that we should be waiting for him here?"
Big Ernestine, who was crouching on the ground and warming her hands at
a wood fire, throwing up clouds of smoke, shrugged her shoulders.
"Stop it, do! You say things over and over again, like a clock,
Nibet!... Since I've told you _yes_--_yes_ it is--there now, and be
hanged to you!... You don't by chance fancy the Beadle has been made a
mouthful of, do you?"
Roars of laughter greeted this. Nibet was not one of the inner circle;
he was not much of a favourite in the band of Numbers. It is true that
they reckoned him a comrade, useful, faithful, that they felt safe with
him; but they bore him a grudge because of his regular employment,
because of his position, because he was an official.... And, first and
last, his warder's uniform impressed the jail birds unpleasantly.
But Nibet was not the man to allow himself to be intimidated.
"All the same," said he, "I ask where the three of them have got to?...
If they know the mushroom bed, they should have been back long ago!" He
shouted to an old woman.
"Eh, Toulouche, tell us the time!"
But Mother Toulouche shook her head.
"I haven't a watch!"
There was a murmur of protestation. The seven or eight hooligans
assembled there awaiting the return of the Beard and the Beadle, sent
with Emilet to kidnap Jules, could not believe that. Mother Toulouche
had told the truth.
The Sailor caught the old woman by the shoulders and shook her, and went
on shaking her.
"Liar! Aren't you ashamed to be in a funk with us?... Ever since this
blessed Mother Toulouche has sold winkles and many other things, ever
since she began to make a little purse for herself, which must be a big
purse by now, a purse everyone here has sweated to fill to the brim, she
has always distrusted us!... You say you haven't a watch! I tell you,
you've got dozens of 'em!..."
Big Ernestine interrupted.
"It's a half-hour over the hour agreed...."
A shudder ran through the assembly: Nibet, finger on lip, made a sign
that they were to listen.
Then, in the mushroom bed, no longer in use, which the band of Numbers
had recently adopted as their meeting place, a profound silence fell....
"There they are!" said Nibet.
Big Ernestine leaped up, left the fire, advanced to the far end of the
cellar, and imitated the cry of a screech owl to perfection. There was a
similar cry in response.
"It's all right. They're here!" she said. She returned to the fire and
sat down. But Nibet seized the girl and forced her to get up again.
"Go along with you! Quick march!" he said roughly.
She protested. Nibet stopped her.
"Oh, we can't stand listening to you!... Ho there, Sailor!... Come
here!... Sit down on this plank! You, the Beadle, and me--we're to be
the judges.... Beard makes the accusation: and, if her heart tells her
to, Ernestine will defend him."
"I'd rather spit at the tell-tale!... You can tear him to bits as far as
I'm concerned!" cried the girl. "There's nothing disgusts me so much as
a tell-tale!"
The hooligans crowded round big Ernestine. They applauded her
ironically; for they all knew that, once upon a time, she had been
strongly suspected of having dealings with, what they called, "The dirty
lot at the Bobby's Nest."
* * * * *
Silence fell once more. They could hear the rasp of the rope unrolling
from a hand windlass attached to an enormous bucket. This was the
primitive lift.
Moments passed. The hooligans had formed a circle beneath the black hole
where the bucket moved up and down.
"It goes, old Beard?" questioned Nibet, gazing upwards.
"It goes, old bloke!"
"Brought the game?"
"That's what we're sending down now!..."
"That's a bit of all right!"
Sailor now seized the trussed Jules from the bucket and flung him on the
ground.
"Damaged goods, that--eh?" he laughed evilly.
The Beadle, Beard, and Emilet were coming down in turn. The group below
bent curiously over the prisoner.
"He's soft--that sort is!" cried Ernestine. And tapping him on the face
with her foot, big Ernestine tried to make Jules show signs of life.
Beard dropped out of the bucket and stopped the game.
"Let's see, Ernestine?... Stop it now!"
After gripping the hand of each comrade in turn, after hugging a bottle
and draining it in a long draught, emptying it to the dregs, Beard flung
it aside.
"Let's get to work--no time to waste!... If we finish him off, we'll
have to get rid of him before morning!"
Sailor lifted Jules with the aid of two comrades. They propped him
against a massive pillar of wood which supported the cellar roof. They
bound their wretched victim to it with strong cords.
Meanwhile, Ernestine was unwinding the gag.
"Take your places on the tribunal!" commanded Nibet.
"And you others, a glass of pick-me-up for the fellow!"
The pick-me-up intended to restore Jules to consciousness was brought by
Mother Toulouche, under the form of a large earthen pot full of cold
water. She dashed the water in the prisoner's face.
Jules slowly opened his eyes and regained his wits, amidst an ominous
silence. The band watched his return to life with evil smiles: they
quietly watched his pallid face turn a livid green with terror.
The wretched creature could not utter a syllable. He stared wildly at
those about him, his friends of yesterday, at those seated on the mock
judgment bench who, crouching forward, were observing him with sardonic
smiles.
Nibet put a question.
"You hear and understand us, Jules?"
"Pity!" howled the victim.
Nibet was indifferent to the cry.
"He understands!... For my part, I am all for keeping to a proper
procedure.... I would not have agreed to sit in judgment on him if he
had been unable to defend himself.... We don't act that way down here!"
Turning to his acolytes for signs of their approval, he continued:
"Beard! The word is with you! Let us hear why he has been brought up to
judgment!... Tell us what he is accused of!... Bring up all there is
against him!"
Beard, who was marching up and down between the hooligan tribunal and
the accused, who was half dead, and incapable of making a rational
statement, stopped, squared himself with an air of satisfaction, and
began his speech for the prosecution.
"Jules, has anyone ever done you any harm here?... Has anyone played
cowardly tricks on you?... Set traps to catch you in?... Have you ever
been cheated out of your fair share of the spoil?... Is there anything
you can bring up against us?... No?... Well, here's what we have against
you ... it's not worth while lying about it either!... You are the one
who has taken the wind out of our sails over the Danidoff affair ... do
you confess that?"
In a voice barely intelligible Jules gasped out:
"Beard ... I don't understand you!... I have done nothing--nothing....
What have you against me?..."
Beard took his time.
Planted before the prisoner, with hip stuck out and hand in pocket, the
other hand raised in tragic invocation towards his comrades:
"You have heard?... Monsieur does not understand!... He has not the
pluck to be open and aboveboard!"
Turning again to the wretched captive, he continued:
"Well, I'm going to explain ... it was you, wasn't it, who had to put
through the robbery of the lady's jewels?... Well, do you know what you
did? Do you want me to tell you?... Instead of lending us a hand as was
promised and sworn, you kept the cake for yourself!... In other words,
you, and some of your sort, serving at the ball, put your heads
together, and shut up the lady in the room they found her in; and that
way, you got out of sharing with us!... So we have been done in the eye
over that deal!... The proof that you have comrades we know nothing
about is, that yesterday when you were done in, they found a way to get
you out of the Salad Basket!... It wasn't us!... But to return to the
Danidoff robbery ... oh, you must have laughed then!... But everyone has
his turn ... you are going to laugh on the wrong side of your mouth
now!... Do you know what they call it--what you've done--dared to do?"
In the same strangled voice, Jules managed to get out the words:
"But it's not true!... I swear to you ..."
Beard did not listen.
"There's not one of our lot who would give me the lie!... To behave like
that is treachery!... You have betrayed the Numbers. There it is in a
nutshell!... What have you to reply to that?"
For the third time, Jules repeated in a hoarse whisper, for he felt life
was gradually leaving him: an awful fear gripped him, he saw he was
completely done for.
"I swear I did not do that!... I didn't rob the princess.... I don't
even know who did!"
Jules was, perhaps, speaking the truth, but he took the worst way to
defend himself.... If he had had pluck and wit enough to take the
Beard's accusation with a high hand, if he had met threats with violent
denial and assertion, it is quite possible he might have made an
impression in his favour; but he cried for pity and for mercy from men
who were pitiless!
He was afraid!... His fear was shown by the convulsive trembling which
agitated his wretched body, by his ghastly pallor, by the cold drops of
sweat rolling down his forehead.... He was no longer a man: it was a
lamentable bit of human wreckage the hooligans had before them!... And
the more lamentable this wreck showed itself to be, the less worthy of
their interest it seemed!
When Jules gasped out once again:
"I swear to you it was not I! No!... I did not do it!"
The hooligans, moved by a common impulse, rose, indignant, furious, mad
with rage.
"That's a good one, that is!" yelled Nibet, who, beside himself with
rage, suddenly forgot his avowed respect for judicial forms.
"Since he is determined to tell lies, and hasn't the pluck to say what
he's done, there's only one thing for us to do, and that's to stop his
mouth up!... Ernestine, put the plug back!"
And as the girl once more rolled the scarf round and round the head of
the miserable Jules, Nibet turned to his comrades.
"Now then? One hasn't any need to waste more time over it!... We know
all the story--not so?... It's settled, I tell you!... A fellow who has
done what he has done, what does he deserve?... You answer first,
Mother Toulouche, since you are the oldest?..."
Mother Toulouche stretched out a trembling hand, as though calling on
Heaven to witness an oath.
"I," said the old woman, with a wicked gleam in her eyes. "I don't
hesitate!... Comrades who flinch, sneaks who betray, get rid of them,
say I!... I condemn him to death!..."
The old woman's sentence was greeted with loud applause.
Nibet resumed.
"It is said!... It is unanimous!... Make a quick finish, my lads!...
Since each has been injured, let each take his revenge! I say: Death by
the hammer!"
In that smoke-thickened air rose a chorus of hate and of vengeance.
"Death by the hammer! Death by the hammer!"
* * * * *
In that noisome lair of the bandits a horrible scene ensued.
Mother Toulouche went groping in a dark corner. She searched for, and
found, a blacksmith's hammer. She lifted it with trembling hands, and
planting herself in front of the victim, more dead than alive, she said
in a menacing voice:
"You did harm to the Numbers! You wronged them! Here goes for that
then!"
The hammer described a quarter of a circle in the air and descended in a
smashing blow on the wretched victim's face!
The awful punishment had begun!
According to age, one after another, the hooligans passed on the hammer,
and, in a blind passion of hate, beat followed beat on the agonising
body of Jules!
At last the terrible agony was over and done! The passion of hate, the
lust for revenge had burnt themselves out. Jules had expiated the crime
they had imputed to him!
The band were the victims of a paralysing fatigue. Emilet flung the
blood-stained hammer into a far corner of their den.
"Well done!" said he. "He has paid the price!"
Emilet's eyes fell on Nibet. He was leaning against the wall, and, with
folded arms, was watching the scene in which he had taken no part.
Walking up to the warder, Emilet demanded:
"Ho! Ho! You backed out of it, did you, my boy?... You didn't have a
throw, did you?... No?..."
Nibet grinned sardonically.
"Don't talk rubbish, Emilet!... If I have stood aside, I had my reasons
for doing so.... We haven't done with Jules yet!... Not by a long
chalk!... Now that he's been killed, he's got to be got rid of--isn't
that true?... Look at yourselves, my lambs! You are covered with red!...
It will take you all of an hour to make yourselves presentable!... Now,
look at me! I'm neat and clean ... and I have a plan ... a famous plan
to rid us of that corpse there! Now, just you stir your stumps,
Emilet!... I am going off to make preparations!... I'll give you ten
minutes to make yourself fit to be seen ... it's we two are to be the
undertakers; and I swear to you, that we will give them no end of
trouble to the curiosity mongers at Police Headquarters!"
XXIII
FROM VAUGIRARD TO MONTMARTRE
On the boulevard du Palais, Jerome Fandor looked at his watch: it was
half an hour after noon.
"The hour for copy! Courage! I will go to _La Capitale_."
Scarcely had he put foot in the large hall when the editorial secretary
called:
"There you are, Fandor!... At last!... That's a good thing!... Whatever
have you been up to since yesterday evening? I got them to telephone to
you twice, but they could not get on to you, try as they might. My dear
fellow, you really mustn't absent yourself without giving us warning."
Fandor looked jovial: certainly not repentant.
"Oh, say at once that I've been in the country!... But seriously, what
did you want me for? Is there anything new?..."
"A most mysterious scandal!..."
"Another?"
"Yes. You know Thomery, the sugar refiner?"
"Yes, I know him!"
"Well--he has disappeared!... No one knows where he is!"
Fandor took the news stolidly.
"You don't astonish me: you must be prepared for anything from those
sort of people!..."
It was the turn of the secretary to be surprised at Fandor's calmness.
"But, old man, I am telling you of a disappearance which is causing any
amount of talk in Paris!... You don't seem to grasp the situation!
Surely you know that Thomery represents one of the biggest fortunes
known?"
"I know he is worth a lot."
"His flight will bring ruin to many."
"Others will probably be enriched by it!"
"Probably. That is not our concern. What we are after are details about
his disappearance. You are free to-day, are you not? Will you take the
affair in hand then? I would put off the appearance of the paper for
half an hour rather than not have details to report which would throw
some light on this extraordinary affair."
Then, as Fandor did not show the slightest intention of going in search
of material for a Thomery article, the secretary laughed.
"Why don't you start on the trail, Fandor?... My word, I don't recognise
a Fandor who is not off like a zigzag of lightning on such a reporting
job as this!... We want illuminating details, my dear man!"
"You think I haven't got any, then?... Be easy: this evening's issue of
_La Capitale_ will have all the details you could desire on the
vanishing of Thomery."
Thereupon, Fandor turned on his heel without further explanation, and
went towards one of his colleagues, who went by the title of "Financier
of the paper." The Financier had an official manner, and had an office
of his own, the walls of which were carefully padded, for Marville--that
was his name--frequently received visits from important personages.
Fandor began questioning him on the subject of Thomery's disappearance.
"Tell me, my dear fellow, what is happening in the financial world, now
that Thomery has disappeared."
"What do you mean?"
"Where is the money going--all the coppers?"
"The coppers?"
"Why, yes! I fancy that when an old fellow like that does the vanishing
trick, there are terrible results on the Bourse? Will you be kind
enough to explain what does happen in such a case?"
Very much flattered by Fandor's request, Marville cried:
"But, my boy, you are asking for nothing less than a course of political
economy--but I cannot do that--on the spur of the moment!... State
precisely what you want to know."
"What I want to know is just this: Who loses money through Thomery's
disappearance?"
The Financier raised his hands to Heaven.
"But everybody! Everybody!... Thomery was a daring fellow: without him
his business is nothing!... There was a big failure on the market
to-day."
"Good, but who gains by it?"
"How, who gains by it?"
"Yes. I presume Thomery's disappearance must be profitable to someone?
Can you think of any people to whose interest it would be that this old
fellow should disappear?"
The Financier reflected.
"Those who gain money by the disappearance of Thomery--only the
speculators, I should say. Suppose now that a Monsieur Tartempion had
bought Thomery shares at ninety francs. To-day these shares would not be
worth more than seventy francs: Tartempion loses money. But let us
suppose some financier speculates on the probable fall of Thomery
shares, and has sold to clients speculating on the rise of these shares;
these shares to be delivered in a fortnight, at a price of ninety
francs. If Thomery was still there, his shares would be worth, possibly,
the ninety francs, possibly more. In the first case, the financier's
deal would amount to nothing: in the second case, his deal would be a
deplorable one, because he would be obliged to deliver at an inferior
price, and would be responsible for the difference...."
"Whilst Thomery dead ..."
"Dead--no! But simply in flight, his shares fall to nothing, and this
same financier may buy at sixty francs which he must deliver at ninety
francs in fifteen days. In that case he has done excellent business."
"Excellent, certainly ... and ... tell me, my dear Marville, do you know
if there has been any such deal in Thomery shares on a large scale?"
"Ah! You ask me more than I can tell you now ... but that would be known
at the Bourse."
No doubt Jerome Fandor was going to continue his interrogation, but
there was a great disturbance in the editorial room near by. They were
shouting:
"Fandor! Fandor!"
The editorial secretary entered the Financier's room, and, catching
sight of Fandor, he cried:
"What's the meaning of this? What are you up to here? I told you this
Thomery affair was important.... Be off for the news as quick as you
can.... Here is the _Havas_. It seems they have just found Thomery's
body in a little apartment in the rue Lecourbe."
Fandor forced himself to appear very interested.
"Already! The police have been quick!... I also had an idea that that
Thomery had more than simply disappeared!"
"You had that idea?" asked the startled secretary.
"Yes, my dear fellow, I had--absolutely!"
After a silence, Fandor added:
"All the same, I am going out to get news. In half an hour's time, I
will telephone details of the death. Does the _Havas_ say whether it is
a crime or a suicide?"
"No. Evidently the police know nothing."
* * * * *
"Monsieur Havard, I am delighted to meet you!... Surely now, you will
not refuse me a little interview?"
"Not I, my dear Fandor! I know only too well that you would not take
'no' for an answer."
"And you are right. I beg of you to give me some details, not as regards
Thomery's death, for I have already made my little investigation
touching that; but as to how the police managed to find the poor man's
body."
"In the easiest way in the world. Monsieur Thomery's servants were very
much astonished yesterday morning, when they could not find their master
in the house.
"After eleven, Thomery's absence from the Bourse gave rise to
disquieting rumors. He had some big deals to put through, therefore his
absence could only be accounted for in one way--he had had an accident
of some sort.
"Naturally enough, they warned Headquarters, and at once I suspected
there might be a little scandal of some sort.... You guess that I
immediately went myself to Thomery's house?... I examined his papers;
and I found by chance three receipts for the rent of a flat, in the name
of Monsieur Durand, rue Lecourbe. One of them was of recent date. I, of
course, sent one of my men to ascertain who lived there! This man
learned from the portress that there was a new tenant there, who had not
yet moved in with his furniture; but who, the evening before, had
brought in a heavy trunk.... My man went up to this flat, and had the
door opened. You know under what conditions he found Thomery's dead
body."
"And you did not find indications which went to show why Monsieur
Thomery committed suicide?"
"Committed suicide?... When a financier disappears, my Fandor, one is
always tempted to cry 'suicide'; but, this time, I confess to you that I
do not think it was anything of the kind!..."
"Because?"
"Because"--and Monsieur Havard bent his head. "Well, when I reached the
scene of the crime I immediately thought that we were not face to face
with a suicide. A man who wishes to kill himself, and to kill himself
because of money affairs, a man like Thomery, does not feel the
necessity of committing suicide in a little flat rented under a false
name, and in front of a trunk, which you know, do you not, belonged to
Mademoiselle Dollon! One might swear that everything was arranged
expressly to make anyone believe that Thomery had strangled himself,
after having stolen the trunk, for some unknown reason!"
"You did not find any kind of clue?"
"Yes, indeed! And you know it as well as I do, for I have no doubt the
extraordinary event has been the gossip of the neighbourhood. On the
cover of the trunk we have once again found an imprint, a very clear
impression--the famous imprint of Jacques Dollon!..."
"And you found nothing else?"
"Yes, in the dust on the floor, we found the marks of steps, numerous
foot marks: we have made tracings of them."
"My steps, evidently," thought Fandor. But what he said was:
"What, in short, is your view of the general position, Monsieur Havard?"
"I am very much bothered about it. For my part, I think we are once
again faced by another of Jacques Dollon's crimes. This wretch, after
having attempted to assassinate his sister, has learned that we were
going to search mademoiselle's room. He then made arrangements to steal
this trunk, by pretending to be a police inspector, as you know; then he
brought the trunk to this flat, examined its contents thoroughly, and
having some special interest in the sugar refiner's death, he managed to
get him to come to the flat, and there assassinated him, leaving his
dead body in front of this trunk, where it was bound to be seen; all
this he did in order to tangle the traces and perplex those on his
track...."
"But how do you explain the fact of Jacques Dollon being so simple as to
leave the imprints of his hand everywhere?... Deuce take it, this
individual is at liberty: he reads the papers.... He knows that Monsieur
Bertillon is tracing him!... So great a criminal would certainly be on
his guard!"
"Of course! Such a successful criminal as Dollon has shown himself to
be, must have resources at his disposal, which allow him to laugh at the
police. He does not trouble to cover his tracks; it is enough for him
that he should escape us."
As Fandor could not suppress a smile, the chief of the detective force
added:
"Oh, we shall finish by arresting Dollon, have no fear! So far he has
quite extraordinary luck in his favour, but the luck will turn, and we
shall put our hand on his collar!"
"I certainly hope you may. But what are you going to do now?"
The two had stopped on the edge of the pavement, and were talking
without paying any attention to the passers-by who rubbed shoulders with
them. The well-known journalist and the important police official were
unrecognised.
Monsieur Havard took Fandor's arm.
"Look here, come along with me, Fandor? Just the time to telephone to a
police station, and then I will take you with me to make a fresh
investigation."
"Where!"
"At Jacques Dollon's studio. I have kept the key of the house, and I
wish to see whether I can find any other rent receipts made out in the
name of Durand. Though I can see how Dollon inveigled Dollon into a
trap, I do not understand how it came about that Thomery paid the rent
of that trap. There is some subtle contrivance of Dollon's here; I want
to get to the bottom of it.... Will you come to rue Norvins?"
"I jolly well will!" cried Fandor.