A NIGHT OF TERROR
Wallace, fresh from his morning tub, and brimming over with health,
found Yolande sitting on the terrace, turning over a pile of
newspapers which had just arrived. On the front page of the uppermost
one he saw a huge headline: “Incredible Happenings at the Château
Grammont.”
“You are down early,” he said to Yolande.
“Yes. I could not sleep. Look at all these! The château has at last
become famous.”
“Don’t read them,” he begged.
“I have no intention of doing so. Theories--theories--and all based
upon hearsay, for I have not given an interview to a single reporter.”
“I think you are wise. Have you seen Conrad this morning?”
“I think he finds a certain attraction in the garden. Bertha is
cutting some flowers.”
“So you have noticed that?”
“How can one help noticing--when a man is in love?”
“I thought he was absolutely immune. Of course, he won’t admit
it--psychological interest he calls it. But it’s all wrong--all
wrong.”
“A kind of treachery, you think?”
“Well--it isn’t nice.”
“I don’t blame him. Bertha is a living contradiction, and Conrad is
only human. There is so much that is grim and ghastly about this
château that we ought to welcome the invasion of Cupid, in whatever
guise he cares to come. I have never known Bertha do a single unkind
thing, and that leads me to think that she is a tool who cannot help
herself. She is not the ordinary type of maid. It is easy to see
that.”
“She is extraordinary enough, I’ll admit.”
“And beautiful.”
“Well--yes.”
“Why hesitate? Perhaps you are not interested in blondes. They say
that a fair man never sees much in a blonde.”
“There’s a lot in that,” he said, gazing into her dark eyes. “But
that’s not the reason. I can’t forget that Bertha is mixed up in this
mystery. How can we possibly exonerate her without knowing what part
she is really playing. Innocently or not, she is responsible for some
of the suffering you have endured. You can’t expect me to love her, in
the circumstances.”
“I don’t want you to love her,” she retorted with a smile. “But in
this baffling enigma we must not draw premature conclusions. Since
Bertha has acted as my maid I have had time to appreciate her sympathy
and goodness of heart. Again, last night, she begged me to leave the
château.”
“And you refused?”
“Of course.”
“Yet there is real danger, Yolande; you know that?”
“Who should know it better than I?”
“Then--is it wise?”
“Now you are going to tempt me! I can bear anything but that. It isn’t
mere foolish bravado that keeps me here. It is the thought of my
father, who endured so much--and yet stayed. I have taken over that
custodianship, for good or ill. You would think less of me if I fled
before the threatening shadows that lurk in these walls, and I should
despise myself to my last day.”
She raised her head proudly, but Wallace saw the brooding spirit of
fear in her eyes, and he realised how much courage it needed to
withstand what must be a constant temptation. What he was dreading was
the rapidly approaching day when his holiday would be ended, and
Yolande must be left alone to fight the unseen danger.
“Why not invite some friends down for the summer?” he suggested. “Fill
the château with them and----”
“They would not come--again.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Last year we had a big house-party. There was a terrible scene one
night--I shall never forget it. Our guests left their rooms and
crowded into the reception rooms. Most of them had heard awful
noises--running of feet, growling. Two of them swore they had seen a
gigantic form on the landing.”
“The Monster!”
“It must have been. On the next day most of them went--raising all
kinds of excuses. Very soon not one was left. It was humiliating.”
Conrad sauntered back, striving to look perfectly innocent. He gave
them “good-morning” and then turned over the pile of
newspapers--“Monster Haunts Famous Château”; “Baffling Mystery of the
Château Grammont”; “The Phantom Murders.”
“Don’t wallow in them,” pleaded Wallace.
“I’ve been thinking,” mused Conrad. “I suppose there _is_ a Monster
here? It is possible we have been tricked.”
“Tricked?”
“Certain persons want possession of the château for some purpose
unknown. It would not be difficult for one of them to play the part of
a huge demented creature, with the object of causing the place to
become abandoned.”
“You mean Niels or Heinrich?”
“Why not? A lot can be done with packed heels, a voluminous cloak, and
extras.”
“But we have seen the thing!”
“In a half-light. An artist in make-up can do extraordinary things.”
“But the murders----”
“That is just the point. It gives a motive for them which on any other
theory is missing. The murders might have been committed to prevent
identification. You will recall that on every occasion the face has
been concealed by the hood.”
“No,” said Wallace. “It sounds too improbable. But, if it were true,
it would not alter facts very much.”
“It cuts out the Monster as an entity, and leaves us with Niels and
company only.”
“And Bertha,” rapped Wallace.
“Yes--and Bertha,” agreed Conrad slowly. “But I’ll never believe she
countenanced murder. Does she look that sort of woman?”
“Looks count for nothing. Are you forgetting that it was Bertha who
let Niels and Heinrich into the château when she thought the coast
was clear? Was that the act of an innocent person?”
“It might be the act of one who is compelled to serve other persons. I
don’t know, but the more I see of Bertha the more convinced I am that
she had nothing whatever to do with those grim and ghastly tragedies.”
At dinner that evening Conrad mentioned his theory to Fouchard, who
had been absent most of the day. Fouchard pressed his lips together
and seemed reluctant to express an opinion. The celebrated
sleuth-hound was fast approaching a state bordering on desperation,
for he had spent several hours in the vaults with the list of cryptic
figures without discovering anything worth mentioning. He ate
savagely--almost indecently.
“It is a joke in Paris,” he admitted at last.
“A joke!”
“At headquarters, I mean. Those infernal journalists have concentrated
on the Monster and skipped all the rest. They know what makes a good
story--with the vulgar public. Have you read those accounts?”
“No.”
“_Zut!_ They have gone farther than a Monster. They have made him the
devil incarnate--something with horns and cleft feet, and breathing
brimstone. _Tiens!_ I must make an arrest.”
“Eh?”
“I have nothing to show for my work here--nothing. I have enough
evidence to convict the woman of aiding and abetting, and, by heaven,
I will!”
“You won’t,” said Yolande quietly.
“And why not?”
“Because, monsieur, you have brains, and you know that the Monster is
no figure of the imagination, no masquerade of any of those others. He
is as real as you or I, and is the pivot on which all these strange
and awful happenings revolve.”
“So he is,” he growled. “But they won’t leave me alone. I have a
rival--Cochet, who loves to express opinions in matters which do not
concern him. He has come to the same conclusion as Monsieur Conrad
here, with the result that I am looked upon as an idiot who is
hoodwinked by a masquerading servant.”
Fouchard’s personal vanity was his weak point, and evidently his
professional rival was playing against it. It took two liqueurs to
reduce him to a state of equanimity, after which he was quite charming
again.
“I think mademoiselle ought to take a little holiday,” he said. “Not a
prolonged one. Say a week at Aix or Paris.”
“Sound idea,” said Wallace immediately.
“You see----”
Suddenly the lights went out, and the place was plunged into darkness.
Yolande uttered a little cry, and Wallace, who was close to her, gave
her his hand, which she took willingly.
“The power seems to have gone off,” said Conrad. “The light outside
has failed, too.”
“I will send for Watkins,” said Yolande. “Mr. Wallace, the bell is by
the fireplace. Will you ring it, please?”
Wallace moved to where he thought the fireplace lay. Feeling his way
forward, he ultimately found the wall, and then the bell-push. In
response to his ring a maid appeared with a candle in her hand.
“Marie, the light has failed. Go over to the garage and ask Watkins to
come here. In the meantime, send in some candles.”
While they were waiting for the illumination a strange thing happened.
There was a noise from the direction of the casement window, and a
blast of cool air entered the room. Yolande’s hand closed on
Wallace’s--tightly. Then someone coughed--a deep, rasping cough like
that of a sheep. It was quite close to Wallace, and he concluded that
Conrad or Fouchard was moving about.
“Have you been sleeping in a field, Connie?” he asked banteringly.
“That was Fouchard,” said Conrad’s voice from the rear.
“_Tiens!_ I never coughed. Why----”
“Ralph!”
The cry came from Yolande’s lips--an ejaculation of awful terror that
caused Wallace to jump in his chair. He put his arms round Yolande and
drew her closer to him. Her mouth came close to his ear.
“Something here,” she whispered. “It--it touched me.”
Wallace had no matches, but he possessed a very reliable petrol
pipe-lighter. Slipping his hand into his pocket, he found this and
gave the small wheel a twist. The spark ignited the wick, and
simultaneously cries came from Fouchard and Yolande, for standing
close to the fireplace was the hooded form of the Monster. An
involuntary movement of Yolande’s hand caused the miniature torch to
fall to the floor, and it went out.
“The window!” cried Fouchard. “Watch that door, Wallace!”
But Wallace with Yolande in his arms was slow to act. He heard a
scuffling of feet, and the noise caused by a falling chair. Then
Fouchard’s voice called for help.
“Where are you?”
“Here. I’ve got him. Lend a hand, quick!”
“Coming.”
He blundered in the direction of the cry. But at that moment the door
opened and a maid appeared carrying two candlesticks. She suddenly
uttered a piercing cry, and something big and vague struck the
candlesticks from her hand and sent her sprawling. Wallace helped her
to her feet and retrieved one of the candlesticks--with the candle
still burning. He held it above his head, and saw Fouchard on the
floor clinging desperately to a struggling form.
“Conrad!” he gasped. “Fouchard, what are you doing?”
Fouchard had seen the familiar face, and he went crimson with
humiliation.
“Why didn’t you tell me it was you, monsieur?” he asked.
“Tell you--with your fingers round my throat! Did you see him, Ralph?”
“Yes, but he went through the door while you were strangling each
other. Hullo--that’s better!”
The light had come on again, and four pairs of eyes gazed at each
other in temporary bewilderment. Fouchard recovered his wits first. He
produced a pistol from his hip pocket and moved towards the door.
“He’s not far away,” he growled. “Must have come in through the
window--but why?”
Yolande winced as a demoniacal laugh came from the direction of the
servants’ hall. Off went Fouchard at a run.
“Take care,” warned Conrad.
“I’m taking a hand in this,” said Wallace.
“Connie, will you stay with mademoiselle?”
But Wallace had gone flying along the corridor after Fouchard. At the
end he found two startled servants, clinging to each other. Then he
swore loudly as the lights went out again. Unfamiliar with that part
of the building, he scarcely knew where to turn.
“Fouchard!” he yelled.
No reply came, and he felt his way along the passage until he reached
a closed door. He turned the handle, but it was bolted from inside. A
low whispering was heard from the other side of the door.
“Open!” he said.
“_Qui va la?_”
“Monsieur Wallace.”
The door was opened, and he found himself standing on the threshold of
the enormous kitchen, which was illuminated by several candles. The
cook was grasping a stout rolling-pin, and his assistant was armed
with a flat-iron.
“_Hélas_, monsieur! we have seen the devil.”
“Where?”
“Here. _O mon Dieu_--he was terrible!”
Taking one of the candles, he went back along the passage. Again he
called Fouchard’s name, but that worthy seemed to have disappeared
completely. After more wandering about, he returned to the room where
he had left Yolande and Conrad.
“I can’t find Fouchard,” he said. “Has he been back?”
“No.”
“Uncanny! The servants are all scared to death. Here is the light
again!”
Two minutes later Watkins came in, looking dirty and very disturbed in
his mind.
“Pardon, mademoiselle,” he said. “I was coming across when the fuse
went again. Can’t understand it at all. Whoever wired this château
must have had some strange ideas. I’ll have to go all over the wiring
to-morrow.”
“I think you had better bring some electric torches into the house,
Watkins, in case this should happen again. Buy a new supply
to-morrow.”
Watkins went away shaking his head. He was not so much scared as
worried, for he took a great pride in his work.
“I must go and find Fouchard,” said Wallace. “He must have gone into
the cellar.”
He was leaving the room when Fouchard came back. There was limewash on
his coat and dirt on his face, but what took their gaze was a big,
rusty razor which he carried in his left hand.
“You--you saw him?” asked Yolande.
“No--but I felt him. He slashed at me with this, but missed. I could
have got him if by the rottenest piece of luck my pistol had not
jammed. Well, I have achieved something.”
“The razor?”
“Not only that. I have marked the murderer for life. When we find him
he will have from eight to twelve teeth-marks on one of his wrists--I
don’t know which. That caused him to drop his lethal instrument.”
“Didn’t you see where he went?”
“No. He hit me with the force of a battering-ram and laid me out for
half a minute. I shouldn’t be surprised if one of my ribs has gone.
But I think that settles any doubt as to whether there is a Monster or
not, and whether he is human. He tasted human enough to me.”
Fouchard opened the razor and displayed a jagged blade. Yolande
shuddered, and Wallace bade him put the horrible weapon away, for it
was reminiscent of things best forgotten. To Fouchard, however, it was
a priceless trophy. At last he had something to report to
headquarters.