was nonplussed, but when my eyes rested on the Purple Emperor I
comprehended in a flash.
"Lift that hearthstone!" I cried to the Brigadier Durand; "pry it up
with your scabbard!"
The Purple Emperor suddenly fell forward in his chair, his face ghastly
white, his jaw loose with terror.
"What is cythyl?" I shouted, seizing him by the arm; but he plunged
heavily from his chair, face downward on the floor, and at the same
moment a cry from the chemist made me turn. There stood the Brigadier
Durand, one hand supporting the hearthstone, one hand raised in horror.
There stood Max Fortin, the chemist, rigid with excitement, and below,
in the hollow bed where the hearthstone had rested, lay a crushed mass
of bleeding human flesh, from the midst of which stared a cheap glass
eye. I seized the Purple Emperor and dragged him to his feet.
"Look!" I cried; "look at your old friend, the Red Admiral!" but he
only smiled in a vacant way, and rolled his head muttering; "Bait for
butterflies! Cythyl! Oh, no, no, no! You can't do it, Admiral, d'ye
see. I alone own the Purple Emperor! I alone am the Purple Emperor!"
And the same carriage that bore me to Quimperlé to claim my bride,
carried him to Quimper, gagged and bound, a foaming, howling lunatic.
* * * * *
This, then, is the story of the Purple Emperor. I might tell you a
pleasanter story if I chose; but concerning the fish that I had hold
of, whether it was a salmon, a grilse, or a sea trout, I may not say,
because I have promised Lys, and she has promised me, that no power on
earth shall wring from our lips the mortifying confession that the fish
escaped.