The Eight Strokes of the Clock

by Maurice Leblanc

He gave Rose Andrée his arm and led her to the car. She was staggering and very pale, and she said, in a faint voice:

  “Are we going? And he: is he safe? Won’t they catch him again?”

  Looking deep into her eyes, he said:

  “Swear to me, Rose Andrée, that in two months, when he is well and when I have proved his innocence, swear that you will go away with him to America.”

  “I swear.”

  “And that, once there, you will marry him.”

  “I swear.”

  He spoke a few words in her ear.

  “Ah!” she said. “May Heaven bless you for it!”

  Hortense took her seat in front, with Rénine, who sat at the wheel. The inspector, hat in hand, fussed around the car until it moved off.

  They drove through the forest, crossed the Seine at La Mailleraie and struck into the Havre-Rouen road.

  “Take off your glove and give me your hand to kiss,” Rénine ordered. “You promised that you would.”

  “Oh!” said Hortense. “But it was to be when Dalbrèque was saved.”

  “He is saved.”

  “Not yet. The police are after him. They may catch him again. He will not be really saved until he is with Rose Andrée.”

  “He is with Rose Andrée,” he declared.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Turn round.”

  She did so.

  In the shadow of the hood, right at the back, behind the chauffeur, Rose Andrée was kneeling beside a man lying on the seat.

  “Oh,” stammered Hortense, “it’s incredible! Then it was you who hid him last night? And he was there, in front of the inn, when the inspector was seeing us off?”

  “Lord, yes! He was there, under the cushions and rugs!”

  “It’s incredible!” she repeated, utterly bewildered. “It’s incredible! How were you able to manage it all?”

  “I wanted to kiss your hand,” he said.

  She removed her glove, as he bade her, and raised her hand to his lips.

  The car was speeding between the peaceful Seine and the white cliffs that border it. They sat silent for a long while. Then he said:

  “I had a talk with Dalbrèque last night. He’s a fine fellow and is ready to do anything for Rose Andrée. He’s right. A man must do anything for the woman he loves. He must devote himself to her, offer her all that is beautiful in this world: joy and happiness … and, if she should be bored, stirring adventures to distract her, to excite her and to make her smile … or even weep.”

  Hortense shivered; and her eyes were not quite free from tears. For the first time he was alluding to the sentimental adventure that bound them by a tie which as yet was frail, but which became stronger and more enduring with each of the ventures on which they entered together, pursuing them feverishly and anxiously to their close. Already she felt powerless and uneasy with this extraordinary man, who subjected events to his will and seemed to play with the destinies of those whom he fought or protected. He filled her with dread and at the same time he attracted her. She thought of him sometimes as her master, sometimes as an enemy against whom she must defend herself, but oftenest as a perturbing friend, full of charm and fascination …

  V. THÉRÈSE AND GERMAINE

  The weather was so mild that autumn that, on the 12th of October, in the morning, several families still lingering in their villas at Étretat had gone down to the beach. The sea, lying between the cliffs and the clouds on the horizon, might have suggested a mountain lake slumbering in the hollow of the enclosing rocks, were it not for that crispness in the air and those pale, soft and indefinite colours in the sky which give a special charm to certain days in Normandy.

  “It’s delicious,” murmured Hortense. But the next moment she added: “All the same, we did not come here to enjoy the spectacle of nature or to wonder whether that huge stone needle on our left was really at one time the home of Arsène Lupin.”

  “We came here,” said Prince Rénine, “because of the conversation which I overheard, a fortnight ago, in a dining car, between a man and a woman.”

  “A conversation of which I was unable to catch a single word.”

  “If those two people could have guessed for an instant that it was possible to hear a single word of what they were saying, they would not have spoken, for their conversation was one of extraordinary gravity and importance. But I have very sharp ears, and though I could not follow every sentence, I insist that we may be certain of two things. First, that man and woman, who are brother and sister, have an appointment at a quarter to twelve this morning, the 12th of October, at the spot known as the Trois Mathildes, with a third person, who is married and who wishes at all costs to recover his or her liberty. Secondly, this appointment, at which they will come to a final agreement, is to be followed this evening by a walk along the cliffs, when the third person will bring with him or her the man or woman, I can’t definitely say which, whom they want to get rid of. That is the gist of the whole thing. Now, as I know a spot called the Trois Mathildes some way above Étretat and as this is not an everyday name, we came down yesterday to thwart the plan of these objectionable persons.”

  “What plan?” asked Hortense. “For, after all, it’s only your assumption that there’s to be a victim and that the victim is to be flung off the top of the cliffs. You yourself told me that you heard no allusion to a possible murder.”

  “That is so. But I heard some very plain words relating to the marriage of the brother or the sister with the wife or the husband of the third person, which implies the need for a crime.”

  They were sitting on the terrace of the casino, facing the stairs which run down to the beach. They therefore overlooked the few privately owned cabins on the shingle, where a party of four men were playing bridge, while a group of ladies sat talking and knitting.

  A short distance away and nearer to the sea was another cabin, standing by itself and closed.

  Half a dozen bare-legged children were paddling in the water.

  “No,” said Hortense, “all this autumnal sweetness and charm fails to attract me. I have so much faith in all your theories that I can’t help thinking, in spite of everything, of this dreadful problem. Which of those people yonder is threatened? Death has already selected its victim. Who is it? Is it that young, fair-haired woman, rocking herself and laughing? Is it that tall man over there, smoking his cigar? And which of them has the thought of murder hidden in his heart? All the people we see are quietly enjoying themselves. Yet death is prowling among them.”

  “Capital!” said Rénine. “You too are becoming enthusiastic. What did I tell you? The whole of life’s an adventure, and nothing but adventure is worthwhile. At the first breath of coming events, there you are, quivering in every nerve. You share in all the tragedies stirring around you, and the feeling of mystery awakens in the depths of your being. See, how closely you are observing that couple who have just arrived. You never can tell: that may be the gentleman who proposes to do away with his wife? Or perhaps the lady contemplates making away with her husband?”

  “The d’Ormevals? Never! A perfectly happy couple! Yesterday, at the hotel, I had a long talk with the wife. And you yourself …”

  “Oh, I played a round of golf with Jacques d’Ormeval, who rather fancies himself as an athlete, and I played at dolls with their two charming little girls!”

  The d’Ormevals came up and exchanged a few words with them. Madame d’Ormeval said that her two daughters had gone back to Paris that morning with their governess. Her husband, a great tall fellow with a yellow beard, carrying his blazer over his arm and puffing out his chest under a cellular shirt, complained of the heat:

  “Have you the key of the cabin, Thérèse?” he asked his wife, when they had left Rénine and Hortense and stopped at the top of the stairs, a few yards away.

  “Here it is,” said the wife. “Are you going to read your papers?”

  “Yes. Unless we go for a str
oll? …”

  “I would rather wait till the afternoon: do you mind? I have a lot of letters to write this morning.”

  “Very well. We’ll go on the cliff.”

  Hortense and Rénine exchanged a glance of surprise. Was this suggestion accidental? Or had they before them, contrary to their expectations, the very couple of whom they were in search?

  Hortense tried to laugh:

  “My heart is thumping,” she said. “Nevertheless, I absolutely refuse to believe in anything so improbable. ‘My husband and I have never had the slightest quarrel,’ she said to me. No, it’s quite clear that those two get on admirably.”

  “We shall see presently, at the Trois Mathildes, if one of them comes to meet the brother and sister.”

  M. d’Ormeval had gone down the stairs, while his wife stood leaning on the balustrade of the terrace. She had a beautiful, slender, supple figure. Her clear-cut profile was emphasized by a rather too prominent chin when at rest; and, when it was not smiling, the face gave an expression of sadness and suffering.

  “Have you lost something, Jacques?” she called out to her husband, who was stooping over the shingle.

  “Yes, the key,” he said. “It slipped out of my hand.”

  She went down to him and began to look also. For two or three minutes, as they sheared off to the right and remained close to the bottom of the under-cliff, they were invisible to Hortense and Rénine. Their voices were covered by the noise of a dispute which had arisen among the bridge players.

  They reappeared almost simultaneously. Madame d’Ormeval slowly climbed a few steps of the stairs and then stopped and turned her face towards the sea. Her husband had thrown his blazer over his shoulders and was making for the isolated cabin. As he passed the bridge players, they asked him for a decision, pointing to their cards spread out upon the table. But, with a wave of the hand, he refused to give an opinion and walked on, covered the thirty yards which divided them from the cabin, opened the door and went in.

  Thérèse d’Ormeval came back to the terrace and remained for ten minutes sitting on a bench. Then she came out through the casino. Hortense, on leaning forward, saw her entering one of the chalets annexed to the Hôtel Hauville and, a moment later, caught sight of her again on the balcony.

  “Eleven o’clock,” said Rénine. “Whoever it is, he or she, or one of the card players, or one of their wives, it won’t be long before someone goes to the appointed place.”

  Nevertheless, twenty minutes passed and twenty-five, and no one stirred.

  “Perhaps Madame d’Ormeval has gone.” Hortense suggested, anxiously. “She is no longer on her balcony.”

  “If she is at the Trois Mathildes,” said Rénine, “we will go and catch her there.”

  He was rising to his feet, when a fresh discussion broke out among the bridge players and one of them exclaimed:

  “Let’s put it to d’Ormeval.”

  “Very well,” said his adversary. “I’ll accept his decision … if he consents to act as umpire. He was rather huffy just now.”

  They called out:

  “D’Ormeval! D’Ormeval!”

  They then saw that d’Ormeval must have shut the door behind him, which kept him in the half dark, the cabin being one of the sort that has no window.

  “He’s asleep,” cried one. “Let’s wake him up.”

  All four went to the cabin, began by calling to him and, on receiving no answer, thumped on the door:

  “Hi! D’Ormeval! Are you asleep?”

  On the terrace Serge Rénine suddenly leapt to his feet with so uneasy an air that Hortense was astonished. He muttered:

  “If only it’s not too late!”

  And, when Hortense asked him what he meant, he tore down the steps and started running to the cabin. He reached it just as the bridge players were trying to break in the door:

  “Stop!” he ordered. “Things must be done in the regular fashion.”

  “What things?” they asked.

  He examined the Venetian shutters at the top of each of the folding doors and, on finding that one of the upper slats was partly broken, hung on as best he could to the roof of the cabin and cast a glance inside. Then he said to the four men:

  “I was right in thinking that, if M. d’Ormeval did not reply, he must have been prevented by some serious cause. There is every reason to believe that M. d’Ormeval is wounded … or dead.”

  “Dead!” they cried. “What do you mean? He has only just left us.”

  Rénine took out his knife, prized open the lock and pulled back the two doors.

  There were shouts of dismay. M. d’Ormeval was lying flat on his face, clutching his jacket and his newspaper in his hands. Blood was flowing from his back and staining his shirt.

  “Oh!” said someone. “He has killed himself!”

  “How can he have killed himself?” said Rénine. “The wound is right in the middle of the back, at a place which the hand can’t reach. And, besides, there’s not a knife in the cabin.”

  The others protested:

  “If so, he has been murdered. But that’s impossible! There has been nobody here. We should have seen, if there had been. Nobody could have passed us without our seeing …”

  The other men, all the ladies and the children paddling in the sea had come running up. Rénine allowed no one to enter the cabin, except a doctor who was present. But the doctor could only say that M. d’Ormeval was dead, stabbed with a dagger.

  At that moment, the mayor and the policeman arrived, together with some people of the village. After the usual enquiries, they carried away the body.

  A few persons went on ahead to break the news to Thérèse d’Ormeval, who was once more to be seen on her balcony.

  And so the tragedy had taken place without any clue to explain how a man, protected by a closed door with an uninjured lock, could have been murdered in the space of a few minutes and in front of twenty witnesses, one might almost say, twenty spectators. No one had entered the cabin. No one had come out of it. As for the dagger with which M. d’Ormeval had been stabbed between the shoulders, it could not be traced. And all this would have suggested the idea of a trick of sleight of hand performed by a clever conjuror, had it not concerned a terrible murder, committed under the most mysterious conditions.

  Hortense was unable to follow, as Rénine would have liked, the small party who were making for Madame d’Ormeval; she was paralysed with excitement and incapable of moving. It was the first time that her adventures with Rénine had taken her into the very heart of the action and that, instead of noting the consequences of a murder, or assisting in the pursuit of the criminals, she found herself confronted with the murder itself.

  It left her trembling all over; and she stammered: “How horrible! … The poor fellow! … Ah, Rénine, you couldn’t save him this time! … And that’s what upsets me more than anything, that we could and should have saved him, since we knew of the plot …”

  Rénine made her sniff at a bottle of salts, and when she had quite recovered her composure, he said, while observing her attentively:

  “So you think that there is some connection between the murder and the plot which we were trying to frustrate?”

  “Certainly,” said she, astonished at the question.

  “Then, as that plot was hatched by a husband against his wife or by a wife against her husband, you admit that Madame d’Ormeval …?”

  “Oh, no, impossible!” she said. “To begin with, Madame d’Ormeval did not leave her rooms … and then I shall never believe that pretty woman capable … No, no, of course there was something else …”

  “What else?”

  “I don’t know … You may have misunderstood what the brother and sister were saying to each other … You see, the murder has been committed under quite different conditions … at another hour and another place …”

  “And therefore,” concluded Rénine, “the two cases are not in any w
ay related?”

  “Oh,” she said, “there’s no making it out! It’s all so strange!”

  Rénine became a little satirical:

  “My pupil is doing me no credit today,” he said. “Why, here is a perfectly simple story, unfolded before your eyes. You have seen it reeled off like a scene in the cinema, and it all remains as obscure to you as though you were hearing of an affair that happened in a cave a hundred miles away!”

  Hortense was confounded:

  “What are you saying? Do you mean that you have understood it? What clues have you to go by?”

  Rénine looked at his watch:

  “I have not understood everything,” he said. “The murder itself, the mere brutal murder, yes. But the essential thing, that is to say, the psychology of the crime: I’ve no clue to that. Only, it is twelve o’clock. The brother and sister, seeing no one come to the appointment at the Trois Mathildes, will go down to the beach. Don’t you think that we shall learn something then of the accomplice whom I accuse them of having and of the connection between the two cases?”

  They reached the esplanade in front of the Hauville chalets, with the capstans by which the fishermen haul up their boats to the beach. A number of inquisitive persons were standing outside the door of one of the chalets. Two coastguards, posted at the door, prevented them from entering.

  The mayor shouldered his way eagerly through the crowd. He was back from the post office, where he had been telephoning to Le Havre, to the office of the procurator general, and had been told that the public prosecutor and an examining magistrate would come on to Étretat in the course of the afternoon.

  “That leaves us plenty of time for lunch,” said Rénine. “The tragedy will not be enacted before two or three o’clock. And I have an idea that it will be sensational.”

  They hurried nevertheless. Hortense, overwrought by fatigue and her desire to know what was happening, continually questioned Rénine, who replied evasively, with his eyes turned to the esplanade, which they could see through the windows of the coffee room.

  “Are you watching for those two?” asked Hortense.

  “Yes, the brother and sister.”