“The child who wrote this knows a lot more than your children,” said the Nyctalope. “And these are not mere scribbles. I, too, know a lot more than you think. Why lie to me? Sooner or later, you will confess the truth—if not to me, to the gendarmes. In your own interest. Perhaps it might interest you to know that the boy in question is a millionaire, and his family will pay a handsome reward to find him…”
The Nyctalope knew at once that he had hit bull’s eye. The gypsy’s eyes had lit the fires of greed. Obviously, he had not known the true value of the stolen child. The revelation left him speechless. At first, he appeared sorely tempted.
Saint– Clair followed the struggle on the man’s face. He was calculating the chances and risks he might be taking if he spoke, and was trying to figure out how to best take advantage of the situation he had just discovered.
“A big reward, you say?” he repeated.
He was about to speak, to confess. The Nyctalope could feel the truth about to emerge. But, suddenly, the face of the gypsy changed His eyes became fixed, looking beyond Saint-Clair and Gno Mitang, at something or someone who had signaled to him. And then, his face closed up again.
Sensing the foreboding presence of a mysterious adversary, who alone could explain the farmer’s sudden change of heart, Saint-Clair and the Japanese turned around, but they did not see anyone.
The farmer grinned.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, gentlemen,” he said defiantly, “but there is no such child here.”
“There is and I will find him, and it will be much worse for you,” retorted the Nyctalope, dryly.
He turned his back to the gypsy and invited Gno Mitang to follow him.
Saint-Clair understood that there was nothing more to be gained by remaining. The farmer was stubborn, having found a new assurance thanks to the mysterious foe whose presence the Nyctalope had sensed, but who could make himself as invisible as young Yves Marécourt.
The two friends walked down the slope.
“Are you giving up?” asked Gno Mitang.
“Of course not,” replied the Nyctalope. “But for now, there’s nothing more we can do. We’ll return when these people are no longer on their guard.
“Obviously, we were being watched by someone,” observed the Japanese.
Saint-Clair nodded but said nothing more. They were nearing the place where they had left their car... and also their interrupted lunch. The series of incidents that had occurred had killed their appetite. They contented themselves with gathering whatever was left of their picnic, putting it back into the basket and getting back into the car. The Nyctalope also returned the effects he had recovered from the gypsy to the trunk.
Afterwards, Gno Mitang took the wheel and asked for directions:
“Are we continuing towards the pass, and onward to Spain? Or are we turning around to go back to the valley?”
Before answering, Saint-Clair gave a final glance in the direction of the rocky promontory were the strange farm was located. His expression betrayed a certain reluctance to leave. He was visibly unhappy to go without finding the answer to the riddle of the lost child: why, and on whose account, had the gypsy kidnapped and held little Yves Marécourt, while remaining unaware of his fortune?
“Let’s go back down to the valley,” he finally decided. “The people in the next village might tell us more about the inhabitants of this farm.”
Consequently, Gno Mitang, acceding to his friend’s desire as always, was about to turn the car around, when, suddenly, they heard a cry.
Turning their heads in the direction of the cliff, whence the cry had come, they saw a human body spinning, falling and crashing to the bottom of a ravine, out of the sight of the two friends.
Gno Mitang stopped the car and Saint-Clair jumped out of the door. Both men ran to the place where the body had fallen. They had not exchanged a word, but the same question was on their lips: Who was it?
A man? A child? Because of the distance that separated them from the rock, and the rapidity of the fall, they had not been able to identify the victim. The same thought assaulted their minds: could their unplanned intervention have been the cause of a terrible, brutish crime, whose victim might be the child prodigy whom they were trying to save?
They were reassured when they reached the edge of the ravine. The size of the body lying there was that of a man, not a child. Carefully climbing down the rocks, they approached the twisted body.
Its limbs were broken, the skull cracked… The dead man was the farmer gypsy whom they had left half an hour before.
Was it an accident? Or a crime?
Suddenly, they heard another sound. They raised their heads. On the road bordering the ravine, a sports car passed, racing away, its driver barely glancing at them.
And both men, at the same moment, felt as if they recognized that car.
Chapter III
Duel of Feints
Neither Saint-Clair nor Gno Mitang had touched the gypsy’s body. But the way his head had smashed against the rock during the fall, meant that there was no chance of survival. Still, the Nyctalope checked for a pulse.
“We’ll get nothing more useful from this unfortunate man,” he said. “Until we catch his killer, we won’t know the reason for this crime.”
“It seems clear enough to me,” remarked the Japanese.
“Not entirely,” said the Nyctalope. “We can, of course, use our imaginations to reconstruct the scene—what must have occurred after we left. Someone—perhaps the driver of that car we just saw go by—had been spying on us while we talked to the farmer. Foreseeing his possible betrayal, especially considering the lure of the reward that I was dangling before him, this individual, seeking to preserve his secret, first signaled to the farmer to order him say nothing. After our departure, a heated debate probably erupted between the two men, who must both be accomplices in the abduction of little Yves Marécourt. The gypsy, who had been kept unaware of the child’s wealth, must have intended to take advantage of what I’d told him. The other, not caring to give in to the farmer’s demands, got rid of him by throwing him over the edge of that cliff.”
“All that is very plausible,” approved Gno Mitang.
“But what is the murderer’s interest in this case? And who is he? You remember, my friend, the car that Madame Andrézieux seemed to chasing shortly before her death?”
“Yes. It was a sports car,” said the Japanese.
“Isn’t it possible that Madame Andrézieux, concerned about the disappearance of her ward, might have recognized its driver and pursued him? I’m also reminded that we saw another sports car—possibly the same one—dawdling on the road behind a gypsy caravan the day we met with little Yves and his guardian…”
“And the car we just saw race down from above was also a sports car,” remarked Gno Mitang.
“Yes. If that was the same car, the same person must be behind the wheel,” said Leo Saint-Clair. “He should be found and identified. But he got away again. We must trust in Fate to again place us across his path. For now, if you don’t mind, let’s return to the farm. The murder might have been witnessed. The gypsy had his whole family up there, with many children... Maybe someone will decide to talk. Any information, any evidence we might collect, will be invaluable.”
But once at the farm, despite looking everywhere and searching all the buildings, they found no one. Obviously unwilling or too terrified to talk, all the occupants, young and old, men, women and children, had taken flight, going into the mountains and, probably, across the Spanish border. There was a good chance they had already crossed it, putting more space between them and the object of their terror.
Had they taken little Yves Marécourt with them? This was the question that Saint-Clair asked himself. But he was suddenly distracted by a call from his Japanese friend.
“Come and see this!”
In a barn, under a layer of straw, Gno Mitang had discovered a large cement slab, the joints of which, free of dust and
straw, showed that it had been recently raised. The Nyctalope and his friend set to work, raised it, and eventually gained access to a dark and damp cellar lit by only by a small, barred window.
This virtual tomb was empty, except for a small cot in a corner, standing on top of a wooden pallet, which suggested that it had been inhabited. Upon closer inspection, Saint-Clair found under the boards of the pallet a supply of chalk and charcoal. While examining the walls with his flashlight, he discovered the same signs and letters making up chemical formulas, which he had already noticed on one of the exterior walls of the farm. The conclusion was obvious: this cave had been used as a prison for Yves Marécourt.
Indeed, at the bottom of the groups of letters representing combinations of acids and bases, one could see in uppercase: YM.
“That’s his signature,” said the Nyctalopic. “The child wanted to leave a sign of his presence here, hoping that someone might discover it—and he was right.”
“What do we do now?” asked the Japanese.
“Let’s stop in the nearest town, Urdos,” replied Saint-Clair. “Our first duty is to warn the gendarmes of the crime we witnessed. And it will give us the opportunity to investigate these strange farmers who kept that lost child—or should I say stolen child?—prisoner.”
“Are you sure you want to mention the existence and the alleged kidnapping of Yves Marécourt?” said Gno Mitang. “It might only confuse the police and lead them to question the reasons for our presence here?”
“You’re right. Let’s keep that information to ourselves, at least until the gendarmes or we get hold of the murderer, or we find the child. Thank you, my friend, for reminding me of the need for discretion in this matter.”
“You’re very welcome, my dear Leo.”
Less than thirty minutes later, Gno Mitang’s fast car arrived in Urdos, where the two friends set out to find the gendarmerie.
“The nearest one is in Accous, the seat of the county,” they were told.
“The telephone will alert them faster than we can by going there,” replied the Nyctalope. Take us to the Mayor. We’ll give him a statement and he can take care of things.”
The kindly man who held the Mayoral post in the small village received the news with dismay and consternation. That a murder had been committed on the territory of his commune was the equivalent of a natural disaster! The whole village would be in an uproar. As far as he could recall, there had never been a murder committed in the peaceful valley. The very idea that he was going to have to telephone the police and be responsible for the initial investigation drove the poor man to the verge of tears. It took Saint-Clair and Gno Mitang a good quarter of an hour to explain to him what he had to do, and boost his confidence. The first thing, they said, was to report the suspicious sports car.
Afterwards, they were finally able to discuss their own, personal investigation. And this is what they learned regarding the mysterious occupants of the isolated farm:
Were they gypsies? Yes, it was quite possible they were... That was the impression they’d given when they’d arrived in the region, about two years before.
Saint-Clair noted the date, which coincided with the disappearance of young Marécourt.
Were they farmers? They had become so through their occupation of the old, dilapidated and abandoned farmhouse—owned or rented, no one knew, but the notary of the next town could probably tell them. In any case, they did not seem to be hard workers, and it was a miracle if they managed to live off their farm. But, they were not beggars either. They bought meat, wine, bread and vegetables, and plenty of spirits, in Forges d’Abel and Urdos, so they had money. They received postal orders, brought by the postman, from time to time.
Where did the money come from? The police would have to find out, if they were curious about it.
The family, as far as the villagers could tell, consisted of two men, one woman and a throng of children. The woman came alone to the village once in a while to buy supplies. The two men never came down and didn’t they patronize the local café. If they had to celebrate something, they did it at home, behind closed doors. They were barely civilized. The children were as swarthy as the adults and ran off at full speed when the locals tried to talk to them. No one had ever seen a blond boy among them.
As for the sports car, pending a more detailed investigation by the gendarmes, the Mayor was quite certain that it had not crossed the village. The main road passed just in front of his door and he would surely have noticed.
Having noted all this information, Saint-Clair only had to sign his official statement, thank the Mayor and take his leave.
“I’m afraid that our investigation here is at a dead end,” he said to his friend, as they were driving back to Pau. “We’ll learn nothing more in the region. We have to seek the trail elsewhere…”
“But where?”
“At the child and his guardian’s home—the Manoir de Folembray. The address is inside the book.”
It was child’s play for the Nyctalope to locate the Manor, located in a forest, near a village in the Aisne. But what he learned there hardly made the situation clearer.
He was referred to Maître Loureille, a local notary, responsible for overseeing the estate. Saint-Clair and Gno Mitang went to visit him.
“Certainly, Messieurs,” said the notary, when asked, “I do know young Yves Marécourt, and his guardian, the charming Madame Andrézieux, but I haven’t had any news of them since the Exodus. I’m sorry to learn what you’ve just told me. As for young Yves’ family, I don’t know if he has any. Apart from his grandfather, whose notary I was, I know of no other relatives. Of course, that does not mean that they don’t exist…”
“They’ll probably make themselves known when they learn of the death of Madame Andrézieux and the disappearance of Yves,” said Saint-Clair. “Their self-interest, if not any affection they might feel for the boy, will surely motivate them to do so.”
“I think so too.”
“What was the legal situation of Madame Andrézieux vis-à-vis the fortune bequeathed to Yves Marécourt?”
“Just that of a guardian. According to the will of the testator, I was made the executor of his estate and accepted that responsibility, but I’ve confined myself to managing his fortune, which, as you know, is considerable. Madame Andrézieux, who had earned the confidence of the testator, received the income derived from my efforts, which I’m happy to say, she employed exclusively for the good of the child.”
“So she was entitled to live off the proceeds?” asked the Nyctalope.
“Not at all. An entitlement is always attached to the person of the recipient and continues until his or her death. But in Madame Andrézieux’s case, the enjoyment of her income would terminate upon the majority of her ward—or his death. Here is the exact passage of the testament: Lise Andrézieux will receive all income generated by the Estate, and will dispose of it according to the instructions I gave her. Her position, and the powers arising therefrom, will last only as long as she remains my grandson’s legal guardian. At his majority, or in the event of premature termination of the guardianship, for any reason whatsoever, that position will expire. However, a reasonable annuity allowing her to live with dignity will henceforth be paid to Madame. Andrézieux.”
“Thank you, Maître. This proves that Madame Andrézieux had no interest whatsoever in disposing of her ward.”
“Quite the contrary!”
“Indeed. We agree on that point, which is important. Since I intend, as I’ve told you, to find Yves, I have to know who may have had an interest in his disappearance. Let’s proceed by elimination. We have now crossed out Madame Andrézieux. It seems to me that there are two possibilities. The author or instigator of the kidnapping may have a direct or indirect interest in removing the child. Or, given young Yves’ wealth, we may be confronted with an American-style act of banditry, i.e.: the child was taken in order to extort the payment of a large ransom.”
“I suppose that’s a
possibility…”
“Yes, but I don’t find it very likely. If the kidnappers wanted to ransom the child, why haven’t they tried to contact you? It’s been two years and you haven’t heard a peep… On the other hand, I ask myself, if the first hypothesis is true, why did the successor of the child not have him killed immediately? We have proof that Yves was still alive at that farm two years after the abduction…”
“Perhaps Madame Andrézieux’s unexpected death had something to do with it?” observed Gno Mitang.
“True. Current events, too, may explain their inaction. I’m not however abandoning the first hypothesis, that of the intervention of a malicious heir. Can I ask you a favor, Maître Loureille?”
“Certainly, Monsieur Saint-Clair. What would you like me to do?”
“Could you place a classified advertisement in several newspapers saying something like: Wanted: the heirs of young Yves Marécourt disappeared during the Exodus. Coming from a notary, this will not appear suspicious. Someone is bound to see it and respond. Then, let me know who, in full confidence of course.”
“Your reputation precedes you, Monsieur Saint-Clair. You have my trust and I assure you of my full cooperation.”
“Thank you, Maître.”
And the two friends left. Still, the Nyctalope remained anxious. The same questions, which he had outlined to the notary, continued to haunt him.
Why had Yves Marécourt been kidnapped? And why was his confinement being prolonged, without anyone trying to profit from it? What had been done to the child before and after the incident at the farm? What would happen to him now? The man who had killed the gypsy, whoever he was, had certainly not left the farm without resolving the fate of the child…
When asked, Gno Mitang agreed with his friend, but added a suggestion:
“If the murderer was the man we saw in the sports car, perhaps he took the boy with him?”
“I don’t think so. He was clearly alone when we saw him. Also, he was driving towards the Forges d’Abel. If he had taken Yves with him, alive or dead, he would have been more likely to try to cross the Spanish border instead.”
The Nyctalope Steps In Page 3
