SUSPENSE
A few days later Monsieur Fallières’s body was laid to rest in the
little cemetery behind the chapel. A verdict of murder by person or
persons unknown was brought in, and the whole French Press was full of
the strange story. As Fouchard had prognosticated, the château was
bombarded with reporters eagerly seeking for more details.
“Have nothing to do with those fellows,” said Fouchard. “They’ll twist
anything you say to make a new story. It is a pity the thing has
become public property.”
“What are the local police doing?”
“They have left the case to Paris. It is more or less in my hands.”
“What about the car we chased?” asked Wallace. “Have you made any
enquiries?”
“Yes. But the number was a false one. It happened to be the number of
a big Renault owned by a respectable lawyer in Paris. These people are
leaving nothing to chance.”
“And Bertha?”
“I have not done with Bertha yet. She needs careful watching. If I
arrested her we should defeat our own ends. I rely upon Bertha to lead
us to the solution. Mademoiselle is sending her on an errand this
afternoon--during which time I shall break into her room and interest
myself in her belongings.”
In the meantime Yolande was making a brave attempt to rise above her
bereavement. Strangely enough, she did not go into full mourning, but
merely changed from her light summer attire into a darker dress.
“It was always my father’s wish,” she explained. “He held strong
opinions on the subject. Death he regarded as a mere change--a
stepping-stone into a freer existence. He would not have wished me to
wear mourning.”
“You are wonderful,” said Wallace admiringly. “I know how deep was
your affection. I shall never be happy until I know that your father
is avenged.”
“I only want justice, not vengeance,” she said.
“Won’t you come for a walk? It is a beautiful morning and the woods
afford some shelter from this sweltering sun.”
“I think I should like to.”
He found a walking stick and they left the château, taking the
footpath that led to the higher land. On the previous day all the
woodmen had joined the police in beating the whole district, but all
to no purpose.
“It was good of you to stay,” she said. “It has been a great comfort
having friends at hand.”
“It was generous of you to accommodate us. We had no fixed programme
and had made arrangements to be away a month. Only a week has yet
passed, although it seems thrice as long.”
“I fear you must have seen quite enough of the château by this time.”
“Not a bit. It is quite a novelty staying here, and--and I want to
help--if I can.”
“You have helped already by your companionship. Look, there is Jacques
Renan’s little girl picking flowers. She is a sweet child.”
The little mite in the print dress turned her head and saw the
approaching pair. She ran forward with her hands full of fragrant
flowers and offered them to Yolande.
“_Merci, ma petite_,” she said, and lifted the child in her arms to
kiss the dimpled cheeks.
“How pretty she is,” said Wallace.
“S-sh! You must not make her vain.”
“But she does not understand English?”
“I think any woman understands a compliment, no matter in what tongue
it is spoken. How I envy these peasants! They have no great château
to trouble about--no conspiracies against their existence.”
“And how they envy you,” he replied.
“Only because they do not know that wealth is nothing in itself.
Jacques chops and sells his logs. He has a comfortable home and a good
wife. They have health and strength--and love.”
“Love is denied no one.”
“Is it not? You forget that I have lost the one I loved most in the
world.”
“I had not forgotten. How could I?”
“Forgive me,” she said. “That was an undeserved rebuke.”
“How well you speak English,” he said. “I wish I could hope to speak
French half as well.”
“Then you must marry a French woman,” she said. “It is the only way
the English ever get to speak French. Shall I introduce you to a nice
girl I know?”
He laughed, for he was pleased that she could indulge in banter at
such a moment.
“I am not a marrying man,” he said. “I fear I have caught the
complaint from Conrad.”
She kissed the child again and put her on her feet.
“Can you lend me a franc?” she asked.
He produced the coin, and she slipped it into the child’s hand and
told her to buy bonbons.
“Would that we could purchase happiness so easily,” she sighed.
They walked on through the leafy vista, with birds carolling on all
sides. In an open space they saw Jacques cutting logs with his queer
little hand-saw--a narrow strip of metal fixed in a frame that was
like an elongated fret-saw. He raised his hat as he saw Yolande, and
begged to offer her his condolences.
“Thank you, Jacques!” she said. “I hope your wife is well.”
“_Elle va bien_,” he replied.
“A splendid man,” she said to Wallace. “He rose to the rank of captain
in the war. But he is very modest of his achievements, and never
mentions them.”
For two hours they roamed through the woody glades, and Wallace got a
new insight into the character of Yolande. Mistress of the château
and the vast forest lands, she was at heart the simplest woman on
earth. He told himself that many a girl of her years would have
suffered from a sense of her own importance, for there was no doubt
that she was fabulously rich. But all her interest was in the simpler
things of life--the birds and flowers with which the forest abounded,
in cities and towns that she had visited, and people she had met, at
school and elsewhere.
“So you are an engineer?” she said.
“I hope to be. As yet I fear I am an encumbrance.”
“I do not believe it. But it must be splendid to make things that
work. If I were a boy I should beg you to take me as an apprentice. I
suppose if every woman had the choice of sex almost all would choose
to be men.”
“It is very fortunate they have no such option.”
“You like women?”
“I don’t get on with them, anyway.”
“I will never believe that.”
“It is true. The only girl I ever got to know intimately told me I was
an insufferable prig. Probably there was a great amount of truth in
it. Connie was present at the time, and thought it was the greatest
joke on earth. She had asked me how I liked her dress and I said it
was awful.”
Her laughter rang through the woods, but she stopped it quickly, as if
she were ashamed to give vent to amusement at such a time.
“It’s good to hear you laugh,” he said softly. “Connie said he
remembered you as one who was always laughing--always merry. You are
going to be merry again.”
“Perhaps,” she said. “How frank you are, and how good to want to cheer
me up when I need it so much.”
Her eyes were turned on him and he felt their full power. Since he was
a stripling he had persuaded himself that women were creatures of
another world so far as he was concerned--that he had small interest
in them. Now this dark-eyed Yolande was undermining that conclusion.
“You shall be decorated for your bravery in telling a woman that her
dress was awful,” she said, and, detaching a flower from the bunch
which the child had given her, she slipped it into his buttonhole.
There came a mad desire to kiss the white hand that lay so near his
cheek, but he had not the courage to do so.
Then the white turrets of the château came to view, and banter and
pleasant repartee were at an end. They seemed to spell tragedy as they
reared themselves above the stately pile, and the ivy-clad one on the
northern corner was more than ever brooding. Fair as this picture was,
to Wallace it seemed like a blot on the landscape, for it was sapping
the happiness of the girl beside him. Somewhere within those walls
that had withstood many a siege, and seen many a strange sight, was an
evil thing. It had to be expelled by some means or other, but as yet
success seemed far away.
That afternoon Fouchard carried out his project of examining Bertha’s
room. He spent about half an hour there, and when he came down his
face revealed the fact that the search had not been entirely vain.
“I found a letter,” he confessed. “It does not throw a great deal of
light on the subject, but it is interesting and I made a copy of it.
The original was in German, but I knew enough of the language to
translate it. Here it is.”
Wallace and Conrad bent over the sheet of paper. It was dated a
fortnight previous and written from a place called Steyn, near
Nuremberg. Fouchard’s writing was abominable, but between them they
managed to get the sense of it.
“Dear Bertha--_So there are foundations for your suspicions. It
seems incredible to me. I am applying for a passport, and should be
with you in a few days. It looks as if we may require Heinrich’s help,
but he is in Berlin at the moment. I am writing him telling him the
whole story, and asking him to follow as soon as possible._
“Niels.”
“This settles the question of Bertha’s nationality,” said Conrad.
“There was never any doubt about that. The point is--who is Niels?
Presumably, he is the little man with the whiskers. Heinrich has
apparently not arrived yet. I wonder what their game is? What were
Bertha’s suspicions, and why is Niels incredulous?”
“The circle grows,” said Wallace. “First it was merely the Monster.
Then came Niels, then Bertha, now Heinrich. We have Bertha under
observation, but the others are yet free agents.”
“Unfortunately, Bertha is fully aware of the danger--of the fact that
she is being watched. She will never reveal her hand in these
circumstances. I think it will be necessary for you two gentlemen to
bid adieu to the château and for me to return to Paris.”
“What?” ejaculated Wallace.
“A sham departure. Once these conspirators believe the coast is clear
they will get to work again. An immediate departure would be too
obvious. I shall receive a telegram from Paris in a day or two
purporting to call me back. You two might notify your intention of
taking the road again. Domestic servants are notorious publicity
agents, and everyone in the house will get to know our intentions
immediately.”
“But what then?” asked Conrad. “Personally, I hate the idea of leaving
mademoiselle just now.”
“I don’t think she is in any great danger.”
“But Fallières was murdered.”
“Well, we will confide in mademoiselle and ask her to join us in
flight. It would be quite natural for her to want a change of scenery
after that sanguinary affair.”
“But what do you propose to do exactly?” asked Wallace.
“I shall take the train from Arveyes and get out at the next station.
I suggest that you should pick me up there in your car. We can then
motor back to the forest. I have discovered an excellent vantage point
at the top of Mont des Pins. Severin must aid us in this. If there are
any strange movements in the house, he will switch on a red light
which I shall fix in one of the windows. The road runs immediately
below the Mont des Pins. You can motor us to the château in two
minutes. If Niels is in the house we ought to be able to prevent his
escape.”
“That sounds hopeful,” said Wallace. “You think Niels will come
immediately he gets to know of our departure?”
“I do. Otherwise what is he doing in the neighbourhood?”
Yolande was apprised of the scheme, and fell in with it at once. But
while this was being put into operation Fouchard carried out a project
which he had had in mind for some days. A new sideboard with a large
mirror above it was brought into the château and placed in the
dining-hall. Severin gaped when he saw it.
“Monsieur, it is madness,” he said.
Fouchard laughed and walked out with Wallace.
“It is mere curiosity,” he said. “Because I can’t fit in that part of
the business with any theory. What does the breaking of mirrors
signify?”
“What does it all signify?”
Fouchard had not long to wait for a response to his test. They had not
gone to bed for more than an hour when there was a tremendous crash
from downstairs. It brought Fouchard and Wallace into the corridor at
once.
“The mirror,” said Fouchard grimly. “This is the very devil.”
He leapt down the stairs three at a time, with Wallace close behind.
The latter had forgotten his pistol, but Fouchard was prepared. He
held the black Browning in his hand, and made for the door of the
dining-hall. As he opened it something tremendously big and awful
broke through it. Fouchard was flung off his feet and hit his head
violently against the skirting. Wallace, all unprepared for this
astonishing attack, was hit a sickening blow in the jaw. He fell on
his knees over Fouchard’s sprawling body and groaned with pain. When
he regained his full senses the big form had disappeared.
“_Sacré!_” ejaculated Fouchard.
Wallace scrambled to his feet and dashed madly along the passage. But
at the end he halted, for dead silence reigned. He came back to
Fouchard feeling savage and humiliated.
“I wasn’t expecting it,” he said.
Fouchard pulled his coat tighter and rubbed his damaged head. His
habitual calm was gone, and he looked as savage as a tiger.
“Like a damned cyclone,” he muttered. “How does he get here? Where
does he live?”
He pushed open the door of the dining-hall, which had swung to in the
scuffle. The new mirror was smashed to fragments, and on the floor was
a beautiful chair with a leg torn from it. The severed leg lay on the
top of the sideboard.
“This is no ordinary creature,” said Fouchard in an awed voice. “There
are not six men alive who could have done that. Broken off as if it
were a matchstick!”