called her in a low, penetrating voice. She was about to continue on
her way, when the old fellow half opened his cloak for an instant to
give her a glimpse of a bulky kind of a box which was slung across his
chest.
Immediately the singer went straight towards him.
"A programme?" she asked him in a loud voice.
He gave an affirmative nod for all the world to see: then whispered
low.
"Go home directly the concert is over! I must speak to you!"
"Very good," replied the singer in a submissive tone.
Then aloud she queried:
"You are a musician, are you?"
The man in the cloak gave answer audibly:
"Yes, my dear, I am a musician also, but not of your sort! It's not
gaiety I deal in!" With that, the unknown displayed an accordion which
was slung across his chest.
* * * * *
Nichoune hurried to her dressing-room. She must get away before her
admirers demanded her reappearance on the platform. The old man
quitted the establishment. Stepping out of the vestibule, dimly
lighted by a flickering jet of gas, he strode along the narrow and
tortuous streets of Chalons at a great pace. This pedestrian seemed
out of humour: he marched along, bent beneath the weight of his
accordion, tapping the road violently with the point of his long
climbing stick. Taking a circuitous route, he at last reached a sort
of little inn. It appeared a poor kind of a place, but clean. The old
fellow entered with a resolute air. The porter, half asleep, offered
him a candle which he lit with a twist of paper, kindled at the
gas-jet. The old man mounted the stairs to his room and closed the
door carefully. Having satisfied himself that the window shutters were
fastened, he took off his cloak, lit his lamp, drew up a chair, and
leaned his elbow on the table. The light fell on his face, and it was
easy to recognise the man who had spoken to the mistress of Corporal
Vinson: he was none other than Vagualame, the beggar-assassin.
Before long there was a knock at the door.
"Who is there?"
"I ... Nichoune!"
Vagualame rose and opened to her.
"Come in, my dear!" Vagualame was now the amiable friend.
He looked with delight at the pretty little face of his visitor.
"As pretty as ever, my dear! Prettier than ever!" he cried.
He stopped flattery: the singer evidently disliked it. She seated
herself on the edge of a sofa and stared at him.
"I don't suppose you have come to Chalons just to tell me that!
Nothing serious?"
Vagualame shrugged his shoulders.
"No, no! Why, in Heaven's name, are you always so frightened?"
"That's all very well. It's jolly dangerous, let me tell you."
"Dangerous!" repeated Vagualame contemptuously. "Absurd! You are
joking! It's dangerous for imbeciles--not for anyone else! Not a soul
would ever suspect that pretty Nichoune is the 'letter-box'--the
intermediary between me and 'Roubaix.'"
"You are going to give me something for Roubaix again?" Nichoune did
not look as if Vagualame's assertion had relieved her fears.
Vagualame evaded a direct answer.
"You have not seen him for a week?"
"Roubaix? No."...
"And Nancy?"
"Nor Nancy."
"Well," said he, after a moment's reflection, "that does not matter in
the least! I can now tell you that Belfort will certainly pass this
way to-morrow morning."...
"Belfort? But he is not due then!"
"Belfort has no fixed time," replied Vagualame sharply. "I have
already told you that Belfort is his own master: his is a divisional."
"A divisional? What exactly is a divisional?" demanded the singer.
"Now you are asking questions," objected Vagualame. His tone was
harsh. "That is not allowed, Nichoune! I have told you so before....
What you do not know you must not try to discover.... I myself do not
know all the ins and outs of the organisation!"
He continued in a less severe tone:
"In any case Belfort passes this way to-morrow between eleven o'clock
and noon.... He does not know me--is not aware of my existence.... It
is through an indirect course that I learned he was coming; also that
he would have something to say to you.... Will you, therefore, hand
him this envelope?"
Vagualame drew from the inside pocket of his short coat a large packet
sealed with red wax.
"Be very careful! This document is important--has been difficult to
obtain--extremely difficult!... On no account must it go astray!...
Tell Belfort that it must be handed over as quickly as possible....
Well?"
Nichoune did not take the packet Vagualame was holding out to her. She
remained seated, her gaze fixed on the tips of her shoes, her hands
buried in her muff.
"Well, what is it? What are you waiting for?" Vagualame repeated.
At this Nichoune blazed out:
"What the matter is? Why, that I have had enough of all this: I don't
want any more of it! Not if I know it! It's too dangerous!"
Vagualame appeared stupefied.
"What, little one?" he asked very gently. "You do not wish to be our
faithful letter-box any more?"
"No!"
"You do not want to hand this over to Belfort?"
"No, no! A hundred times no!" Nichoune shook her head vigorously.
"But why?"
"Because ... because I don't want to do it any more! There!"
"Come now, Nichoune, what is your reason? You must have one."
This time the singer got up as though she would go off at once.
"Reasons?" she cried. "Look here, Vagualame, it's better to tell you
the truth! Very well, then, spying is not my strong point! It is three
months since I began it--since you enticed me into it ... and life is
not worth living.... I am in a constant state of terror--I am afraid
of being caught at it. They say: 'Do this--Do that!' I am always
seeing new agents ... you come--you go--you disappear--it's maddening!
I have already broken with my lover ... with Vinson! I don't want to
be on such terms with anyone mixed up in your spying, I can tell
you!... In the first place, there's something wrong with my heart, and
to live in such a perpetual state of terror is very bad for me ... so
you have got to understand, Vagualame--I say it straight out--I don't
go on with it.... I would rather go to the magistrate and put myself
completely outside this abominable business--there! That's all about
it!"
It was impossible to mistake the meaning of these decisive words. Here
was not the spy who sought to increase his pay by threatening to
reveal everything; it was the spy who is obsessed with the fear of
being taken, who no longer wishes to continue his dreadful work--to
follow his nefarious calling.
Vagualame gave no sign of surprise.
"Listen, my pretty one! You are at perfect liberty to do what seems
good to you, and if you have just come in for some money!"...
"No one has left me any money," interrupted Nichoune.
"Oh, well," replied Vagualame, "if you despise the nice sum I bring
you every month, that's your business! But I don't suppose you want
to leave your old comrade in a fix, do you?"
Nichoune hesitated.
"What do you want me to do now?" she asked.
"A very little thing, my pretty one! If you will not go in with us any
longer, you are perfectly free to leave us, I repeat it, but don't
leave us in the lurch just at this moment! This paper is of the very
greatest importance ... be nice--take it, and give it to Belfort--I
will not bother you again after this."...
Nichoune held out her hand, but it was with an ill grace.
"Oh, all right!" said she. "Give me the thing! All the same, you know
now that it is the very last time you are to apply to me!"
Then she added, laughing in her usual hail-fellow-well-met way, and
pressing the old fellow's hand as she moved towards the door:
"I don't mean to be the letter-box of Chalons any more: that's
ended--the last collection has been made!"
Nichoune departed. Vagualame wished her a cordial "Good night"; then,
locking the door, he became absorbed in his reflections.
* * * * *
Towards five o'clock in the afternoon of the day following his private
talk with Nichoune, Vagualame accosted the proprietor of a little inn
situated at the extreme end of the town, and far removed from the
tavern where he had passed the night.
"Mademoiselle Nichoune is not in, is she?"
"No, my good man--what do you want with her?"
Vagualame gave a little laugh.
"Has she not told you, then, that she was expecting someone from her
part of the country to call on her?"
The innkeeper was leaning carelessly against the wall. He straightened
himself a little.
"Yes, Mademoiselle Nichoune has told us that an old musician would
call to see her this afternoon, and that we must ask him to wait."...
"Ah, she's a good, kind little thing! How courageous! What a worker!"
Vagualame seemed to be speaking to himself.
"You know her very well, then?" asked the puzzled innkeeper.
"I should think I did!" protested the old fellow. "Why, it was I who
taught her to sing!... Do you think she will be long, my little
Nichoune?"
"I don't fancy so! If you would like to come in and wait for her in
her room, you will find it at the end of the corridor. It's not
locked.... You will find some picture papers on her table."
"Thank you, kind sir," said Vagualame after a moment's hesitation. "I
will go in and rest for a few minutes," and, hobbling along, he gained
the singer's room. The moment he was inside, and the door safely shut,
his whole attitude changed. He looked eagerly about him.
"If there is anything, where is it likely to be?"... He considered.
"Why, in the mattress, of course!"
He drew from some hiding-place in his garments a long needle, and
began to probe the mattress of Nichoune's bed very carefully.
"Ha, ha!" cried he, suddenly. The needle had come in contact with
something difficult to penetrate. "I wager it's what I am after!"
Vagualame slipped his hand, spare and delicately formed, under the
counterpane.
"Little idiot!" he exclaimed in a satisfied tone. "She has not even
hidden it inside the mattress! She has just slipped it in between the
palliasse, and the hair mattress on top--why, she's a child!"
He drew out two envelopes and eagerly read the addresses.
"Oh," cried he, "this is more serious than I thought!... Action must
be taken at once!... Nichoune! Nichoune! you are about to play a
dangerous game, a game which is likely to cost you dear!"
On the first of the envelopes Vagualame had read one word:
"_Belfort._"
This was the document he had handed over to the actress the night
before. After all, he was not much astonished to find that Nichoune
had not passed the letter on. But the other envelope bore an address
which Vagualame gazed at reflectively.
"Monsieur Bonnett,
Police Magistrate."
"She is selling us, by Jove!" he murmured. "There's not a doubt of it!
The little wretch!... She has scruples, has she!... Her conscience
reproaches her! I am going to give her a lesson--one of my own sort!"
Vagualame was turning the letter over and over.
"I must know its contents," he went on.... "Ah, I shall manage to get
hold of this little paper, to-morrow morning, when."...
Vagualame's murmured monologue came to an abrupt conclusion.
"That's her voice!" he exclaimed. With the nimbleness of youth he put
back the two letters, rapidly drew from his pocket a bundle of
letters; with marvellous ability forced open a table drawer, and mixed
them with others Nichoune had placed there.
"There, my little dear!" said he, aloud. "There's something to do
honour to your memory!"
He closed the drawer in a second. He had barely time to seat himself
in an arm-chair near his accordion, lying on the floor, when Nichoune
entered.
"Good day!" cried she.
Vagualame pretended to wake up with a start.
"Ha, ha! Good day, Nichoune! Tell me, you have not seen Belfort? Eh?"
"How do you know that?" demanded Nichoune, on the defensive. She
looked surprised.
"I have just met him.... He told me that he had not come across you at
the usual meeting-place."
Nichoune lowered her head.
"I thought I was being followed ... so, as you can understand, I did
not go."
Vagualame nodded approval.
"Good! Quite right! After all, it is not otherwise of importance. You
must give me back my envelope now!"
"You want it?"
"Why, of course!"
Nichoune hesitated a second.
"Just fancy, Vagualame, I took the precaution to hide it between my
two mattresses! Wait!... Here it is!"
Nichoune held out his letter.
"Thank you, my dear!"
Vagualame looked as if the returning of the document was a matter of the
most perfect indifference to him. He gazed hard at Nichoune--stared so
fixedly at her that she demanded:
"Whatever possesses you to stare at me like that?"
"I am thinking how pretty you are!"
"Well, I never! You are becoming quite complimentary!"
"It's no flattery. I think you are very pretty, Nichoune, but your
hands! They are not pretty!"
The singer laughed and held out her little hands.
"What is there about them you have to find fault with?"
"They are red.... It astonishes me that a woman like you does not know
how to make them white!... Don't you know what to do to them?"
"No! What must I do?"
"Why," retorted the old musician, "the very first thing you have to do
is as simple as A B C! All you have to do is to tie up your hands
every night with a ribbon, and so keep them raised above your
head!"...
"How? I don't understand!"
"It's like this! You stick a nail into the wall ... and then you
manage things so that you keep your hands up-raised the whole night
through.... You will see then ... your hands will be as white as
lilies in the morning.... White as lilies!"
Nichoune was extremely interested.
"Is that true? I shall try it this very night! White, like lilies, you
say?... And you have to sleep with your hands stuck up in the air!...
I shall try it--shall begin to-night."
A few minutes later Vagualame left Nichoune, after promising that he
would not give her any more spy work to do, and declaring that she
should never again be mixed up in any dangerous business. As he went
along the streets of Chalons, the dreadful old man chuckled and
sniggered.
"Hands in the air, my beauty!... Just try that, this very night! With
that little heart mischief of yours! Ha! ha! We shall not be kept
waiting for the consequences of that performance! It will serve as an
example to all and sundry when they wish to write to the magistrate!"
Vagualame's face took on a wicked look.
"I shall have to be as careful as can be when I hide myself in that
little fool's room to-night! At all costs I must get hold of that
compromising letter before anyone in the hotel hears of the death! Not
a soul must catch a glimpse of me--that's certain!"
Those who passed Vagualame simply thought he was an old beggar, an old
accordion player....
IX
WITH THE UNDER-SECRETARY OF STATE
"Come in!" cried Hofferman, who was writing hard.
An orderly stepped gingerly into the room.
"An usher, Colonel, with a message, begging you to be so good as to
step downstairs at once to see the Under-Secretary of State."
Hofferman looked up.
"Are you sure the message is for me?"
"Yes, Colonel."
"Very well. I am coming immediately."
The orderly vanished. Hofferman remained in thought for a minute or
so, rose abruptly, half opened the door of the adjoining room, and
addressed Commandant Dumoulin:
"The Under-Secretary of State wishes to see me. I am going down now."
The colonel passed rapidly along the interminable corridors separating
him from the building in which the Under-Secretary's offices were
situated.
"What can he want to see me about?" Colonel Hofferman asked himself as
he entered the Under-Secretary's room.
Monsieur Maranjevol, an exceedingly active and immensely popular
deputy from la Gironde, to whom had been entrusted the delicate task
of serving as buffer between the civil and the military sections.
Monsieur Maranjevol was not alone in his vast reception-room, with its
gilding and pictures of battle scenes; seated opposite, and with his
back to the light, was a civilian, of middle height, clean-shaven,
whose thin hair, turning grey, curled slightly at the nape of the
neck.
The Under-Secretary rose, shook hands with the colonel, and went
straight to the point.
"Monsieur Juve of the detective force: Colonel Hofferman, head of the
Second Bureau."
The policeman and the soldier bowed gravely. They awaited the
beginning of the conference in a somewhat chilly silence.
Monsieur Maranjevol explained that after a short talk with Juve
regarding Captain Brocq's death, he had considered it necessary to put
him in touch with Colonel Hofferman.
The colonel, who had been showing signs of impatience for the last few
minutes, suddenly broke out:
"My faith, Monsieur," declared he, in a sharp abrupt voice, staring
straight into Juve's eyes, "I am very glad to have the opportunity of
meeting you. I shall not disguise from you that I am astonished, even
very disagreeably astonished, at your attitude during the past few
days regarding this wretched drama. Up to now, I have always
considered that the private personality of an officer, above all, of
an officer on the Headquarters' Staff, was a thing which was almost
inviolable.... But it has come to my knowledge that at the death of
Captain Brocq, you have devoted yourself not only to making the most
minute investigations--that, perhaps, was your right and your
duty--into the circumstances accompanying the death, but that you have
searched the domicile of the defunct as well, and this without giving
us the required preliminary notice. I cannot and will not sanction
this method of procedure, and I congratulate myself on having this
opportunity of telling you so."
During this speech of the colonel's Monsieur Maranjevol stared with
astonished eyes, first at the soldier and then at the detective. The
good-natured and peaceable Under-Secretary was surprised at the
colonel's violent attack, and asked himself how Juve was going to take
it.
Juve took it with an unmoved countenance. He said, in his turn:
"I would point out to you, Colonel, that had it been only a question
of a natural death, I should have contented myself with restoring to
you the documents which had been collected at our headquarters; but,
as you probably knew, Captain Brocq was killed--killed in a
mysterious fashion. I thus found myself in the presence of a crime, a
common law crime: the inquest has restored it to the civil law
jurisdiction, and not to the military: believe me, I understand my
business, I know my duty."
Juve had uttered these words with the greatest composure; but the
slight tremble in his voice would have made it clear to anyone who
knew him well, that the detective was maintaining his self-control
only by a violent effort.
The colonel replied in a tone stiff with offence:
"I persist in my opinion: you have no right to meddle in an affair
which concerns us alone. The death of Captain Brocq coincides with the
loss of a certain secret document: is it for you or for us to
institute an enquiry into it?"
After a pause, Juve's retort was:
"You must permit me to leave that question unanswered."
With all the bluntness of a military man, Colonel Hofferman had put
his finger on the open wound which for long years had been a source of
irritation to the detective force and the intelligence department
alike, when, owing to circumstances, both were called on to intervene
at one and the same time. In cases of theft and of spying the conflict
was ceaseless.
Monsieur Havard, Juve's chief, had talked this matter over the night
before, and his last words of command were:
"Above all, Juve, manage matters so that there is no fuss!... There
must not be a fuss!"
Colonel Hofferman, misinterpreting the detective's attitude, turned
triumphantly to the Under-Secretary:
"Not only that," he continued, "I think there has been far too much
talk made about the death of Captain Brocq. This officer was the
victim of an accident. We cannot discuss it. That is all there is to
be said. It really does not matter much. We of the Intelligence
Department are soldiers, and believe in a policy of results: at the
present moment we have lost a document: we are searching for it:
action must be left to us.... And, Monsieur, I revert to my first
question--what the devil was the police doing at Captain Brocq's--what
business was it of theirs? Really, the detective service is arrogating
to itself more and more powers--powers that cannot be sanctioned, that
will not be granted or permitted."
Juve had so far contained himself, though with difficulty, but now
Colonel Hofferman was going too far. It was Juve's turn to break out.
"Monsieur," he cried, in a voice vibrating with passion, turning to
the Under-Secretary: "I cannot accept such observations--not for a
moment! I have among my papers on the case important proofs that the
assassination of Captain Brocq is surrounded with mysterious
occurrences, and also of the gravest nature. The theory Colonel
Hofferman has just put forward will not hold water--it does not hang
together! To gain a full understanding of a thing one must begin at
the beginning. This beginning I have brought, and I make you judge,
Monsieur, of whether or no it is worth the most careful
consideration."
Caught between two fires, the Under-Secretary looked exceedingly sorry
for himself. Above everything, he dreaded being forced to act as
umpire between Hofferman and Juve. There was no escape, however, so,
with a weary air, he asked Juve to make his case clear.
"Well, gentlemen," began our detective, who had fully regained his
self-possession, "you know what the circumstances were which led me to
the discovery that Captain Brocq had been mysteriously assassinated?
It was, obviously, of the first importance that I should learn every
detail regarding his private life, get to know with whom he had
intercourse, who his correspondents were, find out where he was
accustomed to go, so that, being thoroughly posted up regarding his
personality, I could discover to whose interest it would be that he
should disappear.... I went to Brocq's flat in the rue de Lille to
collect evidence from various sources. I have it all written down in
my case papers. One fact stands out clearly: Captain Brocq was
regularly visited by a woman whom we have not as yet been able to
identify beyond a doubt, but we shall soon know who she is. I am
certain she is a lady of fashion. She was his mistress: the
commencement of a letter written to her by the deceased shows this;
but, unfortunately, he has not addressed her by name. The letter was
begun, according to the experts, some hours before the drama of
assassination was enacted.... It is the mauve document, number 42. It
commences:
"'_My darling_'."...
Juve showed this sheet of mauve letter paper to his listeners. Colonel
Hofferman seemed to attach no importance whatever to it.
Juve continued:
"I should greatly value Colonel Hofferman's opinion regarding the
suppositions I am about to formulate. Well, gentlemen, here is what I
deduce from my investigations.... Captain Brocq was a simple, modest
fellow; a hard worker; reasonable, temperate, serious-minded officer:
a good middle-class citizen, in fact. If Captain Brocq had an
irregular love affair, it was assuredly with the best intentions;
Brocq, who perhaps had not been able to resist his senses, was too
straight a man to willingly entertain the idea of not regularising the
union later on. Is that your opinion, Colonel?"
Hofferman frankly replied:
"It is my opinion, Monsieur Juve. That was certainly Captain Brocq's
character. But I do not see what you are driving at."
"At this," replied the detective. "Captain Brocq's mistress must be
looked for, not among women of the lower orders, but among those of a
higher class, who are more outwardly correct, at any rate, more women
of the world. Among those with whom Brocq was on friendly terms, was
the family of an old diplomat of Austrian extraction, a Monsieur de
Naarboveck. This de Naarboveck has a daughter: she is twenty. This
Mademoiselle Wilhelmine was terribly distressed, and in a state of
profound grief, the day after Brocq's death. I am not going so far as
to pretend that Mademoiselle de Naarboveck was Brocq's mistress; but
one might easily think so."
"How do you know that Mademoiselle de Naarboveck showed grief at the
death of Captain Brocq?"
"Through a journalist who was received in the de Naarboveck family
circle the day after the drama."
"Oh, a journalist!" protested the colonel.
Juve smiled slily.