by George Right
Dubois took a watch on a gold chain out of his pocket, darted a glance at the dial and stood up from the table. Tomorrow at this time, he thought, Jeannette would possibly feel herself almost a countess de Montreux.
The carriage passed through the gate decorated with the de Montreux coat of arms; the wheels crunched on the access avenue gravel. Having drawn back the window curtain, Jeannette was examining with curiosity her new dwelling, or, as Dubois called it, "the country house." The old three-storied mansion resembled more a fortress than a residence; its massive walls, accreted by moss at the bases, its narrow–especially in the eastern wing–windows, hiding in deep niches, its heavy shutters and doors gloomily contrasted with the cheerful summer sky and bright sun. Even the lush green of the garden inspired an ominous feeling, as if it was marsh grass hiding a deadly quagmire.
"It doesn't look too cozy here," said Jeannette doubtfully.
"The main building was constructed in the sixteenth century," Dubois answered in an expert tone, "and those were rather troubled times. Since then, of course, the house has been repaired and reconstructed more than once. But, nevertheless, this is the authentic home of a noble family. You will live here like a countess."
Jeannette answered nothing; she had no illusions about her future and understood that sooner or later she would bore Dubois and he would take a new "countess"–or even perhaps he would take a truly noble wife to live in his authentic aristocratic home. However, during the last half a year she had saved some money and also hoped for a generous parting gift; and then, of course, she would find another nouveau riche for whom the physical properties of a woman would be more important than her reputation.
On a porch they were met by Pierre Leroi, the majordomo employed by the new owner. Other servants gathered in the hall. Dubois dismissed them with an impatient gesture and said to Leroi, "Show us the house."
"Yes, monsieur," bowed the majordomo, "but maybe madam wishes to rest after the journey?"
Jeannette smiled. She had been called "madam," as if she indeed was the wedded wife of the owner of the estate.
"Madam will rest later," Dubois said. "Guide us."
"As you wish, monsieur."
They passed through a tenebrous hall with age-darkened portraits on the walls and a huge fireplace similar to an ancient tower, and then ascended a creaking wooden staircase to the second floor. Having passed some rooms whose furniture, apparently, hadn't been changed since the time of Louis XV, they stopped in front of a massive oak door.
"The count's office," the majordomo declared and pulled on the heavy bronze handle. However, the door didn't open.
"Strange... " murmured Leroi, "I remember that I left the door unlocked."
"Don't you have a key with you?" asked Dubois with a note of irritation in his voice.
"Yes, certainly... " the majordomo unlocked the door.
At the last moment in Dubois's brain a thought flashed that something was definitely wrong here, and he almost rudely moved Jeannette aside. In the next instant the door silently opened. In the middle of the room, facing the door, sat count de Montreux in an armchair. The shot had demolished half of his skull; his surroundings were splashed with blood and grayish drops of brain. The hand with the pistol powerlessly dangled from an armrest.
"What is it?" asked Jeannette with apprehensive curiosity, uncertainly trying to peer over Dubois's shoulder. He pushed her aside from the office.
"Nothing you should look at. De Montreux... he shot himself to annoy us."
Jeannette gasped in horror.
"Don't worry. Certainly, it's unpleasant, but nothing terrible has happened. People die every day in the thousands," Dubois turned to the majordomo. "How the hell did he get in here?"
"I do not know, monsieur," Leroi made a helpless gesture. "Certainly, the count had keys to all the doors and the main entrance is not the only way into the house. He could even have entered before the arrival of the new servants and hidden somewhere..."
"How could nobody hear the shot?"
"You see the heavy doors and thick walls here. If nobody was nearby, there is no wonder it was not heard."
"Damn, these aristocrats always were poseurs... Well, he might as well not have arranged such a spectacle for me; I am after all the thick-skinned bourgeois, the disgraceful and insensate money-bags– isn't that how they think of us? This man lived a worthless life and died a worthless death. All right, Leroi, take care of the formalities."
The formalities didn't take too much time. Police Inspector Leblanc and Doctor Clavier arrived; the investigation of the scene left them no doubt that Montreux had committed suicide, and the corpse was taken away.
"How many previous servants remained in the estate?" Dubois asked the majordomo.
"Three, monsieur. The gardener, who is too old to look for a new place, the cook, an old woman, hoping that the new owner will pay better than the former, and the groom, who is also the coachman–this fellow is indifferent to everything."
"So the others wished to leave the house when they knew that it would pass to me? Hm... a strange devotion taking into account that they were underpaid. The last thing we need now is new servants also running away because of this ridiculous incident. Bring them here all together."
Dubois addressed the servants with a short speech in which he said that he very regretted that the sad incident had happened, but nobody could be blamed for the death of count de Montreux.
"Neither I nor anybody else forced the count to live beyond his means and get into debt. When a man jumps from a cliff and smashes upon the stones, the man, not the stones, should be blamed. I will be an absolutely different owner than de Montreux; none of my people will have a reason to complain about a scanty or delayed salary. I always pay my bills."
Whether the words about salary worked, or the servants simply weren't as sensitive as Dubois had feared, none of them expressed a desire to leave. The servants had just left when suddenly Jeannette, finally convinced of the invariance of Dubois's plans, took courage and declared that she couldn't stay "in this awful house."
"Bullshit, Jeannette, what nonsense!" the businessman wearily waved his hand. "De Montreux tried to achieve exactly this–for us to refuse to live here. You surely don't want his mad idea to be a success?"
"Jacques, don't speak so... about the dead..."
"Dead he is even less dangerous than alive. Jeannette, we live in an enlightened era in an educated country. Don't stuff your pretty head with superstitious foolishness. De Montreux shot himself here, so what? Any house built more than a half century ago has witnessed the deaths of its owners."
"But this death... so terrible..."
"On the contrary, it was instant and painless. I am surprised by people's abnormal reaction to violent death. Natural death from an illness is often much more painful, however it excites nobody; but if a shot thunders anywhere, people immediately crowd together to shake in horror."
Jeannette didn't dare to insist further, understanding that it would only anger Dubois; but his cold logic couldn't dispel her melancholy and heavy presentiments. However, Jeannette's maid (she had a maid now like a real aristocrat), a humorous hoyden named Marie, didn't share the anxiety of her mistress and eventually even managed to make her laugh. But in the evening the fear began to overtake Jeannette again. The last reflection of the sun faded in the west; murky night fell on the house. The wind wandered in the foliage of the large garden; a lonely branch scraped a window as if someone unknown asked: "Let me... let me in..." From the windows of the bedrooms, there was only a view of the night forest; not a single spark was visible in that direction. Somewhere in the house old floor boards squeaked.
At last the door was opened, and Dubois entered Jeannette's bedroom where she was shivering with fear.
"Darling, how glad I am that you came!"
"I didn't come to talk," Dubois purred, untying the belt of his dressing gown.
Suddenly the moon came out of the clouds, illuminating the room wi
th ghastly light; and at the same moment a high-pitched and lingering sound, dreary as the cry from a restless soul, reached from somewhere afar.
"My God, Jacques, what is it?!" Jeannette exclaimed in horror.
"A dog howled, nothing more," Dubois answered in an irritated voice, lowering himself heavily onto her. But in a few minutes he had to acknowledge with shame and disgust that he couldn't perform: the damned howl had distracted him and prevented him from concentrating. Upset and red with rage, Dubois left Jeannette's bedroom.
The next morning, having looked out of a window, Dubois noticed the groom walking through the yard with a bucket in his hand. The master called the servant and asked whether there were dogs on the estate.
"No, monsieur!" the fellow answered, coming closer to the window.
"No? But the village is quite far; what dog then howled last night?"
"Dog, monsieur?"
"Yes, of course; didn't you hear the howl?"
"It was not a dog, monsieur. It was a wolf howling in the forest."
"Wolf?" Dubois was surprised. "Are there wolves in this area?" He suddenly remembered that a wolf was on de Montreux's coat of arms and, sneering, he assumed he was going to hear a rural legend about a werewolf howling every time somebody from the count's family died. But instead of a legend the fellow simply answered:
"There are, monsieur, though not so many of them. Usually they don't bother us, especially now, at the end of summer, when there is still is enough food in the woods."
"Well, so I'll have something to hunt," Dubois said. Hitherto he hadn't participated in this landowners' entertainment, but he intended to make up for lost time.
Several days passed. Life in the estate became routine; nobody remembered, at least aloud, the tragic incident which had marred the arrival of the new owner. Dubois received mail reports from his managers, according to whom his business affairs were excellent. Even the wolf howl didn't disturb inhabitants of the house anymore. However, the feeling of vague anxiety still hadn't left Jeannette completely; she found it difficult to explain its reason herself, while Dubois believed that the cause was the baleful architecture of the ancient building and ordered it to be lit better in the evenings. However, he made no other changes in the archaic furnishings, wishing to keep the style of "an authentic home of a noble family." He was especially tender with Jeannette these days, and, in order not to look ungrateful, she hid from him her lingering feeling of discomfort.
But early one morning Dubois was awakened by a loud knock at the door.
"Monsieur, a very unpleasant incident!" he heard the majordomo's voice.
"What happened?"
"The gardener, monsieur... Usually in the mornings he came to the kitchen to drink a glass of milk and to chat with the cook. But today he didn't come, and the cook was worried whether he fell ill..."
"Briefly, what's the matter with him?"
"It looks like he is dead, monsieur..."
Swearing angrily, Dubois got out from under his blanket. Walking down the corridor, he saw Jeannette standing in a dressing gown at the threshold of her bedroom. Her face was pale and fear could clearly be read in her eyes.
"I hope, this time it's not a violent death?" Dubois inquired.
"I do not know, monsieur. Direct signs of violence are not perceptible. You'd better look yourself. The doctor and police were sent for already."
Mentally damning such an idiotic coincidence, Dubois followed the majordomo through the garden; his shoes and the tail of his gown immediately became wet with dew. On a bench in front of the gardener's cabin an old woman, the cook, cried and loudly blew her nose; one of the young maids tried to calm her. Dubois entered the cabin.
The old man lay in his underwear on the floor about a meter from his bed, twisted, with his bony white fingers grasping his breast. His blue face was distorted in a grimace of horror; on his lips foam had dried. "It's better to touch nothing till the police arrive," Dubois thought.
Soon Doctor Clavier arrived After greeting the owner of the estate and expressing an appropriate regret about the "sad incident," he passed into the room of the gardener. Then Leblanc appeared.
"It's unlikely there will be work for you, Inspector," Clavier informed him.
"You believe, it is a natural death?"
"No doubt. A heart attack which is certainly no wonder at his age."
"But the servant from the estate who fetched me said that the old man was strangled."
"No, nothing like that. Though such mistake is quite understandable just from looking at the body. In some way he really died of asphyxia, but it was caused by completely internal, not external, reasons."
"Well, Doctor, I rely on your competence. To tell the truth, untangling a murder case would be the least desirable thing for me. Monsieur Dubois, I regret very much that I have to pay a second visit to you due to such an unpleasant occasion. I hope that will not happen again. As my acquaintance, a lieutenant of artillery, says, shells don't land twice in one place."
Certainly, the death of the gardener made a depressing impression upon everyone in the house, and most of all on Jeannette. But Dubois did not let her even open her mouth.
"The old man died in his sleep from a heart attack; there is absolutely nothing unusual," he said in a peremptory tone. "We just have to hire a new gardener, that's all."
Jeannette sadly sighed.
Three days passed. On the morning of the fourth day a postman delivered a letter to Dubois. Having read it, the businessman declared to Jeannette that business affairs required his presence in Paris. Having heard this news, Jeannette turned away and bit her lip; it seemed she was just about to burst into tears.
"I will return tonight," Dubois said, "at the latest–tomorrow afternoon."
"And you will leave me alone in this awful house for all that time!"
"Alone? What are you talking about? The house is full of servants. Doesn't Marie entertain you anymore? And there is nothing awful in my house!"
"Jacques, please, don't leave me! I am so wretched here... without you."
"Jeannette, but I must go! The outcome of an important bargain depends on it."
"A bargain is more important to you than me!" Jeannette wanted to exclaim, but held her tongue. Dubois certainly would have answered: "Of course it is." He would have said this even to a wife, and she after all was only a concubine. Bought for trinkets, for expensive dresses, for the maid Marie... and, already unable to conceive her life without all this, thus was obliged to obey her master.
Dubois ordered the carriage prepared for travel and went to his office once again to look through some papers. After a while, having finished reading, he discovered with surprise that the carriage was still not ready. "How long is he going to dawdle?" the businessman impatiently muttered, meaning the coachman, and went out to the yard to clarify this question personally. The door of the stable was half-open; when nobody responded,to his loud call, Dubois, obeying an instinct, returned to the house and took a pistol with him back to the stable. His own alarm however seemed to him ridiculous: "Have I really begun to catch Jeannette's fears?" But any desire to laugh disappeared when he looked inside the stable through the half-opened door.
The coachman lay inside near the entrance with his head smashed; it seemed that after a crushing blow he had managed to crawl away to the doors before death overtook him. His murderer, the black stallion who never had demonstrated a violent temper before, was snorting, his eyes wildly staring, his blood-stained hoof kicking and beating the ground. In the next instant it broke its tether and charged directly at the startled Dubois. The latter, however, brought up his pistol and shot the horse almost point-blank. It fell and thrashed in agony; blood splashed from the wound in pulses. Dubois turned away in disgust.
This time Inspector Leblanc wasn't content with the doctor's statement about the obvious lack of traces of murderous intent. He gave Dubois a gloomy and distrustful look and declared that he would make a careful investigation and would interroga
te everyone in the house.
"Goddamn!" the owner of the house exclaimed, "Are you saying that this was a murder!"
"I'm saying nothing, monsieur," the policeman answered coldly, "I only know that it is the third sudden death on your estate in just a few days. You see, three shells which land in one place are suspicious."
"But there is no connection between these deaths... and there is no sense in them. All of them are quite explainable. It's abundantly clear that this is just an unhappy coincidence."
"By the nature of my occupation, I don't believe in coincidences," Leblanc dryly noted.
This time, Leblanc's investigation took several hours. The inspector was still unable to find evidence that the incident was anything other than an accident. At last he left the estate obviously dissatisfied, having said upon departing: "Be careful, monsieur Dubois". This phrase could be understood doubly: "beware of the unknown killer" or "beware of the truth being found out."
After Leblanc's investigation was finished, it was too late to go to Paris. Besides a new coachman would have to be found. Dubois was compelled to abandon the trip, indignantly feeling that the good bargain was slipping away through his fingers. But his troubles weren't limited to his business dealings. Several servants simultaneously declared an intention to quit their jobs. Dubois nevertheless managed to dissuade them; he promised to increase their salary, understanding that if the servants fled, it would increase the ill fame of the house and he would have to pay even more to the next ones. In addition, the coachman's death caused a scene with Jeannette, who declared a categorical unwillingness to live "under one roof with death" (she probably found this expression in one of the trashy novels which she was recently reading in large numbers). Dubois at first tried to persuade her, then shouted at her, then finally settled the issue with an expensive necklace which he had been going to give her in a more suitable situation. He thought at this moment that, had the most virtuous spouse been in Jeannette's place, the dispute still would have been solved in the same way, so contempt toward prostitutes is completely unjust: all women are equally venal.
