“Mr. Chief Inspector, since Prince Rénine maintains that the notes have been put away upstairs, wouldn’t the simplest thing be to go and look? M. Dutreuil will take us up, won’t you?”
“This minute,” said the young man. “As you say, that will be simplest.”
They all four climbed the five stories of the house and, after Dutreuil had opened the door, entered a tiny set of chambers consisting of a sitting room, bedroom, kitchen and bathroom, all arranged with fastidious neatness. It was easy to see that every chair in the sitting room occupied a definite place. The pipes had a rack to themselves; so had the matches. Three walking sticks, arranged according to their length, hung from three nails. On a little table before the window a hatbox, filled with tissue paper, awaited the felt hat which Dutreuil carefully placed in it. He laid his gloves beside it, on the lid.
He did all this with sedate and mechanical movements, like a man who loves to see things in the places which he has chosen for them. Indeed, no sooner did Rénine shift something than Dutreuil made a slight gesture of protest, took out his hat again, stuck it on his head, opened the window and rested his elbows on the sill, with his back turned to the room, as though he were unable to bear the sight of such vandalism.
“You’re positive, are you not?” the inspector asked Rénine.
“Yes, yes, I’m positive that the sixty notes were brought here after the murder.”
“Let’s look for them.”
This was easy and soon done. In half an hour, not a corner remained unexplored, not a knickknack unlifted.
“Nothing,” said Inspector Morisseau. “Shall we continue?”
“No,” replied Rénine, “The notes are no longer here.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that they have been removed.”
“By whom? Can’t you make a more definite accusation?”
Rénine did not reply. But Gaston Dutreuil wheeled round. He was choking and spluttered: “Mr. Inspector, would you like me to make the accusation more definite, as conveyed by this gentleman’s remarks? It all means that there’s a dishonest man here, that the notes hidden by the murderer were discovered and stolen by that dishonest man and deposited in another and safer place. That is your idea, sir, is it not? And you accuse me of committing this theft don’t you?”
He came forward, drumming his chest with his fists: “Me! Me! I found the notes, did I, and kept them for myself? You dare to suggest that!”
Rénine still made no reply. Dutreuil flew into a rage and, taking Inspector Morisseau aside, exclaimed:
“Mr. Inspector, I strongly protest against all this farce and against the part which you are unconsciously playing in it. Before your arrival, Prince Rénine told this lady and myself that he knew nothing, that he was venturing into this affair at random and that he was following the first road that offered, trusting to luck. Do you deny it, sir?”
Rénine did not open his lips.
“Answer me, will you? Explain yourself; for, really, you are putting forward the most improbable facts without any proof whatever. It’s easy enough to say that I stole the notes. And how were you to know that they were here at all? Who brought them here? Why should the murderer choose this flat to hide them in? It’s all so stupid, so illogical and absurd! … Give us your proofs, sir … one single proof!”
Inspector Morisseau seemed perplexed. He questioned Rénine with a glance. Rénine said:
“Since you want specific details, we will get them from Madame Aubrieux herself. She’s on the telephone. Let’s go downstairs. We shall know all about it in a minute.”
Dutreuil shrugged his shoulders:
“As you please, but what a waste of time!”
He seemed greatly irritated. His long wait at the window, under a blazing sun, had thrown him into a sweat. He went to his bedroom and returned with a bottle of water, of which he took a few sips, afterwards placing the bottle on the windowsill:
“Come along,” he said.
Prince Rénine chuckled.
“You seem to be in a hurry to leave the place.”
“I’m in a hurry to show you up,” retorted Dutreuil, slamming the door.
They went downstairs to the private room containing the telephone. The room was empty. Rénine asked Gaston Dutreuil for the Aubrieuxs’ number, took down the instrument and was put through.
The maid who came to the telephone answered that Madame Aubrieux had fainted, after giving way to an access of despair, and that she was now asleep.
“Fetch her mother, please. Prince Rénine speaking. It’s urgent.”
He handed the second receiver to Morisseau. For that matter, the voices were so distinct that Dutreuil and Hortense were able to hear every word exchanged.
“Is that you, madame?”
“Yes. Prince Rénine, I believe?”
“Prince Rénine.”
“Oh, sir, what news have you for me? Is there any hope?” asked the old lady, in a tone of entreaty.
“The enquiry is proceeding very satisfactorily,” said Rénine, “and you may hope for the best. For the moment, I want you to give me some very important particulars. On the day of the murder, did Gaston Dutreuil come to your house?”
“Yes, he came to fetch my daughter and myself, after lunch.”
“Did he know at the time that M. Guillaume had sixty thousand francs at his place?”
“Yes, I told him.”
“And that Jacques Aubrieux was not feeling very well and was proposing not to take his usual cycle ride but to stay at home and sleep?”
“Yes.”
“You are sure?”
“Absolutely certain.”
“And you all three went to the cinema together?”
“Yes.”
“And you were all sitting together?”
“Oh, no! There was no room. He took a seat farther away.”
“A seat where you could see him?”
“No.”
“But he came to you during the interval?”
“No, we did not see him until we were going out.”
“There is no doubt of that?”
“None at all.”
“Very well, madame. I will tell you the result of my efforts in an hour’s time. But above all, don’t wake up Madame Aubrieux.”
“And suppose she wakes of her own accord?”
“Reassure her and give her confidence. Everything is going well, very well indeed.”
He hung up the receiver and turned to Dutreuil, laughing:
“Ha, ha, my boy! Things are beginning to look clearer. What do you say?”
It was difficult to tell what these words meant or what conclusions Rénine had drawn from his conversation. The silence was painful and oppressive.
“Mr. Chief Inspector, you have some of your men outside, haven’t you?”
“Two detective sergeants.”
“It’s important that they should be there. Please also ask the manager not to disturb us on any account.”
And, when Morisseau returned, Rénine closed the door, took his stand in front of Dutreuil and, speaking in a good-humoured but emphatic tone, said:
“It amounts to this, young man, that the ladies saw nothing of you between three and five o’clock on that Sunday. That’s rather a curious detail.”
“A perfectly natural detail,” Dutreuil retorted, “and one, moreover, which proves nothing at all.”
“It proves, young man, that you had a good two hours at your disposal.”
“Obviously. Two hours which I spent at the cinema.”
“Or somewhere else.”
Dutreuil looked at him:
“Somewhere else?”
“Yes. As you were free, you had plenty of time to go wherever you liked … to Suresnes, for instance.”
“Oh!” said the young man, jesting in his turn. “Suresnes is a long way off!”
“It’s quite close! Hadn’t you
your friend Jacques Aubrieux’s motorcycle?”
A fresh pause followed these words. Dutreuil had knitted his brows as though he were trying to understand. At last he was heard to whisper:
“So that is what he was trying to lead up to! … The brute! …”
Rénine brought down his hand on Dutreuil’s shoulder:
“No more talk! Facts! Gaston Dutreuil, you are the only person who on that day knew two essential things: first, that Cousin Guillaume had sixty thousand francs in his house; secondly, that Jacques Aubrieux was not going out. You at once saw your chance. The motorcycle was available. You slipped out during the performance. You went to Suresnes. You killed Cousin Guillaume. You took the sixty banknotes and left them at your rooms. And at five o’clock you went back to fetch the ladies.”
Dutreuil had listened with an expression at once mocking and flurried, casting an occasional glance at Inspector Morisseau as though to enlist him as a witness:
“The man’s mad,” it seemed to say. “It’s no use being angry with him.”
When Rénine had finished, he began to laugh:
“Very funny! … A capital joke! … So it was I whom the neighbours saw going and returning on the motorcycle?”
“It was you disguised in Jacques Aubrieux’s clothes.”
“And it was my fingerprints that were found on the bottle in M. Guillaume’s pantry?”
“The bottle had been opened by Jacques Aubrieux at lunch, in his own house, and it was you who took it with you to serve as evidence.”
“Funnier and funnier!” cried Dutreuil, who had the air of being frankly amused. “Then I contrived the whole affair so that Jacques Aubrieux might be accused of the crime?”
“It was the safest means of not being accused yourself.”
“Yes, but Jacques is a friend whom I have known from childhood.”
“You’re in love with his wife.”
The young man gave a sudden, infuriated start:
“You dare! … What! You dare make such an infamous suggestion?”
“I have proof of it.”
“That’s a lie! I have always respected Madeleine Aubrieux and revered her …”
“Apparently. But you’re in love with her. You desire her. Don’t contradict me. I have abundant proof of it.”
“That’s a lie, I tell you! You have only known me a few hours!”
“Come, come! I’ve been quietly watching you for days, waiting for the moment to pounce upon you.”
He took the young man by the shoulders and shook him:
“Come, Dutreuil, confess! I hold all the proofs in my hand. I have witnesses whom we shall meet presently at the criminal investigation department. Confess, can’t you? In spite of everything, you’re tortured by remorse. Remember your dismay, at the restaurant, when you had seen the newspaper. What? Jacques Aubrieux condemned to die? That’s more than you bargained for! Penal servitude would have suited your book, but the scaffold! … Jacques Aubrieux executed tomorrow, an innocent man! … Confess, won’t you? Confess to save your own skin! Own up!”
Bending over the other, he was trying with all his might to extort a confession from him. But Dutreuil drew himself up and coldly, with a sort of scorn in his voice, said:
“Sir, you are a madman. Not a word that you have said has any sense in it. All your accusations are false. What about the banknotes? Did you find them at my place as you said you would?”
Rénine, exasperated, clenched his fist in his face:
“Oh, you swine, I’ll dish you yet, I swear I will!”
He drew the inspector aside:
“Well, what do you say to it? An arrant rogue, isn’t he?”
The inspector nodded his head:
“It may be … But, all the same … so far there’s no real evidence.”
“Wait, M. Morisseau,” said Rénine. “Wait until we’ve had our interview with M. Dudouis. For we shall see M. Dudouis at the prefecture, shall we not?”
“Yes, he’ll be there at three o’clock.”
“Well, you’ll be convinced, Mr. Inspector! I tell you here and now that you will be convinced.”
Rénine was chuckling like a man who feels certain of the course of events. Hortense, who was standing near him and was able to speak to him without being heard by the others, asked, in a low voice:
“You’ve got him, haven’t you?”
He nodded his head in assent:
“Got him? I should think I have! All the same, I’m no farther forward than I was at the beginning.”
“But this is awful! And your proofs?”
“Not the shadow of a proof … I was hoping to trip him up. But he’s kept his feet, the rascal!”
“Still, you’re certain it’s he?”
“It can’t be anyone else. I had an intuition at the very outset, and I’ve not taken my eyes off him since. I have seen his anxiety increasing as my investigations seemed to centre on him and concern him more closely. Now I know.”
“And he’s in love with Madame Aubrieux?”
“In logic, he’s bound to be. But so far we have only hypothetical suppositions, or rather certainties which are personal to myself. We shall never intercept the guillotine with those. Ah, if we could only find the banknotes! Given the banknotes, M. Dudouis would act. Without them, he will laugh in my face.”
“What then?” murmured Hortense, in anguished accents.
He did not reply. He walked up and down the room, assuming an air of gaiety and rubbing his hands. All was going so well! It was really a treat to take up a case which, so to speak, worked itself out automatically.
“Suppose we went on to the prefecture, M. Morisseau? The chief must be there by now. And, having gone so far, we may as well finish. Will M. Dutreuil come with us?”
“Why not?” said Dutreuil, arrogantly.
But, just as Rénine was opening the door, there was a noise in the passage and the manager ran up, waving his arms:
“Is M. Dutreuil still here? … M. Dutreuil, your flat is on fire! … A man outside told us. He saw it from the square.”
The young man’s eyes lit up. For perhaps half a second his mouth was twisted by a smile, which Rénine noticed:
“Oh, you ruffian!” he cried. “You’ve given yourself away, my beauty! It was you who set fire to the place upstairs, and now the notes are burning.”
He blocked his exit.
“Let me pass,” shouted Dutreuil. “There’s a fire and no one can get in, because no one else has a key. Here it is. Let me pass, damn it!”
Rénine snatched the key from his hand and, holding him by the collar of his coat:
“Don’t you move, my fine fellow! The game’s up! You precious blackguard! M. Morisseau, will you give orders to the sergeant not to let him out of his sight and to blow out his brains if he tries to get away? Sergeant, we rely on you! Put a bullet into him, if necessary! …”
He hurried up the stairs, followed by Hortense and the chief inspector, who was protesting rather peevishly:
“But, I say, look here, it wasn’t he who set the place on fire! How do you make out that he set it on fire, seeing that he never left us?”
“Why, he set it on fire beforehand, to be sure!”
“How? I ask you, how?”
“How do I know? But a fire doesn’t break out like that, for no reason at all, at the very moment when a man wants to burn compromising papers.”
They heard a commotion upstairs. It was the waiters of the restaurant trying to burst the door open. An acrid smell filled the well of the staircase.
Rénine reached the top floor:
“By your leave, friends. I have the key.”
He inserted it in the lock and opened the door.
He was met by a gust of smoke so dense that one might well have supposed the whole floor to be ablaze. Rénine at once saw that the fire had gone out of its own accord, for lack of fuel, and that there were no more flames.
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“M. Morisseau, you won’t let anyone come in with us, will you? An intruder might spoil everything. Bolt the door, that will be best.”
He stepped into the front room, where the fire had obviously had its chief centre. The furniture, the walls and the ceiling, though blackened by the smoke, had not been touched. As a matter of fact, the fire was confined to a blaze of papers, which was still burning in the middle of the room, in front of the window.
Rénine struck his forehead:
“What a fool I am! What an unspeakable ass!”
“Why?” asked the inspector.
“The hatbox, of course! The cardboard hatbox, which was standing on the table. That’s where he hid the notes. They were there all through our search.”
“Impossible!”
“Why, yes, we always overlook that particular hiding place, the one just under our eyes, within reach of our hands! How could one imagine that a thief would leave sixty thousand francs in an open cardboard box, in which he places his hat when he comes in, with an absent-minded air? That’s just the one place we don’t look in … Well played, M. Dutreuil!”
The inspector, who remained incredulous, repeated:
“No, no, impossible! We were with him, and he could not have started the fire himself.”
“Everything was prepared beforehand on the supposition that there might be an alarm … The hatbox … the tissue paper … the banknotes: they must all have been steeped in some inflammable liquid. He must have thrown a match, a chemical preparation or what not into it, as we were leaving.”
“But we should have seen him, hang it all! And then is it credible that a man who has committed a murder for the sake of sixty thousand francs should do away with the money in this way? If the hiding place was such a good one—and it was, because we never discovered it—why this useless destruction?”
“He got frightened, M. Morisseau. Remember that his head is at stake and he knows it. Anything rather than the guillotine, and they—the banknotes—were the only proof which we had against him. How could he have left them where they were?”
Morisseau was flabbergasted:
“What! The only proof?”
“Why, obviously!”
“But your witnesses? Your evidence? All that you were going to tell the chief?”
The Eight Strokes of the Clock Page 5
