“The impossible…” said Robert. “How can any man know what is impossible and what is natural?”
“For my part,” said Madame Arquedouve, “I’m with Robert. I sense that he has brought all the force of his wisdom to bear.”
“Me, I want someone to give me back my daughter!” moaned Madame Le Tellier, at the end of her tether.
“At the end of the day, what are we going to do?” asked Monsieur Monbardeau, impatiently.
Tiburce, his nose stuck in a railway timetable, announced: “I’m setting off on Hatkins’ heels! There’s a steamboat tomorrow evening. Tomorrow evening, I’ll take my leave of you.”
“Robert, Maxime, what are you going to do?” asked Monsieur Le Tellier.
“Think,” said Robert.
“Wait,” said Maxime. “Wait for the bandits’ demands.”
“And you, Monsieur?”
The Duc d’Agnès replied: “I shall set about constructing, in collaboration with my engineer, aeroplanes as fast and as stable as possible…good flyers…good enough to hunt aerial pirates.”
“Ah!” cried Maxime. “You’re of the same opinion as me.”
“Do that,” Robert added. “That might be useful.”
“Mr. Hatkins, I tell you!” Tiburce repeated.
“You’re mad!” snapped the Duc d’Agnès.
Meanwhile, Monsieur Garan leaned toward Monsieur Le Tellier. “I beg you to forget what I said just now. It was my duty to be sincere.”
“We have nothing against you,” Monsieur Le Tellier replied. “You’ve expressed your opinion frankly and, in the final analysis, I admit that it’s defensible. Except, you see, that my son and my secretary are entirely above suspicion—you don’t know them.”
Monsieur Tellier concluded his record of the evening thus:
As the meeting broke up, I saw Monsieur d’Agnès approach Robert. The two young men conversed for a few moments and parted with a firm handshake. Those who were familiar with the situation understood that the Duc had just informed his humble rival of the scorn in which he held the inspector’s allegations. Then they agreed to devote all their efforts to recover Marie-Thérèse, the one by means of science, the other by means of his wealth, both without any concern for the future.
XI. A Lesson in Sherlockism
Monsieur Garan, whose bedroom was adjacent to Tiburce’s, was woken up early by muffled and rhythmic noises and cadenced exclamations coming from next door. He went in unceremoniously, dressed in his nightshirt, and found the Sherlockist in the middle of a sequence of Swedish gymnastic exercises, designed to encourage the suppleness of the body and the strength of the muscles. At the sight of him, Tiburce, who was naked, turned his back on him and continued his rhythmic movements.
They had bid farewell to everyone the night before, for their train was early and Monsieur Le Tellier’s automobile was due to set off at 5 p.m. to take them to Culoz.
“Well, colleague,” said Garan, “Are you still determined to set off in pursuit of Mr. Hatkins?”
Tiburce scrupulously completed the rotation of his torso around his hips. “More than ever!”
“You know that it’s insane?”
Tiburce poured water into a tub and started splashing around according to his routine. “Admit that it might be inspired,” he said, after a pause
The inspector examined the room. A calculated disorder, in the Sherlockian style, made it into a virtual glory-hole. There was a strong odor of Navy Cut tobacco. In the shade of his moustaches and his eyebrows, turned up like the roofs of a pagoda, Garan’s mouth and eyes began to smile again. “I assure you that your method is defective,” he declared. “You lack experience.”
“This will be educational, then,” Tiburce replied, coldly. “I’ve given it a great deal of thought.”
“Not only does Mr. Hatkins’ character give the lie to your accusations,” the other retorted, “but his departure prior to the abduction provides proof that, even if he were the author or instigator of the crime, the three missing persons are not with him. He must, therefore, have set them aside, in order to occupy himself with them on his return, mustn’t he?”
At that moment, however, Tiburce, was rubbing his skin with a horsehair glove, whistling as he went, as English stable-boys do while grooming their favorite colts. Having observed that, Monsieur Garan pivoted on his velvet-slippered heels and went to shave.
They finished getting ready at almost the same moment, and Tiburce, observing that they were early, said to the driver: “We’ll start off on foot. You can catch us up on the road.”
They went down the narrow little path between the two broader ones.
“Seriously,” the inspector resumed, “Will you take my word for it?”
“No.”
“Listen—it’s ridiculous, and everyone will tell you the same. It’s true that ‘everyone’ includes two lascars who hold the key to…”
“Robert and Maxime, you mean.”
“Yes, my dear chap.”
“It’s my turn to say to you: that’s ridiculous.”
“Oh yes? Supernatural tracks—for show! For show, because supernatural occurrences, like that business at Seyssel, are tricks intended to deceive. At the prefecture, we always suspected that it was a prelude to something. Although, mind you, there might be some other connection between those sucker-traps and the abduction…”
“Certainly—I agree with you about that. The two events are connected. But with regard to Maxime and Robert, you’re wrong. D’Agnès knows them very well, and he guarantees their good faith. As for the tracks in the snow, they can’t possibly be supernatural. All things considered, though, I can’t accept that the abduction took place at the summit of the Colombier. The imprints are probably only a stratagem with two objectives: firstly to frighten people, and secondly to mislead people as to the place where the kidnap took place. Someone could have brought the stick; someone could have made the footprints with boots on the end of long poles, from the height of a dirigible balloon moored to the cross. I mention mooring because the perpetual wind would have prevented any flying machine remaining stationary…”
“But that’s exactly what I thought!” cried Garan. “That’s why I asked Monsieur Maxime whether he saw any scratches or rope-marks…”
“The fact remains,” concluded Tiburce, “that supernatural equals nonexistent.”
“Amen! It’s a pity you don’t always reason like that.”
“Is my system so defective, then?”
“Yes sir! Firstly, you quibble. Moreover, most of the time, you extrapolate from clues that might have several possible explanations. Example: your gaffes regarding the foot-muff, the monocle and everything else you spouted about father Le Tellier. When a multitude of possible explanations presents itself, it’s necessary to consider them all—for if one of them escapes you, it’s always the best. And sometimes, confronted by that infinity of solutions, one doesn’t know which to plump for. It’s better, when one has a choice—as you have—to take the testimony of a single action, which only a single cause could have produced. One can risk assertions of that sort without fear. They’re proven by the circumstance that no other interpretation accords with the acts—while you, with your procedure, see evidence everywhere that you’ve preconceived. Hold on, though—I can discover any proof anywhere, of anything! What do you want? Affray? Rape? Murder? I’ll wager that here, at the junction of this pathway with the road, I can easily demonstrate a crime or a contravention. Here’s a bush all roughed up; here are some deep holes in the soft soil. What are they, really? Doubtless some stray rustic with his cow, or a thousand other things! Look at the road, now: that double rut tells us that a heavy automobile has set off abruptly toward Artemare. It was hollowed out by two rear wheels, skidding in response to a sudden impulse. What does that establish? That an angry mechanic had to repair a tire and set off brutally, or that an apprentice chauffeur has been making his debut and has been practicing stopping and starting, or that a sentimen
tal traveler wanted to pick some of that hawthorn, or that…how do I know? It could be anything, at the end of the day. Anything!”
Tiburce lowered his head. “You’re right,” he said. “But what do you want me to do? My life’s at stake, Monsieur Garan! Don’t tell anyone, but if I recover Mademoiselle Le Tellier, I can marry Mademoiselle d’Agnès.”
“Ah! Good, good! Then, don’t set off after Hatkins—for to suspect such a man is to fly in the face of the obvious. Instead, try to get the truth out of Monsieur Maxime and Monsieur Robert—especially the latter, who might perhaps have duped his comrade, since he went up the Colombier before him.”
“Ah! Yes, I think so, Monsieur Garan; do you, perchance, suspect some complicity between Robert and one of the three missing persons?”
“Yes, indeed—that’s the basis of my thinking. I firmly believe that, with or without the connivance of Henri Monbardeau, Robert Collin and Mademoiselle Le Tellier, who are in love…”
“You think they’re in love! And that’s what you’re basing your charges on?” cried Tiburce, with a sort of joy.
“Certainly.”
“In that case, Monsieur Inspector, you’re on the wrong track. Please take the trouble to disillusion yourself. For two years, Mademoiselle Le Tellier has been in love with my intimate friend the Duc d’Agnès.”
“Are you sure?”
“There’s not the slightest doubt.”
Monsieur Garan furrowed his horned eyebrows—and that was such a droll sight that Tiburce burst out laughing. “Poor dear Inspector! If that’s all you have in your sack, it will be necessary henceforth to believe in the flying men!”
“Oh yes!” grumbled the discomfited policemen. “Flimsy manikins—little balloon-men filled with hydrogen! That’s the Prefecture’s hypothesis.”
“Not so stupid!” said Tiburce, approvingly. “That would explain why they keep moving in the same direction—that of the wind. A search ought to be made of the little wood at Châtel—I’m sure that the real Italians are in hiding there while people are beating the countryside looking for them. That, at least, is natural.”
At that moment, the automobile loaded with Tiburce’s luggage rejoined them.
“Let’s go—en route!” said Garan.
“En route—in pursuit of Hatkins!”
Mortified by his blunder, the inspector replied churlishly that Tiburce was free to take whatever action he pleased, and that he, Garan, would go his own way.
As they arrived at the station a number of travelers were coming out, having arrived on a night train from Paris. Most of them were armed with photographic apparatus. Garan recognized them as journalists. One of them came over to him.
“Ah! Monsieur Garan, isn’t it? What a lovely morning! Permit me, for a second…” He was trying to obtain an interview, but the policeman refused and became cantankerous.
“In sum, Inspector,” the poor man insisted, “is it really a case of abduction? Yes or no? Tell me, I beg you. Who has kidnapped these people?”
The interrogated man then began to rant. “They’re devils, Monsieur. I’ve seen them. They have bats’ wings, goats’ ears and serpentine tails. Hairy all over, they spit fire from their mouths and instead of a backside they have a journalist’s head, which resembles yours like a brother’s! There—are you satisfied?”
Having said this, he disappeared into the waiting-room, threatening the heavens with the quadruple menace of his allied eyebrows and moustaches.
XII. Sinister Occurrences
The Duc d’Agnès was in a hurry to get to work with his engineer. He left Mirastel on the same day as Tiburce, and on the following day, May 9, Monsieur and Madame Monbardeau returned to Artemare. At the old châteaux, life then began to be a painful and mournful ordeal. Everyone was obsessed by thoughts of Marie-Thérèse. At times, they would have preferred the assurance of her death to the unbearable torture of uncertainty. When one fears for a young woman, one has so many things to dread, does one not?
Madame Le Tellier spent long hours shut up in her daughter’s room. Then, a sudden need for action that afflicted them all overwhelmed her innate languor, drove her outdoors and caused her to wander at hazard, very rapidly, at a tumultuous pace.
Everyone had a portrait of the missing girl on his desk or mantelpiece, and everyone looked at it repeatedly and religiously, to the accompaniment of thoughts or memories, like an icon on an altar. Madame Arquedouve was deprived of that consolation; her dead eyes refused it to her—but there was an irreproachable bust of the Marie-Thérèse in the drawing-room, so ingenious that it evoked the young woman in her entirety, and the little old lady was seen palpating the marble for long periods with her subtle white hands, considering by that means the unique resemblance that she was able to distinguish. It was an occupation that caused her pleasure and pain at the same time. She smiled, and then she sobbed. Then her eyes, which had anticipated oblivion, unfortunately ceased to be useless, and wept all the more for being unable to see.
Whenever she heard Madame Le Tellier coming, she made an effort to interrupt the flow of her tears, and the two women diverted themselves by talking about a calamity of which everything reminded them. Everything—even the dog Floflo, which remained silent; even the house, which seemed desolate. Normally, it flourished, thanks to the efforts of Marie-Thérèse; she was able to arrange flowers in a vase with that Japanese grace that makes one forget that they have been picked and are dying—but the vases remained empty, like bodies without souls, and the irises by the botasse,15 vainly mauve, decayed far from human ken.
It seems that the most depressed of all of them was Monsieur Le Tellier. The astronomer no longer left his study. Weary of contention, exhausted by thinking about the incomprehensible catastrophe, he no longer had the strength to reason; he daydreamed, looking out over the magnificent countryside. The spring scene, full of life and sunlight, seemed to him to be bleak and empty. The joy of the season aggravated his depression. He looked at the flowering trees in the orchards, and thought of skeletons in macabre fancy dress. His daughter had passed so frequently—my God, so very frequently!—before that spacious mountain scenery that he no longer saw it as anything but the background of a portrait from which she had disappeared: the very spectacle of her absence.
As for Maxime and Robert, they were working—the former in his laboratory, in order to combat anxiety; the second in his room, on clandestine projects whose objective no one could easily guess.
Until May 13, nothing troubled that cruel calm, except for a few exploratory expeditions made by Robert to Seyssel and the other molested communes, and one trip to Lyon by Monsieur Le Tellier.
The latter was an atrocious journey. He departed like a madman, having read that the cadaver of an unknown woman had been pulled out of the Rhône, whose death might have taken place as far back as the ill-fated May 4. He absented himself under a pretext, without anyone knowing, and came back that same evening, relieved of a heavy burden. The woman in the morgue was dark-haired, middle-aged and of Oriental origin. A dredger had extracted her from the mud, naked and tied up in a sack. All of that was so far away from Marie-Thérèse, so alien to Monsieur Le Tellier’s preoccupations, that he finally perceived the excess to which his depression had led him. From that day on, he gradually grew stronger.
There were also reporters continually ringing at Mirastel’s main gate and who, when turned away, set about taking pictures of the château and its surroundings. There were the arrivals of the postman, too, always eagerly awaited, always disappointing…and that was all that there was.
In the countryside too, tranquility had been re-established, when, all of a sudden, something happened.
On the night of May 13 and 14, the village of Béon, situated between Culoz and Tallisieu at the foot of the Colombier, three kilometers from Mirastel, was ravaged. Sacrilegious hands stripped foliage from the fruit-trees. Various small animals, sleeping in the open, disappeared without trace. Finally, and most importantly, a woman, drawn
into her kitchen-garden by an unusual noise, did not return, and suffered the same fate as the branches and the animals. It was impossible to find her.
From Béon, a vague ripple of fear spread out in a circle through the region. The journalists flocked there—but from that moment on, sources of terror never ceased to multiply, for a new village received a visit from the sarvants every night.
Soon, in fact, people were being stolen away in broad daylight from out-of-the-way locations. Many of them were shepherds or cowherds going forth alone with their animals in the vicinity of the mountain. On most occasions, only one person disappeared, sometimes two, and occasionally three. It was noticed that the diurnal abductions were preferentially carried out on high ground, and that the abductors, for fear of being betrayed, took care to capture the witnesses to their actions.
On the night of May 14 and 15, Artemare was visited. The sarvants, for some unaccountable region, had skipped one hamlet, two villages and three châteaux, including Mirastel. The disappearance was recorded of Raflin, the former suitor of Fabienne d’Arvière. The poor man, still infirm, was limping across his back yard when he was apprehended. His aged mother was mad with terror, fearful that he might be cold because he had only been wearing a dressing-gown.
On the night of May 15 and 16, leaving the road and heading southwards, the sarvant raided Ceyzérieu, opposite Mirastel beyond the marsh. Then it came back to the road, mistreated Talissieu—where it took possession of a new-born foal—took the ornamental spire off one of the towers of Châteaufroid, and pilfered a few rabbits from a farmyard enclosure.
On May 17, Dr. Monbardeau received the following letter, which threw him into despair and, on the other hand, proved that the scourge had progressed further than it seemed—which is to say, as far as Belley. The letter was from Front, Suzanne Monbardeau’s lover.
(Item 239)
Monsieur Monbardeau,
Although our relationship has always been strained, I find myself under the sad obligation of informing you of what has happened to me.
The Blue Peril Page 9
