MONSIEUR DUPONT'S TASK
He bought the tickets, and conducted the inspector to a train.
"Where are we going?" demanded the bewildered officer, as Monsieur
Dupont settled himself in a corner, and produced his cigar case.
"We are going," said Monsieur Dupont, "to a delightful little village,
hidden away in the hills of the country--far from the sins of
cities--where they do not even know that Paris is the center of the
world."
Fortunately they had the carriage to themselves. Monsieur Dupont smoked
in silence for some minutes.
"I will explain to you," he began, at last, "how I came to be concerned
in this affair. The reason was that, after my retirement, I had the
honor to marry a cousin of Colette d'Orsel. The brother of my wife had
been one of the party at Nice at the time of the crime, and, though
there was not the least evidence against him, the police had allowed it
to be known that they looked upon him as the guilty person. You know how
ready certain people are to discuss and even to credit the wildest
theories--and you know also that after sufficient discussion the wildest
theories become not only possibilities, but probabilities. The cloud of
suspicion hung over him, ruining his health and his life, and casting a
shadow over the whole family. When I married my wife, I determined that
the shadow should be removed. And for the past two years I have devoted
myself to that object.
"You can imagine," he went on, after a pause, "the difficulties that
confronted me. Eighteen years had elapsed since the crime had been
committed. Men, women, and even buildings, had passed, and been
replaced--records had been lost--memories failed. But money,
perseverance, and imagination slowly conquered. Step by step the years
were overcome. With the aid of a small army of assistants, I succeeded
in isolating a certain person. I placed that person beside the dead body
of Colette d'Orsel, and began my pursuit. _Mon Dieu_, how I worked!
After the hardest year of my life, I at last established a link between
the death of Colette d'Orsel and the death of Margaret McCall--and that
link was the personality I had isolated in the first place at Nice. But
it had changed itself. I followed scent after scent--trail after trail.
When I came to London a few days ago, I had sufficient information to
allow me to commence the final stage of the adventure. I had solved the
most difficult question of all--the present identity of my quarry. The
second most difficult question remained to be solved--proofs of guilt.
How could I obtain them? How could I prove that this person--living here
in all the security of time--was the person who had torn those two women
to pieces in America and France ten and twenty years ago? I had certain
clues to follow up, but the results could not possibly have been
sufficient to prove such an accusation. What was I to do? To rely upon
observation? To search for--and wait for--a proof in this person's
daily intercourse with the world? To place a beautiful woman within
reach, and watch for a betrayal? That was actually the object in my mind
when I called on my friend Tranter, and requested him to open to me the
doors of London society. Sooner or later, I should have found, or
brought about, the situation I was looking for. It might have been
years--doubtless it would have been years--if he had not, by the most
remarkable chance, taken me direct to that house at Richmond. Then came
the death of Christine Manderson. It was horrible--appalling! And to
think that I, who had detected and tracked the Destroyer, had been there
in the same garden, within a few yards of the third death, and yet was
no nearer my proofs! And to add to my difficulties, there was the
certainty that an innocent man would suffer unjustly if I could not
succeed in time."
He paused, looking grimly out at the passing scenery.
"And if I had not sent Tranter to the Crooked House yesterday, I do not
know how I could have succeeded in time."
He turned abruptly from the window, put his feet up on the seat, and
closed his eyes.
"I am a little tired," he said. "If you will excuse me, I will take a
nap."
He slept for an hour.
* * * * *
They got out at a small country station. The shadows of the hot twilight
were merging into darkness. A few minutes walking brought them to an
inn, at which Monsieur Dupont demanded, and obtained, a conveyance.
For half an hour they drove through the heavily scented air of the
country. Scarcely a word was spoken until they reached another village.
There, Monsieur Dupont requested the inspector to alight and they
proceeded on foot.
The red rear-light of a motor-car appeared at the turn of a corner.
Monsieur Dupont drew a deep breath.
"_Le bon Dieu_ be thanked!" he muttered.
The car was stationary and empty. Monsieur Dupont laid a hand on the
radiator.
"It is hot," he said. "They have only been here a few minutes. Do not
make a sound."
He opened a gate. The long low shape of a house was in front of them.
They stood still, listening. There was no sound, no light.
"To the back," Monsieur Dupont whispered.