VICTOIRE’S SLIP
They were silent. The Duke walked to the fireplace, stepped into it,
and studied the opening. He came out again and said: “Oh, by the way,
M. Formery, the policeman at the front door wanted to stop me going out
of the house when I went home to change. I take it that M. Guerchard’s
prohibition does not apply to me?”
“Of course not—of course not, your Grace,” said M. Formery quickly.
“I saw that you had changed your clothes, your Grace,” said Guerchard.
“I thought that you had done it here.”
“No,” said the Duke, “I went home. The policeman protested; but he went
no further, so I did not throw him into the middle of the street.”
“Whatever our station, we should respect the law,” said M. Formery
solemnly.
“The Republican Law, M. Formery? I am a Royalist,” said the Duke,
smiling at him.
M. Formery shook his head sadly.
“I was wondering,” said the Duke, “about M. Guerchard’s theory that the
burglars were let in the front door of this house by an accomplice.
Why, when they had this beautiful large opening, did they want a front
door, too?”
“I did not know that that was Guerchard’s theory?” said M. Formery, a
trifle contemptuously. “Of course they had no need to use the front
door.”
“Perhaps they had no need to use the front door,” said Guerchard; “but,
after all, the front door was unbolted, and they did not draw the bolts
to put us off the scent. Their false scent was already prepared”—he
waved his hand towards the window—“moreover, you must bear in mind that
that opening might not have been made when they entered the house.
Suppose that, while they were on the other side of the wall, a brick
had fallen on to the hearth, and alarmed the concierge. We don’t know
how skilful they are; they might not have cared to risk it. I’m
inclined to think, on the whole, that they did come in through the
front door.”
M. Formery sniffed contemptuously.
“Perhaps you’re right,” said the Duke. “But the accomplice?”
“I think we shall know more about the accomplice when Victoire awakes,”
said Guerchard.
“The family have such confidence in Victoire,” said the Duke.
“Perhaps Lupin has, too,” said Guerchard grimly.
“Always Lupin!” said M. Formery contemptuously.
There came a knock at the door, and a footman appeared on the
threshold. He informed the Duke that Germaine had returned from her
shopping expedition, and was awaiting him in her boudoir. He went to
her, and tried to persuade her to put in a word for Sonia, and
endeavour to soften Guerchard’s rigour.
She refused to do anything of the kind, declaring that, in view of the
value of the stolen property, no stone must be left unturned to recover
it. The police knew what they were doing; they must have a free hand.
The Duke did not press her with any great vigour; he realized the
futility of an appeal to a nature so shallow, so self-centred, and so
lacking in sympathy. He took his revenge by teasing her about the
wedding presents which were still flowing in. Her father’s business
friends were still striving to outdo one another in the costliness of
the jewelry they were giving her. The great houses of the Faubourg
Saint-Germain were still refraining firmly from anything that savoured
of extravagance or ostentation. While he was with her the eleventh
paper-knife came—from his mother’s friend, the Duchess of Veauléglise.
The Duke was overwhelmed with joy at the sight of it, and his delighted
comments drove Germaine to the last extremity of exasperation. The
result was that she begged him, with petulant asperity, to get out of
her sight.
He complied with her request, almost with alacrity, and returned to M.
Formery and Guerchard. He found them at a standstill, waiting for
reports from the detectives who were hunting outside the house for
information about the movements of the burglars with the stolen booty,
and apparently finding none. The police were also hunting for the
stolen motor-cars, not only in Paris and its environs, but also all
along the road between Paris and Charmerace.
At about five o’clock Guerchard grew tired of the inaction, and went
out himself to assist his subordinates, leaving M. Formery in charge of
the house itself. He promised to be back by half-past seven, to let the
examining magistrate, who had an engagement for the evening, get away.
The Duke spent his time between the drawing-room, where M. Formery
entertained him with anecdotes of his professional skill, and the
boudoir, where Germaine was entertaining envious young friends who came
to see her wedding presents. The friends of Germaine were always a
little ill at ease in the society of the Duke, belonging as they did to
that wealthy middle class which has made France what she is. His
indifference to the doings of the old friends of his family saddened
them; and they were unable to understand his airy and persistent
trifling. It seemed to them a discord in the cosmic tune.
The afternoon wore away, and at half-past seven Guerchard had not
returned. M. Formery waited for him, fuming, for ten minutes, then left
the house in charge of the inspector, and went off to his engagement.
M. Gournay-Martin was entertaining two financiers and their wives, two
of their daughters, and two friends of the Duke, the Baron de Vernan
and the Comte de Vauvineuse, at dinner that night. Thanks to the Duke,
the party was of a liveliness to which the gorgeous dining-room had
been very little used since it had been so fortunate as to become the
property of M. Gournay-Martin.
The millionaire had been looking forward to an evening of luxurious
woe, deploring the loss of his treasures—giving their prices—to his
sympathetic friends. The Duke had other views; and they prevailed.
After dinner the guests went to the smoking-room, since the
drawing-rooms were in possession of Guerchard. Soon after ten the Duke
slipped away from them, and went to the detective. Guerchard’s was not
a face at any time full of expression, and all that the Duke saw on it
was a subdued dulness.
“Well, M. Guerchard,” he said cheerfully, “what luck? Have any of your
men come across any traces of the passage of the burglars with their
booty?”
“No, your Grace; so far, all the luck has been with the burglars. For
all that any one seems to have seen them, they might have vanished into
the bowels of the earth through the floor of the cellars in the empty
house next door. That means that they were very quick loading whatever
vehicle they used with their plunder. I should think, myself, that they
first carried everything from this house down into the hall of the
house next door; and then, of course, they could be very quick getting
them from hall to their van, or whatever it was. But still, some one
saw that van—saw it drive up to the house, or waiting at the house, or
driving away from it.”
“Is M. Formery coming back?” said the Duke.
“Not to-night,” said Guerchard. “The affair is in my hands now; and I
have my own men on it—men of some intelligence, or, at any rate, men
who know my ways, and how I want things done.”
“It must be a relief,” said the Duke.
“Oh, no, I’m used to M. Formery—to all the examining magistrates in
Paris, and in most of the big provincial towns. They do not really
hamper me; and often I get an idea from them; for some of them are men
of real intelligence.”
“And others are not: I understand,” said the Duke.
The door opened and Bonavent, the detective, came in.
“The housekeeper’s awake, M. Guerchard,” he said.
“Good, bring her down here,” said Guerchard.
“Perhaps you’d like me to go,” said the Duke.
“Oh, no,” said Guerchard. “If it would interest you to hear me question
her, please stay.”
Bonavent left the room. The Duke sat down in an easy chair, and
Guerchard stood before the fireplace.
“M. Formery told me, when you were out this afternoon, that he believed
this housekeeper to be quite innocent,” said the Duke idly.
“There is certainly one innocent in this affair,” said Guerchard,
grinning.
“Who is that?” said the Duke.
“The examining magistrate,” said Guerchard.
The door opened, and Bonavent brought Victoire in. She was a big,
middle-aged woman, with a pleasant, cheerful, ruddy face, black-haired,
with sparkling brown eyes, which did not seem to have been at all
dimmed by her long, drugged sleep. She looked like a well-to-do
farmer’s wife, a buxom, good-natured, managing woman.
As soon as she came into the room, she said quickly:
“I wish, Mr. Inspector, your man would have given me time to put on a
decent dress. I must have been sleeping in this one ever since those
rascals tied me up and put that smelly handkerchief over my face. I
never saw such a nasty-looking crew as they were in my life.”
“How many were there, Madame Victoire?” said Guerchard.
“Dozens! The house was just swarming with them. I heard the noise; I
came downstairs; and on the landing outside the door here, one of them
jumped on me from behind and nearly choked me—to prevent me from
screaming, I suppose.”
“And they were a nasty-looking crew, were they?” said Guerchard. “Did
you see their faces?”
“No, I wish I had! I should know them again if I had; but they were all
masked,” said Victoire.
“Sit down, Madame Victoire. There’s no need to tire you,” said
Guerchard. And she sat down on a chair facing him.
“Let’s see, you sleep in one of the top rooms, Madame Victoire. It has
a dormer window, set in the roof, hasn’t it?” said Guerchard, in the
same polite, pleasant voice.
“Yes; yes. But what has that got to do with it?” said Victoire.
“Please answer my questions,” said Guerchard sharply. “You went to
sleep in your room. Did you hear any noise on the roof?”
“On the roof? How should I hear it on the roof? There wouldn’t be any
noise on the roof,” said Victoire.
“You heard nothing on the roof?” said Guerchard.
“No; the noise I heard was down here,” said Victoire.
“Yes, and you came down to see what was making it. And you were seized
from behind on the landing, and brought in here,” said Guerchard.
“Yes, that’s right,” said Madame Victoire.
“And were you tied up and gagged on the landing, or in here?” said
Guerchard.
“Oh, I was caught on the landing, and pushed in here, and then tied
up,” said Victoire.
“I’m sure that wasn’t one man’s job,” said Guerchard, looking at her
vigorous figure with admiring eyes.
“You may be sure of that,” said Victoire. “It took four of them; and at
least two of them have some nice bruises on their shins to show for
it.”
“I’m sure they have. And it serves them jolly well right,” said
Guerchard, in a tone of warm approval. “And, I suppose, while those
four were tying you up the others stood round and looked on.”
“Oh, no, they were far too busy for that,” said Victoire.
“What were they doing?” said Guerchard.
“They were taking the pictures off the walls and carrying them out of
the window down the ladder,” said Victoire.
Guerchard’s eyes flickered towards the Duke, but the expression of
earnest inquiry on his face never changed.
“Now, tell me, did the man who took a picture from the walls carry it
down the ladder himself, or did he hand it through the window to a man
who was standing on the top of a ladder ready to receive it?” he said.
Victoire paused as if to recall their action; then she said, “Oh, he
got through the window, and carried it down the ladder himself.”
“You’re sure of that?” said Guerchard.
“Oh, yes, I am quite sure of it—why should I deceive you, Mr.
Inspector?” said Victoire quickly; and the Duke saw the first shadow of
uneasiness on her face.
“Of course not,” said Guerchard. “And where were you?”
“Oh, they put me behind the screen.”
“No, no, where were you when you came into the room?”
“I was against the door,” said Victoire.
“And where was the screen?” said Guerchard. “Was it before the
fireplace?”
“No; it was on one side—the left-hand side,” said Victoire.
“Oh, will you show me exactly where it stood?” said Guerchard.
Victoire rose, and, Guerchard aiding her, set the screen on the
left-hand side of the fireplace.
Guerchard stepped back and looked at it.
“Now, this is very important,” he said. “I must have the exact position
of the four feet of that screen. Let’s see ... some chalk ... of
course.... You do some dressmaking, don’t you, Madame Victoire?”
“Oh, yes, I sometimes make a dress for one of the maids in my spare
time,” said Victoire.
“Then you’ve got a piece of chalk on you,” said Guerchard.
“Oh, yes,” said Victoire, putting her hand to the pocket of her dress.
She paused, took a step backwards, and looked wildly round the room,
while the colour slowly faded in her ruddy cheeks.
“What am I talking about?” she said in an uncertain, shaky voice. “I
haven’t any chalk—I—ran out of chalk the day before yesterday.”
“I think you have, Madame Victoire. Feel in your pocket and see,” said
Guerchard sternly. His voice had lost its suavity; his face its smile:
his eyes had grown dangerous.
“No, no; I have no chalk,” cried Victoire.
With a sudden leap Guerchard sprang upon her, caught her in a firm grip
with his right arm, and his left hand plunged into her pocket.
“Let me go! Let me go! You’re hurting,” she cried.
Guerchard loosed her and stepped back.
“What’s this?” he said; and he held up between his thumb and forefinger
a piece of blue chalk.
Victoire drew herself up and faced him gallantly: “Well, what of it?—it
is chalk. Mayn’t an honest woman carry chalk in her pockets without
being insulted and pulled about by every policeman she comes across?”
she cried.
“That will be for the examining magistrate to decide,” said Guerchard;
and he went to the door and called Bonavent. Bonavent came in, and
Guerchard said: “When the prison van comes, put this woman in it; and
send her down to the station.”
“But what have I done?” cried Victoire. “I’m innocent! I declare I’m
innocent. I’ve done nothing at all. It’s not a crime to carry a piece
of chalk in one’s pocket.”
“Now, that’s a matter for the examining magistrate. You can explain it
to him,” said Guerchard. “I’ve got nothing to do with it: so it’s no
good making a fuss now. Do go quietly, there’s a good woman.”
He spoke in a quiet, business-like tone. Victoire looked him in the
eyes, then drew herself up, and went quietly out of the room.