The Dark Secret of Josephine

by Dennis Wheatley

  Roger saw then that his last hope of stalling them off by argument or threats had gone. He was faced with the choice of surrender or action. Surrender would mean the certain loss of the diary—for it was a certainty that Fouché would have it off him and disappear with it—and the probable loss of his life. Action might still give him a chance in a thousand. As they closed in on him he seized the table by its edge and overturned it.

  The two bottles rolled off and smashed upon the floor. The candles in them continued to flicker for a moment, casting weird shadows. The meat chopper that Lucette had used to smash away the beam also slid off. It fell upon her foot, and she gave an ‘ouch’ of pain. Roger had been standing with his back to the fire. The sea-coal gave out no flame, only a dull glow; so but for the reddish patch it made and the final guttering of the candles the lofty room was now in darkness.

  Roger was sorely tempted to make a dash for the door and the street; but on that side his way was barred by Fouché, Peltier and two of the guardsmen. He knew that he would never be able to force a passage through the four of them. On his other side there were only the thick-set swarthy soldier and Lucette. As the table went over he launched himself at the two of them. The flat of his right hand landed full upon the man’s chest, thrusting him violently back. But his left hand missed Lucette, as she had stopped to snatch up the meat chopper during the last flicker of candle.

  As the light died Roger was already past them and racing towards the steep flight of stairs. Behind him shouts and curses came from the angry, excited group. Suddenly a cloak of blackness descended, hiding them all from one another, and the stairs from him. But he had judged his distance and direction well; his outstretched hand closed upon the rickety banister rail. Swinging himself round its newel-post, he took the stairs three at a time, until he reached the small square landing. Frantically he fumbled for the handle to the door up there, but for thirty seconds he could not find it. Those seconds nearly cost him his life.

  From the pounding of his footsteps, all his enemies knew which way he had gone. In a yelling pack, bumping against each other in the darkness as they ran, they headed for the stairs. Lucette, being better acquainted with the geography of the place than the others, reached them first. Chopper in hand she sprang up them almost on Roger’s heels. He heard the patter of her feet while he was striving to find the handle of the door, but knowing that if he could not get the door open he would be done, he took the risk of continuing to fumble for it. At last his hand closed upon it and, with a swift turn of the wrist, he flung the door wide; she reached the landing at that moment, coming full tilt upon him.

  The door gave on to a low-ceilinged room with two square, uncurtained windows. During the past twenty minutes the moon had risen. Its pale light made the two windows silver squares, and enough cold luminance radiated from them to transform the darkness of the landing into a pale greyness. Roger and Lucette could still not make out one another’s features, but the silhouette of each was plain to the other. He saw that she had the chopper already raised to cleave his skull. Ducking his head aside as the blow descended, he thrust both his hands out against her body. In the confined space of the little landing they were so close together that the push he gave her had the force of a blow. As a result of it she staggered back. Next second there came the creak of rending wood. The flimsy banister rail gave behind her. With a high-pitched scream she fell backwards, to land with a thump on the floor below.

  Having saved himself from her gave Roger only a moment’s respite. The swarthy soldier had been next after her up the stairs. As she went through the banisters he was only two steps below the level of the landing; but he was a short man, so the top of his head was as yet no higher than Roger’s chest. He made an upward thrust with a pike he was carrying. Roger was just in time to avoid it. Bringing up his right foot he kicked his new attacker under the chin. The man’s head snapped back, his eyes started from their sockets. Without a sound he collapsed, and rolled down the stairs, carrying with him the men who were behind.

  Groans, curses, shouts again filled the air; but Roger had won for himself a short breathing space. Slipping through the door, he swung it to behind him. To his relief, he found that it had a good strong bolt; but the wood of which the door was made was poor stuff, and he judged that it could not be expected to resist a heavy battering for long. Having shot the bolt he gave one glance round the room and saw that it was empty.

  There was not a stick of furniture in it. But that did not concern him. He knew that an arm of the Seine lay at the back of the building. From the window to the river might mean a thirty foot drop, but he had taken many a worse risk than that in his life, and he was a strong swimmer. Full of new hope that he had as good as saved himself, he ran across the bare boards to one of the windows. Through it could be seen hundreds of twinkling lights in the buildings on the Isle of St. Louis, but as he reached it his pounding heart stopped dead for a second. He could have wept with disappointment. It was barred.

  He had barely made this shattering discovery when the sound of heavy blows came from the door. Panting for breath, he ran to the other window. That was barred too. Evidently the room had at one time been used as a prison, or, more probably a nursery. Pulling up the sash of the window at which he stood, he peered out. Immediately below the water gurgled faintly against the foundations of the building, and the moonlight glinted on the ripples. It was a straight drop if only he could get through the window. The bars were quite thin but strong, as he found on grasping one of them. Exerting all his strength, he endeavoured to wrench it from its sockets. It bent, but all his efforts failed to loosen its ends where they were fixed into the frame of the window. He tried the one above it. That, too, bent, but its ends were equally firmly fixed. Straining on each of them in turn, he tried to bend the centre of the upper one up and the centre of the lower one down until the oval space between them should be wide enough for him to squeeze his head and body through it. But he soon realised that the bars were set too close together for that to be possible.

  Meanwhile, blow after blow resounded on the door. The bolt and hinges held, but the upper panels began to splinter. One of the men out there had found the chopper Lucette had dropped and was hacking at them with it; another was battering at them with a musket butt. Desperately Roger’s eyes roved round the moonlit room seeking for something he could use to prise the end of one of the bars from its socket. Floor, walls, and rafter were bare, but at one side of the room there was a narrow chimney piece and small grate. Running to it he strove to wrench the grate out in the hope that he might smash the bars loose with it. Again he met with disappointment; it was built into the fire-place.

  The upper part of the door was now smashed in. Beyond it, a suggestion of yellow light showed that when removing the man whom Roger had kicked under the chin, his comrades had found and relit the candles down in the studio. As Roger stared apprehensively at the great jagged hole in the door the muzzle of a musket was thrust through it, and Peltier’s hoarse voice ordered him to stand back. He retreated to the partly-open window. Alongside the musket appeared an arm, then the head of the ginger-haired soldier. Leaning through the opening he found the bolt and drew it back. The wrecked ‘door, now loose on its hinges, was forced open. Peltier and his two remaining men came clumping into the room, followed by Fouché.

  ‘Nah we got ‘im!’ the Corporal, still wheezing from his exertions against the door, gasped exultantly. ‘An’ I’m fer makin’ short work of ‘im. ‘E’s near killed one of our chaps; an’ we didn’t stand fer that from aristos in the good days.’

  Real fear suddenly gripped Roger’s heart. Peltier’s harsh voice held a ring that recalled to him some of the worst scenes that he had been compelled to witness during the Terror. Its fierce, breathless note was that of the born sans-culotte wrought up to fever pitch by a man hunt, and lusting for blood.

  ‘What d’yer say, Citizen?’ Peltier looked eagerly across at Fouché. ‘Shall I put a bullet in ‘im?’

/>   Roger’s glance, too, switched to Fouché. In the lean corpse-like face, now more pallid than ever in the moonlight, there was no trace of mercy; only apparent indifference. He meant to take no responsibility for the deed, but would be glad to see it done. To the Corporal’s question he returned only a faint smile and a just perceptible shrug of the shoulders.

  That was enough for Peltier. With deliberate care he cocked his musket.

  ‘Stop him!’ shouted Roger. ‘Stop him,’ But Fouché made no move to do so, and the two guardsmen stood looking on as though hypnotised.

  Roger had dropped the broken haft of his sword-cane a second before he had grasped and overturned the table, but it suddenly flashed into his mind that he still had Lucette’s stiletto stuck in the top of his jack-boot. Stooping, as Peltier raised his musket to take aim, he whipped the long thin dagger out. He was no practised knife thrower, but he hurled it with all his force at the Corporal’s head.

  In its swift flight the weight of the stiletto’s hilt caused it to turn over one and a half times. Too late Peltier attempted to duck it. He was handicapped by having his musket held up against his bristly chin. And luck aided Roger’s aim. The blunt-pointed hilt of the dagger struck him full in the left eye, smashing it to a pulp.

  With a screech of agony he dropped his musket. It went off with a shattering bang. Its bullet thudded harmlessly into the peeling plaster of the wall. Through the acrid smoke of the discharge, Roger saw the Corporal clap his hands to his bleeding face and stagger back. Next moment he lurched and sank, a whimpering, gibbering bundle against the smashed door.

  Fouché’s face fell, showing his disappointment that the blood lust of the ex-sans-culotte had not, once and for all, made an end of Roger for him. But he still had complete control of the situation. Turning swiftly to the nearer of the two guardsmen, he asked:

  ‘Is your musket loaded and primed?’

  ‘Yes, Citizen,’ came the quick reply. ‘I saw to it after we had carried our injured comrade out to the coach.’

  ‘Then give it to me.’ Fouché took the weapon as he spoke, and added: ‘Now pick up the Corporal’s musket. Both of you; get him downstairs and out to the coach with the other man. You are then to return and guard the front door. Should the Englishman get past me and endeavour to escape, you are to shoot him on sight.’

  With a muttered acknowledgment of the order, the nearest man picked up the musket; then together they took the moaning Corporal by the arms, pulled him to his feet, and half-led, half-dragged him to the stairs. As they struggled down with him, Fouché, now holding the musket at the ready, said to Roger in a voice that was all the more menacing from its complete lack of emotion:

  ‘I would have preferred to have seen you shot, rather than shoot you. It seems though that I am left with no option but to put a bullet into you myself.’

  Seized anew with fear of the fate he thought he had just escaped, Roger cried: ‘You’ll have to answer for it if you do.’

  ‘Oh no! You are quite wrong about that.’ A mocking smile twitched at Fouché’s pale lips. ‘Had I killed you in my house I might have had some explaining to do; but that does not apply here. There has been a mêlée. Two of the Directory’s Guard have been seriously injured. One musket has been fired already, another might easily go off in a moment of excitement. You are an English spy. After being arrested, you attempted to escape. What could be more simple. And think of the trouble it will save me.’

  A cold sweat had broken out on Roger’s forehead. His hands were clenched so that the nails bit into his palms. Fouché’s voice came again. Raising the musket to breast level he asked with cynical politeness:

  ‘Would you prefer that I should shoot you through the head, or through the heart?’

  He was standing against the opposite wall, ten paces away from Roger. Any attempt to rush him would have been hopeless. But Roger’s wits were working overtime, and he still had a dice in the box that gave him a sporting chance. Pulling Josephine’s diary from his pocket, and clutching it tightly, he thrust his arm out of the open window behind him. Then he said:

  ‘Shoot me if you will, but I can’t believe that you are quite such a fool. As I drop to the floor the diary will drop into the river and be lost forever. Downstairs, a few minutes back, you were cursing Madame Rémy for having surrendered it to me. You said that had she kept it hidden it might yet have meant big money for you both; and I know what you were thinking. It was that being a mulatto she would survive transportation: and that with her and yourself both put out of the way on the order of Barras, Madame de Beauharnais would believe herself safe to marry her General. And you were right. Barras is anxious for the match to take place; so he will not undeceive her. Neither will I. That must be obvious to you from the fact that I have been working to bring the marriage about. If, then, you still have the diary, you have only to be patient. The marriage will take place. Later you can inform General Buonaparte of the diary’s contents and threaten him with its publication. To prevent that he will pay you practically anything you like to ask.’

  Roger felt sure that Fouché’s mind must have been working more or less on those lines. But would he take the gamble? The diary was worth nothing to him unless Josephine would marry Buonaparte without first getting it back so that she could destroy it. Would he bank on her accepting Barras’s assurance that she had nothing more to fear? It was at least a tempting bet, although Roger felt certain that she would not. So, should the gamble be taken, he too would have to gamble on, somehow or other, getting the diary back. If he failed in that it meant the complete wreck of his plans. But making the offer was his only chance of saving his life; and as he watched Fouché’s face he knew that his life hung by a hair.

  Greed was one of the most potent characteristics of Fouché’s mentality—and greed won. His eyes shifted uncertainly for a moment, then he asked:

  ‘On what terms will you give me the diary?’

  Roger breathed again. ‘My life and freedom.’

  ‘Your life, yes; but your freedom, no. If you are clever enough to wriggle out of the charges that the Citoyenne Rémy and I can bring against you, well and good. That chance I will give you in exchange for a chance that I may yet make something out of the diary, but no more.’

  ‘For that then, you offer me only what may amount to a brief respite. That is not good enough.’

  ‘I’ll go no further. Give me the book and we’ll take you to the police office. Refuse and I’ll kill you where you stand.’

  Roger decided that Fouché meant what he said. It was a bitter pill to have to give up the diary, for so much hung upon it. But there was no other way in which he could buy his life. ‘Very well,’ he nodded. ‘Unload your musket and throw the cartridge on the floor.’

  As Fouché hesitated, he added: ‘Come; I’m not such a fool as to risk your shooting me after you have obtained the book. You will still have the weapon to use as a club. I am unarmed and even if I attacked you your shouts would soon bring the two soldiers up from the front door to your help.’

  ‘If I unload will you come quietly to the police office?’

  ‘What faith would you put in my word if I gave it to you? That is a risk you must take. As I have just said, you have two armed men whom you can call on to escort me.’

  Without further argument Fouché unloaded the musket, and threw down the cartridge. Roger drew his arm in from the open window, walked over to him and handed him the precious diary. Instead of moving towards the door, Roger said: ‘You will be good enough to go first, I have no mind to be struck down with the butt end of your musket as I descend the stairs.’

  With a pale smile, Fouché replied: ‘In that I will oblige you. But being of an equally suspicious disposition I have no mind to have you leap on me from behind; so you will be good enough to remain up on the landing until I have the bottom step.’

  Roger gave a quick nod, and halted in the doorway while Fouché walked on down the narrow staircase. At its bottom he took two paces forwar
d, then stopped, looking down at something that was hidden from Roger’s view. Roger followed, and as he rounded the corner of the newel-post his glance fell on the thing at which Fouché was staring. It was the body of Lucette.

  She lay there where she had fallen, her neck grotesquely twisted, and obviously dead. There came into Roger’s mind the prophecy of which she had told him some fourteen months before. That she could not be killed by bullet, by steel or by rope, but only by a fall from a high place.

  After they had stared at her body for a few moments they raised their eyes. For once Fouché’s shifty glance met Roger’s. Both knew that the other had realised the implications of her death. Fouché had lost his all-important witness, and Roger could swear now without fear of further contradiction from her that when she had denounced him in front of the soldiers, she had mistaken him for the mythical Robert MacElfic.

  For as long as it takes to draw a deep breath, Roger was seized with wild elation. It seemed that this sudden turn of Fortune’s Wheel had placed him out of danger. Then, like a douche of ice cold water, the facts of the case arranged themselves in his mind in their true perspective. Fate had robbed Fouché of his Ace of Trumps; but he still held the next best cards in the pack—the diary and two armed men who, so far, had accepted his orders.

  Within an instant of grasping that, Roger saw the new sequence. Lucette, by losing her life, had brought his again into immediate peril. Now, his one chance of saving himself and the situation lay in a swift attempt to exploit the setback that his enemy had suffered. With a great effort he forced his voice to assume the ring of triumph, and cried:

  ‘The game is mine, Fouché! Give me back that diary.’

  ‘No!’ Fouché exclaimed. ‘I’ll see you in hell first!’

  ‘If you refuse I’ll call in those two men to take it.’

  Surprise robbed Fouché of the power of speech for a second, then he burst out: ‘It is I who will call them in! I mean to have them shoot you while I have the chance.’