THE COUNT
The powerful lamp gave splendid illumination, and revealed to the
trio a veritable network of galleries, many of which were now
impassable. Fortunately the ground was damp, and innumerable
footprints marked the trail of Niels’s gang. The marks led to an old
working that apparently had been recently cleared.
“They have been working here for days,” whispered Fouchard.
“Look--here are marks of blasting. Presumably they gave up all hope of
reaching the tunnel by the château entrance, and devoted all their
energies to forcing a passage this way.”
“Suppose they break for the vault?” asked Conrad.
“They may, but I doubt it. Naturally they will conclude I have a guard
there. The gendarme could hold that door against a hundred attackers.”
“Anyway, they seem to have retreated.”
“Looking for a hiding-place.”
“The passage divides here.”
“There must be footprints.”
“It is hard rock underneath.”
“Then wait--while I try the right passage. Keep the lamp; I’ll use
matches.”
Fouchard went off, and was gone about two minutes. When he returned he
nodded, and pointed along the passage which he had just explored.
“This way!”
“Good!”
The passage was narrow, and they moved along it in single file. Fifty
yards farther on the rock floor gave way to soft earth, and there were
the impressions of boots everywhere. Wallace shone the lamp ahead.
“Looks like a big cavern.”
“Probably.”
“_Zut!_” said Fouchard suddenly. “I swear I saw a form ahead. Take
care!”
Flattened against the damp wall, they moved forward with extreme
caution, and in a few minutes emerged into a wide excavation--the
place where Yolande had spent her dreadful night. Wallace used the
lamplight as a searchlight, and at last its bright beam fell on the
people they sought. They were immediately opposite, close to the
passage which led back to the château.
“Niels!” snapped Fouchard. “The game is up. I warn you to come
quietly.”
Niels turned his grim countenance towards his companions. Bertha
seemed to nod her head, but Walther and Heinrich looked very
undecided. Between them was the madman, glaring into the light like
some sub-human creature of the underworld.
“You hear!” said Fouchard. “The passage is strongly guarded at both
ends. It will avail you nothing to offer resistance. Throw your
firearms over here.”
All the while he was approaching closer. Wallace passed the lamp to
Conrad and produced his pistol for moral effect. Niels squirmed
visibly.
“He’s right,” said Walther. “It’s no use; we’ve failed.”
Niels nodded dejectedly and pitched a pistol across to Fouchard.
Walther and Heinrich followed suit a moment later. Fouchard sighed as
he picked them up.
“Now,” he said, “we will investi----”
It was then the unexpected happened. The huge robed form shook itself
free of the two men. Wallace stared in amazement to see the bonds that
held him snap as if they were string. A startled cry came from Bertha
as the madman leaped at the group.
“Look out!” yelled Walther. “He is insane.”
There was scarcely need to apprise them of this. A great hand went
under the robe, and a razor flashed in the light. Heinrich was the
nearest victim, and at him flew the awful form.
“Walther!”
Walther cleared a rock, but he was two yards away when the razor
hovered over Heinrich’s throat, and a horrible noise came from the
intending assassin. It was then that Fouchard proved his skill. With
Walther almost covering the madman he fired twice. There came a gurgle
that echoed weirdly. The razor missed its mark by a few inches, and
the big brown form crumpled up like a concertina.
“Got him!”
“My God!” cried Niels brokenly, and ran to the still form.
“He’s dead--dead!” said Bertha.
“Stand away!” roared Fouchard.
But they did not heed him in the least. Conrad, focusing the light on
the scene, was amazed to see the savage Niels fondling the huge, dirty
hand of the dead man.
“Max!” he muttered. “Max!”
Fouchard had not yet got it clear. He took control and forced them to
stand away. On going to remove the robe he was stopped by Niels.
“Don’t interfere!” he snapped.
“But----”
Fouchard pulled back the hood and then opened the gown at the front. A
faded uniform came to view--the uniform of a major of the Bavarian
Regiment. But it was not that which caused him to utter a cry of
horror. He had seen what Wallace had already seen. He pulled down the
hood immediately.
“Poor devil!”
“Yes--a tragedy, m’sieur,” said Bertha.
“Now for the rest,” said Fouchard. “What is your little game down
here?”
“Isn’t it obvious, Fouchard?” asked Conrad quietly.
“Nothing is obvious.” He glared at Niels. “What is there here that you
want?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Don’t try to----”
“It’s true,” said Bertha. “Don’t you realise yet that the thing we
came to get--no longer exists?”
“You mean--that?”
Fouchard pointed to the poor, dead figure, and Bertha inclined her
head.
“Then who is he? What is he to you?”
“He was my brother,” said Niels.
“So! And what is your relationship to this woman?”
“I am his sister-in-law,” said Bertha. “I am the Baroness von
Kauffman. His brother Max married my sister.”
“Was her name Minna?” asked Wallace.
“Yes. How did you guess?”
“He mistook Mademoiselle Fallières for her. It was that delusion
which saved her life.”
“We will get the details later,” said Fouchard. “In the meantime you
are all under arrest for aiding and abetting. March on. We will remove
the corpse later.”
Yolande heard the news with mingled amazement and relief. She was yet
tired from her adventure, but anxious to hear all the details.
Fouchard, now exceedingly pleased with himself, paraded his prisoners
in the biggest reception-room. They were all looking dejected and
indifferent to whatever Fouchard might do. Bertha smiled wanly at
Yolande as soon as she saw her.
“We have fought and lost,” she said. “I am sorry, mademoiselle. There
was no other course.”
“I am yet in the dark about many points,” said Yolande. “Fouchard has
told me that your one object in coming here was to get this man Max
away.”
“Yes, that is so. We had no other object in mind.”
“But how did he get here? Why did he come here?”
“He has been here ever since this château was occupied by German
troops. He was terribly wounded by a shell, and must have crept back
into the tunnel. He recovered, but only to be a lunatic. My poor
sister heard that he was killed--blown to pieces. She went to America,
and died there soon after.”
“But how did you come to know that he was not dead, but actually
living in this place?”
“It is the strangest story. Six months ago I was visited by an
ex-officer of my brother-in-law’s regiment. He was a very clever
electrician, and among his hobbies was wireless telegraphy. He had
installed a small experimental transmitting set, and was carrying out
experiments on low wavelengths.”
“My father also had a set,” said Yolande.
“That is part of the story. This officer came to me in a perturbed and
puzzled state of mind. He asked me if I believed in spirit
communications. I told him I had never seriously considered the
matter. He then showed me his log-book, and among his notes were some
strange, broken messages purporting to come from Max, and addressed to
Minna--his dead wife. Some of them were quite unintelligible, but
others referred to small incidents in the past which made it appear as
if it were really Max who was communicating.”
“But how did these messages come?” asked Fouchard.
“In the Morse code--and in German. I found myself utterly unable to
accept his theory that a spirit was manifesting in that way. But, on
the other hand, I believed Max to be dead, and it was difficult to
explain the phenomena. I told Niels, but he too was sceptical. Time
passed, and then something happened which caused us considerable
excitement. A message came to the experimenter. It said, ‘Am holding
the devils, Minna. They shall never win the Château Grammont.’ That
was remarkable, because I knew that Max had been in the château when
the French made their successful attack. I conferred with Niels, and
ultimately decided to come to Grammont to see if there was anything in
the fantastic story. I stayed in Arveyes, and there I heard that the
château was haunted--that a big form had been seen by several
persons. About the same time mademoiselle advertised for a
parlourmaid. I got the situation by giving false references.”
“What was your object then?” asked Fouchard.
“I was puzzled. I wanted to see and hear more. One night I got
definite proof that my brother-in-law was alive. I caught a glimpse of
him in this place, and I knew at once that he was insane. I wrote to
Niels begging him to come to me, and he came almost by return. We
talked the matter over, and came to the conclusion that we would tell
the story to Monsieur Fallières, and so clear up the mystery. But
before this could happen murder took place. That altered everything.”
“How?” snapped Fouchard.
“It put my poor brother in a perilous position,” answered Niels. “What
sort of justice would he have got in a French civil court?”
“The same as anyone else,” retorted Fouchard. “Are you suggesting that
we hang lunatics?”
“No. But what would have been the procedure in Max’s case? He would be
certified as insane, and on that account would not be permitted to
plead. He would have been sent to a criminal lunatic asylum for the
rest of his days.”
“Well?”
“It was that thought which settled a momentary indecision. We wanted
to get him home--to his own country. In Germany he might have had
every comfort, every attention. Surely these should not be denied a
man because a grave injury has caused him to commit deeds which in his
normal mind he would have shuddered at?”
“And that is what caused you to refuse my offer?” asked Yolande.
“Yes. It was tempting, but I realised that you were speaking in
ignorance. Even had you been disposed to act so generously when you
had learned the truth, there was M’sieur Fouchard to be considered.
Fouchard had his duty to do. He was bound to act on it and to make an
arrest.”
Fouchard inclined his head at this.
“But under medical treatment--an operation perhaps--your brother might
have recovered his reason.”
“Walther agrees that that was possible. But what then?”
“He would have a fair trial, and in the circumstances I cannot imagine
anything other than a favourable verdict.”
“And repatriation?”
Fouchard compressed his lips, and Niels shook his head.
“It is inconceivable,” he added. “My brother was doomed from the
moment when his crazy brain led him to commit that terrible deed. They
would never repatriate him, and you know it, sir. The alternative was
a life-long incarceration. We had weighed all that, and, reluctant as
we were, we had to go on. Realising the big obstacles which we were up
against, I wrote to my cousin Walther and his brother Heinrich.
Heinrich arrived first, and brought with him some valuable
information. It was contained in a volume written by a man named
Steinbech----”
“We know all about that,” said Wallace.
“With those clues in our hands we decided to make an attempt at
once--on that night when you discovered us in the vaults.”
“I remember,” growled Fouchard.
“Well, we failed, as you know, and after that we never got another
chance, until in desperation we decided to tackle the tunnel from the
other end--the mine. We had abandoned that before because there had
been a big fall of rock since the tunnel was made, and the work of
getting through it was considerable. Again we were too late, and here
is the result.”
“Hm! A queer story,” mused Fouchard. “And when you eventually got him
he did not recognise you?”
“No. He seemed to be obsessed with the idea that the war was still on,
and that he had been delegated to hold the château against the enemy.
He knew none of us. We were all enemies to him. He scarcely recalled
his own name. The one name he remembered well was Minna. He loved his
poor wife dearly.”
“I know that,” said Yolande softly. “It is obvious that he must have
used my father’s wireless set to send those confused messages. It was
dismantled only a few months ago.”
“But how did he get access to the house?” asked Wallace. “So far as I
can see there is no outlet from the vaults except by the main door,
which was always locked.”
“That’s still a mystery,” said Fouchard, stroking his chin.
“No longer a mystery,” put in Yolande. “I discovered the means only a
short time ago.”
Fouchard stared at her, as did the rest.
“When I came back to that awful chamber with--Mr. Wallace, the Monster
had somehow obtained a fowl. I knew at once that he had stolen it from
the pantry, for since Severin’s death I have been compelled to look
after some of the domestic affairs of the house. Before I went to bed
last night I had occasion to go into the pantry, and the fowl was
there. I closed the door behind me. It locks of its own accord.”
“But how----”
“It is so simple, and yet we all overlooked it. The pantry has a
wine-lift, which goes down into the cellar. It is large enough for a
big man to enter, and can be worked from inside by simply pulling a
rope.”
Fouchard bit his lip at this.
“Severin ought to have told me,” he said.
“Poor Severin had no imagination.”
“But we ought to have noticed it in the cellar,” said Wallace.
“It is not easily seen, and I was scarcely aware of its existence,”
replied Yolande. “One might go into the pantry a dozen times without
seeing it.”
But Fouchard was not easily consoled, for he prided himself upon his
powers of observation.
“The lift sheds a great deal of new light,” said Wallace. “It must
have been the means by which he got away on that evening when we saw
him in the turret. Obviously he escaped through that old disused
staircase which leads to the servants’ quarters.”
“Also the body of--” commenced Conrad, and stopped as he saw Yolande
wince.
“But the pantry door would be locked,” objected Fouchard.
“It has a Yale lock and can be opened from the inside,” informed
Yolande. “By slipping the catch he could wander at large and always
have a means of escape. That old staircase comes out immediately
opposite the pantry door.”
“Yes, you have forged the last link,” agreed Fouchard.
“And it accounts for his being able to exist,” said Conrad. “No doubt
he took food from the pantry. Severin admitted that provisions were
missing from time to time.”
“But he did not depend upon the pantry for food,” said Yolande. “The
chamber where he lived was littered with boxes of field-rations which
must have been left by the Germans in their hurried retreat. It is
significant that his visits to the upper part of the house grew more
frequent as his main supply of food gave out. But why--why did he hide
my poor father’s body, and yet leave Severin where we found him?”
“In the worst cases of lunacy one finds recurrent phases of lucidity,”
said Walther. “I imagine that something like that happened immediately
the first crime was committed. Realising what he had done, he
performed that astounding feat along the ivy with his victim. It was
not so with Severin.” He looked at Fouchard. “The next move is yours,
m’sieur.”
“It is for mademoiselle to decide. You have all attempted to defeat
the ends of justice, and, in addition, certain personal injuries have
been inflicted.”
Yolande gazed at Conrad, but Conrad was rapidly recovering and was
singularly free from spite.
“Leave me out of it, please,” he begged. “I have to return to England
in a day or two. I am quite willing to regard my little injury as the
result of a complete accident.”
“And you--Ralph?”
Conrad stared at this form of address, and Wallace blushed a trifle.
“I have nothing to say,” he said, “except that in similar
circumstances I think I should have acted just as the Baroness and her
friends have.”
“Hm!” said Fouchard.
“In that case I do not feel disposed to go any further in the matter,”
said Yolande. “All that remains for us all is to try to forget it.”
“Perhaps you are right,” agreed Fouchard. “Still, I shall experience
some little difficulty in forgetting a certain bump on my head.”
Niels stepped forward with a smile on his face--the first smile that
any of them had seen for a long time.
“I tender you my sincere apologies, m’sieur,” he said. “It was a
brutal and sudden attack that no man could possibly have foreseen. I
had you at a mean disadvantage. I should regard it as an honour to
shake hands with the famous Fouchard.”
That settled Fouchard, who never could resist flattery.