Suddenly, unexpectedly, the fight between Barnett and Béchoux, which
had dragged on so long under cover, had reached the last round—in the
open!
Inspector Béchoux sped through the arched gateway of the préfecture and
across a couple of courtyards, took the stairs two at a time, and
dashed, without pausing to knock, into the sanctum of his chief. Pale
and breathless, he stammered:
“Arsène Lupin is mixed up in the Desroques case!”
The chief gave a startled exclamation.
“Surely not!”
“I saw him myself only a little while ago, outside Desroques’ flat, and
recognized him at once.”
“Don’t try and be funny, Béchoux. Nobody ever recognizes Arsène Lupin.”
“I do!” declared Béchoux. “This time he’s disguised as a private
detective and calls himself Jim Barnett—you remember, the chap I told
you about before, who left Paris a little while ago.”
The chief gave a slight chuckle.
“Left with Olga Vaubant of the Folies Bergère, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” assented Béchoux wrathfully. “Olga Vaubant, the singing acrobat,
and my ex-wife!”
“Well,” said the chief, “what did you do when you—recognized Lupin?”
“I shadowed him.”
“Without his knowing it?” The other was frankly incredulous.
Béchoux drew himself up stiffly. “When I shadow a man, chief, he never
knows it,” he declared. “All the same,” he added thoughtfully,
“although the beggar was pretending to be out for a stroll, he didn’t
take any chances. First he walked round the Place de l’Etoile. Then he
went along the Avenue Kléber and stopped on the east side of the Rond
Point du Trocadéro. Sitting on a bench there was a gipsy girl. She was
a pretty piece of goods, with her black head bare in the sunshine, and
her colored shawl wrapped about her. Well I watched Lupin, alias
Barnett, sit down beside her, and a minute later they were talking away
together, but hardly moving their lips—an old prison trick that, chief.
More than once I noticed them looking up at a house on the corner of
the Place du Trocadéro and the Avenue Kléber. After a while, Lupin got
up and took the Metro.”
“Did you keep on shadowing him?”
“Yes—or, rather, I tried to,” said Béchoux. “But he jumped aboard a
train that was just moving while I was held up in the crowd. When I got
back to the bench, the gipsy girl was gone.”
“And what about the house they were looking up at?”
“That’s where I’ve just come from,” said Béchoux. He took a deep
breath, and launched forth: “On the fourth floor of that house is a
furnished flat where for the last month old General Desroques, Jean
Desroques’ father, has been living. You remember that he came up from
Limoges to defend his son when the latter was arrested and
charged”—Béchoux swelled with the majesty of the law—“with abduction,
illegal detention, and wilful murder!”
This repetition of the roll of crimes seemingly impressed the chief,
who nodded solemnly and asked his subordinate:
“Did you call on the general?”
“I did, and he opened the door to me himself. Then I described to him
the little comedy that had just been played under his windows, leaving
out all mention of Arsène Lupin, of course. He was not surprised, and
told me that the day before a gipsy girl had come to see him. She
offered to tell his fortune and reveal the outcome of the trial. She
demanded three thousand francs and said she would await his answer next
afternoon in the Place du Trocadéro between two and half-past two.”
“But why should the general pay her all that money?”
“She assured him that she could get hold of the mystery photograph and
let him have it.”
“What?” the chief was genuinely surprised. “You mean that photograph
we’ve all been searching for and can’t find anywhere?”
“That’s it,” said Béchoux. “The photograph that would save the
general’s son—or finally establish his guilt!”
Both were silent for a while. At last the chief said:
“I expect you know, Béchoux, how anxious we are to get hold of that
photograph ourselves?”
Béchoux nodded.
“It means even more than you realize, though. Listen, Béchoux, if you
can lay hands on that photograph it must be turned over to me before
the Parquet gets wind of it.” He added in a whisper: “The Department
comes first, see?...”
And, with equal seriousness and set purpose, Béchoux replied, “Chief,
you shall have it. I will get it for you, and, at the same time, I will
get Jim Barnett, or rather Arsène Lupin!”
Just a month before this conversation at the préfecture, Jacques
Veraldy had been kept waiting for his dinner. Jacques Veraldy, one of
the foremost figures in Parisian society, a man of vast wealth, one of
the unscrupulous spiders that spin political webs, had waited till long
past the dinner hour for the return of his wife, Christiane. But she
did not come home that night, and next morning the police were called
in. They soon elicited the following facts:
On the afternoon of her disappearance, Christiane Veraldy had gone for
a walk in the Bois de Boulogne, near her house. On this walk she had
been stopped by a well-dressed man who, after a brief conversation, had
led her to a closed car, with the blinds pulled down, which was waiting
in a deserted alley. They both got into the car and drove off quickly
in the direction of Saint-Cloud.
None of the witnesses who came forward to describe this meeting in the
Bois had been able to see the man’s face. He seemed young, they said,
and they were all agreed that he wore a very smart dark-blue overcoat
and a black beret.
Two days passed, and still there was no news of the missing Christiane
Veraldy. Then, suddenly, the tragedy happened.
About sunset, some peasants working in the fields on the main road from
Paris to Chartres noticed a car being driven at a reckless speed. Even
as they watched its onrush, the car door was pushed open, and a woman
fell out on the road. They rushed to her assistance. At the same time
the car raced up the steep bank at the side of the road, crashed into a
tree and overturned. A man sprang from it, miraculously uninjured, and
dashed to where the woman lay. She was dead. Her head had struck a heap
of stones in her fall. They carried her body to the nearest village and
told the gendarmes what had happened.
The man made no secret of his identity. He was Député Jean Desroques, a
well-known political figure, and at that time leader of the Opposition.
The dead woman was Christiane Veraldy.
Immediately trouble began brewing. The bereaved husband, thirsting for
revenge rather than overcome with grief, was determined to make his
supplanter, as he considered Jean Desroques, pay the penalty of the
law. The accused man, on the other hand, had powerful political
supporters, who strenuously denied that the leader of their party could
be guilty of such a crime. These in turn brought pressure to bear on
the police.
Meanwhile, the peasants, one and all, swore that they had seen a man’s
arm push the woman out of the car. Nor did there seem any possible
doubt that the man who had been observed talking with Madame Veraldy in
the Bois was indeed Desroques. At the time of the accident Jean
Desroques was wearing a dark-blue greatcoat and a black beret.
In any case, Desroques did not attempt to advance an alibi. He admitted
having abducted Madame Veraldy, and acknowledged that he had detained
her illegally. On the other hand, he swore that he had done all in his
power to prevent her committing—suicide! For that was his explanation
of the tragic occurrence.
Desroques’ account of what had happened was that he had been struggling
to hold Madame Veraldy down in her seat, that the door of the car had
been forced open when she flung her weight against it, and she had
fallen out.
But concerning what had led up to the struggle, where they had spent
the days since their meeting in the Bois, what had happened during that
time, or even when and how he had first made the acquaintance of Madame
Veraldy, Jean Desroques was obstinately silent.
This last point—the question of the first meeting of Desroques and the
banker’s wife—remained one of the minor yet most baffling mysteries of
the case, since Veraldy declared he had never, since his marriage, had
anything to do with Desroques, whom he regarded as a dangerous Radical.
He testified to having frequently spoken disparagingly about him to
Christiane, who had invariably refrained from comment.
The examining magistrate tried in vain to get past the accused’s
enigmatic barrier of reserve. The only reply his efforts elicited was:
“I have nothing to say. You can do what you like with me. Whatever
happens I shall not speak another word.”
And when the police officials, one of whom was Béchoux, called at
Desroques’ flat, he opened the door to them in person, saying:
“I am quite ready to come with you, gentlemen.”
Before leaving, a thorough search was made of the flat. There was a
pile of ashes in the study fireplace, showing that Desroques had been
burning papers. The police found nothing of any importance in the
drawers of the desk or anywhere else. They took down every volume from
the well-stocked bookshelves and shook them vigorously, but no telltale
document fluttered out to reward their efforts. They took up the carpet
and discovered nothing but dust!
While this routine search was going on, Béchoux, pursuing his own
rather more intuitive methods, stood perfectly still near the door and
darted a lightning glance over the room. Suddenly he swooped down on
the waste-paper basket. To one side of it lay a screw of paper which
might have been an advertisement leaflet.
Béchoux had it in his hands and was just smoothing it out, when Jean
Desroques, who had been standing quietly by during the search of his
study, sprang forward and snatched it from the detective’s hands.
“You don’t want that,” he cried, “its only an old photograph. It came
off its mount and I threw it away.”
Béchoux, struck by Desroques’ eagerness to retain possession of an
apparently worthless bit of rubbish that he had self-avowedly thrown
away, was on the point of using force to make him give it up.
But Desroques was too quick for him. Before the detective could bar the
way, he had darted into the adjoining room and slammed the door behind
him.
There was a policeman on guard in the anteroom into which he had fled.
When Béchoux and the others got the door open, this man had Desroques
pinned on the floor. Immediately Béchoux searched his prisoner. He
turned out the man’s pockets, made him take off his shoes and socks.
But the unmounted photograph had disappeared!
The window was tightly shut and there was no fire in the room. The
policeman stated that he had stopped Desroques when he rushed in in
case he should be trying to escape, but had seen no sign of any
photograph or paper.
Béchoux had a warrant for Desroques’ arrest, and, without vouchsafing a
word, he went quietly off to prison.
The foregoing are the bare facts of the case which, a little while
before the Great War, caused such a stir in the press and among the
public of Paris. There is no need to give in detail the inquiry
conducted by the examining magistrate, as it shed no light on the
mystery. But there should be considerable interest in the relation for
the first time of an episode which led up to certain startling
disclosures and put an entirely different complexion on the case,
besides marking the last encounter in the long duel between Inspector
Béchoux and his “friendly enemy,” Jim Barnett, of the Barnett Agency.
The stage was set, and for once Béchoux felt happy in the possession of
a little advance information as to the program. He knew what Barnett
was up to—had watched his little confabulation with the gipsy girl
under the windows of General Desroques’ flat. This time he intended to
be first on the scene and to spoil Barnett’s entrance!
On the day after the conversation with his chief at the préfecture,
Béchoux again called at General Desroques’ flat. The latter had been
advised by headquarters of the inspector’s visit.
A rather corpulent, clean-shaven man-servant opened the door to
Béchoux. In silence, and exuding a kind of aura of intense
respectability, he ushered the inspector into the drawing-room, then
softly withdrew.
Béchoux took up his stand at a window from which he could survey the
entire extent of the Place du Trocadéro without himself being seen from
the street. For a long while he scrutinized the people passing to and
fro in the busy square below.
There was no sign of the gipsy girl, nor of the wily “Barnett” in whom
Béchoux declared he had recognized Arsène Lupin.
Neither of the suspects showed up all that day, nor the day after.
During his self-imposed vigil, Béchoux sometimes had the company of
General Desroques. The latter was tall, lean, grey-haired—the typical
retired cavalry officer who has spent much of his life outdoors, and is
in the habit of giving orders and having them promptly obeyed.
Ordinarily taciturn, the general was one of those men who, when deeply
moved, will lay aside some of their customary reserve. The charge
against his son had wounded him terribly. Not only was he firmly
convinced of Jean’s innocence, but he was certain that the young man
was the victim of one of those mysterious political plots which
occasionally blot the fair fame of every state.
Although undetermined as to whence the blow had come, the old man stood
at bay—like a lion defending its cub.
“Jean would not, could not, do such a thing,” he declared. “The boy’s
only fault is that he is over-scrupulous, absurdly quixotic. He is
perfectly capable of sacrificing his own interests to some exaggerated
idea of honor. He is the sort of person who would unhesitatingly
shoulder a friend’s guilt and let the culprit go free. I am so sure of
what I say, that I’m not going to see Jean in his cell. I won’t pay the
slightest attention to what his lawyer says, or to what they print in
the newspapers. Pack of lies, probably! The boy’s innocent, whether he
says so or not. And I’m going to prove it, whether he likes it or not!
We all have our own idea of what’s our duty. He thinks he ought to keep
his mouth shut. Well and good. But I know I ought to clear his name, no
matter who gets hurt in the process!”
One day, when the reporters were harrying him with questions, the
general burst out:
“Do you really want to know what I think? Jean never kidnaped any one.
The woman followed him of her own free will. He won’t admit it, because
he is trying to shield her reputation. But if the facts come to
light—and, believe me, they will—we shall find that my son and she knew
each other and were probably on terms of intimacy. And I’m going to get
to the bottom of things, whatever the result!”
Now, while Béchoux crouched, like Sister Anne, at his window, and kept
watch on the square, the general would come in and sit near him. Then
the old man would go over the case and review the deadlock reached by
himself and the police.
“You and I, my friend, are after the same thing,” he would say, “but
someone else is after it, too! I have friends who are in the know, and
they tell me Veraldy has offered a fabulous reward to anyone who will
solve the mystery of his wife’s death. He and my son’s political
opponents are convinced that Jean is guilty. What we all want to find,
though for very different reasons, is that photograph! Veraldy and his
friends believe that if they can lay hands on it they will have proof
of Jean’s guilt. I know that it will prove him innocent!”
From Béchoux’s point of view, what the photograph might or might not
prove was the least of his worries. His task was limited to getting
hold of it for his chief. Any possible sequel had almost ceased to
interest him.
Meanwhile, day after day, he sat at his window watching for the gipsy
girl who never came, filled with anguished speculation as to Barnett’s
activities, and listening inattentively to the general’s eternal
monologue about his hopes and plans and disappointments.
One day old Desroques seemed unusually thoughtful. He obviously
imagined he had hit on a fresh clue, or, at any rate, a new factor in
the tragic problem. After a prolonged silence he addressed Béchoux at
his post:
“Inspector, my friends and I have come to the conclusion that the only
human being who can possibly throw any light on how the photograph
disappeared is the policeman who stopped my son in his flight the day
he was arrested. It’s rather curious that he has never been called to
give evidence. His name has never appeared in the press. In fact, but
for the energetic inquiries of my friends, I should not now be in
possession of”—he paused significantly—“certain information!”
Inspector Béchoux looked distinctly uncomfortable, but did not speak.
The general resumed:
“We now know that this policeman was added to the group of men sent
here from headquarters quite accidentally, just as they were leaving
the police-station of this district on their way here. They rather
doubted whether their numbers were strong enough in case my son offered
violent resistance, and this policeman apparently offered to join them
with some alacrity. They gladly accepted his assistance.
“My friends have not been able to ascertain the identity of that
policeman. For some reason or other none of your colleagues has been
willing or able to tell us. Yet we are certain that the higher
officials at the préfecture know who he is, and have been questioning
him daily. We have reason to believe that he has been under strict
surveillance ever since the arrest of my son. That he was taken to the
police-station immediately after the disappearance of the photograph
and searched; that he has not been allowed home; that he is, in fact, a
prisoner. And we have more than an inkling of the reason for the strict
reticence of the police on his account!” The general bent nearer to
Béchoux, a certain triumph overspreading his hawklike features.
Outwardly calm and indifferent, Béchoux was quaking inwardly. But he
said nothing, feeling it wisest to let the general put all his cards on
the table.
“What do you say,” said the general, “to the suggestion that the
mysterious policeman was, to say the least of it, rather a peculiar
character to have got into the police force at all? A nice story it
would make for the newspapers—and not particularly creditable. Ho, ho!”
He waggled a gouty finger under the inspector’s nose.
Still Béchoux was silent.
“Well,” said the general, “it isn’t going to further my son’s interests
to make a laughing-stock of the police force. But what I do demand as a
right is that I may be allowed to question this policeman myself. Your
people haven’t been able to get anything out of him. I think I may be
more successful.”
“And if I say that you cannot have this interview?” Béchoux’s voice was
cold and level as chilled steel.
“In that case, inspector, I shall—regretfully, of course—communicate
with the editor of a well-known daily in regard to this somewhat
curious ornament of the police force!”
“No need for that, general.” Béchoux forced a smile. “There is no
objection at all to your interviewing Constable Rimbourg—er, the
policeman in question. I shall have pleasure in arranging for him to
come along!”
In truth, Béchoux was not particularly unwilling in the matter. His own
plans had proved fruitless. He was absolutely without information about
Barnett’s movements, and quite in the dark as to his adversary’s
connection with the case. In the past, Barnett had always met him
openly, albeit under the guise of lending his aid. Barnett had even
been noticeably to the fore throughout the cases on which he had
“coöperated” with the inspector. Béchoux had an uneasy feeling that
this time, for some reason of his own, Barnett was working under cover,
ready to burst out at any moment with a startling and probably
unwelcome dénouement of the whole affair. And then it would be too late
to circumvent him!
His superiors gave Béchoux carte blanche to go ahead. Two days later,
Sylvestre, the general’s rotund man-servant, gravely ushered Béchoux
and Constable Rimbourg into the drawing-room.
The constable was a very ordinary looking man—not at all the sort of
figure to suggest a mystery. His eyes and mouth betrayed his weariness.
He had been put through something of a “third degree” over the missing
photograph. He was in uniform, with the customary revolver in a black
leather case, and the policeman’s baton—that world-wide symbol of law
and order.
The general came in, and the three men sat a long while in conference.
But no fresh light was shed on the problem of the photograph. Rimbourg
was respectful, stolidly sympathetic, ready with his answers. But he
denied having seen anything of any photograph.
Then the general changed the trend of his interrogations. Abruptly he
asked:
“When did you first meet my son?”
“We did our military service together, sir,” was the surprising answer.
“You said nothing of this,” cried Béchoux.
“I was not asked about it, inspector,” replied the man.
“I must tell you, general,” said Béchoux, “that one of the reasons for
our very strict surveillance of Constable Rimbourg was that he obtained
his appointment through your son’s influence!”
“What?” cried the general “But it has been freely hinted that this man,
Rimbourg——” He broke off, suddenly thoughtful. Then he asked the
constable: “What was your profession before you joined the police
force?”
“I did various odd jobs, sir. I was carpenter and scene-shifter for a
touring company. I travelled round with a circus. I was lift-man in a
hotel.”
“Why did you leave the hotel?”
“I tired of the job, sir.” Rimbourg’s voice was infinitely respectful,
but there was a slight flicker in his eyes that belied his stolid calm.
“And you found the police force suited you?”
“Oh, perfectly, sir.”
The general gave a disheartened shrug of dismissal.
“Thank you, thank you; that will do for the present, I think,” he said.
“I wish I could believe what you tell me, but frankly, I cannot help
feeling you are keeping something back. Your previous acquaintance with
my son is certainly an extraordinary coincidence, and I think,
Inspector Béchoux, if I were you, I would investigate Constable
Rimbourg’s past a bit more closely. Find out why he left that job as
lift-man. And remember what I said before about the suggestion that he
is, perhaps, a curious kind of constable altogether. Look up some of
the cases in which he has been concerned—it might prove illuminating!”
He rang the bell. “Sylvestre, give Monsieur Rimbourg a drink before he
goes.” The door closed. “He’ll be quite safe with my man,” the general
told Béchoux, as he poured out a glass of wine for the inspector. Then,
raising his own glass:
“Here’s to my son’s speedy liberation,” he said.
For a second Béchoux could have sworn he saw a gleam of triumphant
merriment in the general’s eye. A most uncalled-for emotion, surely,
and yet....
He wheeled sharply round, for the general was grinning broadly now. The
drawing-room door had swung silently open. On the threshold he beheld a
strange manifestation. There was slowly approaching a creature that
walked on its hands! The empurpled face almost touched the floor. Above
it protruded a comfortable paunch, surmounted by a pair of oddly slim
and wildly kicking legs that pointed ceiling-wards. For a moment
Béchoux was forcibly reminded of the antics of his acrobat wife, Olga.
All at once the creature somersaulted, bringing its feet neatly
together, and, right side up, began spinning round and round at
terrific speed like a human top. And now Béchoux recognized—Sylvestre,
the man-servant. Obviously the fellow was out of his mind. As he spun
around, his stomach quivered like a jelly, and from his wide mouth
issued a series of rousing guffaws.
But—was it really Sylvestre? As he watched the extraordinary
performance, Béchoux felt his brow bathed in a clammy dew. Could this
wild figure be the imperturbable, perfectly trained, intensely
respectable man-servant?
The top ceased spinning. Sylvestre, if he it was, fixed the detective
with a steady stare, relaxed his set expression of grotesque mirth,
undid jacket and waistcoat, divested himself of a rubber paunch, and
slipped gracefully into the coat which General Desroques handed him.
Once more looking fixedly at the inspector he murmured solemnly:
“Sold again, Béchoux!”
And Béchoux, incapable of protest, sank weakly into a chair, breathing
the one word—“Barnett....”
“Yes, Barnett,” said the erstwhile man-servant, smiling.
And Barnett it was, but a resplendent Barnett. Gone was the air of
shabby gentility, the seedy get-up. This new Barnett approximated more
nearly to Inspector Béchoux’s mental portrait of the redoubtable Arsène
Lupin!
And the general was chuckling unrestrainedly!
Turning to him, Barnett bowed courteously.
“Forgive my antics, sir, but whenever something happens that especially
delights me I am apt to cut a few capers out of sheer exuberance. I am
sure you will understand.”
“In this instance, my friend, you are surely entitled to behave like a
whole circus of clowns. Your little plan has succeeded to perfection.”
“What’s all this?” asked Béchoux, recovering slightly from his first
sense of shock and dismay. “Have you any special cause for joy,
Barnett?”
“Why, yes, Béchoux; and the best of it is that it is all thanks to you,
dear old chap. (He’s the best of good fellows, general, I may tell
you.) But I can see you are bursting to hear all about it. I will
reserve my praises for another time, and start in on my little story.”
He lit a cigarette, handing his case to the general, who also elected
to smoke. Then, puffing appreciatively, he began:
“Well, Béchoux, a short while ago I was travelling in Spain with a
lady, if you remember? Ah, I see you do. A friend of mine telegraphed,
asking me to help in unravelling the Desroques case. As it happened,
my little idyll was by then distinctly on the wane—a total eclipse of
the honeymoon, if I may use the expression. I seized the chance of
regaining my freedom. And fortune smiled on me. New lamps for old,
Béchoux!
“For, at Granada, I fell in with a gipsy girl—a wild, southern beauty,
Béchoux—and we travelled up together.
“I was attracted to the Desroques case chiefly, I own, because you were
working on it. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became
that if there existed any proof of the guilt or innocence of Jean
Desroques, it must be in the hands of the policeman who stopped him in
his flight when they were making the arrest. But when I came to make
investigations, I found myself up against a blank wall. I was unable to
ascertain the identity of this man. I only guessed that he was being
kept virtually a prisoner. What was I to do? Time was passing. The
general and his son were both suffering severely under the strain.
There was only one person in Paris who could help me—yourself!”
Béchoux did not move. He longed for the ground to open and swallow him
up with his shame. He had been tricked once again, more thoroughly than
ever before. Barnett had shown him up as being the typical, slow-witted
detective, the butt of every mystery novelist!
“You were the only person who could help me,” Barnett repeated, “for
the reason that you, and only you, were in possession of the truth. You
had been given the job of putting Rimbourg through the ‘third degree.’
But how was I to get in touch with you without your suspecting
anything? How was I to work it so that you trotted off to retrieve the
bird my chance shot had brought down?
“In the end I found an easy way. I deliberately let you shadow me. I
led you along, like Follow-my-Leader, to the Place du Trocadéro. There
my bright-eyed gipsy lass was waiting for me. A whispered colloquy ...
a furtive glance or two up at this flat ... and you took the bait!
Fired with the idea of catching me or my accomplice, you took up your
vigil here, in this very flat, under the same roof as General Desroques
and his faithful servant—Sylvestre Barnett! So that I was able to keep
you under close observation, hear just what you were doing, and,
through General Desroques, suggest to your receptive mind exactly such
thoughts as I wanted to implant there.”
Turning to the general, Jim Barnett gave the latter a glance of genuine
admiration.
“I must tell you, general, that I cannot sufficiently commend your
acting. You led Béchoux blindfold, step by step, towards our
goal—namely, to find out the unknown constable’s name, and then get him
into this flat for a few minutes. Just a few minutes, Béchoux—not more.
For the thing I was after was the same thing that you, the police, the
State, and everyone else were after—that photograph!
“Knowing your industry, your ingenuity, your excessive energy in the
pursuit of your duty, I realized that it would be useless to waste time
going over ground you had already covered. What I had to do was to
imagine the unimaginable—think of some utterly extraordinary and
unheard-of hiding-place. I had to visualize it in advance, so that I
could, if possible, possess myself of this secret receptacle on the day
the constable came to the flat with you. And I had to obtain possession
of it without his knowledge, for there wouldn’t be time to search him,
explore the linings of his clothes and the soles of his shoes, and so
forth. And yet I knew that somewhere about his person he would have
that photograph. The question was, where?
“I don’t want to digress, but as soon as I knew the name of this
constable of yours, Béchoux, I was considerably enlightened. The
general’s questions only confirmed what I already suspected—that this
man, Rimbourg, was a clever fellow who, before he joined the police
force, had had a distinctly varied experience and rather a checkered
career! In short, I knew him to be just the man to hit upon some
hiding-place so bold as to be unbelievable, so obvious as to seem
fantastic! Something he could make use of, but which would never occur
to anyone else as a possible place of concealment.
“Now, Béchoux, suppose we test the intelligence of the class. What is
it that distinguishes a policeman on duty from a postman, a dustman, a
railway porter, a fireman—in short, from every other kind of uniformed
employee? Give it a moment’s thought, while I count three. Your eagle
intelligence will surely see it! One—two—three. Now, where was the
hiding-place?”
Béchoux made no reply. Despite the disadvantage at which he found
himself, he was trying desperately to snatch at this straw and guess
the solution of the riddle, so apparent to the triumphant Barnett. But
he could not for the life of him think what was the distinguishing
characteristic of a policeman on duty.
“My poor friend,” sympathized Barnett. “Out with the boys last night?
Your brain seems a trifle dulled to-day. I don’t usually have to
enlighten you in words of one syllable only before you get your nose to
the trail!”
But there was no rôle for Béchoux’s nose to play in the incident which
followed. Like a flash, Barnett darted out of the room, and returned a
moment later gravely balancing on the tip of his own olfactory organ
the shining baton—truncheon—nightstick—the same the wide world over,
wielded by every police force, that bane of malefactors, that safeguard
of life and property, that wooden club which has attained to the
dignity of a symbol, and is able to break up the fiercest street-fight
or halt the haughtiest limousine.
Barnett toyed with this particular baton like a music-hall juggler with
a bottle. He let it slither down his nose, caught it, twirled it behind
his leg, round his neck, and down his back. Before it could fall to the
ground, he had grasped it again, and, holding it out between thumb and
finger, he addressed it in accents of mock solemnity:
“O most honorable, most respectable, most admirable baton! Symbol of
civic and municipal authority! A short while ago, you were hanging at
Constable Rimbourg’s belt. A little sleight of hand and, hey presto!
another baton, your double hung in your place. You were left behind
when the constable departed!” Béchoux started violently, but Barnett
motioned him back to his seat. “He is unlikely to return to retrieve
you. In fact, I doubt whether we shall ever hear from him again. His
rôle in the drama is over; he filled it not unworthily. But you, O
baton, will fulfil to the last your rôle of defender of those in
distress, and from you we shall learn the secret of Jean Desroques and
the beautiful Christiane Veraldy. Speak, little baton, I conjure you to
speak!”
With his left hand Barnett seized firm hold of the handle, circled with
narrow grooves. In his right, he held tightly the heavy body of the
club, made of ash-wood, painted white, and attempted to twist it.
“I was right!” he exclaimed joyously. “But it’s a miracle of
workmanship. Not for nothing was Constable Rimbourg at one time a
carpenter—the man must have been a master of his craft! See, he has
hollowed out the heart of this club without ever breaking the outside,
fixed this almost invisible channel for the screw, so that the two
pieces of wood fit together so perfectly that there is no danger of the
head of the club working loose.”
Barnett gave the baton another twist. The handle came unscrewed,
revealing a metal ring. The stick of the baton was now in two bits. In
the longer section they could see a copper tube running the length of
the club.
The faces of all three men wore expressions of rapt attention. They
held their breath, so that the silence of the room was intensified.
Despite himself, even Barnett was obviously impressed with the
solemnity of the moment. He turned over the copper tubing, tapping it
several times hard on the table. Out fell a roll of paper!
“That’s it—the photograph!” murmured Béchoux.
“You recognize it, do you? It fits the official description all right.
About six inches long, detached from its mount and rather crumpled.
Will you kindly unroll it yourself, General Desroques?”
With trembling eagerness the general picked up the paper. His usually
steady hand shook as he began unrolling the fateful scroll. There were
four sheets of notepaper and a telegram pinned to the photograph. For a
moment, the general stared in silence at the latter, then he showed it
to the other two. In a voice vibrant with emotion he began speaking on
a note of joy, which quickly gave place to one of grief.
“You see, it is the portrait of a woman. A young woman with a child on
her lap. The face is that of Madame Veraldy—it tallies with the
pictures in the press, except that here she is younger. This photograph
must have been taken nine or ten years ago by the look of it. Yes;
here’s the date, in the bottom, left-hand corner. I was right. This
picture is eleven years old. And it is signed ‘Christiane’—Madame
Veraldy’s name!”
The general paused, then added thoughtfully:
“This establishes the fact that Jean must have known this woman in the
past, possibly before her marriage to Veraldy.”
“Read the letters, monsieur,” suggested Barnett, handing over the first
sheet, closely covered with fine, feminine handwriting.
General Desroques began reading. He had hardly read the first few
lines, when he gave a kind of groan, as of a man who stumbles suddenly
on a terrible and painful secret. Hurriedly he scanned the first
letter, then, with increasing anxiety, turned to the others which, with
the telegram, Barnett passed to him one by one.
“Can you tell us what you have found out, general?”
The general did not answer at once. His eyes were filled with tears
when at last he muttered huskily:
“It is I who am to blame! I alone who am guilty.... About twelve years
ago Jean fell in love with a little shop-girl. They had a baby, a boy.
Jean wanted to marry his amie, but my heart was hardened by pride and
snobbishness. I forbade the marriage and refused to see the girl. Jean
was meaning to disobey me—for the first time—and marry her out of hand.
But she would not let him. She sacrificed her own happiness so that my
son should not quarrel with me. Here is her letter—the first one. She
says: ‘It’s good-bye Jean. Your father won’t let us get married. You
must give in to him. If you don’t it might mean bad luck for our
darling baby. I send you a picture of us both. Keep it always, and
don’t forget about us too soon....’”
The general paused, overcome with emotion. He continued, more calmly:
“But it was she who forgot. Some time later she got engaged to Veraldy,
then at the beginning of his career. Jean learned of their marriage,
and had his little son brought up by a retired schoolmaster near
Chartres. There the mother would sometimes visit him secretly.”
Béchoux and Barnett were listening intently so as not to lose a word.
It was not easy to follow the general’s speech, as he dropped his voice
until it was little more than a whisper. The hand that had held the
letters trembled uncontrollably.
“The last letter,” he continued, “is dated five months ago. It is very
short. Christiane tells of her remorse and unhappiness. She is
passionately fond of her child, and it is agony to her not to have him
with her. Then comes the telegram, sent to Jean by the old
schoolmaster: ‘Child dangerously ill, come at once.’ At the bottom of
the telegraph form are just these few words, scrawled by my son after
the tragedy: ‘Our child is dead. Christiane has killed herself.’”
Again the general paused. No further explanations were needed. It was
easy to guess what had happened. On receipt of the telegram, Jean had
immediately sought out Christiane and taken her to the bedside of the
dying child. On the way back to Paris, Christiane overcome with grief,
had committed suicide.
“What shall we do about it?” Barnett wanted to know.
“We must reveal the truth,” was the general’s reply. “Jean’s reasons
for keeping silence are obvious. He was shielding the dead woman, but
he also wanted to shield me, since I was really responsible for the
terrible tragedy. Also, though he felt certain neither the schoolmaster
at Chartres, nor Constable Rimbourg, who owed him a debt of gratitude,
would betray him, he definitely did not want this conclusive piece of
evidence to be destroyed. He wanted Fate to bring the truth to light.
Now that you, Monsieur Barnett, have succeeded in effecting this
revelation....”
“If I succeeded, general,” said Barnett quickly, “it was solely due to
the help of my friend, Béchoux. We mustn’t lose sight of that. If
Béchoux had not led us to Constable Rimbourg and his baton, I should
have failed. It is Béchoux who deserves your thanks, general.”
“My thanks are due to both of you,” said the old soldier. “You have
saved my son, and I shall not hesitate to do my duty.”
Béchoux approved the general’s decision. He was so deeply moved by what
had just happened that he was even prepared to waive making any attempt
to take possession of the documents the police were so urgently
wanting. He was ready to take this course, although it meant
sacrificing his personal prestige. His humanity triumphed over his
professional conscience—not for the first time.
But as the general made to withdraw to his own room Béchoux stepped up
to Barnett and tapped him on the shoulder with the curt words: “I
arrest you, Jim Barnett!”
He spoke in the accents of sincerity. He was quite obviously going
through what was a futile formality which he felt himself obliged to
perform. He had instructions to arrest Barnett, and would do so, no
matter what the circumstances.
Barnett held out his hand to the inspector.
“You win, Béchoux,” he said, “you’ve arrested me, and carried out
orders. Old Kaspar’s work is done. And now, if you’ve no objection, I
will make my escape. In that way our friendship will be saved and honor
satisfied! You know I should do it anyway.”
Béchoux shook the outstretched hand of his strange friend with
heartfelt warmth. Between these two alternately allies and enemies, a
truce was called—perhaps even a permanent amnesty. Both men recalled
with genuine emotion their former encounters, the adventures they had
experienced in company.
Béchoux expressed his feelings with that characteristic blunt
simplicity that made him so popular with his colleagues and the world
at large.
“You’re the greatest of all of them, Barnett. You stand absolutely
alone. Your feat to-day is nothing short of miraculous. No one but you
could have solved the puzzle!”
“I don’t know,” said Barnett reflectively. “After all, I had that
inkling of Rimbourg’s past to help me. Do you know the man had actually
worked for an illusionist and conjurer at one time. And his little idea
in joining the police force was probably mainly the advantage of being
in close proximity to the pickings on every possible occasion. Although
he demonstrated unwavering loyalty to his benefactor, Jean Desroques,
we must not lose sight of Rimbourg’s real character. He was a
policeman, much as you suspect me of being a detective——”
Béchoux cut him short.
“None of that now,” he cried. “Oh, but you’re a wonder. Who on earth
but you would ever have discovered such an improbable hiding-place as
the inside of a police baton?”
Barnett cocked his head on one side and simpered unbecomingly in
imitation of a blushing schoolgirl.
“Any one’s wits are sharper when there is a prize at stake.”
“A prize? How do you mean? Surely you’re not thinking of any reward
General Desroques may offer you? You must know he’s not at all well
off.”
“And if he did offer me anything, I should have to refuse it. You
mustn’t forget the proud motto of the Barnett Agency. No fees of any
kind—services gratis—we work for glory!”
“Well, then....” Inspector Béchoux looked distinctly puzzled; worried,
too. Barnett smiled guilelessly.
“The fact is, as I was glancing quickly through the fourth letter
before passing it to the general, I saw that it stated Christiane
Veraldy had from the outset told her husband of her past! Consequently,
the banker was fully cognizant of his wife’s former love affair, and
knew that she had a child! Yet he deliberately neglected to inform the
police of these facts. This he did out of jealousy and in the hope that
his silence might bring Jean Desroques to the scaffold. He knew that
Desroques would never reveal the dead woman’s secret.
“You will agree that this was a pretty blackguardly thing to do. Now
don’t you think that, with all his money, Veraldy would be prepared to
come down handsomely in order to prevent that letter becoming public
property? Don’t you think that if some trustworthy, respectable
man—Sylvestre, for instance, General Desroques’ servant—were to go to
Veraldy and offer quite spontaneously to hand over that piece of paper,
the banker would be prepared to talk business? I am taking a chance on
being right in my supposition, as I was about the police baton, for
instance. In fact, just so as to be able to play my hunch I slipped the
letter into my pocket!”
Béchoux groaned. It was all wrong, of course. And yet, it seemed only
fair that Barnett should reap some reward for the exercise of his
special deductive skill. The laborer is worthy of his hire. And if the
innocent were saved and wrongs were righted, what objection could there
really be to those “commissions” Barnett habitually extracted from the
pockets of the guilty parties in a case?
“Au revoir, Barnett,” said the inspector, shaking hands again. And at
the back of his mind lurked the certainty that next time he had a
knotty problem to tackle he would be quite ready to compromise with his
scruples and call in Barnett’s invaluable aid.
“Au revoir, Béchoux,” said Barnett. “I shall be ringing you up in a day
or so, I expect.”
“What about?”
“You’ll know all in good time,” and Jim Barnett was off and away.