“You did, at any rate. Your letters condemn you.”
“Lies! They were the letters of a friend to a friend.”
“Letters of a mistress to her paramour.”
“Prove it.”
“They are there, in Jacques’ pocket-book.”
“No, they’re not.”
“What’s that you say?”
“I say that those letters belonged to me. I’ve taken them back, or rather my brother has.”
“You’ve stolen them, you wretch! And you shall give them back again,” cried Thérèse, shaking her.
“I haven’t them. My brother kept them. He has gone.”
Thérèse staggered and stretched out her hands to Rénine with an expression of despair. Rénine said:
“What she says is true. I watched the brother’s proceedings while he was feeling in your bag. He took out the pocket-book, looked through it with his sister, came and put it back again and went off with the letters.”
Rénine paused and added,
“Or, at least, with five of them.”
The two women moved closer to him. What did he intend to convey? If Frederic Astaing had taken away only five letters, what had become of the sixth?
“I suppose,” said Rénine, “that, when the pocket-book fell on the shingle, that sixth letter slipped out at the same time as the photograph and that M. d’Ormeval must have picked it up, for I found it in the pocket of his blazer, which had been hung up near the bed. Here it is. It’s signed Germaine Astaing and it is quite enough to prove the writer’s intentions and the murderous counsels which she was pressing upon her lover.”
Madame Astaing had turned grey in the face and was so much disconcerted that she did not try to defend herself. Rénine continued, addressing his remarks to her:
“To my mind, madame, you are responsible for all that happened. Penniless, no doubt, and at the end of your resources, you tried to profit by the passion with which you inspired M. d’Ormeval in order to make him marry you, in spite of all the obstacles, and to lay your hands upon his fortune. I have proofs of this greed for money and these abominable calculations and can supply them if need be. A few minutes after I had felt in the pocket of that jacket, you did the same. I had removed the sixth letter, but had left a slip of paper which you looked for eagerly and which also must have dropped out of the pocket-book. It was an uncrossed cheque for a hundred thousand francs, drawn by M. d’Ormeval in your brother’s name… just a little wedding-present… what we might call pin-money. Acting on your instructions, your brother dashed off by motor to Le Havre to reach the bank before four o’clock. I may as well tell you that he will not have cashed the cheque, for I had a telephone-message sent to the bank to announce the murder of M. d’Ormeval, which stops all payments. The upshot of all this is that the police, if you persist in your schemes of revenge, will have in their hands all the proofs that are wanted against you and your brother. I might add, as an edifying piece of evidence, the story of the conversation which I overheard between your brother and yourself in a dining-car on the railway between Brest and Paris, a fortnight ago. But I feel sure that you will not drive me to adopt these extreme measures and that we understand each other. Isn’t that so?”
Natures like Madame Astaing’s, which are violent and headstrong so long as a fight is possible and while a gleam of hope remains, are easily swayed in defeat. Germaine was too intelligent not to grasp the fact that the least attempt at resistance would be shattered by such an adversary as this. She was in his hands. She could but yield.
She therefore did not indulge in any play-acting, nor in any demonstration such as threats, outbursts of fury or hysterics. She bowed:
“We are agreed,” she said. “What are your terms?”
“Go away. If ever you are called upon for your evidence, say that you know nothing.”
She walked away. At the door, she hesitated and then, between her teeth, said:
“The cheque.”
Rénine looked at Madame d’Ormeval, who declared:
“Let her keep it. I would not touch that money.”
When Rénine had given Thérèse d’Ormeval precise instructions as to how she was to behave at the enquiry and to answer the questions put to her, he left the chalet, accompanied by Hort-ense Daniel.
On the beach below, the magistrate and the public prosecutor were continuing their investigations, taking measurements, examining the witnesses and generally laying their heads together.
“When I think,” said Hortense, “that you have the dagger and M. d’Ormeval’s pocket-book on you!”
“And it strikes you as awfully dangerous, I suppose?” he said, laughing. “It strikes me as awfully comic.”
“Aren’t you afraid?”
“Of what?”
“That they may suspect something?”
“Lord, they won’t suspect a thing! We shall tell those good people what we saw and our evidence will only increase their perplexity, for we saw nothing at all. For prudence sake we will stay a day or two, to see which way the wind is blowing. But it’s quite settled: they will never be able to make head or tail of the matter.”
“Nevertheless, you guessed the secret and from the first. Why?”
“Because, instead of seeking difficulties where none exist, as people generally do, I always put the question as it should be put; and the solution comes quite naturally. A man goes to his cabin and locks himself in. Half an hour later, he is found inside, dead. No one has gone in. What has happened? To my mind there is only one answer. There is no need to think about it. As the murder was not committed in the cabin, it must have been committed beforehand and the man was already mortally wounded when he entered his cabin. And forthwith the truth in this particular case appeared to me. Madame d’Ormeval, who was to have been killed this evening, forestalled her murderers and while her husband was stooping to the ground, in a moment of frenzy stabbed him in the back. There was nothing left to do but look for the reasons that prompted her action. When I knew them, I took her part unreservedly. That’s the whole story.”
The day was beginning to wane. The blue of the sky was becoming darker and the sea even more peaceful than before.
“What are you thinking of?” asked Rénine, after a moment.
“I am thinking,” she said, “that if I too were the victim of some machination, I should trust you whatever happened, trust you through and against all. I know, as certainly as I know that I exist, that you would save me, whatever the obstacles might be. There is no limit to the power of your will.”
He said, very softly:
“There is no limit to my wish to please you.”
AT THE SIGN OF MERCURY
To Madame Daniel,
La Roncièere,
near Bassicourt.
PARIS 30 NOVEMBER
“MY DEAREST FRIEND,—
“There has been no letter from you for a fortnight; so I don’t expect now to receive one for that troublesome date of the 5 th of December, which we fixed as the last day of our partnership. I rather wish it would come, because you will then be released from a contract which no longer seems to give you pleasure. To me the seven battles which we fought and won together were a time of endless delight and enthusiasm. I was living beside you. I was conscious of all the good which that more active and stirring existence was doing you. My happiness was so great that I dared not speak of it to you or let you see anything of my secret feelings except my desire to please you and my passionate devotion. To-day you have had enough of your brother in arms. Your will shall be law.
“But, though I bow to your decree, may I remind you what it was that I always believed our final adventure would be? May I repeat your words, not one of which I have forgotten?
“ ‘I demand,’ you said, ‘that you shall restore to me a small, antique clasp, made of a cornelian set in a filigree mount. It came to me from my mother; and every one knew that it used to bring her happiness and me too. Since the day when it vanished from my
jewel-case, I have had nothing but unhappiness. Restore it to me, my good genius.’
“And, when I asked you when the clasp had disappeared, you answered, with a laugh:
“ ‘Seven years ago… or eight… or nine: I don’t know exactly…. I don’t know when… I don’t know how… I know nothing about it….’
“You were challenging me, were you not, and you set me that condition because it was one which I could not fulfil? Nevertheless, I promised and I should like to keep my promise. What I have tried to do, in order to place life before you in a more favourable light, would seem purposeless, if your confidence feels the lack of this talisman to which you attach so great a value. We must not laugh at these little superstitions. They are often the mainspring of our best actions.
“Dear friend, if you had helped me, I should have achieved yet one more victory. Alone and hard pushed by the proximity of the date, I have failed, not however without placing things on such a footing that the undertaking if you care to follow it up, has the greatest chance of success.
“And you will follow it up, won’t you? We have entered into a mutual agreement which we are bound to honour. It behooves us, within a fixed time, to inscribe in the book of our common life eight good stories, to which we shall have brought energy, logic, perseverance, some subtlety and occasionally a little heroism. This is the eighth of them. It is for you to act so that it may be written in its proper place on the 5 th of December, before the clock strikes eight in the evening.
“And, on that day, you will act as I shall now tell you.
“First of all—and above all, my dear, do not complain that my instructions are fanciful: each of them is an indispensable condition of success—first of all, cut in your cousin’s garden three slender lengths of rush. Plait them together and bind up the two ends so as to make a rude switch, like a child’s whip-lash.
“When you get to Paris, buy a long necklace of jet beads, cut into facets, and shorten it so that it consists of seventy-five beads, of almost equal size.
“Under your winter cloak, wear a blue woollen gown. On your head, a toque with red leaves on it. Round your neck, a feather boa. No gloves. No rings.
“In the afternoon, take a cab along the left bank of the river to the church of Saint-Étienne-du-Mont. At four o’clock exactly, there will be, near the holy-water basin, just inside the church, an old woman dressed in black, saying her prayers on a silver rosary. She will offer you holy water. Give her your necklace. She will count the beads and hand it back to you. After this, you will walk behind her, you will cross an arm of the Seine and she will lead you, down a lonely street in the He Saint-Louis, to a house which you will enter by yourself.
“On the ground-floor of this house, you will find a youngish man; with a very pasty complexion. Take off your cloak and then say to him:
“ ‘I have come to fetch my clasp.’
“Do not be astonished by his agitation or dismay. Keep calm in his presence. If he questions you, if he wants to know your reason for applying to him or what impels you to make that request, give him no explanation. Your replies must be confined to these brief formulas:
“ ‘I have come to fetch what belongs to me. I don’t know you, I don’t know your name; but I am obliged to come to you like this. I must have my clasp returned to me. I must.’
“I honestly believe that, if you have the firmness not to swerve from that attitude, whatever farce the man may play, you will be completely successful. But the contest must be a short one and the issue will depend solely on your confidence in yourself and your certainty of success. It will be a sort of match in which you must defeat your opponent in the first round. If you remain impassive, you will win. If you show hestitation or uneasiness, you can do nothing against him. He will escape you and regain the upper hand after a first moment of distress; and the game will be lost in a few minutes. There is no midway house between victory or… defeat.
“In the latter event, you would be obliged—I beg you to pardon me for saying so—again to accept my collaboration. I offer it you in advance, my dear, and without any conditions, while stating quite plainly that all that I have been able to do for you and all that I may yet do gives me no other right than that of thanking you and devoting myself more than ever to the woman who represents my joy, my whole life.”
Hortense, after reading the letter, folded it up and put it away at the back of a drawer, saying, in a resolute voice:
“I shan’t go.”
To begin with, although she had formerly attached some slight importance to this trinket, which she had regarded as a mascot, she felt very little interest in it now that the period of her trials was apparently at an end. She could not forget that figure eight, which was the serial number of the next adventure. To launch herself upon it meant taking up the interrupted chain, going back to Rénine and giving him a pledge which, with his powers of suggestion, he would know how to turn to account.
Two days before the 5th of December, she was still in the same frame of mind. So she was on the morning of the 4th; but suddenly, without even having to contend against preliminary subterfuges, she ran out into the garden, cut three lengths of rush, plaited them as she used to do in her childhood and at twelve o’clock had herself driven to the station. She was uplifted by an eager curiosity. She was unable to resist all the amusing and novel sensations which the adventure, proposed by Rénine, promised her. It was really too tempting. The jet necklace, the toque with the autumn leaves, the old woman with the silver rosary: how could she resist their mysterious appeal and how could she refuse this opportunity of showing Rénine what she was capable of doing?
“And then, after all,” she said to herself, laughing, “he’s summoning me to Paris. Now eight o’clock is dangerous to me at a spot three hundred miles from Paris, in that old deserted Château de Halingre, but nowhere else. The only clock that can strike the threatening hour is down there, under lock and key, a prisoner!”
She reached Paris that evening. On the morning of the 5 th she went out and bought a jet necklace, which she reduced to seventy-five beads, put on a blue gown and a toque with red leaves and, at four o’clock precisely, entered the church of Saint-Etienne-du-Mont.
Her heart was throbbing violently. This time she was alone; and how acutely she now felt the strength of that support which, from unreflecting fear rather than any reasonable motive, she had thrust aside! She looked around her, almost hoping to see him. But there was no one there… no one except an old lady in black, standing beside the holy water basin.
Hortense went up to her. The old lady, who held a silver rosary in her hands, offered her holy water and then began to count the beads of the necklace which Hortense gave her.
She whispered:
“Seventy-five. That’s right. Come.”
Without another word, she toddled along under the light of the street-lamps, crossed the Pont des Tournelles to the He Saint-Louis and went down an empty street leading to a crossroads, where she stopped in front of an old house with wrought-iron balconies:
“Go in,” she said.
And the old lady went away.
Hortense now saw a prosperous-looking shop which occupied almost the whole of the ground-floor and whose windows, blazing with electric light, displayed a huddled array of old furniture and antiquities. She stood there for a few seconds, gazing at it absently. A sign-board bore the words “The Mercury,” together with the name of the owner of the shop, “Pancaldi.” Higher up, on a projecting cornice which ran on a level with the first floor, a small niche sheltered a terra-cotta Mercury1 poised on one foot, with wings to his sandals and the caduceus in his hand, who, as Hortense noted, was leaning a little too far forward in the ardour of his flight and ought logically to have lost his balance and taken a header into the street.
“Now!” she said, under her breath.
She turned the handle of the door and walked in.
Despite the ringing of the bells actuated by the opening door, no one came to m
eet her. The shop seemed to be empty. However, at the extreme end there was a room at the back of the shop and after that another, both crammed with furniture and knick-knacks, many of which looked very valuable. Hortense followed a narrow gangway which twisted and turned between two walls built up of cupboards, cabinets and console-tables, went up two steps and found herself in the last room of all.
A man was sitting at a writing-desk and looking through some account-books. Without turning his head, he said:
“I am at your service, madam…. Please look round you….”
This room contained nothing but articles of a special character which gave it the appearance of some alchemist’s laboratory in the middle ages: stuffed owls, skeletons, skulls, copper alembics, astrolabes and all around, hanging on the walls, amulets of every description, mainly hands of ivory or coral with two fingers pointing to ward off ill-luck.
“Are you wanting anything in particular, madam?” asked M. Pancaldi, closing his desk and rising from his chair.
“It’s the man,” thought Hortense.
He had in fact an uncommonly pasty complexion. A little forked beard, flecked with grey, lengthened his face, which was surmounted by a bald, pallid forehead, beneath which gleamed a pair of small, prominent, restless, shifty eyes.
Hortense, who had not removed her veil or cloak, replied:
“I want a clasp.”
“They’re in this show-case,” he said, leading the way to the connecting room.
Hortense glanced over the glass case and said:
“No, no,… I don’t see what I’m looking for. I don’t want just any clasp, but a clasp which I lost out of a jewel-case some years ago and which I have come to look for here.”
She was astounded to see the commotion displayed on his features. His eyes became haggard.
“Here?… I don’t think you are in the least likely… What sort of clasp is it?…”
“A cornelian, mounted in gold filigree… of the 1830 period.”
Arsène Lupin, Gentleman-thief (Penguin Classics) Page 29
