The chill of utter blackness descended. The inspector spoke first,
glancing behind as he backed out into the avenue again.
“They cannot have more than a few minutes’ start of us. The point is,
in which direction have they gone?”
Before either of his companions could answer, a man-servant in livery
entered the square, turning into it from the lower end of the street.
Geoffrey called out to him.
“Have you seen anything of a black Rolls-Royce which was here a little
while ago?”
The man stopped in the act of pushing open the nearest gate, and eyed
the party with slight surprise.
“As a matter of fact, I did see such a car, monsieur,” he returned
civilly. “It was standing along there, empty, twenty minutes ago, and
just now it passed me as I crossed the Avenue Victor Hugo.”
“Which way was it heading?”
“Towards the Bois, monsieur.”
The inspector gave a grunt.
“As I thought--the Porte Maillot,” he muttered.
In another second they were out of the square and hastening towards
the Bois, which they entered at the Large Henri Martin, at once
turning to the right along the Allée des Fortifications. Not a word
was uttered as they whizzed past the Pavillion Dauphine and the Porte
of the same name, their three pairs of eyes riveted upon the gleaming
roadway in front. A few minutes brought them to the Porte Maillot,
where they were obliged to halt. As the _gabelou_ handed them the
ticket of exit Bazin fired a terse inquiry at him.
“A Rolls, monsieur? Black, you say?” The man thought for a moment,
while the three men hung upon his reply. “Yes, a large black car came
through not very long ago. Six or seven minutes, I should say. Three
passengers and a chauffeur in ordinary clothes--a foreigner, I think.
They were taking an ill lady to a hospital somewhere out there,” and
he jerked his head in the direction of Neuilly. “I fancy she’s had an
operation on her face, for she was covered in bandages. Is that the
party you mean?”
“M. l’Inspecteur, it is they!” cried Bernard.
“Ah!” exclaimed Bazin. “We are on the right track so far,” and driving
down the accelerator, he plunged ahead into the broad Avenue de
Neuilly.
At the second mention of bandages Geoffrey’s heart missed a beat.
Still, Catherine was undoubtedly alive, had managed to walk a couple
of hundred yards to the car. He must not allow himself to dwell upon
gruesome possibilities, but try to think that the covering of her face
was merely an attempt at disguise. The whole business before them now
was to overtake her before any further harm could be done, a
proceeding which challenged to the utmost their powers of ingenuity
and speed. The Commissariat car possessed a good engine, but with a
six or seven minutes’ handicap it seemed a hopeless matter to
out-distance a Rolls, besides which at any moment the prey might elude
them altogether by some unexpected turn. He voiced his fear to his
companion.
Intent on the road in front, the inspector answered with a shake of
the head.
“It is true they have a fair start of us, but that does not
necessarily mean we shall not be able to catch them. Remember, they
can as yet have no idea that they are being followed, consequently
they will not risk a hold-up by excessive speed. They have several
hours before them, ample time to cover a considerable distance and yet
be back by morning.”
“You think they intend to return, then?”
“But of course, monsieur! When they have accomplished their purpose.
Unless I am totally misled, those servants mean to slip into the
apartment by the private door before anyone is stirring--say at four
or five o’clock.”
“And their destination?”
“I am afraid there can be little doubt, monsieur. Some lonely point
along the river.”
Geoffrey controlled a shudder. It was what his own belief had told
him, and with a sick mind he visualized those head-lines unfortunately
so familiar in the daily press: “Body of Young Woman Found in the
Seine.…”
“Have you any idea what spot they will choose?”
“Ah, that is difficult to say. They will scarcely venture anything too
close to the city, but whatever place they have in mind they will make
straight for it, you can depend upon that. From their point of view
the sooner the thing is done the better for them. That is why I dare
not risk telephoning ahead to have them stopped. It seems to me our
wisest course to keep hot on their trail.”
Geoffrey said no more. With gaze fixed on the vista stretching before
him, he leaned forward, every muscle in his body rigid as steel. No
sound reached him save the engine’s hum and the tense, slightly
asthmatic breathing of Bernard behind.
The Pont de Neuilly loomed in sight. They crossed it, then slowed down
in doubt as to which way to take. A sleepy _sergent de ville_ emerging
into view, they shouted to him a question which after a stupid stare
he managed to answer.
“A Rolls-Royce? I believe one passed five minutes or so ago, but I was
talking to a motor-cyclist at the time, and did not notice.… Wait a
moment, though. A large black car, going pretty fast? Yes, I recall it
now. It was making in the direction of La Défense.”
With a cry of triumph Bazin shot forward.
“I believe we are gaining a little,” he commented. “At all events we
have not gone astray.”
They reached the monument to the Defence of Paris, inquired again with
less certain results, and hesitatingly chose the road to Nanterre,
from thence pressing on to Rueil. Here they met with further
encouragement. A motorist changing a tyre informed them that he had
seen a car corresponding to the Rolls’ description only a few minutes
before.
“Good! Then we are still right. Unless something turns up to upset our
calculations, I propose going through Malmaison to Bougival and see
what we hear when we reach there. I begin to have an idea.…”
Geoffrey looked at him eagerly, but he shut his mouth with a snap and
kept it closed for another mile or so.
There were now short stretches of open country. The smell of pavements
had yielded to the fragrance of fields, while an occasional flowering
fruit-tree showed white in the moonlight. As they rushed past the
Château at Malmaison, that tranquil dwelling filled to the brim with
the intimate memories of the great Napoleon, Geoffrey recalled with a
stab of pain how only three weeks ago he had set with Catherine in the
garden and listened while somewhat shyly she had for the first time
spoken to him of her broken engagement. He could see now the colour in
her cheeks that was like a stain of claret, the liquid brightness
welling up in her eyes, her delicate nervous fingers as she played
with a stem of grass.
For the hundredth time he cursed his stupidity in not foreseeing the
trap into which she had walked. If only the knowledge of Blom’s
intentions had come to him a day sooner! It seemed to him incredible
that not until this very day had he grasped the monstrous truth,
although the affair had been going on steadily under his eyes for over
two months.
The agony of suspense continued. At Bougival they learned nothing
fresh, so that it was only the inspector’s instinct to guide them that
they pushed on to St. Germain, hoping there to obtain tidings.
Soon they were within sight of the Château’s gloomy mass, with the
dim glow of Paris behind them and the dark hills of Montmorency
cutting off the view. Below them the Seine wound like a serpent, its
shining surface marked with splashes of golden light.
The town was almost deserted. In the principal boulevard a _sergent_,
blinking in the glare of their head-lamps, considered their unvarying
question with a stolid face. A Rolls? No, he had noticed no such car.
He had been at this very spot for the past quarter of an hour.
The pursuers exchanged blank looks. The thought came to them that the
Rolls must have taken a side-turning the other side of St. Germaine,
in which case it was now miles away in another direction.
“Yet this is the direct route,” muttered Bazin obstinately. “Unless I
am totally misled, this is the road they would have taken.”
What was to be done? Geoffrey began to think that perhaps they were
wrong in assuming the river to be the objective. In any case the
quarry had vanished. They had tracked the Rolls for many miles only to
lose it now when another twenty minutes might have brought it in
sight. Every second’s delay lessened their chances.
With a hopeless feeling they prowled along the quiet streets of the
town until they came to the outskirts, where they met face to face a
belated market-wagon wending its way towards Paris with a load of
vegetables for the Halle. The driver dozed in his seat, but the woman
beside him, brawny and moustachioed, stared hard at them from beneath
a battered hat.
Had she seen the car in question? She surveyed them coolly and spat
into the dust. Yes--_diable!_--they had just encountered a car like
that, scarcely half a kilometre back, going towards Aubergenville. The
chauffeur had taken the middle of the road, pig that he was, and had
nearly run over them. The horses had shied, she had had to take the
reins herself to avoid a mishap. If monsieur would put on a little
speed he might overtake the road-hogs--bad luck to them and theirs!
Before she had stopped speaking the Commissariat car had leaped ahead
in the direction of Aubergenville. Again the faint glimmer of
hope--yet Geoffrey was far from being convinced that their course was
the right one. Somehow he feared that they were now trailing some
other car. However, the inspector seemed satisfied.
“Listen, monsieur,” he said, without removing his eyes from the road
in front. “From Aubergenville there is a lonely stretch leading
directly to the Seine. It is the first suitable spot this side of
Paris, and I would have gone straight for it if that _sergent_ had not
confused me. I believe that our friends skirted St. Germain for fear
of being identified later on. If, as I think, they are nearing their
goal, they do not want to take chances, but their little détour may
have lost time for them. If that is the case, we may catch sight of
them at any moment.”
Three kilometres farther along Geoffrey gave a sudden shout. Far ahead
a tail-light was just visible, moving at high speed. Occasionally it
vanished at the dip of a hill, only to reappear upon the approaching
brow. Like this always the same distance in the rear, they went on for
some minutes, Geoffrey upon the edge of the seat, his eyes straining
to keep in view the faint point of light.
Before them swept the long road, straight as a length of ribbon,
nothing to be seen except the recurrent gleam of the tail-light. They
were going at a terrific rate now, and presently their efforts were
rewarded by seeing a quarter of a mile in advance the dark shape of a
car emerge from the surrounding shadow. A cry of triumph burst from
three pairs of lips.
“Shall we overtake them?”
“That will depend on whether or not they suspect we are following
them. Still, they must slacken when they come to the town.”
A few straggling lights now appeared, marking the limits of
Aubergenville. At the same moment they realized that the distance
between the two cars was gradually diminishing. At last in a brilliant
patch of moonlight they could plainly make out the swiftly-moving
black body.
“Ah, good! Now if we are lucky we shall catch them!”
A few seconds of supreme tension, then to Geoffrey’s dismay the car
ahead, instead of slowing as they expected, put on a sudden spurt, and
in another instant had completely disappeared.
“What does it mean? They have seen us?”
“I am afraid so. It looks as though they were trying to give us the
slip.”
One minute more brought them to the centre of the small town, but
although they had wasted no time the black car was not to be seen. How
in so short an interval it had contrived to disappear was a mystery;
perhaps even now it was close at hand, concealed by one of the obscure
turnings; but as far as the trackers were concerned it might have been
leagues away. The empty market-place showed not a sign of life as they
purred along its cobbled stones, the darkened buildings offered no
assistance.
At last they came upon a solitary _sergent de ville_, sauntering
languidly along the pavement. To him Bazin shouted the inevitable
query, to be rewarded by the information that a Rolls-Royce had passed
only a few moments ago, stopping long enough for the driver to inquire
the road to Poissy.
“Poissy!”
The inspector’s tone was furiously amazed, while his two companions
reflected his sentiments. Were their conclusions entirely wrong?
“You are sure it was Poissy he asked for?”
“But absolutely, M. l’Inspecteur. I showed them which turning to
take--the second along there,”--and he pointed ahead. “They set off at
once in that direction, and must be well on their way by now.”
“_Eh bien!_” the inspector muttered with a shrug.
There was nothing for it but to press on towards the turning indicated
and trust to increased speed to bring them once more within sight of
their prey. Soon they were shooting along the highway headed for
Poissy, uncertain now as to the miscreants’ intentions, and maddened
by the minutes lost in the town.
“It’s odd, that,” fumed the inspector, watching the road between
narrowed lids. “If they really mean to make for Poissy they have
something different in mind from what I thought. I half believe they
are playing a trick upon us, that they suspect we are after them and
want to throw dust in our eyes.… Here! What is this ahead of us? Do
you see those tyre tracks just in front?”
He had jammed on his brakes so suddenly that the other two were thrown
out of their seats. In answer to his question Geoffrey sprang out and
examined the roadway immediately before them. The fine white dust
revealed an imprint of wide tyres curving first to the extreme right,
then making a horseshoe bend till finally they went off, twin streaks,
in the direction from which they had come.
“My God, you’ve hit it! These are recent tracks. They’ve doubled on
their traces and gone back. We must have missed them by about a couple
of minutes.”
In a trice they had repeated the manœuvre of the other car and were
facing back towards the town.
“What a chance!” murmured Bazin excitedly, as Geoffrey flung himself
back beside him. “If I had not suspected that ruse, we should have
gone on without noticing. We shall have to look sharp now if we are to
catch them. I could take a right-hand turning I know of and attempt to
cut them off, but at this stage I dare not risk it. The river lies
just down there, only a short distance,”--and he nodded his head
towards the declining ground. “Another moment and we come to the
lonely road I spoke of.”
Already the car was rushing ahead like a rocket. Dusty hedges flashed
past; as far as the eye could reach there was no impediment. Watching
breathlessly, Geoffrey could discern no glimmer of a light, nor were
his ears able to detect any sound save their own regular drumming on
the hard surface of the road. If a tyre should go now--but no, one
must not think of accidents. Every second brought them closer to the
Seine, flowing silent at the bottom of the slope, far removed from
habitation. Perhaps already the Rolls had reached it by some adjacent
route. Certainly at this speed it seemed incredible not to overtake
the car, if it had indeed come this way.
They dashed through the heart of a wooded expanse, out again into the
open, then back into the shadow of a group of pine trees. Still no
lights. Now in the distance appeared the thin line of poplars
bordering the river. Three seconds more and they would be in sight of
the banks. A horrible conviction assailed Geoffrey. They were too
late. That parley in the streets at Aubergenville, brief though it had
been, had dished their hopes. By now the villains were probably
homeward bound, one passenger the less.…
“_Look out! My God, don’t you----_”
The warning came an instant too late. Intent on the prospect in front,
neither of the two men had seen the concealed lane on the right till
they were full upon it. There was a confused vision of a whirling
black monster on wheels hurling itself upon them, and before Bazin had
had time to do more than swerve abruptly to the left a smashing blow
struck them broadside, driving them with a terrific impact into the
opposite hedge. The door beside Geoffrey was burst open and he was
pitched headlong on to the ground. In the same moment sounded a
mingling of curses, shouts, grinding of brakes and splintering of
glass. Leaping to his feet, half-stunned, he beheld, three yards away,
the dark mass of the Rolls they had been chasing poise tottering for a
second, to crash over ponderously upon its side.
There was no time to wonder how this final _débâcle_ had happened.
Already Geoffrey’s two companions had leaped out of their battered car
and were standing beside him, uninjured save for small cuts. Bazin,
his set face glistening with blood and sweat, grasped a revolver in
one hand. The three men faced the prostrate Rolls in strained
expectancy. All was silent. Did this mean that the occupants were
stunned, dead perhaps? If any of them had been thrown out, the immense
weight of the falling body must have crushed them utterly. Geoffrey’s
heart stood still. Catherine--inside that death-trap! Was this the end
of it all?
During what seemed an infinite age he remained rooted to the spot
staring with starting eyes at the tomb-like car, round which clouds of
powdery dust still swirled. Then with a feeling of grotesque unreality
he beheld two figures emerge, clambering out of the exposed
windows--first the Portuguese, hatless, his swart features streaming
with rivulets of blood, while the lobe of one ear dangled from a shred
of skin; then Jeanne, her hair dragged back from a face of ghastly
pallor, out of which her close-set eyes glared with a dreadful fixity.
Hardly had she grasped the sill to hoist herself clear, when from
behind came a man’s hand shoving her aside and pawing the air in the
manner of a drowning person. Then a dead-white face was thrust out of
the aperture and a pair of pale, red-rimmed eyes surveyed the scene.
Events now followed one another so rapidly that it was impossible to
sort them out. Eduardo, alighting on the ground cast a single glance
at the group close to him and made a headlong dash towards the bottom
of the slope. Instantly Bernard sprang upon him, there was a short
tussle, the noise of a pistol-shot, then the agent was thrown to the
earth, while the flying figure of the Portuguese sped onward. He had
covered twenty yards when a second shot crashed, this time from the
inspector’s weapon, and the entire party saw the thick-set body reel,
sway and collapse face downward in the middle of the road, a smoking
revolver clutched in his hand. One, at least, of the scoundrels was
accounted for.
“_Attention! Ah, crapaud!_”
Geoffrey wheeled at the inspector’s sharp cry in time to see the mean
figure of Blom backed against the Rolls’ mudguard, pale eyes
glittering in the moonlight, a revolver raised in the act of taking
aim. A third resounding shot. Geoffrey felt a hot flame sear his
shoulder as he flung himself upon his assailant, closing with him in a
death-grip. In that moment he realized that his left arm was useless,
broken above the elbow by his recent fall. Undeterred by the mishap he
wound the fingers of his right hand round the lean throat, felt the
twist of muscles as the imprisoned man bent double to free himself,
displaying an unexpected force. A red haze blotted out everything.
With a foot round the _notaire’s_ leg he threw his victim to the
ground, fell atop him, aware of nothing save a rapidly purpling face
and a tongue beginning to protrude horribly…
A voice panted in his ear, “That will do beautifully, monsieur!” At
the same instant there was a click of handcuffs, and he was dragged
away.
Blinking and coughing from the dust, he rose to see close at hand a
second scene of violence. Jeanne, her muscles rigid as those of a
maniac, a long murderous knife in her hand, was hurling herself on
Bernard, who in the nick of time managed to pinion her wrists in his
bony grasp.
“Ah--the she-devil! She would have that in his heart!”
There was a swift blow from Bazin’s fist across the taut knuckles, the
knife clattered to earth, and another click sounded as a second pair
of handcuffs slipped into place. Even then the woman made a dive to
bury her teeth in the agent’s hand, but the other two shook her off
and dragged her towards the Commissariat car.
A minute more and the maid and Blom were both securely trussed with a
rope abstracted from the tool-box. As he tightened the last knot the
inspector cast an inquiring glance towards the still figure lying a
little distance off.
“That one will give us no trouble,” he remarked with meaning. “Now!
That business is finished. Shall we turn our attention to
mademoiselle?”
Geoffrey drew a long breath. Since the three plotters had climbed out
into the open, no sound or movement had come from the Rolls. Did that
indicate that the black cavern was empty? A devastating dread seized
him as he went slowly towards it, fearing to look through the window.
She was there. He saw at the bottom a huddled mass, of which in the
darkness he could discern nothing more than a heap of clothing.
“Permit me, monsieur. You can do little with that arm of yours. She
has probably fainted.”
It was a matter of extreme difficulty to extricate the inert body, but
at length they did so, laying it gently upon the ground. With shaking
fingers Geoffrey removed the shapeless green hat, revealing, above
thick bandages which concealed all the lower portion of her face, a
forehead greyish-white and sunken, closed eyes. Not a flicker of an
eyelash altered her complete immobility as, heavy and limp, she rested
in the roadway. A lock of dark hair matted with blood clung to her
brow, accentuating her dreadful pallor.
Geoffrey uttered a groan.
_Fainted? She was dead._