Jim Barnett held back a corner of his office window-curtain and peered
into the street, his face on a level with those of the passers-by.
Suddenly he was seized with a paroxysm of uncontrollable mirth and sank
weakly back into his armchair.
“Almost too beautiful,” he murmured ecstatically.
“To think the day should come when Béchoux——” He subsided into fresh
guffaws.
“What’s the joke?” was Inspector Béchoux’s immediate demand on entering
the office.
As Barnett did not at once reply, he fixed him with a stony glare.
“What—are—you—laughing at?”
“Why, at your coming here, of course! After our dust-up at the club in
Rouen you actually feel you can seek me out again! What is our police
force coming to?”
Béchoux looked so crestfallen that Barnett made a valiant effort to
restrain his own unseemly laughter. But he could not control himself
completely and his utterance continued to be punctuated by explosive
chuckles.
“Awfully sorry, old chap, but it really is funny! You, the instrument
of the law, presenting me with yet another pigeon for my plucking. Who
is it this time? Dare I hope for a millionaire? Or am I in for the
Minister of Finance? Don’t mind me. I’m not particular. Really, though,
it’s frightfully decent of you, old chap! Pardon my familiarity. Cheer
up, now, and try not to look like a decayed zebra. Spit it out!”
(Barnett’s idiom was deplorably vulgar.) “What’s up? Someone in trouble
again?”
Béchoux, struggling to regain his composure, nodded his head.
“Yes. It’s the very worthy curé of a parish in the suburbs.”
Regardless of grammar, “Who’s he killed?” asked Barnett with interest.
“One of his flock?”
“Oh, no, not that!”
“You mean he’s been polished off by a parishioner? Then, really, I fail
to see how I can assist him!”
“No, no. You’re getting it all wrong. I—he——”
“I really think,” said Barnett kindly, “you’d do better not to attempt
to talk at all. You can’t apparently achieve coherence, and I hate
people who splutter in my face.” He made great play with a virulent
bandana. “Without further ado, lead me to your worthy suburban curé. I
am ever ready to hit the trail with Béchoux for my guide.”
The little village—it is no more—of Vaneuil straggles down a hollow and
then up the three green hillsides which frame its old Romance church.
Behind the church lies a tranquil country graveyard, which is bordered
on the right by the hedge of a large estate surrounding a big
farmhouse, and on the left by the wall of the rectory.
Béchoux, accompanied by Barnett, entered the latter building, walked
straight into the dining-room and there presented his friend to the
Abbé Dessole. He introduced Barnett as the one detective whose bright
lexicon knew not the word “impossible.”
The abbé certainly appeared to be a worthy—and probably a simple—man.
He was middle-aged, plump, pink, and unctuous. His anxiety was written
large on a face that must usually have worn an expression of unruffled
placidity. Barnett observed his rather puffy hands, the rolls of fat at
wrist and neck, the fat paunch distending the cheap, shiny cassock.
“Père Dessole,” said Barnett, “I know nothing about whatever it is that
troubles you. My friend, Inspector Béchoux, has so far merely told me
that he first made your acquaintance a long while ago. Could you now
give me a brief résumé of the facts of the case, avoiding all
irrelevant detail?”
The Abbé Dessole must have prepared his story, for immediately, without
a moment’s hesitation, his deep bass voice boomed from the depths of
his double-chin and he began:
“First, monsieur, I must tell you that the humble priests officiating
in this parish act at the same time as custodians of a church
treasure—the bequest in the eighteenth century of the lords of the
Château Vaneuil.
“This treasure included two gold monstrances, two crucifixes, some
candelabra, and a tabernacle, making in all—or, rather, as I must
unfortunately say, which made in all nine valuable pieces which people
even came here from a distance to see. Personally”—the Abbé Dessole
mopped his brow and resumed: “Personally I must say that I always felt
the custody of this treasure to be a perilous trust, and in fear and
trembling I exercised every possible care in the discharge of my duty.
From this window you can see the apse of the church, and the vestry
where the treasure was kept. The walls of the vestry are exceptionally
thick, and it has just the one great oak door opening into the chancel.
I am the only person with a key to it, and that key is enormous. In
addition to that, I am the possessor of the only existing key to the
chest in which the treasure was locked. No one but myself ever acted as
cicerone to the visitors who came to see the treasure.”
He waggled a fat forefinger at Barnett and his tone took on added
weight.
“My bedroom window, monsieur, is less than fifteen yards away from the
barred dormer window which lights the vestry from above. Unknown to a
soul, I used, every night, to stretch a rope from my room to the vestry
so that any attempt at burglary would ring a bell at my bedside. As an
additional precaution, I always took the most precious piece in the
collection—a gem-studded reliquary—to my own room. Well, last night——”
The Abbé Dessole again mopped his brow. The sweat poured off him as he
continued the unfolding of the tragedy.
“Last night, towards one o’clock, I sprang out of bed, staggering in
the dark and only half-awake. I had been roused, not by the ringing of
my bell, but by a noise which might have been caused by something being
dropped on the floor. I called out:
“‘Who’s there?’
“There was no reply, but I could feel the presence of someone standing
quite close to me, and I was sure the intruder had climbed in at the
window, for I felt the night air blowing in. I groped for my
flashlight, found it, and switched it on. Then, just for a second, I
had a glimpse of a distorted face showing white between a grey slouch
hat and a brown, turned-up collar. And in the man’s mouth, which was
moving silently, I could distinctly see two gold teeth, on the left
side of the jaw.”
A flicker of interest crossed Barnett’s face.
“The man at once struck my arm a sharp blow so that I dropped the
flashlight.... I rushed forward, but—he wasn’t there! It was just as if
I myself had spun round before moving, for I bumped into the
mantelpiece over my fireplace, which is exactly opposite the window. By
the time I had managed to find matches and strike a light there was no
one in the room. A ladder had been left propped against the ledge of
the balcony—one of my own ladders taken out of the shed. I got into
some clothes and ran to the vestry. The treasure was gone!”
For the third time the abbé wiped his streaming countenance. He was
pitifully moved.
“Of course,” said Barnett, “you found the dormer window broken and your
bell-rope cut through? Which proves, doesn’t it, that the thief was
someone familiar with this place and with your habits? And after your
discovery you were on his track at once?”
“I even yelled ‘Thief!’ which was a mistake on my part, as it was the
sort of thing to rouse the neighborhood and create a sensation. And
heaven knows,” he said gloomily, “this affair is bound to make a stir
for which I shall be blamed by my superiors. Luckily, the only person
who heard my shouting was my neighbor, Baron de Gravières. He has lived
next door to me for twenty years now, engaged in the personal
management of his estate. He absolutely agreed with me that, before
notifying the police and lodging a formal complaint, it was advisable
to try to recover the stolen property. As he has a car, I asked him to
motor to Paris and bring back Inspector Béchoux.”
“And I was on the spot by eight in the morning,” said Béchoux, swelling
with pride. “By eleven I had my case.”
“What’s that?” ejaculated Barnett in surprise. “You’ve caught the
thief?”
Béchoux pointed pompously to the ceiling, rather in the manner of one
indicating the path to paradise.
“He’s up there, locked in the attic, and Baron de Gravières is mounting
guard.”
“Fine! A masterpiece of detection! Tell me all, Béchoux, but in tabloid
form, since life is brief.”
“A bare statement of facts will suffice,” said the inspector, whose
speech could achieve almost telegraphic condensation in the moment of
victory: “(a) I found numerous footprints on the damp ground between
the church and the vicarage; (b) An examination of said footprints
proved that there was only one burglar, who first carried his haul from
the vestry some distance away, since he returned to the attack by the
vicarage steps; (c) The burglar, having waked Père Dessole, hurriedly
retraced his steps, collected his loot and fled along the highroad. His
tracks vanished near the Hippolyte Inn.”
“Immediately,” interrupted Barnett, “you cross-examined the
innkeeper....”
“And the innkeeper,” continued Béchoux, “on my inquiring for a man with
a grey hat, a brown overcoat, and two gold teeth, told me at once that
the description exactly fitted a certain Monsieur Vernisson. This man,
he said, was a traveller in pins, known in Vaneuil as Monsieur
Quatre-Mars, because he was in the habit of coming each year on the
Fourth of March. The innkeeper told me that he had got in the day
before at midday, had stabled his gig, eaten his lunch, and then gone
off to call on his customers. I asked when he had got back, and the
innkeeper told me about two in the morning, as usual. After that, I
ascertained that the man in question had only been gone forty minutes
and was driving in the direction of Chantilly.”
“Whereupon,” said Barnett, “you followed in his train?”
“The baron drove me in his car. We soon caught up with friend Vernisson
and, though he protested, we forced him to put his gig about and come
along with us.”
“Ah, then he maintains his innocence?”
“Scarcely that. But all we can get out of him is ‘Don’t tell my
wife!... My wife must never learn of this!’”
“What about the treasure?”
The abbé sighed dolorously and Béchoux’s triumph grew less pronounced.
“It wasn’t in the gig.”
“But you nevertheless find the evidence quite conclusive?”
“Oh, absolutely. Vernisson’s shoes correspond exactly to the footprints
in the graveyard. Besides, the curé can swear to having encountered the
man there late that afternoon. There can be no doubt at all.”
“Well then,” said Barnett a trifle impatiently, “what’s bothering you?
Why call me in?”
“Oh, that’s an idea of the curé’s,” said Béchoux, looking a bit
disgruntled. “There’s a minor point in the case on which we disagree.”
“Minor! That’s only in your opinion,” said the Abbé Dessole, whose
handkerchief was by now wringing wet.
“What’s the trouble, father?” asked Barnett.
“Well,” the priest hesitated. “It’s about——”
“Yes?” encouraged Barnett.
“About those gold teeth. Monsieur Vernisson certainly has two gold
teeth, only”—he faltered—“only, they’re on the right side of his mouth
... whereas those I saw were on the left!”
Jim Barnett could not restrain his hilarity. He burst into loud
laughter. As the Abbé Dessole stared at him in blank amaze, he pulled
himself together and exclaimed:
“On the right side! Too bad! But are you sure you weren’t mistaken?”
“Positive!”
“But you had met the man——”
“In the graveyard. Yes, that was Vernisson. But it couldn’t have been
the same man who came in the night, since Vernisson’s gold teeth are on
the right side, and the burglar’s were on the left.”
“Perhaps he had changed them over to make it more difficult,” Barnett
suggested joyously. “Béchoux, do bring in the prisoner.”
Two minutes later Monsieur Vernisson was ushered in. He was forlorn and
crushed looking, his melancholy aspect intensified by the depressed
droop of his moustache. His escort, Baron de Gravières, was a well
set-up specimen of the gentleman-farmer class, and carried a revolver.
The prisoner, who looked dazed began moaning:
“I don’t understand ... a broken lock ... what does it all mean?”
“You’d better confess,” advised Béchoux, “instead of whining like
that.”
“I’ll confess anything you like, if only you’ll promise not to tell my
wife. That I can’t allow. I have to meet her next week at Arras. I must
be there, and I can’t have her know anything of this.”
He was so frightened and upset that in his distress his mouth fell open
and the gleam of the two gold teeth was apparent. Jim Barnett came up
to him, inserted thumb and forefinger, and pronounced gravely:
“They’re not a bit loose. There’s no getting away from it, this chap’s
teeth are on the right side. And here’s Père Dessole saying he saw them
on the left.”
Inspector Béchoux was livid.
“That makes no difference! We’ve caught the thief. He’s been coming to
the village for years preparing the ground for this robbery. The
thing’s as clear as day. The curé must be wrong!”
The Abbé Dessole solemnly extended his arm.
“I call upon God to witness that I saw the teeth on the left!”
“On the right!”
“On the left!”
“Time!” cried Barnett. “Now then, you two, you won’t get anywhere with
this ‘Katy Did’ business. What is it you’re after, father?”
“A satisfactory explanation.”
“And if you don’t get it?”
“Then I shall turn the case over to the police as I ought to have done
in the beginning. If this man is not guilty, we have no right to detain
him. I maintain that the burglar’s gold teeth were on the left side of
his mouth.”
“Right!” bawled Béchoux.
“Left!” the abbé insisted.
“Neither right nor left,” was Barnett’s dictum. He was in his element.
“Father, I promise you to produce the thief here, to-morrow morning at
nine, and he will tell you himself where to find the treasure. You,
Béchoux, shall spend the night in this armchair, the baron in that one
and we will tie Monsieur Vernisson to this one. Béchoux, will you wake
me at a quarter to nine? I drink chocolate with my breakfast. See that
there’s toast—and I like my eggs lightly boiled.”
By the end of that day, Barnett had been seen all over the place. He
was seen making a minute examination of each tombstone in the graveyard
in turn. He was seen searching the curé’s bedroom. He was seen
telephoning from the post-office. He was seen at the Hippolyte Inn,
where he dined with the proprietor. He was seen striding along the
highroad and strolling in the fields. But those who observed his
actions could only guess at their purport.
He did not return until two o’clock next morning. The baron and the
inspector were sitting very close to the man with the gold teeth, their
snores reverberating in competitive crescendo. When he heard Barnett
come in, Monsieur Vernisson groaned.
“Mustn’t let my wife get to know of this....”
Jim Barnett flung himself down on the floor and was fast asleep at
once.
At a quarter to nine precisely Béchoux woke Barnett. Breakfast was
ready. Barnett wolfed four bits of toast, three cups of chocolate, and
a couple of eggs. Then he invited his audience to gather round and
said:
“Father, behold me punctual to the appointed hour. Now, Béchoux, I’m
going to demonstrate the extreme unimportance of all your professional
sleuth stuff—footprints, and cigarette ends, and so forth—when
confronted with the actual facts of the case as reconstructed by an
alert intelligence, spurred by intuition and ballasted with
experience.” He bowed modestly, seemingly unconscious that he was a
trifle mixed in his metaphors. “We’ll begin with Monsieur Vernisson.”
“Anything—you can do anything—so long as you don’t tell my wife,”
stammered the wretched commercial traveller, a wreck from anxiety and
insomnia.
So Jim Barnett launched forth.
“Eighteen years ago Alexandre Vernisson, who was then already a
traveller in pins, met here, in Vaneuil, a girl called Angélique, the
little dressmaker of the village. It was a case of love at first sight
on both sides. Monsieur Vernisson got several weeks’ leave from his
employers. He courted Mademoiselle Angélique, and they eloped. She
loved him dearly and was his devoted companion until her death, two
years later. He was quite inconsolable, and although later on a forward
young woman called Honorine got him to marry her, his memories of
Mademoiselle glowed the brighter, since Honorine, a jealous shrew,
never ceased nagging at him and reproaching him with his two years’
idyll, which had somehow come to her knowledge. Hence the pathetic
pilgrimage in secret to Vaneuil which Alexandre Vernisson has made
without fail each year. That’s so, isn’t it, Monsieur Vernisson?”
“Have it your own way,” muttered the latter, “only don’t tell....”
Jim Barnett went on:
“So, each year, Monsieur Vernisson plans his rounds so as to call at
Vaneuil in his gig, unknown to Madame Honorine. He kneels beside the
tomb of Angélique on each anniversary of her death, for it was here in
this graveyard she was buried according to her dying wish. He revisits
the places where they walked together on the day they first met, and
returns to the inn at two in the morning, just as on that occasion. Not
far from where we are sitting at this moment you can see the humble
headstone with the inscription that gave me the explanation of Monsieur
Vernisson’s movements: ‘Here lies Angélique who died on March the
fourth.’ Alexandre loved her and mourns for her!”
The worthy abbé’s eyes filled with tears.
“You can see now why Monsieur Vernisson is so afraid lest Madame
Honorine should learn of his present plight. What would her attitude be
on hearing that her faithless husband is suspected of theft on account
of his late beloved?”
Poor Monsieur Vernisson was mourning openly—partly no doubt for
Angélique, and even more at the thought of his wife’s wrath. His
concern was all with this aspect of the affair, and he seemed oblivious
of the main issue. Béchoux, the baron and the Abbé Dessole all listened
intently.
“This,” Barnett went on, “solves one of the problems confronting us—I
mean Monsieur Vernisson’s exactly timed visits to Vaneuil. This
solution leads us logically up to that of the second riddle—who stole
the treasure? The two are interdependent. You will readily admit that
the existence of such a valuable collection is likely to rouse the
imagination and excite the cupidity of many people. The idea of
stealing it must have occurred occasionally to both visitors and
villagers. Though, thanks to your precautions, father, the theft was
made pretty difficult, yet the obstacles are quite easily surmounted by
anyone who happens to know the exact nature of those precautions, and
who has for years enjoyed the advantage of being able to spy out the
land, plan the burglary and avoid all danger of discovery. For the crux
of this kind of case is—that the thief should go unsuspected. And to
avoid suspicion, there is no better stratagem than to fix suspicion on
someone else ... on this man, for instance, who pays furtive annual
visits to the graveyard on a fixed date, who covers up his movements
and invites suspicion by his very secrecy. Thus, slowly, laboriously,
the plot takes shape. A grey hat, a brown overcoat, shoeprints, gold
teeth—all these characteristics are the subject of minute observation
by someone. This comparatively unknown commercial traveller is to be
the culprit, while the real thief goes free. By the real thief I mean
that mysterious someone who, secretly, perhaps in the friendly guise of
a frequent visitor at the rectory, plots his ingenious manœuvre year
after year.”
Barnett was silent for a moment. Bit by bit he was bringing the truth
to light. Monsieur Vernisson began to assume an expression of
martyrdom. Barnett’s hand went out to him.
“Madame Vernisson shall not know a thing about your pilgrimage,
Monsieur Vernisson. Forgive the misunderstanding through which you have
been made to suffer so grievously. And forgive me for having ransacked
your gig last night and unearthed the rather amateurish hiding-place
under the seat where you keep Mademoiselle Angélique’s letters along
with your private papers. You are a free man, Monsieur Vernisson.” He
loosed the other’s bonds.
The commercial traveller stood up.
“One moment, please!” protested Béchoux, roused to indignation by
Barnett’s dénouement.
“Say on, Béchoux.”
“What about the gold teeth?” cried the inspector, “There’s no getting
away from them. Père Dessole undoubtedly saw two gold teeth in the
burglar’s mouth. And Monsieur Vernisson has two gold teeth—here, on the
right side. What do you make of that?”
“Those I saw were on the left,” the abbé corrected him.
“On the right, father.”
“On the left, I swear.”
Jim Barnett laughed yet again.
“Shut up, both of you. You’re squabbling over a trifle. Good lord,
Béchoux, here are you, a police inspector, stumped by a potty little
problem. Why, it’s positively elementary, my poor friend. It’s the sort
of thing they ask the Lower Third.... Father, this room is an exact
replica of your bedchamber, isn’t it?”
“It is. My bedroom is directly overhead.”
“Well, father, would you be so kind as to close the shutters and draw
the curtains. Monsieur Vernisson, lend me your hat and coat.”
Jim Barnett clapped the gray slouch hat on his head and donned the
brown overcoat, turning up the collar. Then, when the room was quite
dark, he produced a flashlight from his pocket and stood in front of
the curé, projecting the beam of the torch into his own open mouth.
“The man! The man with the gold teeth!” faltered the Abbé Dessole,
staring hard.
“On which side are my gold teeth, father?”
“On the right side. But—those I saw were on the left!”
Jim Barnett’s flashlight clicked out. He seized the abbé by the
shoulders and spun him round quickly several times. Then he switched on
the torch again suddenly and said in a tone of command:
“Look ahead of you,... straight ahead. You can see the gold teeth,
can’t you? On which side are they?”
“On the left,” said the abbé, utterly dumbfounded.
Jim Barnett drew back the curtains and opened the shutters.
“On the right ... on the left ... you’re not quite sure, after all!
Well, father, that explains what happened the other night. When you
jumped out of bed, with a sleep-dazed brain, you never realized that
you were facing away from the window and standing directly before the
fireplace, so that the intruder, instead of being in front of you, was
actually behind you. Therefore, when you switched on your flashlight,
its beam fell not on him but on his reflection in the mirror! I’ve just
brought about a repetition of the phenomenon by spinning you round and
making you giddy. Do you see now? Or shall I dot the i’s of elucidation
by reminding you that a mirror when it reflects an object shows you the
right and left sides reversed? That is how you happened to see the gold
teeth on the left side when they were really on the right.”
“Yes!” cried Inspector Béchoux, in triumph. “But that only proves that
I was right, and yet Père Dessole was not wrong in maintaining his
assertion. Therefore it’s up to you to produce a new man with gold
teeth to take the place of Monsieur Vernisson.”
“Quite unnecessary, I assure you.”
“But you must admit that the burglar is a man with gold teeth?”
“Have I got gold teeth?” demanded Barnett, and took from his mouth a
small piece of gold paper, which still bore the imprint of two of his
teeth.
“Here’s your proof. I hope you find it properly convincing. With
shoe-prints, a grey hat, a brown overcoat and two gold teeth, someone
has fabricated an indisputable Monsieur Vernisson for your benefit. And
how simple it is! One only has to get hold of a little bit of gilt
paper—like this, which I got from the same shop in Vaneuil, where a
whole sheet of it was purchased about three months ago, by the—Baron de
Gravières.”
Barnett’s words, which he let fall quite casually, seemed to reëcho in
the amazed silence which followed them. As a matter of fact, Béchoux,
who had followed Barnett’s line of argument pretty closely, was not
altogether surprised at the climax. But the Abbé Dessole looked as
though he would choke at any moment. His eyes were fixed on his
estimable parishioner, the Baron de Gravières, who sat with heightened
color, but said not a word. Barnett gave Monsieur Vernisson back his
hat and coat. The latter mumbled as he took his leave:
“You promise faithfully, don’t you, that Madame Vernisson shall never
hear of this? It would be terrible if she got to know ... you can
imagine....”
Barnett escorted him to the door and returned beaming. He rubbed his
hands together gleefully.
“A good run and a quick kill. I feel thoroughly braced. You see how
it’s done, Béchoux? Just the same method I applied to the other cases
where we’ve worked together. Never begin by accusing the man you
suspect. Don’t ask him to furnish an alibi. Don’t even take any notice
of him. But, while he thinks himself perfectly safe, reconstruct the
case step by step in his presence. This drives him to a mental
reënaction of the part he played in it. He sees what he had thought
buried in dark oblivion dragged to light. He feels himself cornered,
hopelessly involved, quite unable to fight against the proofs of his
guilt. The ordeal is such a strain on his nerves that it scarcely
occurs to him to utter a word in self-defense or protest. Isn’t that
so, baron? I take it we are all agreed. There’s no point in going over
it all again, is there? You are satisfied that my deductions are
correct?”
Baron de Gravières was evidently undergoing the exact ordeal described
by Barnett, for he made no attempt to confront his adversary or to
conceal his own distress. His attitude was that of a criminal caught
red-handed.
Jim Barnett came over and tendered affable reassurance.
“You need have no fears, monsieur. Abbé Dessole, who is anxious at all
costs to avoid a scandal, only asks you to return the treasure. Once
that’s back in its place, the incident can be regarded as closed.”
The baron raised his head, stared a moment at the man who had compassed
his downfall, and, under Barnett’s relentless gaze, murmured:
“There will be no prosecution? Nothing more will be said? I have your
promise, father?”
“I shall say nothing, I promise,” said the Abbé Dessole. “I shall blot
everything from my memory the minute the treasure is restored. But I
can hardly believe, even now, that you stole it, monsieur le baron—that
you, whom I trusted as I would myself, should turn criminal—it’s
incredible!”
With the awed humility of a child confessing his sins and gaining
relief by the recital, the baron whispered:
“It was too much for me, father. My thoughts kept coming back to that
treasure lying there, so close ... so close ... I resisted the
temptation ... I didn’t want to be a thief.... Then, the whole thing
seemed to take shape in my brain of its own accord....”
“I can hardly believe it!” the abbé repeated sorrowfully.
“Surely—surely——”
“It’s true enough. I had lost money in rash speculation. I had nothing
left to live on. Two months ago, father, I stored all my valuable
antique furniture, with several grandfather clocks and some fine
tapestries in my garage. I meant to sell them ... that would have been
my salvation. But I couldn’t bear to part with them ... and the fourth
of March was so near. Temptation assailed me ... the idea of carrying
out the plan that had come to me. I fell ... forgive me....”
“I forgive you,” said the Abbé Dessole, “and I shall pray the Lord to
be merciful in His punishment to you.”
The baron stood up and said in a firm voice:
“Now, will you please come with me?”
They all walked along the highroad, like men out for a stroll. The Abbé
Dessole mopped his brow. The baron’s tread was heavy and his bearing
bowed. Béchoux felt acute anxiety. He had little doubt that Barnett,
after deftly unravelling the threads of the case, had cheerfully helped
himself to the treasure.
In high feather, Barnett held forth at his side:
“How on earth you came to miss the real thief, Béchoux, beats me. You
must be blind. I saw at once that Monsieur Vernisson couldn’t have
plotted the crime at the rate of one trip a year; that it was much more
likely to be the work of a resident, and preferably of a neighbor. When
I saw the neighbor!... Why, the baron’s house commands an unimpeded
view of church and rectory. He was familiar with the curé’s various
precautions. He knew all about Monsieur Vernisson’s annual pilgrimage
on the fourth of March. Then....”
But Béchoux was not listening. He was too much taken up with his fears,
which solemn meditation did nothing to mitigate.
Barnett went jestingly on:
“Then, when I was sure of my case, I denounced the criminal to his
face. I had no actual proof at all—nothing that would stand in a court
of law. But I observed my man’s face as I built up the story of what
had happened and saw that he was almost beside himself. Ah, Béchoux,
that’s a grand and glorious feeling! And you see where it has landed
us?”
“Yes, I see ... or rather, I soon shall see ... you in clover and me in
the soup, I expect,” said Béchoux, morbidly resigned to the ultimate
doom.
Baron de Gravières had led them the length of several ditches on his
estate, and they were now taking a narrow grass path across a field. He
stopped short a few minutes later, near a clump of oaks.
“There,” he said in a staccato voice, “in that field on the right ...
in the haystack.”
Béchoux’s mouth wore a twisted smile. Feeling he might as well get it
over, he darted to the haystack, followed by the others.
The haystack was quite a small one. In a minute, Béchoux had tumbled
the top layer to the ground. Then he rummaged in the hay, working like
a ferret. Suddenly he gave a shout of triumph.
“Here they are! A monstrance!” his arm brandished it clear of the hay.
“A candlestick! A sconce!” he burrowed fiercely. “Six things ... no,
seven.”
“There should be nine!” cried the abbé.
“Nine there are! Why, they’re all here! Bully for you, Barnett. Bless
you, old son.”
Overcome with joy, and gathering the beloved objects to his ample
bosom, the abbé murmured:
“Mr. Barnett, you have my profound thanks. Heaven will reward you.”
Barnett’s inscrutable smile at this remark was perhaps indicative of
his belief in the old saying: “Heaven helps those who help themselves.”
Inspector Béchoux had been right in expecting an unpleasant surprise,
only it came a little later.
On their return, as the baron and his companions again skirted the
farm, they heard cries coming from the orchard. The baron rushed to the
garage, in front of which three of his employees stood gesticulating.
He guessed at once what had happened. The door of the small stable
adjoining the garage had been forced open and all the valuable antique
furniture, the grandfather clocks and the tapestries stored there—the
baron’s last resources—had disappeared. He reeled back, stammering:
“This is ghastly! When did it happen?”
“Last night,” said a servant. “We heard the dogs barking about eleven
o’clock.”
“But how could all the things have been spirited away?”
“In your car, sir.”
“In my car! They’ve stolen that too....”
The wretched baron sank into the arms of the priest, who comforted him
as best he could.
“God’s punishment has not tarried, my poor friend. Accept it with a
contrite heart....”
Béchoux advanced on Barnett with clenched fists, ready to spring and
strike.
“You must notify the police, monsieur le baron,” he rasped, in a tone
of fury. “I can assure you that your furniture is not lost.”
“Of course not,” agreed Barnett amicably. “But to prefer a charge would
be most dangerous for the baron.”
Béchoux continued his measured advance. His eyes were steely, and his
attitude one of threat. But Barnett drew him gently aside.
“Don’t you realize what would have happened without me? The curé would
not have got his treasure back. The innocent Vernisson would be in jail
and Madame Vernisson would know all about her unfortunate husband’s
backsliding. The only thing left for you in the circumstances would
have been to jump into the Seine.”
Béchoux sank limply down upon a tree stump. He was inarticulate with
rage.
“Quick, quick!” cried Barnett. “Something to pull Béchoux round....
He’s not feeling well!”
Baron de Gravières gave an order. A bottle of old wine was opened.
Béchoux drank down one glass, the curé another. The baron finished the
bottle....