communicate with one of the apartments in the Palais itself, and how the
deuce could they drop a corpse down there? It would have been in the
highest degree imprudent to attempt it! No, it is not by that road they
have carried off Dollon's body! But then by what way?"
He glued his ear to the chimney. After a while, Fandor could make out a
vague, intermittent sound--could catch a little, far-away, plashing
sound.
"Can the chimney communicate with the Seine?" he asked himself. "No, we
are too far off it. Why this opening, then?... Ah, I have it! It is a
drain, a sewer, it communicates with!"
To verify that, there was nothing for it but to descend this chimney,
which was no chimney! So be it!... Fandor took off his coat, and
uncovered the long, fine cord, rolled round and round his middle.
Weighting the cord with a flint, he let it slide down the chimney,
testing the straightness of the descent by the balanced oscillations of
the stone, and so ascertaining the even size of the opening, as far as
the line would go. This was the work of a few minutes.
Fandor did not hesitate: he was eager to embark on the descent.
"After all," he murmured, "though I may find myself face to face with a
band of assassins--what of it? It is all in the night's risks!"
He fastened the end of the cord to one of the neighbouring
chimneys--fastened it firmly; then, his revolver handily stuck in his
belt, Fandor seized the cord, twisted it round his legs, and let himself
slowly down through the narrow opening.
It was a perilous descent! Fandor did not know whether his cord was long
enough, and, lost in the darkness, with only the gleam of light from his
lantern to guide him, he was naturally afraid of reaching the end of his
rope unawares, and of falling into the black void beneath. But what he
observed in the course of his descent excited him so much that he almost
forgot the danger he was running. To those at all practised in police
detective work, it was clear as daylight that men had passed this way,
and recently.
"Here is a dislodged stone," muttered Fandor. "And here are scrapes and
scratches--fresh ... and ... that mark looks like blood!"
Pushing his knees and his shoulders against the wall to support himself
and stay his movements, he examined the mark. There was no doubt
possible: Fandor's sharp eyes and the lantern's light had picked out a
little red patch, which sullied one of the projecting stones in the
chimney walls:
"This," reflected our amateur detective, "only confirms Dollon's death:
if the wound which caused this mark had been made by a living body, the
mark would have been larger, and there would have been others, for it
must come from an abrasion of the skin made during the descent. But this
blood mark has resulted from a dead body knocking against the stones of
the wall: it is not a mark make by flowing blood, but by blood crushed
out."
He descended a few yards further:
"Here's a find!" he cried. He had just perceived some hairs sticking to
the rough surface of the stones. Again, with arched shoulders and bent
knees, he supported himself against the wall, examined his discovery,
left half the hairs where they were, took the rest, and carefully placed
them in his pocket-book:
"The police must not be able to say that I have arranged this for their
benefit," Fandor remarked. "Cost what it may, if I do not come across
Dollon's corpse below, I must find out to-morrow whether these hairs
resemble his."
Fandor went on descending, and first in one place, then in another, he
saw on the walls of this chimney whitish patches such as might have been
caused by the passage of a heavy mass or body, hanging at the end of a
rope, and striking against the walls on its way down. Whilst he still
believed himself to be some distance off the end of his downward
journey, he felt a point of resistance beneath his feet. At first he
mistook it for firm ground, much to his surprise. He was about to leave
go of his cord when a remnant of prudence restrained him:
"How do I know there is not an abyss depths upon depths below me--down
into the very bowels of the earth! I had better take care!"
What Fandor had taken for firm ground was nothing but an iron staple
projecting from the wall. Fandor seized it, stopped for a minute or
two's breathing space, ascertained, by drawing it up, that of his cord
there were only a few yards remaining; but he also perceived, and with
what relief, that from where he was resting, downwards the chimney was,
as far as he could see by his lantern's light, marked off into regular
spaces by these iron staples which are sometimes placed there for the
use of chimney cleaners and masons. Fandor found them a most convenient
kind of ladder. The descent now became easy, and in a short time our
adventurous journalist reached the bottom of the chimney. At first he
could not understand where he had got to. In the thick gloom around him
his lantern's gleam of light showed him a kind of vaulted wall of
massive masonry. He advanced a step or two with noiseless tread,
listening, on the alert. Not a sound could he hear: he decided to expose
the full light of his lantern.
The brighter light showed him that the chimney from which he was now
standing some yards away ended in a kind of sewer, evidently no longer
in use; and the plashing sound he had heard on the far up heights of the
Palais roofs proceeded from a thin and muddy stream of water flowing in
the middle of the sewer channel in the direction of the Seine. Kneeling
at the foot of the chimney Fandor could distinguish marks of steps made
by human feet; much deeper and very different indentations were visible
also:
"Not only have men passed this way but a short while ago," he murmured,
"but they were carrying a heavy burden: there are two kinds of
footmarks, made by two kinds of shoes, and the heels have made much
deeper marks in the soil than have the tips--yes, these men bore a heavy
burden!"
Fandor was so pleased that he mentally rubbed his hands over this
discovery. His quest was a success so far: he was on the track of
Dollon's body! And what copy for _La Capitale_! Then a sad thought came
to dim his delight:
"Poor, poor Elizabeth Dollon! I swore to her I would get at the
truth--and a lamentable truth it is! Her brother is dead: he died in the
Depot: he was done to death--it was no suicide!"
Whilst talking to himself Fandor was scrutinising every inch of the
ground as he moved forward: there might be fresh clues:
"It's a queer kind of sewer," he went on. "This streamlet is as much mud
as water, is almost stagnant. Evidently this underground sewer way is no
longer used--has been abandoned!"
A horrid spectacle struck him motionless. His lantern made visible a
struggling, heaving mass of rats, fighting tooth and claw, enormous rats
devouring some hidden thing!
Fandor's stomach rose at the sight.
Oh, horror! Could it be Jacques Dollon's body?
Fandor snatched up a stone and flung it furiously among the unclean
beasts. They fled. On the ground he could distinguish a mass, a red,
formless mass, saturated with congealed blood:
"Assuredly, if the corpse has disappeared, it is there the assassins
must have cut it in pieces, that they might carry it more easily, and
those vile creatures are in the thick of feasting on the poor victim's
remains!... Pouah!"
Fandor moved on, only to discover another pool of blood almost as large,
also besieged by rats:
"Evidently I shall find nothing else," thought Fandor: "the corpse no
longer exists!"
He continued his advance, determined to find out what this underground
way ended in. His lantern was flickering to a finish when he arrived at
the end of the sewer and found, as he had foreseen, that its opening had
been cut in the steep bank of the Seine:
"That's a bit of luck! I can get out this way instead of having to climb
back the way I came, up to the Palais roof and down again!"
It was still night; darkness reigned save on the far horizon, where a
faint, whitish line indicated the early dawn of an April day.
Fandor was just asking himself by what gymnastic feat he could regain
the quay, and he was leaning over the opening of the sewer, his body
bending far forward over the inky waters of the Seine. Before he had
time to turn, before he could regain his balance, a brutal blow from
behind half stunned him, and a vigorous thrust precipitated his body
into the Seine.
V
MOTHER TOULOUCHE AND CRANAJOUR
"Come along, Cranajour! Let's have a sight of what they've given you for
the frock coat and the whole outfit!"
The person thus challenged rummaged in the pockets of his old,
much-patched and filthy garments, and after interminable fumblings and
huntings, finished by extracting a certain number of silver pieces,
which he counted over with the greatest care, finally he replied:
"Seventeen francs, Mother Toulouche."
Mother Toulouche showed her impatience:
"It's details I want! How much for the coat? How much for the whole
suit? I've got to know, I tell you! I've got to write it all down, and
I've got to see how much I've to hand over to each of the owners of the
duds!... Try to remember, Cranajour!"
The individual who answered to this odd appellation reflected. After a
silence, shrugging his shoulders, he replied:
"I don't know. I can't make myself remember--not anyhow!... And it's a
long time since I sold the goods!"
Mother Toulouche shrugged in turn:
"A long time!" she grumbled. "What a wretched job! Why, it's only two
hours since--barely that!... It's true," she went on, with a pitying
look at the shabby, down-at-heel fellow, who had spread out his
seventeen francs on the table, "it's true that you're known not to have
two ha'p'orths of memory, and that at the end of an hour you have
forgotten what you've done!"
"That's right enough," answered Cranajour.
"Let's have done with it, then," cried Mother Toulouche.
She held out a repulsive-looking specimen of old clothes:
"Be off with you! Go and pawn this academician's cast-off! When the
comrades catch a sight of this bit of stuff to the fore, they'll
understand they can come without danger!... No cops about the store on
the lookout, are there?"
Mother Toulouche took the precaution to advance to the threshold of her
store, cast a rapid glance around--not a suspicious person, nor a sign
of one to be seen:
"A good thing," muttered she, "but I was sure of it! Those police spies
are going to give us some peace for a bit!... Likely the whole lot of
them are on this Dollon business! Isn't it so, Cranajour?"
As she retreated into her store again Mother Toulouche knocked against
that individual, who had not budged: he had hung over his arm
respectfully the miserable bit of stuff that had been styled an
academician's robe:
"Well, what are you waiting for?" asked she sharply.
"Nothing...."
"What are you going to do with that?"
Cranajour seemed to reflect:
"Haven't I told you," grumbled Mother Toulouche, "to go and stick it up
outside?... Don't say you've gone and forgotten already!"
"No, no!" protested Cranajour, hastening to obey orders.
"What a specimen!" thought Mother Toulouche, whilst counting over the
seventeen francs.
Cranajour was a remarkably queer fish, beyond question. How had he got
into connection with Mother Toulouche and her intimates? That remained a
mystery. One fine day this seedy specimen of humanity was found among
the "comrades" exchanging vague remarks with one and another. He stuck
to them in all their shifting from this place to that: no one had been
able to get out of him what his name was, nor where he came from, for he
was afflicted with a memory like a sieve--he could not remember things
for two hours together. A feeble-minded, poor sort of fellow, with not a
halfpenny's worth of wickedness in him, always ready to do a hand's turn
for anyone: to judge by his looks he might have been any age between
forty and seventy, for there is nothing like privations and misery to
alter the looks of a man! Faced by this queer fish, with a brain like a
sieve, they had christened him "Crane a jour"--and the nickname had
stuck to this anonymous individual. Besides, was not Cranajour the most
complaisant of fellows, the least exacting of collaborators--always
content with what was given him, always willing to do his best!
As to Mother Toulouche; she kept a little shop on the quay of the Clock.
The sign over her little store read:
"_For the Curiosity Lover._"
This alluring title was not justified by anything to be found inside
this store, which was nothing but a common pick-up-anything shop: it was
a receptacle for a hideous collection of lumber, for old broken
furniture, for garments past decent wear, for indescribable odds and
ends, where the wreckage of human misery lay huddled cheek by jowl with
the beggarly offscourings of Parisian destitution.
Behind the store, whose little front faced the edge of the quay and
looked over the Seine, was a sordid back-shop: here the pallet of Mother
Toulouche, a kitchen stove out of order, and the overflow of the goods
which were crowded out of the store were jumbled up in ill-smelling
disorder. This back-shop communicated with the rue de Harlay by a narrow
dark passage; thus the lair of old Mother Toulouche had two outlets, nor
were they superfluous; in fact, they were indispensable for such as
she--ever on the alert to escape the inquisitive attentions of the
police, ever receiving visitors of doubtful morals and thoroughly bad
reputation.
Mother Toulouche's quarters comprised not only the two stores, but a
cellar both large and deep, to which one obtained access by a staircase
pitch dark, crooked, and everlastingly covered with moisture, owing to
the proximity of the river. The floor of the cellar was a kind of
noisome cesspool: one slipped on the greasy mud--floundered about in it:
for all that, this cellar was almost entirely filled with cases of all
kinds, with queer-looking bundles, with objects of various shapes and
sizes. Evidently the jumble store of Mother Toulouche did not confine
itself to the rough-and-ready shop in the front; and, into the bargain,
this basement might be used as a safe hiding-place in an emergency, a
precious refuge for whoever might feel it necessary to cover his tracks,
and thus escape the investigations of the police, for instance!
Mother Toulouche, as a matter of fact, needed such premises as hers: if
she took ceaseless precautions it was because she had a reason for her
uneasy watchfulness.
Mother Toulouche had already come into involuntary contact with the
police; and her last and most serious encounter with them went as far
back as those days of renown when the band of Numbers had as their chief
the mysterious hooligan Loupart, also known under the name of Dr.
Chaleck.[4] She had been arrested for complicity in a bank-note robbery,
had been tried, and had been sentenced to twenty-two months'
imprisonment.
[Footnote 4: See _The Exploits of Juve_.]
Not turned in the slightest degree from the error of her ways, and
possessing some money, which she had kept carefully hidden, Mother
Toulouche had decided to set up shop close to the Palais de Justice,
that Great House where those gentlemen of the robe judged and condemned
poor folk! She would say:
"Being so close to the red-robed I shall end by making the acquaintance
of one or two of them, and that may turn out a good job for me one of
these days!"
But this was merely a blind, for other considerations had led to Mother
Toulouche renting this shop on the Isle of the City, in opening on the
quay of the Clock, a quay but little frequented, her wretched jumble
store of odds and ends. She had kept in touch with the band of Numbers,
which had gradually come together again as soon as the various numbers
of it had finished serving their time.
For a while they had lived unmolested, but lately misfortunes had laid a
heavy hand on the group. Still, as the band began to break up, other
members came to replace those who had disappeared, either temporarily or
for good and all.
At any rate, they could safely count on the assistance of an individual
more valuable to them than anyone; this was a man named Nibet, who
although he intervened but seldom, could, thanks to his influence, save
the band many annoyances. This Nibet held an honourable official
position; he was a warder at the Depot.
* * * * *
Whilst Mother Toulouche, from the back of her store, was watching with a
derisive air the good-natured Cranajour fasten up the Academician's robe
in a prominent position on the front of her nondescript emporium,
someone stepped inside, and warmly greeted Mother Toulouche with a:
"Good day, old lady!"
It was big Ernestine,[5] who explained volubly that for a good half hour
she had been prowling about near the statue of Henry IV, keeping the
store well in view, but not daring to approach until the usual signal
had been displayed. Those who frequented the place knew that when the
store was under police observation and Mother Toulouche feared a raid
she took care to hang out any kind of old clothes; but if the way was
clear, if no lurking police were on the lookout, then the rallying flag
would be hoisted, the flag being the old, patched, rusty, musty
Academician's robe.
[Footnote 5: See _The Exploits of Juve_.]
Ernestine had arrived looking thoroughly upset:
"Have you heard the latest?" she cried, "the bad news?"
"What news? Whose news?" questioned Mother Toulouche.
"Why, that poor Emilet has come down a regular cropper!"
"The poor fellow!... He isn't smashed up, is he?" Mother Toulouche
lifted her hands.
"I haven't heard anything more than what I've told you!"
Consternation was on the faces of the two women.
Their good Mimile! He who knew how to take care of himself without
leaving a comrade in the lurch, who stuck to them, working for the
common good.
A few years previous to this Mimile, having refused to conform to
military law, had been arrested in the tavern of a certain Father Korn
during a particularly drastic police raid, and the defaulting youth had
been straightway put under the penal military discipline administered to
such as he. Instead of making himself notorious by his execrable conduct
as those in his position generally did, he behaved like a little saint.
Having thus made a reputation to trade on, he was twice able to steal
the money from the regimental chest without a shadow of suspicion
falling on him, and, what was worse, two of his innocent comrades had
been accused of the crime, had been condemned and shot in his stead!
Owing to his good conduct Mimile had been transferred to a regiment
stationed in Algiers, and having a considerable amount of spare time on
his hands, he got into close touch with the aeroplane mechanics.
He was very much at home in this branch of work: could not Mimile
demolish a lock as easily as one rolls a cigarette? He was daring to a
degree, and, as soon as his time in the army was up, he began to earn
his living as an aviator, and rightly, for he had become an able airman.
Nevertheless, Mimile become Emilet, had aspired to greater things: a
humdrum honest livelihood was not to his taste!
He had come to the conclusion that provided he went warily nothing could
be easier than to carry on a lucrative smuggling trade by aeroplane: he
could fly from country to country under the pretext that he was out to
make records in flying. Custom-house officials and police inspectors in
the interior would never think of examining the tubes of a flying
machine, to see whether or no they were packed with lace; nor would it
occur to them to overhaul certain cells fore and aft to discover whether
things of value had been secreted in them, such as thousands of matches
or false coin.
So, from time to time, Mimile would announce that he was off on a trial
trip to Brussels from Paris, from London to Calais, and so on.
For mechanics Mimile had two brokendown sharpers, who served as
connecting links between the aviator and the band of smugglers and false
coiners who gathered at the lair of Mother Toulouche under the seal of
secrecy. This was why big Ernestine was so anxious when she heard of
Mimile's accident. Had the aeroplane been totally wrecked? Would the
very considerable prize of Malines lace they were expecting reach its
destination safe and sound?
For some time past ill-luck had pursued them, had seemed to pursue
implacably these unfortunates who took such pains and precautions to
carry through their unlawful operations to a successful issue. Already
the Cooper, a member of the confraternity who had had his glorious hour
in the famous days of Chaleck and Loupart, had scarcely left prison
retirement before he had been nabbed again, owing to the far too sharp
eyes of the French custom-house officials on the Belgian frontier.
Others of the band were also under lock and key again: it really seemed
as if Mother Toulouche and her circle were being strictly watched by the
police ... and now here was Emilet who had come a regular cropper in his
aeroplane--no doubt about it!
Mother Toulouche was set on knowing the rights of it:
"But what has happened to Emilet exactly?"
She called Cranajour. The queer fellow came forward from the back store,
where he had been loafing: he had a bewildered air.
"Cranajour," said Mother Toulouche, putting a sou in his hand, "hurry
off and buy me an evening paper! Now be quick about it!... Don't
forget.... Make a knot in your handkerchief to remind a stupid head!"
"Oh, don't be afraid, Mother Toulouche," declared Cranajour, "I shan't
forget!" He nodded to big Ernestine, and vanished as by magic into the
darkness, for night had fallen.
Scarcely had Cranajour gone, than a surly looking individual slipped
into the store, not by the quay entrance, but through the back store, to
which he had gained access by the dark passage leading to the rue de
Harlay.
His collar was turned up as though he were cold; his cap was drawn well
over his eyes, thus his face was almost entirely hidden.
Having barred the door on the quay side of the store, Mother Toulouche
joined big Ernestine and the newcomer:
"Well, Nibet, anything fresh?" she asked.
Removing his cap and lowering his collar Nibet's crabbed visage glowered
on the two women: it was the Depot warder right enough:
"Bad," he growled between his teeth: "Things are hot right at the
Palais!"
"Things to worry about--to do with comrades committed for trial?"
questioned big Ernestine.
Nibet shrugged and threw a glance of disdain at the girl:
"You're going silly! It's this Dollon mess-up!"
The warder gave them an account of what had happened. The two women were
all ears, as they followed Nibet's story of events which had thrown the
whole legal world into a state of commotion: incomprehensible
occurrences, which threatened to turn an ordinary murder case into one
of the most mysterious and most popular of assassination dramas.
Mother Toulouche and big Ernestine were well aware that Nibet knew much
more than he had told them about the details of the Dollon-Vibray
affair; but they dared not cross-examine the warder who was in a nasty
mood--nor did the announcement of Emilet's accident add to his gaiety!
"It just wanted that!" he grunted: "And those bundles of lace were to
turn up this evening too!"
"Who is to bring them?" asked big Ernestine.
"The Sailor," declared Nibet.
"And who is to receive them?" demanded Mother Toulouche.
"I and the Beadle," answered Nibet in a surly tone. "Come to think of
it," went on Nibet, staring hard at big Ernestine, "where _is_ that man
of yours--the Beadle?"
* * * * *
Like someone who had been running at top speed Cranajour, who had been
gone about an hour on his newspaper-buying errand, drew up panting
before the dark little entry leading from the rue de Harlay to the den
of Mother Toulouche. He slipped into the passage; but instead of
rejoining the old storekeeper he began to mount a steep and tortuous
staircase, which led up to the many floors of the house. He climbed up
to the seventh story; turned the key of a shaky door, and entered an
attic whose skylight window opened obliquely in the sloping roof.