BERTHA IS SCARED
Though Fouchard kept the empty pigeon-cage under close observation,
it remained empty for several days. He would sit among the trees for
hours on end waiting for the arrival of the pigeon which was going to
convey his faked message to Niels. But every evening he came to the
château with disappointment writ large on his countenance.
“Seem to have deserted us,” he mused. “What have you done with their
car?”
“It is still in the garage,” said Wallace. “Perhaps you were wrong in
thinking they would replace the pigeon.”
“It is the obvious conclusion. They must keep in touch with Bertha,
and the telephone is too dangerous.”
“Mightn’t we be able to save time by having another shot at the
cryptogram?” asked Wallace.
“Waste of mental energy,” grunted Fouchard. “I have been over every
inch of the cellar, and can see nothing to which the figures might
apply. Only the man who wrote them knows what they mean.”
“Yet they must have reference to the cellar,” said Yolande, “for Niels
and Bertha were there when you disturbed them.”
“True. But I’ve done all that mortal man can do. What is anyone to
gather from that?”
He produced the slip of paper and laid it on the table. Wallace picked
up and ran his eye over the inscription:
27
31
36
Steinbech.
“If the figures refer to measurements, where on earth does Steinbech
come in?” he mused.
“But are we justified in assuming that it has any connection
whatsoever with the mystery?” asked Yolande. “Heinrich said it was a
system for playing roulette. There are thirty-six numbers in roulette,
and it might be that.”
“Bunkum!” snorted Fouchard. “They were going straight to the place to
which these figures have reference--the place where we shall
eventually find the solution to this mystery. I made a blunder
there--I should have held my hand for a bit, and we should have seen
exactly what this priceless hidden thing is that has caused a party of
sophisticated people to turn house-breakers. But it is no use crying
over spilt milk. I yet have hopes of making Niels or Bertha talk up.”
He put the slip of paper away, for Wallace had no suggestions to put
forward. For the past few days there had been no disturbance of any
kind at the château, and Wallace and Yolande had spent some
delightful hours in the garden, and in the beautiful Forêt de
Grammont.
“Have you written to Mr. Conrad?” she asked.
“Yes. But he cannot possibly get my letter until to-morrow at the
earliest. He will be relieved to know I am in the land of the living.”
“He did not raise any objections to your--coming back here?”
“Not many. Connie understands.”
“Understands your interest in this mystery?”
He nodded, though he felt like telling her that his interest was
divided between it and her.
“He was always good-natured, generous,” she said. “I remember when he
first came here, looking pallid and thin from the dreadful ordeal of
war. I got to like him so much, and he used to romp with me and laugh
at my quaint English. But he never mentioned you.”
“How could he? He didn’t even know I existed. It was after that that
he met my father.”
“I had forgotten. How different life was then. There were my mother
and father and----”
She gulped and turned her head away, but her spirit was too fine to be
crushed by painful memories, and soon she was smiling again.
“At least life is always offering something new, and I am fortunate in
having a garden of my own. Do you believe that flowers have
sensibility? Sometimes I think they have. When I am sad they seem just
a little sad too, but when I am gay every bloom seems to nod on its
stalk and turn its head around. When I laugh I imagine the petals
shake in the sunshine. Childish, isn’t it?”
“Yes--adorably childish.”
That was the side of her nature which he loved most--even more than
the stubborn pride which enabled her to face the danger that existed.
She had managed to retain that most lovable thing in life--childhood’s
simplicity.
When next they saw Fouchard his impatience was getting beyond control.
Despite his vigil in the forest, nothing had happened to further his
object. His faked message, couched in his best German, still remained
in his pocket-book, for there was no feathered messenger to carry it
to its destination.
“By some means or other they must have anticipated my game,” he
grumbled. “They have as many eyes as a fly.”
“You think they are back?” asked Yolande.
“Yes. The lure is here. But there must be a change of plan. Of course,
the people at Arveyes are keeping their eyes skinned, but if they
discover anything at all I shall be surprised.”
“Things are very quiet here,” said Wallace.
Fouchard pointed to the moon, which had just risen. It was nearly at
the full.
“According to poor old Severin, we may expect matters to liven up
shortly,” he said. “He was so certain that the moon had something to
do with it.”
“I am almost ready to believe anything,” said Yolande. “But, of
course, there is nothing in that idea.”
“Nothing. Old women’s superstition.”
“And how are things in Paris?” asked Wallace.
“Not too good for me. They are inclined to take the view that these
tragedies are of the common type, with robbery as motive. The Monster
they write down as a thing of the imagination. That reminds me that I
must return to Paris next week. I have to appear at an important
trial.”
“Next week! But you will come back here?”
“I hope so. I don’t know how long this trial will take, but I shall
have no peace of mind until I get at the bottom of this business. I’ve
got three or four days in which to land Niels, and I’m going to do it.
Nothing would please me more than to have him as a travelling
companion.”
Wallace begged Yolande to play the piano, which she had not done for
some time. Soon the romantic strains of a Chopin Nocturne were being
borne on the warm night air, while Fouchard, left alone with the
Benedictine bottle, enjoyed himself a lot. Wallace was coaxed to sing,
and gave an extremely good rendering of Schubert’s “Who is Sylvia?”
“Splendid,” said Yolande, looking up at him with her face aflame with
appreciation. “Try another one.”
“Do you know ‘The Erl King’?” asked Fouchard.
“Why not the ‘Dead March’?” retorted Wallace.
Yolande chose the _encore_ piece for him. It was Schubert’s
masterpiece, “Impatience,” which called for more passion than Wallace
imagined he possessed. But to-night, with Yolande’s hair almost
brushing his hand, and the magnetism of her presence strong upon him,
he felt in the mood for some outlet to his pent-up emotions. But she
was lost in the music, and did not appear to realise that he was
singing this _to_ her.
Ere the last note died away there was a rude interruption. A ringing,
demoniacal laugh came from without, and a great clod of turf was flung
through the half-open window. It fell on the top of the grand piano
and slithered across it, shedding brown earth over Yolande’s dress.
“The devil!” ejaculated Fouchard, springing to his feet.
“Don’t go!” called Yolande.
But Fouchard had already passed through the window, with a pistol
gripped in his hand. Wallace ached to follow him, but he feared to
leave Yolande alone.
“That has happened before,” she said, trembling.
“It’s uncanny--that laugh!”
“The same awful voice. It spoiled that wonderful song--and I was
beginning to believe that things were getting better. Did you see
anything?”
“No.”
She sat nestling close to him on the settee, and he could feel her
heart beating rapidly. It was clear that her nerves were getting
unstrung, and that there was a limit to her endurance. When Fouchard
returned he shook his head despondently.
“Not a sign of anyone,” he said. “I found a bare place on the lawn
outside where the turf had been torn up.”
“Ring the bell, m’sieur,” begged Yolande. “The room is in a terrible
mess.”
A maid came in response to Fouchard’s ring. Yolande pointed to the
dirt and grass, but the girl did not seem to understand. She appeared
to be extremely agitated, and stood nodding her head like a mandarin
doll.
“Pardon, mademoiselle,” she stammered at last. “There is a strange
noise from Bertha’s room. We have all heard it, but are afraid to go
in.”
“What kind of a noise?” asked Fouchard.
“_Mon Dieu_--terrible! moaning and sobbing.”
Wallace looked at Fouchard, and Fouchard pressed his thin lips
together. Yolande gripped the end of the settee.
“I’ll go up,” said Fouchard. “You had better stay with your mistress.”
“I’ll stay too,” said Wallace.
“No--you go with Fouchard,” insisted Yolande. “You--you may be
needed.”
The two men hurried into the servants’ quarters, and a scared maid led
them to Bertha’s room. As soon as they approached it the noise was
audible. It was as if someone were trying to call for help, but was
prevented from saying anything articulate. Fouchard pushed open the
door.
The room was lighted, and Bertha was sitting in a chair by the
dressing-table, her two arms bound to the back of it by a sheet which
had been taken from the bed. In her mouth was a sponge--brutally
inserted, it appeared, for her lips were bleeding. It was not the
normal Bertha, but a terrified woman, with staring eyes and blanched
cheeks. Fouchard removed the sponge, while Wallace undid the tightly
knotted sheet.
“Water!” gasped Bertha.
Wallace filled a glass from the carafe and held it to her lips. She
drank deeply, and took the handkerchief which he offered to remove the
blood from her lacerated mouth.
“Now tell us what happened,” asked Fouchard.
“My--my head is swimming.”
“Give her time,” pleaded Wallace. “I suggest we go downstairs.
Mademoiselle will be anxious to hear what has transpired here.”
Fouchard was agreeable, and the badly shaken Bertha accompanied them
to the drawing-room. The maid, having cleared up the mess, was
dismissed.
“Now,” said Fouchard, “we would like to hear exactly what happened in
your room.”
Bertha had now recovered some of her habitual composure. She fidgeted
a little, and was obviously disinclined to go into details. Fouchard
had expected this.
“It is better to tell the truth,” he said bitingly. “We want no
imaginary version.”