Temple Tower

by Sapper

  “My God!” he muttered. “Look at that.”

  “What the devil,” began Hugh, and then he came over to where I was sitting. And in silence we all stared at a small piece of paper which we had failed to notice in our absorption up till then. It was about two inches square, and was fastened to the tree by a drawing-pin. And in the centre of it, drawn in ink, was a perfect representation of a hunchback.

  “Is that the device you mean?” said Hugh quietly.

  For answer Matthews unfastened his pocketbook, and from it he took the exact replica of the paper pinned to the tree, save that it was yellow with age. But the drawing was the same – a hunchback.

  “I took this one,” he said gravely, “from the body of a man who was found strangled one morning behind a lot of crates in the Gare de Lyons. He had in his pocket a third-class ticket for Marseilles, but he had not caught his train.”

  For a while we were all silent, each busy with our own thoughts. This sudden verification of Matthews’ story, coming, as it were, out of the blue into a sunny English garden, seemed wellnigh uncanny. Almost mechanically Hugh went to the telescope and stared through it. And after a while he swung round and faced us.

  “How the devil did that get there?” he said.

  Matthews gave a short laugh.

  “Your activities are evidently known, Captain Drummond, and are not approved of. Le Bossu Masqué must have put it there himself.”

  “Masqué?” I cried, and Matthews nodded.

  “Yes: I was coming to that, when this somewhat dramatic interruption occurred.”

  “Damn the fellow,” spluttered Hugh. “Having the gall to come into my garden and stick his cursed bits of paper all over the view. If I catch the blighter I’ll turn his hump into a goitre in his neck. However, Mr Matthews, please pardon the natural annoyance of a respectable English householder. Let’s hear some more.”

  “Well, as I was saying,” continued the other, “it was in 1900 that that design began to become familiar with the population of Paris. That it was a further development of the same man, we knew; his methods remained exactly similar to those he employed when he was unknown. Only now he began to grow more daring. Up till then, his orders had always been transmitted in writing: now he commenced to issue them verbally. And this, of course, was seized on as a golden opportunity by the police. In every community there are men who can be bought, and the underworld of Paris is certainly no exception to the rule. And so as soon as this new development became known plans were very carefully laid to catch him. With great secrecy, and through the most trustworthy channels possible, it was communicated to certain likely quarters that in the event of anyone receiving a message from le Bossu, with instructions to meet him personally, the police were to be at once communicated with. And a very big reward was promised if the information led to his capture.

  “Sure enough, one day we got a ring on the telephone. And a guarded voice informed us that le Bossu had summoned the speaker – a particularly unpleasant form of brute known as the Rat – to go to a small hotel not far from the Gare de l’Est at ten that night. The police surrounded the place: every entrance to the hotel was picketed when the Rat arrived. He was presumably to receive more detailed instructions in the hall as to which room he was to go to, and we gave him orders to communicate the number to the man at the door. It had been decided to allow him a little time with le Bossu so that we could find out what scheme that gentleman had in view, and it was ten minutes after the Rat had disappeared upstairs that we rushed the room.

  “Now, gentlemen, I was in the passage outside the room from the time the Rat went in. And I will swear that no one came out. Yet, when we went in, he was lying stone dead in the middle of the carpet, with a knife driven up to the hilt in his back.”

  “Good Lord!” said Freckles, a cigarette he had forgotten to light between his lips. “But how did the fellow get away?”

  Matthews shrugged his shoulders.

  “The window was open, and so that was where he escaped, presumably. But that was only one case out of a dozen.”

  “Hold hard a minute,” said Hugh. “Had no one in the hotel seen the man who took the room?”

  “The room had been booked by telephone,” said Matthews. “And the hotel, though small, is a busy one. Numbers of men had been in there that evening, and it was quite impossible to say which of them it was.”

  “But a hunchback is a pretty conspicuous figure,” I objected.

  “Ah! but was he a hunchback? True, he had adopted this device, but that was no proof that he was one himself. Or possibly the hump was detachable – a specially assumed disguise.”

  “Yes – that’s true,” agreed Hugh.

  “You may take it from me, gentlemen,” went on Matthews, “that we took every possible, and impossible, theory into account. But the plain, bald fact remained that under the very noses of the police the Rat had been murdered, and the murderer had vanished into thin air. However, I must get on: that is all ancient history and is nothing whatever to do with our little affair today, save that it gives you a good idea of the type of man we are dealing with.”

  “Awfully jolly,” murmured Freckles. “He sounds an absolute topper.”

  “I’m coming now to the part that really concerns us,” continued Matthews. “And to make it clear to you, I will take it as it actually happened, not as we found it out at the trial of the Nightingale. He was our informant when, unfortunately, it was too late. As you will understand, after the episode of the Rat, and several others of a similar type, it had become impossible to carry on with the method we had originally hoped so much from. No one dared run the risk, though we doubled and trebled the money offered. But certain facts leaked out from the men who had seen him, and two of these were early established. First – he had a hump, though, as I said before, whether it was genuine or not we didn’t know. Second – he was always masked. There was not a soul in the whole underworld of Paris who could claim to have seen his face.

  “It was in September, 1902, that the Nightingale received a message which caused him to turn pale with fear – a summons from le Bossu Masqué. The Nightingale and his gang had, as I have already told you, been playing about with their motorcar, and enjoying themselves in their own mild way. If the truth be known, I think they were rather frightened of the machine: certain it is, they had no notion of its possibilities as an instrument of crime. And to them, pottering along with their little footpad tricks, came this sudden summons. The car, driven by the Nightingale alone, was to be taken to the small town of Magny, halfway between Paris and Rouen, and there further instructions would be given him.”

  Matthews smiled slightly.

  “I can imagine the feelings of le Rossignol,” he went on, “as he drove out through the Porte Maillot on that fine September morning. The ever-present fear of the driver of those days that the car would break down was for once forgotten: he probably prayed devoutly that it would. But his prayer was unanswered, and at eleven o’clock he drew up outside the Hotel du Grand-Cerf, in Magny, and proceeded to fortify himself with some alcohol.

  “Lunch time came, and with it a wild hope that there was some mistake, and that he was to be allowed to continue his normal life undisturbed by le Bossu Masqué. Vain thought: the summons came as he finished his meal. A letter was handed to him by the garçon, which he opened with trembling hands. It ran as follows:

  “‘At eight tonight you will take the road to Gisors on foot. Four kilometres out of the town, on the left of the road, is a small copse. In the centre of the copse is a wood-cutter’s shed. Go there.’

  “He told us at the trial, that three times that afternoon did he get as far as the local gendarmerie, only on each occasion to have his courage fail him at the last moment. Poor devil! one can hardly blame him. No one knew better than he what had been the penalty for treachery in Paris. And if it occurred in Pa
ris with the whole force of police available, what chance had a couple of stout local gendarmes at night in the middle of a wood? And so eight o’clock found him taking the road for Gisors. He trudged along whistling, probably to try and keep his spirits up, until at length the copse on the left of the road loomed up out of the darkness. Like all town dwellers the country at night was full of nameless terrors for him, even on normal occasions. The sudden scream of a night bird could make him sweat with fear far more easily than any report of a revolver. So it isn’t difficult to imagine his feelings on this far from normal occasion, when he struck into the trees and began to search for the wood-cutter’s shed.

  “At last he found it. It was in pitch darkness, and when he tried the door it was locked. (Interrupting myself for a moment, I think at the trial, when all this came out, that our friend made as good a story as he could out of it, to try and enlist sympathy. But even granted that, I’ll bet he had a pretty grim half-hour.) After a while he sat down, and took out a packet of Caporals. A cigarette, he reflected, might help to quieten his nerves. And even as he felt in his pocket for a match a hand came out of the darkness and took the cigarette out of his mouth.

  “Frozen with horror he sat there, leaning against the wall of the shed. Speech he could understand: the roar of Paris he was at home in, but that silent action in the middle of a deserted wood, where he had believed himself to be alone, literally petrified him with terror. His tongue was cleaving to his dry mouth: he couldn’t even scream. Somewhere close to him was that most dreaded being in Paris – the masked hunchback.

  “The sweat ran in streams from his forehead: his teeth chattered. If only this other one would speak: if only something would happen to break this ghastly silence! But there was nothing – nothing save the faint creaking of the trees in the night breeze. At last he forced himself to look round: there, standing just behind him, was the figure of a man. He could make out no details: only the outline could be seen against the blackness of the wood. And after a while he scrambled to his feet.

  “‘I have come,’ he said in a shaking voice.

  “‘Why do you suppose, Rossignol, that I chose a spot like this for our rendezvous?’

  “According to Marillard at his trial the voice of le Bossu was the most terrible thing he had ever heard. It was never raised, and his own description of it was that it sounded like drops of iced water boring into his brain.

  “‘That we should be secret, M’sieur,’ he stammered.

  “‘And that is why you propose to light a cigarette in the middle of a dark wood,’ went on the voice. ‘That you were a fool I have long known: I perceive that you are an even more incredible imbecile than I suspected.’

  “‘Pardon, M’sieur,’ muttered le Rossignol. ‘I am not used to the country: I did not think.’

  “‘Precisely: you did not think. In future, you will think. Now pay very close attention. Tonight you will sleep at the Hotel du Grand-Cerf. Tomorrow you will return to Paris. The day after you and the Snipe will take the car and go to Chateaudun. You know the road?’

  “‘No, M’sieur. But I will find out.’

  “‘Yes: you will find out. You leave Paris through the Porte d’Orleans. The distance is one hundred and twenty-five kilometres. Arrived there you will put up at the Hôtel de la Place, and see that your car is refilled with petrol and oil. Place also in your car two bottles of wine and food sufficient for two of you for a day. The rest of your gang will go there by train. They will put up at the Hotel St Louis. Repeat what I have said.’

  “In a trembling voice le Rossignol repeated his instructions.

  “‘Good. You will then await further instructions. And be careful, Rossignol, to put a guard on your tongue. Too much wine may be dangerous. If you serve me well, it will be to your advantage. If you fail – you will not do so twice. It is my pleasure to employ your car for other purposes than frightening old women in the street.’

  “‘Oui, M’sieur: I will not fail. The Porte d’Orleans, you said?’

  “But there was no answer: le Rossignol was alone. As he had come so did le Bossu Masqué go – in utter silence. And an hour later a badly shaken Apache entered the Hotel du Grand-Cerf and called for wine. Whatever the future might hold, this nerve-wracking first fence was safely over. That eerie wood was a thing of the past: in the inn was warmth and comfort and, most important of all, light.

  “Now there were many people who, when they heard the story I have just told you at the trial, laughed it to scorn. Why, they demanded, these elaborate and theatrical details? Why this meeting in a deserted wood at what must have been great inconvenience to le Bossu himself, if all that transpired could as easily have been done in Paris itself? But they didn’t see what I and one or two others saw. They didn’t understand that le Bossu was a master of criminal psychology. He realised the immensely more powerful effect that he would produce on the mentality of a man like Marillard, if he met him as he had done, rather than in Paris, which was le Rossignol’s own atmosphere. It was the terror of the unknown that he was exploiting – the most potent terror of all, especially to a man of low mental calibre. He was proposing to use this gang for his own ends, and none knew better than he that fear was the safest way of keeping their mouths shut. However, that is all in parenthesis. Subsequent events prove only too clearly that I and the others who thought as I did were right. So we will pass on to the day but one after, which found Rossignol and the Snipe installed in the Hôtel de la Place at Chateaudun, while the Toad and the other two were in the Hôtel St Louis. The car had been filled up with petrol and oil: all instructions had been carried out, and there was nothing to do but to wait.

  “And now we come to one of the most amazing crimes that has ever been perpetrated in France: the crime, moreover, that is the direct cause of this present state of affairs here. Strange, you will think, that such a long time has elapsed, but the reason for that you will understand when I have finished. Many of the actual details of the crime, I can, of course, only fill in by guess-work: for many we have to take Marillard’s unsupported word, on an occasion, too, when admittedly he was trying to make out the best case he could for himself. Still, the story hangs together, and I can vouch for its main essentials.

  “About three miles out from Chateaudun, on the road to Vendôme, there stands the Chateau du Lac Noir. It is a magnificent old building standing in enormous grounds. It dates, I think, from the thirteenth century, and until quite recent years was the property of the Duc de St Euogat. However, he had found keeping up the place beyond his means, and he had sold it about ten years previously to a Russian – Prince Boris Marcovitch. He was a man of fabulous wealth, whose only hobby in life was collecting. He didn’t confine himself to one particular line: anything that attracted his attention and that he liked, he bought. But if there was one thing that he did have a predilection for, it was precious stones – particularly emeralds. I have talked to men who had seen his collection, and they have, one and all, assured me that it was unique in the world.

  “He was a man of peculiar tastes – this Russian Prince. He rarely, if ever, left the chateau grounds, and when he wanted company he imported it wholesale from Paris. It didn’t seem to matter very much to him whether he knew the people or whether he didn’t. He would write to a cousin of his who lived in the capital, requesting him to bring down a party. Perhaps a dozen girls and some men would arrive, and then for twenty-four hours there would take place what can only be described as an orgy. Drink flowed like water, and the only person on whom it had no effect was the Prince himself.

  “I remember a man who had attended one of them describing the end of the performance to me.

  “‘I was pretty well tight myself,’ he said, ‘but not as bad as the rest. The whole lot of them, men and women alike, were sprawling round the table dead drunk. In the earlier part of the debauch the Prince had been the leader of the revels: now he sat at the end of
the table, twirling a wine glass between his fingers and with a look of ineffable contempt on his face. His thoughts were so obvious that he might have spoken them aloud.

  “‘You boors: you loutish swine – why in heaven’s name did I ever have anything to do with you?’”

  “So my informant told me, and I had confirmation from other sources. He seemed to be a man who from time to time had to break out, and then was sickened by the reaction when he had done so. But his disgust would only last a couple of months at the most. Then another of the same sort of parties would be given, to be attended with the same result.

  “It is perhaps unnecessary to say that, whatever was the effect on the host, his guests thoroughly enjoyed the entertainment – particularly the ladies of the party. The Prince would think nothing of giving each girl a present worth a hundred pounds when they left, and since most of them came from the ranks of the Casino de Paris or the Folies Bergères, you can imagine their feelings on the matter. And so when it was noised abroad in the theatrical set in Paris that a supreme debauch of all was planned, the Prince’s cousin became amazingly popular. It was to be a fancy-dress affair, and everyone was to come as an Apache. It got round of course to Police Headquarters, but it was none of our business what the Prince chose to do in his chateau. Our only concern was the prevention of crime, and it was on that account that a week before this historic party I found myself getting out of the train at Chateaudun. You will understand that I was unofficially attached, and Grodin, my immediate superior, thought that I could give the Prince a friendly warning better than one of the regular men.

  “He saw me at once when I arrived, and as I looked at that refined aristocrat I marvelled that he could ever give way to these appalling excesses.

  “‘Monsieur le Prince,’ I said, when he had glanced at my card, ‘I wish to assure you that my visit is entirely unofficial. But we understand that you are giving a party here shortly, and that your guests are coming as Apaches.’