Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

  “But I don’t understand you.”

  “You must understand, then, that I see now why my flat was burgled.”

  And without further ado Rouletabille snatched the precious book from the librarian’s hands. The latter bewildered, gave a start, exclaiming:

  “Your flat was burgled?”

  “I look a bit of a burglar myself, eh? That’s what you mean. Well, I’m going to take this book back to where I found it. It scares me.... It scares me. Oh, I’m not keen on being sent to an early grave by those ancestors!”

  Rouletabille vanished. The librarian, not knowing what he was doing or saying, threw up his arms in the air and groaned:

  “Stop thief!”

  It seemed to him, indeed, that he himself was being robbed. This incomparable treasure which had no sooner appeared than it disappeared, had unbalanced his mind. He regretted allowing this great work of art to escape him, though it was not his property. The librarian understood now that “book-collecting covered a multitude of sins!”

  An hour later Rouletabille was once more in Lou Cabanou. He encountered no greater opposition in returning to it than when he first entered it. He placed the Book of Ancestors in the exact spot where he found it, taking care to replace the paper-cutter in the page in which he had inserted the sheet of paper; and when he had got rid of it his thoughts swelled the veins in his forehead and he murmured:

  Yes, this book scares me. It is the key of the riddle. It is the origin of the trouble. It is through this book that the whole thing has happened. It is to discover the whereabouts of this book that every effort is directed, and de Lauriac, Jean, Odette, Callista, Olajaï, Rouletabille, and even the Octopus are without knowing it drawn within its orbit. This book can tell us everything — more indeed than any of us imagine. And the book will divulge its secret. It will reveal whether de Lauriac is in league with Callista.... The book is an evil influence and, perhaps, it has saved us.”

  After indulging in this soliloquy Rouletabille climbed out of the study through the window; and from the window he slid down to the pantry and from the pantry...

  Meantime Pandora in the passage continued snoring.

  CHAPTER XV

  PANDORA’S INQUIRY

  PANDORA’S SLUMBERS MUST have ceased soon for shortly afterwards this worthy representative of the mounted police was observed, not far from the house, questioning a young herdsman. The youngster was asked what the gendarme had said to him. The gendarme had asked him if he had seen, about midnight, a gipsy woman come out of the forest and make for a grove of tamarisks which lined the road from Arles to Lavardens.

  “I was there myself,” the youngster returned. “The gipsy woman came along and met a man who was hanging round there for some time. They had a talk and then the gipsy woman left him saying: ‘Till this afternoon at three o’clock at Roche d’Ozoul.’”

  Thereupon the gendarme left the young herdsman with the remark:

  “Capital! The thing still holds good.”

  Pandora obviously was making some inquiry on the instructions of the examining magistrate for he was seen half an hour later questioning certain persons who were gossiping on their doorsteps. At last on the stroke of midday he appeared at the office of Me Camousse, the solicitor.

  Me Camousse’s practice was admittedly the largest in the town. Generations of the Camousses from father to son had drafted the marriage contracts and held custody of the wills of the most important families in the district. With a reputation which was in some degree hereditary, the Camousses held in their strong-room great fortunes of which they were the faithful trustees. Moreover, the secrets of many a family had been confided to them, and their integrity was not less substantial than their strong room. For over a hundred years they had been the de Lavardens’ family lawyers.

  “I’ve come about the de Lavardens’ business,” said the sergeant, thrusting his fist between the door and the frame at the moment when the junior clerk was closing the office. It was the hour at which work was temporarily suspended and only the copying clerks, who were preparing to go to lunch, remained in the outside office.

  “Hullo, another sergeant!” exclaimed the junior clerk as he opened the door, disregarding the protests of the staff.

  Nevertheless when the clerks caught sight of the gendarme they became silent, waiting for him to speak.

  “You young rascal,” said the sergeant, “go and fetch your governor. And look sharp!”

  The clerk told him that Me Camousse was about to go to lunch, but that the chief clerk and the liquidating clerk were still there and perhaps could deal with the matter.

  “What’s that! I didn’t ask to see those people. I want Monsieur Camousse personally, so look alive.”

  Just then Monsieur Camousse, a presentable man about forty years of age, with a somewhat ruddy face and iron-grey side whiskers, came out, inquired what was wanted, and showed the sergeant into his room.

  “I am sent to you by the examining magistrate.”

  “The examining magistrate!” echoed Monsieur Camousse in astonishment.

  “Yes, Monsieur Crousillat himself. He is up to his ears in this de Lavardens’ business, and has instructed me to assist him in his investigations by putting a few simple questions to you.”

  “I’m listening, sergeant. Please take a seat.”

  “Now this is what’s what. I’ve come here about the de Lavardens’ affair, eh! The examining magistrate wishes to know the date of Monsieur de Lavardens’ marriage. You can answer that question, eh! I suppose you’ve no objection to that?”

  “I cannot refuse the authorities of my country anything. I will make it my duty to help them to the utmost of my power, provided, of course, that I am not asked to violate professional secrecy.”

  “Of course. That’s quite reasonable.”

  “And you, sergeant, I gather from your accent belong to Rousillon.”

  “One can’t hide anything from you, monsieur.

  You’ve guessed right. I was born near Perpignan, at your service. As to professional secrecy, I am a gendarme and know what that means, and I am not the man to ask you to give away anything which, if I may say so, is sacred.”

  “I mention this to you, sergeant, because hardly more than an hour ago a young man came to my office and asked me questions to answer which would have involved a breach of professional duty.”

  “Oh, you don’t say so! A young man?”

  “Yes, he called himself a journalist — Rouletabille by name.”

  “Rouletabille came here to question you?”

  “I might say to ask indiscreet questions.”

  “I hope you kicked him out.”

  “Very nearly so, but as you know we are always polite in our profession. Oh, there’s a fellow with plenty of cheek! He claimed to be well known. Personally I have never heard of him.”

  “Don’t you read the newspapers?”

  “As little as possible. You see, sergeant, either there’s nothing in them or there’s something in them. When there’s nothing in them it is not worth while to read them, and when there’s something in them it is always about crimes or disasters; in other words, things which we should do well to remain in ignorance of as long as possible.... But you appear to know this Rouletabille?”

  “I should think I did know him, monsieur! Why, he’s a regular nuisance is this journalist. Monsieur Crousillat shuns him as though he were the plague. Rouletabille never leaves me. He spies on all my movements. I bet you he called about this Lavardens’ affair.”

  “You’ve won your bet, sergeant, but he lost... lost this time.”

  “When I tell Monsieur Crousillat so, he will be delighted.... We were saying that Monsieur de Lavardens was married...”

  “Listen,” said the lawyer, looking through a file of papers. “Here is a copy of the marriage certificate deposited at the French Consulate in Odessa. You’ve only got to make a copy of it.”

  “That’s what I was told. He was married in Odessa to a youn
g French girl by whom he had a daughter legitimized by the marriage.”

  Be careful! Here we are trenching upon professional secrecy, sergeant. Logically I cannot refuse to let the authorities of my country see a document a copy of which they would possibly have some difficulty in obtaining now.”

  “Yes, Odessa is a long way off, and besides, there are Bolsheviks.”

  “But, you understand, there’s no necessity for all the world to know that Mademoiselle de Lavardens was born before her mother’s marriage.”

  “Of course. Have no fear.... I’m not the man to go and tell this to Rouletabille.”

  “You’ve grasped the point, sergeant.”

  “It’s not for me to praise myself, but everybody says that I am blessed with rather exceptional intelligence; Now one thing more: Have you by chance the child’s birth certificate, eh?”

  “To tell you the truth, no,” returned Me Camousse, knitting his brows slightly and closing the file of papers. “Isn’t it among your papers?”

  “No, it is not among my papers.”

  “That’s a pity, because, as you may have observed, the details of the child’s birth-place on the certificate of legitimization are most vague, whereas if we had a copy of the birth certificate that would perhaps...”

  “What?” questioned the lawyer, nervously tapping the top of his desk.

  “Why, perhaps it would be easier to silence scandalmongers.”

  “What scandal-mongers?”

  “Well those people, for instance, who suggest that this French woman was not Odette’s real mother.”

  “I’ve never heard anyone say such a thing, sergeant,” returned the lawyer, rising to his feet. “I should be interested to know from whom you heard it.”

  “Why, from someone who is as interested as you are, I assure you. From the examining magistrate himself, and I am instructed by his worship to ask you — he is convinced, by the way, that you know all there is to be known on the subject — whether Mademoiselle de Lavardens was really the daughter of Madame de Lavardens.”

  “The examining magistrate instructed you to ask me that!” exclaimed Me Çamousse, turning scarlet.

  “I swear it by my sergeant’s stripes!”

  “And I swear that if I were Monsieur Crousillat and wanted to put such a question to Me Çamousse, I should have invited Me Çamousse to come to my office, and spoken to him as magistrate to magistrate, and not sent a sergeant of gendarmes to him... Besides, I’m going,” declared the lawyer, putting on his hat.

  “Where to?”

  “Why, I’m going with you to the examining magistrate.”

  “Well, I shall go off alone! Don’t put yourself out. Hang it all, how you take on — how you take on! What a hot-tempered person you are! I ask you questions and you are free to refuse to answer them. Devil take it, professional secrecy before all. We’ll say no more about it.”

  But do and say what the sergeant might, Me Çamousse was resolved to accompany him to Monsieur Crousillat’s. He reached the stairs and street as soon as the sergeant. As he stepped into the street the sergeant looked at his watch, a huge turnip, and declared that he had an important call to make and would leave Me Camousse to see the examining magistrate alone. And he had already walked a few steps away when two men in plain clothes, appeared from no one knows where, and made a rush at him shouting:

  “It’s no use putting up a fight. Be good enough to come with us.”

  “But who are you?” the lawyer asked, turning to the two plain clothes men.

  “We are detectives, Me Camousse, instructed to arrest Rouletabille.”

  “Do you mean to say this gendarme...”

  “That’s Rouletabille!”

  Me Camousse, gasping for breath, was obliged to lean against the wall to prevent himself from slipping to the pavement.

  “This is undoubtedly the greatest event in my life,” he murmured.

  Meantime people came hurrying up from every side to see a gendarme marched off as a prisoner by two plain clothes men.

  And Rouletabille pulled a long face....

  It was obvious that the last scene in the little farce which he had been paying-so airily was not included in the programme. He dropped his Rousillon accent then and there, and rolling his r’s with the drawling pronunciation of a man who lived in the Montmartre district of Paris asked:

  “Are you taking me to the lock-up?”

  “No, my lad, we’re taking you to Monsieur Crousillat.”

  “Ah, now I feel quite easy,” said Rouletabille. “We’re going to a café.”

  The detectives and the little group which formed an escort burst out laughing. Monsieur Crousillat, who was undoubtedly the weightiest examining magistrate in France and Navarre, at least in point of adipose tissue, was well known-for his unquenchable thirst. The least physical or even mental exertion put him in a bath of perspiration. Accordingly, he was often to be seen conducting his investigations in the shade of the open front of a café with a couple of bocks full to the brim before him, which were quite cool when the waiter served them. It was a method of setting to work, however, which greatly tried the temper of his clerk, Bartholasse, a thin man as yellow as a lemon, whose disordered stomach could not stand anything stronger than homely camomile tea.

  In short, the end of the incident caused a great deal of merriment around, and Rouletabille, who was not of a nature to stand aloof for long, was soon joining in the laugh. After all, had he not got his way and learnt what he wanted to know? Could the worthy Me Camousse have told him anything more? Had not the excitement which the solicitor betrayed when the last question was put to him with intentional bluntness by the sham Pandora — was Mademoiselle de Lavardens the daughter of Madame de Lavardens? — sufficiently enlightened him? In any case, the family lawyer’s attitude coming after the librarian’s reading, or rather translation of certain passages in the Book of Ancestors, entitled Rouletabille to assume a great many things suggestive of a development in the tragedy, in which Odette was the centre, which until then he alone had suspected....

  CHAPTER XVI

  ROULETABILLE TELLS A FEW STORIES

  “ARE THE MAGISTRATE and his clerk in a vile temper?” Rouletabille asked the detectives.

  “You must admit that they have good cause, Monsieur Rouletabille,” returned one.

  “Lou Fineto is the most infuriated,” said the other. “He is squalling like a cat.”

  “So Lou Fineto is squalling like a cat! Who is Lou Fineto, my dear fellow?”

  “That’s the nickname given here to La Finette, the gendarme whom you so smartly relieved of his tunic and cap.”

  “He had fixed up a very soft and luxurious pillow with this tunic and cap had the worthy La Finette,” returned Rouletabille, who had recovered his high spirits, “and I felt considerable remorse at the time for taking them from him, but I did it with the greatest delicacy so as not to disturb his slumbers. What else could I do? Business is business. Why did La Finette wake up so soon? It is entirely his own fault. He ought to have slept an hour longer, and I should have returned his pillow, and he wouldn’t have noticed anything. So the worthy La Finette is squalling is he! Well, when he has done squalling he will say nothing.... In any case, he doesn’t expect to get me sent to penal servitude for life, I suppose?”

  “Oh, Monsieur Rouletabille, don’t think you’re going to get out of it so easily. It’s a very serious matter to take a gendarme’s uniform away from him.”

  “Be assured, my dear fellow, that nothing in life is serious,” returned Rouletabille in a tone of philosophy, “nothing except death. And then we are no longer here to worry about it.”

  Chatting in this way, the group reached Monsieur Crousillat’s office which, as Rouletabille anticipated, was the cool pavement of a café. The gentlemen from the prosecutor’s office were launching into derogatory remarks about newspapers in general, and Rouletabille in particular, when the latter appeared with his escort.

  “There he is!” snarle
d Bartholasse, letting the papers which he had spread on the zinc-top table be scattered by the wind.

  “Ah, there you are!” squealed Monsieur Crousillat, after, however, taking time to consume the bock which had just been brought to him.

  “I should think so!... Peep-Bo! — How are you this morning, Monsieur Crousillat? And you, Monsieur Bartholasse?... Our dear friend Monsieur Bartholasse!... I see by his look that he made the mistake of having another champagne dinner last night.”

  It seemed as if the clerk was about to have a fit. He was a very short man, and stood on tiptoe shaking his fist in the journalist’s face, and predicting that he would come to a bad end.

  “Have you engaged the services of the hangman?” asked Rouletabille placidly. —

  Just then frantic shouts could be heard, and a man in shirt sleeves appeared at the café window foaming with rage.

  “Ah, there’s our La Finette! We were only waiting for him to complete our little party. I mean what I say. I quite understand, Monsieur La Finette, why you are not pleased, and I offer you my apologies. Besides, it would ill become me not to admit that I was in the wrong. What I did was too bad, and I promise you, Monsieur Crousillat, that it shall never occur again. I’m not a pig-headed man.... Of course, I went a little too far. My business is responsible for that.”

  “Do you know where your business will lead you?” asked Monsieur Crousillat, silencing the onlookers by a peremptory gesture.

  “Yes, monsieur, it will lead me to save you from doing an idiotic thing!”

  “Monsieur!”

  “I am sorry, monsieur, I certainly did not intend to be wanting in respect. I say that my business, of which you hold such a poor opinion, may really prevent you from making a mistake, and when a man’s life depends upon it, it may be worth your while, in return, to pass over the trick which Rouletabille played on the worthy La Finette.”

  “Oh, what you say won’t affect me, and I tell you that your business will land you first in the lock-up, and next before the bench.”