Shortly after the suicide of Thérèse Saint-Prix, Inspector Béchoux,
primed with official information, was hastily despatched from police
headquarters on the mission of solving the Old Dungeon mystery. He left
Paris on an evening train and spent the night at Guéret in central
France. Next day he took a car on to the village of Mazurech, where his
first move was to visit the château—a vast, rambling structure, of
great age, built on a promontory in a loop of the river Creuse. He
found the owner, Monsieur Georges Cazévon, in residence.
Georges Cazévon was a rich manufacturer of about forty—handsome in a
florid style, and not without a certain animal attraction. He had a
bluff, hearty manner which commanded the respect of the neighborhood.
Thanks to influence, he was chairman of the County Council and a person
of considerable importance. Since the Old Dungeon was on his estate, he
was eager to take Béchoux there himself immediately.
They walked across the great park with its fine chestnuts, and came to
a ruined tower, all that was left of the ancient feudal castle of
Mazurech. This tower soared skywards right from the bottom of the
canyon where the Creuse crawled like a wounded snake along its
rock-strewn bed.
The opposite bank of the river was the property of the d’Alescar
family, and on it, about forty yards away from where Béchoux stood with
Cazévon, rose a rubble wall, glistening with moisture and forming a
kind of dam. Higher up it was surmounted by a shady terrace with a
balustrade along it, forming the end of a garden alley. It was a wild,
forlorn spot. Here it was that, on a morning ten days before, the young
Comte Jean d’Alescar had been found lying dead on a great rock. The
body apparently had no injuries other than those due to the ghastly
fall. There was a broken branch hanging down the trunk of one of the
trees on the terrace. It was easy to reconstruct the tragedy—the young
Comte had climbed out along the branch, it had snapped beneath his
weight, and he had fallen into the river. A clear case of death by
misadventure. There had been no hesitation in bringing in the verdict.
“But what on earth was the young Comte doing climbing that tree?”
Béchoux wanted to know.
Georges Cazévon was ready with the answer.
“He wanted to get a really close view from above of this dungeon. The
old castle is the cradle of the d’Alescar family, who lorded it here in
feudal times.” He added immediately: “I shan’t say anything more,
inspector. You know that you have been sent here at my urgent request.
The trouble is that ugly rumors have got about and I am being attacked
on all sides. That’s got to stop. So please make the fullest
investigations and question everyone. It is especially important that
you should call on Mademoiselle d’Alescar, the young Comte’s sister,
and the last surviving member of the family. Look me up again before
you leave Mazurech.”
Béchoux went about his work quickly. He explored round the foot of the
tower and then entered the inner court which was now a mass of fallen
masonry caused by the collapse of stairs and flooring. He then made his
way back into Mazurech, picking up stray bits of information from the
inhabitants. He called on the priest and on the mayor, and lunched at
the inn.
At two o’clock that afternoon, Béchoux stood in the narrow garden which
ran down to the terrace and was bisected by a small building of
farmhouse type, called the Manor—a nondescript structure in bad repair.
An old servant took his card into Mademoiselle d’Alescar and he was at
once shown into a low, plainly furnished room where he found the object
of his call in conversation with a man.
Both rose at his entrance, and, as the man turned towards him, Béchoux
recognized—Jim Barnett!
“Ah, you’ve come at last!” exclaimed Barnett joyously and held out his
hand. “When I read in my morning paper that you were cruising
Creuse-ward I leapt into my car and hastened to the scene of action so
that I might be ready at your service. In fact, I was here waiting for
you! Mademoiselle, may I introduce Inspector Béchoux, who has been put
in charge of the case by headquarters. With Béchoux at the helm you
need fear nothing. Probably by now he has the whole thing cut and
dried. Béchoux puts the sleuth in sleuthing—burglars frighten their
young with tales of Bogey Béchoux. Let him speak for himself!”
But Béchoux uttered not a word. He was flabbergasted. Barnett’s
presence—the last thing he had either expected or desired—floored him
completely. It was a case of Barnett morning, noon, and night. Barnett
popping up like a jack-in-the-box on every possible—and
impossible—occasion. Every time that fate brought the two together,
Béchoux found himself perforce submitting to Barnett’s accursed
coöperation. And where Jim Barnett helped others, he was always careful
to help himself. His hand went out to his fellow-men, but never drew
back empty!
In truth, there was little enough Béchoux could say anyway, for he was
still quite at sea and had found no clue in the Old Dungeon mystery—if
mystery it should prove.
As he remained silent, Barnett spoke again:
“The position, mademoiselle, is this: Inspector Béchoux, having by this
time, doubtless, examined the evidence and made up his own mind, is
here to ask if you will be so kind as to confirm the results of the
inquiries he has already made. Since we ourselves have only had the
briefest of conversation so far, would you be good enough to tell us
all you know about the terrible tragedy which resulted in the death of
your brother, Comte d’Alescar?”
Elizabeth d’Alescar was a tall girl, classically beautiful, her pallor
accentuated by her mourning. She kept her face turned away into the
shadow so that the two men saw only her delicate profile. It was with a
visible effort that she restrained her grief. She answered without
hesitation:
“I would rather have said nothing, have accused no one. But since it is
my painful duty to reveal all I know to you, I am ready to speak.”
It was Barnett who authoritatively usurped the law’s prerogative.
“My friend, Inspector Béchoux, would like to know the exact time at
which you last saw your brother alive.”
“At ten o’clock at night. We had dined together—our usual light-hearted
meal. I was very, very fond of Jean; he was several years younger than
myself, and I had practically brought him up from when he was quite a
little boy. We were always the best of friends, and happy in each
other’s company.”
“He went out during the night?”
“He left the house a little before dawn, towards half-past three in the
morning. Our old servant heard him go.”
“Did you know where he was going?”
“He had told me the day before that he was going to fish from the
terrace. Fishing was one of his favorite occupations.”
“Then there is nothing you can tell us about the time elapsing between
half-past three and the discovery of your brother’s body?”
“Yes, there is.” She paused. “At a quarter past six I heard a shot!”
“Oh, yes. Several people heard it. But it’s quite possible it was only
a poacher.”
“That was what I thought at the time. But somehow I felt anxious, so at
last I got out of bed and dressed. When I reached the terrace I saw men
from the village on the opposite bank of the river. They were carrying
my poor brother up to the grounds of the Château, because it was too
steep to get the body up the other side.”
“Then you are surely of opinion that the shot could not have been in
any way connected with what happened to your brother? Otherwise the
inquest would have revealed a bullet wound, which, of course, it did
not.”
Seeing Mademoiselle d’Alescar’s hesitation, Barnett pressed home his
question.
“Won’t you answer me?”
The girl’s hands clenched at her sides.
“Whatever actually happened, I only know that I am perfectly certain in
my own mind that there is some connection.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Well, to begin with, there is no other possible explanation.”
“An accident....”
She shook her head, smiling sadly.
“Oh, no. Jean was extraordinarily agile, and he had also plenty of good
sense and caution. He would never have trusted himself to that branch.
Why, it was obviously much too slender to bear his weight.”
“But you admit that it was broken.”
“There is nothing to prove that it was broken by him and on that
particular night.”
“Then, mademoiselle, it is your honest belief that a crime has been
committed?”
She nodded gravely.
“You have even gone so far as to accuse a certain person by name and in
the presence of witnesses?”
Again she nodded.
“What grounds have you for making this assertion? Is there any definite
proof pointing to someone’s guilt? That is what Inspector Béchoux is
anxious to know.”
For a few moments Elizabeth was lost in reflection. They could see that
it distressed her to recall such dreadful memories. But she made a
valiant effort and said:
“I will tell you everything. But to do so, I must go back to something
that happened twenty-four years ago. It was then that my father lost
all his money in a bank failure. He found himself ruined, but he told
no one. His creditors were paid. Of course, it was common knowledge
that he had lost a large part of his fortune, but no one guessed that
the whole of it had been engulfed. What actually happened was that my
father threw himself on the mercy of a rich manufacturer in Guéret.
This man lent him two hundred thousand francs on one condition
only—that the Château, the estate, and all the Mazurech acres should
become his property if the loan were not repaid within five years.”
“That manufacturer was Georges Cazévon’s father, wasn’t he?”
“Yes,” she said, a note of hatred in her voice.
“Was he anxious to own the Château?”
“Very anxious indeed. He had tried to buy it several times. Well,
exactly four years and eleven months later, my father died of cerebral
congestion. It came on rapidly, and towards the close of his life he
was obviously troubled and preoccupied with something of which we knew
nothing. Immediately after his death, Georges Cazévon told us about the
loan he had made my father, and warned my uncle, who was looking after
us, that we had just one month in which to discharge our debt. He had
absolute proof of his claim, such proof as no lawyer could dispute. My
father left nothing. Jean and I were driven out of our home and were
taken in by our uncle, who lived in this very house, and was himself
far from wealthy. He died very soon after, and so did old Monsieur
Cazévon.”
Béchoux and Barnett had listened to her attentively. Now Barnett spoke
on behalf of his friend:
“My friend the inspector doesn’t quite see how all this links up with
the events of the present day.”
Mademoiselle d’Alescar gave Béchoux a glance of slightly contemptuous
surprise and continued, without answering:
“So Jean and I lived alone here on this little manor, right in front of
the Dungeon and the Château that had always belonged to our family.
This caused Jean a sorrow which grew with the years, and intensified as
his intelligence developed and he grew towards manhood. It grieved and
hurt him to feel that he had lost his heritage and been driven from
what he considered his rightful domain. In all his work and play he
made time to devote whole days to delving in the family archives, and
reading up our history and genealogy. Then, one day, he found among
these books a ledger in which our father had kept his accounts during
the latter years of his life, showing the money he had saved by
exercising the strictest economy and by several successful real estate
deals. There were also bank receipts. I went to the bank that had
issued them and learned that our father, a week before his death, had
withdrawn his entire deposit—two hundred banknotes of a thousand francs
each!”
“The exact amount,” said Barnett, “which he was due to pay in a few
weeks’ time. Then why did he put off paying it?”
“I have no idea.”
“Therefore you think he must have put the money in a safe place
somewhere?” He paused, and twiddled his monocle thoughtfully.
“Somewhere—ah, but where?”
Elizabeth d’Alescar produced the ledger of which she had spoken and
showed it to Barnett and Béchoux.
“It is here that we must look for the answer to that question,” she
said, turning to the last page, on which was sketched a diagram
representing three-quarters of a circle, to which was added, at the
right side, a semicircle of shorter radius. This semicircle was barred
by four lines, between two of which was a small cross. All the lines in
the diagram had been drawn first in pencil and then gone over in ink.
“What’s all this mean?” asked Barnett.
“It took us a long time to understand it,” replied Elizabeth. “At last,
poor Jean guessed one day that the diagram represented an accurate plan
of the Old Dungeon, reduced to its outside lines. It is on that exact
plan, on the unequal parts of two circles connected with each other.
The four lines indicate four embrasures.”
“And the cross,” finished Barnett, “indicates the place where the Comte
d’Alescar hid his two hundred thousand francs to await the day of
repayment.”
“Yes,” said the girl, with conviction.
Barnett thought it over, took another look at the map and finally
remarked:
“It’s quite probable. The Comte d’Alescar would, of course, have been
sure to take the precaution of leaving some clue to the hiding-place,
and his sudden death prevented his passing on the secret. But surely,
all you had to do on finding this was to tell Monsieur Cazévon’s son
and ask his permission to——”
“To climb to the top of the tower! That is just what we immediately
did. Georges Cazévon, although we were not on the best of terms with
him, was quite pleasant about it. But how could any human being get to
the top of that tower? The stairs had fallen in fifteen years before.
All the stones are loose. The top is crumbling. No ladder—no ladders
even—could ever have reached high enough. The Dungeon battlements are
over ninety feet above the ground. And it was quite out of the question
to scale the wall. We discussed the whole problem and drew up plans for
several months, but it all ended in——”
She broke off, blushing hotly.
“A quarrel!” Barnett finished for her. “Georges Cazévon fell in love
with you and asked you to marry him. You refused him. He tried to force
you to his will. You broke off all intercourse with him, and Jean
d’Alescar was no longer allowed to set foot on Mazurech land.”
“That is exactly what did happen,” the girl said. “But my brother would
not give up. He simply had to have that money. He wanted it to buy back
part of our estate or to give me a dot which would set me free to marry
as I chose. Very soon the idea obsessed him. He spent his days in front
of the tower. He was always staring up at the inaccessible battlements.
He imagined a thousand schemes for getting up there. He practiced until
he was a skilled archer, and then, from daybreak, he would stand there
shooting arrows on long strings, hoping that one of them would fall in
such a way that a rope could be tied to the string and pulled up to the
top of the tower. He even had sixty yards of rope all ready for the
attempt. Everything he tried was hopeless, and his failure plunged him
into melancholy and despair. On the very day before he died he said to
me: ‘The only reason I go on trying is that I am certain to succeed in
the end. Fate will be in my favor. There will be a miracle—I am sure of
it—a miracle! That is what I pray for and what I confidently expect.’
Poor Jean, he never had his miracle!”
Barnett put another question.
“Then you believe that his death occurred while he was making yet
another attempt?”
Seeing that she assented, he continued:
“Is the rope no longer where he kept it?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Then what proof have you?”
“That shot! Georges Cazévon must have caught my brother in his attempt
and fired.”
“Good God!” cried Barnett. “You believe Georges Cazévon is capable of
doing such a thing?”
“I do. He is very impulsive. He controls himself as a rule, but he
might easily be led into violence—or even into crime.”
“But why should he have fired? To rob your brother of the money he had
recovered?”
“That I cannot say,” said Mademoiselle d’Alescar. “Nor do I know how
the murder could have been committed, since poor Jean’s dead body
showed no trace of a bullet wound. But I am absolutely firm in my
belief.”
“Quite so, but you must admit that your belief is based on intuition
rather than on the known facts,” observed Barnett. “And I think I ought
to tell you that in a court of law, intuition is not enough. I’m sure
Béchoux will agree with me, it’s quite on the cards that Georges
Cazévon will be so furious at your accusing him that he will sue you
for libel.”
Mademoiselle d’Alescar rose from her chair.
“That would matter very little to me,” she said. “I have not made this
accusation to avenge my brother, for to punish the criminal would not
restore Jean to life. I am merely stating what I believe to be the
truth. If Georges Cazévon likes to sue me, he is perfectly free to do
so and my defence will simply be what my conscience moves me to say.”
She was silent for a moment, and then added:
“But you can rely on his keeping quiet, gentlemen. I don’t think there
is much chance of his bringing any action against me!”
The interview was at an end. Jim Barnett did not attempt to engage the
girl in further conversation. Mademoiselle d’Alescar knew her own mind,
and no one would be able to intimidate her or upset her evidence in the
least.
“Mademoiselle,” said Barnett, “we apologize for this intrusion, but we
were obliged to trouble you in order to get at the truth of this tragic
affair. You may be sure Inspector Béchoux will make the right
deductions from all that you have said and act accordingly.”
He bowed and took his leave. Béchoux bowed likewise, and followed him
into the courtyard.
Once they were out of the house, the inspector, who had not spoken
during the interview, continued silent, partly in protest against
Barnett’s interference in the case, and partly because he was totally
bewildered by the turn events were taking. His taciturnity only
encouraged the loquacious Barnett.
“Yes, yes, Béchoux,” he said reflectively, “I can easily understand
your being puzzled. It’s a matter for deep thought. The lady’s
statement had a good deal in it, but it was compounded of such a
mixture of the possible with the impossible, the rational with the
fantastic, that it needs careful sifting if we are to make use of it.
For instance, on the face of it, young d’Alescar’s actions seem pure
fantasy. If the unlucky youth got to the top of the tower—and, contrary
to your own private belief, I rather think he did get there—then it was
due to that unimaginable miracle he had hoped and prayed for—a miracle
whose nature we are as yet unable to conceive.
“The problem we are up against is—how could the boy, within the space
of two hours, invent a means of climbing the tower, put his scheme into
execution, and climb down again, only to be hurled into the abyss by a
bullet ... which did not hit him! That’s the culminating impossibility,
that he went to his death through a shot which never touched him—that
seems to me to have been a miracle from hell!”
Barnett and Béchoux met again that evening at the inn, but dined apart.
During the next two days they only saw each other at mealtimes. Béchoux
was busy making investigations and inquiries throughout the
neighborhood. Barnett, like one of the lilies of the field, took root
on a grassy slope some way beyond the terrace, from which spot he had a
good view of the Old Dungeon and the river Creuse. He confined his
activities to fishing, smoking, and reflection. The heart of a mystery
is to be plucked out by sheer divination rather than by fevered
probing. So Barnett sat there, angling with his rod for the fish in the
river, and with his mind for the nature of the miracle with which Fate
had favored Jean d’Alescar.
On the third day, however, he bestirred himself and went off to Guéret
in the manner of a man with a definite object. And the day after that
he ran into Béchoux, who told him that he had now finished his
investigation.
“So have I,” said Barnett. “If you’re going back to Paris, I’ll give
you a lift in my car.”
“Thanks,” said Béchoux. “In about half an hour I am going up to see
Monsieur Cazévon.”
“Right, I’ll meet you at the Château,” said Barnett. “I’m fed to the
teeth with this place, aren’t you?”
He paid his bill at the inn, and drove to the gates of the Château.
Leaving his car in the road, he strolled through the park, and when he
got to the house presented his card. Underneath his own name he had
written the words: “Working in collaboration with Inspector Béchoux.”
He was shown into a vast hall, which spread over the ground floor of an
entire wing. Stags’ heads looked down from the walls, which were hung
with weapons and trophies of every description. Here he was joined by
Georges Cazévon.
“My colleague, Inspector Béchoux,” said Barnett, “is to meet me here.
We have been working together on the case, and we are to-day returning
to Paris.”
“And what opinion has Inspector Béchoux formed as a result of his
investigation?” asked Georges Cazévon, a shade eagerly.
“Oh, he has definitely made up his mind that there is nothing,
absolutely nothing to justify any fresh theory of the case. He is
satisfied that the rumors set afloat are quite groundless.”
“And Mademoiselle d’Alescar?”
Barnett shrugged his shoulders.
“According to Inspector Béchoux her mind is almost unhinged by her
bereavement, so that no reliance can be placed on anything she says at
present.”
“And you agree with Inspector Béchoux?”
“I?” Barnett raised his eyes and lowered them, his whole attitude one
of abject humility. “I am nothing but a humble assistant. I have no
views of my own at all!”
He began wandering aimlessly about the hall, looking at the glass cases
full of rifles and shotguns. These exhibits seemed to interest him
considerably.
“A fine collection, aren’t they?” said Georges Cazévon at his elbow.
“Magnificent!”
“Are you an enthusiast?”
“I have a great admiration for good marksmanship. I see by these cups
and certificates that you must be a remarkable shot. Let’s
see—Disciples de Saint Hubert, Creuse Sporting Club—oh, yes, that’s
what they were telling me about you yesterday when I was in Guéret.”
“Is the case much talked about at Guéret?”
“Oh, very little. But the accuracy of your shooting is proverbial among
the townsfolk!”
Barnett took up a gun, balancing it casually in his hands.
“Careful!” said Cazévon sharply. “That’s a service rifle. It’s loaded.”
“Really?” observed Barnett with polite interest. “Is that in case of
burglars?”
Cazévon smiled. “I really keep it handy for poachers. I should never
shoot to kill, though. A broken leg would be all I should aim for!”
“And would you shoot from one of these windows?”
“Oh, poachers don’t come so close to the Château!”
“That almost seems a pity,” said Barnett thoughtfully, and opened a
very narrow window—almost a loophole—which shed a ray of light into one
corner of the hall.
“Fancy that now!” he exclaimed. “Looking through the trees, one can see
a section of the Old Dungeon—right across the park. Isn’t that the
portion of the ruin which overlooks the river, Monsieur Cazévon?”
“Just about, I should say.”
“Why, yes, it is!” cried Barnett excitedly. “I recognize that tuft of
flowers growing between two stones. Isn’t the air wonderfully clear?
Can you see that yellow flower, looking along the bore?”
He had raised the gun to his shoulder as he spoke, and without
hesitating a moment, he fired. The yellow flower disappeared, while a
puff of smoke hung in the still air.
Georges Cazévon made a gesture of annoyance. His displeasure was
manifest. This “humble assistant” was an incredibly skilled marksman,
and, anyway, it was cool cheek his letting off a gun like that in the
house!
“I believe your servants are at the other end of the Château?” said
Barnett. “Then they won’t have heard the noise I made. But I’m sorry I
did that—it must have startled Mademoiselle d’Alescar, the sound being
so painfully associated for her with the memory——” He broke off.
Georges Cazévon smiled sardonically.
“Then does Mademoiselle d’Alescar still believe there is some
connection between the shot that was heard that morning and her
brother’s death?”
Barnett nodded.
“I wonder where she got the idea?”
“Where I got it myself a minute ago. It’s a curiously vivid picture—the
unknown watcher in ambush at this window, while Jean d’Alescar was
hanging on half-way down the Dungeon wall!”
“But d’Alescar died of a fall!” protested Cazévon.
“Quite so,” said Barnett, with deadly calm, “of a fall. And the reason
for his fall was, of course, the sudden crumbling of some projection or
shelf to which he was clinging with both hands at the time!”
Cazévon scowled at the urbane Barnett.
“I didn’t know,” he said, “that Mademoiselle d’Alescar had been so—so
definite in her statements to people. Why, this constitutes a direct
accusation!”
“Yes, a—direct—accusation,” repeated Barnett slowly, so that the words
seemed to hang in the air as the smoke from the gun had done a few
moments before.
Cazévon stared at him. The calm self-assurance and decisive manner of
this “humble assistant” rather astonished him. He even began to wonder
if this detective might not have come to the Château in the rôle of
aggressor. For the conversation, begun so casually and conventionally,
was now rapidly turning into an attack on Cazévon himself!
He sat down rather heavily, and asked:
“Why, according to Mademoiselle d’Alescar, was her brother climbing
that wall?”
“To recover the two hundred thousand francs which the old Comte
d’Alescar hid in the place which is marked with a cross on the map you
have been shown.”
“But I never for a moment believed in that yarn,” exclaimed Cazévon.
“Even presuming that the Comte d’Alescar had managed to raise such a
sum, why should he have concealed it instead of immediately handing it
over to my father?”
“Quite a valid objection,” admitted Barnett. “Unless the hidden
treasure happened not to be a sum of money at all!”
“But what else could it be?”
“That I don’t know. We shall have to use our imaginations a bit.”
Georges Cazévon made a movement of impatience.
“You can be quite sure that Elizabeth d’Alescar and her brother long
ago exhausted the possible alternatives!”
“How do you know? They are not professionals like myself.”
“Even a hypersensitized intelligence,” sneered Cazévon, “cannot evolve
something from nothing!”
“Yes, it can—sometimes! For example, do you know a man called Gréaume,
who is the Guéret newsagent, and was at one time an accountant in your
factory?”
“Certainly I know him. A very worthy fellow.”
“Well, Gréaume is prepared to swear that Jean d’Alescar’s father called
on your own father the very next day after he had drawn his two hundred
thousand francs from the bank.”
“Well?” snapped Cazévon.
“Isn’t it only logical to suppose that the money was handed over to
your father on that occasion, and that it was the receipt which was
temporarily concealed in some cranny of the Dungeon?”
Georges Cazévon gave a sudden start, then controlled himself.
“Mr.—uh—Barnett, do you realize what you are insinuating? It’s an
insult to my father’s memory!”
“An insult! I don’t follow you!” said Barnett innocently.
“If my father had received that money he would most certainly have
acknowledged the fact.”
“Why should he? He was under no obligation to tell his neighbors that
some one had paid him back a private loan!”
Georges Cazévon’s fist came down with a bang on his desk.
“But if that money had been paid him, how do you explain that a
fortnight later, just a few days after his former debtor’s death, he
was taking possession of the Mazurech estate?”
“Yet that is exactly what he did!”
“You must be crazy! There’s absolutely no ground for suggesting such a
thing. Even granting that my father was capable of demanding to be paid
what he had already received, he would never have done it, because he
would have known that the receipt could be produced!”
“Perhaps he knew,” suggested Barnett diffidently, “that its existence
was a secret and that the heirs were in ignorance of both loan and
repayment. And since he had set his heart on owning this place and had,
so they tell me, sworn he would get it, he was tempted and fell.”
“But no one would hide a receipt away where it could never be found.”
“Remember that the old Comte died of cerebral congestion. During his
last days he was very queer. His mind reasoned imperfectly. He was
ashamed of having borrowed that money. He was ashamed of the receipt,
yet dared not destroy it. So he evolved a tortuous manner of
concealment, with an equally tortuous clew.”
Gradually Barnett was putting a completely different complexion on the
whole case. Georges Cazévon’s father was now appearing in the light of
a rogue and blackguard. Cazévon himself, pale and shaking, stood with
clenched fists, impotent with fear and rage, glaring at the immovable
Barnett. The audacity of this “underling” completely unnerved him.
“I protest!” he stammered. “You have no right to jump to these—these
abominable conclusions!”
“Believe me,” said Barnett, “I never leap before I look. All my
allegations are founded on fact.”
Georges Cazévon darted a hunted look over his shoulder. He felt as if
some unseen enemy were closing in on him. In a high, unnatural voice he
cried:
“Lies! all lies! You have no proof. To prove that my father ever did
such a thing you would—why, you would have to go and look for evidence
at the top of the Old Dungeon!”
“Well,” contested Barnett, “Jean d’Alescar managed to get there, didn’t
he?”
“He didn’t! I tell you he didn’t! I tell you it’s impossible to scale a
ninety-foot tower all in two hours. It’s beyond human power!”
“All the same, Jean d’Alescar accomplished this—impossibility,” pursued
Barnett doggedly.
“But how?” asked Georges Cazévon, on a note of sheer exasperation. “Do
you expect me to believe he went up on a witch’s broomstick?”
“Not that,” said Barnett gently. “He used a rope!”
Cazévon laughed long and loud, but quite unmirthfully.
“A rope? You’re crazy. Of course, I often saw the boy shooting his
arrows in the vain hope that one day his rope would catch hold. Poor
devil! Miracles like that never happen nowadays. And anyway, two hours!
Oh, it’s out of the question. Besides, the rope would have been found
hanging from the tower, or lying on the rocks of the Creuse after the
tragedy. Whereas I am told it is at the Manor.”
With unshakable calm Barnett rejoined:
“Quite. But it wasn’t that rope he used, you see.”
“Then what rope did he use?” asked Cazévon, turning a gulp into a
laugh. “You can’t expect me to take all this seriously, you know. The
Comte Jean d’Alescar, carrying the magic rope, came out on to the
terrace of his garden at daybreak. He muttered the one word
‘Abracadabra,’ and lo! his rope uncoiled and rose to the top of the
tower, so that he might promptly ascend. The good old Indian
rope-trick—retired colonels write to the papers every day and solemnly
aver it’s a miracle!”
“And yet you, too, monsieur,” said Barnett, “are driven to conjure up a
miracle;—just like Jean d’Alescar—and like myself. There is no other
explanation, of course. But the miracle was the opposite of what you
imagine—it did not work from bottom to top, as would seem more usual
and probable, but from top to bottom!”
Cazévon made a feeble attempt to joke.
“A kind Providence, eh, throwing a life-line to help a struggling
mortal?”
“Why call Providence into it?” asked Barnett. “No need for that. This
miracle was merely one of those which Chance may perform at any time
nowadays.”
“Chance?”
“Remember that Chance knows no impossibilities. Chance is the unknown
factor—Chance the disturber, the malicious, capricious visitant,
swooping to make fantastic moves on the chessboard of human existence,
forever proving the old platitude that truth is stranger than fiction!
Chance is to-day the great worker of miracles. And the miracle I have
in mind is not so wonderful, really, in an age when meteors are not the
only bolts from the blue, so to speak.”
“Do the skies rain ropes?” asked Cazévon sardonically.
“Certainly, ropes among other things. The ocean-bed is strewn with
things dropped overboard by the ships that sail the seas!”
“There are no ships in the sky,” observed Cazévon.
“Oh, yes, there are,” Barnett contradicted him, “only we don’t think of
them as that. We call them balloons, and aeroplanes, and—after all,
airships! They ride the air as ships ride the ocean, and any number of
things may fall or be thrown overboard from them! Suppose one of these
things is a coil of rope, which slips over the battlements of the Old
Dungeon, and there you have the solution of the mystery.”
“A nice, convenient explanation!”
“Pardon me, an extremely well-founded explanation. If you glance
through the local papers for the past week, as I did yesterday, you
will see that a balloon flew over this part of the country on the night
preceding Jean d’Alescar’s death. It was travelling from north to
south, and ballast was heaved overboard ten miles north of Guéret. The
obvious inference is that a coil of rope was also thrown out, that one
end got caught in a tree on the terrace, and to free it Jean d’Alescar
had to break off a branch. He then went down to the terrace, tied the
two ends of the rope together, and climbed up to the tower. Not an easy
thing to do, but possible for a lad of his years.”
“And then?” came in a whisper from Cazévon, whose face had grown
suddenly gray.
“Then,” Barnett continued, “someone who was standing here, at this
window, and who was a remarkable shot, observed the boy hanging
suspended in midair, took aim at the rope, and—severed it!”
Cazévon made a choking noise.
“That is your explanation of the—accident?”
Barnett took no notice of the interruption, but went on:
“Afterwards, this person hurried to the bank of the Creuse and searched
the dead body to get the receipt. He took hold of the dangling rope,
and hauled it down—then threw the highly compromising piece of evidence
into a neighboring well—not a very safe hiding-place!”
The accusation had shifted to Georges Cazévon himself—a kind of guilty
legacy from the man’s dead father. The past was being linked up with
the present—the net was closing in.
With a convulsive effort, Cazévon shook himself, as if to rid himself
of Barnett’s odious presence.
“I’ve had enough of your lies!” he shouted. “The whole thing’s
ridiculous invention on your part—you’re simply making this up to
terrorize me. I shall tell Monsieur Béchoux that I have had you thrown
out as a common blackmailer. That’s what you are, a blackmailer! But
you won’t get any change out of me!”
“If I had come here to blackmail you,” said Barnett blithely, “I should
have started off by producing my proofs.”
Blind with rage, Cazévon screamed:
“Your proofs! What proofs have you got? Nothing but a cock-and-bull
story. You haven’t a single proof of any kind—how could you have? Why,
there’s only one proof that would be worth anything—only one. And if
you can’t produce that, then your whole story collapses at once, and
you’re a fool as well as a knave!”
“And what is that proof?” asked Barnett, still smiling.
“The receipt, of course! The receipt signed by my father!”
“Here it is,” said Barnett, holding out a sheet of stamped paper,
frayed and yellow at the edges. “This is your father’s handwriting,
isn’t it? Pretty explicit, this document: ‘I, the undersigned, Auguste
Cazévon, hereby acknowledge the receipt from the Comte d’Alescar of the
sum of two hundred thousand francs previously loaned to him by me, and
I hereby declare that this repayment renders null and void any and
every claim of mine to the Château and lands of Mazurech.’
“The date,” continued Barnett, “corresponds to that mentioned by
Gréaume. The receipt is signed. Therefore it is indisputably genuine,
and you, Cazévon, must have known about it from your father’s own lips
or from the private papers he left when he died. The discovery of this
document meant disgrace for your father and yourself, and the loss of
the Château, for which you felt all your father’s attachment. That’s
why you killed d’Alescar!”
“If I had killed him,” faltered Cazévon, “I should have removed the
receipt from his body.”
“You had a good look for it,” said Barnett grimly, “but it wasn’t on
him. Jean d’Alescar had prudently wrapped it round a stone and thrown
it down from the top of the tower, meaning to pick it up when he got to
the ground again. I found it near the river, some twenty yards away.”
Barnett only just stepped back in time to prevent Cazévon snatching the
receipt from his hand. There was a moment’s pause, and then Barnett,
breathing a trifle quicker, spoke again:
“That is tantamount to admitting your guilt! Looking at you now, I can
well believe Mademoiselle d’Alescar’s statement that you are capable of
almost anything. You are the slave of your own unreasoning impulse!
Carried away by the passions of greed and hatred, you raised your gun
and fired that morning. Steady, man!” as Cazévon seemed about to
collapse, “control yourself. Someone’s ringing! It must be Béchoux.
Perhaps you won’t want him to know all this!”
A full minute passed in silence. At last, Cazévon, his eyes still those
of a maniac, whispered:
“How much? What must I pay you for the receipt?”
“It is not for sale.”
“What do you mean to do with it?”
“It will be handed over to you, on certain conditions, which I will
outline in Inspector Béchoux’s presence.”
“And if I refuse to accept your terms?”
“Then it will be my painful duty to expose you!”
“No one will believe you!”
“Oh, won’t they?”
Cazévon’s head slumped in utter dejection. Barnett’s driving,
implacable will-power had beaten him. At that moment Béchoux was shown
in.
The inspector had not expected to find Barnett on the scene. He was
unpleasantly surprised, and wondered what the two men could have been
talking about; whether the incalculable Barnett had been busy digging
pits for the luckless representative of the law to fall into.
Fearing something of the sort, he was quite aggressively positive in
his assertions from the word “go.”
Shaking Cazévon warmly by the hand he declared:
“Monsieur, I promised to let you know the result of my investigations
before I left, and to tell you what kind of report I should make. So
far, my own views are in complete accord with the construction that has
been put upon the case. There is absolutely nothing in what
Mademoiselle d’Alescar has been saying against you.”
“Hear, hear,” said Barnett. “That’s just what I’ve been telling
Monsieur Cazévon. Béchoux, my guide, philosopher and friend, is
displaying his usual acumen. Nevertheless, the fact is that Monsieur
Cazévon is bent on returning good for evil, and meeting calumny with
generosity. He insists on restoring the domain of her ancestors to
Mademoiselle d’Alescar!”
Béchoux looked thunderstruck.
“Wh—what? You mean to say——”
“Just that,” said Barnett. “The affair has not unnaturally filled
Monsieur Cazévon with distaste for the district, and he has his eye on
a château nearer his factories in Guéret. When I got here this
afternoon Monsieur Cazévon was actually drafting the deed of gift. He
also expressed his wish to add a bearer check for one hundred thousand
francs to be handed to Mademoiselle d’Alescar as compensation. That’s
so, isn’t it, Monsieur Cazévon?”
Without a second’s hesitation, Cazévon acted on Barnett’s promptings as
if they had been the dictates of his heart’s desires. He seated himself
at his desk, wrote out the deed of gift and signed the check.
“There you are,” he said. “For the rest, I will instruct my solicitor.”
Barnett took both check and document, slipped them into an envelope,
and said to Béchoux:
“Here, take this to Mademoiselle d’Alescar. I feel sure she will
appreciate Monsieur Cazévon’s generosity. Monsieur, I am at your
service. I cannot tell you how happy you have made us both by
furnishing such a satisfactory solution to the business.”
He swaggered off, followed by Béchoux. The latter, utterly astounded,
waited till they were out of the park, and then demanded:
“What’s it all mean? Did he fire that shot? Has he made a statement to
you?”
“None of your business, Béchoux,” said Barnett. “Let bygones be
bygones. The case has been settled to everyone’s best advantage. All
you have to do is to speed on your mission to Mademoiselle d’Alescar.
Ask her to forgive and forget, and not to breathe a word to anyone.
Then come and pick me up at the inn.”
In a short while Béchoux was back again. He brought the news that
Mademoiselle d’Alescar had accepted the gift of the Mazurech estate and
her solicitor would take the matter up at once, but the money she
refused to take. In her indignation at being offered it she had torn up
the check.
Barnett and Béchoux took their leave. The return journey was made in
silence. The inspector was lost in unprofitable speculation. His mind
was in a whirl of interrogation, but Barnett looked disinclined for
confidential converse.
They got to Paris at close on to three o’clock. Barnett invited Béchoux
to lunch with him near the Bourse, and Béchoux, incapable of
resistance, went with him meekly.
“You do the ordering,” said Barnett, rising from the table a moment
after they had entered the restaurant. “I’ve some business I must
attend to. Won’t be a moment!”
Béchoux did not have long to wait. Barnett was back again almost
immediately, and the two men ate a hearty meal. When they were drinking
their coffee, Béchoux ventured a remark:
“I must send the torn bits of that check back to Monsieur Cazévon.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t bother to do that, Béchoux.”
“Why not?”
“The check was quite worthless.”
“But how?”
“Oh,” said Barnett airily, “I foresaw that Mademoiselle d’Alescar was
certain to refuse to take it, so when I put the deed of gift into the
envelope I slipped in with it an old cancelled check. Waste not, want
not.”
“But what happened to the genuine check?” groaned Béchoux, “the one
Monsieur Cazévon signed?”
“Oh, that! I’ve just been and cashed it at the bank!”
He opened his coat, displaying a wad of notes. Béchoux’s coffee cup
slipped from his nerveless grasp. With an effort he controlled himself.
For a long while they sat smoking in silence, facing one another across
the table. At last Barnett spoke:
“There’s no denying it, Béchoux, so far our collaboration has proved
decidedly fruitful. We seem to ring the bell every time, and it’s all
helped to enlarge my little nest-egg. But, honestly, I’m beginning to
feel very troubled about you, old horse. Here we are, working side by
side, and I always pocket the dibs. Look here, Béchoux, won’t you come
into partnership with me? The Barnett and Béchoux Agency? It really
sounds rather well!”
Béchoux gave him a look of hatred. The man goaded him beyond endurance.
He rose, flung down a note to pay for the lunch, and mumbled as he took
his leave:
“There are times when I think it must be Arsène Lupin after all!”
“I sometimes wonder, too,” said Barnett—and laughed.