THE BOOK
Suspense and anxiety were wearing away Wallace’s nerves. Despite
Fouchard’s belief that Yolande was still alive, he found himself
taking a pessimistic view. Fallières had been murdered, then Severin.
A similar attempt had been made upon Fouchard. Why should Yolande be
any more immune than these?
In any case the alternative was equally appalling. He imagined her in
all the sweetness and charm of her youth--in the clutches of that
abysmal Monster. And here he was as helpless as a kitten to intervene.
He paced up and down the sick-room, utterly unable to concentrate his
mind on anything. Niels and the others now were reduced to negligible
proportions. They at least were human in their actions.
He wondered where they were, what they were doing? Whether the
knowledge of Conrad’s yet unrevealed discovery had caused them to
abandon their quest? But again and again his mind reverted to the
dominating factor--the Monster. Seeing Conrad lying quiet with his
eyes closed, he decided to start investigations anew. Beyond the
château proper there were outbuildings--potting-sheds, hot-houses,
and so forth. No place was too trivial to be left unexplored. He found
the gardener, who had heard the news, and went with him to various
sheds and corners. But these places yielded no more information than
the others.
“It is terrible, m’sieur,” said the man. “None of us is safe here.
That is no human shape that walks and slays. I remembered poor M’sieur
Severin saying the same thing a month ago, when the master was
murdered. And always the worst happens when the moon is at the full.”
“There is nothing in that, André.”
“There is much, m’sieur. I would not leave my wife alone at nights
when the moon is full--here.”
Wallace did not feel in the mood to rebuke him for his superstition,
for at least he was basing his remark upon apparent facts.
“She was so sweet,” mused the old gardener, his eyes filling with
tears. “Always a kind word for us poor folk, and a gift of clothing
when the winter came in. What shall we do now?”
“You must not rush to conclusions, André. Your mistress may yet come
back.”
But André had no such hope. To him the thing was sun-clear. The
Monster had made another sacrifice to the devil at the full moon. Even
if Wallace had been in the mood for argument it would have made no
difference. André was only saying what all the peasants were
whispering.
“And I had gathered these figs for her,” he said, holding up a basket
full of purple fruit. “The first this season, m’sieur, and a splendid
lot. She loved figs.”
“You have never seen this creature, André?”
“God be praised--no! But if I should, m’sieur--if I should--then--” He
picked up a mattock and balanced it in his hand, while his kindly eyes
blazed with hate. “I am getting old, but my arms are yet strong.”
“I believe you.”
“And the m’sieur who had the accident--is he recovering?”
“Yes.”
“I am glad. M’sieur, I should tell you that I saw that woman Bertha
this morning.”
“Bertha!”
“She was in the forest alone, as I came towards the château. I always
liked her because she took such an interest in the garden. But somehow
I have felt that she was not what she pretended to be.”
“You are right.”
“She tried to hide when she saw me, but I let her see that it was too
late. Then she came to me, with a face that was very, very pale, and
begged me to say nothing about having seen her. I did not promise
that, for if the mistress had asked me about her I should have to tell
her. _Mon Dieu!_ I did not know then that she--she too had gone.”
“Where did you see Bertha?”
“It was between my cottage and the château. She was not doing
anything--just sitting on a fallen tree deep in thought.”
“You did not see any men--strangers?”
“No.”
Wallace reflected on this as he walked into the château. It certainly
looked as if the gang had not yet given up all hope. They might have
heard what had happened to Conrad, and still believed it was possible
to make a coup before Conrad was able to reveal what he had
discovered. But Wallace’s interest in that direction had waned a
little. What matter hidden treasure when Yolande’s life was in
jeopardy--or worse?
He found Conrad looking considerably better, and he greeted Wallace in
almost his normal style. The latter adjusted the bandage about his
head, for it had slipped and become a trifle loose.
“Thanks, old man! I’m feeling heaps better. Any news?”
“None.”
“You’re worrying a lot, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Connie, there’s something I want to tell you. It was only last
night that I told her--Yolande--what I had been aching to tell her
almost since I first met her.”
“You--you mean you----”
“I love her. That’s the plain truth.” He clenched his fists. “That
makes it all the more terrible. She was happy--I swear she was happier
than she has been for as long as I’ve known her. On top of that comes
this awful bolt. I’ve hunted everywhere--everywhere.”
“I--I understand. Where is Fouchard?”
“Gone to that place where I found you--Mont Rouge. He hopes to find
the book you mentioned. Your bag may be there--somewhere.”
“The book! My mind is still all sixes and sevens. This concussion
business plays the weirdest tricks. It was a book written by a
man--what was his name?”
“Steinbech.”
“That’s it. I saw it somewhere--in a foreign bookseller’s shop in
Manchester.”
“Good! You’re getting it now.”
Conrad passed his hand across his brow several times. Then suddenly
his eyes lighted up, and he dragged himself into a sitting position.
“I was reading it in the train--on my way to Arveyes. Those cunning
devils boarded the train at a wayside station. They doped me, and must
have got me out at the next station--pretended I was taken ill. But
the book! I was reading it when-- Great Scott! I remember. I slipped
it into my pocket!”
“Eh?”
“That’s it--I’m positive. I saw Niels’s ugly face in the corridor--and
Walther. I was expecting trouble, for the train was nearly empty. I
slipped-- Is that my coat over there?”
But Wallace was already making for the garment. He felt in all the
pockets and produced a pipe, tobacco-pouch, and various oddments, but
there was no book.
“Of course they have taken it,” he said gloomily. “No doubt they have
destroyed it by now. But I might get a copy in Paris and----”
Conrad suddenly laughed and beckoned Wallace to him. From the things
which the latter held in his hands Conrad selected a travel-ticket
case bearing Cook’s name.
“I’ll bet they overlooked this,” he said. “Before I was doped I amused
myself in the train by making a rough translation of several passages
from the book in question--passages to which I believe those figures
refer. Here we are--intact.”
From the case he extracted three sheets of paper, covered with
somewhat shaky writing.
“Do you remember the first reference number?” he asked.
“Yes. Twenty-seven.”
“This is it. I made a note of the page on the corner; because it
seemed obvious that the figures were page references. The volume was
entitled _The Grammont Salient_, and it was the title which arrested
my attention. Hear what our friend Steinbech has to say.”
Wallace sat down very close to the bed, and Conrad read what was
written on the first sheet:
“_The pressure to the north and south of the château continued to
increase daily, and it soon became evident to General von Urel that
the château was in grave danger of being recaptured by the enemy, and
our line forced to retreat beyond the Forêt de Grammont. The château
was the key to the whole position, and it came to our knowledge that
the attacking forces had instructions to spare it as much as was
commensurate with safety. Foreseeing the danger that would follow a
sudden strong encircling movement, our commanding officer made plans
to fashion a line of retreat which could be resorted to in the event
of the château falling into the hands of the enemy. It was to take
the form of a tunnel leading from the vaults of the château to some
point farther back in the forest which would give access to our second
lines…_”
“By Jove!” exclaimed Wallace. “I am beginning to see light. But carry
on.”
“There is no more here. The author goes off at a tangent. Unless I am
very much mistaken, the second figure was thirty-one. Is that so?”
“Yes.”
Conrad commenced to read the second excerpt:
“_It was necessary that the tunnel should run back for at least a
mile, and considerable difficulty was experienced in finding terrain
suitable for the work. The problem was solved by the discovery of an
old mine whose extensive workings ran in an easterly direction. These
would save the sappers at least a quarter of a mile of tunnelling.
This site was chosen as the best possible outlet, and our second line
was advanced a little in order to connect up with it. A company of
sappers was detailed for the work, and, while the enemy penetrated
deeper and deeper on our flanks, the work went on.… In spells of four
hours’ duration the sweating, mud-begrimed crews worked, and our
hearts beat easier as each day saw another long stretch added to the
last. All the time the guns were…_”
“Nothing more that is informative,” said Conrad, breaking off. “We saw
that old mine. Do you remember?”
“Yes. But he doesn’t say how this tunnel is approached from the
château.”
“We are coming to that. Our author is inclined to ramble a lot. My
next and last extract is from page thirty-six. That I know agrees with
the figure.”
Wallace’s face became even more eager, for it was apparent that the
last extract was the most important of the three. Conrad cleared his
throat:
“_Pending the arrival of reinforcements, it was obvious that the
château must fall, and it was the General’s chief concern to keep the
existence of the tunnel secret, in order that it might be used again
in a similar emergency, for we had every reason to believe that the
withdrawal would be temporary. Means had to be devised to fashion an
entrance which would render discovery unlikely. The vault was roughly
comprised of five series of arches running east to west. The third
series was furnished with wine-bins for almost its entire length, and
the wall at the western extremity was similarly furnished. It was here
that the entrance was made. The last section of bins was temporarily
removed, and an opening excavated through the massive wall. By
replacing the bins and hingeing them vertically, it was a simple
matter to use them as a doorway. By skilful carpentry this door closed
of its own accord, and the wood lining at the back of the bins made
discovery extremely improbable. The metal hinges were on the inside
and invisible.… It was a comfort to feel that we had this safe line of
retreat, for every day…_”
“The rest is of no value to us. As you know, the château was
recaptured and held ever after. It has always been a mystery how the
garrison got safely away, but it is clear enough now.”
“By Jove, and all this time--” Wallace’s hands opened and closed
spasmodically. “She’s there, Connie. I’ll stake my life on it. That’s
where the Monster hides himself away. It accounts for many things that
hitherto were difficult to explain. By some means he got to know of
that secret passage. The Book--he must have seen----”
“No, that was not possible. The book has not been published more than
six months, while the Monster has been here for nearly two
years--according to Yolande. What is his game? What is he after?”
“Niels, too. I’ll bet he is after the same thing.”
“Everything points to that. It may be something left behind by the
Germans in their hurried retreat.”
“They are welcome to it. It is Yolande that matters to me.” He rose,
and his face looked very grim. “I’m going there now, Connie.”
“Wait until Fouchard----”
“I couldn’t wait if my life depended on it. If Yolande is down there
she will be crazy with terror by now. But I fear----”
Conrad knew what he feared, and from his own grim expression it was
evident that he too believed the worst.
“He’s big and murderous, Ralph.”
“All the more reason why I should not waste a moment. When Fouchard
comes, tell----”
“If you go, I go,” said Conrad calmly. “Throw me over my pants and
boots!”
“No. It is impossible!”
“Get out! You’re a first-class fighter, laddie, but you are up against
something supernormal. I’m all right--for pistol-practice, anyway.”
He was already sitting on the bed, and Wallace realised that argument
was useless, for Conrad could be as cantankerous as a mule when he
felt disposed, and he was in that state now.
“You’ve got a second pistol in the car?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Good!”
“Oh, hang! I clean forgot--Fouchard has the car. You had better take
this one, and I’ll rely on a bludgeon. Fortunately I have an electric
torch in my pocket. Are you sure you are fit enough to engage in
this?”
“It only required this bit of excitement to complete my cure. Hadn’t
we better leave a note for Fouchard?”
“Good idea! Make it short!”
A short message was left under the medicine bottle, telling Fouchard
where the entrance to the tunnel lay, and then the pair sallied forth
on their quest, Wallace arming himself with a hatchet en route.