The man crouched low. The victim approached, gaily and unsuspectingly. She passed, heard a sound, stopped and looked about her with a smiling air which became attentive, then uneasy, and then more and more anxious. The woodcutter had pushed aside the branches and was coming through the copse.
They were now standing face to face. He opened his arms as though to seize her. She tried to scream, to call out for help; but the arms closed around her before she could offer the slightest resistance. Then he threw her over his shoulder and began to run.
“Are you satisfied?” whispered Rénine. “Do you think that this fourth-rate actor would have had all that strength and energy if it had been any other woman than Rose Andrée?”
Meanwhile the woodcutter was crossing the skirt of a forest and plunging through great trees and masses of rocks. After setting the princess down, he cleared the entrance to a cave, which the daylight entered by a slanting crevice.
A succession of views displayed the husband’s despair, the search and the discovery of some small branches which had been broken by the princess and which showed the path that had been taken. Then came the final scene, with the terrible struggle between the man and the woman when the woman, vanquished and exhausted, is flung to the ground, the sudden arrival of the husband and the shot that puts an end to the brute’s life …
“Well,” said Rénine, when they had left the picture palace—and he spoke with a certain gravity—“I maintain that the daughter of your old piano teacher has been in danger ever since the day when that last scene was filmed. I maintain that this scene represents not so much an assault by the man of the woods on the Happy Princess as a violent and frantic attack by an actor on the woman he desires. Certainly it all happened within the bounds prescribed by the part and nobody saw anything in it—nobody except perhaps Rose Andrée herself—but I, for my part, have detected flashes of passion which leave not a doubt in my mind. I have seen glances that betrayed the wish and even the intention to commit murder. I have seen clenched hands, ready to strangle, in short, a score of details which prove to me that, at that time, the man’s instinct was urging him to kill the woman who could never be his.”
“And it all amounts to what?”
“We must protect Rose Andrée if she is still in danger and if it is not too late.”
“And to do this?”
“We must get hold of further information.”
“From whom?”
“From the World’s Cinema Company, which made the film. I will go to them tomorrow morning. Will you wait for me in your flat about lunchtime?”
At heart, Hortense was still skeptical. All these manifestations of passion, of which she denied neither the ardour nor the ferocity, seemed to her to be the rational behaviour of a good actor. She had seen nothing of the terrible tragedy which Rénine contended that he had divined; and she wondered whether he was not erring through an excess of imagination.
“Well,” she asked, next day, not without a touch of irony, “how far have you got? Have you made a good bag? Anything mysterious? Anything thrilling?”
“Pretty good.”
“Oh, really? And your so-called lover …”
“Is one Dalbrèque, originally a scene-painter, who played the butler in the first part of the film and the man of the woods in the second and was so much appreciated that they engaged him for a new film. Consequently, he has been acting lately. He was acting near Paris. But, on the morning of Friday the 18th of September, he broke into the garage of the World’s Cinema Company and made off with a magnificent car and forty thousand francs in money. Information was lodged with the police; and on the Sunday the car was found a little way outside Dreux. And up to now the enquiry has revealed two things, which will appear in the papers tomorrow: first, Dalbrèque is alleged to have committed a murder which created a great stir last year, the murder of Bourguet, the jeweller; secondly, on the day after his two robberies, Dalbrèque was driving through Le Havre in a motorcar with two men who helped him to carry off, in broad daylight and in a crowded street, a lady whose identity has not yet been discovered.”
“Rose Andrée?” asked Hortense, uneasily.
“I have just been to Rose Andrée’s: the World’s Cinema Company gave me her address. Rose Andrée spent this summer travelling and then stayed for a fortnight in the Seine-inférieure, where she has a small place of her own, the actual cottage in The Happy Princess. On receiving an invitation from America to do a film there, she came back to Paris, registered her luggage at the Gare Saint-Lazare and left on Friday the 18th of September, intending to sleep at Le Havre and take Saturday’s boat.”
“Friday the 18th,” muttered Hortense, “the same day on which that man …”
“And it was on the Saturday that a woman was carried off by him at Le Havre. I looked in at the Compagnie Transatlantique, and a brief investigation showed that Rose Andrée had booked a cabin, but that the cabin remained unoccupied. The passenger did not turn up.”
“This is frightful. She has been carried off. You were right.”
“I fear so.”
“What have you decided to do?”
“Adolphe, my chauffeur, is outside with the car. Let us go to Le Havre. Up to the present, Rose Andrée’s disappearance does not seem to have become known. Before it does and before the police identify the woman carried off by Dalbrèque with the woman who did not turn up to claim her cabin, we will get on Rose Andrée’s track.”
There was not much said on the journey. At four o’clock Hortense and Rénine reached Rouen. But here Rénine changed his road.
“Adolphe, take the left bank of the Seine.”
He unfolded a motoring map on his knees and, tracing the route with his finger, showed Hortense that, if you draw a line from Le Havre, or rather from Quillebeuf, where the road crosses the Seine, to Dreux, where the stolen car was found, this line passes through Routot, a market town lying west of the forest of Brotonne:
“Now it was in the forest of Brotonne,” he continued, “according to what I heard, that the second part of The Happy Princess was filmed. And the question that arises is this: having got hold of Rose Andrée, would it not occur to Dalbrèque, when passing near the forest on the Saturday night, to hide his prey there, while his two accomplices went on to Dreux and from there returned to Paris? The cave was quite near. Was he not bound to go to it? How should he do otherwise? Wasn’t it while running to this cave, a few months ago, that he held in his arms, against his breast, within reach of his lips, the woman whom he loved and whom he has now conquered? By every rule of fate and logic, the adventure is being repeated all over again … but this time in reality. Rose Andrée is a captive. There is no hope of rescue. The forest is vast and lonely. That night, or on one of the following nights, Rose Andrée must surrender … or die.”
Hortense gave a shudder:
“We shall be too late. Besides, you don’t suppose that he’s keeping her a prisoner?”
“Certainly not. The place I have in mind is at a crossroads and is not a safe retreat. But we may discover some clue or other.”
The shades of night were falling from the tall trees when they entered the ancient forest of Brotonne, full of Roman remains and mediaeval relics. Rénine knew the forest well and remembered that near a famous oak, known as the Wine-cask, there was a cave which must be the cave of the Happy Princess. He found it easily, switched on his electric torch, rummaged in the dark corners and brought Hortense back to the entrance:
“There’s nothing inside,” he said, “but here is the evidence which I was looking for. Dalbrèque was obsessed by the recollection of the film, but so was Rose Andrée. The Happy Princess had broken off the tips of the branches on the way through the forest. Rose Andrée has managed to break off some to the right of this opening, in the hope that she would be discovered as on the first occasion.”
“Yes,” said Hortense, “it’s a proof that she has been here; but the proof is three weeks old.
Since that time …”
“Since that time, she is either dead and buried under a heap of leaves or else alive in some hole even lonelier than this.”
“If so, where is he?”
Rénine pricked up his ears. Repeated blows of the axe were sounding from some distance, no doubt coming from a part of the forest that was being cleared.
“He?” said Rénine, “I wonder whether he may not have continued to behave under the influence of the film and whether the man of the woods in The Happy Princess has not quite naturally resumed his calling. For how is the man to live, to obtain his food, without attracting attention? He will have found a job.”
“We can’t make sure of that.”
“We might, by questioning the woodcutters whom we can hear.”
The car took them by a forest road to another crossroads where they entered on foot a track which was deeply rutted by wagon wheels. The sound of axes ceased. After walking for a quarter of an hour, they met a dozen men who, having finished work for the day, were returning to the villages nearby.
“Will this path take us to Routot?” asked Rénine, in order to open a conversation with them.
“No, you’re turning your backs on it,” said one of the men, gruffly.
And he went on, accompanied by his mates.
Hortense and Rénine stood rooted to the spot. They had recognized the butler. His cheeks and chin were shaved, but his upper lip was covered by a black moustache, evidently dyed. The eyebrows no longer met and were reduced to normal dimensions.
Thus, in less than twenty hours, acting on the vague hints supplied by the bearing of a film-actor, Serge Rénine had touched the very heart of the tragedy by means of purely psychological arguments.
“Rose Andrée is alive,” he said. “Otherwise Dalbrèque would have left the country. The poor thing must be imprisoned and bound up; and he takes her some food at night.”
“We will save her, won’t we?”
“Certainly, by keeping a watch on him and, if necessary, but in the last resort, compelling him by force to give up his secret.”
They followed the woodcutter at a distance and, on the pretext that the car needed overhauling, engaged rooms in the principal inn at Routot.
Attached to the inn was a small café from which they were separated by the entrance to the yard and above which were two rooms, reached by a wooden outer staircase, at one side. Dalbrèque occupied one of these rooms, and Rénine took the other for his chauffeur.
Next morning he learned from Adolphe that Dalbrèque, on the previous evening, after all the lights were out, had carried down a bicycle from his room and mounted it and had not returned until shortly before sunrise.
The bicycle tracks led Rénine to the uninhabited Château des Landes, five miles from the village. They disappeared in a rocky path which ran beside the park down to the Seine, opposite the Jumièges peninsula.
Next night, he took up his position there. At eleven o’clock, Dalbrèque climbed a bank, scrambled over a wire fence, hid his bicycle under the branches and moved away. It seemed impossible to follow him in the pitchy darkness, on a mossy soil that muffled the sound of footsteps. Rénine did not make the attempt; but, at daybreak, he came with his chauffeur and hunted through the park all the morning. Though the park, which covered the side of a hill and was bounded below by the river, was not very large, he found no clue which gave him any reason to suppose that Rose Andrée was imprisoned there.
He therefore went back to the village, with the firm intention of taking action that evening and employing force:
“This state of things cannot go on,” he said to Hortense. “I must rescue Rose Andrée at all costs and save her from that ruffian’s clutches. He must be made to speak. He must. Otherwise there’s a danger that we may be too late.”
That day was Sunday, and Dalbrèque did not go to work. He did not leave his room except for lunch and went upstairs again immediately afterwards. But at three o’clock Rénine and Hortense, who were keeping a watch on him from the inn, saw him come down the wooden staircase, with his bicycle on his shoulder. Leaning it against the bottom step, he inflated the tires and fastened to the handlebar a rather bulky object wrapped in a newspaper.
“By Jove!” muttered Rénine.
“What’s the matter?”
In front of the café was a small terrace bordered on the right and left by spindle trees planted in boxes, which were connected by a paling. Behind the shrubs, sitting on a bank but stooping forward so that they could see Dalbrèque through the branches, were four men.
“Police!” said Rénine. “What bad luck! If those fellows take a hand, they will spoil everything.”
“Why? On the contrary, I should have thought …”
“Yes, they will. They will put Dalbrèque out of the way … and then? Will that give us Rose Andrée?”
Dalbrèque had finished his preparations. Just as he was mounting his bicycle, the detectives rose in a body, ready to make a dash for him. But Dalbrèque, though quite unconscious of their presence, changed his mind and went back to his room as though he had forgotten something.
“Now’s the time!” said Rénine. “I’m going to risk it. But it’s a difficult situation and I’ve no great hopes.”
He went out into the yard and, at a moment when the detectives were not looking, ran up the staircase, as was only natural if he wished to give an order to his chauffeur. But he had no sooner reached the rustic balcony at the back of the house, which gave admission to the two bedrooms, than he stopped. Dalbrèque’s door was open. Rénine walked in.
Dalbrèque stepped back, at once assuming the defensive:
“What do you want? Who said you could …”
“Silence!” whispered Rénine, with an imperious gesture. “It’s all up with you!”
“What are you talking about?” growled the man, angrily.
“Lean out of your window. There are four men below on the watch for you to leave, four detectives.”
Dalbrèque leaned over the terrace and muttered an oath:
“On the watch for me?” he said, turning round. “What do I care?”
“They have a warrant.”
He folded his arms:
“Shut up with your piffle! A warrant! What’s that to me?”
“Listen,” said Rénine, “and let us waste no time. It’s urgent. Your name’s Dalbrèque, or, at least, that’s the name under which you acted in The Happy Princess and under which the police are looking for you as being the murderer of Bourguet the jeweller, the man who stole a motorcar and forty thousand francs from the World’s Cinema Company and the man who abducted a woman at Le Havre. All this is known and proved … and here’s the upshot. Four men downstairs. Myself here, my chauffeur in the next room. You’re done for. Do you want me to save you?”
Dalbrèque gave his adversary a long look:
“Who are you?”
“A friend of Rose Andrée’s,” said Rénine.
The other started and, to some extent dropping his mask, retorted:
“What are your conditions?”
“Rose Andrée, whom you have abducted and tormented, is dying in some hole or corner. Where is she?”
A strange thing occurred and impressed Rénine. Dalbrèque’s face, usually so common, was lit up by a smile that made it almost attractive. But this was only a flashing vision: the man immediately resumed his hard and impassive expression.
“And suppose I refuse to speak?” he said.
“So much the worse for you. It means your arrest.”
“I dare say, but it means the death of Rose Andrée. Who will release her?”
“You. You will speak now, or in an hour, or two hours hence at least. You will never have the heart to keep silent and let her die.”
Dalbrèque shrugged his shoulders. Then, raising his hand, he said:
“I swear on my life that, if they arrest me, not a word will leave my lips.”
“What then?”
“Then save me. We will meet this evening at the entrance to the Parc des Landes and say what we have to say.”
“Why not at once?”
“I have spoken.”
“Will you be there?”
“I shall be there.”
Rénine reflected. There was something in all this that he failed to grasp. In any case, the frightful danger that threatened Rose Andrée dominated the whole situation, and Rénine was not the man to despise this threat and to persist out of vanity in a perilous course. Rose Andrée’s life came before everything.
He struck several blows on the wall of the next bedroom and called his chauffeur.
“Adolphe, is the car ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Set her going and pull her up in front of the terrace outside the café, right against the boxes so as to block the exit. As for you,” he continued, addressing Dalbrèque, “you’re to jump on your machine and, instead of making off along the road, cross the yard. At the end of the yard is a passage leading into a lane. There you will be free. But no hesitation and no blundering … else you’ll get yourself nabbed. Good luck to you.”
He waited till the car was drawn up in accordance with his instructions and, when he reached it, he began to question his chauffeur, in order to attract the detectives’ attention.
One of them, however, having cast a glance through the spindle trees, caught sight of Dalbrèque just as he reached the bottom of the staircase. He gave the alarm and darted forward, followed by his comrades, but had to run round the car and bumped into the chauffeur, which gave Dalbrèque time to mount his bicycle and cross the yard unimpeded. He thus had some seconds’ start. Unfortunately for him as he was about to enter the passage at the back, a troop of boys and girls appeared, returning from vespers. On hearing the shouts of the detectives, they spread their arms in front of the fugitive, who gave two or three lurches and ended by falling.
Cries of triumph were raised:
The Eight Strokes of the Clock Page 9
