BLIND ALLEYS
“_Tiens!_” exclaimed Fouchard. “This is a surprise! What has
happened--and where is Monsieur Conrad?”
“That’s rather a long story,” said Wallace. “But Yolande--is she all
right? Have things been quiet here?”
“Mademoiselle is far from all right, but the sight of you ought to
revive her. When you failed to return we took it for granted that you
had run your necks into the noose.”
“So we did--like a couple of idiots.”
Fouchard suddenly pulled him aside, so that they were both covered by
a big flowering shrub.
“Bertha,” he whispered. “I don’t want her to see you yet. We may be
able to make capital out of your return. There’s a shady nook yonder,
and a seat. Come and tell me exactly what transpired.”
Wallace accompanied him to the spot in question, and there told him
what had taken place since the preceding morning. Fouchard listened
intently, and revealed surprise when the yacht was mentioned.
“We are dealing with a curious crowd,” he mused. “It was a good stroke
on your part to get Niels’s car. What have you done with it?”
“I left it outside the drive.”
“We must hide it.”
“Why should I? The blighters collared mine----”
“I don’t want Bertha to see it.”
“Why not?”
“Because Bertha knows Niels’s programme. At this moment she believes
that you and Conrad are safely aboard the yacht, bound for the English
coast.”
“You don’t want her to see me?”
“Yes--later, but not that car. If she sees that she will conclude that
Niels is not back, and then I shall lose an excellent chance of
finding out where that crowd is hiding.”
“You think she will go there?”
“No. But your presence here will come as a tremendous surprise, and
she will at once communicate with Niels to warn him that something has
gone wrong.”
“By what means?”
“That I hope to discover.”
Wallace nodded, but he thought that Fouchard was concentrating too
much upon Niels and his confederates, when the real trouble was
centred in the Monster. Personally, he could not see that the possible
arrest of Niels would help matters much, for, whatever the secret was,
Niels was not the type of man to be coerced into revealing it.
“I’ll take the car farther into the wood,” he said. “There are many
splendid hiding-places. While I am gone, will you break the news to
Yolande?”
Fouchard nodded, and Wallace left the château and carried out his
project. When he returned, Yolande was downstairs, waiting for him on
the terrace. She gripped his hand somewhat emotionally, and held it,
her own trembling like a leaf.
“It is a wonderful relief,” she murmured. “All night I have been
thinking--thinking horrible things. But why--why did you take all that
risk?”
“I wanted my car.”
“I see.”
“But that wasn’t the chief reason, Yolande.”
“What--what then?”
“I wanted to be near you. It was only when I was far away that I
properly realised the hideous danger that threatens you. I don’t mean
from Niels’s party. They are desperate enough, but are not murderers.
In any case, Conrad had to get back to England, but I am not so
important a personage. If you will let me, I want to try and help
solve this perplexing mystery.”
“There is no one more welcome here.”
“That reminds me. Do you think Watkins could put me up over the
garage? Of course, Conrad’s departure alters things-- I mean, it
scarcely seems the thing to--to----”
A little look of disappointment passed over her face. Then she laughed
amusedly.
“Oh, you English, you are so prudish! I may have Fouchard in the
house, but not you.”
“Of course, it’s all rot, and Grundyish----”
“That’s a new word--I must remember it,” she said. Then, shaking her
beautiful head, “I am afraid there is no room over the garage. It
looks as if I must get a housekeeper at once to chaperone me.”
“That’s enough,” he said. “I’ll defy convention. Where is the charming
Bertha?”
“In the garden.”
“Does she know--about me?”
“Not yet. Fouchard told me not to say anything. Poor Bertha! The more
I see of her the more I am convinced that she is a paid tool of those
men. But I have tried to buy her over and have failed. Of course, she
knows that we suspect her of being an accomplice.”
“Yet she stays.”
“They compel her to. If Bertha would only speak I feel sure we should
learn much.”
“Here she is.”
Bertha approached the terrace by the garden steps. As usual, her arms
were full of freshly picked flowers, and her attention was so much
centred on their beauty that for a few seconds she did not see the two
figures before her. When at last she raised her eyes and saw Wallace,
there was a fleeting look of astonishment, but she quickly covered it
by a wonderful display of innocence.
“They are a little damaged,” she said. “There was much wind
yesterday.”
“Put them in the hall, Bertha.”
“Yes, mademoiselle.”
“That’s got her guessing,” mused Wallace. “I’ll bet she is wondering
what on earth has happened.”
Fouchard crept in like a spectre, and looked after the vanishing
Bertha.
“I want her watched--every moment from now,” he said. “Will you come,
Mr. Wallace?”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Go into the garden while I stay here. She is going to signal--or send
some kind of warning. If she passes you, follow her. I’m going to
guard the telephone.”
He disappeared into the house.
“Not a pleasant job,” said Wallace. “If it were Niels----”
“I’ll come with you,” said Yolande.
“Do.”
He thought she seemed brighter this morning than she had been for many
days. Despite the sinister atmosphere of the château, he was glad to
be back again with the woman who caused him more mental anxiety and
heart palpitation than anything he had yet experienced. She stopped by
a bed of bright flowers and picked a sprig, fixing it in his
buttonhole with her white, shapely fingers.
“Rosemary--for remembrance,” she said.
“Is it necessary?”
“Necessary?”
“To wear a reminder.”
“Is your memory so good?” she said teasingly.
“If I live to be a hundred, I shall never forget this château, these
flowers, and--and you.”
“Is that a vow?”
“More than that--a sacred oath. Yolande, up to now I have been pretty
helpless. Everything is so jumbled up. If it would only come to a
straight fight--in the open----”
“You have been more helpful than you can possibly imagine,” she
murmured. “Women are by nature timid, though they may succeed in
keeping a tight lip. At times I’m terribly afraid, not of what might
happen--to me, but of the Unknown. I’m superstitious; all women are,
however much they pretend not to be. I find myself wondering whether
there is such a thing as the supernatural----”
“Rot!”
“But isn’t it strange that, despite our precautions, that--that
assassin gets into the château? Niels and the others experience
difficulties, but not the Monster. He seems to come and go as if he
were not human.”
“We shall discover his secret--in time.”
“I am beginning to doubt it. Fouchard, with all his experience, seems
to make little headway.”
“Fouchard is crazy about Niels. He cannot forget that Niels once made
him look foolish.”
“It isn’t only that,” she replied, in defence of her countryman.
“Fouchard believes that Niels is the key to the whole thing. Whatever
Niels wants is also the Monster’s object. He thinks he can bring
enough pressure upon Niels to compel him to make a full confession.”
“He will never succeed.”
Yolande’s quick eyes saw Bertha leave the terrace. She whispered this
fact to Wallace, and they drew into the shelter of a magnificent yew.
Bertha came down the path, and, with a quick look round, cut across
the garden and climbed over the wall with the agility of a youth.
“Gone towards the forest,” said Wallace. “Hullo--here is Fouchard!”
“Did you see her?” asked Fouchard.
“Yes. She scaled the wall--yonder.”
“I thought as much. Come along!”
Wallace murmured his excuses to Yolande and went off with the
detective. They quickly got on to Bertha’s trail, for they could see
her white cap and apron moving among the pines.
“Hefty woman that!” said Wallace.
“Cunning as they make ’em--in Germany.”
“She has cut off to the left.”
“We mustn’t lose her. What the devil is she up to?”
Again they saw Bertha. She was bending over something that was hidden
in the bracken. The next moment there was a flutter of wings, and a
blue bird rose above the pines, hesitated, and then flew towards the
south.
“A pigeon!” said Wallace.
“Yes--the messenger.”
“Cute dodge!”
“Not cute enough. Quick! Don’t let her see us!”
Bertha passed by them and headed for the château. When she had
disappeared, Fouchard beckoned Wallace forward. The found the
pigeon-cage in the bracken--but nothing else. Fouchard did not seem to
be half so disappointed as Wallace had expected.
“It’s as good as the other way,” he mused.
“What is?”
“The pigeon is gone, but another one will take its place, in order
that Bertha may always have a messenger at hand. When the next bird is
put in the cage we may find a means to bring Niels to us in quick
time.”
“I see. And then?”
“Then I shall arrest him, and charge him with the murders of Monsieur
Fallières and Severin.”
“What good will that do?”
“I can get him convicted.”
“Though innocent?”
“_Zut!_ I will force the truth from Bertha’s lips. I have no more time
to waste. Niels is the key, and I will use him.”
They spent that afternoon in going to the garage of Monsieur Roche,
where the Bentley was found. The enterprising garage-owner had taken
it upon himself to clean and polish the car, for which service Wallace
was pleased to reward him handsomely.
“Do you know the man who brought the car in?” asked Fouchard.
“No, m’sieur. He was a complete stranger to me. I understood that the
owner had met with a slight accident, and that he would give
instructions about collecting the car.”
There seemed to be no reason for doubting his statement, and Wallace
drove the Bentley back to the château.