THE MONSTER
OF GRAMMONT
BY
GEORGE GOODCHILD
THE MYSTERY LEAGUE, INC.
PUBLISHERS 1930 NEW YORK
[COPYRIGHT]
COPYRIGHT, 1930, BY
THE MYSTERY LEAGUE, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
FIRST EDITION
CONTENTS
I. Ghosts
II. A Delay
III. The Monster
IV. Fouchard
V. Baffled
VI. The Unexpected
VII. Bertha
VIII. Suspense
IX. Counterplot
X. Theories
XI. The Crimson Trail
XII. The Second Victim
XIII. The Conspirators
XIV. A Night of Terror
XV. The Coup
XVI. Bondage
XVII. Wallace Escapes
XVIII. Wallace Has a Little Luck
XIX. Blind Alleys
XX. Bertha Is Scared
XXI. A Proposal
XXII. The Meeting
XXIII. A Call for Help
XXIV. Check!
XXV. The Final Blow
XXVI. Yolande’s Ordeal
XXVII. The Book
XXVIII. Prisoners
XXIX. The Fuse
XXX. The Count
XXXI. Conclusion
CHAPTER I.
GHOSTS
The bronzed, healthy-looking driver of the Bentley car put his foot
harder on the accelerator pedal, and averted his head to hear the
crackle of the exhaust as the sleek automobile sped along the
undulating tree-lined Route Nationale. For the past three hours that
white, arrow-like road had held his eyes, and he was “killing” it as
fast as safety would permit, for main routes at the best were inclined
to be monotonous.
While the speedometer needle wavered between the sixties and seventies
his travelling companion was endeavouring to find their exact position
on a large-scale French road map, a feat of considerable difficulty
for which the execrable road surface was largely responsible.
“Steady, old man!” he said, as the wheels struck a deep cassis,
causing a jarring of springs and a slight dither in the steering.
“This isn’t Brooklands.”
“It’s about as unlovely. We’ll cut off at the next turning.”
Speed was reduced as bad _pavé_ was encountered on the outskirts of a
straggling village. It was exactly like a dozen others passed through
that morning--two rows of tall, bare houses, with lime-washed walls
and green shutters, a café, a comestible, and a pump surrounded by
ample troughs, at which a few women were engaged in washing clothes.
At the far end were two garages, each provided with a red petrol-pump
bearing the familiar word “_Essence_,” the price in the one case being
ten francs, and in the other ten francs fifty centimes, for what was
precisely the same brand of fuel.
“Wonderful folk!” said the driver.
The car almost leaped the last ten yards of appalling _pavé_, and
seemed to purr with satisfaction as the tyres found a better surface.
On either hand sunlit fields stretched away to a hazy horizon, and
here and there blue-bloused peasants were making the first hay. But
periodically war-scars came to view, for it was the summer of 1920,
and but a bare two years since the Germans made their last retreat
that was to end five years of unmitigated horror.
The elder man folded up his map and placed it beside him. He was of
smaller build than his young companion, and, judging from his face, of
a more complaisant temperament. But, like the driver, he bore all the
signs of abundant health and vitality. The pair had brought the car
across the Channel a few days before, with the object of making a
month’s tour of north and mid-France. No route had been laid down, and
more often than not they slept in towns they had had no intention of
visiting.
“Ralph!”
The driver averted his head.
“Turn left beyond the bridge. There’s a road that appears to go right
through the forest.”
The car slowed down, and the acute bend was taken. Soon it was evident
that the change of direction was justified. The first blush of summer
lay over everything, and the dust-laden trees of the Route Nationale
gave place to the rich, rain-washed hues of early June. The serpentine
road became a joy, for it held surprises at every bend and pleaded for
less speed and more appreciation.
Ralph Wallace banished his tense expression, and displayed his strong,
white teeth in a smile. Speed-hog as he was, he was not so abandoned
as not to be able to appreciate the natural joys of the quiet and
refulgent by-ways. Lately he had had a surfeit of speed--a luxury that
the straight roads of France offer to young “bloods” who own a
ninety-miles-an-hour car.
“Give me a cigarette, Connie,” he begged.
Julian Conrad, the passenger, handed over the required article and
lighted it in Wallace’s mouth, for the Bentley was now ambling along
at a cycle pace. As Conrad turned his head one might have noticed a
thin, straight scar extending from the corner of the left eye to the
edge of the firm mouth. But the surgeon had made a neat job of it, and
the sun had browned his skin to such an extent that this memento of
the war could only be seen at close range.
The delightful road began to ascend, and on the right of it the land
slipped away gradually, forming a verdant valley in which were
scattered a few farms. Here and there were cattle, but in small
numbers. It was chickens that predominated. Every farm seemed to
thrive on poultry, and what cattle there were appeared to be thin and
out of condition. After half an hour’s pleasant amble the road reached
the summit of the long incline. A gap in the immediate timber brought
to view one of the pleasantest vistas yet encountered. A mile or so in
the distance was a beautiful château--a dream of architectural
beauty, gleaming white amid the many shades of green, built on the
edge of a great chasm.
“Stop a moment,” said Conrad, laying his hand on that of his
companion’s. “By Jove, I had no idea we were in this district.”
“What district?”
“The Marne. I know that place quite well--I ought to.”
“You mean the château?”
“Yes--the Château Grammont. I must have mentioned it to you at some
time or other.”
“You may have, but I have the rottenest memory for names.”
The eyes of Conrad were filled with a new light. A short time ago he
had been dreaming lazily--drinking in the natural beauties of the
country in subconscious fashion. Now into his mind had come something
stirring--vital. The lips became compressed for a few seconds. Then
they opened again, and a little sigh escaped him, for the memories
that were revived by the fair sight before him were very mixed.
Wallace looked at him interrogatively.
“It’s just the same as it was when I saw it--four years ago. Dropping
on it like this, in June sunlight, with the birds singing, stirs one a
bit.”
“You know it?”
“Yes. I spent what I think was the happiest month of my life there.”
“Ah, the war?”
“Yes--the war. We had been knocked to pieces twenty miles farther
north. Jove, that was a ruddy business. I was laid out at the end of
it. No wound of any sort--just sheer fatigue. I was on the way to an
absolute breakdown when they sent me down for a rest. I had no idea I
was going to a place like that. There was a score or so of us in
all--slight wounds and knock-outs. We each had a month in which to
recuperate--and we did. It was quite a voluntary business. The owner
of the château was a Monsieur Fallières. I think he had a title, but
at any rate he never used it. He had been rendered unfit for further
service in the earlier campaign, and gave up half his wonderful home
to the cause. Everything was gratis and _ad lib_. We played tennis,
bowls, badminton, rode fine horses in the Forêt de Grammont-- It was
all done with such grace, too. We were just members of a house-party,
and madame and her daughters were as charming as if we had known them
for half a century.”
“They still lived there?”
“Yes. There were two little girls of seven and eight, and another,
named Yolande, who I think was sixteen. She was at school somewhere on
the coast, but was home on holiday at that period. We used to pet her
a lot. I hope we didn’t spoil her.”
“I expect you did--if she was pretty.”
“She was pretty enough--not the conventional prettiness, either. I
often thought I would like to paint her. Well, thank God their fine
old home was saved to them.”
“Did the line never reach as far as that?”
“Later, I believe; but all the pressure was taken off this sector. I
think I read that the Germans held the château for some months, and
then the line was pushed back. You were lucky to have missed that
bloody business, Ralph.”
“You are making me wonder whether I was lucky,” said Wallace, with a
laugh. “Another six months and I should have had a taste of it. I
remember I nearly wept with regret when the Armistice found me doing
foot-drill and ‘physical jerks’ on Salisbury Plain.”
“No book that will ever be written can convey to you half the misery,
horror, and suffering. These little diversions gain all their beauty
by comparison with the background against which they stand. Well, here
we are again in God’s peace and sunshine. Men must be mad ever to give
them up.”
“I’ve often told you you have missed your vocation in life, Conrad,”
said Wallace. “You ought to have entered the Church. Of course, I
quite agree with you, but the fact is that most young men feel they
ought to be allowed to act like savages before they adopt the only
possible point of view towards legalised murder. I’m getting a bit
hungry, aren’t you?”
“I’m past that stage. I remember there is a fair-sized town about
twenty kilometres farther on. I’ll consult the map. This road ought to
lead somewhere.”
Wallace got the car moving again. They were presumably still in the
Forêt de Grammont, and the road narrowed until there was not room for
another vehicle to pass; but, since they had met nothing for the past
hour, Wallace did not worry greatly about this. His mind was divided
equally between the beautiful woodland scenery and the behaviour of
the car. It was a recent acquisition, and pleased him immensely, for
he had an engineering mind. He loved to feel the smooth output of
power, the easy and complete control. A squeak or the slightest
foreign mechanical noise would have brought him flat on his back, or
executing a half somersault to solve the mystery.
“Can’t find the road at all,” muttered Conrad. “That’s the worst of
French maps--always unreliable.”
At that moment two riders came to view. One was a man of about fifty
and the other a pretty woman who bore so striking a resemblance to the
man that Wallace concluded immediately she was his daughter. They were
coming in the direction of the car, and it was obvious that there was
not sufficient room for them to pass with safety. Wallace promptly put
his near-side wheels into the ditch and waited, which act of roadside
courtesy was acknowledged when the riders got level with the car.
Wallace was admiring the well-groomed mounts, and the poise of the
riders, when he realised that the man had stopped and was gazing
intently at Conrad.
“And how does Major Conrad find France after this long absence?” he
asked with a smile.
Conrad dropped the map in his surprise, and then slowly his eyes
brightened with recognition.
“Monsieur Fallières!” he exclaimed. “I should not have recognised you
had you not spoken. This is a most pleasant surprise. Until a few
minutes ago I had no idea we were within twenty miles of the Château
Grammont. How do you do, sir?”
He stood up and grasped the extended hand with obvious pleasure.
“You remember Yolande?” asked Fallières.
“Yolande!” Conrad blushed a little as he removed his hat and bowed
towards the beautiful girl. “Surely this cannot be the young lady who
used to----”
“--who used to tease you so much,” she added with a smile. “Yes, I
remember you now quite well, but all the credit is due to my father,
who never forgets a face.”
“Well, well, it is a very happy meeting. I have so often recalled the
enjoyable time I spent at the château when things were so different.
But allow me to introduce my friend--Mr. Ralph Wallace. A few minutes
ago I was speaking of you.”
Wallace shook hands from the driver’s seat. He could now understand
what Conrad had meant about Yolande’s beauty not being conventional.
She was dark, like her father, and a trifle pallid, but her features
were perfectly moulded and well balanced. She sat her horse as a woman
does who spends most of her days in the saddle, and smiled at him with
her eyes rather than with her mouth.
“Are you aware that your car is headed for an almost impassable
marsh?” she asked.
“I wasn’t. As a matter of fact, we are exploring. Mr. Conrad is
supposed to be the pilot, but I am afraid he is not thoroughly
qualified. I shouldn’t be surprised to hear that we are trespassing.”
“You are on private property. The public road through the Forêt is
three miles back. But, if you like to risk the marsh, you can join the
other road farther on.”
“Don’t let my daughter tempt you to such a disastrous act, monsieur,”
put in Fallières. “No car can cross the marsh. Besides, I am going to
insist that you and my old friend join us at _déjeuner_.”
“Really!”
“Yes, yes,” put in Yolande. “We are only ten minutes from the
château, and you must lunch somewhere, mustn’t you?”
“I think we may consider the matter settled,” said Fallières. “If you
will drive the car another hundred yards you will find a place where
you can turn it. We will lead the way.”
The horses were walked past, and a few minutes later the car was
following them through the leafy glade. Conrad was still chuckling at
the coincidence.
“He has changed a lot,” he said. “Looks more than ten years older. He
did not mention madame. I wonder----”
“So that is Yolande!” mused Wallace.
“Yes. I shouldn’t have known her. By Jove, her beauty hasn’t deserted
her; but she looks rather pensive. In the old days she was like
quicksilver--so animated. I flatter myself I taught her how to
pronounce an English ‘r.’”
The château came to view through a long avenue. It was of Norman
architecture, and situated on the crest of a sharp rise, from where it
commanded a fine view of the country round about. Its four white
turrets gleamed in the sunlight, and as they approached it the massive
surrounding walls commanded their attention. Its size was deceptive
seen from a distance, for there was plenty of space about it, which
had the effect of dwarfing its enormous dimensions.
“Quite a feudal affair,” said Wallace.
“Yes, one of the finest in France. Fallières is enormously rich.”
“What is the quaint building at the end?”
“The chapel. Jove, how familiar it all seems! Yes, the old place has
suffered a bit. I can see signs of renovation. The chapel appears to
have had a new roof.”
Arrived outside the main entrance, the horses were taken by a groom.
“Welcome to the Château Grammont,” said Fallières to Wallace. “There
is a garage near the stables, but perhaps you would like to leave the
car here. It is quite shady.”
Wallace agreed, and he and Conrad went to remove some of the dust they
had gathered. The place had been brought up to date in every respect.
A power plant supplied electricity, and there were modern fittings
everywhere, and a plentiful supply of hot water. Notwithstanding,
there was nothing incongruous. All that was necessarily modern was
well concealed. It was evident that Fallières took a pride in this
magnificent place--a veritable storehouse for the antiquarian, and a
realm sacred to the soul of an architect. Young Wallace, brought up in
an atmosphere far different, felt just a trifle overawed.
“The place must have a hundred rooms,” he ejaculated. “Hold me,
Conrad, or I’ll lose myself.”
“It is enormous, but Fallières is doing good work in using his wealth
to preserve this for the nation. Look, we used to play tennis out
there. That’s a fine court--the fastest I’ve ever played on.”
Wallace moistened his lips. At sports he excelled, having got his blue
at Oxford some years before. He was reckoned to be one of the best
middle-weight amateur boxers in the kingdom, and had to his credit the
hundred yards and the high-jump records of his college.
Lunch proved to be a most pleasant affair. It was inevitable that
Fallières should revive the past, and, although Wallace had thought
he had heard quite enough about the war, he found himself listening to
the conversation with considerable interest, for, in this very room
where they now sat, German officers had eaten their fill, and there
was little doubt that many a dreadful deed had been perpetrated within
those surrounding walls.
“Well, it is all past, father,” said Yolande. “And we have suffered
less than some.”
“Yes--less than some. One life in a family of five,” he said sadly.
“We did not expect it, for we had so long been immune. There were
rumours, but I disregarded them. Then, in the middle of the night,
there was terrible gunfire, and shells fell quite near. Retreating
troops passed, and we were told to flee at once. The line was broken
and the Germans were sweeping forward.… Yolande was away at school,
but I and my other two children and their dear mother left by car; the
servants as best they could. The roads were under fire and the car
broke down. In that terrible ordeal we lost the dearest woman in the
world----”
“Madame!” murmured Conrad.
He nodded and bent his head, but in an instant he raised it again,
with the light of pride in his fine eyes.
“There are things we must accept, messieurs. Shall we take coffee on
the terrace? It affords a splendid view of the valley.”
They adjourned to the wide terrace at the back of the château. From
there the land fell away abruptly, and the château was heavily
buttressed against a possible landslide. Across the verdant valley
wound a small river, entering the dark forest half a mile farther on.
It was a sight most pleasing to the eye, and it was almost impossible
to imagine that the ghastly game of war had ever been played there.
“May I see your car?” enquired Yolande of Wallace. “I am very
interested in cars, and we see few English ones here.”
Wallace was on his feet in an instant. Though modest of his own
achievements, he was enormously proud of the car. They left Conrad and
Fallières taking a second liqueur.