THEORIES
Fouchard was busy early the next morning pacing out the cellar, and
counting flagstones in every direction. He eventually came up looking
nettled and out of temper.
“Any luck?” asked Wallace.
“None. I’ve juggled with those figures until I am tired. I’ve applied
them in half a hundred ways, and they lead me to a dead end every
time.”
“Perhaps they have nothing to do with this case.”
“I’ll stake my life they have. Those people went to the cellar last
night with a definite object in view. These figures form the key to
what they wanted.”
“It must be of considerable value to cause them to take so much
trouble. Anyway, how do you link this up with the murder of
Fallières?”
“There is no link--yet. I don’t know what part the phantom plays. It
is possible that he, too, is after the same thing as the other party.”
“But there is evidence that he has been active for years.”
“Why not? If this unknown thing is of great value, a desperate
criminal would spend half his life trying to locate it. He apparently
has a way of getting into this house that is unknown to the other
gang--even to us. This man is a killer, while the others are merely
crooks. But Bertha and her friends know of this man.”
“You think so?”
“I am positive. Now it looks as if Niels and Bertha have scored over
the assassin and discovered a clue.”
“You refer to the figures?”
“Yes. If we could apply them correctly we should at least get down to
motives.”
“I don’t agree,” said Conrad. “What conceivable motive could there be
in the murder of Fallières in his own room?”
“Suppose the Monster was there all the time. Suppose he had climbed in
and hidden himself. When he believed Fallières was asleep he tries to
escape. Fallières wakes up and takes the pistol from under his
pillow. He shoots, and the intruder silences him with the razor.”
“A good story, but it doesn’t satisfy me. There is the breaking of
mirrors to be accounted for, the befouling of the place, the cries
that are heard----”
“A plan to scare the occupants in order that this strange man may have
greater freedom to search for what he is after.”
But Conrad shook his head. It was all too far-fetched to his way of
thinking.
“My dear sir,” said Fouchard, “you are welcome to the alternative
theory--that of a ghost, a discarnate soul engaged in haunting the
scenes of his earthly existence. The servants believe that.”
“I am content to keep an open mind,” retorted Conrad. “I think if we
were honest we should admit that we have no clues of any real value. I
mean so far as they concern motives.”
“I agree,” said Wallace.
Fouchard walked out in a huff, but a few minutes later he was called
to the telephone, where he received news that caused him to be even
more annoyed. They overheard him carrying on in extremely rapid
French, telling the man at the other end that he was nothing but an
idiot, who deserved to be discharged immediately. He strode into the
room and glared at Wallace.
“What is the matter?”
“For a pack of unadulterated idiots I commend you to the provincial
police,” he said. “They have let that fellow escape.”
“Not really!”
“They put him into the lock-up all right, but apparently there has
been no prisoner there for about five years. The window was barred,
but the bricks and mortar were rotten. Well, he managed to get out
despite his game leg. Now they are going to start rushing all over the
country, as if their feeble intellects could be matched against those
crooks. Well, we shall see him again.”
“You are optimistic.”
“I know these birds. Nothing will put them off the scent. They will
bide their time and come creeping here again. I’d give five years of
my life to know what it is they are after.”
He wandered off to make a new tour of discovery, and the worthy
Watkins came in to report that he had found the trouble with the
lights in the cellar. The wire had been cut clean through.
“Don’t like that place,” he confided. “I always feel cold down the
spine when I go down there. This is a terrible place for lighting
troubles. Fuses go by the dozen, and blessed if I know why. It’s the
worst system I’ve ever struck.”
Wallace had promised to accompany Yolande to Rheims in her car, and
looked forward to driving the enormous Hispano, which she had agreed
he should do.
“Careful with the throttle,” said Conrad.
“I’m always careful.”
Conrad had also been invited, but somehow he felt that these two would
have a better time without him. After their departure he went to the
library to find a book to read. While he was there Bertha came in to
dust the place. She apologised, and made to leave, but he told her
there was no need, as he would be gone in a few minutes. She thereupon
commenced her duties.
“Monsieur Fallières must have been a great reader,” he remarked.
“He was,” she replied.
“It is a terrible loss to mademoiselle.”
He was curious to see how she would take this. Her equanimity was
wonderful. She shook her head sadly, and was not afraid to meet his
eyes.
“I am more than sorry for her,” she said. “She is a most considerate
mistress, and loved monsieur deeply.”
“The affair is most mysterious. It invests the place with a bad
atmosphere.”
“It does indeed. I fear that two of the maids will be leaving this
week. Most of the servants are badly frightened.”
“Are you not frightened?”
“I am a little nervous--at nights,” she said. “Some of the maids make
it worse by talking about it too much. I heard that you and Monsieur
Wallace had also gone, but I am glad it was not true.”
“Why are you glad?” he asked with a smile.
“On mademoiselle’s account. She needs company just now. She is brave
to stay here at all after--after such a terrible affair.”
“You are right,” he said. “She is courageous.”
There was a long pause, during which he selected a book from the case.
“Do you think Monsieur Fouchard has any hopes of discovering the
murderer?” she asked.
“Fouchard is never without hope.”
“Ah! He looks clever.”
“He is much cleverer than he looks. I fancy that very soon we shall
hear satisfactory news--something that will explain everything.”
“I hope so,” she said. “This would be a beautiful place if only all
the strange happenings would cease. I pray that the day will soon
come.”
He left the library feeling that she was the most consummate natural
actress he had ever met, and the biggest hypocrite. Her soft tongue
literally rang with sincerity, and yet it was but a few hours since
she had escaped from the cellar. She prayed for the day when the
trouble would pass from the Château Grammont! Of all the
impudence----
Taking a seat on the terrace, he started to read the book. It was in
French, and a personal narrative of the war in Champagne. Its chief
interest lay in the fact that it covered the battle-front in the
neighbourhood of the château, some of which he was acquainted with.
For two hours he beguiled the time pleasantly enough. Then Fouchard
returned, looking hot and tired.
“I’ve had a long walk,” he said. “Nothing like a walk to blow the
cobwebs from one’s brain. I wonder if one could get an _apéritif_? We
will try.”
He rang the bell, and Severin appeared. Conrad seldom took any
refreshment before lunch, but Fouchard asked for a mixed vermouth with
a piece of citron and Severin grinned pleasantly and said he would
bring it _tout suite_.
“Severin looks quite merry this morning,” mused Fouchard. “I thought
he was going to crack up.”
“He is pretty tough.”
“He needs to be. You know, I have a good mind to arrest Bertha and
charge her with the murder of Fallières.”
Conrad closed his book and stared at Fouchard incredulously.
“Arrest Bertha!”
“A mere ruse. I could put her in a very awkward position. In France
the criminal code is very different from that of England. Bertha would
be judged guilty until she was able to prove her innocence. What would
she and her friends do when they realised that the gallows were in the
background? Why, reveal their hand.”
“But you know they are innocent.”
“I suspect they are. But if such an act provided a short cut, it would
be justified.”
Severin entered with two bottles and a glass. Fouchard watched him as
he poured out the drink.
“You are looking sprightly this morning, Monsieur Severin,” he said.
“Is it perchance your birthday?”
“No, monsieur, but one must not always be gloomy. I am glad because I
think we are nearing a period of peace and quiet.”
“What do you mean?”
“The moon has passed the full, monsieur.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“All the disturbances that have happened here have taken place round
about the full moon. I have remarked upon it so many times.”
“Well I’m blessed! There is no limit to superstition. Can you beat
that, Mr. Conrad?”
“It certainly is an extraordinary assertion,” returned Conrad. “Akin
to the belief that ghosts cease to walk when the cock crows. But do
you seriously believe that, Severin?”
“I cannot help it, monsieur. I have observed the fact so many times.
Was not Monsieur Fallières murdered on the very night of the full
moon?”
“That is true, but it might have happened any night.”
“I think not,” he replied stubbornly. “We shall hear little more from
the phantom for three weeks or so. You are sure you will not join
Monsieur Fouchard?”
“Quite sure.”
Severin departed, and Fouchard laughed as he raised his glass.
“A quaint old man,” he said.
“I suppose there is nothing in it?”
“Old women’s talk. What on earth has the full moon to do with these
remarkable happenings?”
“I have certainly heard similar opinions expressed. In fact, we had a
curious fellow in my own regiment who swore that the moon had a
strange effect upon him. Certainly he behaved in an extraordinary
fashion at those periods. His bewitching took the form of insobriety.
At all other times he was a most moderate drinker.”
“Astrological nonsense! Science would not countenance such a
possibility.”
“Science isn’t infallible.”
“Nothing is. Wonderful stuff this! Fallières knew where to procure
the finest wines and spirits. No, monsieur, with all due respect to
your story about your military friend, I cannot swallow such a
hypothesis. Severin would have us believe that the Monster sleeps for
three solid weeks, and wakes up when the moon is approaching the full.
Then he roams at large with a razor in his pocket, cutting throats and
breaking mirrors. Moonshine, my dear sir!”
“Perhaps. But in this world it is never wise to be too dogmatic. I
hope you won’t carry out that ruse you mentioned.”
“Oh, Bertha? I am sorely tempted.”
“It wouldn’t work.”
“Why not?”
“She would guess your object immediately, and you would kill the goose
that lays the golden egg. Your first scheme was the correct one. Give
her plenty of rope, and watch her.”
“I know, but my trouble is that I am an exceedingly busy man. At any
moment I may be recalled to Paris. What have I to report? I have found
a paper that I cannot decipher. I have arrested a man and lost him
again. I have actually seen the queer creature who I am convinced
murdered Fallières. But everything is in pieces. I cannot coordinate
things at all. I have attained a certain amount of fame, deservedly or
undeservedly, and I will confess that my successes have all been due
to finding the motive first. Where is the motive here?”
“It certainly is vague.”
“Vague! It is absent. Now, according to Severin, I must wait until the
next full moon before the dominating character in this conspiracy
reveals himself.”
“Isn’t patience one of the attributes of the master sleuth-hound?”
“One requires the patience of Job for this affair. I’ve been over the
château again and again, and how this assassin gets into it is beyond
me.”
“You are sure it is flesh and blood?”
“I shall be more sure when I have lodged half a dozen bullets in his
giant carcass, as I shall do at the first opportunity,” he growled.