Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17)

by Maurice Leblanc

  “And have you the Kaiser’s consent?”

  “I didn’t ask for it. It’s one of those undertakings one doesn’t talk about.”

  “But this one is terribly dangerous, Excellenz.”

  “Can’t be helped.”

  “Sha’n’t you want me over there, Excellenz?”

  “No. Get rid of the chit for us. That will be enough for the present. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye, Excellenz.”

  The spy released the brakes. The car started.

  The drive which ran round the central lawn led to a lodge which stood beside the garden-gate and which served as a guard-room. The high walls surrounding the grounds rose on either side of it.

  An officer came out of the lodge. Karl gave the pass-word, “Hohenstaufen.” The gate was opened and the motor dashed down a high-road which first passed through the little town of Èbrecourt and next wound among low hills.

  So Paul Delroze, at an hour before midnight, was alone in the open country, with Élisabeth and Karl the spy. If he succeeded in mastering the spy, as he did not doubt that he could, Élisabeth would be free. There would then remain nothing to do but to return to Prince Conrad’s villa, with the aid of the pass-word, and pick up Bernard there. Once the adventure was completed in accordance with Paul’s designs, the tunnel would bring back all the three of them to the Château d’Ornequin.

  Paul therefore gave way to the delight that was stealing over him. Élisabeth was with him, under his protection: Élisabeth, whose courage, no doubt, had yielded under the weight of her trials, but who had a claim upon his indulgence because her misfortunes were due to his fault. He forgot, he wished to forget all the ugly phases in the tragedy, in order to think only of the end that was near at hand, his wife’s triumph and deliverance.

  He watched the road attentively, so as not to miss his way when returning, and planned out his attack, fixing it at the first stop which they would have to make. He resolved that he would not kill the spy, but that he would stun him with a blow of his fist and, after knocking him down and binding him, throw him into some wood by the road-side.

  They came to a fair-sized market-town, then two villages and then a town where they had to stop and show the car’s papers. It was past eleven.

  Then once more they were driving along country lanes which ran through a series of little woods whose trees lit up as they passed.

  At that moment, the light of the lamps began to fail. Karl slackened speed. He growled:

  “You dolt, can’t you even keep your lamps alight? Have you got any carbide?”

  Paul did not reply. Karl went on cursing his luck. Suddenly, he put on the brakes, with an oath:

  “You blasted idiot! One can’t go on like this. . . . Here, stir your stumps and light up.”

  Paul sprang from his seat, while the car drew up by the road-side. The time had come to act.

  He first attended to the lamps, keeping an eye upon the spy’s movements and taking care to stand outside the rays. Karl got down, opened the door of the car, and started a conversation which Paul could not hear. Then he came back to where Paul was:

  “Well, pudding-head, haven’t you done yet?”

  Paul had his back turned to him, attending to his work and waiting for the propitious moment when the spy, coming two steps nearer, would be within his reach.

  A minute elapsed. He clenched his fists. He foresaw the exact movement which he would have to make and was on the point of making it, when suddenly he felt himself seized round the body from behind and brought to the ground without being able to offer the least resistance.

  “Thunder and lightning!” cried the spy, holding him down with his knee. “So that’s why you wouldn’t answer? . . . It struck me somehow that you were behaving queerly. . . . And then I never gave it another thought. . . . It was the lamp, just now, that threw a light on your side-face. . . . But who is the fellow I’ve got hold of? Some dog of a Frenchman, may be?”

  Paul had stiffened his muscles and believed for a moment that he would succeed in escaping from the other’s grip. The enemy’s strength was yielding; Paul gradually seemed to master him; and he exclaimed:

  “Yes, a Frenchman, Paul Delroze, the one you used to try and kill, the husband of Élisabeth, your victim. . . . Yes, it’s I; and I know who you are: you’re Laschen, the sham Belgian; you’re Karl the spy.”

  He stopped. The spy, who had only weakened his effort to draw a dagger from his belt, was now raising it against him:

  “Ah, Paul Delroze! . . . God’s truth, this’ll be a lucky trip! . . . First the husband and then the wife. . . . Ah, so you came running into my clutches! . . . Here, take this, my lad! . . .”

  Paul saw the gleam of a blade flashing above his face. He closed his eyes, uttering Élisabeth’s name.

  Another second; and three shots rang out in rapid succession. Some one was firing from behind the group formed by the two adversaries.

  The spy swore a hideous oath. His grip became relaxed. The weapon in the hand trembled and he fell flat on the ground, moaning:

  “Oh, the cursed woman! . . . That cursed woman! . . . I ought to have strangled her in the car. . . . I knew this would happen. . . .”

  His voice failed him. He stammered:

  “I’ve got it this time. . . . Oh, that cursed woman! . . . And the pain . . . !”

  Then he was silent. A few convulsions, a dying gasp and that was all.

  Paul had leapt to his feet. He ran to the woman who had saved his life and who was still holding her revolver in her hand:

  “Élisabeth!” he cried, wild with delight.

  But he stopped, with his arms outstretched. In the dark, the woman’s figure did not seem to him to be Élisabeth’s, but a taller and broader figure. He blurted out, in a tone of infinite anguish:

  “Élisabeth . . . is it you? . . . Is it really you? . . .”

  And at the same time he intuitively knew the answer which he was about to hear:

  “No,” said the woman, “Mme. Delroze started a little before us, in another motor. Karl and I were to join her.”

  Paul remembered that car, of which he and Bernard had thought that he heard the sound when going round the villa. As the two starts had taken place with an interval of a few minutes at most between them, he cried:

  “Let us be quick then and lose no time. . . . By putting on speed, we shall be sure to catch them. . . .”

  But the woman at once objected:

  “It’s impossible, because the two cars have taken different roads.”

  “What does that matter, if they lead to the same point. Where are they taking Mme. Delroze?”

  “To a castle belonging to the Comtesse Hermine.”

  “And where is that castle?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? But this is terrible! At least, you know its name.

  “No, I don’t. Karl never told me.”

  CHAPTER XVI. THE IMPOSSIBLE STRUGGLE

  IN THE TERRIBLE state of distress into which those last words threw him, Paul felt the need of some immediate action, even as he had done at the sight of the banquet given by Prince Conrad. Certainly, all hope was lost. His plan, which was to use the tunnel before the alarm was raised, his plan was shattered. Granting that he succeeded in finding Élisabeth and delivering her, a very unlikely contingency, at what moment would this take place? And how was he afterwards to escape the enemy and return to France?

  No, henceforward space and time were both against him. His defeat was such that there was nothing for it but to resign himself and await the final blow.

  And yet he did not flinch. He saw that any weakness would be irreparable. The impulse that had carried him so far must be continued unchecked and with more vigor than ever.

  He walked up to the spy. The woman was stooping over the body and examining it by the light of one of the lamps which she had taken down.

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?” asked Paul.

  “Yes, he’s dead. T
wo bullets hit him in the back.” And she murmured, in a broken voice, “It’s horrible, what I’ve done. I’ve killed him myself! But it’s not a murder, sir, is it? And I had the right to, hadn’t I? . . . But it’s horrible all the same . . . I’ve killed Karl!”

  Her face, which was young and still rather pretty, though common, was distorted. Her eyes seemed glued to the corpse.

  “Who are you?” asked Paul.

  She replied, sobbing:

  “I was his sweetheart . . . and better than that . . . or rather worse. He had taken an oath that he would marry me. . . . But Karl’s oath! He was such a liar, sir, such a coward! . . . Oh, the things I know of him! . . . I myself, simply through holding my tongue, gradually became his accomplice. He used to frighten me so! I no longer loved him, but I was afraid of him and obeyed him . . . with such loathing, at the end! . . . And he knew how I loathed him. He used often to say, ‘You are quite capable of killing me some day or other.’ No, sir, I did think of it, but I should never have had the courage. It was only just now, when I saw that he was going to stab you . . . and above all when I heard your name. . . .”

  “My name? What has that to do with it?”

  “You are Madame Delroze’s husband.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, I know her. Not for long, only since to-day. This morning, Karl, on his way from Belgium, passed through the town where I was and took me to Prince Conrad’s. He told me I was to be lady’s maid to a French lady whom we were going to take to a castle. I knew what that meant. I should once more have to be his accomplice, to inspire confidence. And then I saw that French lady, I saw her crying; and she was so gentle and kind that I felt sorry for her. I promised to rescue her . . . Only, I never thought that it would be in this way, by killing Karl. . . .”

  She drew herself up suddenly and said, in a hard voice:

  “But it had to be, sir. It was bound to happen, for I knew too much about him. It had to be he or I. . . . It was he . . . and I can’t help it and I’m not sorry. . . . He was the wickedest wretch on earth; and, with people like him, one mustn’t hesitate. No, I am not sorry.”

  Paul asked:

  “He was devoted to the Comtesse Hermine, was he not?”

  She shuddered and lowered her voice to reply:

  “Oh, don’t speak of her, please! She is more terrible still; and she is still alive. Ah, if she should ever suspect!”

  “Who is the woman?”

  “How can I tell? She comes and goes, she is the mistress wherever she may be. . . . People obey her as they do the Emperor. Everybody fears her . . . as they do her brother.”

  “Her brother?”

  “Yes, Major Hermann.”

  “What’s that? Do you mean to say that Major Hermann is her brother?”

  “Why, of course! Besides, you have only to look at him. He is the very image of the Comtesse Hermine!”

  “Have you ever seen them together?”

  “Upon my word, I can’t remember. Why do you ask?”

  Time was too precious for Paul to insist. The woman’s opinion of the Comtesse Hermine did not matter much. He asked:

  “She is staying at the prince’s?”

  “For the present, yes. The prince is on the first floor, at the back; she is on the same floor, but in front.”

  “If I let her know that Karl has had an accident and that he has sent me, his chauffeur, to tell her, will she see me?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Does she know Karl’s chauffeur, whose place I took?”

  “No. He was a soldier whom Karl brought with him from Belgium.”

  Paul thought for a moment and then said:

  “Lend me a hand.”

  They pushed the body towards the ditch by the road-side, rolled it in and covered it with dead branches.

  “I shall go back to the villa,” he said. “You walk on until you come to the first cluster of houses. Wake the people and tell them the story of how Karl was murdered by his chauffeur and how you ran away. The time which it will take to inform the police, to question you and to telephone to the villa is more than I need.”

  She took alarm:

  “But the Comtesse Hermine?”

  “Have no fear there. Granting that I do not deprive her of her power of doing mischief, how could she suspect you, when the police-investigations will hold me alone to account for everything? Besides, we have no choice.”

  And, without more words, he started the engine, took his seat at the wheel and, in spite of the woman’s frightened entreaties, drove off.

  He drove off with the same eagerness and decision as though he were fulfilling the conditions of some new plan of which he had fixed every detail beforehand and as though he felt sure of its success.

  “I shall see the countess,” he said to himself. “She will either be anxious as to Karl’s fate and want me to take her to him at once or she will see me in one of the rooms in the villa. In either case I shall find a method of compelling her to reveal the name of the castle in which Élisabeth is a prisoner. I shall even compel her to give me the means of delivering her and helping her to escape.”

  But how vague it all was! The obstacles in the way! The impossibilities! How could he expect circumstances to be so complaisant as first to blind the countess’ eyes to the facts and next to deprive her of all assistance? A woman of her stamp was not likely to let herself be taken in by words or subdued by threats.

  No matter, Paul would not entertain the thought of failure. Success lay at the end of his undertaking; and in order to achieve it more quickly he increased the pace, rushing his car like a whirlwind along the roads and hardly slackening speed as he passed through villages and towns.

  “Hohenstaufen!” he cried to the sentry posted outside the wall.

  The officer of the picket, after questioning him, sent him on to the sergeant in command of the post at the front-door. The sergeant was the only one who had free access to the villa; and he would inform the countess.

  “Very well,” said Paul. “I’ll put up my car first.”

  In the garage, he turned off his lights; and, as he went towards the villa, he thought that it might be well, before going back to the sergeant, to look up Bernard and learn if his brother-in-law had succeeded in discovering anything.

  He found him behind the villa, in the clumps of shrubs facing the window with the balcony.

  “You’re by yourself?” said Bernard, anxiously.

  “Yes, the job failed. Élisabeth was in an earlier motor.”

  “What an awful thing!”

  “Yes, but it can be put right. And you . . . what about the chauffeur?”

  “He’s safely hidden away. No one will see him . . . at least not before the morning, when other chauffeurs come to the garage.”

  “Very well. Anything else?”

  “There was a patrol in the grounds an hour ago. I managed to keep out of sight.”

  “And then?”

  “Then I made my way as far as the tunnel. The men were beginning to stir. Besides, there was something that made them jolly well pull themselves together!”

  “What was that?”

  “The sudden arrival of a certain person of our acquaintance, the woman I met at Corvigny, who is so remarkably like Major Hermann.”

  “Was she going the rounds?”

  “No, she was leaving.”

  “Yes, I know, she means to leave.”

  “She has left.”

  “Oh, nonsense! I can’t believe that. There was no immediate hurry about her departure for France.”

  “I saw her go, though.”

  “How? By what road?”

  “The tunnel, of course! Do you imagine that the tunnel serves no further purpose? That was the road she took, before my eyes, under the most comfortable conditions, in an electric trolley driven by a brakesman. No doubt, since the object of her journey was, as you say, to get to France, they shunted her on to the Corvigny branch. That was two hours ago. I heard the trolley come
back.”

  The disappearance of the Comtesse Hermine was a fresh blow to Paul. How was he now to find, how to deliver Élisabeth? What clue could he trust in this darkness, in which each of his efforts was ending in disaster?

  He pulled himself together, made an act of will and resolved to persevere in the adventure until he attained his object. He asked Bernard if he had seen nothing more.

  “No, nothing.”

  “Nobody going or coming in the garden?”

  “No. The servants have gone to bed. The lights are out.”

  “All the lights?”

  “All except one, there, over our heads.”

  The light was on the first floor, at a window situated above the window through which Paul had watched Prince Conrad’s supper-party. He asked:

  “Was that light put on while I was up on the balcony?”

  “Yes, towards the end.”

  “From what I was told,” Paul muttered, “that must be Prince Conrad’s room. He’s drunk and had to be carried upstairs.”

  “Yes, I saw some shadows at that time; and nothing has moved since.”

  “He’s evidently sleeping off his champagne. Oh, if one could only see, if one could get into the room!”

  “That’s easily done,” said Bernard.

  “How?”

  “Through the next room, which must be the dressing-room. They’ve left the window open, no doubt to give the prince a little air.”

  “But I should want a ladder . . .”

  “There’s one hanging on the wall of the coach-house. Shall I get it for you?”

  “Yes, do,” said Paul eagerly. “Be quick.”

  A whole new scheme was taking shape in his mind, similar in some respects to his first plan of campaign and likely, he thought, to lead to a successful issue.

  He made certain that the approaches to the villa on either side were deserted and that none of the soldiers on guard had moved away from the front-door. Then, when Bernard was back, he placed the ladder in position and leant it against the wall. They went up.

  The open window belonged, as they expected, to the dressing-room and the light from the bedroom showed through the open door. Not a sound came from that other room except a loud snoring. Paul put his head through the doorway.