it affected a considerable number of our clients, Monsieur Thomery
among them, and we consider him one of our most important clients. You
are aware, of course, that in financial matters confidence is almost
everything!... Our losses have just been covered by an insurance, but we
have suffered other than direct material losses. Still"--the banker
turned towards Elizabeth, who was wiping tears from her eyes--"still,
what are our troubles compared with those which have struck Mademoiselle
Dollon blow upon blow? Assassination of the Baroness de Vibray,
mysterious death----"
"The Baroness de Vibray was not assassinated, she committed suicide,"
interrupted Fandor sharply. "Most certainly, I do not wish to make you
responsible for that, gentlemen; but when you wrote, announcing her
ruin, you dealt her a very hard blow!"
"Could we have done otherwise?" replied Monsieur Barbey, with his
customary gravity of manner and tone. "In our matter of fact business,
where all must be clear and definite, we do not mince our words: we are
bound to state things as they actually are. What is more, we do not
share your point of view, and are convinced that the Baroness de Vibray
was certainly murdered."
Monsieur Fuselier now expressed his opinion, or at least, what he wished
to be considered as his opinion:
"Gentlemen, consider yourselves for the moment as not in the presence of
the examining magistrate, but as being in the drawing-room of Monsieur
Fuselier. In my private capacity, I will give you my opinion regarding
the rue Norvins affair. I am decidedly less and less in agreement with
Monsieur Fandor, though I recognise with pleasure his fine detective
gifts."
"Thanks," interrupted Fandor ironically. "That is a poor compliment!"
Smiling, the magistrate continued:
"I am of the same opinion as Messieurs Barbey-Nanteuil: I believe Madame
de Vibray was murdered."
Fandor could not control his impatience.
"Be logical, messieurs, I beg of you!" he cried. "The Baroness de
Vibray committed suicide. Her letter states her intention. The
authenticity of this letter has not been disputed. The disastrous
revelations, contained in Messieurs Barbey-Nanteuil's communication,
proved too severe a shock for the poor lady's unbalanced brain: the news
of her ruin, abruptly conveyed, drove her to desperation. The death of
the Baroness de Vibray was voluntary and self-inflicted."
There was a dead silence. Then Monsieur Barbey asked a question.
"Well, then, Monsieur Fandor, will you explain to us how it happened
that the Baroness de Vibray was found dead in the studio of the painter,
Jacques Dollon?"
Fandor seemed to expect this question from the banker.
"There are two hypotheses," he declared. "The first, and, in my humble
opinion, the more improbable, is this: Madame de Vibray at the same time
that she decided to put an end to her life, wished to pay her protege a
last visit; all the more so, because he had asked her to come and see
his work before it was sent in to the Salon. Perhaps the Baroness
intended to perform an act of charity, in this instance, before her
supreme hour struck. Perhaps she miscalculated the effect of the poison
she had taken, and so died in the house of the friend she had come to
see and help: her death there could not have been her choice, for she
must have known what serious trouble it would involve the artist in,
were her dead body found in his studio.
"Here is the second hypothesis, which seems the more plausible. The
Baroness de Vibray learns that she is ruined, she decides to die, and by
chance or coincidence, which remains to be explained, for I have not the
key to it yet, some third parties interested in her fate, learn her
decision. They let her write to her lawyer; they do not prevent her
poisoning herself; but, as soon as she is dead, they straightway take
possession of her dead body and hasten to carry it to Jacques Dollon's
studio. To the painter himself they administered either with his consent
or by force--probably by force--a powerful narcotic, so that when the
police are called in next day they not only find the Baroness lying dead
in the studio, but they also find the painter unconscious, close by his
visitor. When Jacques Dollon is restored to consciousness, he is quite
unable to give any sort of explanation of the tragedy; naturally enough,
the police look upon him as the murderer of her who was well known to
have been his patroness.... How does that strike you?"
It was now Monsieur Fuselier's turn to hold forth.
"You forget a detail which has its importance! I do not pretend to judge
as to whether she was poisoned by her own free act or not; but, in any
case, we have this proof--an uncorked phial of cyanide of potassium was
found in Jacques Dollon's studio. It seemed to have been recently
opened; but, when the painter was questioned about it, he declared that
he had not made use of this ingredient for a very long time."
Fandor replied:
"I can turn your argument against you, monsieur. If the Baroness de
Vibray had been poisoned, voluntarily or not, with the cyanide of
potassium in Dollon's studio, he would have taken the precaution to
banish all traces of the poison in question. It would have been his
first care! When questioned by the police inspector, he would not have
declared that he had not made use of this poison for a very long time!
the contradiction involved is proof that Dollon was sincere; therefore,
we are faced by a fact which, if not inexplicable, is, at least,
unexplained."
Monsieur Barbey now had something to say:
"You criticise and hair-split in a remarkable fashion, monsieur, and are
an adept in the science of induction; but, let me say without offence
meant, that you give me the impression of being rather a romancing
journalist than a judicial investigator!... Admitting that the Baroness
de Vibray was carried to the painter Dollon's studio after her death,
and that seems to be your opinion, what advantage would it be to the
criminals to act in such a fashion?"
Jerome Fandor had risen, his eyes shining, his body vibrating with
excitement.
"I expected your question, monsieur," he cried; "and the answer is
simple. The mysterious criminals seized the Baroness de Vibray's body
and brought it to Dollon's studio to create an alibi, and to cast
suspicion on an innocent man. As you know, the stratagem was successful:
two hours after the discovery of the crime, the police arrested
Mademoiselle Dollon's unfortunate brother!"
With a dramatic gesture Fandor pointed to Elizabeth, who, no longer able
to contain her grief, was weeping bitterly.
The audience had risen, moved, troubled, subjugated, in spite of
themselves, by the journalist's eloquent and persuasive tones. Even
Monsieur Fuselier had quitted his classic green leather arm-chair and
had approached the two bankers: Madame Bourrat was behind them, and the
servant, Jules, with his smooth face and staring eyes.
Fandor continued:
"This is not all, messieurs!... There is still something that must be
said, and I beg of you to listen with all your attention, for what the
result of my declarations will be, I do not know! It is no longer my
reason that speaks, instinct dictates my words! Listen!..."
It was a poignant moment! All the witnesses, the magistrate included,
were thrilled with the certainty that the journalist was about to make a
sensational revelation.
Taking his time, Jerome Fandor walked slowly, quietly up to Elizabeth
who, distraught with grief, was in floods of tears.
"Mademoiselle," he said, in a clear level voice, which was in strange
contrast with his recent persuasive and authoritative tones.
"Mademoiselle, you must tell us everything!... You are here, not in the
presence of a judge, and of enemies, but amidst friends who wish you
nothing but good.... I understand your affectionate feelings, I know
what an unreasoning, but quite natural, attachment you have for your
unfortunate brother--but, mademoiselle, it is now imperatively necessary
that you should do violence to yourself--you must tell us the truth, the
whole truth!"
Interrupting his appeal to Elizabeth, Fandor turned to the magistrate
with a smile so enigmatic that his audience could not tell whether he
was speaking sincerely or was acting a part.
"I have contended in my articles up to now that Jacques Dollon was dead,
dead beyond recall; but when confronted with recent facts my theory
seems to fall to the ground." Fandor turned once more to Elizabeth,
resuming his authoritative tone and manner: "Since the affair of the
Depot, the legal authorities have recognised indelible traces of Jacques
Dollon's hand in the series of crimes which have been recently
perpetrated. Up to the present, I have determinedly denied such a
possibility. But, mademoiselle, I put it to you: you have forgotten to
tell us something of the very utmost importance, something quite out of
the range of ordinary happenings, something phenomenal. Now here is the
staggering fact I am faced with! The other day, between two and three in
the afternoon, at the Auteuil boarding-house where you are staying, you
received a visit from your brother, Jacques Dollon, the supposed robber
of the Princess Sonia Danidoff's pearls, the suspected author of the
robbery of rue du Quatre Septembre; and, lastly, the fratricide, for
what other explanation of the attack on you can be given--an attempted
murder beyond question--and I add ..." Fandor could not continue. His
eyes were fixed on those of Elizabeth who, at the first words addressed
to her by the journalist, had started up, trembling from head to
foot.... Their glances met, challenging, each seeking to quell, to
subjugate the other.... It seemed to the onlookers that they were
witnessing an intense struggle between two very strong natures separated
by a deep, a fathomless gulf; that a veil, dark as night, hanging
between them had been rent asunder, giving passage to an illuminating
flash; that this luminous ray carried with it all the revelations and
the key to the fantastic mystery!
But to a calm, perspicacious observer of the two beings standing face to
face, it would have been clear that Jerome Fandor's real attitude was
both suppliant and persuasive, and that Elizabeth Dollon's was one of
overwhelming surprise.
Monsieur Fuselier, carried away by the journalist's startling and
extraordinary statements, did not perceive this. Suddenly, he saw in
Jerome Fandor the denunciator, and in Elizabeth Dollon, the accomplice
unmasked. Nevertheless, he said quietly:
"Monsieur Fandor, you have just uttered words of such gravity that you
are bound to confirm them by indisputable evidence. Do you mean to
persist on these lines?"
Fandor looked away from the stupefied Elizabeth and her questioning
glance: he answered the magistrate at once.
"The proof of what I advance, you will find by searching Mademoiselle
Dollon's room.... I would rather not say more than that...."
"Allow me to state, monsieur, that I cannot arrange for such an
investigation until to-morrow morning!"
Then, addressing the astounded Madame Bourrat, the two bankers, and the
manservant, Jules.
"Madame, messieurs, will you be kind enough to withdraw? Madame, I
advise you, under pain of the most serious consequences, not to allow
anyone whatever to enter your premises, nor go into Mademoiselle
Dollon's room, before this matter has been fully sifted by the legal
authorities. Be good enough to wait in the passage--all of you!"
Having witnessed their exit, the magistrate walked up to Fandor, and
looking him straight in the eyes said:
"Well!... Out with it!"
"Well," replied the journalist, "if you institute a search in the place
I have indicated, you will find, in the chest of drawers, under a pile
of Mademoiselle Dollon's personal linen a piece of soap wrapped up in a
cambric handkerchief. Take this soap to Monsieur Bertillon's department,
and after the scientific tests have been applied to it, you will be able
to say that it bears distinct impressions of Dollon's hand!"
"Dollon's?"
The magistrate gasped.
Elizabeth Dollon had fallen back into the arm-chair, from which she had
risen all trembling. Her tears had ceased. She stared at the two men
with wide open, terrified eyes. All the time, the clerk in spectacles
wrote steadily on at his table, noting down the details of the scenes he
was witnessing.
There was a palpitating silence.
Monsieur Fuselier had returned to his writing table.
Jerome Fandor seemed to have recovered his composure, an ironic smile
curved his lips beneath his small moustache, whilst his hand sought that
of Elizabeth: it was the only way he could, at the moment, express the
sympathy he had never ceased to feel for her.
Monsieur Fuselier filled in a printed paper and pressed an electric
bell.
Two municipal guards appeared.
Monsieur Fuselier rose and signing to the soldiers to wait, he faced
Elizabeth Dollon.
"Mademoiselle, have you any objections to make to the statements of
Monsieur Jerome Fandor? Will you say whether or no you received a visit
from your brother?"
Elizabeth, tortured by intense emotion, her throat contracted, strove in
vain to pronounce a word; at last, by a supreme effort, she murmured in
a strangled voice:
"Oh! Why, you are all mad here!"
As she gave no direct reply to his question, Monsieur Fuselier, after a
pause, announced in a grave voice:
"Mademoiselle! Until I have more ample information, I am under the cruel
necessity of ordering your arrest!... Guards, arrest the accused!" cried
the magistrate sternly.
Elizabeth Dollon made a movement of revolt, when she saw herself
surrounded and felt her arms seized by the two representatives of
authority. She was about to cry out in protest, but a glance--it seemed
to her a tender glance--from Fandor restrained her.... She stood
speechless, inert. After all, had she not confidence in him, although
she could not understand his attitude! Had he not been her staunch
defender up to now? Had he not warned her that she must not be
astonished at anything that occurred--that she must be prepared for
anything?... Nevertheless, Elizabeth Dollon felt her brain reeling--she
was astounded beyond words.... The surprise was too strong for her....
* * * * *
About a quarter of an hour after this tragic scene, Fandor was pacing up
and down the asphalt of the boulevard du Palais, plunged in thought,
when someone clapped him on the shoulder. He turned. It was Monsieur
Fuselier.
"Well, my dear fellow!" cried the magistrate, resuming his customary
tone of good fellowship. "Well, what an adventure! You have been playing
some fine tricks! I never expected such a stroke as that, the deuce if I
did!"
"Ho, ho!" laughed Fandor, "I think that a week from to-day we shall know
a good many things!"
"Well," replied the magistrate, "I have had the girl placed in solitary
confinement--that makes them willing to speak out!...."
Fandor looked the magistrate up and down.
"Ah!" murmured he, with a scarcely perceptible note of contempt in his
voice:
"You think you will extract information from that quarter, do you?"
"But why not? Why not?" interrupted the dapper Monsieur Fuselier, in a
sprightly tone; and, leaving Fandor abruptly, he leapt into a passing
tramcar.
Fandor watched Fuselier cross the road and climb to an outside seat.
Whilst the magistrate waved a friendly farewell from the top of the
disappearing car, Fandor shrugged disdainful shoulders, and, with
pitying lips, muttered one word:
"Fool!"
XVIII
AT THE BOTTOM OF THE TRUNK
After Monsieur Fuselier's departure, Fandor rejoined Madame Bourrat on
the boulevard. The good woman was very much upset by the dramatic scene
she had witnessed. She had sent off her manservant, and was preparing to
take the tram back to Auteuil. Fandor asked if he might accompany her,
and Madame Bourrat was only too delighted to have a chance of further
talk with the journalist, for she had a lively desire to learn all she
could about the extraordinary drama in which she found herself involved.
When they arrived at Auteuil, Madame Bourrat had learned nothing
definite, for the journalist had given only evasive answers to her
questions. Still, one point was obvious: Madame Bourrat considered
Monsieur Jerome Fandor as the most amiable man in the world, and she was
disposed to help him to the utmost of her powers, in defence of any
interests he wished to safeguard....
Madame Bourrat was absolutely set on receiving Monsieur Fandor in her
private apartments. She then seized the opportunity to complain of the
trouble this affair had brought into her regular and peaceful existence.
Certainly, in summer, her boarders were less numerous; their numbers
being, in fact, reduced to two or three.
This season there had been fewer than usual; but the accident, or
attempted assassination of Mademoiselle Dollon, had undoubtedly brought
discredit on the house. An old paralysed gentleman, who had been in
residence on the day of the drama, had departed the day after. There
was not a single boarder in the house: it was empty.
* * * * *
Having made certain that her manservant, Jules, and her cook, Marianne,
had retired to their respective rooms, Madame Bourrat conducted Fandor
as far as the door of her dwelling. They had been so interested in their
talk, that they had forgotten all about dinner: their experiences of the
past few hours had left them with little appetite. It was about nine
o'clock; night had fallen: house and garden were wrapped in a mantle of
darkness.
"Can you find your way?" asked Madame Bourrat. If she accompanied the
journalist to her garden gate she would have to grope back to the house
in the dark, and alone! Her nerves were shaken by recent events. She did
not wish to venture forth and back in the mysterious gloom of night,
even on the familiar path of her garden. What might that darkness not
hide! What robbers, what murderers might there not be lurking near!
Fandor laughed.
"Why, of course I can, madame! To find the points of the compass, to
cultivate the sense of locality, is part of a journalist's profession."
"Do not forget to draw to behind you--it needs a strong pull--the gate
which separates us from the street: once shut, no one can open it from
outside."
Fandor, shaking hands with the boarding-house keeper, promised to close
the gate. As the sound of his steps on the gravel grew less and less, as
the gate fell to with a loud noise, and an absolute silence followed,
Madame Bourrat felt sure that her guest had left the garden--had gone
away.
But he had done nothing of the sort!
Fandor had shut the gate noiselessly, but he had remained inside the
grounds. He stood motionless, holding his breath, wishing neither to be
seen nor heard. He remained so for a long twenty minutes. Then, being
assured that Madame Bourrat had retired for the night--she had closed
her shutters and put out her light--he rubbed his hands, murmuring:
"Now we shall see!"
Stepping gingerly along by the side of the wall, he reached the main
building of the boarding-house: luckily, it was empty as far as boarders
were concerned. He recognised Elizabeth Dollon's window on the first
floor and was glad to see that it was half open. Chance favoured
him--there was even a gutter pipe running down the wall and passing
close to the window. Providence had favoured him with a fine staircase;
there would not be much difficulty in climbing that!
No sooner thought than done! Accustomed as he was to exercise and games,
Fandor, agile as a young man in good training can be, squirmed up the
pipe as far as Elizabeth's window. He caught hold of the sill, recovered
his balance, jerked himself up, and, two seconds after, had landed in
the room.
Dared he strike a light! He remembered pretty accurately the position of
the various pieces of furniture, but he would like to study the room
more in detail. His luck still held, for a ray of moonlight suddenly
shone out from behind a cloud. He saw the moon sailing in a clear sky.
There would be sufficient light from the moon rays to enable him to
pursue his investigations.
It was an essentially modern room; the white walls were painted with
ripolin, and were as bare of ornament as a nun's cell. An iron bedstead
stood in the middle of the room: a wardrobe, with a mirror panel in
front, and locked, occupied one of the corners; behind a folding screen
was a toilette table, a Louis XV bureau, two chairs, an arm-chair: that
was all.
After making this rapid inventory, Fandor considered:
"The situation is growing complicated," said he to himself. "I am quite
persuaded that this room will shortly receive a visit from some
individuals who will not court recognition--their interests are all
against that--and they certainly will not be anxious to meet me here!
These individuals assuredly know, at this minute, that the examining
magistrate is going to make a thorough investigation here to-morrow
morning.... How do they know it? It's very simple. The prime mover in
the attempted murder, or one of his accomplices, was assuredly among the
witnesses this afternoon. Is it the amiable Madame Bourrat? Is it that
doltish Jules, who looks an absolute fool, but may be masking his game!
Suppose the serious Barbey pops up? Or the elegant Nanteuil? But I do
not think so--they are rather victims than attackers--everything leads
me to that opinion. But--all this does not tell me whether the place has
already been visited or not!"
Fandor unlocked the drawer, searched for the piece of soap under the
pile of Elizabeth's linen, and had the extreme satisfaction of finding
the soap had not been moved.
"Good! I am here first! Ah, we shall see our men presently! Which, and
how many?"
Fandor seated himself and let his imagination work. He tried to picture
the faces of the mysterious individuals he was determined to track
down--but, so far, in vain!... Then with strange, uncanny persistence,
one face rose again and again before his mental vision, clear,
vital--the face of the enigmatic Thomery, with his silver white hair,
his red face, his light blue eyes, that Yankee head of his, well set on
his robust torso....
"Thomery!" cried Fandor almost aloud. "The fact is, everything leads me
to think ... but don't let us anticipate! Concealment is the next item
on the programme!"
Fandor realised that to hide under the bed was impossible: he would be
discovered immediately.... The screen was no better!... There was
Elizabeth's trunk!... Why, it was a kind of monument in wicker work! The
very thing! It was quite big enough to hold him--it was one of those
enormous trunks beloved of women!... To hide in it would be an
excellent trick--a real joke! Let me burrow in there, and see the
stupefaction of these estimable characters when they open it to rummage
about among Elizabeth's belongings and find themselves face to face with
me! They will see besides my sympathetic countenance the stern mouth of
my revolver!... Let us see whether it is a possible hiding place!
Fandor raised the cover and lifted out a top compartment, in which were
scattered, among objects of feminine apparel, papers, books, and all
sorts of things which had evidently belonged to the unfortunate painter.
The distracted Elizabeth, in the hurry of departure from rue Norvins,
must have thrust them in pell-mell. The lower division of the trunk was
empty.
"Another bit of luck!" thought Fandor. "Now to sample my little
hide-hole!"
Fandor found he could get into a fairly comfortable position. Then he
calculated, that with the compartment back in its place and the cover
open, all he had to do to close it was to shake the trunk transversely.
He could certainly remain inside for several hours without intolerable
discomfort.
Raising the cover, Fandor slipped out.
The interminable hours crawled by. To smoke was out of the question.
Fandor's pride in his exploit was sinking to zero: was he passing a
wretched night to no purpose? A violent ring sounded. Someone was
ringing at the garden gate--ringing loudly, insistently--an imperative
summons!