THE LAST WARNING
1
Following a silence of stupefaction--I can only describe it so:
“How did you join up with Madame?” Lonergan asked.
“I made her acquaintance here, in the hotel,” Max replied. “Her
associates seemed to be--first, yourself; second, Mr. Woodville! I was
naturally suspicious of Aldous P. Kluster--knowing that Mme. Yburg had
American interests. Also, Mr. Woodville”--he turned to me--“I looked
upon you as a victim of this very fascinating woman.”
“It’s understandable,” I admitted. “I returned the compliment!”
Gaston Max shrugged, thrust a hand into his pocket, and:
“Furies!” he exclaimed. “I forgot my cigarette case!”
One of those sudden ideas which, regrettably, come to me so rarely
came now. I crossed to the writing table, opened a drawer, and took
out the _caporal_ which I had placed there. I offered it to Max.
“Is this what you’re looking for?”
He accepted it, watching me wonderingly. He examined it, and:
“Suffering Moses!” Lonergan growled. “I begin to have hopes for you,
Woodville!”
“_I_ rather think,” I went on, “that you may have dropped this
cigarette----”
“_Mon Dieu!_” He stared hard into my eyes. “I too am thinking! And,
yes! I know! At the cemetery gate?”
“Correct.”
And, as he spoke, his expression changed. It was as though a mask had
been slipped aside. I found myself looking into _hunted_ eyes… those
same eyes which had stared out in my direction from a passing car on
the previous night.
Gaston Max laid his hand upon my shoulder.
“My friend,” he said, “it is necessary that I should bring my story up
to date.”
He crossed to an armchair and dropped into it, looking from Lonergan
to me; then:
“Last night,” he continued, “I followed Mme. Yburg. She left the hotel
after dinner, and I was curious about her movements. Bear in mind,
gentlemen, that I believed my incognito to be unsuspected. I traced
her… and she went to the cemetery on the hill!”
“We know she did,” Lonergan interrupted. “Woodville met her coming
away. I was covering you earlier on, but you handed me a rubber
pass-out. What happened?”
Max frowned. The artist beneath that cloak of _savoir-vivre_ which the
investigator wore resented these intrusions; but:
“You have interrupted me so often, my friend,” he went on smilingly,
“that I am going to take the liberty of interrupting _myself_! I came
to Baden-Baden expecting to find Mme. Yburg in touch with other
members of a dangerous organization which undoubtedly exists. I found
her to be in touch with nobody but yourself and Mr. Woodville!
You”--he bowed to Lonergan--“occupied rooms which were not accessible;
but you”--turning to me--“were vulnerable.”
He paused, considered the cigarette which I had given him, placed it
in an ash tray, and accepted one from my case. As he struck a match:
“I came to this apartment yesterday,” he continued, “while you were
away. I was disturbed by the manservant. I hid in a wardrobe. I was
trapped! When the man had gone (he came to close the sun shutters) I
considered these. I made it possible for them to be raised from
_outside_. Then I departed.”
“But you returned later last night?” I suggested.
“I did. And, clumsily, I awakened you. I hid under a bush, and
pretended to be the watchman! The real watchman nearly caught me!
Again, to-night, I observed your meeting, gentlemen, at the Kurhaus.”
“Saw you,” Lonergan drawled. “I tipped Woodville we were covered.
That’s how I roped you in later. But, listen--it’s urgent--were you
here earlier in the evening?”
“I was not.”
Lonergan stared across at me.
“_Somebody_ was,” said he simply. “We’re getting down to hard facts.
And now, Mr. Max, maybe I’ve broken up your story quite a bit; but we
come back to the point where you tracked Mme. Yburg to the lay-out and
dropped a cigarette. Excuse my interruptions, and go on from there.”
“I will.”
Max stood up.
“She had entered the cemetery. She held a key of the gate. I heard the
gate close behind her. Then I crept forward. Three or four minutes had
elapsed. Inside the cemetery all was silent. No sound of footsteps. In
the bright moonlight I could see right along a broad path which
stretched from the point where I stood to the farther wall. I tried
the gate. It was locked.
“Mme. Yburg--you follow?--had locked herself in among the graves!
“The strangeness of this brought me to pause. Why had she locked that
gate behind her? There are horrible stories abroad, you understand,
concerning the Black Forest, and Mme. Yburg is a woman of
mystery--perhaps the high priestess of some new religion of
destruction.
“I think best when I smoke. You say it would have been unwise to
strike a match; but this point I had not considered when, almost
without knowing, I took out my cigarette case. I withdrew a
_caporal_.…”
He paused dramatically, then:
“As I did so,” he went on, lowering his tone, “a Voice called on me by
name! This Voice, coming from nowhere, from no one, chilled my blood.
I do not remember dropping the cigarette, but I know, now, that I must
have done so.
“‘Gaston Max,’ the Voice said--right at my elbow in the empty
road!--‘return to Paris! You have two days!’”
He stared from face to face, expecting incredulity--a clever man taxed
beyond the limits of his experience--when:
“We’ve made the grade together,” Lonergan growled. “We’ve all got the
same time!”
2
I can never forget those changing expressions which passed across the
expressive features of Gaston Max whilst, as briefly as possible, I
told him the story of the Voice… that Voice which had also spoken to
me and to Lonergan. The fact that he was not alone with this bodiless
terror seemed to remove a weight of years from him. As I concluded:
“It’s eased your mind some to know,” Lonergan said, “Woodville and I
both sympathize. But except that we’re all together, I can’t see that
it helps on the case a lot.”
“I disagree!” Max cried. “It proves that the supernatural--for so we
must call it--works to plan, as does the normal. If this is so, we may
upset those plans!”
“Don’t follow,” Lonergan declared.
“But it is plain!” the Frenchman exclaimed impatiently. “There is
_reason_ behind this! And reason can work against reason. If it is not
so--_why have we all two days?_”
“Suffering Moses!” Lonergan’s tones were even less musical than usual.
“I’ve been thinking cross-eyed! Let’s sort out the facts. The Voice
first spoke to me at 2 A.M., precisely, last Sunday morning. It gave
me four days to quit. Two A.M. on Monday it gave me three.”
“Exactly one hour later,” I interrupted, “it first spoke to me!”
“Two o’clock yesterday morning,” Lonergan went on, “I was given two
days----”
“At nine last night,” Max cried, “I, also, was given two days! More
than one of them has passed!”
I looked at my wrist watch. One-thirty.
“It is now----” I began.
But I was interrupted.
“Gaston Max!” said the Voice.
We all sprang to our feet.
“John Lonergan!”
I glanced at Lonergan. His mask of Red Indian stoicism failed to hide
the fact that he had paled.
“Brian Woodville!”
We stood there, a tense trio, amid silence which seemed to throb;
then:
“All three have until to-morrow midnight,” the Voice went on. “_This
is the last warning._ You have until to-morrow midnight.”