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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75896 ***
+
+
+
+
+
+                    ARSÈNE LUPIN INTERVENES
+
+
+                               BY
+                        MAURICE LE BLANC
+
+
+                            NEW YORK
+                      THE MACAULAY COMPANY
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+    CHAPTER                                     PAGE
+    I       FOREWORD                               9
+    II      “DROPS THAT TRICKLE AWAY”             13
+    III     THE ROYAL LOVE LETTER                 38
+    IV      A GAME OF BACCARAT                    61
+    V       THE MAN WITH THE GOLD TEETH           85
+    VI      TWELVE LITTLE NIGGER BOYS            108
+    VII     THE BRIDGE THAT BROKE                137
+    VIII    THE FATAL MIRACLE                    164
+    IX      DOUBLE ENTRY                         195
+    X       ARRESTING ARSÈNE LUPIN               226
+    XI      AFTERWORD                            255
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+ARSÈNE LUPIN INTERVENES
+
+
+I
+
+FOREWORD
+
+
+Contrary, perhaps, to the opinion of the Bright Young People in our
+midst, the World-before-the-War was not by any means barren of
+adventure and excitement. Only, they did things differently then. There
+was, in those days, a certain sparkling gaiety, a spontaneity, a chic
+sadly lacking from the exploits of a younger generation. There was wit
+as well as honor among thieves. Just as really good wine differs from
+that modern depravity, the cocktail, so does the finished artistry of
+Jim Barnett compare with the outrages of bobbed-hair bandits and
+cat-burglars.
+
+For Barnett had a brain and used it; a sense of humor, and rejoiced in
+it. He was independent of revolvers and racing cars and hypodermic
+syringes. He made a confidant of no man—or woman. He was an unassisted
+conjurer, as it were, performing his little tricks always in the full
+glare of the limelight, relying entirely on his own lightning skill to
+vanish his watches and evolve his rabbits.
+
+A curious, memorable figure, Jim Barnett. By profession, a private
+detective, principal of the Barnett Agency in the rue Laborde, with a
+modest ground-floor office for his headquarters. Unlike others of his
+trade, he worked entirely alone. He employed no spies, and saved
+himself their possible treachery. He had no secretary for the simple
+reason that he kept no records. His telephone rang infrequently, and
+when it did he answered it himself.
+
+In appearance, Barnett was something of a problem. He gave the
+impression of a man who is wilfully badly dressed, intentionally
+careless of his attire. His coat’s sole claim to respect was its
+indubitable antiquity. His trousers—but we will spare possible
+heartbreak to the tailors who read this description. He wore his
+incongruous monocle like some exotic bloom—its startling aristocracy in
+conjunction with the rest of his get-up was that of an orchid in an
+onion patch.
+
+What a contrast to his friend, Inspector Béchoux, that immaculate sprig
+of the Paris Police Force. Béchoux was frankly a dandy, devoting all
+his off-time to the adornment of his person. Yet he was no fool. Only,
+his brain moved in the channels of detective routine, whereas Barnett’s
+leaped nimbly from point to point of a mystery until it plucked out the
+heart.
+
+Be it said to Inspector Béchoux’s undying honor that he recognized
+Barnett’s gifts quite openly. He even resorted to asking his help in
+various problems, and it is the inner history of some of these that
+this book now reveals for the first time to the world at large.
+
+The peculiar feature of all the Béchoux-Barnett cases was always either
+their apparent insolubility (e.g., the Disappearance of the Twelve
+Little Nigger Boys) or the fact that they seemed solved at the outset
+(as in the case of the Man with the Gold Teeth). And the finale of each
+presented certain similar features—a dramatic and quite unexpected
+eleventh-hour dénouement; a swift adjustment of account between the
+innocent and guilty parties; and—a highly satisfactory windfall for
+Barnett. Only, as Inspector Béchoux bitterly observed, it was always
+the kind of windfall that meant shaking the tree. Barnett’s gifts would
+have stripped an orchard....
+
+What placed Inspector Béchoux in a serious dilemma was that in every
+case Barnett’s position was unassailable from start to finish. His
+victims were people who could not be brought to speak a word against
+him. You could call it intimidation—blackmail—what you liked. Barnett
+merely grinned and fed large checks to his banking account.
+
+Large checks—and yet the slogan of the Barnett Agency was:—
+
+
+            “Information Free. No Fees of Any Kind.”
+
+
+Which was paradoxically true. Barnett’s income was composed not of fees
+but of levies. Sometimes he took toll of his clients, sometimes of
+their enemies. A certain poetic justice characterized his depredations.
+The poor and the innocent had nothing to fear from Jim Barnett.
+
+And he was undeniably on the side of the law so far as results went.
+Only, where it suited his purpose, he meted out his own idea of a
+suitable punishment to criminals instead of turning them over to the
+police.
+
+Inspector Béchoux was probably Barnett’s only close friend. Yet all he
+knew of him was gleaned from the hours they spent together when Barnett
+intervened in one of his cases. He was quite ignorant of Barnett’s
+private life—his antecedents—even his identity. For there was always
+one mystery which remained unsolved. Who was the man who called himself
+“Jim Barnett”?
+
+There was something about his methods and his amusing buffoonery which
+could not fail to recall the King of Crooks—the one man who persisted
+in eluding and baffling the Paris police—the man Inspector Béchoux
+would have given his life-savings to lay hands on—whom he sometimes, in
+his inmost heart, half suspected to be masquerading as “Barnett,” and
+then dismissed the suspicion as fantastic.
+
+It is a long way back to pre-war Paris, and the clash of wits between
+Barnett and Inspector Béchoux. In these days, when so much of
+admiration and adulation is being misapplied, honor to whom honor is
+due! The moment has come when we can openly state that the worthy
+Inspector’s instinct was right, and the “interventions” of Jim Barnett
+may safely be attributed to their perpetrator—Arsène Lupin!
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+II
+
+“DROPS THAT TRICKLE AWAY....”
+
+
+The courtyard bell, on the ground floor of the Baronne Assermann’s
+imposing residence in the Faubourg St. Germain, rang loudly, and a
+moment later the maid brought in an envelope.
+
+“The gentleman says he has an appointment with madame for four
+o’clock.”
+
+Madame Assermann slit the envelope. Taking out a card, she held it
+gingerly between her finger-tips, and read:
+
+
+                           The Barnett Agency
+
+                            Information Free
+
+
+“Show the gentleman into my boudoir,” she drawled.
+
+Valérie Assermann—the beautiful Valérie she had been called for some
+thirty years—still retained a measure of good looks, although she was
+now thick-set, past middle-age and elaborately made-up. Her haughty and
+at times harsh expression had yet a certain candor which was not
+without charm.
+
+As the wife of Assermann, the banker, she took pride in her vast house
+with its luxurious appointments, in her large circle of acquaintances
+and in all the pomp and circumstance of her social position. Behind her
+back society gossips whispered that Valérie had been guilty of various
+rather more than trifling indiscretions. Even hardened Parisian
+scandalmongers professed themselves shocked at her behavior. There were
+those who suggested that the baron, an ailing old man, had contemplated
+getting a divorce.
+
+Baron Assermann had been confined to his bed for several weeks with
+heart trouble, and Valérie rearranged the pillows under his thin
+shoulders and asked him, rather absent-mindedly, how he was feeling,
+before proceeding to her boudoir.
+
+Awaiting her there she found a curious person—a sturdily built,
+square-shouldered man, well set up, but shockingly dressed in a
+funereal frock-coat, moth-eaten and shiny, which hung in depressed
+creases over worn, baggy trousers. His face was young, but the rugged
+energy of his features was spoiled by a coarse, blotchy skin, almost
+brick-red in tone. Behind the monocle, which he used for either eye
+indifferently, his cold and rather mocking glance sparkled with a
+boyish gaiety.
+
+“Mr. Barrett?” Valérie asked, on a rising inflection, making no effort
+to keep the scorn out of her voice.
+
+He bowed, and, before she could withdraw it, he had kissed her hand
+with a flourish, following this gallantry by a not quite inaudible
+click of the tongue—suggesting his appreciation of the perfumed flavor.
+
+“Jim Barnett—at your service, madame la baronne. When I got your letter
+I stopped just long enough to give my coat a brush ... that was
+all....”
+
+The baronne wondered for a moment whether she should show her visitor
+the door, but he faced her with all the composure of a man of rank,
+and, a little taken aback, she merely said:
+
+“I’ve been told that you are quite clever at disentangling rather
+delicate and complicated matters....”
+
+He gave a self-satisfied smirk.
+
+“Yes—I’ve rather a gift for seeing clearly; seeing through and into
+things—and people.”
+
+While his voice was soft, his tone was masterful and his whole demeanor
+conveyed a suggestion of veiled irony. He seemed so sure of himself and
+his powers that it was impossible not to share his confidence, and
+Valérie felt herself coming under the influence of this unknown common
+detective, this head of a private inquiry bureau. Resenting the
+feeling, she interrupted him:
+
+“Perhaps we had better—er—discuss terms....”
+
+“Quite unnecessary,” replied Barnett.
+
+“But surely”—it was she who was smiling now—“you do not work merely for
+glory?”
+
+“The services of the Barnett Agency, madame la baronne, are entirely
+free.”
+
+She looked disappointed, and insisted: “I should prefer to arrange some
+remuneration—your out-of-pocket expenses, at least.”
+
+“A tip?” he sneered.
+
+She flushed angrily. Her satin-shod foot tapped the carpet.
+
+“I cannot possibly ...” she began.
+
+“Be under an obligation to me? Don’t worry, madame la baronne, I shall
+see to it that we end up quits for whatever slight service I may be
+able to render you.”
+
+Was there a note of menace in the suave voice?
+
+Valérie shuddered a trifle uneasily. What was the meaning of this
+obscure remark? How did this man propose to recoup himself? Really,
+this Jim Barnett aroused in her almost the same sort of dread, the same
+queer kind of nightmare emotion that one might feel if suddenly
+confronted with a burglar! He might even be ... yes, he was quite
+possibly some undesirable, unknown admirer. She wondered what she had
+better do. Ring for her maid? But he had so far dominated her that,
+regardless of the consequences, she found herself submitting passively
+to his questioning as to what had caused her to apply to his agency.
+Her account was brief, as Barnett seemed to be in a hurry, and she
+spoke frankly and to the point.
+
+
+
+“It all happened the Sunday before last,” she began. “After a game of
+bridge with some friends, I went to bed rather early and fell asleep as
+usual. About four o’clock—at ten minutes past, to be exact—a noise woke
+me and then I heard a bang which sounded to me like a door closing. It
+came from my boudoir—this room we are in, which communicates with my
+bedroom and also with a corridor leading to the servants’ staircase.
+I’m not nervous, so after a moment’s hesitation I got up, came in here
+and turned on the light. The room was empty, but this small
+show-case”—she indicated it—“had fallen down, and several of the curios
+and statuettes in it were broken. I then went to my husband’s room and
+found him reading in bed; he said he had heard nothing. He was very
+much upset and rang for the butler, who immediately made a thorough
+search of the house. In the morning we called in the police.”
+
+“And the result?” asked Barnett.
+
+“They could find no trace of the arrival or departure of any intruder.
+How he entered and got away is a mystery. But under a footstool among
+the débris of the curios some one found half a candle, and an awl set
+in a very dirty wooden handle. Now on the previous afternoon a plumber
+had been to repair the taps of the washbasin in my husband’s
+dressing-room. The man’s employer, when questioned, identified the tool
+and, moreover, the other half of the candle was found in his shop.”
+
+“On that point, then,” interrupted Jim Barnett, “you have definite
+evidence.”
+
+“Yes, but against that is the indisputable and disconcerting fact that
+the investigation also proved that the workman in question took the six
+o’clock express to Brussels, arriving there at midnight—four hours
+before the disturbance which awakened me.”
+
+“Really? Has the man returned?”
+
+“No. They lost track of him at Antwerp, where he was spending money
+lavishly.”
+
+“Is that all you can tell me?”
+
+“Absolutely all.”
+
+“Who’s been in charge of this investigation?”
+
+“Inspector Béchoux.”
+
+“What! The worthy Béchoux! He’s a very good friend of mine. We’ve often
+worked together.”
+
+“It was he who mentioned your Agency.”
+
+“Yes, because he’d come up against a blank wall, I suppose.”
+
+Barnett crossed to the window and leaning his head against the pane
+thought hard for a few minutes, frowning ponderously and whistling
+under his breath. Then he returned to Madame Assermann and continued:
+
+“You and Béchoux, madame, conclude that this was an attempted burglary.
+Am I right?”
+
+“Yes. An unsuccessful attempt, since nothing has been taken.”
+
+“That’s so. But all the same there must have been a definite motive
+behind this attempt. What was it?”
+
+Valérie hesitated. “I really don’t know,” she said after a moment. But
+again her foot tapped restlessly.
+
+The detective shrugged his shoulders; then, pointing to one of the
+silk-draped panels which lined the boudoir above the wainscoting he
+asked:
+
+“What’s under that panel?”
+
+“I beg your pardon,” she said in some bewilderment; “what do you mean?”
+
+“I mean that the most superficial observation reveals the fact that the
+edges of that silk oblong are slightly frayed, and here and there they
+are separated from the woodwork by a slit: there is every reason to
+suppose that a safe is concealed there.”
+
+Valérie gave a start. How on earth could the man have guessed from such
+imperceptible indications.... Then with a jerk she slid the panel open,
+disclosing a small steel door. As she feverishly worked the three knobs
+of the safe an unreasoning fear came over her. Impossible as the
+hypothesis seemed, she wondered whether this queer stranger might
+somehow have robbed her during the few minutes he had been left alone
+in the room!
+
+At length, taking a key from her pocket, she opened the safe, and gave
+a sigh of relief. There it was—the only object the safe contained—a
+magnificent pearl necklace. Seizing it quickly, she twined its triple
+strands round her wrist.
+
+Barnett laughed.
+
+“Easier in your mind now, madame la baronne? Yes, it’s quite a pretty
+piece of jewelry, and I can understand its having been stolen from
+you.”
+
+“But it’s not been stolen,” she protested. “Even if the thief was after
+this, he failed to steal it.”
+
+“Do you really think so?”
+
+“Of course. Here is the necklace in my hands. When anything’s stolen it
+disappears. Well—here it is....”
+
+“Here’s a necklace,” he corrected her quietly; “but are you sure that
+it is your necklace and that it has any value?”
+
+“What do you mean?” she asked in unconcealed annoyance. “Only a
+fortnight ago my jeweller valued it at half a million francs.”
+
+“A fortnight ago—that is to say, five days before that night.... And
+now? Please remember I know nothing; I have not valued the necklace; it
+is merely a supposition. But are you yourself entirely without
+suspicion?”
+
+Valérie stood quite still. What suspicion was he hinting at? In what
+connection? A vague anxiety crept over her as his suggestion persisted.
+As she weighed the mass of heaped-up pearls in her outstretched hand it
+seemed to get lighter and lighter. As she looked she discovered
+variations in coloring, unaccustomed reflections, a disturbing
+unevenness, a changed graduation—each detail more disturbing than the
+last, until in the back of her mind the terrible truth began to dawn,
+distinct and threatening.
+
+Jim Barnett gave vent to a short chuckle.
+
+“Just so. You’re getting there, are you? On the right track at last—one
+more mental effort and all is clear as day! It’s all quite logical.
+Your enemy doesn’t just steal—he substitutes. Nothing disappears, and
+except for the noise of the falling show-case everything would have
+been carried out in perfect secrecy and have gone undiscovered. Until
+some fresh development occurred, you would have been absolutely unaware
+that the real necklace had vanished and that you were displaying on
+your snowy shoulders a string of imitation pearls.”
+
+Valérie was so absorbed in her own thoughts that she hardly noticed the
+familiarity of the man’s words and manner.
+
+Barnett leaned towards her.
+
+“Well—that settles the first point. And now we know what he stole,
+let’s look for the thief. That’s the procedure in all well-conducted
+cases. And once we’ve found the thief we shan’t be far from recovering
+the object of the theft.”
+
+He gave Valérie’s hand a friendly pat of reassurance.
+
+“Cheer up, madame. We’re on the right scent now. Let’s begin by a
+little guesswork—it’s an excellent method. We’ll suppose that your
+husband, in spite of his illness, had sufficient strength to drag
+himself from his own room to this one, armed with the candle, and,
+anyway, with the tool the plumber left behind; we’ll go on to suppose
+that he opened the safe, clumsily overturned the show-case and then
+fled in case you had heard the noise. Doesn’t that throw a little light
+on it all? How naturally it accounts for the absence of any trace of
+arrival or departure, and also for the safe being opened without being
+forced, since Baron Assermann must many a time in all these years have
+come in here with you in the evening, seen you work the lock, noted the
+clicks and intervals and counted the number of notches displaced—and
+so, gradually, have discovered the three letters of the cipher.”
+
+This “little guesswork,” as Jim Barnett termed it, seemed to appall the
+beautiful Valérie as he went on “supposing” step by step. It was as if
+she saw it all happening before her eyes. At last she stammered out
+distractedly:
+
+“What you suggest is madness. You don’t suppose my husband.... If
+someone came here that night, it couldn’t have been the baron. Don’t be
+absurd!”
+
+“Did you have a copy of your necklace?” he interjected.
+
+She paused. When she spoke it was slowly, with forced calm.
+
+“Yes ... my husband ordered one, for safety, when we bought it—four
+years ago.”
+
+“And where is the copy?”
+
+“My husband kept it,” she replied, her voice a mere whisper.
+
+“Well,” said Barnett cheerfully, “that’s the copy you’ve got in your
+hands; he has substituted it for the real pearls which he has taken. As
+for his motive—well, since his fortune places Baron Assermann above any
+suspicion of theft, we must look for something more intimate ... more
+subtle.... Revenge? A desire to torture—to injure—perhaps to punish?
+What do you think yourself? After all, a young and pretty woman’s
+rather reckless behavior may be very understandable, but her husband is
+bound to judge it fairly severely.... Forgive me, madame. I have no
+right to pry into the secrets of your private life. I am merely here to
+locate, with your help, the present whereabouts of your necklace.”
+
+“No,” cried Valérie, starting back. “No!”
+
+Suddenly she felt she could no longer endure this ally who, in the
+course of a brief, friendly, almost frivolous conversation, had
+fathomed with diabolical ease all the secret circumstances of her life
+by a method quite unlike the ordinary methods employed by the police.
+And this man was now pointing out with an air of good-natured banter
+the precipice to whose edge fate seemed to be forcing her.
+
+The sound of his sarcastic voice became all at once intolerable. She
+hated the mere thought of his searching for her necklace.
+
+“No,” she repeatedly obstinately.
+
+He bowed, insolently servile.
+
+“As you wish, madame. I have not the slightest desire to seem
+importunate. I am simply here to serve you in so far as you want my
+help. Besides, as things are now, you can safely dispense with my aid,
+since your husband is quite unfit to go out and will scarcely have been
+so imprudent as to entrust the pearls to any one else. If you make a
+careful search, you will probably discover them hidden somewhere in his
+room. I need say no more—except that if you should need me, telephone
+me at my office between nine and ten any night. And now I respectfully
+withdraw, madame la baronne.”
+
+Again he kissed her hand and she dared not resist him. Then he took his
+leave jauntily, swinging along with an irritating air of utter
+complacency. The courtyard gate clanged behind him. To Valérie it
+brought a curious premonition of doom—as if a prison gate had now
+closed upon her.
+
+
+
+That evening, Valérie summoned Inspector Béchoux, whose continued
+attendance seemed only natural, and the search began.
+
+Béchoux, a conscientious detective and a pupil of the famous Canimard,
+adhered to the approved methods of his profession—and proceeded to
+examine the baron’s bathroom and private study in sections. After all,
+a necklace with three strands of pearls is too large an object for it
+to remain hidden from an expert searcher for very long. Nevertheless,
+after a week’s persistent search, including several night visits when,
+owing to the baron’s habit of taking sleeping draughts, he was able to
+examine even the bed and the bedclothes, Béchoux admitted himself
+discouraged. The necklace could not possibly be in the house.
+
+In spite of her instinctive aversion, Valérie was tempted to get in
+touch once more with the impossible man at the Barnett Agency. Despite
+the repugnance with which he inspired her, she felt positive he would
+know how to perform the miracle of finding the necklace.
+
+Then matters were brought to a head by a crisis which came suddenly,
+though not unexpectedly. One evening the servants summoned their
+mistress hastily—the baron lay choking and prostrate on a divan near
+the bathroom door. His distorted features and the anguish in his eyes
+were indicative of the most acute suffering.
+
+Almost paralyzed with fright, Valérie was about to telephone for the
+doctor, but the baron stammered out the words, “Too late ... it’s ...
+too ... late....”
+
+Then, trying to rise, he gasped out: “A drink ...” and would have
+staggered to the washstand.
+
+Quickly Valérie thrust him back on to the divan.
+
+“There’s water here in the carafe,” she urged.
+
+“No.... I want it ... from the tap....” He fell back, exhausted.
+
+She turned on the tap quickly, fetched a glass and filled it, but when
+she took it to him, he would not drink.
+
+There was a long silence except for the sound of the water running in
+the basin. The dying man’s face became drawn and sunken. He motioned to
+his wife and she leaned forward—but, doubtless to prevent the servants
+hearing, he repeated the word “closer,” and again “closer.”
+
+Valérie hesitated, as though afraid of what he might want to say, but
+his imperious glance cowed her and she knelt down with her ear almost
+touching his lips. Then he whispered, incoherently, and she could
+scarcely so much as guess what the words meant.
+
+“The pearls ... the necklace ... you shall know before I’m gone ... you
+never loved me ... you married me ... for ... my money....”
+
+She began to protest indignantly at his making such a cruel accusation
+at this solemn moment, but he seized her wrist and repeated in a kind
+of confused delirium: “... for my money, and your conduct has proved
+it. You have never been a good wife to me—that’s why I wanted to punish
+you—why I’m punishing you now—it’s an exquisite joy—the only pleasure
+possible to me—and I can die happily now because the pearls are
+vanishing away.... Can’t you hear them, falling, dropping away into the
+swirling water. Ah, Valérie, my wife ... what a punishment! ... the
+drops that trickle away!...”
+
+His strength failed him again, and the servants lifted him onto his
+bed. The doctor came very soon after, and two elderly spinster cousins
+who had been summoned settled themselves in the room and refused to
+budge. The final paroxysm was prolonged and painful. At dawn Baron
+Assermann died, without uttering another word.
+
+At the formal request of the cousins, a seal was placed on every drawer
+and cupboard in the room. Then the long death vigil began....
+
+Two days later, after the funeral, the dead man’s lawyer called and
+asked to speak to Valérie in private. He looked grave and troubled and
+said at once:
+
+“Madame, I have a most painful duty to perform, and I prefer to get it
+over as quickly as possible, while assuring you beforehand that the
+injustice done to you was subject to my profound disapproval and
+contrary to my advice and entreaty. But it was useless to oppose an
+unshakable determination....”
+
+“I beg you, monsieur,” stammered Valérie, “to make your meaning clear.”
+
+“I am coming to it, madame la baronne—it is this. I hold a will drawn
+up by Baron Assermann twenty years ago, appointing you his sole heiress
+and residuary legatee. But I have to tell you that last month the baron
+confided to me that he had made a fresh will ... by which he left his
+entire fortune to his two cousins....”
+
+“He made a new will?” cried Valérie.
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“And you have it?”
+
+“After reading it to me he locked it in that desk. He did not wish it
+to be read until a week after his death. It may not be unsealed before
+that date.”
+
+Now Valérie realized why, a few years before, after a series of violent
+quarrels, her husband had advised her to sell all her own jewelry and
+purchase a pearl necklace with the money. Disinherited, with no fortune
+of her own, and with an imitation pearl necklace in place of the real
+one, she was left penniless.
+
+
+
+The day before the seals were to be broken, a car drew up in the rue
+Laborde in front of rather dingy premises bearing the sign:
+
+
+                       The Barnett Agency
+
+                     OPEN FROM TWO TO THREE
+
+                        Information Free
+
+
+A veiled woman in deep mourning got out of the car and knocked on the
+glass panel of the inner door.
+
+“Come in,” called a voice from within.
+
+She entered.
+
+“Who’s that,” went on the voice in the back room, which was separated
+from the office by a curtain. She recognized the tones.
+
+“Baronne Assermann,” she replied.
+
+“Excuse me, madame. Please take a seat. I won’t keep you a moment.”
+
+While she waited, Valérie looked round the office. It was comparatively
+empty; the furniture consisted of a table and two old armchairs. The
+walls were quite bare and the place was innocent of files or papers. A
+telephone was the only indication of activity. An ash-tray, however,
+held the stubs of several expensive cigarettes, and a subtle fragrance
+hung in the air.
+
+The curtain swung back and Jim Barnett appeared suddenly, alert and
+smiling. He wore the same shabby frock-coat, the same impossible,
+made-up tie, the same monocle at the end of a black ribbon.
+
+He seized and kissed his visitor’s gloved hand.
+
+“How do you do, madame. This is indeed a pleasure. But what’s the
+matter? I see you are in mourning—nothing serious, I hope—oh, but how
+absent-minded I am—of course—Baron Assermann, was it not? So sad! A
+charming man, and such a devoted husband. I should so much have liked
+to meet him. Well, well. Let’s see—how did matters stand?”
+
+As he spoke, he took from his pocket a slender note-book which he
+fingered pensively.
+
+“Baronne Assermann—here we are—I remember. Imitation pearls—husband the
+thief—pretty woman.... A very pretty woman.... She is to telephone
+me.... Well, dear lady,” he concluded, with increasing familiarity, “I
+am still awaiting that telephone call.”
+
+Once more, Valérie felt disconcerted by this man. Without wishing to
+pretend overwhelming sorrow at the death of her husband, she yet felt
+sad, and mingled with her sadness was a haunting dread of future
+poverty. She had had a bad time during the last days—and her wan face
+showed the ravages of terror and futile remorse resulting from her
+nightmare visions of ruin and distress.... And here was this
+impertinent upstart detective, not seeming to grasp the position at
+all....
+
+With great dignity she recounted all that had happened, and although
+she avoided idle recriminations, she repeated what her husband’s lawyer
+had said.
+
+“Ah, yes; quite so,” interposed the detective, smiling approval. “Good
+... that all fits in admirably. It’s quite a pleasure to see how
+logically this enthralling and well constructed drama is working itself
+out.”
+
+“A pleasure?” asked Valérie tonelessly.
+
+“Certainly—a pleasure which my friend Inspector Béchoux must have
+enjoyed—for I suppose he’s explained to you....”
+
+“What?”
+
+“What? Why, the key to the mystery, of course. Isn’t it priceless? Old
+Béchoux must have rocked with mirth!”
+
+Jim Barnett, at any rate, was laughing heartily.
+
+“That washbasin trick now—there’s a novelty! It’s certainly farcical
+rather than dramatic—but so adroitly worked in—of course I spotted the
+dodge at once when you told me about the plumber, and saw the
+connection between the repairing of the washbasin and the baron’s
+little plans. That was the crux of the whole thing. When he planned the
+substitution of the false necklace, your husband arranged a good
+hiding-place for the real pearls; it was essential for his purpose.
+Merely to deprive you of them and throw them or cause them to be thrown
+into the Seine like worthless rubbish, would only have been half a
+revenge. For it to be complete and on the grand scale he had to keep
+them close at hand, hidden in a spot at once near and inaccessible. And
+that’s what he did.”
+
+Jim Barnett was thoroughly enjoying himself and went on jocularly:
+“Can’t you imagine your husband explaining it all to the plumber? ‘See
+here, my man, just examine that waste-pipe under my washbasin. It goes
+down to the wainscoting and leaves the bathroom at an almost
+imperceptible gradient, doesn’t it? Well, reduce that gradient still
+more—take up the pipe in this dark corner, so as to form a sort of
+pocket—a blind alley, where something could be lodged if necessary.
+When the tap is turned on the water will fill the pocket and carry away
+the object lodged there. You understand? Then drill a hole about half
+an inch in diameter in the wall side of the pipe, where it won’t be
+noticed. Yes—there! Done it? Now plug it up with this rubber stopper.
+Does it fit? That’s all right then. Now, you understand, don’t you—not
+a word to anyone! Keep your mouth shut. Take this and catch the
+Brussels express to-night. These three checks you can cash there—one
+every month. In three months’ time you may come back to Paris.
+Good-bye. That’s all, thanks.’... And that very night you heard a noise
+in your boudoir, the imitation pearls were substituted for the real
+ones, and the latter secreted in the hiding-place prepared for them in
+the pocket of the pipe. Now do you see? Believing that the end has
+come, the baron calls out to you: ‘A glass of water—not from the
+carafe—from the tap there.’ You obey. And the terrible punishment is
+brought about by your own hand as it turns on the tap—the water runs,
+carries away the pearls, and the baron stammers out: ‘Do you hear?
+They’re trickling away—away!’”
+
+The baronne listened in distracted silence. What impressed her most in
+Burnett’s terrible story was not the full revelation of her husband’s
+rancor and hatred, but the one fact which it hammered home.
+
+“Then you knew the truth?” she murmured at last.
+
+“Of course,” he replied, “it’s my job. The Barnett Agency, you see....”
+
+“And you said nothing of this to me?” Her tone was an accusation.
+
+“But, my dear baronne, it was you yourself who stopped me from telling
+you what I knew, or was just about to discover. You dismissed
+me—somewhat peremptorily, I fear—and not wishing to be thought
+officious, I did not press the matter. Besides, I had still to verify
+my deductions.”
+
+“And have you done so?” she faltered.
+
+“Yes. Just out of curiosity, that’s all.”
+
+“When?”
+
+“The same night.”
+
+“What! You got into the house that night—into our rooms? I heard
+nothing....”
+
+“Oh, I’ve a little way of working on the quiet.... Even Baron Assermann
+didn’t hear me. And yet....”
+
+“What?...”
+
+“Well, just to make sure, I enlarged that hole, you see ... the one
+through which he had pushed the pearls into the pipe.”
+
+She started.
+
+“Then you saw them?...”
+
+“I did.”
+
+“My pearls were actually there?”
+
+He nodded.
+
+Valérie choked, as she repeated under her breath: “My pearls were there
+in the pipe and you could have taken them?...”
+
+“Yes,” he admitted nonchalantly, “and I really believe that but for me,
+Jim Barnett, at your service, they would have dropped away as the baron
+intended they should on the day of his death, which he knew was not far
+off. What were his words: ‘They’re vanishing ... can’t you hear them?
+... drops that trickle away...!’ And his plan of revenge would have
+come off—too bad—such a beautiful necklace—quite a collector’s piece!”
+
+Valérie was not given to violent explosions of wrath, likely to upset
+her complexion. But at this point she was worked up to such a pitch
+that she rushed up to Barnett and convulsively seized the collar of his
+coat.
+
+“It’s theft! You’re a common adventurer! I suspected it all along—a
+crook!”
+
+At the word “crook” the young man hooted with joy.
+
+“I—a crook? How frightfully amusing!”
+
+She took no notice. Shaking with passion, she rushed up and down the
+room shrieking: “I won’t have it, I tell you. Give me back my pearls at
+once or I’ll call the police!”
+
+“Oh—how ugly that sounds,” he exclaimed, “and how tactless for a pretty
+woman like yourself to behave like this to a man who has shown himself
+assiduous in serving you and only wants to coöperate peaceably with you
+for your good!”
+
+She shrugged her shoulders and demanded again: “Will you give me my
+necklace?”
+
+“Of course! it’s absolutely at your disposal. Good heavens, do you
+suppose that Jim Barnett robs the people who pay him the compliment of
+seeking his help! What do you think would become of the Barnett Agency,
+which owes its popularity to its reputation for absolute integrity and
+disinterested service? I don’t ask my clients for a single penny. If I
+kept your pearls I should be a thief—a crook, as you would say—whereas
+I am an honest man. Here, dear lady, is your necklace.”
+
+He produced a small cloth bag containing the rescued pearls and laid it
+on the table.
+
+Thunderstruck, Valérie seized the precious necklace with shaking hands.
+She could hardly believe her eyes; it seemed incredible that this man
+should restore her property in this way, and with a sudden fear lest he
+was merely acting on a momentary impulse, she made abruptly for the
+door without a word of thanks.
+
+“You’re in rather a hurry all at once,” laughed Jim Barnett. “Aren’t
+you going to count them? Three hundred and forty-five. They’re all
+there ... and they’re the real ones, this time.”
+
+“Yes,” said Valérie, “I know that....”
+
+“You’re quite sure? Those really are the pearls your jeweller valued at
+five hundred thousand francs?”
+
+“Yes; they are the ones.”
+
+“You’d swear to that?”
+
+“Certainly,” she said positively.
+
+“In that case, I’ll buy them from you.”
+
+“You’ll buy them! What do you mean?”
+
+“Well, being penniless, you’ve got to sell them. Why not to me, then,
+since I can offer you more than anyone else will—I’ll give you twenty
+times their value. Instead of five hundred thousand francs, I’ll give
+ten million. Does that startle you? Ten million’s a pretty figure.”
+
+“Ten million!”
+
+“Exactly the reputed gross amount of the baron’s estate.”
+
+Valérie lingered at the door, her fingers twisting the handle.
+
+“My husband’s estate,” she repeated. “I don’t see any connection.
+Please explain.”
+
+With gentle emphasis Jim Barnett continued: “It’s very simple. You have
+your choice—the pearl necklace or the estate!”
+
+“The pearl necklace ... the estate?” she repeated, puzzled.
+
+“Certainly. As you yourself told me, the inheritance turns on two
+wills: the earlier one in your favor and the second in favor of those
+two old cousins, who are as rich as Crœsus and apparently
+correspondingly mean. But suppose Will Number Two can’t be found, Will
+Number One is valid.”
+
+“But to-morrow,” she said in faltering accents, “they intend to break
+the seals and open the desk—and the second will is there.”
+
+“The will may be there—or it may not,” suggested Barnett, rather
+contemptuously. “I’ll go so far as to say that in my humble opinion it
+is not.”
+
+“Is that possible?” she asked, staring at him in amazement.
+
+“Quite possible—even probable—in fact, I seem to remember now that when
+I came to investigate the waste-pipe the evening after our talk, I took
+the opportunity of looking round your husband’s rooms as he was
+sleeping so soundly.”
+
+“And you took that will,” she asked haltingly.
+
+“This rather looks like it, doesn’t it?”
+
+He unfolded a sheet of stamped paper and she recognized her husband’s
+writing as she caught sight of the words: “I, the undersigned, Léon
+Joseph Assermann, banker, in view of certain facts well known to her,
+do hereby declare that my wife Valérie Assermann shall not have the
+slightest claim upon my fortune and that....”
+
+She read no further. Her voice caught in her throat and falling limply
+into an armchair she gasped:
+
+“You stole that paper—and expect me to be your accomplice.... I won’t.
+My poor husband’s wishes must be obeyed....”
+
+Jim Barnett threw up his hands enthusiastically.
+
+“How splendid of you, dear lady. Duty points to self-sacrifice, and I
+commend you the more when your lot is so especially hard—when for two
+old cousins who are quite undeserving of pity, you are prepared to
+sacrifice yourself with your own hands to gratify Baron Assermann’s
+petty spite. You bow to this injustice to expiate those youthful
+peccadilloes. The beautiful Valérie is to forego the luxury to which
+she is entitled and be reduced to abject poverty. But, before you
+finally make this choice, madame, I beg you to weigh your decision
+carefully and realize all it means. Let me be quite plain: if that
+necklace leaves this room, the lawyer receives Will Number Two
+to-morrow morning and you are disinherited.”
+
+“And if it stays?”
+
+“Well, there’s no will in that desk and you inherit the whole
+estate—ten million francs in your pocket, thanks to Jim Barnett.”
+
+His sarcasm was obvious, and Valérie felt like a helpless animal
+trapped in his ruthless grasp. There was no way out. If she refused him
+the necklace, the will would be read out next day. He was relentless,
+and would turn a deaf ear to any entreaties.
+
+He stepped into the back room for a moment and then returned from
+behind the curtain, calmly wiping off his face the grease paint with
+which he had covered it, like an actor removing his make-up. His
+appearance was now completely changed—his face was fresh and
+young-looking, with a smooth, healthy skin. A fashionable tie had
+replaced the made-up atrocity. He had changed the old frock-coat and
+baggy trousers for a well-cut lounge suit. And his attitude of smiling
+confidence made it clear he did not fear denunciation or betrayal. In
+return, Valérie knew he would never say a word to anyone, even to
+Inspector Béchoux—the secret would be kept inviolate.
+
+He leaned towards her and, laughing, said: “Well—I believe you’re
+looking at it more reasonably now. That’s good! Besides, who’ll know
+that the wealthy Baronne Assermann is wearing imitation pearls? Not one
+of your friends will ever suspect it. You’ll keep your fortune and
+possess a necklace which everyone will think is genuine. Isn’t that
+lovely? Can’t you just see yourself leading a full and happy life, with
+plenty of opportunity for fun and flirtation? Aha!” He waggled a jovial
+forefinger in her angry face.
+
+At that moment Valérie had not the slightest desire for fun or
+flirtation. She glared at Jim Barnett with suppressed fury, and,
+drawing herself up, made her exit like a society queen withdrawing from
+a hostile drawing-room.
+
+The little bag of pearls remained on the table.
+
+
+
+“And they call that an honest woman!” said Jim Barnett to himself, his
+arms folded in virtuous indignation. “Her husband disinherits her to
+punish her for her naughty ways, and she disregards his wishes! There’s
+a fresh will—and she filches it! She deceives his lawyer and despoils
+his old cousins. Tut, tut! And how noble is the part of the lover of
+justice who chastises the culprit and sets everything to rights again!”
+
+He slipped the necklace deftly back into its place in the depths of his
+pocket, finished dressing, and then, his monocle carefully adjusted,
+and a fat cigar between his teeth, he left the office, and went forth
+in search of fresh amusement.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+III
+
+THE ROYAL LOVE LETTER
+
+
+There was a knock at the door of the modest office in the rue Laborde.
+
+It roused Jim Barnett of the Barnett Agency from his doze in the
+comfortable armchair, where he sat awaiting clients.
+
+“Come in!” he cried, and, as the door opened to admit his visitor,
+“why, Inspector Béchoux, how nice of you to look me up! How are you?”
+
+In both manner and appearance, Inspector Béchoux was a striking
+contrast to the usual type of detective. He aimed at sartorial
+elegance, exaggerated the crease in his trousers, had a pretty taste in
+ties and was very particular about the starching of his collars. He had
+a curious waxen pallor. In build, he was small, lean, and seemingly
+weedy. Oddly enough, he had the muscular arms of a heavyweight
+champion—arms which gave the impression of having been tacked haphazard
+on to his limp frame. He was intensely proud of those arms. Though
+quite a young man, his bearing was most self-assured. His eyes gleamed
+alert and intelligent.
+
+“I happened to be passing,” he announced, “and, knowing your clock-like
+habits, I thought: ‘This being old Barnett’s consultation hour, he’s
+sure to be there. Why not drop in....’”
+
+“And ask his advice,” finished Jim Barnett.
+
+“Perhaps,” admitted the Inspector, to whom Barnett’s perspicacity was a
+never-failing source of surprise.
+
+Seeing his hesitation, Barnett spoke again: “What’s up, old son?
+Finding it a bit difficult to consult the oracle to-day?”
+
+Béchoux smote the table with his clenched fist; no mean blow, with his
+great arm to back it.
+
+“Fact is, I’m a bit stumped. We’ve worked together on three cases now,
+Barnett—you as a private detective and I as a police inspector—and each
+time I haven’t been able to help feeling that your clients—Baronne
+Assermann, for instance—ended by regarding you with a very jaundiced
+eye.”
+
+“As if I’d taken advantage of my opportunity to blackmail them,”
+Barnett interrupted, fiddling with his eternal monocle, and smiling
+sardonically.
+
+“No, I don’t mean....” Béchoux forgot his resolve to find out just what
+had happened in the case of Baronne Assermann.
+
+Barnett clapped him on the shoulder.
+
+“Inspector Béchoux, you’re forgetting the slogan of this firm:
+‘Information Free.’ I give you my word of honor that I never ask my
+clients for a penny and I never accept a penny from them.”
+
+Béchoux breathed more freely.
+
+“Thanks,” he said. “I’m glad to have that assurance. My professional
+conscience will only allow me to avail myself of your coöperation on
+certain conditions. You understand, don’t you? But if you don’t mind my
+asking the question, there’s one thing I feel I must know. Just what
+financial backing have you in the Barnett Agency?”
+
+“I have a sleeping partner—a philanthropist.” Barnett’s tone was remote
+and casual.
+
+“Is he anybody I know?”
+
+“I rather think so. In fact, I’m almost certain. For even a police
+inspector must at some time have heard the name of—Arsène Lupin!”
+
+Béchoux jumped.
+
+“That’s no name to jest about, Barnett.”
+
+Inspector Béchoux’s existence was dominated by two emotions—his
+admiration for Barnett’s detective ability and his fierce hatred of
+Arsène Lupin. Béchoux was one of Caminard’s little band and fully
+shared that great man’s bitterness, especially as he had himself
+suffered humiliating defeats at the enemy’s hands. He still smarted
+with resentment at the memory of these, and never forgot that Arsène
+Lupin had added insult to injury by robbing him more than once of the
+lady of his choice.
+
+“We won’t discuss the fellow,” he said gruffly, “unless there’s a
+chance of my laying hands on him.”
+
+“Or I,” and Barnett blandly extended his own hands—oddly enough, at the
+level of his nose! “But let’s get to work. Whereabouts is your new
+job?”
+
+“Near Marly. It’s the business of the murder of old Vaucherel. You’ve
+heard about it?”
+
+“Only vaguely.”
+
+Barnett’s attitude was one of acute detachment from anything so mundane
+as murder.
+
+“I’m not surprised. The newspapers aren’t giving it much space yet,
+though it’s infernally baffling....”
+
+“He was done in with a knife, wasn’t he?” After all, Barnett’s
+detachment was only assumed.
+
+“Yes. Stabbed between the shoulder-blades.”
+
+“Any finger-marks on the knife?”
+
+“None. We found a piece of paper in ashes; it was probably wrapped
+round the handle by the murderer.”
+
+“Any clews?”
+
+Inspector Béchoux shook his head. “Vaucherel’s room was a bit
+disordered. Some of the furniture had been knocked over and the drawer
+of a table had been broken open, but we don’t know why that was done or
+what’s missing.”
+
+“Where have they got to on the inquest?”
+
+“They’re confronting a retired official called Leboc with the Gaudu
+cousins—three ne’er-do-weel blackguards of poachers. Without any real
+evidence, each side is accusing the other of the murder. Want me to run
+you over there in my car? Nothing like a good, stiff cross-examination,
+you know!”
+
+“Right you are.” Barnett rose, albeit reluctantly.
+
+“Just one thing, Barnett. Formerie, who’s conducting the inquiry, hopes
+to attract attention and get a Paris appointment. He’s a touchy sort of
+chap and he won’t stand for your usual bright bedside manner with the
+law, so cut out the flippancy.” Béchoux’s tone was eloquent with
+painful memories of Barnett’s past exploits.
+
+“I promise to treat him most respectfully,” replied Barnett, “and I
+never break my word!”
+
+Half-way between the village of Fontines and Marly Forest, in a copse
+separated from the forest by a strip of ground, stands a one-storied
+house with a small kitchen garden, surrounded by a low wall. Eight days
+before Béchoux’s conversation with Jim Barnett, the cottage was still
+inhabited by a retired bookseller, old Vaucherel, who never left his
+little domain of flowers and vegetables except to browse in the
+bookstalls along the Paris quays. He was very miserly and reputed a
+rich man, although frugal in his habits. He had no visitors except his
+friend, Leboc, who lived at Fontines.
+
+The reconstruction of the crime and the examination of Leboc were over,
+and the inspection of the garden had begun, when Jim Barnett and
+Inspector Béchoux alighted from their car. Béchoux made himself known
+to the gendarmes guarding the cottage gate and, followed by Barnett, he
+joined the examining magistrate and the deputy just as the latter had
+halted before an angle of the wall. The three Gaudu cousins were there
+to give their evidence. They were all three farm-hands of just about
+the same age; they bore no facial resemblance to one another save for a
+similar sly stubbornness of expression. The eldest Gaudu was speaking:
+
+“Yes, your worship, that’s where we jumped over when we ran to the
+rescue, as you might say.”
+
+“You were coming from Fontines?”
+
+“Yes, your worship, from Fontines. We were on our way back to work,
+about two o’clock it must have been. It was like this: we were chatting
+with Mère Denise close by at the edge of the copse, when we heard
+screams. ‘Somebody’s crying for help,’ I says. ‘It’s from the cottage.’
+Old Vaucherel, that we knew as well as anything, your worship. So we
+ran like mad. We climbed over this here wall—a nasty bit of work, with
+all them broken bottles on top—and we were across the garden in no
+time, as you might say.”
+
+“Where exactly were you when the front door flew open?”
+
+“Right here,” said the eldest Gaudu, leading the way to a flower-bed.
+
+“That means about twenty yards from the porch,” said the magistrate,
+pointing to the two steps leading up to the hall. “And from where you
+stood you saw——” He paused expectantly.
+
+“Monsieur Leboc himself ... I saw him as clear as I see you, your
+worship ... he was rushing out, as if the devil was at his heels—or the
+police, for that matter, which they soon may be—and when he saw us he
+bolted straight back again.”
+
+“You’re quite sure it was he?”
+
+“I swear to God it was!”
+
+The other two men took a similar oath.
+
+“You can’t have been mistaken?”
+
+“Why, he’s been living near our place for five years now, down the end
+of the village,” the eldest Gaudu stated. “I’ve even delivered milk at
+his house!”
+
+The magistrate gave an order. The door of the hall opened and a man
+came out. He was about sixty, and wore a brown drill suit and a straw
+hat. His face was pink and smiling.
+
+The three Gaudus spoke simultaneously.
+
+“Monsieur Leboc!”
+
+Their choral affirmation made Leboc’s entrance grotesquely like
+something in musical comedy.
+
+The deputy whispered, “It’s obvious there can’t be any mistake at such
+close range and the Gaudu cousins can’t have gone wrong on the identity
+of the fugitive—which means, of the murderer.”
+
+“Quite so,” said the magistrate. “But are they speaking the truth? Was
+it Monsieur Leboc they saw? Now we’ll go on.”
+
+The party went into the house and entered a big room whose walls were
+literally lined with books. There were just a few sticks of furniture;
+a large table—the one whose drawer had been broken into; and an
+unframed full-length portrait of old Vaucherel—a life-size daub by some
+unskilled artist who had yet managed to invest his subject with a
+certain verisimilitude.
+
+A dummy lay stretched on the floor to represent the victim of the
+tragedy.
+
+The magistrate resumed his examination.
+
+“When you came on the scene, Gaudu, you did not see Monsieur Leboc
+again?”
+
+“No, your worship. We heard groans from this room and rushed in at
+once.”
+
+“That means that Monsieur Vaucherel was still alive?”
+
+“Hardly that, as you might say. He was lying face down with a knife
+stuck right in the middle of his back ... we knelt down by him ... the
+poor gentleman was trying to speak.”
+
+“Could you catch what he said?”
+
+“No, your worship. We could only make out the name of Leboc—he said it
+over several times—‘Monsieur Leboc, Monsieur Leboc ...’ like that. Then
+a kind of shudder passed over him and he was gone. After that we
+searched everywhere, but Monsieur Leboc had vanished. He must have
+jumped out of the kitchen window, which was open, and made off down the
+little gravel path. It goes straight to his house and the trees hide it
+all the way.... Then we all went together to the gendarmes ... and we
+told them all about it....”
+
+The magistrate asked a few more questions, made the three cousins
+formulate even more definitely their charge against Monsieur Leboc, and
+then turned his attention to the latter.
+
+Monsieur Leboc had listened without attempting to interrupt. His
+perfect calm was unruffled by any display of indignation. He gave the
+impression of finding the Gaudus’ story so utterly absurd that he did
+not for a moment doubt that the magistrate would take a precisely
+similar view of it. Why bother to refute such a tale?
+
+“Have you anything to add, Monsieur Leboc?”
+
+“Nothing further.”
+
+“Then you still maintain——”
+
+“I maintain what you, monsieur, know as well as I to be the truth. All
+the villagers you have examined have testified that I never go out
+during the daytime. At midday I have my lunch sent in from the inn.
+From one to four I sit at my window reading and smoking my pipe. The
+day in question was fine. My window was open, and five people—no less
+than five—saw me, as on any other day, from the garden gate.”
+
+“I have summoned them to appear later on.”
+
+“I’m glad to hear it. They will repeat their evidence. Since I am not
+ubiquitous and cannot at one and the same moment be here and in my own
+house you must admit that I could not have been seen leaving the
+cottage, that my poor friend Vaucherel could not have spoken my name in
+his agony, and therefore that these three Gaudus are unmitigated
+scoundrels.”
+
+“And you turn the murder charge against them, don’t you?”
+
+“Oh! Merely a matter of surmise....”
+
+“On the other hand, an old woman, Mère Denise, who was out gathering
+firewood, states that she was talking with the men when they first
+heard the screams.”
+
+“She was talking with two of them. Where was the third?”
+
+“A little way behind.”
+
+“Did she see him?”
+
+“She thinks so ... she isn’t positive....”
+
+“In that case, what proof have you that the third Gaudu wasn’t right
+here, committing the murder? What proof have you that the other two,
+posted near, didn’t climb the wall, not to rush to the victim’s help
+but to smother his cries and finish him off?”
+
+“If that were so, why should they accuse you personally?”
+
+“I have a small shoot and the Gaudus are incorrigible poachers. It was
+thanks to me that they were twice caught in the act and sentenced. Now,
+as they’ve got to accuse some one to shift suspicion from themselves,
+they’re getting their own back.”
+
+“Merely surmise, as you said yourself. Why should they want to kill
+Vaucherel?”
+
+“How should I know?” Leboc shrugged his shoulders.
+
+“You have no idea what it was that may have been stolen from the drawer
+in the table?”
+
+“None, your lordship. My friend Vaucherel was not rich, whatever people
+may have said. I happen to know that he had entrusted his savings to a
+broker and kept no money in the house.”
+
+“Nor anything valuable?”
+
+“Nothing whatever.”
+
+“What about his books?”
+
+“They aren’t worth anything, as you can see for yourself. He always
+wanted to collect first editions and old bindings, but he could never
+afford it.”
+
+“Did he ever mention the Gaudu cousins to you?”
+
+“Never. Much as I long to avenge my poor friend’s death, I have no wish
+to speak anything but the strict truth.”
+
+The examination went on. The magistrate questioned the cousins closely,
+but at the finish the confrontation showed no results. Having cleared
+up a few minor points, the magistrates adjourned to Fontines.
+
+Monsieur Leboc’s property, at the end of the village, was no bigger
+than the cottage. The garden was enclosed by a very high, neatly
+clipped hedge. The white-painted brick house faced on to a tiny,
+perfectly circular lawn. As at the cottage the distance from gate to
+porch was between fifteen and twenty yards.
+
+The magistrate asked Monsieur Leboc to take up his position as on the
+fatal afternoon. Monsieur Leboc thereupon seated himself at the window,
+a book on his knees, and his pipe in his mouth.
+
+Here again no mistake was possible. Anyone passing the gate and
+glancing towards the house could not fail to see Monsieur Leboc
+distinctly. The five witnesses who had been summoned—laborers and
+shopkeepers of Fontines—repeated their evidence in such a way that it
+was quite impossible to doubt Monsieur Leboc’s whereabouts between
+midday and four o’clock on the day of the crime.
+
+The magistrates did not attempt to hide their bewilderment from the
+inspector, and Formerie, to whom Béchoux had introduced Barnett as a
+detective of exceptional ability, could not help saying:
+
+“A complicated case, monsieur. What do you make of it?”
+
+“Yes, what do you make of it?” echoed Béchoux, signing pointedly to
+remind Barnett of the need for tact.
+
+Jim Barnett had followed the whole investigation at the cottage in
+silence. Béchoux had kept asking him questions, to which he had only
+replied with nods and muttered monosyllables. Now he answered
+pleasantly:
+
+“A most complicated case, monsieur.”
+
+“Ah, you think so too. All things considered, the allegations of the
+two parties balance each other. On the one hand, we have Monsieur
+Leboc’s alibi. It is incontestable that he could not have left his
+house that afternoon. On the other hand, the story of the three cousins
+impresses me favorably.”
+
+“That’s so. One side or the other is acting an abject farce. But which
+side? Can the three Gaudus, bad characters of brutal aspect, be
+innocent? Or may the smiling Monsieur Leboc, all candor and calm, be
+guilty? Or are we to take it that the appearance of the actors in this
+drama is an indication of their respective rôles, Monsieur Leboc being
+innocent and the Gaudus guilty?”
+
+“After all,” Monsieur Formerie concluded with some satisfaction,
+“you’re no nearer seeing daylight than we are.”
+
+“Oh, yes, I am!” Jim Barnett declared, a twinkle in his eye.
+
+Monsieur Formerie bit his lip.
+
+“That being so,” he observed icily, “perhaps you will be so good as to
+tell us what more you have been able to discover.”
+
+“I will certainly do so at the proper moment. To-day, monsieur, all I
+can do is to beg you to call a new witness.”
+
+“A new witness? But—what’s his name?”
+
+“I really don’t know.”
+
+“What’s that? You don’t know?”
+
+Monsieur Formerie was wondering whether this super-detective was
+ragging him. Béchoux showed signs of anxiety. Was Barnett going to pull
+a hornet’s nest about his ears at the start?
+
+At last Jim Barnett leaned over to Monsieur Formerie and pointing to
+Monsieur Leboc, who was still puffing conscientiously at his pipe by
+the window, he whispered:
+
+“In the inner compartment of Monsieur Leboc’s pocketbook there is a
+visiting card pierced with four small holes in lozenge formation. That
+card will give us the name and address of our new witness.”
+
+This ridiculous oracular pronouncement was hardly calculated to restore
+Formerie’s equilibrium, but Inspector Béchoux did not hesitate to act.
+Without giving any reason, he ordered Monsieur Leboc to hand over his
+pocketbook. He opened it and took out a visiting card pierced with four
+holes arranged in a lozenge and bearing the name: Miss Elizabeth
+Lovendale, with an address in blue pencil: Grand Hotel Vendôme, Paris.
+
+The two magistrates looked at one another in amazement. Béchoux fairly
+beamed, while Monsieur Leboc, utterly unembarrassed, exclaimed:
+
+“Good gracious! What a search I had for that card! And so did poor
+Vaucherel!”
+
+“Why should he have been looking for it?”
+
+“Really, your lordship, you can’t expect me to know that. I expect he
+wanted the address.”
+
+“Then what are the four holes doing?”
+
+“Oh, I made those to mark the four points I scored in a game of écarté.
+We often played écarté together, and I must have picked this visiting
+card up without thinking and put it in my pocketbook.”
+
+Leboc gave this plausible explanation in a perfectly natural manner and
+it seemed to satisfy Formerie. What remained unexplained was how on
+earth Jim Barnett could have guessed that such a card was hidden in the
+pocketbook of a man he had never seen before in his life.
+
+And Barnett himself furnished no elucidation. He merely smiled and
+insisted that they should call Elizabeth Lovendale as a witness. This
+they agreed to do.
+
+
+
+Miss Lovendale was out of town and did not put in an appearance for a
+week. The inquiry was at a standstill for that time, although Formerie
+zealously pursued his investigations, the memory of Jim Barnett egging
+him on.
+
+“You’ve riled him,” Béchoux told Barnett on the afternoon when they
+were all assembled again at the cottage. “So much so that he’s
+determined to decline your assistance.”
+
+“Ought I to clear out?” Barnett asked. “I don’t want to cloud any one’s
+sky—not even Formerie’s!”
+
+“No, you can stay,” Béchoux told him. “Anyway, I fancy he’s come to a
+definite decision.”
+
+“All the better. It’s sure to be the wrong one. There’s a good time
+coming!”
+
+“Don’t be so disrespectful, Barnett!”
+
+“Oh, all right, I’ll be respectful and, of course, absolutely
+disinterested. Nothing in hand or pocket. But, I must say, a little
+more Formerie will about finish me!”
+
+Monsieur Leboc had been waiting half an hour when a car drew up and
+Miss Lovendale got out. Monsieur Formerie came up briskly.
+
+“How do you do, Mr. Barnett,” he said. “Any more bright ideas?”
+
+“Perhaps, monsieur,” was Barnett’s cautious reply.
+
+“Well, wait till you’ve heard mine. But first we must get through with
+your witness. Absolutely irrelevant and a sheer waste of time, you’ll
+be glad to hear. Still, it can’t be helped.”
+
+Elizabeth Lovendale was a dowdily dressed, middle-aged Englishwoman,
+her slight eccentricity of manner heightened by her dishevelled hair.
+She spoke French fluently, but so volubly that she was hard to
+understand.
+
+At once, before any question could be put to her, she launched forth:
+
+“That poor Monsieur Vaucherel! Murdered! Such a nice man, if he was a
+bit queer. And you want to know whether I knew him? Oh, not well. I
+only came here once—on business. I wanted to buy something from him. We
+disagreed about the price. I was going to have another appointment with
+him after seeing my brothers. My brothers are well known in
+London—Lovendale and Lovendale, Limited, the big provision merchants.”
+
+Monsieur Formerie strove to stem this flow of eloquence.
+
+“What was it you wanted to buy, mademoiselle?”
+
+“A little scrap of paper—nothing but a scrap of paper. Sentimental
+value only, as people say. But it was worth a lot to me and I made the
+mistake of telling him so. It all goes back to my great-grandmother,
+Dorothy Lovendale. She was a beauty and much admired by King George the
+Fourth. She kept eighteen love-letters that he wrote her and hid them,
+one in each volume of an eighteen-volume calf-bound edition of
+Richardson’s works. When she died, the family found every volume except
+the fourteenth, which was missing, together with the letter inside of
+it—the fourteenth letter and the most interesting, for it was known to
+prove that the lovely Dorothy had stepped aside from virtue’s
+path,”—Miss Lovendale lowered her eyes discreetly so as not to meet
+Barnett’s look of amusement—“just nine months before the birth of her
+eldest son. You can understand what it would mean to us to get that
+letter back! Why, it would prove our royal descent!”
+
+Formerie was growing more and more impatient.
+
+Elizabeth Lovendale took a deep breath, and went on with her story.
+
+“After searching and advertising for nearly thirty years, I learned one
+day that among a number of books sold at auction was the fourteenth
+volume of the set of Richardson. I flew to the purchaser, a second-hand
+bookseller on the Quai Voltaire, who referred me to Monsieur Vaucherel
+who had just bought the book. Monsieur Vaucherel produced the precious
+volume, and, like a fool, I told him that the letter I was after must
+be in the back of the binding. He examined it closely and changed
+color. Then, of course, I realized my stupidity. If I had kept quiet
+about the letter he would have sold me the book for fifty francs. I
+offered him a thousand. Monsieur Vaucherel, shaking with excitement,
+asked ten thousand. I agreed. We both lost our heads. It was like a
+nightmare auction. Twenty thousand—thirty—finally he demanded fifty
+thousand francs, yelling like a madman, with his eyes blazing. ‘Fifty
+thousand,’ he cried, ‘not a sou less—that will buy me all the books I
+want—the rarest and finest—fifty thousand francs!’ He wanted a deposit
+then and there—a check. I said I would come back. He let me go and I
+saw him lock the book into the drawer of this table.”
+
+Elizabeth Lovendale went on embellishing her statement with much
+unnecessary detail. Nobody paid any attention to her. All eyes were for
+the contorted countenance of the magistrate. He was obviously the prey
+of somewhat violent emotion and was quite overwhelmed with excessive
+jubilation. At last he managed to get out:
+
+“In short, mademoiselle, you are asking for the return of the
+fourteenth volume of Richardson’s collected works?”
+
+“I am.” She looked at him with sudden hope.
+
+“Then here it is,” he cried, and with a theatrical gesture he produced
+a small calf-bound book from his pocket.
+
+“Not really!” cried Miss Lovendale.
+
+“Here it is,” he repeated. “But King George’s love-letter isn’t there.
+I should have noticed it. But I’ll wager I can find it if I was able to
+discover the missing volume that people have been after for the past
+century. The man who stole the one indubitably stole the other.”
+
+Monsieur Formerie paced the room, his hands behind his back, enjoying
+his triumph. Suddenly he drummed on the table and spoke again.
+
+“Now we know the motive for the murder. Someone overheard the
+conversation between Vaucherel and Miss Lovendale and saw where
+Vaucherel had put the book. A few days later that person murdered
+Vaucherel to rob him of the book so that he could later on dispose of
+the fourteenth letter. Who was it? Why, Gaudu, the farm-hand, whose
+guilt I never doubted. I searched his house yesterday and noticed a
+large crack between the bricks of the fireplace. Hidden in a hole
+behind this crack I found a book, which obviously belonged to Monsieur
+Vaucherel’s library. Miss Lovendale’s story, coming as it does, proves
+the accuracy of my deductions. The Gaudu cousins will be placed under
+arrest, the scum, as the murderers of poor old Vaucherel and the
+criminal accusers of Monsieur Leboc.”
+
+Monsieur Formerie solemnly shook hands with Monsieur Leboc as a mark of
+his esteem and was effusively thanked by the latter. Then he gallantly
+escorted Elizabeth Lovendale to her car and returned, rubbing his hands
+together.
+
+After this, everybody made for the Gaudus’ house, whither the three
+cousins were being brought under escort. It was a brilliant day.
+Monsieur Formerie, walking between Barnett and Béchoux, with Leboc
+bringing up the rear, was full of satisfaction. The coveted Paris
+appointment loomed ever nearer on his horizon.
+
+“Well, well, Barnett,” he remarked, “very neatly done, eh? Not quite
+what you expected, though. After all, you were inclined to be hostile
+to Monsieur Leboc, weren’t you?”
+
+“I admit, monsieur,” Barnett confessed, “that I allowed my line of
+reasoning to be influenced by that confounded visiting card. Would you
+believe it? That card was lying on the cottage floor during the
+confrontation, and I actually saw Leboc drawing stealthily nearer and
+nearer till he got his right foot on it. When we left the place, he had
+it stuck to the sole of his boot. Afterwards he detached it and slipped
+it into his pocketbook. Well, the imprint of his right sole on the damp
+ground showed me that the said sole had four spikes arranged in a
+lozenge. That meant that our friend Leboc, knowing that he had
+forgotten the card lying on the floor, and anxious to keep Elizabeth
+Lovendale’s name and address out of things, hit upon this neat little
+dodge. And really, it’s thanks to the visiting card that——”
+
+Monsieur Formerie burst out laughing.
+
+“My dear Barnett, don’t be childish! Why all these pointless
+complications? You shouldn’t waste your energy ferreting out mares’
+nests. It’s a thing I never do. For goodness sake let’s stick to the
+facts as we find them and refrain from distorting them to fit
+impossible theories.”
+
+The party was by now near Monsieur Leboc’s house which was on their way
+to the Gaudus’. Monsieur Formerie took Barnett’s arm and went affably
+on with his curtain lecture.
+
+“Where you went wrong, Barnett, was in refusing to admit the
+incontrovertible truth that, after all, one man cannot be in two places
+at the same moment. Everything turns on that—Monsieur Leboc, smoking at
+his window, couldn’t be at the same time committing a murder at the
+cottage. Here we have Monsieur Leboc just behind us. There is the gate
+of his house, three yards away. I say it’s impossible to conceive a
+miracle by which Monsieur Leboc could be at once behind us and at his
+window.”
+
+Suddenly Formerie stood still in his tracks, choking, helpless and
+amazed.
+
+“What is it?” Béchoux asked.
+
+Formerie pointed towards the house.
+
+“There!... Look!...”
+
+Through the bars of the gate, twenty yards away, beyond the lawn, they
+could see Monsieur Leboc smoking his pipe, framed in the open
+window—Monsieur Leboc who nevertheless was standing with the group in
+the road.
+
+A nightmare vision—a hallucination! It was incredible. Who could be
+impersonating the real Leboc, whom Formerie had by the arm?
+
+Béchoux had opened the gate and was running to the house. Formerie
+followed him, shouting threats at Leboc’s extraordinary double. But the
+figure in the window never heeded nor stirred. How should it heed or
+stir, since, as they could see on drawing closer, it was merely a
+picture, a painted canvas fitting the window-frame exactly and
+presenting a tolerably life-like profile of Monsieur Leboc smoking his
+pipe. It was daubed in the same style as the portrait of Vaucherel
+hanging in the cottage. Obviously the same artist had painted both.
+
+Formerie wheeled round. The mask of smiling placidity had dropped from
+Monsieur Leboc’s face; the man had collapsed utterly under this
+unforeseen blow. He began a maudlin confession.
+
+“I lost my head—I never meant to stab him—I only wanted to share in
+with him, fifty-fifty.... He refused—I didn’t know what I was doing. I
+never meant to stab him.”
+
+His whining trailed off and Jim Barnett’s voice, now harsh and
+scathing, was raised in mocking inquiry.
+
+“What do you say to that, Monsieur Formerie? Nice lad, Leboc, all ready
+with a perfect alibi! How were the unobservant passers-by to doubt the
+reality of the Monsieur Leboc they only saw at a distance? Personally,
+I suspected something like this when I saw the portrait of old
+Vaucherel. I wondered if the same artist could have painted Leboc. I
+didn’t have to look hard—Leboc was too sure he’d fooled us all. The
+canvas was rolled up and hidden in the corner of a shed under a heap of
+rusty tools. I only had to nail it in place at the window a little
+while ago, after Leboc had gone to answer your summons. That’s how a
+man can simultaneously murder abroad and smoke his pipe at home!”
+
+Jim Barnett was ruthless. His grating voice flayed the hapless
+Formerie.
+
+“Just look what a clean sheet Leboc had. What a ready answer about the
+visiting card—the four holes marking his score at écarté. And the book
+he hid the other day in the Gaudus’ fireplace. I was shadowing him! And
+the anonymous letter he sent you—for that was what got you going.
+Leboc, you scoundrel, I’ve had some real amusement out of you. D’you
+hear, my bright lad?”
+
+Formerie was pale but restrained. After a prolonged scrutiny of Leboc,
+he murmured:
+
+“I’m not surprised ... shifty eyes ... a slippery way with him.... What
+a rogue!” His wrath overflowed. “You blackguard, I’ll see you get
+yours! Now then, where’s that letter?”
+
+Leboc, stricken helpless, stammered:
+
+“In the bowl of the pipe that’s hanging on the wall in the room on your
+left. I haven’t cleaned it. The letter’s there.”
+
+They rushed into the room. Béchoux fell upon the pipe and shook out the
+ashes. But the bowl was quite empty. Leboc seemed utterly overcome and
+Formerie’s temper broke out again.
+
+“You liar—you confounded faker! But you’re going to tell me where that
+letter is—at once!”
+
+At that moment the inspector met Barnett’s gaze. Barnett was smiling a
+happy, childlike smile. Béchoux’s fists clenched convulsively. He began
+to understand that the Barnett Agency was gratuitous in a peculiar
+fashion all its own. Dimly he saw how Jim Barnett, while protesting
+truthfully that he never asked his clients for a penny, could afford to
+live in comfort as a private detective.
+
+He drew close to him and muttered:
+
+“You think you’re pretty clever, don’t you? The Arsène Lupin touch!”
+
+“What?” Barnett was all wide-eyed innocence.
+
+“The way you spirited that letter away!”
+
+“So you guessed my weakness? I always had a passion for the autographs
+of royalty!”
+
+
+
+Three months later there called upon Elizabeth Lovendale, then in
+London, a highly distinguished gentleman, who assured her that he could
+lay hands on King George’s love-letter to great-grandmother Dorothy.
+His price was a mere bagatelle of a hundred thousand francs.
+
+There were lengthy negotiations. Elizabeth took counsel with her
+brothers, the renowned provision merchants. They haggled, refused to
+pay, and finally gave in.
+
+The highly distinguished gentleman pocketed his hundred thousand francs
+and appropriated, into the bargain, an entire vanload of choice
+groceries which disappeared into the void!
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+IV
+
+A GAME OF BACCARAT
+
+
+Jim Barnett, making his way out of Rouen railway station, was met by
+Inspector Béchoux, who clutched his arm and led him quickly away.
+
+“We haven’t a minute to lose. Things may take a turn for the worse at
+any moment!”
+
+“I should be much more impressed with the gravity of the situation,”
+Barnett remarked with profound logic, “if I knew what it was all about.
+I came in answer to your wire and in complete ignorance of the
+excitements awaiting me.”
+
+“You arrived according to plan—my plan,” said Inspector Béchoux
+complacently.
+
+“Can this mean, Béchoux”—Barnett paused to strike a dramatic
+attitude—“can this mean that you’ve got over the little affair of King
+George the Fourth’s love-letter and no longer distrust me?”
+
+“I still distrust you, Barnett, just as I distrust the way the Barnett
+Agency settles accounts with its clients. But there’s nothing in this
+case for you, old man. For once in your career you’ll have to give your
+services gratis.”
+
+Barnett’s lips pursed to a soft whistle. The prospect did not seem to
+daunt him. Béchoux gave him a swift sidelong glance, already uneasy and
+wishing that he could manage to dispense with the private detective’s
+assistance.
+
+They turned into the station yard. A private car was drawn up, waiting
+and in it sat a handsome woman with a pale, tragic face. Tears stood in
+her eyes and her lips were pressed together in a desperate effort at
+self-control. She opened the car door and Béchoux introduced his
+friend.
+
+“Madame, this is Jim Barnett. I told you of him as the only man who
+might be able to save you. Barnett, let me introduce Madame
+Fougeraie—the wife of Monsieur Fougeraie, the engineer. Madame
+Fougeraie’s husband is on the verge of being arrested on a charge of——”
+He paused dramatically.
+
+“Of what?”
+
+“Murder.”
+
+Jim Barnett’s tongue clicked in ghoulish appreciation. The horrified
+Béchoux stammered an apology for his friend.
+
+“Forgive him, madame. He always feels so utterly at home on a really
+serious case.”
+
+The car was already speeding towards the quays of Rouen. It turned left
+and drew up in front of a big building.
+
+They all got out and went up in a lift to the third floor, on which
+were the premises of the Norman Club. “Here,” said Béchoux waving a
+hand to indicate the palatial precincts, “is the rendezvous where the
+biggest merchants and manufacturers of Rouen and the district meet to
+talk, read the papers and play cards, especially on Friday, which is
+Stock Exchange day. As nobody is about in the morning except the
+cleaners, there is plenty of time for me to tell you on the spot about
+the drama that has just been enacted here.”
+
+They passed down a passage into a large, comfortably furnished room
+with a thick pile carpet. This, with two similar adjoining rooms, lined
+the façade of the third floor of the building. These rooms were
+intercommunicating, and the third led into a much smaller circular
+room, with only one window, opening on to a big balcony, which
+overlooked the banks of the Seine. They passed into the third large
+room.
+
+There they all sat down, Madame Fougeraie a little withdrawn near a
+window, and Béchoux spoke:
+
+“Now listen. A few weeks ago, on a Friday night, four members of this
+club sat down after a good dinner to play poker. They were all friends,
+mill-owners and manufacturers at Maromme, a big industrial centre near
+Rouen. Three of the men were married and the fathers of families:
+Alfred Auvard, Raoul Dupin, and Louis Batinet. The fourth, Maxime
+Tuillier, was a younger, unmarried man in the same set.
+
+“Towards midnight a fifth member joined them—a rich, young idler, Paul
+Erstein by name. The five started playing baccarat now that the rooms
+were deserted. Paul Erstein, an enthusiastic and regular player, held
+the bank.”
+
+Béchoux pointed to one of the tables in the room, and went on:
+
+“They were playing there, at that table. At first it was a quiet
+game—they had begun playing half-heartedly for want of something better
+to do—but gradually it warmed up, after Erstein had ordered two bottles
+of champagne for the party. From that moment luck was on the banker’s
+side—shocking, unfair, maddening luck. Paul Erstein had it all his own
+way. The others were exasperated and did their utmost to break the run,
+without success. Contrary to all common sense, they would none of them
+give in, with the result that at four o’clock in the morning the
+Maromme manufacturers had lost all the money they were bringing from
+Rouen to pay their hands. In addition, Maxime Tuillier had given Paul
+Erstein his I.O.U. for eighty thousand francs.”
+
+Inspector Béchoux drew a long breath and continued:
+
+“Suddenly there was a coup de théâtre, a strange turn given to
+Fortune’s wheel by Erstein’s own happy-go-lucky generosity. He divided
+his winnings into four shares, corresponding exactly to the other men’s
+losses, then subdivided those into thirds, and proposed having three
+final deals. This meant that each of his opponents was to play him
+individually double or quits on each of the three bundles of notes.
+They took him on. Paul Erstein lost all three deals. The luck had
+turned. After an all-night battle there were neither winners nor
+losers.
+
+“‘All the better,’ said Erstein, standing up. ‘I felt a bit ashamed of
+myself, winning like that. Lord! what a head I’ve got! Must be the heat
+of the room. Anyone coming to smoke a cigarette with me on the
+balcony?’
+
+“He stepped into the Round Room. For a few minutes, the four friends
+remained at the table, gaily discussing the phases of the game. Then
+they decided to leave the club. After crossing the other two rooms,
+they warned the watchman dozing in the anteroom:
+
+“‘Monsieur Erstein is still there, Joseph. But he’s sure to be going
+soon.’
+
+“Then they left, at exactly thirty-five minutes past four. They went
+back to Maromme in Alfred Auvard’s car, as on most Friday nights. The
+club servant, Joseph, waited for another hour. Then, tiring of his
+vigil, he went in search of Paul Erstein, and found him lying in the
+Round Room, twisted and inert. He was dead.”
+
+Inspector Béchoux paused again. Madame Fougeraie’s head was bowed. Jim
+Barnett accompanied his friend into the Round Room, cast a searching
+glance over everything, and spoke:
+
+“Now then, Béchoux, let’s get down to it. What has the inquest
+revealed?”
+
+“The inquest has revealed,” answered Béchoux, “that Paul Erstein was
+struck on the left temple with a blunt instrument which must have
+felled him at a blow. There was no sign of a struggle except that his
+watch was broken. The hands pointed to five minutes to five, that’s to
+say, twenty minutes after the departure of the other players. There was
+no indication of theft; a signet ring and a wad of notes had not been
+taken; nothing was missing. Finally, there was absolutely no trace of
+the murderer, who could not have come or gone by way of the anteroom,
+since Joseph had not moved from his post.”
+
+“Then,” said Barnett, “there is no clue?”
+
+“There is just one.” Béchoux hesitated, then went on: “It’s pretty
+important. At the inquest, one of my colleagues called the coroner’s
+attention to the fact that the balcony on the third floor of the next
+building is very close to the balcony of this room. The magistrates
+entered the building in question, the third floor of which is the
+Fougeraies’ flat. They found that Monsieur Fougeraie had left home that
+morning and had not returned. Madame Fougeraie took the magistrates
+into her husband’s room. The balcony of that room is the one contiguous
+to the balcony of the Round Room. Look!”
+
+Barnett stepped out through the open French window.
+
+“The distance is about four feet,” he observed. “Quite easy to get
+across. But there’s nothing to prove that it was done.”
+
+“Wait a moment,” said Béchoux. “D’you see those flower-boxes at the
+edge of the Fougeraies’ balcony? They still contain the earth with
+which they were filled last summer. They’ve been searched. In one of
+them, just below the surface, with the earth freshly turned above it,
+we found a knuckle-duster. The coroner has established that the shape
+of this weapon corresponds exactly to the wound inflicted on Erstein.
+There were no finger-prints distinguishable, as it had been raining
+steadily since the morning. But the charge seems pretty well-founded.
+Monsieur Fougeraie, seeing Paul Erstein in the brilliantly lighted room
+opposite, must have sprung on to the club balcony; then, after
+murdering his victim with the knuckle-duster, he hid his weapon in the
+flower-box.
+
+“But what motive had he for the crime? Did he know Paul Erstein?”
+
+Béchoux shook his head.
+
+“Then why——?”
+
+During Béchoux’s reconstruction of what had happened, Madam Fougeraie
+had got up and come over to where the two men stood. Her grief-stricken
+face worked pitifully. She kept back her tears with a visible effort.
+In answer to Barnett’s question, she said in a voice that trembled:
+
+“It is for me to answer, monsieur. I will be brief and perfectly frank,
+and then you will understand my fears. No, my husband did not know Paul
+Erstein. But I knew him. I had met him several times in Paris at a
+friend’s house, and from the start he made love to me. I am devoted to
+my husband”—poor Madame Fougeraie gave a choking sob—“I have always
+been faithful to him. Although I was sensible of Paul Erstein’s
+attraction, I resisted it. But, weakly, I gave in to the extent of
+meeting him several times in the country some way out of Rouen.”
+
+“And you wrote to him?”
+
+She nodded miserably.
+
+“And your letters are now in the hands of his family?”
+
+“Of his father.”
+
+“Who, I suppose, is determined the letters shall be read in court so
+that his son’s death shall be avenged at all costs.”
+
+“Yes. Those letters prove the harmless character of our relations.
+But—they prove that I met Paul Erstein without my husband’s knowledge.
+And in one of them I wrote: ‘I beg of you, Paul, do be reasonable. My
+husband is extremely jealous and very violent. If he should suspect me
+for an instant, he would be capable of doing almost anything.’ So you
+see, monsieur, that letter would considerably strengthen the case
+against my husband. Jealousy would provide the police with the motive
+they want. It would explain the murder and the discovery of the weapon
+in the flower-box just outside my husband’s room.”
+
+“Are you yourself sure, madame, that Monsieur Fougeraie suspected
+nothing?”
+
+She nodded.
+
+“And you believe him innocent?”
+
+“Oh, there can be no doubt—no doubt at all!” she cried impulsively.
+
+Barnett, meeting her steadfast gaze, realized how this woman’s
+conviction of her husband’s innocence could have influenced Béchoux to
+the extent of making him her ally despite the public prosecutor and his
+minions, and despite professional etiquette.
+
+Barnett asked a few more questions, was lost in thought for some
+moments, and at last announced solemnly:
+
+“Madame, I can hold out no hopes. Logically, your husband must be
+guilty. It is for me to try to disprove logic.”
+
+“Do see my husband,” Madame Fougeraie besought him. “He will be able to
+explain——”
+
+“That’s quite useless, madame. I cannot help you unless I first of all
+put your husband right out of the running in my own mind, and work on
+the basis of your belief in his innocence.”
+
+The preliminaries were over. Barnett was in the ring at once, and,
+accompanied by Inspector Béchoux, called on the victim’s father. With
+Erstein senior he came straight to the point:
+
+“Monsieur, I am looking after Madame Fougeraie’s interests for her. You
+are turning over your son’s correspondence to the prosecution, aren’t
+you?”
+
+“To-day, monsieur.”
+
+“You have no hesitation in ruining the life of the woman your son loved
+so dearly?”
+
+“If that woman’s husband was my son’s murderer, I shall be sorry for
+her sake, but my son’s death shall be avenged.”
+
+“Wait five days, monsieur. Next Tuesday the murderer shall be
+unmasked.”
+
+Against his will, Erstein made the concession.
+
+Barnett’s procedure in those five days of grace often disconcerted
+Inspector Béchoux. He took—and made Béchoux take—the most irregular
+steps, interviewed and organized a band of helpers, and spent money
+like water. However, he seemed dissatisfied, and, contrary to habit,
+was taciturn and inclined to sulk.
+
+On Tuesday morning he had a talk with Madame Fougeraie and told her:
+
+“Béchoux has got the prosecution to agree to a reconstruction of the
+events of the fatal night, in detail, at the Norman Club, and it’s to
+take place this afternoon. They have summoned both you and your husband
+to appear. I implore you to control yourself, whatever happens, and to
+try to appear almost indifferent.”
+
+She looked at him trustingly, through unshed tears.
+
+“Is there any hope...?” she faltered.
+
+“I don’t know myself. As I told you before, I am simply playing your
+hunch that Monsieur Fougeraie is innocent. I shall try to prove his
+innocence by demonstrating a possible theory, but it’s a difficult
+business. Even admitting that I am on the right track, as I believe I
+am, the truth may yet elude us up to the very last moment.”
+
+
+
+The public prosecutor and the examining magistrate who had investigated
+the case proved to be a conscientious pair. They put their trust in
+facts alone and refrained from interpreting these in the light of
+preconceived theories.
+
+“With such men,” said Béchoux, “I have no fear of your starting a row
+or employing your usual bright badinage. They have very kindly given me
+carte blanche to act as I see fit—or rather as you see fit—and don’t
+you forget it.”
+
+“My dear Béchoux,” replied Barnett, “I never indulge in badinage except
+when victory is within my grasp, which is not the case to-day.”
+
+The third room at the Norman Club was crowded. The magistrates talked
+together at the threshold of the Round Room; then they went into it,
+but came out again in a little while. The manufacturers waited in a
+group. Policemen and inspectors came and went. Both Paul Erstein’s
+father and Joseph, the club servant, stood apart from the rest.
+Monsieur and Madame Fougeraie were together in a corner. He looked
+gloomy and preoccupied; she was even paler than usual. It was common
+knowledge now that the police had decided to arrest the engineer.
+
+One of the magistrates addressed the four men who had played baccarat
+with Paul Erstein:
+
+“Gentlemen, we are about to reconstruct what took place on the fatal
+Friday night. Will each of you please take up the position in which he
+sat at this table so that we have the game of baccarat exactly as it
+was played? Inspector Béchoux, you will hold the bank. Have you asked
+these gentlemen to bring exactly the same sums in notes as they had
+with them on the occasion in question?”
+
+Béchoux nodded and sat down in the middle seat, with Alfred Auvard and
+Raoul Dupin on his left and Louis Batinet and Maxime Tuillier on his
+right. Six packs of cards were put out. The cards were cut to him and
+he shuffled.
+
+Then an odd thing happened. Immediately, just as on that tragic night,
+luck favored the banker. With the same ease as Paul Erstein, Béchoux
+won. He won steadily, automatically, as it were, in an unbroken run,
+without any of the fluctuations and turns of fortune which had, after
+all, characterized the original game. This mechanical continuity gave
+the scene a strange, cinematographic quality. The game might have been
+a fantastic “quick motion” picture of what had originally taken place.
+The atmosphere of the proceedings began to tell on the players. Maxime
+Tuillier seemed ill at ease and twice made mistakes in his play. Jim
+Barnett grew irritated by the young man and at last officiously took
+his place at Béchoux’s right hand.
+
+Ten minutes later—for the film-like speed of the game accelerated
+unchecked—more than half the banknotes produced for the game by the
+four friends were stacked on the green cloth in front of Béchoux.
+Maxime Tuillier, as represented by Jim Barnett, began handing over
+I.O.U’s.
+
+The pace quickened again. The end of the game came soon. Suddenly
+Béchoux, as Paul Erstein had done, divided his winnings into four wads
+of notes, proportionate to the other men’s losses, and subdivided each
+wad into three, thus leading up to Erstein’s dramatic offer of “double
+or quits” on three deals.
+
+His opponents’ eyes never left him. The four men were evidently
+stricken by the memory of that other game.
+
+Three times Béchoux dealt on the two tableaux.
+
+And three times, instead of losing, like Paul Erstein, Béchoux won!
+
+A murmur of surprise rose from the onlookers. The miraculous
+reconstruction of the original game had been unaccountably flawed. The
+luck should have turned—but it had remained in the banker’s favor.
+Supposing—the thought slipped into being—supposing this was indeed a
+miracle, and this new ending to the game was not new at all?
+
+“I am sorry,” said Béchoux, his words oddly remote as he continued to
+act his rôle of banker. He stood up, first pocketing all the banknotes.
+
+Then, as Paul Erstein had done, he complained of a headache and
+expressed his wish that someone would come out on the balcony with him.
+He went out, lighting a cigarette.
+
+The other men remained motionless, with set faces. The cards lay
+scattered on the table.
+
+Then, and only then, Jim Barnett rose from his chair. But now, by some
+wizardry, his face and his general appearance had taken on the outward
+semblance of Maxime Tuillier, whom he had so lately supplanted in the
+game of baccarat. Maxime Tuillier, clean-shaven, about thirty, wearing
+a tight-fitting, double-breasted coat.... Maxime Tuillier, looking
+morose and dissatisfied.... Jim Barnett was the young man to the life!
+
+He went slowly towards the Round Room, moving like an automaton, his
+expression an alternating study in callous ruthlessness and frightened
+indecision—the expression of a man on the verge of doing something
+terrible, but a man who might yet perhaps take to his heels with the
+deed unaccomplished.
+
+The players could not see his face, which was turned away from them.
+But the magistrates saw it. And they forgot Jim Barnett, the skilled
+impersonator, and thought only of Maxime Tuillier, the ruined gambler,
+who was going to join his triumphant opponent. His face, which he
+apparently strove to compose, gave ample indication of his mental
+turmoil. Was he about to make a plea, a demand, or—a threat? When he
+opened the door of the Round Room, he was once more master of his
+emotions; he had regained his self-control.
+
+The door closed behind him.
+
+The staging of the imaginary “reconstruction” of the drama had been so
+vivid that everyone waited in silence. The other players also waited,
+staring at that closed door behind which was being repeated what had
+taken place on the night of the tragedy—behind which it was not Barnett
+and Béchoux who were playing their respective rôles of murderer and
+victim, but Maxime Tuillier and Paul Erstein pitted against one
+another.
+
+After what seemed an eternity, the murderer—there was nothing else to
+call him—came out. He staggered back to his friends, his eyes wild with
+horror. In one hand he held the four bundles of notes. One he threw
+down on the table. The other three he pressed upon the three players,
+saying in queer, strained tones:
+
+“I’ve been having a talk with Erstein. He asked me to give you back
+this money. He doesn’t want it. Let’s go home.”
+
+A yard or so away Maxime Tuillier, the real Maxime Tuillier, leaned on
+a chair for support. His face was pale and drawn. His jaw had fallen.
+Jim Barnett turned and spoke to him in his normal voice.
+
+“Am I right, Monsieur Tuillier? The scene has been reproduced correctly
+in all essential details, hasn’t it? My rendering of the part you
+played the other night was pretty accurate? Don’t you think I’ve
+reconstructed the crime rather cleverly—your crime?”
+
+Maxime Tuillier seemed not to hear the words. His head was bowed; his
+arms hung limp. He was a mere husk of a man, all the life gone out of
+him. He reeled drunkenly, sagged at the knees, and collapsed on the
+chair.
+
+Barnett was at him at once, jerking him roughly to his feet.
+
+“You admit it? But anyway, nothing can save you. I can prove
+everything. First, that knuckle-duster—you always carried one. Then,
+you were ruined by your losses at baccarat that night. Investigations
+have established the fact that you were in financial straits. You had
+no money with which to meet your creditors at the end of the month. You
+were on the verge of bankruptcy. When you followed Erstein into the
+Round Room, you struck out, murderously. Afterwards, not knowing what
+to do with your weapon, you climbed over on to the other balcony and
+hid it in the flower-box. Then you altered the hands of the dead man’s
+watch to establish your alibi, and joined your friends!”
+
+But Barnett’s eloquent denunciation was unnecessary. Maxime Tuillier
+made no attempt at denial. Overwhelmed by the terrible burden of crime
+under which he had labored for weeks, he stammered out the confession
+of his guilt like a man in delirium.
+
+The onlookers were roused almost to frenzy. The examining magistrates
+bent over the murderer and took down his involuntary, unprompted
+confession. Paul Erstein’s father tried to hurl himself upon his son’s
+slayer. Fougeraie’s voice was raised excitedly. But the most rabid were
+Maxime Tuillier’s three friends. One in particular, the eldest and most
+influential, Alfred Auvard, volleyed abuse:
+
+“You unspeakable blackguard! You made us believe that poor Erstein had
+returned the money to us—when really you had stolen it after murdering
+him!”
+
+He flung the notes at Maxime Tuillier’s head. The other two, equally
+indignant, trampled the loathsome money underfoot.
+
+By degrees order was restored. Maxime Tuillier, half fainting and
+uttering groans, was carried out of the room. An inspector gathered up
+the banknotes and handed them to the magistrates. The latter requested
+the Fougeraies and old Erstein to withdraw. They then complimented Jim
+Barnett on his extraordinary powers of deduction.
+
+“Tuillier’s collapse and confession,” he told them, “are quite
+commonplace features in the case. Its originality, the real mystery
+that lifts it out of the usual run of such crimes, lies in something
+quite different. So now, although this is none of my business, please
+allow me——”
+
+Barnett, turning to the three manufacturers who were talking together
+in low tones, went up to them and tapped Monsieur Auvard gently on the
+shoulder.
+
+“A word with you, my friend. Something tells me you can throw a little
+light on one aspect of this case that remains obscure.”
+
+“In what connection, pray?” asked Auvard coldly.
+
+“In connection with the part which you and your friends play in it,
+monsieur.”
+
+“But we don’t come into it at all!”
+
+“Not actively, of course, I quite see that. But there are some features
+which, I am sure you will agree with me, present a disconcerting series
+of contradictions. For instance, you declared on the morning after the
+murder that the game of baccarat had ended with three deals in your
+favor, which cancelled your losses and broke up the card party. Well,
+the facts don’t happen to bear out your statement.”
+
+Monsieur Auvard answered him defiantly:
+
+“That’s so. But there’s been a misunderstanding. Actually, those last
+three deals only increased our losses. When Erstein left the table,
+Maxime, who seemed perfectly self-possessed, followed him into the
+Round Room for a smoke, while we three remained here, talking. When
+Tuillier came back, nearly ten minutes later, he told us that Erstein
+had never been in earnest over the game, that it had merely been a
+series of flukes following on the champagne, to be treated as a joke.
+He therefore insisted on returning the money to us, but pledged us to
+secrecy. If anything ever came out, we were to say that the end of the
+game had evened things up unexpectedly.”
+
+“And you accepted such an offer! As a present from Paul Erstein which
+he had absolutely no reason to make you!” cried Barnett. “And having
+accepted it, you didn’t even bother to thank him! And you found it
+perfectly natural that Erstein, who was an inveterate gambler, inured
+to gain and loss alike, should suddenly be ashamed to profit by his
+luck! How unlikely!”
+
+“It was four in the morning. We were all overwrought. Maxime Tuillier
+gave us no time for reflection. Anyhow, what reason had we to doubt his
+word? We didn’t know then that he had just murdered Erstein and robbed
+him.”
+
+“But next day you learned of the murder.”
+
+“Yes, but we naturally thought it had happened after our departure from
+the club—it made no difference to Erstein’s last action on earth—the
+restoration of our losses—nor to his wish that we should hold our
+tongues about it.”
+
+“And you never for one moment suspected Maxime Tuillier?”
+
+“Why should we have suspected him? He is a member of the club. His
+father was a friend of mine and I’ve known him practically all his
+life. Of course we had no suspicions.”
+
+“Are you positive?”
+
+Barnett rapped the words out in ironic incredulity. Alfred Auvard
+hesitated, glanced at the other two men, and then countered haughtily:
+
+“Your questions, sir, are in the nature of a cross-examination. What do
+you think we’re here for anyway?”
+
+“In the eyes of the law you’re here as witnesses. But in mine——”
+
+“In yours——?”
+
+“That’s just what I’m going to explain now.” Quietly Barnett took the
+floor, toying with the string of his monocle.
+
+“The whole of this case is really dominated by one factor—the
+confidence you people inspired. Practically speaking, the crime could
+have been an outside or an inside job. Yet those investigating at once
+turned to the outside for the simple reason that one does not normally
+suspect such a monument of respectability and righteousness as is
+constituted by four wealthy manufacturers of unblemished reputation. If
+one of you, say, Maxime Tuillier, had played a game of écarté with Paul
+Erstein alone, he would naturally and undoubtedly have been suspected.
+But there were four of you, and Tuillier was temporarily saved by the
+silence of his friends. It would never occur to anyone that three men
+of your standing could be guilty of complicity in a crime! Yet you were
+guilty—and that was what I guessed from the start.”
+
+Alfred Auvard started forward.
+
+“You must be mad. Do you seriously suggest that we were Tuillier’s
+accomplices?”
+
+“Oh, no. Obviously, you had no idea of what was going on in the Round
+Room after Tuillier joined Erstein there. But you did know that he had
+followed him in a peculiar frame of mind! And when he came back, you
+knew that something had happened.”
+
+“We knew nothing of the sort.”
+
+“Oh, yes, you did, and that Tuillier must have used force of some kind.
+There had not necessarily been a crime of violence, but there had
+certainly not been merely a friendly conversation. I repeat, it was
+quite evident that Maxime Tuillier must have used force to get back
+that money for you.”
+
+“Preposterous!”
+
+“Not at all. When a coward like your friend kills a man, his face is
+bound to betray him. It is impossible that you should have utterly
+failed to notice his expression of horror when he came back after
+committing the crime.”
+
+Both Batinet and Dupin were trembling, but Auvard kept up his
+blustering attitude.
+
+“I protest that we noticed nothing.”
+
+“None so blind....” Barnett shrugged his shoulders and smiled
+unpleasantly.
+
+“What do you mean by that?”
+
+“You didn’t want to see. Because you had got your money back. I know
+you are all rich men. But that game of baccarat had shaken you
+considerably. Like all occasional gamblers, you had the feeling that
+your money had been stolen from you, and when it was returned, you
+accepted it without troubling to inquire too closely into the methods
+by which your friend had recovered it. You clung desperately to
+silence. That night, as you drove back to Maromme together, in spite of
+the urgent need for you to agree upon a safer version of the evening’s
+episode, not one of you dared speak a word. I have that from your
+chauffeur. And the next day—and the days after that—when the crime had
+been discovered, you avoided meeting each other, for fear of finding
+your secret thoughts confirmed.”
+
+“This is mere conjecture.” Auvard was indignant still, but his two
+friends were on the verge of collapse.
+
+“Not conjecture, but certainty,” Barnett corrected him gently.
+“Certainty based on facts acquired by exhaustive inquiries among the
+people who know you. For you to accuse your friend was to expose your
+own criminal weakness in the beginning. It meant turning the
+searchlight of public opinion on yourselves and your families, and
+damaging your reputations for honorable dealing with your fellow-men.
+It meant a scandal. So you kept silent and cheated justice while you
+shielded your friend Maxime.”
+
+Jim Barnett had been so vehement and telling in his accusation that for
+a moment Monsieur Auvard wavered. But, suddenly changing his tactics,
+the bewildering Barnett did not follow up his advantage. He merely
+laughed and said:
+
+“Cheer up, Monsieur Auvard. I succeeded in undoing your friend Tuillier
+because he was a weakling and suffering the agonies of remorse. I did
+it by faking the cards in the game of baccarat we had here just now.
+The accuracy of the reconstruction unnerved him. But I had no more real
+proof against him than I have against you, and you are not the sort to
+give in without showing fight. All the more so as your complicity in
+the crime is so vague and negative, very much up in the air when it
+comes to hard facts. So you have nothing to fear. Only”—he came closer
+to his man, and thrust his face into the other’s—“only, I did not want
+your peace of mind to be too complete. By your silence and your
+astuteness, the three of you managed to cloak your actions from the
+light of the law, so that people lost sight of your own more or less
+voluntary complicity in the crime. We can’t have that, though. You must
+never cease to be conscious that to a certain extent you shared in the
+committal of the murder. Had you only prevented your friend from
+following Paul Erstein into the Round Room, as you should have done,
+Paul Erstein would not be dead to-day. And had you come forward at the
+outset and told what you knew, Maxime Tuillier would not have come
+within an ace of escaping his deserts.
+
+“Now it is for you to clear yourselves as best you may, messieurs.
+Somehow, I don’t think the law will be too hard on you. Good-day.”
+
+Jim Barnett took his hat, and, disregarding the manufacturers’ protest,
+spoke to the magistrates:
+
+“Messieurs, I promised Madame Fougeraie that I would help her and I
+promised Paul Erstein’s father to unmask the murderer. My work is
+done.”
+
+The magistrates were half-hearted in their valedictory handshake.
+Probably Barnett’s words had fallen none too pleasantly on their ears
+and they did not feel particularly inclined to follow his lead.
+
+To Inspector Béchoux, who had followed him on to the landing, Barnett
+was just a wee bit more expansive:
+
+“Those three chaps can’t be touched. They’re safe as houses. Blasted
+bourgeois bolstered up by bullion!” he almost blew bubbles in his
+wrath. “They’re pillars of society, all right, and all the case against
+them is the inferences to be drawn from my deductions. Too fine a
+thread for the law to noose them in, I’m afraid. Never mind, I’ve
+brought my case off well.”
+
+“And honestly,” approved Béchoux, adding, sotto voce, the words “for
+once!”
+
+Barnett’s eyebrows arched interrogatively.
+
+“I must own,” Béchoux admitted, “that there were moments when I feared
+for those banknotes. You could have snaffled them so easily.”
+
+“What do you take me for, Inspector Béchoux? A common thief?” Barnett’s
+tone was one of outraged innocence.
+
+He left his friend and went out of the building and on to the
+Fougeraies’ flat next door. There he was effusively thanked. With great
+dignity he refused to take any reward for his services.
+
+Afterwards he called on Paul Erstein’s father and there exhibited the
+same spirit of disinterested philanthropy.
+
+“The services of the Barnett Agency are free,” he told his clients.
+“That is the secret both of its efficiency and of its integrity. We
+work for glory only.”
+
+Jim Barnett settled his hotel bill and ordered them to send his bag to
+the station. Then, presuming that Béchoux would accompany him back to
+Paris, he walked along the quayside to the club building. On the first
+landing he halted abruptly. The inspector was hurtling down the stairs.
+The moment he saw Barnett he cried out angrily:
+
+“Got you, curse you!”
+
+He jumped the remaining stairs at a bound and thrust his fingers inside
+Barnett’s coat collar.
+
+“What have you done with those notes?”
+
+“Doh, ray, me, fah——” began Barnett.
+
+“Banknotes!” the inspector screamed. “The notes you had when you were
+acting Tuillier’s part upstairs.”
+
+“What’s all this? Do let go my collar. That’s better. Why, I gave those
+notes back. Surely you remember? A little while ago you were even
+congratulating me on my honesty!”
+
+“I wouldn’t have if I’d known what I know now!” said Béchoux grimly.
+
+“And what is this new knowledge that makes you change your tune?”
+chanted Barnett.
+
+“The notes you gave back are forgeries—counterfeit—snide!” Béchoux was
+frothing at the mouth. “You’re a rotten swindler!” he shouted. “You
+needn’t think you’re going to get away with it, either. You’re going to
+return the genuine notes to me at once! You can’t bluff me!”
+
+He choked, and Barnett’s raucous laugh rent the air.
+
+“The thieving skunks!” he exclaimed. “Well, well, well. So they threw
+forged notes at their young friend. The sweeps! We get them to bring
+their wads along and they turn out to be stage money!”
+
+“But don’t you understand?” Béchoux shrieked dancing with rage. “That
+money belongs to Paul Erstein’s heirs. He had won it before he was
+killed. The others must make restitution.”
+
+Barnett’s merriment overflowed.
+
+“Isn’t that too bad! So they’re to be fleeced twice over. Poetic
+justice being visited on the scoundrels!”
+
+Béchoux’s teeth chattered with fury.
+
+“You liar! You changed those notes yourself. And now you’ve collared
+the cash. Thief! Crook!”
+
+
+
+As the magistrates were leaving the club they caught sight of Inspector
+Béchoux gesticulating speechlessly, frantically. And before him, arms
+folded, convulsed with laughter, there leant against the wall—“Jim
+Barnett!”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+V
+
+THE MAN WITH THE GOLD TEETH
+
+
+Jim Barnett held back a corner of his office window-curtain and peered
+into the street, his face on a level with those of the passers-by.
+Suddenly he was seized with a paroxysm of uncontrollable mirth and sank
+weakly back into his armchair.
+
+“Almost too beautiful,” he murmured ecstatically.
+
+“To think the day should come when Béchoux——” He subsided into fresh
+guffaws.
+
+“What’s the joke?” was Inspector Béchoux’s immediate demand on entering
+the office.
+
+As Barnett did not at once reply, he fixed him with a stony glare.
+
+“What—are—you—laughing at?”
+
+“Why, at your coming here, of course! After our dust-up at the club in
+Rouen you actually feel you can seek me out again! What is our police
+force coming to?”
+
+Béchoux looked so crestfallen that Barnett made a valiant effort to
+restrain his own unseemly laughter. But he could not control himself
+completely and his utterance continued to be punctuated by explosive
+chuckles.
+
+“Awfully sorry, old chap, but it really is funny! You, the instrument
+of the law, presenting me with yet another pigeon for my plucking. Who
+is it this time? Dare I hope for a millionaire? Or am I in for the
+Minister of Finance? Don’t mind me. I’m not particular. Really, though,
+it’s frightfully decent of you, old chap! Pardon my familiarity. Cheer
+up, now, and try not to look like a decayed zebra. Spit it out!”
+(Barnett’s idiom was deplorably vulgar.) “What’s up? Someone in trouble
+again?”
+
+Béchoux, struggling to regain his composure, nodded his head.
+
+“Yes. It’s the very worthy curé of a parish in the suburbs.”
+
+Regardless of grammar, “Who’s he killed?” asked Barnett with interest.
+“One of his flock?”
+
+“Oh, no, not that!”
+
+“You mean he’s been polished off by a parishioner? Then, really, I fail
+to see how I can assist him!”
+
+“No, no. You’re getting it all wrong. I—he——”
+
+“I really think,” said Barnett kindly, “you’d do better not to attempt
+to talk at all. You can’t apparently achieve coherence, and I hate
+people who splutter in my face.” He made great play with a virulent
+bandana. “Without further ado, lead me to your worthy suburban curé. I
+am ever ready to hit the trail with Béchoux for my guide.”
+
+
+
+The little village—it is no more—of Vaneuil straggles down a hollow and
+then up the three green hillsides which frame its old Romance church.
+Behind the church lies a tranquil country graveyard, which is bordered
+on the right by the hedge of a large estate surrounding a big
+farmhouse, and on the left by the wall of the rectory.
+
+Béchoux, accompanied by Barnett, entered the latter building, walked
+straight into the dining-room and there presented his friend to the
+Abbé Dessole. He introduced Barnett as the one detective whose bright
+lexicon knew not the word “impossible.”
+
+The abbé certainly appeared to be a worthy—and probably a simple—man.
+He was middle-aged, plump, pink, and unctuous. His anxiety was written
+large on a face that must usually have worn an expression of unruffled
+placidity. Barnett observed his rather puffy hands, the rolls of fat at
+wrist and neck, the fat paunch distending the cheap, shiny cassock.
+
+“Père Dessole,” said Barnett, “I know nothing about whatever it is that
+troubles you. My friend, Inspector Béchoux, has so far merely told me
+that he first made your acquaintance a long while ago. Could you now
+give me a brief résumé of the facts of the case, avoiding all
+irrelevant detail?”
+
+The Abbé Dessole must have prepared his story, for immediately, without
+a moment’s hesitation, his deep bass voice boomed from the depths of
+his double-chin and he began:
+
+“First, monsieur, I must tell you that the humble priests officiating
+in this parish act at the same time as custodians of a church
+treasure—the bequest in the eighteenth century of the lords of the
+Château Vaneuil.
+
+“This treasure included two gold monstrances, two crucifixes, some
+candelabra, and a tabernacle, making in all—or, rather, as I must
+unfortunately say, which made in all nine valuable pieces which people
+even came here from a distance to see. Personally”—the Abbé Dessole
+mopped his brow and resumed: “Personally I must say that I always felt
+the custody of this treasure to be a perilous trust, and in fear and
+trembling I exercised every possible care in the discharge of my duty.
+From this window you can see the apse of the church, and the vestry
+where the treasure was kept. The walls of the vestry are exceptionally
+thick, and it has just the one great oak door opening into the chancel.
+I am the only person with a key to it, and that key is enormous. In
+addition to that, I am the possessor of the only existing key to the
+chest in which the treasure was locked. No one but myself ever acted as
+cicerone to the visitors who came to see the treasure.”
+
+He waggled a fat forefinger at Barnett and his tone took on added
+weight.
+
+“My bedroom window, monsieur, is less than fifteen yards away from the
+barred dormer window which lights the vestry from above. Unknown to a
+soul, I used, every night, to stretch a rope from my room to the vestry
+so that any attempt at burglary would ring a bell at my bedside. As an
+additional precaution, I always took the most precious piece in the
+collection—a gem-studded reliquary—to my own room. Well, last night——”
+
+The Abbé Dessole again mopped his brow. The sweat poured off him as he
+continued the unfolding of the tragedy.
+
+“Last night, towards one o’clock, I sprang out of bed, staggering in
+the dark and only half-awake. I had been roused, not by the ringing of
+my bell, but by a noise which might have been caused by something being
+dropped on the floor. I called out:
+
+“‘Who’s there?’
+
+“There was no reply, but I could feel the presence of someone standing
+quite close to me, and I was sure the intruder had climbed in at the
+window, for I felt the night air blowing in. I groped for my
+flashlight, found it, and switched it on. Then, just for a second, I
+had a glimpse of a distorted face showing white between a grey slouch
+hat and a brown, turned-up collar. And in the man’s mouth, which was
+moving silently, I could distinctly see two gold teeth, on the left
+side of the jaw.”
+
+A flicker of interest crossed Barnett’s face.
+
+“The man at once struck my arm a sharp blow so that I dropped the
+flashlight.... I rushed forward, but—he wasn’t there! It was just as if
+I myself had spun round before moving, for I bumped into the
+mantelpiece over my fireplace, which is exactly opposite the window. By
+the time I had managed to find matches and strike a light there was no
+one in the room. A ladder had been left propped against the ledge of
+the balcony—one of my own ladders taken out of the shed. I got into
+some clothes and ran to the vestry. The treasure was gone!”
+
+For the third time the abbé wiped his streaming countenance. He was
+pitifully moved.
+
+“Of course,” said Barnett, “you found the dormer window broken and your
+bell-rope cut through? Which proves, doesn’t it, that the thief was
+someone familiar with this place and with your habits? And after your
+discovery you were on his track at once?”
+
+“I even yelled ‘Thief!’ which was a mistake on my part, as it was the
+sort of thing to rouse the neighborhood and create a sensation. And
+heaven knows,” he said gloomily, “this affair is bound to make a stir
+for which I shall be blamed by my superiors. Luckily, the only person
+who heard my shouting was my neighbor, Baron de Gravières. He has lived
+next door to me for twenty years now, engaged in the personal
+management of his estate. He absolutely agreed with me that, before
+notifying the police and lodging a formal complaint, it was advisable
+to try to recover the stolen property. As he has a car, I asked him to
+motor to Paris and bring back Inspector Béchoux.”
+
+“And I was on the spot by eight in the morning,” said Béchoux, swelling
+with pride. “By eleven I had my case.”
+
+“What’s that?” ejaculated Barnett in surprise. “You’ve caught the
+thief?”
+
+Béchoux pointed pompously to the ceiling, rather in the manner of one
+indicating the path to paradise.
+
+“He’s up there, locked in the attic, and Baron de Gravières is mounting
+guard.”
+
+“Fine! A masterpiece of detection! Tell me all, Béchoux, but in tabloid
+form, since life is brief.”
+
+“A bare statement of facts will suffice,” said the inspector, whose
+speech could achieve almost telegraphic condensation in the moment of
+victory: “(a) I found numerous footprints on the damp ground between
+the church and the vicarage; (b) An examination of said footprints
+proved that there was only one burglar, who first carried his haul from
+the vestry some distance away, since he returned to the attack by the
+vicarage steps; (c) The burglar, having waked Père Dessole, hurriedly
+retraced his steps, collected his loot and fled along the highroad. His
+tracks vanished near the Hippolyte Inn.”
+
+“Immediately,” interrupted Barnett, “you cross-examined the
+innkeeper....”
+
+“And the innkeeper,” continued Béchoux, “on my inquiring for a man with
+a grey hat, a brown overcoat, and two gold teeth, told me at once that
+the description exactly fitted a certain Monsieur Vernisson. This man,
+he said, was a traveller in pins, known in Vaneuil as Monsieur
+Quatre-Mars, because he was in the habit of coming each year on the
+Fourth of March. The innkeeper told me that he had got in the day
+before at midday, had stabled his gig, eaten his lunch, and then gone
+off to call on his customers. I asked when he had got back, and the
+innkeeper told me about two in the morning, as usual. After that, I
+ascertained that the man in question had only been gone forty minutes
+and was driving in the direction of Chantilly.”
+
+“Whereupon,” said Barnett, “you followed in his train?”
+
+“The baron drove me in his car. We soon caught up with friend Vernisson
+and, though he protested, we forced him to put his gig about and come
+along with us.”
+
+“Ah, then he maintains his innocence?”
+
+“Scarcely that. But all we can get out of him is ‘Don’t tell my
+wife!... My wife must never learn of this!’”
+
+“What about the treasure?”
+
+The abbé sighed dolorously and Béchoux’s triumph grew less pronounced.
+
+“It wasn’t in the gig.”
+
+“But you nevertheless find the evidence quite conclusive?”
+
+“Oh, absolutely. Vernisson’s shoes correspond exactly to the footprints
+in the graveyard. Besides, the curé can swear to having encountered the
+man there late that afternoon. There can be no doubt at all.”
+
+“Well then,” said Barnett a trifle impatiently, “what’s bothering you?
+Why call me in?”
+
+“Oh, that’s an idea of the curé’s,” said Béchoux, looking a bit
+disgruntled. “There’s a minor point in the case on which we disagree.”
+
+“Minor! That’s only in your opinion,” said the Abbé Dessole, whose
+handkerchief was by now wringing wet.
+
+“What’s the trouble, father?” asked Barnett.
+
+“Well,” the priest hesitated. “It’s about——”
+
+“Yes?” encouraged Barnett.
+
+“About those gold teeth. Monsieur Vernisson certainly has two gold
+teeth, only”—he faltered—“only, they’re on the right side of his mouth
+... whereas those I saw were on the left!”
+
+Jim Barnett could not restrain his hilarity. He burst into loud
+laughter. As the Abbé Dessole stared at him in blank amaze, he pulled
+himself together and exclaimed:
+
+“On the right side! Too bad! But are you sure you weren’t mistaken?”
+
+“Positive!”
+
+“But you had met the man——”
+
+“In the graveyard. Yes, that was Vernisson. But it couldn’t have been
+the same man who came in the night, since Vernisson’s gold teeth are on
+the right side, and the burglar’s were on the left.”
+
+“Perhaps he had changed them over to make it more difficult,” Barnett
+suggested joyously. “Béchoux, do bring in the prisoner.”
+
+Two minutes later Monsieur Vernisson was ushered in. He was forlorn and
+crushed looking, his melancholy aspect intensified by the depressed
+droop of his moustache. His escort, Baron de Gravières, was a well
+set-up specimen of the gentleman-farmer class, and carried a revolver.
+The prisoner, who looked dazed began moaning:
+
+“I don’t understand ... a broken lock ... what does it all mean?”
+
+“You’d better confess,” advised Béchoux, “instead of whining like
+that.”
+
+“I’ll confess anything you like, if only you’ll promise not to tell my
+wife. That I can’t allow. I have to meet her next week at Arras. I must
+be there, and I can’t have her know anything of this.”
+
+He was so frightened and upset that in his distress his mouth fell open
+and the gleam of the two gold teeth was apparent. Jim Barnett came up
+to him, inserted thumb and forefinger, and pronounced gravely:
+
+“They’re not a bit loose. There’s no getting away from it, this chap’s
+teeth are on the right side. And here’s Père Dessole saying he saw them
+on the left.”
+
+Inspector Béchoux was livid.
+
+“That makes no difference! We’ve caught the thief. He’s been coming to
+the village for years preparing the ground for this robbery. The
+thing’s as clear as day. The curé must be wrong!”
+
+The Abbé Dessole solemnly extended his arm.
+
+“I call upon God to witness that I saw the teeth on the left!”
+
+“On the right!”
+
+“On the left!”
+
+“Time!” cried Barnett. “Now then, you two, you won’t get anywhere with
+this ‘Katy Did’ business. What is it you’re after, father?”
+
+“A satisfactory explanation.”
+
+“And if you don’t get it?”
+
+“Then I shall turn the case over to the police as I ought to have done
+in the beginning. If this man is not guilty, we have no right to detain
+him. I maintain that the burglar’s gold teeth were on the left side of
+his mouth.”
+
+“Right!” bawled Béchoux.
+
+“Left!” the abbé insisted.
+
+“Neither right nor left,” was Barnett’s dictum. He was in his element.
+“Father, I promise you to produce the thief here, to-morrow morning at
+nine, and he will tell you himself where to find the treasure. You,
+Béchoux, shall spend the night in this armchair, the baron in that one
+and we will tie Monsieur Vernisson to this one. Béchoux, will you wake
+me at a quarter to nine? I drink chocolate with my breakfast. See that
+there’s toast—and I like my eggs lightly boiled.”
+
+By the end of that day, Barnett had been seen all over the place. He
+was seen making a minute examination of each tombstone in the graveyard
+in turn. He was seen searching the curé’s bedroom. He was seen
+telephoning from the post-office. He was seen at the Hippolyte Inn,
+where he dined with the proprietor. He was seen striding along the
+highroad and strolling in the fields. But those who observed his
+actions could only guess at their purport.
+
+He did not return until two o’clock next morning. The baron and the
+inspector were sitting very close to the man with the gold teeth, their
+snores reverberating in competitive crescendo. When he heard Barnett
+come in, Monsieur Vernisson groaned.
+
+“Mustn’t let my wife get to know of this....”
+
+Jim Barnett flung himself down on the floor and was fast asleep at
+once.
+
+
+
+At a quarter to nine precisely Béchoux woke Barnett. Breakfast was
+ready. Barnett wolfed four bits of toast, three cups of chocolate, and
+a couple of eggs. Then he invited his audience to gather round and
+said:
+
+“Father, behold me punctual to the appointed hour. Now, Béchoux, I’m
+going to demonstrate the extreme unimportance of all your professional
+sleuth stuff—footprints, and cigarette ends, and so forth—when
+confronted with the actual facts of the case as reconstructed by an
+alert intelligence, spurred by intuition and ballasted with
+experience.” He bowed modestly, seemingly unconscious that he was a
+trifle mixed in his metaphors. “We’ll begin with Monsieur Vernisson.”
+
+“Anything—you can do anything—so long as you don’t tell my wife,”
+stammered the wretched commercial traveller, a wreck from anxiety and
+insomnia.
+
+So Jim Barnett launched forth.
+
+“Eighteen years ago Alexandre Vernisson, who was then already a
+traveller in pins, met here, in Vaneuil, a girl called Angélique, the
+little dressmaker of the village. It was a case of love at first sight
+on both sides. Monsieur Vernisson got several weeks’ leave from his
+employers. He courted Mademoiselle Angélique, and they eloped. She
+loved him dearly and was his devoted companion until her death, two
+years later. He was quite inconsolable, and although later on a forward
+young woman called Honorine got him to marry her, his memories of
+Mademoiselle glowed the brighter, since Honorine, a jealous shrew,
+never ceased nagging at him and reproaching him with his two years’
+idyll, which had somehow come to her knowledge. Hence the pathetic
+pilgrimage in secret to Vaneuil which Alexandre Vernisson has made
+without fail each year. That’s so, isn’t it, Monsieur Vernisson?”
+
+“Have it your own way,” muttered the latter, “only don’t tell....”
+
+Jim Barnett went on:
+
+“So, each year, Monsieur Vernisson plans his rounds so as to call at
+Vaneuil in his gig, unknown to Madame Honorine. He kneels beside the
+tomb of Angélique on each anniversary of her death, for it was here in
+this graveyard she was buried according to her dying wish. He revisits
+the places where they walked together on the day they first met, and
+returns to the inn at two in the morning, just as on that occasion. Not
+far from where we are sitting at this moment you can see the humble
+headstone with the inscription that gave me the explanation of Monsieur
+Vernisson’s movements: ‘Here lies Angélique who died on March the
+fourth.’ Alexandre loved her and mourns for her!”
+
+The worthy abbé’s eyes filled with tears.
+
+“You can see now why Monsieur Vernisson is so afraid lest Madame
+Honorine should learn of his present plight. What would her attitude be
+on hearing that her faithless husband is suspected of theft on account
+of his late beloved?”
+
+Poor Monsieur Vernisson was mourning openly—partly no doubt for
+Angélique, and even more at the thought of his wife’s wrath. His
+concern was all with this aspect of the affair, and he seemed oblivious
+of the main issue. Béchoux, the baron and the Abbé Dessole all listened
+intently.
+
+“This,” Barnett went on, “solves one of the problems confronting us—I
+mean Monsieur Vernisson’s exactly timed visits to Vaneuil. This
+solution leads us logically up to that of the second riddle—who stole
+the treasure? The two are interdependent. You will readily admit that
+the existence of such a valuable collection is likely to rouse the
+imagination and excite the cupidity of many people. The idea of
+stealing it must have occurred occasionally to both visitors and
+villagers. Though, thanks to your precautions, father, the theft was
+made pretty difficult, yet the obstacles are quite easily surmounted by
+anyone who happens to know the exact nature of those precautions, and
+who has for years enjoyed the advantage of being able to spy out the
+land, plan the burglary and avoid all danger of discovery. For the crux
+of this kind of case is—that the thief should go unsuspected. And to
+avoid suspicion, there is no better stratagem than to fix suspicion on
+someone else ... on this man, for instance, who pays furtive annual
+visits to the graveyard on a fixed date, who covers up his movements
+and invites suspicion by his very secrecy. Thus, slowly, laboriously,
+the plot takes shape. A grey hat, a brown overcoat, shoeprints, gold
+teeth—all these characteristics are the subject of minute observation
+by someone. This comparatively unknown commercial traveller is to be
+the culprit, while the real thief goes free. By the real thief I mean
+that mysterious someone who, secretly, perhaps in the friendly guise of
+a frequent visitor at the rectory, plots his ingenious manœuvre year
+after year.”
+
+Barnett was silent for a moment. Bit by bit he was bringing the truth
+to light. Monsieur Vernisson began to assume an expression of
+martyrdom. Barnett’s hand went out to him.
+
+“Madame Vernisson shall not know a thing about your pilgrimage,
+Monsieur Vernisson. Forgive the misunderstanding through which you have
+been made to suffer so grievously. And forgive me for having ransacked
+your gig last night and unearthed the rather amateurish hiding-place
+under the seat where you keep Mademoiselle Angélique’s letters along
+with your private papers. You are a free man, Monsieur Vernisson.” He
+loosed the other’s bonds.
+
+The commercial traveller stood up.
+
+“One moment, please!” protested Béchoux, roused to indignation by
+Barnett’s dénouement.
+
+“Say on, Béchoux.”
+
+“What about the gold teeth?” cried the inspector, “There’s no getting
+away from them. Père Dessole undoubtedly saw two gold teeth in the
+burglar’s mouth. And Monsieur Vernisson has two gold teeth—here, on the
+right side. What do you make of that?”
+
+“Those I saw were on the left,” the abbé corrected him.
+
+“On the right, father.”
+
+“On the left, I swear.”
+
+Jim Barnett laughed yet again.
+
+“Shut up, both of you. You’re squabbling over a trifle. Good lord,
+Béchoux, here are you, a police inspector, stumped by a potty little
+problem. Why, it’s positively elementary, my poor friend. It’s the sort
+of thing they ask the Lower Third.... Father, this room is an exact
+replica of your bedchamber, isn’t it?”
+
+“It is. My bedroom is directly overhead.”
+
+“Well, father, would you be so kind as to close the shutters and draw
+the curtains. Monsieur Vernisson, lend me your hat and coat.”
+
+Jim Barnett clapped the gray slouch hat on his head and donned the
+brown overcoat, turning up the collar. Then, when the room was quite
+dark, he produced a flashlight from his pocket and stood in front of
+the curé, projecting the beam of the torch into his own open mouth.
+
+“The man! The man with the gold teeth!” faltered the Abbé Dessole,
+staring hard.
+
+“On which side are my gold teeth, father?”
+
+“On the right side. But—those I saw were on the left!”
+
+Jim Barnett’s flashlight clicked out. He seized the abbé by the
+shoulders and spun him round quickly several times. Then he switched on
+the torch again suddenly and said in a tone of command:
+
+“Look ahead of you,... straight ahead. You can see the gold teeth,
+can’t you? On which side are they?”
+
+“On the left,” said the abbé, utterly dumbfounded.
+
+Jim Barnett drew back the curtains and opened the shutters.
+
+“On the right ... on the left ... you’re not quite sure, after all!
+Well, father, that explains what happened the other night. When you
+jumped out of bed, with a sleep-dazed brain, you never realized that
+you were facing away from the window and standing directly before the
+fireplace, so that the intruder, instead of being in front of you, was
+actually behind you. Therefore, when you switched on your flashlight,
+its beam fell not on him but on his reflection in the mirror! I’ve just
+brought about a repetition of the phenomenon by spinning you round and
+making you giddy. Do you see now? Or shall I dot the i’s of elucidation
+by reminding you that a mirror when it reflects an object shows you the
+right and left sides reversed? That is how you happened to see the gold
+teeth on the left side when they were really on the right.”
+
+“Yes!” cried Inspector Béchoux, in triumph. “But that only proves that
+I was right, and yet Père Dessole was not wrong in maintaining his
+assertion. Therefore it’s up to you to produce a new man with gold
+teeth to take the place of Monsieur Vernisson.”
+
+“Quite unnecessary, I assure you.”
+
+“But you must admit that the burglar is a man with gold teeth?”
+
+“Have I got gold teeth?” demanded Barnett, and took from his mouth a
+small piece of gold paper, which still bore the imprint of two of his
+teeth.
+
+“Here’s your proof. I hope you find it properly convincing. With
+shoe-prints, a grey hat, a brown overcoat and two gold teeth, someone
+has fabricated an indisputable Monsieur Vernisson for your benefit. And
+how simple it is! One only has to get hold of a little bit of gilt
+paper—like this, which I got from the same shop in Vaneuil, where a
+whole sheet of it was purchased about three months ago, by the—Baron de
+Gravières.”
+
+Barnett’s words, which he let fall quite casually, seemed to reëcho in
+the amazed silence which followed them. As a matter of fact, Béchoux,
+who had followed Barnett’s line of argument pretty closely, was not
+altogether surprised at the climax. But the Abbé Dessole looked as
+though he would choke at any moment. His eyes were fixed on his
+estimable parishioner, the Baron de Gravières, who sat with heightened
+color, but said not a word. Barnett gave Monsieur Vernisson back his
+hat and coat. The latter mumbled as he took his leave:
+
+“You promise faithfully, don’t you, that Madame Vernisson shall never
+hear of this? It would be terrible if she got to know ... you can
+imagine....”
+
+Barnett escorted him to the door and returned beaming. He rubbed his
+hands together gleefully.
+
+“A good run and a quick kill. I feel thoroughly braced. You see how
+it’s done, Béchoux? Just the same method I applied to the other cases
+where we’ve worked together. Never begin by accusing the man you
+suspect. Don’t ask him to furnish an alibi. Don’t even take any notice
+of him. But, while he thinks himself perfectly safe, reconstruct the
+case step by step in his presence. This drives him to a mental
+reënaction of the part he played in it. He sees what he had thought
+buried in dark oblivion dragged to light. He feels himself cornered,
+hopelessly involved, quite unable to fight against the proofs of his
+guilt. The ordeal is such a strain on his nerves that it scarcely
+occurs to him to utter a word in self-defense or protest. Isn’t that
+so, baron? I take it we are all agreed. There’s no point in going over
+it all again, is there? You are satisfied that my deductions are
+correct?”
+
+Baron de Gravières was evidently undergoing the exact ordeal described
+by Barnett, for he made no attempt to confront his adversary or to
+conceal his own distress. His attitude was that of a criminal caught
+red-handed.
+
+Jim Barnett came over and tendered affable reassurance.
+
+“You need have no fears, monsieur. Abbé Dessole, who is anxious at all
+costs to avoid a scandal, only asks you to return the treasure. Once
+that’s back in its place, the incident can be regarded as closed.”
+
+The baron raised his head, stared a moment at the man who had compassed
+his downfall, and, under Barnett’s relentless gaze, murmured:
+
+“There will be no prosecution? Nothing more will be said? I have your
+promise, father?”
+
+“I shall say nothing, I promise,” said the Abbé Dessole. “I shall blot
+everything from my memory the minute the treasure is restored. But I
+can hardly believe, even now, that you stole it, monsieur le baron—that
+you, whom I trusted as I would myself, should turn criminal—it’s
+incredible!”
+
+With the awed humility of a child confessing his sins and gaining
+relief by the recital, the baron whispered:
+
+“It was too much for me, father. My thoughts kept coming back to that
+treasure lying there, so close ... so close ... I resisted the
+temptation ... I didn’t want to be a thief.... Then, the whole thing
+seemed to take shape in my brain of its own accord....”
+
+“I can hardly believe it!” the abbé repeated sorrowfully.
+“Surely—surely——”
+
+“It’s true enough. I had lost money in rash speculation. I had nothing
+left to live on. Two months ago, father, I stored all my valuable
+antique furniture, with several grandfather clocks and some fine
+tapestries in my garage. I meant to sell them ... that would have been
+my salvation. But I couldn’t bear to part with them ... and the fourth
+of March was so near. Temptation assailed me ... the idea of carrying
+out the plan that had come to me. I fell ... forgive me....”
+
+“I forgive you,” said the Abbé Dessole, “and I shall pray the Lord to
+be merciful in His punishment to you.”
+
+The baron stood up and said in a firm voice:
+
+“Now, will you please come with me?”
+
+They all walked along the highroad, like men out for a stroll. The Abbé
+Dessole mopped his brow. The baron’s tread was heavy and his bearing
+bowed. Béchoux felt acute anxiety. He had little doubt that Barnett,
+after deftly unravelling the threads of the case, had cheerfully helped
+himself to the treasure.
+
+In high feather, Barnett held forth at his side:
+
+“How on earth you came to miss the real thief, Béchoux, beats me. You
+must be blind. I saw at once that Monsieur Vernisson couldn’t have
+plotted the crime at the rate of one trip a year; that it was much more
+likely to be the work of a resident, and preferably of a neighbor. When
+I saw the neighbor!... Why, the baron’s house commands an unimpeded
+view of church and rectory. He was familiar with the curé’s various
+precautions. He knew all about Monsieur Vernisson’s annual pilgrimage
+on the fourth of March. Then....”
+
+But Béchoux was not listening. He was too much taken up with his fears,
+which solemn meditation did nothing to mitigate.
+
+Barnett went jestingly on:
+
+“Then, when I was sure of my case, I denounced the criminal to his
+face. I had no actual proof at all—nothing that would stand in a court
+of law. But I observed my man’s face as I built up the story of what
+had happened and saw that he was almost beside himself. Ah, Béchoux,
+that’s a grand and glorious feeling! And you see where it has landed
+us?”
+
+“Yes, I see ... or rather, I soon shall see ... you in clover and me in
+the soup, I expect,” said Béchoux, morbidly resigned to the ultimate
+doom.
+
+Baron de Gravières had led them the length of several ditches on his
+estate, and they were now taking a narrow grass path across a field. He
+stopped short a few minutes later, near a clump of oaks.
+
+“There,” he said in a staccato voice, “in that field on the right ...
+in the haystack.”
+
+Béchoux’s mouth wore a twisted smile. Feeling he might as well get it
+over, he darted to the haystack, followed by the others.
+
+The haystack was quite a small one. In a minute, Béchoux had tumbled
+the top layer to the ground. Then he rummaged in the hay, working like
+a ferret. Suddenly he gave a shout of triumph.
+
+“Here they are! A monstrance!” his arm brandished it clear of the hay.
+“A candlestick! A sconce!” he burrowed fiercely. “Six things ... no,
+seven.”
+
+“There should be nine!” cried the abbé.
+
+“Nine there are! Why, they’re all here! Bully for you, Barnett. Bless
+you, old son.”
+
+Overcome with joy, and gathering the beloved objects to his ample
+bosom, the abbé murmured:
+
+“Mr. Barnett, you have my profound thanks. Heaven will reward you.”
+
+Barnett’s inscrutable smile at this remark was perhaps indicative of
+his belief in the old saying: “Heaven helps those who help themselves.”
+
+Inspector Béchoux had been right in expecting an unpleasant surprise,
+only it came a little later.
+
+On their return, as the baron and his companions again skirted the
+farm, they heard cries coming from the orchard. The baron rushed to the
+garage, in front of which three of his employees stood gesticulating.
+
+He guessed at once what had happened. The door of the small stable
+adjoining the garage had been forced open and all the valuable antique
+furniture, the grandfather clocks and the tapestries stored there—the
+baron’s last resources—had disappeared. He reeled back, stammering:
+
+“This is ghastly! When did it happen?”
+
+“Last night,” said a servant. “We heard the dogs barking about eleven
+o’clock.”
+
+“But how could all the things have been spirited away?”
+
+“In your car, sir.”
+
+“In my car! They’ve stolen that too....”
+
+The wretched baron sank into the arms of the priest, who comforted him
+as best he could.
+
+“God’s punishment has not tarried, my poor friend. Accept it with a
+contrite heart....”
+
+Béchoux advanced on Barnett with clenched fists, ready to spring and
+strike.
+
+“You must notify the police, monsieur le baron,” he rasped, in a tone
+of fury. “I can assure you that your furniture is not lost.”
+
+“Of course not,” agreed Barnett amicably. “But to prefer a charge would
+be most dangerous for the baron.”
+
+Béchoux continued his measured advance. His eyes were steely, and his
+attitude one of threat. But Barnett drew him gently aside.
+
+“Don’t you realize what would have happened without me? The curé would
+not have got his treasure back. The innocent Vernisson would be in jail
+and Madame Vernisson would know all about her unfortunate husband’s
+backsliding. The only thing left for you in the circumstances would
+have been to jump into the Seine.”
+
+Béchoux sank limply down upon a tree stump. He was inarticulate with
+rage.
+
+“Quick, quick!” cried Barnett. “Something to pull Béchoux round....
+He’s not feeling well!”
+
+Baron de Gravières gave an order. A bottle of old wine was opened.
+Béchoux drank down one glass, the curé another. The baron finished the
+bottle....
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+VI
+
+TWELVE LITTLE NIGGER BOYS
+
+
+Monsieur Gassire’s first waking thought that morning was for the safety
+of the bundle of securities which he had brought home the previous
+evening. He stretched out an exploring hand, and encountered the bundle
+still safely on the little table by his bed.
+
+His mind set at rest, he proceeded to get out of bed and begin the
+business of dressing for the day.
+
+Nicolas Gassire was a short, corpulent man with a shriveled hawk-face.
+He was an outside broker doing business in the Invalides quarter of
+Paris, with a sound clientele of worthy bourgeois. These latter
+entrusted their savings to him and were rewarded by the singularly
+attractive profits he netted for them, in part from lucky speculations
+and in part from his own little private business of money-lending.
+
+He had a flat on the first floor of a narrow old house of which he was
+the owner. This flat comprised a hall, his bedroom, a dining-room which
+he used as his office, and another room in which his three clerks
+worked. Right at the back there was the kitchen.
+
+Gassire’s economy led him to do without a servant. Every morning at
+eight the concierge, a stout, cheerful, active woman, came up with his
+post and petit déjeuner—a cup of coffee and a croissant, which she laid
+on his desk—and then cleaned up the flat.
+
+On the morning in question the concierge departed at half-past eight,
+and Monsieur Gassire, as was his custom, breakfasted in leisurely
+fashion, opened his letters and glanced through the morning paper while
+he awaited the arrival of his clerks.
+
+Suddenly, just five minutes before nine, he thought he heard a noise in
+his bedroom. Remembering the bundle of securities which he had left in
+there, he jumped up, overturning his coffee-cup in his agitation. In a
+twinkling he was in the other room, but—the bundle of securities had
+vanished! At the very same moment he heard the hall-door on the landing
+slam violently.
+
+Monsieur Gassire tried to open it, but it was a spring lock and he had
+left the key on his desk. He was afraid that if he went to get it the
+thief would escape without being seen.
+
+He therefore opened the hall window, which gave on the street. It was
+physically impossible for any one to have had time to leave the
+building. In any case, the street was empty.
+
+Mastering his excitement, Monsieur Nicolas Gassire refrained from
+crying “Thief!” But, a minute later, when he caught sight of his head
+clerk coming towards the house from the direction of the neighboring
+boulevard, he beckoned furiously to him.
+
+“Hurry up, Sarlonat!” he cried, leaning out of the window. “Come in,
+lock the street door and don’t let any one out. I’ve been robbed!”
+
+As soon as his commands had been obeyed, he hastened downstairs,
+panting and distraught.
+
+“Tell me, Sarlonat, have you seen anybody?”
+
+“Not a soul, monsieur.”
+
+He hurried to the concierge’s little room, which was wedged between the
+foot of the stairs and a small, dark courtyard. She was sweeping the
+floor.
+
+“Madame Alain, I’ve been robbed!” he cried. “Is any one hiding here?”
+
+“Why, no, monsieur,” faltered the poor woman in utter bewilderment.
+
+“Where do you keep the key to my flat?”
+
+“I put it here, monsieur, behind the clock. Anyhow, no one could have
+taken it, for I’ve not stirred out of my room this last half-hour.”
+
+“That means that instead of coming down the thief must have run
+upstairs. Oh, this is terrible, terrible!”
+
+Nicolas Gassire went back to the street door. His other two clerks had
+just come on the scene. Hurriedly, in a few breathless words, he gave
+them their orders. They were to let no one enter or leave the house
+until he came back.
+
+“You understand, Sarlonat? No one.”
+
+He dashed upstairs and into his flat. In an instant he had grabbed hold
+of the telephone.
+
+“Hello!” he bawled into the mouthpiece, “hello! Put me through to the
+Préfecture!... No, I don’t mean police headquarters, you fool, I mean
+the café de la Préfecture ... what number is it?... How should I
+know?... Hurry!... Give me information.... Oh, be quick, be quick,
+can’t you!”
+
+Dancing with rage the little man at last succeeded in getting on to the
+proprietor of the café, and thundered:
+
+“Is Inspector Béchoux there? Then call him to the telephone—at once.
+Hurry ... hurry! I want him on business. There’s no time to lose....
+Hello!... Inspector Béchoux? This is Gassire speaking, Béchoux.... Yes,
+I’m all right ... at least, I’m not ... I’ve just been robbed of some
+securities—a whole bundle.... I’m waiting for you.... What’s that? Say
+it again!... You can’t come? You’re off on your holiday? Holiday be
+hanged, man! Béchoux, you must come, as quickly as possible! Your
+twelve African mining shares were in the bundle!”
+
+Monsieur Gassire heard a volcanic monosyllable at the other end, which
+fully reassured him on the score of Inspector Béchoux’s purpose and
+promptitude. Indeed, it was barely a quarter of an hour before
+Inspector Béchoux arrived, running, his face a study in abject anxiety.
+He rushed up to the stockbroker.
+
+“My Nigger Boys! My Twelve Little Nigger Boys! All my savings! What’s
+become of them?”
+
+“Stolen, along with the bonds and shares of other clients ... and all
+my own securities.”
+
+“Stolen?”
+
+“Yes, from my bedroom, half an hour ago!”
+
+“Damnation! But what were my Nigger Boys doing in your room?”
+
+“I took the bundle out of the safe at the Crédit Lyonnais yesterday to
+deposit it at another bank, nearer here. And I made the mistake of——”
+
+Béchoux’s hand descended heavily on the other’s shoulder.
+
+“I shall hold you responsible, Gassire. You will have to make good my
+loss.”
+
+“How can I? I’m ruined.”
+
+“What do you mean? You have this house.”
+
+“Mortgaged to the hilt!”
+
+The two men faced each other, convulsed with rage and shouting
+unintelligibly.
+
+The concierge and the three clerks had also lost their heads, and were
+barring the way to two girls from the top floor, who had just come down
+and were quite determined to be allowed out.
+
+“Nobody shall leave this house!” roared Béchoux, beside himself with
+fury. “Nobody shall leave this house until my Twelve Little Nigger Boys
+are restored to me!”
+
+“Perhaps we’d better call in help,” suggested Gassire. “There’s the
+butcher’s boy ... and the grocer ... they’re both dependable.”
+
+“Not for me,” the inspector pronounced with decision. “If we need some
+one else we’ll telephone the Barnett Agency in the rue Laborde. Then
+we’ll notify the police. But for the moment that would be sheer waste
+of time. Action is what we want!”
+
+He tried to control himself and to regain the pontifical calm that best
+befits a police inspector. But he was trembling from head to foot, and
+his quivering mouth betrayed his distress.
+
+“Keep your head,” he told Gassire. “After all, we have the whip hand.
+Nobody has left the house. The thing is to retrieve my little Nigger
+Boys before any one can find a way of sneaking them out of the
+building. That’s all that really matters.”
+
+He turned to the two girls and began to question them. He ascertained
+that one was a typist who copied reports and circulars at home. The
+other gave lessons in flute-playing, also at home. They were both
+anxious to get out and do their marketing before lunch, but Béchoux was
+adamant.
+
+“I’m sorry,” he said, “but this door stays closed for the morning.
+Monsieur Gassire, two of your clerks shall mount guard here. The third
+can run errands for the tenants. In the afternoon the latter will be
+allowed out, but with my permission only in each case, and all parcels,
+boxes, baskets or packages of any kind will be submitted to a rigorous
+search. You have your orders. Now, Monsieur Gassire, it is for us to
+get to work. The concierge will lead the way.”
+
+The building was so planned as to make investigation easy. There were
+three upper stories, with a single flat on each floor. This made four
+flats in the house, counting that on the ground floor, which was
+temporarily unoccupied. Monsieur Gassire lived on the first floor. On
+the second dwelt Monsieur Touffémont, an ex-Cabinet Minister. The top
+floor was partitioned off into two flatlets, occupied by Mademoiselle
+Legoffier, the typist, and Mademoiselle Haveline, who taught the flute.
+
+That morning Monsieur Touffémont had left at half-past eight for the
+Chambre des Députés, where he was president of a commission. Since his
+flat was cleaned by a woman who came in daily at lunch-time and had not
+yet arrived, they decided to await his return.
+
+First, then, they explored the girls’ rooms thoroughly, and satisfied
+themselves that the missing securities were not there.
+
+Next they searched every corner of the attic at the top of the house,
+getting up there by means of a ladder.
+
+After this, choking with dust, they came downstairs again and searched
+the courtyard and Monsieur Gassire’s own flat.
+
+Their efforts went unrewarded. In bitterness of spirit, Béchoux brooded
+over the unkind fate that had overtaken his Twelve Little Nigger Boys.
+
+Towards noon Monsieur Touffémont came in. He proved to be an earnest
+parliamentarian, burdened with the type of portfolio proper to the use
+of an ex-Cabinet Minister. His industry commanded the respect of all
+parties in the house, and his rare but masterly interventions could
+make a Cabinet tremble apprehensively.
+
+With measured tread he approached the concierge’s room and asked for
+his letters. Gassire came up to him and told him of the theft.
+
+Touffémont gave him that grave attention he seemed to bestow even on
+the most flippant utterances. Then he promised his coöperation if
+Gassire decided to call in the police, and urged at the same time that
+they should search his flat.
+
+“You never know,” he said. “Someone might have got in with a skeleton
+key.”
+
+Accordingly they searched the flat, but here again they drew a blank.
+Béchoux and Gassire tried to keep one another’s courage up by voicing
+each in turn his meed of hope and comfort, but their words rang hollow
+and their faces grew drawn and pale.
+
+At last they thought they would go in search of refreshment to a small
+café just opposite, so placed that they could keep an eye on the home
+all the time. But when they got there, Béchoux found he had no
+appetite. The Twelve Little Nigger Boys lay heavy on his stomach.
+Gassire said that he felt dizzy. No, he wouldn’t take anything, thank
+you. They both went over and over what had happened, trying to find
+some ray of reassurance in the prevailing gloom.
+
+“It’s quite obvious,” said Béchoux. “Someone got into your flat and
+stole the securities. Well, as the thief can’t have escaped from the
+building, that means that he or she is still in the house.”
+
+“Absolutely,” agreed Gassire.
+
+“And if he or she is in the house, my Twelve Little Nigger Boys are
+there too. Hang it all, they can’t have flown out through the roof!”
+
+“Not unless they were nigger angels,” suggested Gassire.
+
+“So,” Béchoux went on, ignoring him, “we are forced to the conclusion
+that——”
+
+He never finished the sentence. Suddenly a look of terror came into his
+eyes, and he stared speechless at someone who was jauntily approaching
+the house opposite.
+
+“Barnett!” he whispered. “Barnett! How did he get to know of this?”
+
+“You mentioned him, and the Barnett Agency in the rue Laborde,” Gassire
+confessed, not without hesitation, “and I thought that, in the
+appalling circumstances, it was just worth giving him a ring.”
+
+“You fool!” spluttered Béchoux. “Who’s in charge of the case, anyhow?
+You or me? Barnett has nothing to do with this. We must be on our guard
+against him or there will be the devil to pay. Let Barnett in on this?
+Not much!”
+
+Béchoux was quite sure in his own mind that Barnett’s assistance would
+prove the last straw. Jim Barnett in the house and on the case would
+only mean that, if the mystery were solved, a bundle of securities,
+including Twelve Little Nigger Boys of vital import to their owner,
+would surely vanish into thin air.
+
+He tore across the street, and, as Barnett raised his hand to the bell,
+he seized his arm and said in trembling tones:
+
+“Get out! Hop it! We don’t want your help. You were called in by
+mistake. Cut along now, and be quick about it.”
+
+Barnett gave him an astonished stare full of reproach and childlike
+innocence.
+
+“My dear Béchoux, what’s the matter? Tell your Uncle Barnett! You seem
+a trifle rattled, old lad. Still sore about the grandfather clocks of
+Baron de Gravières? And those gold teeth? Left, right!”
+
+“Get out, I tell you!”
+
+“Then they told me the truth just now on the telephone? Have you really
+been robbed of your savings? And don’t you want your Uncle Barnett to
+lend a helping hand?”
+
+“My Uncle Barnett can go to hell!” declared Béchoux, furious. “I know
+all about your helping hand! It goes into other people’s pockets and
+helps itself.”
+
+“Are you in a stew because of your Twelve Little Nigger Boys?”
+
+“I shall be if you come poking your nose in!”
+
+“Oh, all right. I leave you to it!”
+
+“You’re off, then?” Béchoux’s frown cleared.
+
+“Rather not! I’ve come here on business.”
+
+He turned to Gassire, who had joined them and was holding the door
+ajar.
+
+“Can you tell me if Mademoiselle Haveline lives here—Mademoiselle
+Haveline who teaches the flute? She took second prize at the
+Conservatoire.”
+
+Béchoux grew wrathful.
+
+“Huh, you’re asking for her because you’ve just seen her brass plate up
+there....”
+
+“Well,” replied Barnett, “haven’t I a perfect right to learn the flute
+if I like? It’s a free country!”
+
+“You can’t come here.”
+
+“Sorry, but I am consumed with a passion for the flute.”
+
+“I absolutely forbid it.”
+
+For sole answer Barnett snapped his fingers in the other’s face and
+pushed past him into the house. No one dared bar his way. Béchoux, his
+heart full of misgivings, watched him ascend the first flight of stairs
+and vanish out of sight.
+
+It must have taken Barnett only a little while to get started with his
+teacher, for in ten minutes’ time wobbly scales on the flute began
+floating down from the top floor. Mademoiselle Haveline’s pupil was on
+the job!
+
+“The scoundrel!” cried Béchoux, his anxiety increasing every minute.
+“With him in the house, heaven help us!”
+
+He set to work again madly. They ransacked the empty ground floor flat,
+also the concierge’s room, in case the bundle of securities had been
+thrown down somewhere. It was all fruitless. And the whole afternoon
+the sound of flute practice went on, like a mocking goblin under the
+eaves. Béchoux nearly collapsed beneath the strain.
+
+At last, on the stroke of six, Barnett appeared, skipping down the
+stairs and humming a ribald tune. And, as he went, he swung to and fro
+a large cardboard box.
+
+A cardboard box! Béchoux, with a strangled exclamation, seized it and
+snatched off the lid. Out tumbled some old hat-shapes and bits of
+moth-eaten fur.
+
+“Since she is not allowed to leave the house,” Barnett explained
+solemnly, “Mademoiselle Haveline has asked me to throw this stuff away
+for her. I say, isn’t she a peach? And what a flautist! She thinks I am
+full of talent and says that if I keep on at it I shall soon be able to
+qualify for the post of blind man on the church steps. Ta, ta!” And he
+was gone.
+
+All night long, Béchoux and Gassire mounted guard, one inside and the
+other outside the street door, in case the thief should try to throw a
+parcel out of a window to an accomplice waiting below. And next day
+they set to work again, but all in vain.
+
+At three o’clock that afternoon Barnett was on the scene again,
+carrying the empty cardboard box. He went straight upstairs, nodding
+affably to poor Béchoux in the manner of one whose time is well and
+fully occupied.
+
+The flute lesson began. Scales, followed by exercises. The critical
+listener would have detected plenty of wrong notes.
+
+Suddenly all was quiet. The silence continued unbroken, until Béchoux
+was thoroughly puzzled.
+
+“What on earth can he be up to now?” he wondered, as he pictured
+Barnett busy with those private researches which would assuredly
+culminate in some extraordinary discovery.
+
+He ran upstairs and stood listening on the landing. No sound came from
+Mademoiselle Haveline’s room. But a man’s voice was distinctly audible
+in the next door flatlet of Mademoiselle Legoffier, the typist.
+
+“Barnett’s voice,” thought Béchoux, his curiosity now at white-heat.
+Then, incapable of holding back any longer, he rang the bell.
+
+“Come in!” called Barnett from within. “The key is in the lock
+outside.”
+
+Béchoux entered the room. Mademoiselle Legoffier, an attractive
+brunette, was sitting at a table by her typewriter, taking shorthand at
+Barnett’s dictation.
+
+“The hunt is up, is it?” said the latter. “Carry on, old man. Nothing
+up my sleeves”—he mimicked a conjurer—“and as for Mademoiselle
+Legoffier——” That damsel blushed discreetly; her arms were bare to the
+shoulder.
+
+“Well,” Barnett continued, “I’m dictating my memoirs. You won’t mind if
+I go on?”
+
+And, while Béchoux peered under the furniture, he proceeded:
+
+“That afternoon Inspector Béchoux dropped in while I was dictating my
+memoirs to a charming young lady called Legoffier. She had been
+recommended to me by her friend, the flautist. Béchoux searched high
+and low for his Twelve Little Nigger Boys, who heartlessly persisted in
+eluding him. Under the couch he collected three grains of dust; under
+the wardrobe a shoe-heel and a hairpin. Inspector Béchoux never
+overlooks the slightest detail. What a life!”
+
+Béchoux stood up and shook his fist in Barnett’s face, volleying abuse.
+The other went on dictating, and the detective departed in a fury.
+
+A little later Barnett came down with his cardboard box. Béchoux, who
+was keeping watch, had a moment’s hesitation. But his fears conquered
+him and he opened the box, to find that it contained nothing but old
+papers and rags.
+
+Life became unbearable for the unhappy Béchoux. Barnett’s continued
+presence, his quizzical attitude and freakish pranks threw the
+detective into fresh fits of rage. Every day Barnett came to the house,
+and after each flute lesson or shorthand séance, he would display his
+cardboard box.
+
+Béchoux did not know what to do. He had no doubt that the whole thing
+was a farce and that Barnett was ragging him. All the same, there was
+always the chance that this time Barnett really was spiriting away the
+securities. Suppose he was kidnapping the Twelve Little Nigger Boys?
+Suppose he was smuggling his haul out of the house?
+
+Béchoux was forced to rummage in the box, empty it and run his hands
+over its oddly assorted contents of torn clothing, rags, old feather
+dusters, broom handles, ashes and potato peelings. And this made
+Barnett roar with laughter.
+
+“He’s found his shares! No, false alarm! He’s getting warm ... try that
+lettuce leaf! Ah, Béchoux, what a lot of quiet fun you manage to give
+me, bless you!”
+
+This went on for a week. Béchoux lost the whole of his holiday over the
+wretched business, and made himself the laughing-stock of the
+neighborhood. For neither he nor Nicolas Gassire had been able to stop
+the tenants from attending to their own affairs, even while allowing
+their persons to be searched on exit and entrance. Gossip travelled
+apace. Gassire’s misfortune became known. His terrified clients flocked
+to the office and demanded the immediate return of their money.
+
+As for Monsieur Touffémont, the ex-Cabinet Minister, who came under the
+amateur surveillance four times a day, to his great annoyance and the
+interruption of his customary routine, he was all for calling in the
+police officially, and urged Gassire to take this course without
+further delay. The situation could not be prolonged indefinitely.
+
+At last things came to a head. Late one afternoon Gassire and Béchoux
+heard sounds of violent quarreling coming from the top of the house.
+Two high-pitched voices were raised in rival but continuous clamor, the
+uproar punctuated by stamps and screams. It sounded most alarming.
+
+The two men hurried upstairs. On the top landing Mademoiselle Haveline
+and Mademoiselle Legoffier were doing battle. Standing over them like
+an umpire was Jim Barnett!
+
+Although quite unable to restrain the combatants, Barnett wore an
+expression of genuine enjoyment. The girls continued to fly at each
+other, their hair like that of Furies, and their frocks getting torn to
+shreds. The air was thick with Parisienne invective!
+
+After heroic efforts the pair was separated. The typist promptly went
+into hysterics, and Barnett carried her into her flat, while the flute
+teacher proceeded to expound her wrongs to Béchoux and Gassire on the
+landing.
+
+“Caught them together, I did,” shrilled Mademoiselle Haveline. “Barnett
+was mine first, and then I caught him kissing her! I can tell you, he’s
+up to no good, that Barnett. He’s a queer sort and no mistake. Why
+don’t you ask him, Monsieur Béchoux, what his game’s been up here all
+this week, questioning the two of us and poking his nose everywhere?
+I’m going to give him away, though. He knows who the thief is. It’s the
+concierge, Madame Alain. But he made us swear we wouldn’t let on to
+you. Another thing, he knows where those securities are. Didn’t he tell
+us: ‘The securities are in the house, and yet not in it, and they’re
+out of it, and yet in it’? Those were his very words. You want to be
+careful of him, Monsieur Béchoux!”
+
+Jim Barnett had finished with the typist and now came forth. Taking
+Mademoiselle Haveline by the shoulders, he pushed her firmly through
+her own front door.
+
+“Come along, professor mine, and no idle gossip, if you please! You’re
+going right off the handle. Stop talking nonsense and stick to the
+flute. I don’t want you playing in my band!”
+
+Béchoux did not stay any longer. Mademoiselle Haveline’s sudden
+revelation had shed a ray of light on the case. He now saw that the
+thief must be Madame Alain. He only marveled that he could ever have
+overlooked her guilt.
+
+Spurred by his conviction, he rushed downstairs, followed by Nicolas
+Gassire, and burst in upon the concierge.
+
+“My Africans! Where are they? It was you who stole them!”
+
+Nicolas Gassire panted at his heels.
+
+“My securities! Where have you put them, you thief?”
+
+They each took hold of the poor woman, shaking her violently and
+overwhelming her with abuse and questions. She seemed quite dazed by it
+all, but stuck bravely to her protestations of innocence and ignorance.
+
+When at last they let her be, she retired to bed and passed a sleepless
+night. Next morning the inquisition recommenced, and that day and its
+successor were long hours of unrelieved ordeal for the poor woman.
+
+Béchoux would not for a minute admit that Jim Barnett could have made a
+mistake. Besides, in the light of this definite accusation, it was easy
+to put the right construction on the facts of the case. The concierge,
+while cleaning the flat, had doubtless noticed the unaccustomed bundle
+on the table by the bed. She was the only person who had the key to the
+flat. Knowing Monsieur Gassire’s regular habits, she might well have
+returned to the flat, seized the securities, run off with them, and
+taken refuge in the little room where Nicolas Gassire found her when he
+rushed downstairs.
+
+Béchoux began to get discouraged.
+
+“Yes,” he said, “it’s obvious that this woman is the guilty party. But
+still we’re no nearer a solution of the mystery. I don’t care if the
+criminal is the concierge or the man in the moon. It makes no odds as
+long as we are still without news of my Twelve Little Nigger Boys. I
+can see that she had them in her room, but by what miracle did they
+leave it between nine o’clock and the time we searched her belongings?”
+
+All their threats, and the “third degree” cross-examination to which
+she was subjected failed to make the fat Madame Alain disclose any
+helpful information. She denied everything. She had seen nothing. She
+knew nothing. Even though there was now no doubt of her guilt she stood
+firm.
+
+“We’ve simply got to settle this,” Gassire told Béchoux one morning.
+“You know that Touffémont overthrew the Cabinet last night. The
+reporters will be here any minute to interview him, and we can’t
+possibly go searching them, too.”
+
+Béchoux agreed that they had come to an impasse.
+
+“But keep smiling,” he urged, “for within three hours I shall know the
+truth.”
+
+That afternoon he called at the Barnett Detective Agency.
+
+“I was waiting for you to drop in, Béchoux,” said Barnett amicably.
+“What do you want?”
+
+“I want your coöperation, Barnett. I’m at a loss what to do.”
+
+This was unvarnished admission of defeat. The inspector’s surrender was
+unconditional. Béchoux was making the amende honorable.
+
+Jim Barnett clapped him friendliwise on the back, then took him by the
+shoulders and rocked him gently to and fro, by sheer geniality sparing
+the other humiliation. This was no meeting of vanquished and victor.
+Rather was it a scene of reconciliation between two comrades.
+
+“To tell you the truth, Béchoux, I was awfully cut up about that
+misunderstanding between us. I couldn’t bear to think of our being
+enemies. It worried me till I could hardly sleep at nights!”
+
+A frown clouded Béchoux’s brow. His professional conscience pricked him
+sore for being on friendly terms with Barnett. He cursed the unkind
+fate that forced him to collaborate with a man he felt sure was a
+crook, and to incur obligations to the fellow into the bargain. But
+there are moments and circumstances when even the just man stretches a
+point. The loss of a dozen valuable African mining shares explained
+Béchoux’s course of action.
+
+Swallowing his scruples, he whispered:
+
+“It’s the concierge, of course?”
+
+“It is she for the reason, inter alia, that it could not be any one
+else.”
+
+“But how do you account for a woman who has always been honest and
+respectable suddenly turning crook?”
+
+“If you had troubled to make a few inquiries about her you would know
+that the poor creature is afflicted with a son who is a thorough bad
+hat. He is always sponging on her. It was on his account that she
+suddenly gave way to temptation.”
+
+Béchoux jumped up.
+
+“Did she manage to give him my shares?” he asked anxiously.
+
+“Of course not! Do you think I should have allowed a thing like that? I
+regard your Twelve Little Nigger Boys as sacred.”
+
+“Where are they, then?”
+
+“In your own coat-pocket.”
+
+“Please don’t joke about it.”
+
+“But, Béchoux, I’m not joking. I never joke in times of stress. Look
+for yourself!”
+
+Béchoux’s hand went gingerly to his coat-pocket, felt in it and took
+out a large envelope which bore the following superscription: “To my
+friend Béchoux.” With trembling fingers he tore it open. Oh, joy, his
+Nigger Boys were restored to him, all twelve! Clutching the precious
+shares to his breast, he turned very pale and closed his eyes. Barnett
+hastened to revive him with smelling salts held under the nose.
+
+“Sniff hard, Béchoux. This is no time to faint.”
+
+Béchoux did not faint, though he surreptitiously wiped away a few tears
+of relief. He was inarticulate with emotion. Of course he had no doubt
+but that Barnett had stuffed the envelope into his pocket the moment he
+came into the Agency, while they were making up their differences. But
+anyhow there were the Twelve Little Nigger Boys in his still trembling
+hands, and Barnett’s virtue was for him untarnished.
+
+Reviving suddenly, he began capering about, dancing a kind of Spanish
+jig shaking imaginary castanets.
+
+“I’ve got them back! My own little pickaninnies! Bless you, Barnett,
+for a friend in need. From now on there is only one Barnett—Béchoux’s
+preserver! You deserve a statue and a drinking fountain. You are one of
+our truly great men. But how on earth did you bring it off? Tell me
+all.”
+
+Once again Barnett’s little way was a source of amazement to Inspector
+Béchoux. His professional curiosity thoroughly aroused, he asked:
+
+“Won’t you tell me?”
+
+“Tell you what?” Barnett’s tone was one of amused indolence.
+
+“How you unravelled everything! Where was the bundle? ‘In the house yet
+out of it,’ was what you said, I believe?”
+
+“‘And out of the house but in it,’” added Barnett with a laugh.
+
+“What does it mean?”
+
+“D’you give it up?”
+
+“Yes, yes; I give it up. I’ll do anything you ask.”
+
+“Will you promise never again to take up that chilly and reproachful
+attitude towards my harmless exploits, which almost convinces me at
+times that I must have wandered from the straight and narrow path?”
+
+“Go on, tell me, Barnett!”
+
+“Ah,” exclaimed the other, “what a story! I’ve never come across
+anything more neatly done, more unexpected, more spontaneous or more
+baffling. It was at once human and fantastic. And withal so simple that
+you, Béchoux, gifted as you are in your profession, were absolutely in
+the dark.”
+
+“Well, hang it all, come to the point,” said Béchoux in some annoyance.
+“How did the bundle of securities leave the house?”
+
+“Under your own eyes, my bright lad! And not only did it leave the
+house, but it came in again. It left the house twice daily, and twice
+daily it returned! And under your own eyes, Béchoux, under your bright,
+benignant eyes! And for ten days you bowed to it respectfully. You
+almost grovelled on your knees before it!”
+
+“I don’t believe you!” cried Béchoux. “It’s absurd. We searched
+everything.”
+
+“Everything was searched, Béchoux, except that. Parcels, boxes,
+handbags, pockets, hats, tins, dustbins ... all those, but not that. At
+the frontier they search all luggage, except the diplomat’s valise.
+Naturally, you searched everything but that.”
+
+“What is that?” yelled Béchoux frenziedly. “For goodness sake, answer
+me.”
+
+“The portfolio of the ex-Cabinet Minister!”
+
+Béchoux sprang up in astonishment.
+
+“What do you mean, Barnett? Are you accusing Monsieur Touffémont?”
+
+“Idiot, should I dare accuse a member of parliament? In the first
+place, that man, an ex-Cabinet Minister, is above suspicion. And among
+all members of parliament and ex-Cabinet Ministers—and Lord knows their
+name is legion—I regard Touffémont as the least open to suspicion. All
+the same, Madame Alain made him a receiver of stolen goods!”
+
+“Then he was her accomplice?”
+
+“Not a bit of it!”
+
+“Then who was?”
+
+“His portfolio!” And, with a broad smile, Barnett proceeded to
+elucidate. “A minister’s portfolio, Béchoux, has a personality of its
+own. In this world we have Monsieur Touffémont and we have his
+portfolio. The two are inseparable, and each is the other’s raison
+d’être. You can’t imagine Monsieur Touffémont minus his portfolio—nor
+the portfolio minus Monsieur Touffémont. But it happens that Monsieur
+Touffémont lays down his portfolio when he eats and sleeps, and on
+various other occasions through the day. At such times the portfolio
+assumes a separate identity and may lend itself to actions for which
+Monsieur Touffémont cannot be held responsible.
+
+“That was what happened on the morning of the theft.”
+
+Béchoux stared at Barnett, wondering what on earth he was getting at.
+
+“That was what happened,” Barnett repeated, “on the morning that your
+twelve African mining shares vanished away. The concierge, terrified by
+what she had done, and dreading the consequences of her action, could
+not think how to get rid of the securities, which were bound to betray
+her guilt. Suddenly she noticed the providential presence of Monsieur
+Touffémont’s portfolio on her mantelpiece—the portfolio all by itself!
+Monsieur Touffémont had come in there to collect his post. He put his
+portfolio down on the mantelpiece and proceeded to open his letters,
+while Gassire and you, Béchoux, were telling him about the
+disappearance of the securities.
+
+“Then Madame Alain had an inspiration of sheer genius. Her room had not
+yet been searched, but it was bound to be ransacked in a little while,
+and the securities would be discovered. She had no time to lose. She
+turned her back on the three of you standing there discussing the
+theft. With quick, deft fingers she opened the portfolio, emptied one
+of the flap pockets of all its papers, and slipped the securities into
+their place. The deed was done, the great bell rung. No one suspected
+anything. And when Monsieur Touffémont withdrew, he took away in the
+portfolio under his arm your Twelve Little Nigger Boys and all
+Gassire’s securities.”
+
+Béchoux never questioned Barnett’s asseverations when they were made on
+that particular note of absolute conviction. Instead, he bowed his head
+humbly in the Temple of Truth and believed what he was told.
+
+“Certainly,” he said, “I noticed a sheaf of papers and reports lying
+about down there that morning, but I paid no attention to it. And
+surely she must have given those documents back to Monsieur
+Touffémont?”
+
+“I hardly think so,” answered Barnett. “Rather than incur any suspicion
+she probably burned them.”
+
+“But he must have asked after them?”
+
+Barnett shook his head and smiled quietly.
+
+“You mean to say he hasn’t noticed the disappearance of a whole sheaf
+of his papers?”
+
+“Has he noticed the appearance of the bundle of securities?”
+
+“But—but what happened when he opened the portfolio?”
+
+“He didn’t open it. He never opens it. Monsieur Touffémont’s portfolio,
+like that of many a politician, is only a sham—a dummy—a useful prop on
+the parliamentary stage. If he had opened it he would have demanded the
+return of his own papers, and restored the securities. He has done
+neither.”
+
+“But when he works....”
+
+“He doesn’t work. The mere fact of a man’s carrying a portfolio does
+not necessarily imply that he works. As a matter of fact, the
+possession of an ex-minister’s portfolio is in itself a dispensation
+from work. A portfolio stands for power, authority, omnipotence, and
+omniscience. Last night, at the Chambre des Députés—I was there myself,
+by the way—Monsieur Touffémont laid down his portfolio on the rostrum.
+You can see that his doing this at such a crisis was tantamount to
+announcing publicly that he was once again a candidate for office. The
+Cabinet realized that it was lost. The great man’s portfolio must be
+full of crushing documents crammed with statistics! Monsieur Touffémont
+even undid it, though he took nothing from its bulging compartments. It
+was so obvious that he had everything there.... But really, there was
+nothing there except your twelve African mining shares, Gassire’s
+securities and some old newspapers. They carried the day, however, and
+Monsieur Touffémont’s portfolio overthrew the Cabinet.”
+
+“But how do you know all this?”
+
+“Because, when Monsieur Touffémont was strolling home from the House at
+one o’clock in the morning, a person unknown came into clumsy collision
+with him and sent him sprawling on the pavement. Another man—an
+accomplice—snatched up the portfolio and replaced the securities with a
+bundle of old papers, carrying off the former. Need I tell you the name
+of the second man?”
+
+Béchoux laughed heartily. Every time his hand felt the twelve shares in
+his pocket he was struck afresh with the humor of the story and of
+Monsieur Touffémont’s little adventure.
+
+Barnett, beaming on his friend, concluded:
+
+“That’s all there is to know, and it was in my endeavor to ferret out
+the truth and collect evidence in the case that I’ve dictated my
+memoirs and taken lessons on the flute. What a pleasant week it’s been!
+Flirtations up above and a variety entertainment on the ground floor.
+Gassire, Béchoux, Madame Alain, Touffémont ... my own little
+marionettes, dancing when I pulled the strings! The hardest nut I had
+to crack was that Touffémont could actually be oblivious of his
+portfolio’s guilty secret, and be taking your Twelve Little Nigger Boys
+to and fro in blissful ignorance. At first it had me absolutely beat.
+And how surprised the poor concierge must have been! She must think
+Touffémont a common crook, since she certainly believes that he has
+stuck to your Little Nigger Boys and the rest of the bundle. Fancy
+Touffémont——”
+
+“Hadn’t I better tell him?” broke in Béchoux.
+
+“What’s the good? Let him go on carting his old newspapers about and
+sleeping with the portfolio under his pillow. Don’t let on about this
+to anyone, Béchoux.”
+
+“Except Gassire, of course,” said Béchoux. “I shall have to explain to
+him when I give him back his securities.”
+
+“What securities?” asked Barnett blankly.
+
+“The ones you found in Monsieur Touffémont’s portfolio—they’re his!”
+
+“You must be crazy, Béchoux. You don’t suppose Gassire will ever see
+his securities again?”
+
+“Naturally I do.”
+
+Barnett brought his fist down on the table and gave vent to a sudden
+burst of righteous indignation.
+
+“Look here, Béchoux, do you know what sort of man Nicolas Gassire is?
+He’s a scoundrel like the concierge’s son! He robbed his clients—I can
+prove it! He gambled with their money. He was even preparing to steal
+the lot. Look, here is his first-class railway ticket to Brussels. He
+bought it on the same day that he withdrew the securities from his safe
+deposit, not to hand them over to another bank as he told you, but to
+bolt with them! How do you feel about Nicolas Gassire now?”
+
+Béchoux could say nothing. Ever since the theft of his shares his
+confidence in Nicolas Gassire had been considerably shaken. Still, he
+raised the obvious objection.
+
+“His clients are all decent people. It’s not fair to ruin them as
+well.”
+
+“Who ever talked of ruining them? That would be disgraceful. It would
+upset me terribly!”
+
+Béchoux looked his interrogation.
+
+“Gassire is rich,” observed Barnett.
+
+“He’s broke,” contradicted Béchoux.
+
+“Not at all. I have information that he has enough money to pay back
+all his clients and then leave something over. You can be quite sure
+that the reason he didn’t call in the police the very first day was
+that he didn’t want them meddling in his private affairs. Threaten him
+with imprisonment, and watch him skip! Why, Nicolas Gassire is a
+millionaire. It’s up to him to right his client’s wrongs, no business
+of mine!”
+
+“Which means that you intend keeping the securities?”
+
+“Certainly not! They’re already sold!”
+
+“Yes, but you’ve got the cash.”
+
+Barnett was virtuously indignant and protested that he had kept
+nothing.
+
+“I’m merely distributing it,” he declared.
+
+“To whom?”
+
+“To friends in distress and to various deserving charities which I
+supply with funds. You needn’t worry, Béchoux. I’m making good use of
+Gassire’s money.”
+
+Béchoux did not doubt it. Yet another treasure-hunt in which the prize
+was forfeit at the finish! Barnett, as usual, walked off with the
+spoils. He punished the guilty and saved the innocent—and never forgot
+to line his pockets in the process. Well-ordered charity invariably
+begins at home.
+
+Inspector Béchoux found himself blushing. If he made no protest, he
+became Barnett’s accomplice. But, as he felt the precious bundle of
+shares in his pocket, and realized that without Barnett’s intervention
+he would have lost them for ever, he cooled down. It was hardly an
+opportune moment to enter the lists!
+
+“What’s up?” asked Barnett. “Aren’t you pleased?”
+
+“Oh, rather,” said the luckless Béchoux hastily. “Delighted!”
+
+“Then smile, smile, smile!”
+
+Béchoux managed a grimace like a watery sunset.
+
+“That’s better,” cried Barnett. “It’s been a pleasure to do you this
+small service, and I thank you for giving me the opportunity. And now
+it’s time for us to part. You must be very busy, and I’m expecting a
+lady.”
+
+“So long,” said Béchoux, and made for the door.
+
+“To our next merry meeting,” answered Barnett.
+
+Béchoux took his leave, delighted, indeed, but at loggerheads with his
+conscience and firmly resolved to shun Barnett’s society henceforward.
+
+As he turned the corner of the rue Laborde he noticed the pretty typist
+from the Invalides hurrying along. Doubtless she was the lady Barnett
+was expecting!
+
+And, a couple of days later, Béchoux saw Barnett at the cinema,
+accompanied by the equally charming Mademoiselle Haveline, who played
+upon the flute....
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+VII
+
+THE BRIDGE THAT BROKE
+
+
+It was a Tuesday afternoon in midsummer. Paris was deserted—a city of
+the dead. Jim Barnett sat in his office with his feet on his desk. He
+was in his shirt-sleeves. A glass of lager beer stood at his elbow. A
+green blind shut out the blazing sun. To the prejudiced eye, Barnett’s
+appearance would have suggested slumber, and this impression would have
+been strengthened by his rather loud and rhythmical breathing.
+
+A sharp tap on his door made him bring his feet down with a jerk and
+sit bolt upright.
+
+“No! It can’t be! The heat must be affecting my eyesight.” Barnett
+affected elaborate astonishment.
+
+Inspector Béchoux, for it was he, closed the door behind him and
+observed with some distaste his friend’s state of déshabillé. It was a
+fad with Béchoux to present at all times a perfectly groomed
+appearance. On this sweltering day he was cool and immaculate, not a
+hair out of place.
+
+“How do you do it?” Barnett demanded, sinking back wearily into his
+chair.
+
+“Do what?”
+
+“Look like a fashion-plate off the ice. Damned superior, I call it!”
+
+Béchoux smiled with conscious pride.
+
+“It’s quite simple,” he remarked modestly.
+
+“But I take it the case you are working on is not quite so simple, or
+you wouldn’t be coming to the enemy camp for assistance, eh Béchoux?”
+
+Béchoux reddened. It was a very sore point with him that in his
+difficulties he had several times been forced to accept Jim Barnett’s
+help. For Barnett was helpful—almost uncannily so. The trouble was that
+he always managed to help himself as well as others. But Béchoux felt
+profoundly grateful to Barnett for having retrieved these African
+shares—his precious Twelve Little Nigger Boys.
+
+“What is it this time? I’ve all day to spare—and to-morrow—and the day
+after. The Barnett Agency doesn’t get many clients at this time of
+year, though it does guarantee ‘Information Free.’ I hear that they
+can’t even get deadheads to go to the theatres—pouf!”
+
+“How would you like a trip into the country?”
+
+“Béchoux, you are a blessing, albeit heavily disguised. What is the
+case, though?”
+
+Inspector Béchoux grimaced involuntarily.
+
+“It’s a real mystery—the sudden death of the famous scientist,
+Professor Saint-Prix.”
+
+“I know the name, but I haven’t read about his death in the papers. Has
+he been murdered?”
+
+Inspector Béchoux’s countenance took on a sphinx-like expression.
+
+“That’s what I want you to help me to determine. I have my car at a
+garage near here. Pack a bag and come right along. I’ll tell you the
+facts of the case as we go.”
+
+Reluctantly Barnett got up, drained the last of his beer, and made his
+simple preparations for the trip.
+
+A quarter of an hour later they were spinning out of Paris in Inspector
+Béchoux’s little two-seater.
+
+“I was called in on the case,” said Béchoux, “by Doctor Desportes of
+Beauvray—an old friend. He rang up on Monday morning to say there was
+going to be an inquest at Beauvray—Professor Saint-Prix, the scientist,
+had been killed by falling into the stream at the bottom of his
+garden.”
+
+“Nothing very mysterious in that.”
+
+“Ah, but wait. The professor was crossing the stream by a plank bridge,
+and that bridge gave way under him and precipitated the old man into
+the water. His head hit a sharp rock and he was killed
+instantaneously.”
+
+“Was the bridge rotten, then?”
+
+Inspector Béchoux shook his head.
+
+“My doctor friend informed me that though the police had not been
+called in, they would have to be. The bridge was perfectly sound,
+but—it had been sawed through!”
+
+Barnett whistled.
+
+“And so you went to Beauvray at once?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“And what did you find?”
+
+“A queer situation. The professor had a little house where he lived
+with his daughter, Thérèse Saint-Prix. Joined on to the house was a
+very fine laboratory. The garden sloped down, first a lawn and then a
+dense shrubbery, to a stream, sunk deep between rocky banks. A stout
+plank bridge was the means of crossing from the Saint-Prix garden to
+the adjoining property of the Villa Eméraude, the home of a married
+couple, the Lenormands.
+
+“Louis Lenormand is a young stockbroker. His wife, Cécile, is a
+delicate, beautiful girl. Last Sunday afternoon, Madame Lenormand was
+going to have tea with Thérèse Saint-Prix. Louis Lenormand was spending
+the week-end in Paris with his invalid mother, but was expected back
+that night.
+
+“Madame Lenormand went through the garden of the Villa Eméraude down to
+the stream. When she got there, she pulled up short and gave a cry of
+horror! The plank bridge was broken, and in the water lay the body of
+Professor Saint-Prix. She rushed back to the house for help, and then
+fainted.”
+
+“Well, where do I come in?”
+
+“Almost as soon as they had got Madame Lenormand to bed, and were
+breaking the news of her father’s death to Thérèse Saint-Prix, Louis
+Lenormand arrived in his car, driving like a fury. He was pale and
+trembling. The first words he spoke were: ‘Am I in time? Tell me—tell
+me. My God, I’ve been a fool!’ He was like a madman and rushed upstairs
+to his wife’s room without waiting for an answer from the astonished
+servants. His wife’s maid told him what had happened. At first he did
+not seem to understand. Then he stole to his wife’s bedside and kissed
+her hands passionately, weeping and murmuring, ‘Cécile, I am a
+murderer.’”
+
+“Still I confess I don’t understand. You have your murder—you have your
+murderer, self-confessed. What more do you want?”
+
+“Well, the thing is this. We checked up on Louis Lenormand’s movements
+while he was away from Beauvray. We know that the bridge was perfectly
+safe on the Saturday morning, for a gardener crossed by it. Now all
+Saturday afternoon Lenormand spent at his mother’s bedside. He sat with
+her again after dinner until eleven o’clock, and then turned into bed
+himself. Old Madame Lenormand’s maid and cook heard him kicking off his
+shoes in the room next to theirs. And the maid swears that in the small
+hours she heard him switch off his light, so she supposes he must have
+been lying awake reading. All Sunday morning he did not stir out, so it
+is out of the question that he could possibly have sawed through the
+bridge between the gardens at Beauvray.”
+
+“What made you establish such a thorough alibi for your suspect?”
+
+“Madame Lenormand, though still weak from the shock, has recovered
+consciousness. Her belief in her husband’s innocence is absolute. Her
+one aim is to clear him. She insisted on these investigations being
+made. He will not say a word in his own defence. It’s all very
+mystifying.”
+
+“You say that Louis Lenormand was not expected back until Sunday
+evening. Do you know why he left Paris so much earlier?”
+
+“That,” said Béchoux, “is a curious point. Apparently he was alone in
+one of the rooms in his mother’s flat, reading a book while the old
+lady had a nap after her lunch. The servants were both in the kitchen,
+and testify that suddenly, at about three o’clock, he rushed into them
+and said he was going home at once but would not disturb his mother to
+say good-bye.”
+
+“And the motive? What reason could Louis Lenormand have to murder his
+neighbor?”
+
+Inspector Béchoux shrugged his shoulders.
+
+“I have an idea, and Doctor Desportes is making some investigations on
+my behalf.”
+
+“Is there no one else who comes under suspicion? What about Madame
+Lenormand?”
+
+Inspector Béchoux was silent. The car swung off the main road up a
+shady avenue. They turned into the drive of the Villa Eméraude. They
+were met outside the house by Doctor Desportes, who announced:
+
+“The Beauvray police have arrested Monsieur Lenormand, but I have been
+busy on the telephone to headquarters, and you are now officially in
+charge of the case.”
+
+“But his alibi—he was in Paris all the time—he could not have sawed
+through the bridge!”
+
+The doctor looked grave.
+
+“Monsieur Lenormand had a latch-key to his mother’s flat. The Paris
+police have inquired at the garage where he kept his car and they find
+that he took it out shortly after midnight and told a mechanic that he
+was unable to sleep because of the heat, and was going to try and get a
+breath of air in the Bois. He returned after two in the morning.”
+
+“Which,” observed Barnett, “gave him plenty of time to drive out here,
+saw through the bridge and get back to Paris. And what the maid heard
+was Monsieur Lenormand switching off his light when he really went to
+bed at last. Both servants must have been asleep when he slipped out of
+the flat.”
+
+The doctor looked at Barnett in some curiosity, for he spoke in such an
+assured tone and was so obviously no subordinate of Inspector Béchoux.
+
+Barnett smiled and bowed easily.
+
+“Allow me to remedy my friend Béchoux’s deplorable lack of manners. Jim
+Barnett, at your service, doctor.”
+
+“A friend of mine, who has helped me on more than one occasion,” said
+Béchoux, not so easily. “Come, doctor, what news have you for me after
+your confidential interview with the bank manager at Beauvray?”
+
+“Poor Monsieur Lenormand.” The doctor shook his head sadly. “I wish it
+had been a policeman who had found it out. But justice cannot be
+cheated. I have established that for the past two years Monsieur
+Lenormand has from time to time paid quite large checks into the
+banking account of Professor Saint-Prix.”
+
+“Blackmail?” Barnett and Béchoux came out with the word simultaneously.
+
+“There we have at last the motive!” cried Béchoux, in purely
+professional triumph. “Monsieur Lenormand must have had a very good
+reason for sawing through that bridge——”
+
+“But he did not do it!”
+
+A young woman, deathly pale, wearing a brilliant Chinese wrap, was
+coming slowly down the stairs into the hall, clutching at the banister
+for support. A maid followed anxiously behind her.
+
+“I repeat,” she said in a voice trembling with suppressed emotion,
+“Louis is innocent!”
+
+“Madame,” said Béchoux, “allow me to present my friend, Jim Barnett.”
+Barnett bowed low. “If anyone can achieve the impossible and establish
+your husband’s innocence, it is he! I admit, however, that I originally
+brought him here because your husband’s alibi upset all my deductions:
+Now that alibi no longer holds, and I have no objection if Barnett
+transfers his assistance to you. Provided”——he grew thoughtful and did
+not finish his sentence.
+
+“Oh,” cried Madame Lenormand, taking Barnett’s hands impulsively in
+hers, “save my husband, and I will give you any reward you care to
+name.”
+
+Barnett shook his head.
+
+“I ask no reward, madame, beyond the privilege of serving you. Never
+shall it be said that the Barnett Agency descended to base
+commercialism in accepting a fee for its labors.”
+
+At this point a gendarme came running in from the garden with a pair of
+rubber boots.
+
+“Where did you find those?” asked Béchoux.
+
+“In a garden shed at the back of the grounds of the Villa.”
+
+The boots were covered with fresh mud. In this sweltering weather the
+only moisture on the ground would be along the channel of the stream.
+Cécile Lenormand gave a sharp exclamation.
+
+“Your husband’s?”
+
+She nodded reluctantly.
+
+“Well,” said Barnett, “let’s go and have a look at the stream—and we
+ought to take those with us. À bientôt, madame.”
+
+Béchoux and Barnett, accompanied by the doctor and the gendarme, walked
+through the garden and down to the stream. The water was running
+swiftly over the rocks below.
+
+Béchoux looked unwillingly at the muddy foothold below the broken
+bridge, and then at his shining new patent leather shoes topped by
+snowy spats.
+
+“I’ll do it!” cried Barnett gallantly, and, seizing a boot from
+Béchoux, he leapt down, so that he sank ankle-deep in the mud beside
+the torrent.
+
+“Are there any marks?” asked the doctor eagerly.
+
+“Yes,” said Barnett. “And they were made by these boots!”
+
+“A clear case!” said Béchoux. “I need never have brought you along,
+Barnett, and I’m afraid it’s no use your transferring your services to
+Madame Lenormand. Really, I think you’d better hop back to Paris.”
+
+“My dear Béchoux!” said Barnett in tones of shocked surprise. “Go off
+and leave a client in the lurch? Do you imagine the Barnett Agency
+shirks what appears to be a losing case?”
+
+“Then you definitely regard Madame Lenormand as your client?”
+
+“Why not?”
+
+He handed up the boot and grovelled a few minutes longer in the mud.
+Then he clambered up again, somewhat apoplectic of countenance.
+
+“Now,” he said briskly, “suppose we visit Mademoiselle Saint-Prix and
+inspect both the properties prior to consuming beef and wine at the
+village inn.”
+
+“What good can that do? I have my case.”
+
+“And I have my own way of working. If you prefer it, I will pursue my
+course quite independently on behalf of Madame Lenormand, and you
+needn’t see me again until I, too, have my case.”
+
+But this course Béchoux viewed with some apprehension, so he and
+Barnett made their way round by the road to the Saint-Prix house.
+
+On the way there Barnett solemnly handed Béchoux a very grubby sealed
+envelope.
+
+“Will you please keep that carefully for me?” he said, “and don’t let
+it out of your inner pocket until I ask for it.”
+
+“What is it?”
+
+Barnett smiled mysteriously and laid a finger to his nose.
+
+“A valuable diamond, old horse!”
+
+“Idiot!”
+
+At this point, they had arrived at the late professor’s house. Here all
+the blinds were drawn. Barnett observed that the paint was peeling off
+the walls, and the matting in the passage was worn and old. A
+down-at-heel servant girl showed them into a small boudoir where they
+were received by Thérèse Saint-Prix.
+
+She was quite a young woman—a girl in years, but strikingly poised and
+mature in bearing and appearance, tall and supple. She wore black, with
+no ornament of any kind. Her smooth black hair, parted in the middle,
+was drawn off her ears into a knot low on her neck. Her grave, dark
+eyes searched the faces of the two men—she had already met Béchoux and
+presumed Barnett to be an assistant.
+
+She sat, very pale, though calm, in a high-backed, carved chair. Only
+her strong white hands strained at her handkerchief as if there alone
+her grief found outlet.
+
+Barnett bowed low.
+
+“Accept my profound sympathy, mademoiselle,” he murmured. “Your
+father’s death will be felt by all France!”
+
+“Yes,” the girl said, in a low voice. “Five years ago he discovered the
+antiseptic which is now used in every hospital. That brought him
+renown, though it did not mend our fortunes when we lost our money in
+Russia.” She gave a pathetic little smile.
+
+“How was that?”
+
+“My father was half Russian. He invested everything in his brother’s
+oil-wells near St. Petersburg. Revolutionaries burned the factory and
+murdered my uncle. After that loss, we lived very modestly. But even in
+poverty my father was generous. And he would take no money for his
+discovery. He said his reward was to have been able to help in the
+great war against disease. When my father died, however, he was on the
+verge of completing another discovery of a different kind—one that
+would have brought him wealth as well as fame.”
+
+“What was this discovery?”
+
+“A secret process which would have revolutionized the dye industry. But
+I know scarcely anything about it—my father was secretive in some
+matters and would not let me help him in his experiments.” Again she
+smiled sadly. “I could only be his housekeeper, never his assistant.
+And my chief occupation was to interest myself in the garden. Cécile
+and I used to spend hours planning our flower-beds. She was always so
+kind, helping me with gifts of plants. She was coming to tea on that
+afternoon, you know, to advise me about some fruit-trees. Poor Cécile!
+What will she do?”
+
+“You are aware, mademoiselle,” said Béchoux, rather stiffly, as if to
+recall his presence to her consciousness, “that Louis Lenormand is
+under arrest? The case is practically complete against him.”
+
+She nodded.
+
+“What made Louis Lenormand do such a thing? Can you imagine?” Barnett
+asked abruptly.
+
+“If he did it,” said Thérèse gently. “We must remember that nothing is
+proved yet.”
+
+“But what reason can he have had? Well off, prosperous, married to a
+charming wife——”
+
+“Against the wishes of her family,” interposed the girl. “Louis
+Lenormand was a penniless clerk, and it was by speculating with his
+wife’s money that he became rich. The family all thought that was why
+he wanted to marry her, though, of course, it was untrue. And Cécile
+was passionately fond of her husband—she grudged every minute he spent
+elsewhere. Indeed, I used to wonder if she was not a little jealous of
+the time he spent with my father in the laboratory. I wondered, too, if
+she minded his helping my father occasionally with loans of money. But
+I do wrong if I suggest that Cécile is not all that is generous. Only,
+where her husband is concerned, if you understand, I have often
+wondered if she can be quite normal.”
+
+Barnett looked distinctly interested, though Béchoux was obviously
+bored.
+
+“Mademoiselle,” said Barnett, “I have a favor to ask of you. May I see
+the laboratory in which your father worked?”
+
+Without another word she led the way down a passage and through a baize
+door, which opened into the airy, white building.
+
+The laboratory was in contrast to the house itself. Here all was new
+and spotless. Phials were ranged in orderly rows along the shelves;
+clean vessels sparkled on the benches. In all this dazzling whiteness
+there was but one dark patch—a muddy coat trailing from a stool.
+
+“What’s that?” asked Barnett.
+
+“My poor father’s coat,” said Thérèse. “They carried him in here and
+removed his coat when they were trying to restore life. But he must
+have been killed instantaneously.”
+
+“And these are all his chemicals?” Barnett indicated the gleaming
+phials.
+
+“Yes—to think he will never use them again!” She averted her head
+slightly. “Ah, how my father loved this place; and so, I always
+thought, did Louis Lenormand. Cécile did not, but that was because she
+did not understand. She loved flowers, everything beautiful; but
+science she thought ugly and repellent. Why, I have seen her shake her
+fist at the laboratory windows when my father and her husband were
+talking there together.”
+
+“Well, mademoiselle, I thank you very much for being so helpful to us
+in what must be painful and terrible circumstances so far as you are
+concerned. And I won’t hide from you that I have already made one
+little discovery.”
+
+“What’s that?” demanded Béchoux.
+
+“Aha, I thought you would want to know. Well, it is that I am on the
+track of the motive for the murder. You have the murderer; I shall soon
+have the motive. And there we are!”
+
+Then, hastily dissembling his cheerfulness, he took a dignified
+farewell of Thérèse Saint-Prix, and departed with Béchoux.
+
+At the garden gate they were met by the doctor and the gendarme.
+
+“We’ve been waiting for you,” the former observed. “We have found the
+instrument of the crime.”
+
+The gendarme held up a medium-sized saw.
+
+“Where did you find it?” asked Béchoux eagerly.
+
+“Among some laurel bushes, near the tool-shed where the boots were
+discovered.”
+
+“See,” cried Béchoux, turning eagerly to Barnett, “it is plainly
+marked, ‘Villa Eméraude.’”
+
+“Very interesting,” observed Barnett. “Béchoux, I feel your case is
+becoming ever clearer. I almost wish I had never left Paris; it’s just
+as hot here. In fact, I am getting distinctly warm. What about a drink
+at the local hostelry? I hope you will join us, doctor?” He beamed a
+comprehensive invitation.
+
+“I shall be delighted to join you and your colleague,” answered the
+doctor.
+
+At the word “colleague,” Béchoux smiled wryly. He was wishing pretty
+heartily that he had never brought Barnett into the case.
+
+
+
+The sultry, airless evening was followed by a night of storm, but
+Barnett slept through the thunderclaps. The next day dawned clear and
+much cooler.
+
+Béchoux informed his friend that Louis Lenormand was to be examined by
+the magistrate up at the Saint-Prix house that afternoon.
+
+“I am going to complete the necessary formalities this morning,” he
+announced, sipping his coffee. After a moment he continued, “Won’t you
+change your mind and pop back to Paris?”
+
+“I’m sorry my society bores you so badly,” said Barnett sorrowfully,
+and sought solace in a third cup of chocolate.
+
+“Oh, very well!” Béchoux was inclined to be huffy. He left the inn, and
+Barnett attacked another soft boiled egg.
+
+When he had finished his breakfast, Jim Barnett spruced himself up and
+made his way to the Villa Eméraude. Madame Lenormand received him in
+her sitting-room, and for over an hour he remained talking with her.
+Towards the end of the interview they moved into Louis Lenormand’s
+study, and Béchoux, coming up the drive, could see through the open
+window Barnett and Cécile Lenormand bending over an open desk together.
+
+Barnett came out into the hall and greeted his friend as if the Villa
+Eméraude was his own ancestral hall.
+
+“Welcome, welcome, Béchoux. But I’m afraid you can’t see Madame
+Lenormand. She’s feeling overtired already—a little hysterical—and she
+must rest in view of her ordeal this afternoon. A charming woman; in
+many ways a delightful woman——” He did not finish, but paused
+thoughtfully.
+
+Béchoux grunted. “I came up to find you,” he said, “to tell you a bit
+of news.”
+
+“What’s that?”
+
+“We searched Louis Lenormand, and found on him a note-book in which he
+made entries of payments made by him during the past six months or so.
+One of these, dated three weeks ago, was for five thousand francs, paid
+to ‘S,’ and against it was written ‘The last payment.’ Investigation
+has shown that this amount was paid to Professor Saint-Prix. The case
+is pretty black against Lenormand, Barnett, and I really should advise
+you to quit now.”
+
+But all Barnett answered was:
+
+“I’m ready for a spot of lunch. Are you?”
+
+The inquiry began at three o’clock. It was held in the narrow
+dining-room of the Saint-Prix house. Louis Lenormand sat at one end,
+between two gendarmes, never raising his eyes from the ground. The
+magistrates and Béchoux conferred together in low tones. Doctor
+Desportes gazed thoughtfully out of the window.
+
+Barnett ushered in Madame Lenormand. She was very pale and leaned on
+his arm for support. She took her seat in a low chair, looking all
+around her with quick, nervous glances. Her husband seemed not to
+observe her, so sunken was he in dejection.
+
+Then Thérèse Saint-Prix entered the room. Her presence was like a
+calming influence. She went over to Cécile Lenormand and laid a
+compassionate hand on her shoulder, but the other started away
+violently.
+
+Almost immediately the examining magistrate began. He took the medical
+evidence, which Doctor Desportes gave in even, colorless tones, clearly
+establishing that the professor had been killed through his fall into
+the stream.
+
+After this came the questioning of Louis Lenormand.
+
+“Did you take your car out late on Sunday night from the Paris garage?”
+
+“I did.”
+
+“Where did you drive?”
+
+The prisoner was silent.
+
+“Answer me!”
+
+“I really forget.”
+
+Béchoux gave Barnett a significant look.
+
+“Did you pay Professor Saint-Prix large sums of money from time to
+time?”
+
+“I did.”
+
+“For what reason?”
+
+Louis Lenormand hesitated, and then replied haltingly:
+
+“To assist him in his researches.”
+
+Béchoux’s pitying contempt was unmistakable.
+
+A small note-book was produced.
+
+“This is yours?”
+
+The prisoner assented.
+
+“Here you have entered various payments made by you. There is one of
+five thousand francs dated a month ago which says: ‘S. The last
+payment.’ Was that a check paid to Professor Saint-Prix?”
+
+“It was.”
+
+“Won’t you tell us why you were being—blackmailed? Perhaps the
+circumstances——” The magistrate seemed anxious to give Lenormand a
+chance to defend himself.
+
+“I have nothing to say.”
+
+“Is it a fact that Professor Saint-Prix was in the habit of coming to
+your house for a game of chess on Sunday afternoons?”
+
+“Yes,” said the young man sullenly.
+
+“Did you saw through the bridge?”
+
+The prisoner was silent.
+
+“You do not deny that these are your boots?” Béchoux produced them. The
+prisoner looked slightly startled but made no protest.
+
+“I submit,” said Béchoux, “that the case is clear.”
+
+“Yes, indeed,” said Barnett, “there never was a clearer. As clear as
+crystal—as a diamond—Béchoux, won’t you produce that little envelope I
+entrusted to your care?”
+
+With a premonition of disaster, Béchoux extracted the rather grubby
+envelope from his inner pocket.
+
+“Open it!” commanded Barnett.
+
+He did so, and held up—a diamond earring!
+
+Cécile Lenormand gave a little gasp. Her husband started up and then
+sank back into his chair.
+
+“Can anyone identify this little exhibit of jewelry?” Barnett asked the
+assembly.
+
+Doctor Desportes looked intensely worried. Poor man, his quiet life was
+being rudely disturbed!
+
+“Those earrings——” He paused. “They were given to Madame Lenormand by
+her husband not very long ago!”
+
+“Is that so?” Béchoux asked of Louis Lenormand.
+
+The latter nodded.
+
+Cécile had bowed her head in her hands. Thérèse reached out a pitying
+hand to her, but she shook it off wildly.
+
+“You have seen these earrings,” pursued Barnett, “but you can’t guess
+where I found one of them. Inspector Béchoux will tell you, though. In
+the mud by the stream, at the point where the body of Professor
+Saint-Prix was found lying dead!”
+
+“Can you tell us, madame,” inquired the magistrate of Cécile Lenormand,
+“whether you were wearing those earrings on Sunday afternoon?”
+
+Looking up, the young woman shook her head.
+
+“I can’t—remember—when I last wore them!” she said in a confused
+manner.
+
+“You must forgive my asking you, madame, but you must tell us now
+whether you left the Villa at any time during Saturday night.”
+
+There was the merest hint of menace in the smooth tones. Louis
+Lenormand’s mouth twitched painfully.
+
+“I—I——” She looked from one face to another of those gathered in the
+room. “Why, I believe I did. It was so hot.... I went out into the
+garden for a little....”
+
+“Was this before you retired for the night?”
+
+“Yes—no—not exactly. I had gone to my room, but I had not undressed. I
+had told my maid to go to bed. Then I felt oppressed by the heat and
+went out into the garden through the French window of my boudoir.”
+
+“So that no one heard you come or go?”
+
+“No one, monsieur.”
+
+“And, on Sunday afternoon, you were going to tea with Mademoiselle
+Saint-Prix?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“At four o’clock?”
+
+“That’s so——”
+
+Thérèse Saint-Prix’s voice here interrupted gently, like a low-toned
+bell.
+
+“Don’t you remember, Cécile, the arrangement was that you should come
+over soon after three to me, but that if you did not arrive by four, I
+was to come up to the Villa? Why, I was just getting ready to come
+when—when it happened. You see,” she turned to address the magistrate,
+“we were going to make gardening plans together, but just lately Cécile
+hasn’t been feeling too well, and she thought it possible that she
+might not feel up to walking about the garden in the hot sun. So I was
+quite prepared for her to stay resting in her boudoir that afternoon,
+and then we would have had tea together there.”
+
+“Is that true, madame?” asked the magistrate of Cécile Lenormand.
+
+“I—I can’t remember. Perhaps that was the arrangement.”
+
+“But—but——” Béchoux was stammering under the force of his discovery—“if
+you, mademoiselle, had been just a few minutes quicker in getting ready
+to go up to the Villa, you might yourself have been killed!”
+
+“The question that presents itself,” said Barnett, in a level voice,
+“is—for whom was the trap laid? Did Louis Lenormand lay it to kill
+Professor Saint-Prix? We must remember that the old professor was
+absent-minded, and was in the custom of going to play chess with his
+neighbor on Sunday afternoon. Or, was the attack directed by Louis
+Lenormand against his own wife? Or against Mademoiselle Saint-Prix?”
+
+“Or,” said Béchoux, annoyed to find Barnett calmly taking the floor,
+“did Madame Lenormand saw through the bridge because she guessed
+Professor Saint-Prix would be coming that way? Remember what
+Mademoiselle Saint-Prix has told us——”
+
+Thérèse Saint-Prix was covered with confusion.
+
+“I never meant you to take it that way,” she cried.
+
+“Why, I only said Cécile sometimes appeared a little jealous of her
+husband’s intimacy with my poor father. But that was nothing! Poor
+darling, she was always jealous where Louis—Monsieur Lenormand—was
+concerned. Why, she even at one time——” She broke off and was silent.
+
+“She even what, mademoiselle?” asked the magistrate.
+
+“Oh, it’s too silly. But at one time I used to wonder if she were not a
+little jealous of me! I was giving Monsieur Lenormand lessons in
+Russian—a language he was eager to learn—and so we were naturally
+together a good deal. I even wondered if Cécile could be—could be
+spying on us—she seemed so queer. But please don’t misunderstand me,
+I’m not suggesting a thing against her.”
+
+“But mademoiselle is right,” said Barnett gravely. “Madame Lenormand
+had the most odd ideas concerning her husband and mademoiselle—almost
+unbelievable. She imagined—I ask you!—that Mademoiselle Saint-Prix had
+almost forced Monsieur Lenormand into having Russian lessons, in the
+hope that she might thereby succeed in teaching him something besides
+Russian! She had the absurd hallucination that she once saw her husband
+kissing you, mademoiselle, in the little summer-house at the bottom of
+the garden. And yet, and this is the most unbelievable part of all, she
+never really doubted her husband—she believed that, like so many men,
+he was capable of being superficially attracted without being guilty of
+any serious infidelity. A trusting woman, one would say. But her
+clemency hardly extended to her supposed rival.
+
+“Now, on Sunday afternoon a woman telephoned from Beauvray to Louis
+Lenormand at his mother’s flat and told him something terrible—so
+terrible, in fact, as to bring him racing home in his car to try and
+avert disaster. But he was too late. The tragedy had occurred. Only, it
+was something quite different from what he had feared! To-day you have
+before you a woman telling a vague, unsubstantiated story of having
+wandered about on Saturday night in her garden—of having, perhaps,
+asked her friend to come to tea instead of going to tea with her. And,
+on the other hand, you must picture to yourselves a woman mad with
+jealousy and fury—a woman telephoning in words of ice-cold rage—‘She
+shall no longer come between us—she and she alone is the obstacle to
+our love—it is because of her that you have turned a deaf ear to my
+entreaties, but soon, soon the obstacle will be removed!’
+
+“Gentlemen, which story are you going to believe?”
+
+“There can be but one answer to that,” observed the magistrate, “if you
+have proof of what you say. And much is explained if Cécile Lenormand
+did indeed telephone to her husband in Paris that afternoon!”
+
+“Did I say that Cécile Lenormand telephoned?” asked Barnett, looking
+most surprised. “But that would be quite contrary to my own belief—and
+to the truth!”
+
+“Then what on earth do you mean?”
+
+“Exactly what I say. The telephone call from Beauvray to Paris was made
+by a woman maddened by jealousy and frustration, by a desire to
+annihilate her rival in Louis Lenormand’s affections——”
+
+“But that woman is Cécile Lenormand.”
+
+“Not a bit of it! I can assure you she had nothing whatever to do with
+the telephone call.”
+
+“Then whom are you accusing?”
+
+“The other woman!”
+
+“But there were only two—Cécile Lenormand and Thérèse Saint-Prix.”
+
+“Precisely, and since I am not accusing Cécile Lenormand, that means
+that I do accuse....”
+
+Barnett left the sentence unfinished. There was a horrified silence.
+Here was a direct and totally unforeseen accusation! Thérèse
+Saint-Prix, who was at this moment standing near the window, hesitated
+for a long moment, pale and trembling. Suddenly she sprang over the low
+balcony and down into the garden.
+
+The doctor and a gendarme made to pursue her, but found themselves in
+collision with Barnett, who was barring the way. The gendarme protested
+hotly:
+
+“But we shall have her escaping!”
+
+“I think not,” said Barnett.
+
+“You’re right,” said the doctor, appalled, “but I fear something
+else—something ghastly!... Yes, look, look! She’s running towards the
+stream ... towards the bridge where her father was killed.”
+
+“What next?” came from Barnett with terrible calm.
+
+He stood aside. The doctor and the gendarme were out of the window like
+lightning, and he closed it behind them. Then, turning to the
+magistrate, he said:
+
+“Do you understand the whole business now, monsieur? Is it quite clear
+to you? It was Thérèse Saint-Prix who, after trying vainly to rouse the
+passion of Louis Lenormand beyond the passing fancy of a
+flirtation—Thérèse Saint-Prix who, starved for years of all enjoyment
+and luxury, was suddenly blinded by hatred of Cécile Lenormand. She was
+too proud to believe that Louis Lenormand genuinely did not want her
+love and was devoted to his wife. She thought that if once Cécile
+Lenormand were out of the way, she would come into her own. So she
+planned the appalling, cold-blooded murder of her rival, and—compassed
+the death of her own father! In the night she sawed through the
+bridge—there was no one to see her. So blinded was she by her passions
+that next day, just before the tragedy would occur, she telephoned to
+Louis Lenormand to tell him what she had done.
+
+“Confronted by the utterly unexpected result of her strategy, she
+immediately planned to throw the guilt on to Cécile Lenormand and so at
+one stroke save herself and get her rival out of the way. It was with
+this in view that she stole one of Cécile’s earrings and dropped it on
+Sunday night into the ditch, and then told her tale of Cécile having
+been jealous of the old professor. Then, here in this room, she was
+struck with a more plausible idea altogether—she tried to get us all to
+believe that the bridge had been sawed through with the object of
+killing her and not her father at all!”
+
+“How do you account for the boots and the saw?” asked the magistrate.
+
+“The Lenormands and the Saint-Prix shared a tool-shed, their garden
+implements were used in common.”
+
+“How do you know all about Thérèse Saint-Prix?” asked Lenormand,
+speaking for the first time.
+
+“I helped him to find out,” said Cécile swiftly. “My dear, I realized
+all along how you were placed in the matter, but my pride kept me from
+speaking to you. I was afraid you would think I was being jealous, and
+trying to find something to throw in your face because my parents tried
+to prevent our marriage.”
+
+“Then you forgive me?”
+
+For answer she ran across the room to her husband, and her arms went
+round his neck.
+
+“But,” objected the magistrate, “that entry in the note-book of ‘the
+last payment’—what did that mean?”
+
+“Merely,” said Barnett, “that Professor Saint-Prix had told Louis
+Lenormand that this was the last loan he would need, as his discovery
+was on the verge of completion.”
+
+“And that discovery——”
+
+“Was something which would have revolutionized the dye industry.
+Doubtless he was going eagerly up to the Villa Eméraude to show it to
+his friend, and the stream washed it out of his dying grasp. What a
+loss!”
+
+“And where did Monsieur Lenormand drive that night?”
+
+“He shall tell us himself.”
+
+“I drove,” said the erstwhile prisoner, “into the country a little way.
+I honestly could not say exactly where. I did so because it was very
+hot and I couldn’t sleep. But no one could prove the truth of what I
+say.”
+
+At this point the gendarme came back, rather pale.
+
+Barnett signed to him to speak.
+
+“She is dead!” he faltered. “She threw herself down—there, where the
+professor was killed! The doctor sent me to tell you.”
+
+The magistrate looked grave.
+
+“Perhaps, after all, it is for the best,” he said. “But for you,
+monsieur,” he turned to Barnett, “there might have been a grave
+miscarriage of justice.”
+
+Béchoux stood awkwardly silent.
+
+“Come, Béchoux,” said Barnett, clapping him on the shoulder, “let’s be
+off and pack our things. I want to be back in the rue Laborde
+to-night.”
+
+“Well,” said Béchoux when they were alone together again, “I admit that
+I do not see how you reconstructed the case so quickly.”
+
+“Quite simple, my dear Béchoux—like all my little coups. What faith
+that woman had in her husband!”
+
+For a moment he was silent in admiration of his client.
+
+“Still,” said Béchoux, “brilliant as you were, I fail to see where you
+get anything out of this for yourself!”
+
+Barnett’s gaze grew dreamy.
+
+“That was a beautiful laboratory of the professor’s,” he said. “By the
+way, Béchoux, do you happen to know the address of the biggest dye
+concern in the country? I may be paying them a call in the near
+future!”
+
+Béchoux gave a curious gasp, rather like a slowly expiring balloon.
+
+“Done me again!” he breathed. “Stolen the paper—the formula of the
+secret process....”
+
+Jim Barnett was moved to injured protest.
+
+“Dear old chap,” he observed, “when it’s a question of rendering a
+service to one’s fellow-men and to one’s country, what you designate as
+theft becomes the sheerest heroism. It is the highest manifestation of
+duty’s sacred fire, blazing within the breast of mere man.” He thumped
+himself significantly on the chest. “And personally, when duty calls,
+you will always find me ready, aye ready. Got that, Béchoux?”
+
+But Béchoux was sunk in gloom.
+
+“I wonder,” Barnett mused, “what they will call the new process? I
+think a suitable name might be—but there, I won’t bore you with my
+reflections, Béchoux. Only I can’t help feeling it would be rather
+touching to take out a patent in the name of—Lupin!”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+VIII
+
+THE FATAL MIRACLE
+
+
+Shortly after the suicide of Thérèse Saint-Prix, Inspector Béchoux,
+primed with official information, was hastily despatched from police
+headquarters on the mission of solving the Old Dungeon mystery. He left
+Paris on an evening train and spent the night at Guéret in central
+France. Next day he took a car on to the village of Mazurech, where his
+first move was to visit the château—a vast, rambling structure, of
+great age, built on a promontory in a loop of the river Creuse. He
+found the owner, Monsieur Georges Cazévon, in residence.
+
+Georges Cazévon was a rich manufacturer of about forty—handsome in a
+florid style, and not without a certain animal attraction. He had a
+bluff, hearty manner which commanded the respect of the neighborhood.
+Thanks to influence, he was chairman of the County Council and a person
+of considerable importance. Since the Old Dungeon was on his estate, he
+was eager to take Béchoux there himself immediately.
+
+They walked across the great park with its fine chestnuts, and came to
+a ruined tower, all that was left of the ancient feudal castle of
+Mazurech. This tower soared skywards right from the bottom of the
+canyon where the Creuse crawled like a wounded snake along its
+rock-strewn bed.
+
+The opposite bank of the river was the property of the d’Alescar
+family, and on it, about forty yards away from where Béchoux stood with
+Cazévon, rose a rubble wall, glistening with moisture and forming a
+kind of dam. Higher up it was surmounted by a shady terrace with a
+balustrade along it, forming the end of a garden alley. It was a wild,
+forlorn spot. Here it was that, on a morning ten days before, the young
+Comte Jean d’Alescar had been found lying dead on a great rock. The
+body apparently had no injuries other than those due to the ghastly
+fall. There was a broken branch hanging down the trunk of one of the
+trees on the terrace. It was easy to reconstruct the tragedy—the young
+Comte had climbed out along the branch, it had snapped beneath his
+weight, and he had fallen into the river. A clear case of death by
+misadventure. There had been no hesitation in bringing in the verdict.
+
+“But what on earth was the young Comte doing climbing that tree?”
+Béchoux wanted to know.
+
+Georges Cazévon was ready with the answer.
+
+“He wanted to get a really close view from above of this dungeon. The
+old castle is the cradle of the d’Alescar family, who lorded it here in
+feudal times.” He added immediately: “I shan’t say anything more,
+inspector. You know that you have been sent here at my urgent request.
+The trouble is that ugly rumors have got about and I am being attacked
+on all sides. That’s got to stop. So please make the fullest
+investigations and question everyone. It is especially important that
+you should call on Mademoiselle d’Alescar, the young Comte’s sister,
+and the last surviving member of the family. Look me up again before
+you leave Mazurech.”
+
+Béchoux went about his work quickly. He explored round the foot of the
+tower and then entered the inner court which was now a mass of fallen
+masonry caused by the collapse of stairs and flooring. He then made his
+way back into Mazurech, picking up stray bits of information from the
+inhabitants. He called on the priest and on the mayor, and lunched at
+the inn.
+
+At two o’clock that afternoon, Béchoux stood in the narrow garden which
+ran down to the terrace and was bisected by a small building of
+farmhouse type, called the Manor—a nondescript structure in bad repair.
+An old servant took his card into Mademoiselle d’Alescar and he was at
+once shown into a low, plainly furnished room where he found the object
+of his call in conversation with a man.
+
+Both rose at his entrance, and, as the man turned towards him, Béchoux
+recognized—Jim Barnett!
+
+“Ah, you’ve come at last!” exclaimed Barnett joyously and held out his
+hand. “When I read in my morning paper that you were cruising
+Creuse-ward I leapt into my car and hastened to the scene of action so
+that I might be ready at your service. In fact, I was here waiting for
+you! Mademoiselle, may I introduce Inspector Béchoux, who has been put
+in charge of the case by headquarters. With Béchoux at the helm you
+need fear nothing. Probably by now he has the whole thing cut and
+dried. Béchoux puts the sleuth in sleuthing—burglars frighten their
+young with tales of Bogey Béchoux. Let him speak for himself!”
+
+But Béchoux uttered not a word. He was flabbergasted. Barnett’s
+presence—the last thing he had either expected or desired—floored him
+completely. It was a case of Barnett morning, noon, and night. Barnett
+popping up like a jack-in-the-box on every possible—and
+impossible—occasion. Every time that fate brought the two together,
+Béchoux found himself perforce submitting to Barnett’s accursed
+coöperation. And where Jim Barnett helped others, he was always careful
+to help himself. His hand went out to his fellow-men, but never drew
+back empty!
+
+In truth, there was little enough Béchoux could say anyway, for he was
+still quite at sea and had found no clue in the Old Dungeon mystery—if
+mystery it should prove.
+
+As he remained silent, Barnett spoke again:
+
+“The position, mademoiselle, is this: Inspector Béchoux, having by this
+time, doubtless, examined the evidence and made up his own mind, is
+here to ask if you will be so kind as to confirm the results of the
+inquiries he has already made. Since we ourselves have only had the
+briefest of conversation so far, would you be good enough to tell us
+all you know about the terrible tragedy which resulted in the death of
+your brother, Comte d’Alescar?”
+
+Elizabeth d’Alescar was a tall girl, classically beautiful, her pallor
+accentuated by her mourning. She kept her face turned away into the
+shadow so that the two men saw only her delicate profile. It was with a
+visible effort that she restrained her grief. She answered without
+hesitation:
+
+“I would rather have said nothing, have accused no one. But since it is
+my painful duty to reveal all I know to you, I am ready to speak.”
+
+It was Barnett who authoritatively usurped the law’s prerogative.
+
+“My friend, Inspector Béchoux, would like to know the exact time at
+which you last saw your brother alive.”
+
+“At ten o’clock at night. We had dined together—our usual light-hearted
+meal. I was very, very fond of Jean; he was several years younger than
+myself, and I had practically brought him up from when he was quite a
+little boy. We were always the best of friends, and happy in each
+other’s company.”
+
+“He went out during the night?”
+
+“He left the house a little before dawn, towards half-past three in the
+morning. Our old servant heard him go.”
+
+“Did you know where he was going?”
+
+“He had told me the day before that he was going to fish from the
+terrace. Fishing was one of his favorite occupations.”
+
+“Then there is nothing you can tell us about the time elapsing between
+half-past three and the discovery of your brother’s body?”
+
+“Yes, there is.” She paused. “At a quarter past six I heard a shot!”
+
+“Oh, yes. Several people heard it. But it’s quite possible it was only
+a poacher.”
+
+“That was what I thought at the time. But somehow I felt anxious, so at
+last I got out of bed and dressed. When I reached the terrace I saw men
+from the village on the opposite bank of the river. They were carrying
+my poor brother up to the grounds of the Château, because it was too
+steep to get the body up the other side.”
+
+“Then you are surely of opinion that the shot could not have been in
+any way connected with what happened to your brother? Otherwise the
+inquest would have revealed a bullet wound, which, of course, it did
+not.”
+
+Seeing Mademoiselle d’Alescar’s hesitation, Barnett pressed home his
+question.
+
+“Won’t you answer me?”
+
+The girl’s hands clenched at her sides.
+
+“Whatever actually happened, I only know that I am perfectly certain in
+my own mind that there is some connection.”
+
+“What makes you think that?”
+
+“Well, to begin with, there is no other possible explanation.”
+
+“An accident....”
+
+She shook her head, smiling sadly.
+
+“Oh, no. Jean was extraordinarily agile, and he had also plenty of good
+sense and caution. He would never have trusted himself to that branch.
+Why, it was obviously much too slender to bear his weight.”
+
+“But you admit that it was broken.”
+
+“There is nothing to prove that it was broken by him and on that
+particular night.”
+
+“Then, mademoiselle, it is your honest belief that a crime has been
+committed?”
+
+She nodded gravely.
+
+“You have even gone so far as to accuse a certain person by name and in
+the presence of witnesses?”
+
+Again she nodded.
+
+“What grounds have you for making this assertion? Is there any definite
+proof pointing to someone’s guilt? That is what Inspector Béchoux is
+anxious to know.”
+
+For a few moments Elizabeth was lost in reflection. They could see that
+it distressed her to recall such dreadful memories. But she made a
+valiant effort and said:
+
+“I will tell you everything. But to do so, I must go back to something
+that happened twenty-four years ago. It was then that my father lost
+all his money in a bank failure. He found himself ruined, but he told
+no one. His creditors were paid. Of course, it was common knowledge
+that he had lost a large part of his fortune, but no one guessed that
+the whole of it had been engulfed. What actually happened was that my
+father threw himself on the mercy of a rich manufacturer in Guéret.
+This man lent him two hundred thousand francs on one condition
+only—that the Château, the estate, and all the Mazurech acres should
+become his property if the loan were not repaid within five years.”
+
+“That manufacturer was Georges Cazévon’s father, wasn’t he?”
+
+“Yes,” she said, a note of hatred in her voice.
+
+“Was he anxious to own the Château?”
+
+“Very anxious indeed. He had tried to buy it several times. Well,
+exactly four years and eleven months later, my father died of cerebral
+congestion. It came on rapidly, and towards the close of his life he
+was obviously troubled and preoccupied with something of which we knew
+nothing. Immediately after his death, Georges Cazévon told us about the
+loan he had made my father, and warned my uncle, who was looking after
+us, that we had just one month in which to discharge our debt. He had
+absolute proof of his claim, such proof as no lawyer could dispute. My
+father left nothing. Jean and I were driven out of our home and were
+taken in by our uncle, who lived in this very house, and was himself
+far from wealthy. He died very soon after, and so did old Monsieur
+Cazévon.”
+
+Béchoux and Barnett had listened to her attentively. Now Barnett spoke
+on behalf of his friend:
+
+“My friend the inspector doesn’t quite see how all this links up with
+the events of the present day.”
+
+Mademoiselle d’Alescar gave Béchoux a glance of slightly contemptuous
+surprise and continued, without answering:
+
+“So Jean and I lived alone here on this little manor, right in front of
+the Dungeon and the Château that had always belonged to our family.
+This caused Jean a sorrow which grew with the years, and intensified as
+his intelligence developed and he grew towards manhood. It grieved and
+hurt him to feel that he had lost his heritage and been driven from
+what he considered his rightful domain. In all his work and play he
+made time to devote whole days to delving in the family archives, and
+reading up our history and genealogy. Then, one day, he found among
+these books a ledger in which our father had kept his accounts during
+the latter years of his life, showing the money he had saved by
+exercising the strictest economy and by several successful real estate
+deals. There were also bank receipts. I went to the bank that had
+issued them and learned that our father, a week before his death, had
+withdrawn his entire deposit—two hundred banknotes of a thousand francs
+each!”
+
+“The exact amount,” said Barnett, “which he was due to pay in a few
+weeks’ time. Then why did he put off paying it?”
+
+“I have no idea.”
+
+“Therefore you think he must have put the money in a safe place
+somewhere?” He paused, and twiddled his monocle thoughtfully.
+“Somewhere—ah, but where?”
+
+Elizabeth d’Alescar produced the ledger of which she had spoken and
+showed it to Barnett and Béchoux.
+
+“It is here that we must look for the answer to that question,” she
+said, turning to the last page, on which was sketched a diagram
+representing three-quarters of a circle, to which was added, at the
+right side, a semicircle of shorter radius. This semicircle was barred
+by four lines, between two of which was a small cross. All the lines in
+the diagram had been drawn first in pencil and then gone over in ink.
+
+“What’s all this mean?” asked Barnett.
+
+“It took us a long time to understand it,” replied Elizabeth. “At last,
+poor Jean guessed one day that the diagram represented an accurate plan
+of the Old Dungeon, reduced to its outside lines. It is on that exact
+plan, on the unequal parts of two circles connected with each other.
+The four lines indicate four embrasures.”
+
+“And the cross,” finished Barnett, “indicates the place where the Comte
+d’Alescar hid his two hundred thousand francs to await the day of
+repayment.”
+
+“Yes,” said the girl, with conviction.
+
+Barnett thought it over, took another look at the map and finally
+remarked:
+
+“It’s quite probable. The Comte d’Alescar would, of course, have been
+sure to take the precaution of leaving some clue to the hiding-place,
+and his sudden death prevented his passing on the secret. But surely,
+all you had to do on finding this was to tell Monsieur Cazévon’s son
+and ask his permission to——”
+
+“To climb to the top of the tower! That is just what we immediately
+did. Georges Cazévon, although we were not on the best of terms with
+him, was quite pleasant about it. But how could any human being get to
+the top of that tower? The stairs had fallen in fifteen years before.
+All the stones are loose. The top is crumbling. No ladder—no ladders
+even—could ever have reached high enough. The Dungeon battlements are
+over ninety feet above the ground. And it was quite out of the question
+to scale the wall. We discussed the whole problem and drew up plans for
+several months, but it all ended in——”
+
+She broke off, blushing hotly.
+
+“A quarrel!” Barnett finished for her. “Georges Cazévon fell in love
+with you and asked you to marry him. You refused him. He tried to force
+you to his will. You broke off all intercourse with him, and Jean
+d’Alescar was no longer allowed to set foot on Mazurech land.”
+
+“That is exactly what did happen,” the girl said. “But my brother would
+not give up. He simply had to have that money. He wanted it to buy back
+part of our estate or to give me a dot which would set me free to marry
+as I chose. Very soon the idea obsessed him. He spent his days in front
+of the tower. He was always staring up at the inaccessible battlements.
+He imagined a thousand schemes for getting up there. He practiced until
+he was a skilled archer, and then, from daybreak, he would stand there
+shooting arrows on long strings, hoping that one of them would fall in
+such a way that a rope could be tied to the string and pulled up to the
+top of the tower. He even had sixty yards of rope all ready for the
+attempt. Everything he tried was hopeless, and his failure plunged him
+into melancholy and despair. On the very day before he died he said to
+me: ‘The only reason I go on trying is that I am certain to succeed in
+the end. Fate will be in my favor. There will be a miracle—I am sure of
+it—a miracle! That is what I pray for and what I confidently expect.’
+Poor Jean, he never had his miracle!”
+
+Barnett put another question.
+
+“Then you believe that his death occurred while he was making yet
+another attempt?”
+
+Seeing that she assented, he continued:
+
+“Is the rope no longer where he kept it?”
+
+“Yes, it is.”
+
+“Then what proof have you?”
+
+“That shot! Georges Cazévon must have caught my brother in his attempt
+and fired.”
+
+“Good God!” cried Barnett. “You believe Georges Cazévon is capable of
+doing such a thing?”
+
+“I do. He is very impulsive. He controls himself as a rule, but he
+might easily be led into violence—or even into crime.”
+
+“But why should he have fired? To rob your brother of the money he had
+recovered?”
+
+“That I cannot say,” said Mademoiselle d’Alescar. “Nor do I know how
+the murder could have been committed, since poor Jean’s dead body
+showed no trace of a bullet wound. But I am absolutely firm in my
+belief.”
+
+“Quite so, but you must admit that your belief is based on intuition
+rather than on the known facts,” observed Barnett. “And I think I ought
+to tell you that in a court of law, intuition is not enough. I’m sure
+Béchoux will agree with me, it’s quite on the cards that Georges
+Cazévon will be so furious at your accusing him that he will sue you
+for libel.”
+
+Mademoiselle d’Alescar rose from her chair.
+
+“That would matter very little to me,” she said. “I have not made this
+accusation to avenge my brother, for to punish the criminal would not
+restore Jean to life. I am merely stating what I believe to be the
+truth. If Georges Cazévon likes to sue me, he is perfectly free to do
+so and my defence will simply be what my conscience moves me to say.”
+
+She was silent for a moment, and then added:
+
+“But you can rely on his keeping quiet, gentlemen. I don’t think there
+is much chance of his bringing any action against me!”
+
+The interview was at an end. Jim Barnett did not attempt to engage the
+girl in further conversation. Mademoiselle d’Alescar knew her own mind,
+and no one would be able to intimidate her or upset her evidence in the
+least.
+
+“Mademoiselle,” said Barnett, “we apologize for this intrusion, but we
+were obliged to trouble you in order to get at the truth of this tragic
+affair. You may be sure Inspector Béchoux will make the right
+deductions from all that you have said and act accordingly.”
+
+He bowed and took his leave. Béchoux bowed likewise, and followed him
+into the courtyard.
+
+Once they were out of the house, the inspector, who had not spoken
+during the interview, continued silent, partly in protest against
+Barnett’s interference in the case, and partly because he was totally
+bewildered by the turn events were taking. His taciturnity only
+encouraged the loquacious Barnett.
+
+“Yes, yes, Béchoux,” he said reflectively, “I can easily understand
+your being puzzled. It’s a matter for deep thought. The lady’s
+statement had a good deal in it, but it was compounded of such a
+mixture of the possible with the impossible, the rational with the
+fantastic, that it needs careful sifting if we are to make use of it.
+For instance, on the face of it, young d’Alescar’s actions seem pure
+fantasy. If the unlucky youth got to the top of the tower—and, contrary
+to your own private belief, I rather think he did get there—then it was
+due to that unimaginable miracle he had hoped and prayed for—a miracle
+whose nature we are as yet unable to conceive.
+
+“The problem we are up against is—how could the boy, within the space
+of two hours, invent a means of climbing the tower, put his scheme into
+execution, and climb down again, only to be hurled into the abyss by a
+bullet ... which did not hit him! That’s the culminating impossibility,
+that he went to his death through a shot which never touched him—that
+seems to me to have been a miracle from hell!”
+
+Barnett and Béchoux met again that evening at the inn, but dined apart.
+During the next two days they only saw each other at mealtimes. Béchoux
+was busy making investigations and inquiries throughout the
+neighborhood. Barnett, like one of the lilies of the field, took root
+on a grassy slope some way beyond the terrace, from which spot he had a
+good view of the Old Dungeon and the river Creuse. He confined his
+activities to fishing, smoking, and reflection. The heart of a mystery
+is to be plucked out by sheer divination rather than by fevered
+probing. So Barnett sat there, angling with his rod for the fish in the
+river, and with his mind for the nature of the miracle with which Fate
+had favored Jean d’Alescar.
+
+On the third day, however, he bestirred himself and went off to Guéret
+in the manner of a man with a definite object. And the day after that
+he ran into Béchoux, who told him that he had now finished his
+investigation.
+
+“So have I,” said Barnett. “If you’re going back to Paris, I’ll give
+you a lift in my car.”
+
+“Thanks,” said Béchoux. “In about half an hour I am going up to see
+Monsieur Cazévon.”
+
+“Right, I’ll meet you at the Château,” said Barnett. “I’m fed to the
+teeth with this place, aren’t you?”
+
+He paid his bill at the inn, and drove to the gates of the Château.
+Leaving his car in the road, he strolled through the park, and when he
+got to the house presented his card. Underneath his own name he had
+written the words: “Working in collaboration with Inspector Béchoux.”
+
+He was shown into a vast hall, which spread over the ground floor of an
+entire wing. Stags’ heads looked down from the walls, which were hung
+with weapons and trophies of every description. Here he was joined by
+Georges Cazévon.
+
+“My colleague, Inspector Béchoux,” said Barnett, “is to meet me here.
+We have been working together on the case, and we are to-day returning
+to Paris.”
+
+“And what opinion has Inspector Béchoux formed as a result of his
+investigation?” asked Georges Cazévon, a shade eagerly.
+
+“Oh, he has definitely made up his mind that there is nothing,
+absolutely nothing to justify any fresh theory of the case. He is
+satisfied that the rumors set afloat are quite groundless.”
+
+“And Mademoiselle d’Alescar?”
+
+Barnett shrugged his shoulders.
+
+“According to Inspector Béchoux her mind is almost unhinged by her
+bereavement, so that no reliance can be placed on anything she says at
+present.”
+
+“And you agree with Inspector Béchoux?”
+
+“I?” Barnett raised his eyes and lowered them, his whole attitude one
+of abject humility. “I am nothing but a humble assistant. I have no
+views of my own at all!”
+
+He began wandering aimlessly about the hall, looking at the glass cases
+full of rifles and shotguns. These exhibits seemed to interest him
+considerably.
+
+“A fine collection, aren’t they?” said Georges Cazévon at his elbow.
+
+“Magnificent!”
+
+“Are you an enthusiast?”
+
+“I have a great admiration for good marksmanship. I see by these cups
+and certificates that you must be a remarkable shot. Let’s
+see—Disciples de Saint Hubert, Creuse Sporting Club—oh, yes, that’s
+what they were telling me about you yesterday when I was in Guéret.”
+
+“Is the case much talked about at Guéret?”
+
+“Oh, very little. But the accuracy of your shooting is proverbial among
+the townsfolk!”
+
+Barnett took up a gun, balancing it casually in his hands.
+
+“Careful!” said Cazévon sharply. “That’s a service rifle. It’s loaded.”
+
+“Really?” observed Barnett with polite interest. “Is that in case of
+burglars?”
+
+Cazévon smiled. “I really keep it handy for poachers. I should never
+shoot to kill, though. A broken leg would be all I should aim for!”
+
+“And would you shoot from one of these windows?”
+
+“Oh, poachers don’t come so close to the Château!”
+
+“That almost seems a pity,” said Barnett thoughtfully, and opened a
+very narrow window—almost a loophole—which shed a ray of light into one
+corner of the hall.
+
+“Fancy that now!” he exclaimed. “Looking through the trees, one can see
+a section of the Old Dungeon—right across the park. Isn’t that the
+portion of the ruin which overlooks the river, Monsieur Cazévon?”
+
+“Just about, I should say.”
+
+“Why, yes, it is!” cried Barnett excitedly. “I recognize that tuft of
+flowers growing between two stones. Isn’t the air wonderfully clear?
+Can you see that yellow flower, looking along the bore?”
+
+He had raised the gun to his shoulder as he spoke, and without
+hesitating a moment, he fired. The yellow flower disappeared, while a
+puff of smoke hung in the still air.
+
+Georges Cazévon made a gesture of annoyance. His displeasure was
+manifest. This “humble assistant” was an incredibly skilled marksman,
+and, anyway, it was cool cheek his letting off a gun like that in the
+house!
+
+“I believe your servants are at the other end of the Château?” said
+Barnett. “Then they won’t have heard the noise I made. But I’m sorry I
+did that—it must have startled Mademoiselle d’Alescar, the sound being
+so painfully associated for her with the memory——” He broke off.
+
+Georges Cazévon smiled sardonically.
+
+“Then does Mademoiselle d’Alescar still believe there is some
+connection between the shot that was heard that morning and her
+brother’s death?”
+
+Barnett nodded.
+
+“I wonder where she got the idea?”
+
+“Where I got it myself a minute ago. It’s a curiously vivid picture—the
+unknown watcher in ambush at this window, while Jean d’Alescar was
+hanging on half-way down the Dungeon wall!”
+
+“But d’Alescar died of a fall!” protested Cazévon.
+
+“Quite so,” said Barnett, with deadly calm, “of a fall. And the reason
+for his fall was, of course, the sudden crumbling of some projection or
+shelf to which he was clinging with both hands at the time!”
+
+Cazévon scowled at the urbane Barnett.
+
+“I didn’t know,” he said, “that Mademoiselle d’Alescar had been so—so
+definite in her statements to people. Why, this constitutes a direct
+accusation!”
+
+“Yes, a—direct—accusation,” repeated Barnett slowly, so that the words
+seemed to hang in the air as the smoke from the gun had done a few
+moments before.
+
+Cazévon stared at him. The calm self-assurance and decisive manner of
+this “humble assistant” rather astonished him. He even began to wonder
+if this detective might not have come to the Château in the rôle of
+aggressor. For the conversation, begun so casually and conventionally,
+was now rapidly turning into an attack on Cazévon himself!
+
+He sat down rather heavily, and asked:
+
+“Why, according to Mademoiselle d’Alescar, was her brother climbing
+that wall?”
+
+“To recover the two hundred thousand francs which the old Comte
+d’Alescar hid in the place which is marked with a cross on the map you
+have been shown.”
+
+“But I never for a moment believed in that yarn,” exclaimed Cazévon.
+“Even presuming that the Comte d’Alescar had managed to raise such a
+sum, why should he have concealed it instead of immediately handing it
+over to my father?”
+
+“Quite a valid objection,” admitted Barnett. “Unless the hidden
+treasure happened not to be a sum of money at all!”
+
+“But what else could it be?”
+
+“That I don’t know. We shall have to use our imaginations a bit.”
+
+Georges Cazévon made a movement of impatience.
+
+“You can be quite sure that Elizabeth d’Alescar and her brother long
+ago exhausted the possible alternatives!”
+
+“How do you know? They are not professionals like myself.”
+
+“Even a hypersensitized intelligence,” sneered Cazévon, “cannot evolve
+something from nothing!”
+
+“Yes, it can—sometimes! For example, do you know a man called Gréaume,
+who is the Guéret newsagent, and was at one time an accountant in your
+factory?”
+
+“Certainly I know him. A very worthy fellow.”
+
+“Well, Gréaume is prepared to swear that Jean d’Alescar’s father called
+on your own father the very next day after he had drawn his two hundred
+thousand francs from the bank.”
+
+“Well?” snapped Cazévon.
+
+“Isn’t it only logical to suppose that the money was handed over to
+your father on that occasion, and that it was the receipt which was
+temporarily concealed in some cranny of the Dungeon?”
+
+Georges Cazévon gave a sudden start, then controlled himself.
+
+“Mr.—uh—Barnett, do you realize what you are insinuating? It’s an
+insult to my father’s memory!”
+
+“An insult! I don’t follow you!” said Barnett innocently.
+
+“If my father had received that money he would most certainly have
+acknowledged the fact.”
+
+“Why should he? He was under no obligation to tell his neighbors that
+some one had paid him back a private loan!”
+
+Georges Cazévon’s fist came down with a bang on his desk.
+
+“But if that money had been paid him, how do you explain that a
+fortnight later, just a few days after his former debtor’s death, he
+was taking possession of the Mazurech estate?”
+
+“Yet that is exactly what he did!”
+
+“You must be crazy! There’s absolutely no ground for suggesting such a
+thing. Even granting that my father was capable of demanding to be paid
+what he had already received, he would never have done it, because he
+would have known that the receipt could be produced!”
+
+“Perhaps he knew,” suggested Barnett diffidently, “that its existence
+was a secret and that the heirs were in ignorance of both loan and
+repayment. And since he had set his heart on owning this place and had,
+so they tell me, sworn he would get it, he was tempted and fell.”
+
+“But no one would hide a receipt away where it could never be found.”
+
+“Remember that the old Comte died of cerebral congestion. During his
+last days he was very queer. His mind reasoned imperfectly. He was
+ashamed of having borrowed that money. He was ashamed of the receipt,
+yet dared not destroy it. So he evolved a tortuous manner of
+concealment, with an equally tortuous clew.”
+
+Gradually Barnett was putting a completely different complexion on the
+whole case. Georges Cazévon’s father was now appearing in the light of
+a rogue and blackguard. Cazévon himself, pale and shaking, stood with
+clenched fists, impotent with fear and rage, glaring at the immovable
+Barnett. The audacity of this “underling” completely unnerved him.
+
+“I protest!” he stammered. “You have no right to jump to these—these
+abominable conclusions!”
+
+“Believe me,” said Barnett, “I never leap before I look. All my
+allegations are founded on fact.”
+
+Georges Cazévon darted a hunted look over his shoulder. He felt as if
+some unseen enemy were closing in on him. In a high, unnatural voice he
+cried:
+
+“Lies! all lies! You have no proof. To prove that my father ever did
+such a thing you would—why, you would have to go and look for evidence
+at the top of the Old Dungeon!”
+
+“Well,” contested Barnett, “Jean d’Alescar managed to get there, didn’t
+he?”
+
+“He didn’t! I tell you he didn’t! I tell you it’s impossible to scale a
+ninety-foot tower all in two hours. It’s beyond human power!”
+
+“All the same, Jean d’Alescar accomplished this—impossibility,” pursued
+Barnett doggedly.
+
+“But how?” asked Georges Cazévon, on a note of sheer exasperation. “Do
+you expect me to believe he went up on a witch’s broomstick?”
+
+“Not that,” said Barnett gently. “He used a rope!”
+
+Cazévon laughed long and loud, but quite unmirthfully.
+
+“A rope? You’re crazy. Of course, I often saw the boy shooting his
+arrows in the vain hope that one day his rope would catch hold. Poor
+devil! Miracles like that never happen nowadays. And anyway, two hours!
+Oh, it’s out of the question. Besides, the rope would have been found
+hanging from the tower, or lying on the rocks of the Creuse after the
+tragedy. Whereas I am told it is at the Manor.”
+
+With unshakable calm Barnett rejoined:
+
+“Quite. But it wasn’t that rope he used, you see.”
+
+“Then what rope did he use?” asked Cazévon, turning a gulp into a
+laugh. “You can’t expect me to take all this seriously, you know. The
+Comte Jean d’Alescar, carrying the magic rope, came out on to the
+terrace of his garden at daybreak. He muttered the one word
+‘Abracadabra,’ and lo! his rope uncoiled and rose to the top of the
+tower, so that he might promptly ascend. The good old Indian
+rope-trick—retired colonels write to the papers every day and solemnly
+aver it’s a miracle!”
+
+“And yet you, too, monsieur,” said Barnett, “are driven to conjure up a
+miracle;—just like Jean d’Alescar—and like myself. There is no other
+explanation, of course. But the miracle was the opposite of what you
+imagine—it did not work from bottom to top, as would seem more usual
+and probable, but from top to bottom!”
+
+Cazévon made a feeble attempt to joke.
+
+“A kind Providence, eh, throwing a life-line to help a struggling
+mortal?”
+
+“Why call Providence into it?” asked Barnett. “No need for that. This
+miracle was merely one of those which Chance may perform at any time
+nowadays.”
+
+“Chance?”
+
+“Remember that Chance knows no impossibilities. Chance is the unknown
+factor—Chance the disturber, the malicious, capricious visitant,
+swooping to make fantastic moves on the chessboard of human existence,
+forever proving the old platitude that truth is stranger than fiction!
+Chance is to-day the great worker of miracles. And the miracle I have
+in mind is not so wonderful, really, in an age when meteors are not the
+only bolts from the blue, so to speak.”
+
+“Do the skies rain ropes?” asked Cazévon sardonically.
+
+“Certainly, ropes among other things. The ocean-bed is strewn with
+things dropped overboard by the ships that sail the seas!”
+
+“There are no ships in the sky,” observed Cazévon.
+
+“Oh, yes, there are,” Barnett contradicted him, “only we don’t think of
+them as that. We call them balloons, and aeroplanes, and—after all,
+airships! They ride the air as ships ride the ocean, and any number of
+things may fall or be thrown overboard from them! Suppose one of these
+things is a coil of rope, which slips over the battlements of the Old
+Dungeon, and there you have the solution of the mystery.”
+
+“A nice, convenient explanation!”
+
+“Pardon me, an extremely well-founded explanation. If you glance
+through the local papers for the past week, as I did yesterday, you
+will see that a balloon flew over this part of the country on the night
+preceding Jean d’Alescar’s death. It was travelling from north to
+south, and ballast was heaved overboard ten miles north of Guéret. The
+obvious inference is that a coil of rope was also thrown out, that one
+end got caught in a tree on the terrace, and to free it Jean d’Alescar
+had to break off a branch. He then went down to the terrace, tied the
+two ends of the rope together, and climbed up to the tower. Not an easy
+thing to do, but possible for a lad of his years.”
+
+“And then?” came in a whisper from Cazévon, whose face had grown
+suddenly gray.
+
+“Then,” Barnett continued, “someone who was standing here, at this
+window, and who was a remarkable shot, observed the boy hanging
+suspended in midair, took aim at the rope, and—severed it!”
+
+Cazévon made a choking noise.
+
+“That is your explanation of the—accident?”
+
+Barnett took no notice of the interruption, but went on:
+
+“Afterwards, this person hurried to the bank of the Creuse and searched
+the dead body to get the receipt. He took hold of the dangling rope,
+and hauled it down—then threw the highly compromising piece of evidence
+into a neighboring well—not a very safe hiding-place!”
+
+The accusation had shifted to Georges Cazévon himself—a kind of guilty
+legacy from the man’s dead father. The past was being linked up with
+the present—the net was closing in.
+
+With a convulsive effort, Cazévon shook himself, as if to rid himself
+of Barnett’s odious presence.
+
+“I’ve had enough of your lies!” he shouted. “The whole thing’s
+ridiculous invention on your part—you’re simply making this up to
+terrorize me. I shall tell Monsieur Béchoux that I have had you thrown
+out as a common blackmailer. That’s what you are, a blackmailer! But
+you won’t get any change out of me!”
+
+“If I had come here to blackmail you,” said Barnett blithely, “I should
+have started off by producing my proofs.”
+
+Blind with rage, Cazévon screamed:
+
+“Your proofs! What proofs have you got? Nothing but a cock-and-bull
+story. You haven’t a single proof of any kind—how could you have? Why,
+there’s only one proof that would be worth anything—only one. And if
+you can’t produce that, then your whole story collapses at once, and
+you’re a fool as well as a knave!”
+
+“And what is that proof?” asked Barnett, still smiling.
+
+“The receipt, of course! The receipt signed by my father!”
+
+“Here it is,” said Barnett, holding out a sheet of stamped paper,
+frayed and yellow at the edges. “This is your father’s handwriting,
+isn’t it? Pretty explicit, this document: ‘I, the undersigned, Auguste
+Cazévon, hereby acknowledge the receipt from the Comte d’Alescar of the
+sum of two hundred thousand francs previously loaned to him by me, and
+I hereby declare that this repayment renders null and void any and
+every claim of mine to the Château and lands of Mazurech.’
+
+“The date,” continued Barnett, “corresponds to that mentioned by
+Gréaume. The receipt is signed. Therefore it is indisputably genuine,
+and you, Cazévon, must have known about it from your father’s own lips
+or from the private papers he left when he died. The discovery of this
+document meant disgrace for your father and yourself, and the loss of
+the Château, for which you felt all your father’s attachment. That’s
+why you killed d’Alescar!”
+
+“If I had killed him,” faltered Cazévon, “I should have removed the
+receipt from his body.”
+
+“You had a good look for it,” said Barnett grimly, “but it wasn’t on
+him. Jean d’Alescar had prudently wrapped it round a stone and thrown
+it down from the top of the tower, meaning to pick it up when he got to
+the ground again. I found it near the river, some twenty yards away.”
+
+Barnett only just stepped back in time to prevent Cazévon snatching the
+receipt from his hand. There was a moment’s pause, and then Barnett,
+breathing a trifle quicker, spoke again:
+
+“That is tantamount to admitting your guilt! Looking at you now, I can
+well believe Mademoiselle d’Alescar’s statement that you are capable of
+almost anything. You are the slave of your own unreasoning impulse!
+Carried away by the passions of greed and hatred, you raised your gun
+and fired that morning. Steady, man!” as Cazévon seemed about to
+collapse, “control yourself. Someone’s ringing! It must be Béchoux.
+Perhaps you won’t want him to know all this!”
+
+A full minute passed in silence. At last, Cazévon, his eyes still those
+of a maniac, whispered:
+
+“How much? What must I pay you for the receipt?”
+
+“It is not for sale.”
+
+“What do you mean to do with it?”
+
+“It will be handed over to you, on certain conditions, which I will
+outline in Inspector Béchoux’s presence.”
+
+“And if I refuse to accept your terms?”
+
+“Then it will be my painful duty to expose you!”
+
+“No one will believe you!”
+
+“Oh, won’t they?”
+
+Cazévon’s head slumped in utter dejection. Barnett’s driving,
+implacable will-power had beaten him. At that moment Béchoux was shown
+in.
+
+The inspector had not expected to find Barnett on the scene. He was
+unpleasantly surprised, and wondered what the two men could have been
+talking about; whether the incalculable Barnett had been busy digging
+pits for the luckless representative of the law to fall into.
+
+Fearing something of the sort, he was quite aggressively positive in
+his assertions from the word “go.”
+
+Shaking Cazévon warmly by the hand he declared:
+
+“Monsieur, I promised to let you know the result of my investigations
+before I left, and to tell you what kind of report I should make. So
+far, my own views are in complete accord with the construction that has
+been put upon the case. There is absolutely nothing in what
+Mademoiselle d’Alescar has been saying against you.”
+
+“Hear, hear,” said Barnett. “That’s just what I’ve been telling
+Monsieur Cazévon. Béchoux, my guide, philosopher and friend, is
+displaying his usual acumen. Nevertheless, the fact is that Monsieur
+Cazévon is bent on returning good for evil, and meeting calumny with
+generosity. He insists on restoring the domain of her ancestors to
+Mademoiselle d’Alescar!”
+
+Béchoux looked thunderstruck.
+
+“Wh—what? You mean to say——”
+
+“Just that,” said Barnett. “The affair has not unnaturally filled
+Monsieur Cazévon with distaste for the district, and he has his eye on
+a château nearer his factories in Guéret. When I got here this
+afternoon Monsieur Cazévon was actually drafting the deed of gift. He
+also expressed his wish to add a bearer check for one hundred thousand
+francs to be handed to Mademoiselle d’Alescar as compensation. That’s
+so, isn’t it, Monsieur Cazévon?”
+
+Without a second’s hesitation, Cazévon acted on Barnett’s promptings as
+if they had been the dictates of his heart’s desires. He seated himself
+at his desk, wrote out the deed of gift and signed the check.
+
+“There you are,” he said. “For the rest, I will instruct my solicitor.”
+
+Barnett took both check and document, slipped them into an envelope,
+and said to Béchoux:
+
+“Here, take this to Mademoiselle d’Alescar. I feel sure she will
+appreciate Monsieur Cazévon’s generosity. Monsieur, I am at your
+service. I cannot tell you how happy you have made us both by
+furnishing such a satisfactory solution to the business.”
+
+He swaggered off, followed by Béchoux. The latter, utterly astounded,
+waited till they were out of the park, and then demanded:
+
+“What’s it all mean? Did he fire that shot? Has he made a statement to
+you?”
+
+“None of your business, Béchoux,” said Barnett. “Let bygones be
+bygones. The case has been settled to everyone’s best advantage. All
+you have to do is to speed on your mission to Mademoiselle d’Alescar.
+Ask her to forgive and forget, and not to breathe a word to anyone.
+Then come and pick me up at the inn.”
+
+In a short while Béchoux was back again. He brought the news that
+Mademoiselle d’Alescar had accepted the gift of the Mazurech estate and
+her solicitor would take the matter up at once, but the money she
+refused to take. In her indignation at being offered it she had torn up
+the check.
+
+Barnett and Béchoux took their leave. The return journey was made in
+silence. The inspector was lost in unprofitable speculation. His mind
+was in a whirl of interrogation, but Barnett looked disinclined for
+confidential converse.
+
+They got to Paris at close on to three o’clock. Barnett invited Béchoux
+to lunch with him near the Bourse, and Béchoux, incapable of
+resistance, went with him meekly.
+
+“You do the ordering,” said Barnett, rising from the table a moment
+after they had entered the restaurant. “I’ve some business I must
+attend to. Won’t be a moment!”
+
+Béchoux did not have long to wait. Barnett was back again almost
+immediately, and the two men ate a hearty meal. When they were drinking
+their coffee, Béchoux ventured a remark:
+
+“I must send the torn bits of that check back to Monsieur Cazévon.”
+
+“Oh, I shouldn’t bother to do that, Béchoux.”
+
+“Why not?”
+
+“The check was quite worthless.”
+
+“But how?”
+
+“Oh,” said Barnett airily, “I foresaw that Mademoiselle d’Alescar was
+certain to refuse to take it, so when I put the deed of gift into the
+envelope I slipped in with it an old cancelled check. Waste not, want
+not.”
+
+“But what happened to the genuine check?” groaned Béchoux, “the one
+Monsieur Cazévon signed?”
+
+
+“Oh, that! I’ve just been and cashed it at the bank!”
+
+He opened his coat, displaying a wad of notes. Béchoux’s coffee cup
+slipped from his nerveless grasp. With an effort he controlled himself.
+
+For a long while they sat smoking in silence, facing one another across
+the table. At last Barnett spoke:
+
+“There’s no denying it, Béchoux, so far our collaboration has proved
+decidedly fruitful. We seem to ring the bell every time, and it’s all
+helped to enlarge my little nest-egg. But, honestly, I’m beginning to
+feel very troubled about you, old horse. Here we are, working side by
+side, and I always pocket the dibs. Look here, Béchoux, won’t you come
+into partnership with me? The Barnett and Béchoux Agency? It really
+sounds rather well!”
+
+Béchoux gave him a look of hatred. The man goaded him beyond endurance.
+He rose, flung down a note to pay for the lunch, and mumbled as he took
+his leave:
+
+“There are times when I think it must be Arsène Lupin after all!”
+
+“I sometimes wonder, too,” said Barnett—and laughed.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+IX
+
+DOUBLE ENTRY
+
+
+A serious breach in the Béchoux-Barnett friendship seemed to have been
+caused by the affair of the Old Dungeon at Mazurech, and the fleecing
+of Georges Cazévon, so that when a taxi came to a halt in the rue
+Laborde and Inspector Béchoux leapt from it and hurled himself into the
+office of his friend, Jim Barnett, no one was more surprised than the
+latter.
+
+“This is indeed a pleasure,” he said, advancing with alacrity. “Our
+last parting was rather in silence and tears, and I was afraid you were
+feeling sore. And is there anything I can do for you in a small way
+this merry morning?”
+
+“There is.”
+
+Barnett shook the inspector warmly by the hand.
+
+“Splendid! But what’s up? You look positively apoplectic. Please don’t
+burst in my office.”
+
+“Kindly be serious, Barnett,” said poor Béchoux stiffly. “I’m working
+on a most complicated case from which I particularly want to emerge
+triumphant.”
+
+“What’s it all about?”
+
+“My wife,” said Béchoux, and there was anguish in his tone.
+
+Barnett’s eyebrows shot up.
+
+“Your wife?” he echoed. “Then you’re married?”
+
+“Been divorced six years,” was the laconic answer.
+
+“Incompatibility?”
+
+“No. My wife found she had a vocation for the stage! The stage—I ask
+you! Married to an inspector of police and she wanted to go on——”
+Béchoux sneezed abruptly and violently, giving Barnett time to ask:
+
+“Then she became an actress?”
+
+“A singer.”
+
+“At the Opéra?”
+
+“No. The Folies Bergère. She’s Olga Vaubant.”
+
+“What, not the lady who does the Acrobatic Arias? But she’s wonderful,
+Béchoux. Olga Vaubant is a superb artiste. She has created a new art
+form. Her latest number brings down the house. It’s sheer
+genius—absolutely. You know, she stands on her head and sings:
+
+
+      “‘I’m in luck, I gotta boy
+        Fills his momma’s heart with joy—
+        Yes, you otta see my Jim!’
+
+
+And she’s your wife!”
+
+“Was,” said Béchoux shortly. “Well, I’m glad you like the lady’s
+performance. I’ve just been honored with a note from her.”
+
+He produced a sheet of rose-colored notepaper, with an embossed crimson
+O in one corner. Scrawled in pencil and dated that very morning was the
+following message:
+
+
+“My bedroom suite has been stolen. Mother in a state of collapse. Come
+at once.—Olga.”
+
+
+“The moment I got this,” said Béchoux, “I telephoned the préfecture.
+They had already been called in on the case, and I obtained permission
+to collaborate with the men who are handling it.”
+
+“Then why are you all of a dither?” asked Barnett.
+
+“It’s—it’s because this will mean meeting her again,” said Béchoux,
+ashamed and furious.
+
+“Are you still in love with her?”
+
+“Whenever I see her—it’s idiotic, but something comes over me—I can’t
+help myself. I feel myself blushing like a schoolboy. My mouth goes dry
+and I begin stammering. You must see, Barnett, that I can’t take charge
+of the case like that. I should make a perfect fool of myself.”
+
+“Whereas, what you want to do is to impress madame with the cool
+dignity, the daring and resource that go to make Inspector Béchoux the
+Pride of Paris Police?”
+
+“Er—yes.”
+
+“And you look to me to help you. Béchoux, you can count on me. Now tell
+me, what sort of life does your ex-wife lead off the stage?”
+
+Béchoux looked almost pained at the question.
+
+“She is above suspicion and lives for her art alone. If it weren’t for
+her profession, Olga would still be Madame Béchoux.”
+
+“Which would be a nation’s loss,” pronounced Barnett solemnly,
+gathering up hat and coat.
+
+A few minutes later the two men came to one of the quietest, most
+deserted streets near the Luxembourg. Olga Vaubant lived on the top
+floor of an old-fashioned house whose bricks breathed respectability.
+The ground-floor windows were heavily barred.
+
+“Before we go any further,” said Béchoux, “I am going to suggest that
+in this instance you refrain from playing your own hand and making a
+dishonorable private profit out of the case, as you have unhappily been
+known to do in the past.”
+
+“My conscience ...” began Barnett, but Béchoux waved away the
+objection.
+
+“Never mind your conscience,” he said. “Think of the way mine has
+pricked me whenever we’ve worked together!”
+
+“You don’t think I’d rob your own ex-wife? Oh, Béchoux, how you wrong
+me!”
+
+“I don’t want you to rob anyone,” said Béchoux.
+
+“Not even those who deserve it?”
+
+“Leave Justice to take its course. Heaven has not appointed you as an
+avenging angel.”
+
+Barnett sighed.
+
+“You are spoiling all my fun, Béchoux, but what you say goes.”
+
+
+
+One policeman was on guard at the door, and another was with the
+concierges—husband and wife—who were badly upset by what had happened.
+
+Béchoux learned that the district superintendent and two headquarters’
+men had just left after making a preliminary investigation.
+
+“Now’s our chance,” said Béchoux to Barnett. “Let’s get a move on while
+the coast is clear.”
+
+As they went up the staircase he explained to his friend that the house
+was run on old-fashioned lines, and the street door was kept shut.
+
+“No one has a key, and everyone has to ring for admittance. A priest
+lives on the first floor and a magistrate on the second. The concierge
+acts as housekeeper to both of them. Olga has the top floor flat and
+leads a most conventional existence, complete with her mother and two
+old maidservants who have always been in the family.”
+
+They knocked at the door of Olga Vaubant’s flat, and one of the maids
+let them into the hall. Béchoux rapidly explained the position of the
+rooms to Barnett—the passage on the right led to Olga’s bedroom and
+boudoir, that on the left to her mother’s room and the servants’
+quarters. Straight ahead was a studio fitted up as a gymnasium, with a
+horizontal bar, a trapeze, rings, ropes and ribstalls. Strewn about the
+place were Indian clubs, dumb-bells, foils, and so forth.
+
+As the two men entered this vast room, something seemed to drop in a
+heap at their feet from the sky-light. The heap resolved itself into a
+slender, laughing boy, with a mop of untidy red hair framing the
+delicate features of a charming face. Wide green eyes, tip-tilted nose,
+slightly crooked mouth—all were unmistakable, and Barnett immediately
+recognized in the pajama-clad “boy” the one and only Olga Vaubant. She
+exclaimed at once in the Parisian drawl that has its parallel in the
+Londoner’s cockney:
+
+“Maman’s all right, Béchoux. Sleeping like a top, bless her. Lucky,
+isn’t it?”
+
+She made a sudden dive floorwards, stood on her hands and, with her
+feet waving in the air, began singing in a husky, thrilling contralto:
+
+
+       “I’m in luck, I gotta boy,
+        Fills his momma’s heart with joy—
+
+
+And believe me, Béchoux, you fill my heart with joy, too, old dear,”
+she added, standing up. “You’re a real sport to have got here so soon.
+Who’s the boy-friend?”
+
+“Jim Barnett. He’s an old—acquaintance,” said Béchoux, vainly
+attempting to control his twitching countenance.
+
+“Fine,” said Olga. “Well let’s hope between the pair of you you’ll
+solve the mystery and get back my bedroom suite. I leave it to you. Now
+it’s my turn to do a bit of introducing,” as a bulky form hove up from
+the far end of the studio. “May I present Del Prego, my gym instructor?
+He’s masseur, make-up expert, and beauty doctor, and he’s the darling
+of the chorus. Regular osteopath, he is, for dislocation and
+rejuvenation! Say pretty to the gentlemen, Del Prego!”
+
+Del Prego bowed low. He was a broad-shouldered, copper-skinned fellow,
+genial of countenance and vaguely suggesting the clown in his
+appearance. He wore a grey suit, with white spats and gloves, and held
+a light-colored felt hat in his hands.
+
+Immediately, gesticulating violently and speaking with a marked foreign
+accent, he began to discourse on his method of “progressive
+dislocation,” larding his outlandish French with phrases in Spanish,
+English, and Russian. Olga cut him short.
+
+“We’ve no time to waste. What do you want me to tell you, Béchoux?”
+
+“First,” said Béchoux, “will you show us your bedroom?”
+
+“Right! Half a mo’.” She sprang up in the air, caught on to the
+trapeze, swung from that to the rings, and landed at a door in the wall
+on the right.
+
+“Here you are,” she told them, kicking it open.
+
+The room was absolutely empty. Bed, chairs, curtains, mirrors, rugs,
+dressing-table, ornaments, pictures—all gone. Furniture removers could
+not have made a better job of it. The place was stripped.
+
+Olga began to giggle helplessly.
+
+“See that? Thorough, weren’t they? They even pinched my ivory toilet
+set. Almost walked off with the floor-boards. Don’t you think it’s a
+shame, Mr. Barnett?” she went on, addressing Jim, her eyes wider than
+ever. “I’m a girl that’s real fond of good furniture. All pure Louis
+Quinze it was, that I’d collected bit by bit—and they all had a
+history, including a genuine Pompadour bed! Why, furnishing this room
+cost me nearly everything I made on my American tour.”
+
+Abruptly she broke off to turn a somersault, then tossed the hair off
+her face and went on cheerfully:
+
+“Oh, well, there’s plenty of good fish in the sea and I can replace all
+that lot. I needn’t worry so long as I have my india rubber muscles and
+my bee-yewtiful cracked voice.... What are you looking at me like that
+for, Béchoux? Going to faint at my feet? Give us a kiss, and let’s get
+on with any questions you want to ask before we have the rest of the
+police force back on the scene.”
+
+“Tell me exactly what happened,” said Béchoux.
+
+“Oh, there isn’t much to tell,” answered Olga. “Let’s see, last night,
+it had just gone half-past ten.... Oh, I should have told you, I left
+here at eight with Del Prego, who escorted me to the Folies Bergère in
+maman’s place.... Well, as I was saying, it had just gone the
+half-hour, and maman was in her room knitting, when suddenly she heard
+a faint sound like someone moving about in my room. She rushed along
+the passage, and found two men taking my bed apart by the light of a
+flash-lamp! The light was switched off at once, and one chap sprang at
+her and knocked her down while the other flung a tablecloth over her
+head. How’s that for assault and battery? Poor old maman! Then, if you
+please, these two blighters calmly proceeded to remove the furniture
+bit by bit, one of them carrying it downstairs, while the other stayed
+in the room. Maman kept quiet and managed not to scream. After a while
+she heard a big car starting up in the street outside, and then she was
+so overcome with the strain that she fainted right off.”
+
+“So that when you got back from the show——?” prompted Béchoux.
+
+“I found the street door open, the flat door open, and maman lying
+unconscious on the floor of my room. You could have knocked me down
+with a feather!”
+
+“What had the concierges to say?”
+
+“You know them, Béchoux. Two old dears who’ve been here for thirty
+years now. An earthquake wouldn’t rouse ’em. The only sound they ever
+hear is the door-bell. Well, they swear by all their gods that no one
+rang between ten o’clock, when they went to bed, and next morning.”
+
+“Which means,” said Béchoux, “that they had no cause at any time during
+the night to pull the string that opens the door.”
+
+“You’ve said it.”
+
+“Did the other tenants hear nothing?”
+
+“Nothing at all.”
+
+“Then the conclusion is——”
+
+“How do you mean, conclusion?”
+
+“Well, what do you make of it?”
+
+Olga’s expression was one of wrath.
+
+“Don’t be an idiot! It’s not my business to make anything of it. That’s
+your job, Béchoux. In a moment you’ll have me thinking you as big a
+fool as those policemen we’ve had all over the flat.”
+
+“But,” faltered Béchoux, “we’re only beginning.”
+
+“Can’t you get action with what I’ve told you, you boob? If that pal of
+yours there isn’t any brighter than you, I can bid my Pompadour bed a
+fond farewell!”
+
+The “pal” at this point stepped forward and asked:
+
+“On what particular day would you like your bed back, madame?”
+
+“What’s that?” said Olga, staring at this stranger to whom, up to now,
+she had paid but slight attention.
+
+Barnett became glibly detailed.
+
+“I should like to know the day and hour on which you desire to regain
+possession of your Pompadour bed and of your furniture, etcetera.”
+
+“Is this your idea of a joke?”
+
+“Let’s fix the day,” said the imperturbable Barnett.
+
+“To-day is Tuesday. Will next Tuesday be satisfactory?”
+
+Olga’s eyes widened, and widened yet again. She could not make Barnett
+out a bit. Suddenly she began to rock with mirth.
+
+“You are a one, I must say! Where did you pick it up, Béchoux? Out of
+the asylum? I must say your friend’s got a nerve. In a week, he says,
+cool as you please. You might think the bed was in his pocket! You’ve
+got another thing coming if you fancy I’m going to waste my time with
+two mutts like you.” With a hand on the chest of each, she pushed them
+vigorously into the hall. “Out you go, my lads, and you can stay out!
+And don’t think I’m going to let myself be fooled by a couple of rotten
+jokers!”
+
+The studio door slammed violently on the two “rotten jokers,” and
+Béchoux groaned aloud.
+
+“And we’ve only been in the flat ten minutes!”
+
+Barnett was calmly examining the hall. He then talked to one of the old
+servants. After that, he went downstairs to the concierges’ quarters
+and questioned the pair of them. He then hailed a passing taxi, giving
+the driver his address in the rue Laborde. Inspector Béchoux, deserted
+and aghast, stood forlornly on the pavement and watched the
+disappearing chariot of his friend.
+
+
+
+However much Jim Barnett held Inspector Béchoux spellbound, the latter
+stood in even greater awe of the imperious Olga. He never dreamed of
+doubting her assertion that Barnett had turned the whole thing off by
+making a promise no one could take seriously.
+
+This gloomy view of affairs was confirmed next day when he called at
+the office in the rue Laborde and found Barnett lolling back in an
+armchair, his feet upon his desk, smoking peacefully.
+
+“Really, Barnett,” said Béchoux in exasperation, “if this is your idea
+of getting down to things, we may as well give up the case. Back at the
+house we’re all hopelessly at sea. We none of us know what to make of
+it. We are agreed on certain points, of course. The main thing is, that
+it’s a physical impossibility to enter the place, even using a skeleton
+key, unless the door is opened from the inside. Since none of the
+residents can be suspected of being concerned in the burglary, we are
+driven to two unavoidable conclusions: first, that one of the thieves
+had been in the house, concealed, since early in the evening, and this
+man let in a confederate; second, that he could not have got inside
+without being seen by one of the concierges, as the street door is
+never left open. But who can have been in the house ready to admit the
+other thief? That’s what floors us, and I don’t see how on earth we’re
+going to find it out. Have you any theory, Barnett?”
+
+But Barnett was silent, absorbed in blowing smoke-rings. Béchoux’s
+words might have fallen on deaf ears, but he continued:
+
+“We’ve made a list of people who called during that day—there weren’t
+many—and the concierges are positive that every single one of them left
+the house again. So you see we’re without a clue. We can easily
+reconstruct the modus operandi of the crime, but its authors elude us.
+What do you make of it all?”
+
+Barnett gave a prodigious yawn, stretched his arms and legs till they
+cracked, and then drawled:
+
+“A perfect peach!”
+
+“Wh-what’s that? Who’re you calling a peach?”
+
+“Your ex-wife,” Barnett told the astonished Béchoux. “She’s as much of
+a knock-out off the stage as she is on. So full of joie de vivre, so—so
+electric! A regular gamine. Wonderful taste, too. I just can’t get over
+the idea of her investing her earnings in that Pompadour bed! Béchoux,
+you’re a lucky dog!”
+
+“I lost my luck pretty quickly—only kept it a month!”
+
+“A whole month? Then what are you grumbling at?”
+
+
+
+Next Saturday saw Béchoux back at the Barnett Agency, trying to rouse
+his torpid ally, but Barnett was wreathed in smoke and silence, and
+Béchoux got no satisfaction.
+
+On Monday he came in again, thoroughly depressed.
+
+“It’s a mug’s game,” he averred, “the men on the job are utter idiots,
+and all this time Olga’s bedroom suite is probably on its way to some
+port or other for shipment abroad. It’s maddening! And what do you
+suppose all this makes me look like to Olga—me, a police inspector, I
+ask you? Why, she thinks I’m the most colossal ass that ever stepped.”
+
+He glared at the imperturbable Barnett, absorbed in his eternal
+smoke-rings, and let loose the full force of his fury.
+
+“Here are we, up against an entirely new type of criminal—fighting men
+who must be adepts in their own line—and there you sit, you—you
+lotus-eater, and don’t lift a finger to help!”
+
+“One quality in her,” said Barnett, musing aloud, “pleases me more than
+all.”
+
+“What?” shouted Béchoux.
+
+“Her naturalness—her superb spontaneity. She is absolutely devoid of
+anything theatrical, any pose. Olga says exactly what she means,
+follows her instincts and lives according to impulse. Béchoux, she’s a
+marvel!”
+
+Béchoux brought his fist down on the desk with a bang.
+
+“Would you like to know what she thinks of you? She thinks you’re a
+D-U-D, dud! She and Del Prego can’t mention your name without hooting.
+They speak of you as ‘That boob Barnett—that crazy bluffer’....”
+
+Barnett heaved a sigh.
+
+“Harsh words! How can I prove the cap doesn’t fit?”
+
+“By ceasing to wear it,” suggested Béchoux grimly. “To-morrow is
+Tuesday, and you’ve promised to produce that Pompadour bed!”
+
+“Good lord, so I have!” said Barnett, as if realizing it for the first
+time. “The trouble is, I haven’t the faintest idea where to look for
+it! Be a sportsman, Béchoux, and ladle out a word of advice.”
+
+“If you can lay hold of the thieves, they’ll know where to find the
+bed.”
+
+“It might be done,” said Barnett. “Got a warrant?”
+
+Béchoux nodded.
+
+“Right. Then telephone the préfecture to send two of their beefiest men
+to-day to the Odéon Arcades, near the Luxembourg.”
+
+Béchoux looked both surprised and irresolute.
+
+“No fooling?”
+
+“Absolutely not. Do you think I relish being thought a boob by Olga
+Vaubant? And, anyway, don’t I always keep my promises?”
+
+Béchoux thought hard for a moment. Something told him that Barnett
+meant what he said, and that during the last week, while he had lolled
+in his armchair, his brain had been alert and busy with the problem. He
+remembered Barnett’s dictum that there were times when meditation
+proved more profitable than investigation. Without further hesitation,
+Béchoux took up the telephone and called up one, Albert, who was the
+right-hand man of the chief. He arranged for two inspectors to be sent
+to the Odéon.
+
+Barnett heaved himself out of his chair, and the clock struck three as
+the two men left the Agency.
+
+“Are we going to Olga’s flat?” Béchoux asked.
+
+“To that of the concierges,” Barnett told him.
+
+When they arrived Barnett conversed in low tones with the concierges
+and asked them to say nothing of his and Béchoux’s presence in the
+house. They then stationed themselves in the rear of the concierges’
+quarters, concealed behind a voluminous bed-curtain. By peering out at
+each side, they could see anyone leave the house, or enter it when the
+door was opened.
+
+They saw the priest from the first floor pass. Then came one of Olga’s
+old servants, carrying a market-basket.
+
+“Who on earth are we waiting for?” whispered Béchoux. “What’s your
+game?”
+
+“To teach you your job! Now then, not another word!”
+
+At half-past three Del Prego was admitted, resplendent in white gloves,
+white spats, grey suit and grey Stetson. He waved a greeting to the
+concierges and went up the stairs two at time. It was the hour for
+Olga’s gym lesson.
+
+Three-quarters of an hour later he left the house, returning shortly
+with a packet of cigarettes he had gone out to buy. His white gloves
+and spats flickered up the stairs.
+
+Three other people came and went. Suddenly Béchoux hissed in Barnett’s
+ear:
+
+“Look, he’s coming in again for the third time. How on earth did he get
+out?”
+
+“By the door, I suppose.”
+
+“Oh, surely not,” said Béchoux, albeit less authoritatively. “That is,
+unless he caught us napping. Eh, Barnett?”
+
+Barnett pushed back the curtain and answered:
+
+“The time has come for action. Béchoux, go and pick up your beefy
+friends.”
+
+“And bring them here?”
+
+“That’s the stuff.”
+
+“What about you?”
+
+“I’m going up aloft. When you get back, I want all three of you to
+station yourselves on the landing of the second floor. You’ll get word
+when to move.”
+
+“Then it’s zero at last?”
+
+“It is, and pretty stiff odds. Now, off you go, and make it snappy.”
+
+Béchoux was off like the wind, while Barnett mounted to the third floor
+and rang the flat bell. He was shown into the studio-gymnasium where
+Olga was finishing her exercises under Del Prego’s supervision.
+
+“Fancy that now, here’s that bright boy Barnett!” called Olga from the
+top of a rope-ladder. “Our Mr. Barnett, the Man of Mystery!” She peered
+at him from between her shapely legs. “Well, Mr. Barnett, I hope you’ve
+got my Pompadour bed with you!”
+
+“Almost, but not quite, madame. I hope I’m not in the way?”
+
+“Not a bit.”
+
+The incredible Olga continued her evolutions at Del Prego’s curt
+commands. Her instructor alternately praised and criticised, and
+occasionally gave a brief personal demonstration. He was himself a
+trained acrobat, but vigorous rather than supple. He seemed out to
+demonstrate his prodigious muscular strength.
+
+The lesson came to an end, and, Del Prego put on his coat, fastened his
+snowy spats, and gathered up his white gloves and ash-colored hat.
+
+“See you to-night at the theatre, Madame Olga,” he said.
+
+“Oh, aren’t you going to wait for me to-day, Del Prego? You might have
+escorted me. You know maman is away.”
+
+“Impossible, madame, I fear. Much as I regret, I fear I have another
+appointment before dinner.”
+
+He made for the door, but before he got there he was brought up short
+by Jim Barnett, who stood in his way.
+
+“A word with you, my friend,” said Barnett, “since chance has
+obligingly brought us together.”
+
+“I’m sorry, but really....”
+
+“Must I, then, introduce myself afresh? Jim Barnett, private detective,
+of the Barnett Agency—Inspector Béchoux’s friend.”
+
+Del Prego took another step towards the door.
+
+“A thousand apologies, Mr. Barnett, but I’m in rather a hurry.”
+
+“Oh, I won’t keep you a moment. I only want to call to your
+remembrance——” He paused dramatically.
+
+“What?” snapped Del Prego.
+
+“A certain Turk.”
+
+“I don’t understand what you mean.”
+
+“A Turk called Ben-Vali.”
+
+The professor’s face wore an expression of stony blankness.
+
+“The name means nothing to me.”
+
+“Then perhaps you may remember a certain Avernoff?”
+
+“Never heard of him either. Who were they both, anyway?”
+
+“Two—murderers.”
+
+There was a brief, pregnant pause. Then Del Prego laughed noisily and
+said:
+
+“Scarcely a class among which I care to cultivate my friendships.”
+
+“And yet,” pursued Barnett, “rumor persists in urging that you knew
+both men well.”
+
+Del Prego’s glance travelled like lightning up and down Barnett’s form.
+Then he snarled, with scarcely a trace of foreign accent:
+
+“What are you getting at? Cut out the mystery stuff. I don’t go in for
+riddles.”
+
+“Sit down, Signor Del Prego,” suggested Barnett. “We can chat more
+comfortably sitting down!”
+
+Del Prego was fuming with impatience. Olga had come up to them, full of
+curiosity, looking like a bewitching boy in her gym kit.
+
+“Do sit down, Del Prego,” she said, laying a hand on the professor’s
+arm. “After all, it’s about my Pompadour bed.”
+
+“Just so,” said Barnett. “And I can assure Signor Del Prego that I am
+not asking a riddle. Only, on my very first visit here after the
+robbery, I was forcibly reminded of two cases that made rather a
+sensation some time ago. I should like his opinion on them. It’ll only
+take a few minutes.”
+
+Barnett’s attitude had subtly changed from one of deference to one of
+authority. His tone was unmistakable in its note of command. Olga
+Vaubant found herself feeling impressed by this strange man. Del Prego,
+overborne, merely growled:
+
+“Hurry up, then!”
+
+Barnett began his story:
+
+“Once upon a time—three years ago, to be precise—there lived in Paris a
+jeweller called Saurois. He and his father shared a big top-floor flat.
+This jeweller formed a business connection with a man named Ben-Vali.
+The latter went about in a turban and full Turkish costumes, baggy
+trousers and all, and traded in second-grade precious stones, such as
+oriental topazes, irregular pearls, amethysts, and so forth. Well, one
+evening, on a day when Ben-Vali had called several times at his flat,
+Saurois came back from the theatre and found his father stabbed to
+death, and all his jewels gone. The inquiry revealed that the crime had
+been committed not by Ben-Vali himself—he produced an unshakable
+alibi—but by someone he must have brought round in the afternoon. But
+they never managed to lay hands on the assassin, nor on the Turk. The
+case was shelved. Do you remember, now?”
+
+“I’ve only been in Paris two years,” Del Prego parried swiftly. “And,
+anyway, I don’t see the point....”
+
+Jim Barnett went on:
+
+“Nearly a year before that a similar crime took place. The victim in
+this case was a collector of medals called Davoul. It was established
+that the man who killed him was brought to his place and hidden by a
+Count Avernoff, a Russian, who wore an astrakhan cap and a long
+overcoat.”
+
+“Why, I remember that,” exclaimed Olga Vaubant, who had turned suddenly
+pale.
+
+“I saw at once,” continued Barnett, “that between these two cases and
+the burglary of your bedroom there existed not, perhaps, a very close
+analogy, but a certain family resemblance. The robberies of Saurois the
+jeweller and of Davoul the medal collector were both the work of a pair
+of foreigners, and here again the method is identical. I mean, in each
+case there was the introduction of an accomplice who was responsible
+for the actual crime. The problem is—how were those accomplices
+introduced? I own that at first this completely baffled me. For the
+last few days I have been thrashing the solution out in silence and
+solitude. Working with the two given quantities, so to speak, of the
+Ben-Vali crime and the Avernoff crime, I set myself to reconstruct the
+general scheme—the ‘constant’—of a crime-system that had probably been
+applied in many other cases unknown to me.”
+
+“And did you succeed?” asked Olga breathlessly.
+
+“I did,” Barnett told her. “Frankly, the idea is superb. It’s the
+highest form of art—a manifestation of creative genius, wholly original
+in conception and execution. While the ordinary run of thieves and
+gun-men work with great secrecy, disguising themselves sometimes as
+plumbers or commercial travellers to gain entrance to a house, these
+people keep full in the limelight, and do the job without any attempt
+at concealment. The more observation they meet with, the better pleased
+they are. The method is for one of them quite openly to enter a house
+where he is already a frequent visitor, and his comings and goings are
+familiar to the residents. Then, on a chosen day, he goes out ... and
+comes in again ... and goes out once more ... and comes in yet again
+... and then, while this man is in the house, another man comes in who
+is so like the first man in appearance that no one spots the
+difference! And there you have your accomplice introduced. The first
+man leaves the house again, quite openly, and his accomplice remains
+there concealed. Then, in the watches of the night, the first man
+returns to the house, and is admitted by the accomplice. Ingenious,
+isn’t it?”
+
+Then, with a peculiar intensity in his tone, Barnett went on, now
+directly to Del Prego:
+
+“It’s genius, Del Prego, absolute genius. Ordinary crooks, as I said,
+try to make themselves as inconspicuous as possible in their criminal
+pursuits. They wear nondescript, neutral clothing, and do their best to
+merge with their surroundings like creatures of the jungle. But the men
+I’m telling you about realized that the great thing in their scheme was
+to make a vivid and outstanding impression—to attract plenty of
+attention. A Russian wearing a fur cap, or a Turk in baggy trousers is
+a conspicuous and unusual figure. If such a man is habitually seen four
+times a day going up and downstairs in a house, no one will notice
+whether he comes in once oftener than he goes out. The point is,
+though, that the fifth time he comes in, it’s the accomplice! And no
+one suspects it. That’s how it’s done, and I take my hat off to the
+inventor. It stands to reason that a man must be a master criminal to
+evolve and apply such a method—the kind of arch-crook who only occurs
+once in a generation. To me it is obvious that Ben-Vali and Count
+Avernoff are the same person. From this, isn’t it only logical to
+conclude that this man has materialized a third time, in yet another
+guise, in the particular case which concerns us? He began by being a
+Russian, later on he appeared as a Turk, and this time—well, who comes
+here who, besides being a foreigner, dresses rather unusually?”
+
+There was a dead silence. Olga put out a hand towards Barnett as if to
+stop him from she hardly knew what. She had only just tumbled to what
+he had been leading up to all this time, and the realization frightened
+her.
+
+“No, no!” she cried. “I won’t have you accusing people!”
+
+Del Prego smiled blandly.
+
+“Come, come, Madame Olga, don’t get upset. Mr. Barnett will have his
+little joke.”
+
+“That’s it, Del Prego,” said Barnett, “I will have my little joke.
+You’re perfectly right not to take my yarn of mystery and adventure
+seriously—that is, not until you know the finish. Of course, there’s
+the obvious fact that you’re a foreigner, and that your get-up is
+calculated to attract attention. White gloves ... white spats.... And,
+of course, too, you’ve got one of those mobile, india rubber faces,
+which could pretty easily turn you from a Russian into a Turk, and from
+a Turk into a shady adventurer, nationality unspecified! And, of
+course, you’re well known in this house, and business brings you here
+several times a day. But, after all, your reputation for honesty is
+unblemished, and you enjoy the patronage of no less a person than Olga
+Vaubant. So no one would dream of accusing you.
+
+“But what was I to think? You see my difficulty, don’t you? You were
+the only possible suspect, and yet you were above suspicion. Isn’t that
+so, madame?” He turned to Olga for confirmation.
+
+“Oh, yes,” she agreed, eyes feverishly bright. “Then who are we to
+suspect? How can we find out who did it?”
+
+“Aha,” said Barnett, “that’s simple enough. I’ve set a trap for the
+mystery mouse!”
+
+“A trap? How could you do that?”
+
+“Tell me, madame,” said Barnett, “Baron de Laureins telephoned you on
+Saturday? I thought so. And yesterday he came to see you here?”
+
+Olga nodded, full of wonder.
+
+“And he brought you a chest full of silver, engraved with the Pompadour
+crest?”
+
+“That’s it,” said Olga, “on the table. But——”
+
+Barnett cut her short. In the manner of a fortune-teller he continued:
+
+“Baron de Laureins, who is very hard up, is trying to sell the silver
+which is a family heirloom that has come down to him from the
+d’Etoiles, and he has left it in your care until to-morrow.”
+
+“How ... how do you know all this?” Olga was quite scared.
+
+“I,” said Barnett, “and the Baron—very new noblesse! Have you displayed
+the handsome silverware to your admiring friends?”
+
+“Certainly.”
+
+“And, on the other hand, I take it your mother has had a telegram from
+the country, summoning her to the bedside of your ailing aunt?”
+
+“How on earth do you know that?”
+
+“I sent the telegram. Oh, believe me, I’m the whole works! So your
+mother went off this morning, and the chest stays in this room till
+to-morrow. What a temptation for the unknown friend who so cleverly
+burgled your bedroom to get up to his tricks again and snaffle the
+chest of silver. Much easier than a suite of furniture!”
+
+Olga, now thoroughly alarmed, demanded:
+
+“Will the attempt be made to-night?”
+
+“Of course it will,” Barnett assured her.
+
+“Oh, how awful!” she wailed.
+
+Del Prego, who had listened to all this in silence, now got up.
+
+“What’s so awful, madame?” he asked, with a faint sneer. “Forewarned is
+forearmed. You have only to ring up the police. With your permission, I
+will do so at once.”
+
+“Oh, dear me, no,” protested Barnett. “I shall need you, Del Prego.”
+
+“I fail to see in what way you can require my services.”
+
+“Why, in helping to arrest the accomplice, of course!”
+
+“Plenty of time for that, if the attempt is to be made to-night.”
+
+“Yes, but do bear in mind,” urged Barnett gently but firmly, “that the
+accomplice was, in each case, introduced beforehand!”
+
+“You mean he’s already in the flat?” asked Del Prego.
+
+“He’s been here for the last half-hour,” declared Barnett.
+
+“Since I arrived, you mean?”
+
+“Since you arrived the second time,” said Barnett quietly. “I saw him
+as plainly as I see you now.”
+
+“Then he’s hiding in the flat?”
+
+Barnett pointed to the door.
+
+“In the hall there’s a clothes cupboard which hasn’t been opened all
+the afternoon. He’s in there.”
+
+“But he couldn’t have got into the flat on his own!”
+
+“Of course not.”
+
+“Then who opened the door to him?”
+
+“You, Del Prego.”
+
+The brief statement was almost shockingly abrupt.
+
+Even though from the beginning of the conversation Barnett’s remarks
+had been obviously aimed at the gym instructor, becoming increasingly
+plain in their import, yet this downright attack took Del Prego by
+surprise. Rage, fear, and the determination to act swiftly were easily
+discernible in his changed expression. Divining his adversary’s
+perplexity, Barnett took advantage of it to run out into the hall. He
+jerked a man out of the cupboard, and pushed him, struggling, before
+him into the studio.
+
+“Oh,” cried Olga, utterly taken aback, “then it’s true!”
+
+The man was the same height as Del Prego. Like Del Prego he wore a grey
+suit and white spats. He had much the same type of greasy, mobile
+countenance.
+
+“Milord has forgotten his hat and gloves,” said Barnett, and clapped an
+ash-colored hat on the man’s head, at the same time handing him a pair
+of white gloves.
+
+Struck dumb with amazement, Olga drew slowly from the scene of action,
+and, never shifting her gaze from the two men, proceeded to climb a
+rope-ladder backwards. It had now fully dawned on her what kind of man
+Del Prego was, and what frightful risks she had run during the time
+spent in his company.
+
+“Funny, isn’t it?” Barnett said, laughing. “Not as like as twins, of
+course, but they’re the same height and have much the same sort of
+physiog., and what with that and their dressing in duplicate, they
+might be brothers!”
+
+The two crooks were recovering from their confusion, and simultaneously
+began to realize that, after all, they were only up against one man,
+and that a poor-looking specimen, with apparently a wretched physique
+under his shabby frock-coat.
+
+Del Prego spluttered some words in a foreign language which Barnett
+translated immediately.
+
+“No use speaking Russian,” he observed, “to ask your friend if he’s got
+a gun handy!”
+
+Del Prego shook with rage and spoke again in a different language.
+
+“Unluckily for you,” Barnett told him, “I know Turkish inside out.
+Berlitz has nothing on me. Also, I think it only fair to tell you that
+Béchoux—you know, Olga’s policeman husband that was—is waiting on the
+stairs with two friends. If that gun goes off, they will break down the
+door!”
+
+Del Prego and the other man exchanged glances. They saw they were
+cornered, but they were the sort that doesn’t give in without putting
+up a stiff fight.
+
+Without seeming to move, they drew imperceptibly closer to Barnett.
+
+“Fine!” the latter told them genially. “You propose to set upon me and
+finish me off at close quarters, do you? And when I’m done for, you’ll
+try to elude Béchoux. Now then, madame, keep your eyes open and you’ll
+see something! Tom Thumb and the two Giants! David and the twin
+Goliaths! Get a move on, Del Prego. Brace up, now! Try springing at my
+throat for a start!”
+
+The distance between them had lessened again. The two men stood tense,
+ready to hurl themselves on Barnett.
+
+But Barnett most unexpectedly forestalled them. In a flash he had dived
+to the floor, seized a leg of each and brought them crashing! Before
+they had time to counter, the head of each was being ground into the
+floor by an implacable, murderous hand. They gasped convulsively,
+choking in Barnett’s vise-like grip. Their countenances took on a
+purple tinge.
+
+“Olga!” called Barnett with perfect calm, “be a good girl and open the
+door and call Béchoux, will you?”
+
+Olga dropped, monkey-like, from her ladder, and tottered rather than
+ran out of the room, calling “Béchoux! Béchoux!”
+
+A moment later she returned with the inspector, babbling excitedly to
+him:
+
+“He did it! Bowled them both over single-handed! I’d never have
+believed it of him!”
+
+“Behold,” said Barnett to Béchoux, “your two bright lads. Just slip the
+bracelets on them so that I can let ’em come up for breath! You needn’t
+worry about fixing them too tightly. They’ll come quietly, won’t you,
+Del Prego? All lamb-like and pretty!”
+
+He rose from the floor, gallantly kissed Olga’s hand, while she
+regarded him in ever-growing wonder, and chortled gaily:
+
+“How’s that for a haul, Béchoux? Two of the most cunning criminals in
+Paris snared at last. Really, Del Prego, you must allow me to
+congratulate you on your methods!”
+
+He dug the professor playfully in the ribs, while the latter was
+powerless, handcuffed to Béchoux, and continued jubilantly:
+
+“My good man, you’re a genius. Why, when Béchoux and I were on the
+watch downstairs, I, having tumbled to your trick, naturally saw that
+it was not you the third time, but Béchoux, who didn’t know, soon
+swallowed the bait and really thought the gentleman in white gloves,
+white spats, grey hat and grey suit was the same Del Prego that he had
+already seen pass several times. So Del Prego the Second was able to go
+quietly upstairs, sneak through the door—which you had left ajar for
+him—and hide in the hall cupboard. Exactly the same tactics as you
+employed on the night when the bedroom suite disappeared into space.
+You can’t deny it, Del Prego, you’re a genius!”
+
+Barnett was by now bubbling over with sheer exuberance. With a flying
+leap, he was astride the trapeze; in a moment he was twirling like a
+top round and round an upright pole; he swung on to a rope, then to the
+rings, then up the ladder he went, swaying like a sailor in the
+rigging. The tails of his ancient frock-coat flapped stiffly,
+disapprovingly behind him, the venerable garment seeming to protest
+against these unseemly gambols.
+
+Olga gave a little gasp as he unexpectedly landed at her feet, bowing
+low.
+
+“Feel my heart, madame; beating quite normally. And I’m not the least
+bit out of breath. Don’t you wonder, Béchoux, how I keep in training?”
+
+He snatched up the telephone and called a number.
+
+“That the préfecture?... Extension two, please.... That you, Albert?
+Béchoux speaking.... It doesn’t sound like my voice?... Well, I can’t
+help that. Now then, listen. You can report that I have just arrested
+two murderers who are wanted for the Olga Vaubant robbery.”
+
+He hung up, and held out a hand to Béchoux.
+
+“The laurels are all yours, old chap. Madame, it’s time I took my
+leave. What’s up, Del Prego? You are not regarding me with that warm
+affection I could desire!”
+
+Del Prego was muttering furiously:
+
+“There’s only one man alive who could get the better of me ... only
+one....”
+
+“Who’s that?”
+
+“Arsène Lupin!”
+
+Barnett laughed as though he would split.
+
+“Bully for you, my boy. You ought to have been a Professor of
+Psychology. And then you would never have got yourself into this
+mix-up!”
+
+He had another joyous spasm, bowed to Olga, and went off in a gale of
+merriment, humming that catchy little tune:
+
+
+       “Yes, you otta see my Jim!”
+
+
+Next day Del Prego, overwhelmed by the case against him, revealed the
+whereabouts of the garage in the suburbs in which he had hidden Olga
+Vaubant’s bedroom suite. This was on the Tuesday. Barnett had fulfilled
+his promise.
+
+Béchoux was sent out of Paris on a fresh case, and was away some days.
+When he got back he found a note from Barnett.
+
+“You must own that I have played strictly fair. There hasn’t been a sou
+of profit for me in the whole business—none of the ‘pickings’ that have
+distressed your gentle soul in the past. It is satisfaction for me to
+know that I retain your friendship and respect!”
+
+That afternoon Béchoux, who had made up his mind to part brass-rags
+once and for all with Barnett, went along to the office in the rue
+Laborde. The office was closed, and there was a notice on the door
+which read:
+
+
+       “Closed on account of a sudden attachment.
+        Reopening after the honeymoon trip.”
+
+
+“And what the hell may that mean?” muttered Béchoux, smitten with
+sudden vague anxiety. He rushed off to Olga’s flat. It was shut up. He
+rushed on to the Folies Bergère. There he was told that the star had
+paid a large forfeit to break her contract and had gone off on holiday.
+
+“Nom d’un Nom d’un Nom!” spluttered Béchoux when he got out in the
+street. “Is it possible?... Instead of collaring some cash, can he have
+used his triumph to ... can he have dared to....”
+
+The cloud of suspicion grew bigger and blacker. Béchoux became frantic.
+How was he to learn the truth? Or rather, what course could he take
+that would keep the truth from him, and save him from appalling
+certainty in place of his suspicion?
+
+
+
+But Barnett was not the man to leave his victim in peace. At intervals
+the unlucky Béchoux was the recipient of highly colored post-cards,
+scrawled with even more lurid legends:
+
+“Oh, Béchoux! One moonlight night in Rome!”
+
+“Béchoux, next time you’re in love, bring her to Sicily!”
+
+And from Venice: “If you were here, Béchoux, I should have to stop you
+jumping in a canal!”
+
+“I will never forgive him this, never! He has outraged me past hope of
+pardon! Next time I will have my revenge!”
+
+And, like a mocking echo, he seemed to hear Olga’s husky tones:
+
+
+       “I’m in luck, I gotta boy
+        Fills his momma’s heart with joy.
+        Yes, you otta see my Jim!”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+X
+
+ARRESTING ARSÈNE LUPIN!
+
+
+Suddenly, unexpectedly, the fight between Barnett and Béchoux, which
+had dragged on so long under cover, had reached the last round—in the
+open!
+
+Inspector Béchoux sped through the arched gateway of the préfecture and
+across a couple of courtyards, took the stairs two at a time, and
+dashed, without pausing to knock, into the sanctum of his chief. Pale
+and breathless, he stammered:
+
+“Arsène Lupin is mixed up in the Desroques case!”
+
+The chief gave a startled exclamation.
+
+“Surely not!”
+
+“I saw him myself only a little while ago, outside Desroques’ flat, and
+recognized him at once.”
+
+“Don’t try and be funny, Béchoux. Nobody ever recognizes Arsène Lupin.”
+
+“I do!” declared Béchoux. “This time he’s disguised as a private
+detective and calls himself Jim Barnett—you remember, the chap I told
+you about before, who left Paris a little while ago.”
+
+The chief gave a slight chuckle.
+
+“Left with Olga Vaubant of the Folies Bergère, didn’t he?”
+
+“Yes,” assented Béchoux wrathfully. “Olga Vaubant, the singing acrobat,
+and my ex-wife!”
+
+“Well,” said the chief, “what did you do when you—recognized Lupin?”
+
+“I shadowed him.”
+
+“Without his knowing it?” The other was frankly incredulous.
+
+Béchoux drew himself up stiffly. “When I shadow a man, chief, he never
+knows it,” he declared. “All the same,” he added thoughtfully,
+“although the beggar was pretending to be out for a stroll, he didn’t
+take any chances. First he walked round the Place de l’Etoile. Then he
+went along the Avenue Kléber and stopped on the east side of the Rond
+Point du Trocadéro. Sitting on a bench there was a gipsy girl. She was
+a pretty piece of goods, with her black head bare in the sunshine, and
+her colored shawl wrapped about her. Well I watched Lupin, alias
+Barnett, sit down beside her, and a minute later they were talking away
+together, but hardly moving their lips—an old prison trick that, chief.
+More than once I noticed them looking up at a house on the corner of
+the Place du Trocadéro and the Avenue Kléber. After a while, Lupin got
+up and took the Metro.”
+
+“Did you keep on shadowing him?”
+
+“Yes—or, rather, I tried to,” said Béchoux. “But he jumped aboard a
+train that was just moving while I was held up in the crowd. When I got
+back to the bench, the gipsy girl was gone.”
+
+“And what about the house they were looking up at?”
+
+“That’s where I’ve just come from,” said Béchoux. He took a deep
+breath, and launched forth: “On the fourth floor of that house is a
+furnished flat where for the last month old General Desroques, Jean
+Desroques’ father, has been living. You remember that he came up from
+Limoges to defend his son when the latter was arrested and
+charged”—Béchoux swelled with the majesty of the law—“with abduction,
+illegal detention, and wilful murder!”
+
+This repetition of the roll of crimes seemingly impressed the chief,
+who nodded solemnly and asked his subordinate:
+
+“Did you call on the general?”
+
+“I did, and he opened the door to me himself. Then I described to him
+the little comedy that had just been played under his windows, leaving
+out all mention of Arsène Lupin, of course. He was not surprised, and
+told me that the day before a gipsy girl had come to see him. She
+offered to tell his fortune and reveal the outcome of the trial. She
+demanded three thousand francs and said she would await his answer next
+afternoon in the Place du Trocadéro between two and half-past two.”
+
+“But why should the general pay her all that money?”
+
+“She assured him that she could get hold of the mystery photograph and
+let him have it.”
+
+“What?” the chief was genuinely surprised. “You mean that photograph
+we’ve all been searching for and can’t find anywhere?”
+
+“That’s it,” said Béchoux. “The photograph that would save the
+general’s son—or finally establish his guilt!”
+
+Both were silent for a while. At last the chief said:
+
+“I expect you know, Béchoux, how anxious we are to get hold of that
+photograph ourselves?”
+
+Béchoux nodded.
+
+“It means even more than you realize, though. Listen, Béchoux, if you
+can lay hands on that photograph it must be turned over to me before
+the Parquet gets wind of it.” He added in a whisper: “The Department
+comes first, see?...”
+
+And, with equal seriousness and set purpose, Béchoux replied, “Chief,
+you shall have it. I will get it for you, and, at the same time, I will
+get Jim Barnett, or rather Arsène Lupin!”
+
+
+
+Just a month before this conversation at the préfecture, Jacques
+Veraldy had been kept waiting for his dinner. Jacques Veraldy, one of
+the foremost figures in Parisian society, a man of vast wealth, one of
+the unscrupulous spiders that spin political webs, had waited till long
+past the dinner hour for the return of his wife, Christiane. But she
+did not come home that night, and next morning the police were called
+in. They soon elicited the following facts:
+
+On the afternoon of her disappearance, Christiane Veraldy had gone for
+a walk in the Bois de Boulogne, near her house. On this walk she had
+been stopped by a well-dressed man who, after a brief conversation, had
+led her to a closed car, with the blinds pulled down, which was waiting
+in a deserted alley. They both got into the car and drove off quickly
+in the direction of Saint-Cloud.
+
+None of the witnesses who came forward to describe this meeting in the
+Bois had been able to see the man’s face. He seemed young, they said,
+and they were all agreed that he wore a very smart dark-blue overcoat
+and a black beret.
+
+Two days passed, and still there was no news of the missing Christiane
+Veraldy. Then, suddenly, the tragedy happened.
+
+About sunset, some peasants working in the fields on the main road from
+Paris to Chartres noticed a car being driven at a reckless speed. Even
+as they watched its onrush, the car door was pushed open, and a woman
+fell out on the road. They rushed to her assistance. At the same time
+the car raced up the steep bank at the side of the road, crashed into a
+tree and overturned. A man sprang from it, miraculously uninjured, and
+dashed to where the woman lay. She was dead. Her head had struck a heap
+of stones in her fall. They carried her body to the nearest village and
+told the gendarmes what had happened.
+
+The man made no secret of his identity. He was Député Jean Desroques, a
+well-known political figure, and at that time leader of the Opposition.
+
+The dead woman was Christiane Veraldy.
+
+Immediately trouble began brewing. The bereaved husband, thirsting for
+revenge rather than overcome with grief, was determined to make his
+supplanter, as he considered Jean Desroques, pay the penalty of the
+law. The accused man, on the other hand, had powerful political
+supporters, who strenuously denied that the leader of their party could
+be guilty of such a crime. These in turn brought pressure to bear on
+the police.
+
+Meanwhile, the peasants, one and all, swore that they had seen a man’s
+arm push the woman out of the car. Nor did there seem any possible
+doubt that the man who had been observed talking with Madame Veraldy in
+the Bois was indeed Desroques. At the time of the accident Jean
+Desroques was wearing a dark-blue greatcoat and a black beret.
+
+In any case, Desroques did not attempt to advance an alibi. He admitted
+having abducted Madame Veraldy, and acknowledged that he had detained
+her illegally. On the other hand, he swore that he had done all in his
+power to prevent her committing—suicide! For that was his explanation
+of the tragic occurrence.
+
+Desroques’ account of what had happened was that he had been struggling
+to hold Madame Veraldy down in her seat, that the door of the car had
+been forced open when she flung her weight against it, and she had
+fallen out.
+
+But concerning what had led up to the struggle, where they had spent
+the days since their meeting in the Bois, what had happened during that
+time, or even when and how he had first made the acquaintance of Madame
+Veraldy, Jean Desroques was obstinately silent.
+
+This last point—the question of the first meeting of Desroques and the
+banker’s wife—remained one of the minor yet most baffling mysteries of
+the case, since Veraldy declared he had never, since his marriage, had
+anything to do with Desroques, whom he regarded as a dangerous Radical.
+He testified to having frequently spoken disparagingly about him to
+Christiane, who had invariably refrained from comment.
+
+The examining magistrate tried in vain to get past the accused’s
+enigmatic barrier of reserve. The only reply his efforts elicited was:
+
+“I have nothing to say. You can do what you like with me. Whatever
+happens I shall not speak another word.”
+
+And when the police officials, one of whom was Béchoux, called at
+Desroques’ flat, he opened the door to them in person, saying:
+
+“I am quite ready to come with you, gentlemen.”
+
+Before leaving, a thorough search was made of the flat. There was a
+pile of ashes in the study fireplace, showing that Desroques had been
+burning papers. The police found nothing of any importance in the
+drawers of the desk or anywhere else. They took down every volume from
+the well-stocked bookshelves and shook them vigorously, but no telltale
+document fluttered out to reward their efforts. They took up the carpet
+and discovered nothing but dust!
+
+While this routine search was going on, Béchoux, pursuing his own
+rather more intuitive methods, stood perfectly still near the door and
+darted a lightning glance over the room. Suddenly he swooped down on
+the waste-paper basket. To one side of it lay a screw of paper which
+might have been an advertisement leaflet.
+
+Béchoux had it in his hands and was just smoothing it out, when Jean
+Desroques, who had been standing quietly by during the search of his
+study, sprang forward and snatched it from the detective’s hands.
+
+“You don’t want that,” he cried, “its only an old photograph. It came
+off its mount and I threw it away.”
+
+Béchoux, struck by Desroques’ eagerness to retain possession of an
+apparently worthless bit of rubbish that he had self-avowedly thrown
+away, was on the point of using force to make him give it up.
+
+But Desroques was too quick for him. Before the detective could bar the
+way, he had darted into the adjoining room and slammed the door behind
+him.
+
+There was a policeman on guard in the anteroom into which he had fled.
+When Béchoux and the others got the door open, this man had Desroques
+pinned on the floor. Immediately Béchoux searched his prisoner. He
+turned out the man’s pockets, made him take off his shoes and socks.
+But the unmounted photograph had disappeared!
+
+The window was tightly shut and there was no fire in the room. The
+policeman stated that he had stopped Desroques when he rushed in in
+case he should be trying to escape, but had seen no sign of any
+photograph or paper.
+
+Béchoux had a warrant for Desroques’ arrest, and, without vouchsafing a
+word, he went quietly off to prison.
+
+The foregoing are the bare facts of the case which, a little while
+before the Great War, caused such a stir in the press and among the
+public of Paris. There is no need to give in detail the inquiry
+conducted by the examining magistrate, as it shed no light on the
+mystery. But there should be considerable interest in the relation for
+the first time of an episode which led up to certain startling
+disclosures and put an entirely different complexion on the case,
+besides marking the last encounter in the long duel between Inspector
+Béchoux and his “friendly enemy,” Jim Barnett, of the Barnett Agency.
+
+
+
+The stage was set, and for once Béchoux felt happy in the possession of
+a little advance information as to the program. He knew what Barnett
+was up to—had watched his little confabulation with the gipsy girl
+under the windows of General Desroques’ flat. This time he intended to
+be first on the scene and to spoil Barnett’s entrance!
+
+On the day after the conversation with his chief at the préfecture,
+Béchoux again called at General Desroques’ flat. The latter had been
+advised by headquarters of the inspector’s visit.
+
+A rather corpulent, clean-shaven man-servant opened the door to
+Béchoux. In silence, and exuding a kind of aura of intense
+respectability, he ushered the inspector into the drawing-room, then
+softly withdrew.
+
+Béchoux took up his stand at a window from which he could survey the
+entire extent of the Place du Trocadéro without himself being seen from
+the street. For a long while he scrutinized the people passing to and
+fro in the busy square below.
+
+There was no sign of the gipsy girl, nor of the wily “Barnett” in whom
+Béchoux declared he had recognized Arsène Lupin.
+
+Neither of the suspects showed up all that day, nor the day after.
+
+During his self-imposed vigil, Béchoux sometimes had the company of
+General Desroques. The latter was tall, lean, grey-haired—the typical
+retired cavalry officer who has spent much of his life outdoors, and is
+in the habit of giving orders and having them promptly obeyed.
+Ordinarily taciturn, the general was one of those men who, when deeply
+moved, will lay aside some of their customary reserve. The charge
+against his son had wounded him terribly. Not only was he firmly
+convinced of Jean’s innocence, but he was certain that the young man
+was the victim of one of those mysterious political plots which
+occasionally blot the fair fame of every state.
+
+Although undetermined as to whence the blow had come, the old man stood
+at bay—like a lion defending its cub.
+
+“Jean would not, could not, do such a thing,” he declared. “The boy’s
+only fault is that he is over-scrupulous, absurdly quixotic. He is
+perfectly capable of sacrificing his own interests to some exaggerated
+idea of honor. He is the sort of person who would unhesitatingly
+shoulder a friend’s guilt and let the culprit go free. I am so sure of
+what I say, that I’m not going to see Jean in his cell. I won’t pay the
+slightest attention to what his lawyer says, or to what they print in
+the newspapers. Pack of lies, probably! The boy’s innocent, whether he
+says so or not. And I’m going to prove it, whether he likes it or not!
+We all have our own idea of what’s our duty. He thinks he ought to keep
+his mouth shut. Well and good. But I know I ought to clear his name, no
+matter who gets hurt in the process!”
+
+One day, when the reporters were harrying him with questions, the
+general burst out:
+
+“Do you really want to know what I think? Jean never kidnaped any one.
+The woman followed him of her own free will. He won’t admit it, because
+he is trying to shield her reputation. But if the facts come to
+light—and, believe me, they will—we shall find that my son and she knew
+each other and were probably on terms of intimacy. And I’m going to get
+to the bottom of things, whatever the result!”
+
+Now, while Béchoux crouched, like Sister Anne, at his window, and kept
+watch on the square, the general would come in and sit near him. Then
+the old man would go over the case and review the deadlock reached by
+himself and the police.
+
+“You and I, my friend, are after the same thing,” he would say, “but
+someone else is after it, too! I have friends who are in the know, and
+they tell me Veraldy has offered a fabulous reward to anyone who will
+solve the mystery of his wife’s death. He and my son’s political
+opponents are convinced that Jean is guilty. What we all want to find,
+though for very different reasons, is that photograph! Veraldy and his
+friends believe that if they can lay hands on it they will have proof
+of Jean’s guilt. I know that it will prove him innocent!”
+
+From Béchoux’s point of view, what the photograph might or might not
+prove was the least of his worries. His task was limited to getting
+hold of it for his chief. Any possible sequel had almost ceased to
+interest him.
+
+Meanwhile, day after day, he sat at his window watching for the gipsy
+girl who never came, filled with anguished speculation as to Barnett’s
+activities, and listening inattentively to the general’s eternal
+monologue about his hopes and plans and disappointments.
+
+One day old Desroques seemed unusually thoughtful. He obviously
+imagined he had hit on a fresh clue, or, at any rate, a new factor in
+the tragic problem. After a prolonged silence he addressed Béchoux at
+his post:
+
+“Inspector, my friends and I have come to the conclusion that the only
+human being who can possibly throw any light on how the photograph
+disappeared is the policeman who stopped my son in his flight the day
+he was arrested. It’s rather curious that he has never been called to
+give evidence. His name has never appeared in the press. In fact, but
+for the energetic inquiries of my friends, I should not now be in
+possession of”—he paused significantly—“certain information!”
+
+Inspector Béchoux looked distinctly uncomfortable, but did not speak.
+The general resumed:
+
+“We now know that this policeman was added to the group of men sent
+here from headquarters quite accidentally, just as they were leaving
+the police-station of this district on their way here. They rather
+doubted whether their numbers were strong enough in case my son offered
+violent resistance, and this policeman apparently offered to join them
+with some alacrity. They gladly accepted his assistance.
+
+“My friends have not been able to ascertain the identity of that
+policeman. For some reason or other none of your colleagues has been
+willing or able to tell us. Yet we are certain that the higher
+officials at the préfecture know who he is, and have been questioning
+him daily. We have reason to believe that he has been under strict
+surveillance ever since the arrest of my son. That he was taken to the
+police-station immediately after the disappearance of the photograph
+and searched; that he has not been allowed home; that he is, in fact, a
+prisoner. And we have more than an inkling of the reason for the strict
+reticence of the police on his account!” The general bent nearer to
+Béchoux, a certain triumph overspreading his hawklike features.
+
+Outwardly calm and indifferent, Béchoux was quaking inwardly. But he
+said nothing, feeling it wisest to let the general put all his cards on
+the table.
+
+“What do you say,” said the general, “to the suggestion that the
+mysterious policeman was, to say the least of it, rather a peculiar
+character to have got into the police force at all? A nice story it
+would make for the newspapers—and not particularly creditable. Ho, ho!”
+He waggled a gouty finger under the inspector’s nose.
+
+Still Béchoux was silent.
+
+“Well,” said the general, “it isn’t going to further my son’s interests
+to make a laughing-stock of the police force. But what I do demand as a
+right is that I may be allowed to question this policeman myself. Your
+people haven’t been able to get anything out of him. I think I may be
+more successful.”
+
+“And if I say that you cannot have this interview?” Béchoux’s voice was
+cold and level as chilled steel.
+
+“In that case, inspector, I shall—regretfully, of course—communicate
+with the editor of a well-known daily in regard to this somewhat
+curious ornament of the police force!”
+
+“No need for that, general.” Béchoux forced a smile. “There is no
+objection at all to your interviewing Constable Rimbourg—er, the
+policeman in question. I shall have pleasure in arranging for him to
+come along!”
+
+In truth, Béchoux was not particularly unwilling in the matter. His own
+plans had proved fruitless. He was absolutely without information about
+Barnett’s movements, and quite in the dark as to his adversary’s
+connection with the case. In the past, Barnett had always met him
+openly, albeit under the guise of lending his aid. Barnett had even
+been noticeably to the fore throughout the cases on which he had
+“coöperated” with the inspector. Béchoux had an uneasy feeling that
+this time, for some reason of his own, Barnett was working under cover,
+ready to burst out at any moment with a startling and probably
+unwelcome dénouement of the whole affair. And then it would be too late
+to circumvent him!
+
+His superiors gave Béchoux carte blanche to go ahead. Two days later,
+Sylvestre, the general’s rotund man-servant, gravely ushered Béchoux
+and Constable Rimbourg into the drawing-room.
+
+The constable was a very ordinary looking man—not at all the sort of
+figure to suggest a mystery. His eyes and mouth betrayed his weariness.
+He had been put through something of a “third degree” over the missing
+photograph. He was in uniform, with the customary revolver in a black
+leather case, and the policeman’s baton—that world-wide symbol of law
+and order.
+
+The general came in, and the three men sat a long while in conference.
+But no fresh light was shed on the problem of the photograph. Rimbourg
+was respectful, stolidly sympathetic, ready with his answers. But he
+denied having seen anything of any photograph.
+
+Then the general changed the trend of his interrogations. Abruptly he
+asked:
+
+“When did you first meet my son?”
+
+“We did our military service together, sir,” was the surprising answer.
+
+“You said nothing of this,” cried Béchoux.
+
+“I was not asked about it, inspector,” replied the man.
+
+“I must tell you, general,” said Béchoux, “that one of the reasons for
+our very strict surveillance of Constable Rimbourg was that he obtained
+his appointment through your son’s influence!”
+
+“What?” cried the general “But it has been freely hinted that this man,
+Rimbourg——” He broke off, suddenly thoughtful. Then he asked the
+constable: “What was your profession before you joined the police
+force?”
+
+“I did various odd jobs, sir. I was carpenter and scene-shifter for a
+touring company. I travelled round with a circus. I was lift-man in a
+hotel.”
+
+“Why did you leave the hotel?”
+
+“I tired of the job, sir.” Rimbourg’s voice was infinitely respectful,
+but there was a slight flicker in his eyes that belied his stolid calm.
+
+“And you found the police force suited you?”
+
+“Oh, perfectly, sir.”
+
+The general gave a disheartened shrug of dismissal.
+
+“Thank you, thank you; that will do for the present, I think,” he said.
+“I wish I could believe what you tell me, but frankly, I cannot help
+feeling you are keeping something back. Your previous acquaintance with
+my son is certainly an extraordinary coincidence, and I think,
+Inspector Béchoux, if I were you, I would investigate Constable
+Rimbourg’s past a bit more closely. Find out why he left that job as
+lift-man. And remember what I said before about the suggestion that he
+is, perhaps, a curious kind of constable altogether. Look up some of
+the cases in which he has been concerned—it might prove illuminating!”
+He rang the bell. “Sylvestre, give Monsieur Rimbourg a drink before he
+goes.” The door closed. “He’ll be quite safe with my man,” the general
+told Béchoux, as he poured out a glass of wine for the inspector. Then,
+raising his own glass:
+
+“Here’s to my son’s speedy liberation,” he said.
+
+For a second Béchoux could have sworn he saw a gleam of triumphant
+merriment in the general’s eye. A most uncalled-for emotion, surely,
+and yet....
+
+He wheeled sharply round, for the general was grinning broadly now. The
+drawing-room door had swung silently open. On the threshold he beheld a
+strange manifestation. There was slowly approaching a creature that
+walked on its hands! The empurpled face almost touched the floor. Above
+it protruded a comfortable paunch, surmounted by a pair of oddly slim
+and wildly kicking legs that pointed ceiling-wards. For a moment
+Béchoux was forcibly reminded of the antics of his acrobat wife, Olga.
+
+All at once the creature somersaulted, bringing its feet neatly
+together, and, right side up, began spinning round and round at
+terrific speed like a human top. And now Béchoux recognized—Sylvestre,
+the man-servant. Obviously the fellow was out of his mind. As he spun
+around, his stomach quivered like a jelly, and from his wide mouth
+issued a series of rousing guffaws.
+
+But—was it really Sylvestre? As he watched the extraordinary
+performance, Béchoux felt his brow bathed in a clammy dew. Could this
+wild figure be the imperturbable, perfectly trained, intensely
+respectable man-servant?
+
+The top ceased spinning. Sylvestre, if he it was, fixed the detective
+with a steady stare, relaxed his set expression of grotesque mirth,
+undid jacket and waistcoat, divested himself of a rubber paunch, and
+slipped gracefully into the coat which General Desroques handed him.
+Once more looking fixedly at the inspector he murmured solemnly:
+
+“Sold again, Béchoux!”
+
+And Béchoux, incapable of protest, sank weakly into a chair, breathing
+the one word—“Barnett....”
+
+“Yes, Barnett,” said the erstwhile man-servant, smiling.
+
+And Barnett it was, but a resplendent Barnett. Gone was the air of
+shabby gentility, the seedy get-up. This new Barnett approximated more
+nearly to Inspector Béchoux’s mental portrait of the redoubtable Arsène
+Lupin!
+
+And the general was chuckling unrestrainedly!
+
+Turning to him, Barnett bowed courteously.
+
+“Forgive my antics, sir, but whenever something happens that especially
+delights me I am apt to cut a few capers out of sheer exuberance. I am
+sure you will understand.”
+
+“In this instance, my friend, you are surely entitled to behave like a
+whole circus of clowns. Your little plan has succeeded to perfection.”
+
+“What’s all this?” asked Béchoux, recovering slightly from his first
+sense of shock and dismay. “Have you any special cause for joy,
+Barnett?”
+
+“Why, yes, Béchoux; and the best of it is that it is all thanks to you,
+dear old chap. (He’s the best of good fellows, general, I may tell
+you.) But I can see you are bursting to hear all about it. I will
+reserve my praises for another time, and start in on my little story.”
+
+He lit a cigarette, handing his case to the general, who also elected
+to smoke. Then, puffing appreciatively, he began:
+
+“Well, Béchoux, a short while ago I was travelling in Spain with a
+lady, if you remember? Ah, I see you do. A friend of mine telegraphed,
+asking me to help in unravelling the Desroques case. As it happened,
+my little idyll was by then distinctly on the wane—a total eclipse of
+the honeymoon, if I may use the expression. I seized the chance of
+regaining my freedom. And fortune smiled on me. New lamps for old,
+Béchoux!
+
+“For, at Granada, I fell in with a gipsy girl—a wild, southern beauty,
+Béchoux—and we travelled up together.
+
+“I was attracted to the Desroques case chiefly, I own, because you were
+working on it. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became
+that if there existed any proof of the guilt or innocence of Jean
+Desroques, it must be in the hands of the policeman who stopped him in
+his flight when they were making the arrest. But when I came to make
+investigations, I found myself up against a blank wall. I was unable to
+ascertain the identity of this man. I only guessed that he was being
+kept virtually a prisoner. What was I to do? Time was passing. The
+general and his son were both suffering severely under the strain.
+There was only one person in Paris who could help me—yourself!”
+
+Béchoux did not move. He longed for the ground to open and swallow him
+up with his shame. He had been tricked once again, more thoroughly than
+ever before. Barnett had shown him up as being the typical, slow-witted
+detective, the butt of every mystery novelist!
+
+“You were the only person who could help me,” Barnett repeated, “for
+the reason that you, and only you, were in possession of the truth. You
+had been given the job of putting Rimbourg through the ‘third degree.’
+But how was I to get in touch with you without your suspecting
+anything? How was I to work it so that you trotted off to retrieve the
+bird my chance shot had brought down?
+
+“In the end I found an easy way. I deliberately let you shadow me. I
+led you along, like Follow-my-Leader, to the Place du Trocadéro. There
+my bright-eyed gipsy lass was waiting for me. A whispered colloquy ...
+a furtive glance or two up at this flat ... and you took the bait!
+Fired with the idea of catching me or my accomplice, you took up your
+vigil here, in this very flat, under the same roof as General Desroques
+and his faithful servant—Sylvestre Barnett! So that I was able to keep
+you under close observation, hear just what you were doing, and,
+through General Desroques, suggest to your receptive mind exactly such
+thoughts as I wanted to implant there.”
+
+Turning to the general, Jim Barnett gave the latter a glance of genuine
+admiration.
+
+“I must tell you, general, that I cannot sufficiently commend your
+acting. You led Béchoux blindfold, step by step, towards our
+goal—namely, to find out the unknown constable’s name, and then get him
+into this flat for a few minutes. Just a few minutes, Béchoux—not more.
+For the thing I was after was the same thing that you, the police, the
+State, and everyone else were after—that photograph!
+
+“Knowing your industry, your ingenuity, your excessive energy in the
+pursuit of your duty, I realized that it would be useless to waste time
+going over ground you had already covered. What I had to do was to
+imagine the unimaginable—think of some utterly extraordinary and
+unheard-of hiding-place. I had to visualize it in advance, so that I
+could, if possible, possess myself of this secret receptacle on the day
+the constable came to the flat with you. And I had to obtain possession
+of it without his knowledge, for there wouldn’t be time to search him,
+explore the linings of his clothes and the soles of his shoes, and so
+forth. And yet I knew that somewhere about his person he would have
+that photograph. The question was, where?
+
+“I don’t want to digress, but as soon as I knew the name of this
+constable of yours, Béchoux, I was considerably enlightened. The
+general’s questions only confirmed what I already suspected—that this
+man, Rimbourg, was a clever fellow who, before he joined the police
+force, had had a distinctly varied experience and rather a checkered
+career! In short, I knew him to be just the man to hit upon some
+hiding-place so bold as to be unbelievable, so obvious as to seem
+fantastic! Something he could make use of, but which would never occur
+to anyone else as a possible place of concealment.
+
+“Now, Béchoux, suppose we test the intelligence of the class. What is
+it that distinguishes a policeman on duty from a postman, a dustman, a
+railway porter, a fireman—in short, from every other kind of uniformed
+employee? Give it a moment’s thought, while I count three. Your eagle
+intelligence will surely see it! One—two—three. Now, where was the
+hiding-place?”
+
+Béchoux made no reply. Despite the disadvantage at which he found
+himself, he was trying desperately to snatch at this straw and guess
+the solution of the riddle, so apparent to the triumphant Barnett. But
+he could not for the life of him think what was the distinguishing
+characteristic of a policeman on duty.
+
+“My poor friend,” sympathized Barnett. “Out with the boys last night?
+Your brain seems a trifle dulled to-day. I don’t usually have to
+enlighten you in words of one syllable only before you get your nose to
+the trail!”
+
+But there was no rôle for Béchoux’s nose to play in the incident which
+followed. Like a flash, Barnett darted out of the room, and returned a
+moment later gravely balancing on the tip of his own olfactory organ
+the shining baton—truncheon—nightstick—the same the wide world over,
+wielded by every police force, that bane of malefactors, that safeguard
+of life and property, that wooden club which has attained to the
+dignity of a symbol, and is able to break up the fiercest street-fight
+or halt the haughtiest limousine.
+
+Barnett toyed with this particular baton like a music-hall juggler with
+a bottle. He let it slither down his nose, caught it, twirled it behind
+his leg, round his neck, and down his back. Before it could fall to the
+ground, he had grasped it again, and, holding it out between thumb and
+finger, he addressed it in accents of mock solemnity:
+
+“O most honorable, most respectable, most admirable baton! Symbol of
+civic and municipal authority! A short while ago, you were hanging at
+Constable Rimbourg’s belt. A little sleight of hand and, hey presto!
+another baton, your double hung in your place. You were left behind
+when the constable departed!” Béchoux started violently, but Barnett
+motioned him back to his seat. “He is unlikely to return to retrieve
+you. In fact, I doubt whether we shall ever hear from him again. His
+rôle in the drama is over; he filled it not unworthily. But you, O
+baton, will fulfil to the last your rôle of defender of those in
+distress, and from you we shall learn the secret of Jean Desroques and
+the beautiful Christiane Veraldy. Speak, little baton, I conjure you to
+speak!”
+
+With his left hand Barnett seized firm hold of the handle, circled with
+narrow grooves. In his right, he held tightly the heavy body of the
+club, made of ash-wood, painted white, and attempted to twist it.
+
+“I was right!” he exclaimed joyously. “But it’s a miracle of
+workmanship. Not for nothing was Constable Rimbourg at one time a
+carpenter—the man must have been a master of his craft! See, he has
+hollowed out the heart of this club without ever breaking the outside,
+fixed this almost invisible channel for the screw, so that the two
+pieces of wood fit together so perfectly that there is no danger of the
+head of the club working loose.”
+
+Barnett gave the baton another twist. The handle came unscrewed,
+revealing a metal ring. The stick of the baton was now in two bits. In
+the longer section they could see a copper tube running the length of
+the club.
+
+The faces of all three men wore expressions of rapt attention. They
+held their breath, so that the silence of the room was intensified.
+Despite himself, even Barnett was obviously impressed with the
+solemnity of the moment. He turned over the copper tubing, tapping it
+several times hard on the table. Out fell a roll of paper!
+
+“That’s it—the photograph!” murmured Béchoux.
+
+“You recognize it, do you? It fits the official description all right.
+About six inches long, detached from its mount and rather crumpled.
+Will you kindly unroll it yourself, General Desroques?”
+
+With trembling eagerness the general picked up the paper. His usually
+steady hand shook as he began unrolling the fateful scroll. There were
+four sheets of notepaper and a telegram pinned to the photograph. For a
+moment, the general stared in silence at the latter, then he showed it
+to the other two. In a voice vibrant with emotion he began speaking on
+a note of joy, which quickly gave place to one of grief.
+
+“You see, it is the portrait of a woman. A young woman with a child on
+her lap. The face is that of Madame Veraldy—it tallies with the
+pictures in the press, except that here she is younger. This photograph
+must have been taken nine or ten years ago by the look of it. Yes;
+here’s the date, in the bottom, left-hand corner. I was right. This
+picture is eleven years old. And it is signed ‘Christiane’—Madame
+Veraldy’s name!”
+
+The general paused, then added thoughtfully:
+
+“This establishes the fact that Jean must have known this woman in the
+past, possibly before her marriage to Veraldy.”
+
+“Read the letters, monsieur,” suggested Barnett, handing over the first
+sheet, closely covered with fine, feminine handwriting.
+
+General Desroques began reading. He had hardly read the first few
+lines, when he gave a kind of groan, as of a man who stumbles suddenly
+on a terrible and painful secret. Hurriedly he scanned the first
+letter, then, with increasing anxiety, turned to the others which, with
+the telegram, Barnett passed to him one by one.
+
+“Can you tell us what you have found out, general?”
+
+The general did not answer at once. His eyes were filled with tears
+when at last he muttered huskily:
+
+“It is I who am to blame! I alone who am guilty.... About twelve years
+ago Jean fell in love with a little shop-girl. They had a baby, a boy.
+Jean wanted to marry his amie, but my heart was hardened by pride and
+snobbishness. I forbade the marriage and refused to see the girl. Jean
+was meaning to disobey me—for the first time—and marry her out of hand.
+But she would not let him. She sacrificed her own happiness so that my
+son should not quarrel with me. Here is her letter—the first one. She
+says: ‘It’s good-bye Jean. Your father won’t let us get married. You
+must give in to him. If you don’t it might mean bad luck for our
+darling baby. I send you a picture of us both. Keep it always, and
+don’t forget about us too soon....’”
+
+The general paused, overcome with emotion. He continued, more calmly:
+
+“But it was she who forgot. Some time later she got engaged to Veraldy,
+then at the beginning of his career. Jean learned of their marriage,
+and had his little son brought up by a retired schoolmaster near
+Chartres. There the mother would sometimes visit him secretly.”
+
+Béchoux and Barnett were listening intently so as not to lose a word.
+It was not easy to follow the general’s speech, as he dropped his voice
+until it was little more than a whisper. The hand that had held the
+letters trembled uncontrollably.
+
+“The last letter,” he continued, “is dated five months ago. It is very
+short. Christiane tells of her remorse and unhappiness. She is
+passionately fond of her child, and it is agony to her not to have him
+with her. Then comes the telegram, sent to Jean by the old
+schoolmaster: ‘Child dangerously ill, come at once.’ At the bottom of
+the telegraph form are just these few words, scrawled by my son after
+the tragedy: ‘Our child is dead. Christiane has killed herself.’”
+
+Again the general paused. No further explanations were needed. It was
+easy to guess what had happened. On receipt of the telegram, Jean had
+immediately sought out Christiane and taken her to the bedside of the
+dying child. On the way back to Paris, Christiane overcome with grief,
+had committed suicide.
+
+“What shall we do about it?” Barnett wanted to know.
+
+“We must reveal the truth,” was the general’s reply. “Jean’s reasons
+for keeping silence are obvious. He was shielding the dead woman, but
+he also wanted to shield me, since I was really responsible for the
+terrible tragedy. Also, though he felt certain neither the schoolmaster
+at Chartres, nor Constable Rimbourg, who owed him a debt of gratitude,
+would betray him, he definitely did not want this conclusive piece of
+evidence to be destroyed. He wanted Fate to bring the truth to light.
+Now that you, Monsieur Barnett, have succeeded in effecting this
+revelation....”
+
+“If I succeeded, general,” said Barnett quickly, “it was solely due to
+the help of my friend, Béchoux. We mustn’t lose sight of that. If
+Béchoux had not led us to Constable Rimbourg and his baton, I should
+have failed. It is Béchoux who deserves your thanks, general.”
+
+“My thanks are due to both of you,” said the old soldier. “You have
+saved my son, and I shall not hesitate to do my duty.”
+
+Béchoux approved the general’s decision. He was so deeply moved by what
+had just happened that he was even prepared to waive making any attempt
+to take possession of the documents the police were so urgently
+wanting. He was ready to take this course, although it meant
+sacrificing his personal prestige. His humanity triumphed over his
+professional conscience—not for the first time.
+
+But as the general made to withdraw to his own room Béchoux stepped up
+to Barnett and tapped him on the shoulder with the curt words: “I
+arrest you, Jim Barnett!”
+
+He spoke in the accents of sincerity. He was quite obviously going
+through what was a futile formality which he felt himself obliged to
+perform. He had instructions to arrest Barnett, and would do so, no
+matter what the circumstances.
+
+Barnett held out his hand to the inspector.
+
+“You win, Béchoux,” he said, “you’ve arrested me, and carried out
+orders. Old Kaspar’s work is done. And now, if you’ve no objection, I
+will make my escape. In that way our friendship will be saved and honor
+satisfied! You know I should do it anyway.”
+
+Béchoux shook the outstretched hand of his strange friend with
+heartfelt warmth. Between these two alternately allies and enemies, a
+truce was called—perhaps even a permanent amnesty. Both men recalled
+with genuine emotion their former encounters, the adventures they had
+experienced in company.
+
+Béchoux expressed his feelings with that characteristic blunt
+simplicity that made him so popular with his colleagues and the world
+at large.
+
+“You’re the greatest of all of them, Barnett. You stand absolutely
+alone. Your feat to-day is nothing short of miraculous. No one but you
+could have solved the puzzle!”
+
+“I don’t know,” said Barnett reflectively. “After all, I had that
+inkling of Rimbourg’s past to help me. Do you know the man had actually
+worked for an illusionist and conjurer at one time. And his little idea
+in joining the police force was probably mainly the advantage of being
+in close proximity to the pickings on every possible occasion. Although
+he demonstrated unwavering loyalty to his benefactor, Jean Desroques,
+we must not lose sight of Rimbourg’s real character. He was a
+policeman, much as you suspect me of being a detective——”
+
+Béchoux cut him short.
+
+“None of that now,” he cried. “Oh, but you’re a wonder. Who on earth
+but you would ever have discovered such an improbable hiding-place as
+the inside of a police baton?”
+
+Barnett cocked his head on one side and simpered unbecomingly in
+imitation of a blushing schoolgirl.
+
+“Any one’s wits are sharper when there is a prize at stake.”
+
+“A prize? How do you mean? Surely you’re not thinking of any reward
+General Desroques may offer you? You must know he’s not at all well
+off.”
+
+“And if he did offer me anything, I should have to refuse it. You
+mustn’t forget the proud motto of the Barnett Agency. No fees of any
+kind—services gratis—we work for glory!”
+
+“Well, then....” Inspector Béchoux looked distinctly puzzled; worried,
+too. Barnett smiled guilelessly.
+
+“The fact is, as I was glancing quickly through the fourth letter
+before passing it to the general, I saw that it stated Christiane
+Veraldy had from the outset told her husband of her past! Consequently,
+the banker was fully cognizant of his wife’s former love affair, and
+knew that she had a child! Yet he deliberately neglected to inform the
+police of these facts. This he did out of jealousy and in the hope that
+his silence might bring Jean Desroques to the scaffold. He knew that
+Desroques would never reveal the dead woman’s secret.
+
+“You will agree that this was a pretty blackguardly thing to do. Now
+don’t you think that, with all his money, Veraldy would be prepared to
+come down handsomely in order to prevent that letter becoming public
+property? Don’t you think that if some trustworthy, respectable
+man—Sylvestre, for instance, General Desroques’ servant—were to go to
+Veraldy and offer quite spontaneously to hand over that piece of paper,
+the banker would be prepared to talk business? I am taking a chance on
+being right in my supposition, as I was about the police baton, for
+instance. In fact, just so as to be able to play my hunch I slipped the
+letter into my pocket!”
+
+Béchoux groaned. It was all wrong, of course. And yet, it seemed only
+fair that Barnett should reap some reward for the exercise of his
+special deductive skill. The laborer is worthy of his hire. And if the
+innocent were saved and wrongs were righted, what objection could there
+really be to those “commissions” Barnett habitually extracted from the
+pockets of the guilty parties in a case?
+
+“Au revoir, Barnett,” said the inspector, shaking hands again. And at
+the back of his mind lurked the certainty that next time he had a
+knotty problem to tackle he would be quite ready to compromise with his
+scruples and call in Barnett’s invaluable aid.
+
+“Au revoir, Béchoux,” said Barnett. “I shall be ringing you up in a day
+or so, I expect.”
+
+“What about?”
+
+“You’ll know all in good time,” and Jim Barnett was off and away.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+XI
+
+AFTERWORD
+
+
+“Hallo! I want to speak to Chief Inspector Béchoux!”
+
+It was Barnett’s voice on the line.
+
+“Inspector Béchoux speaking,” replied Béchoux coldly. “Is that some one
+trying to be funny?”
+
+“Oh, Béchoux, don’t tell me you haven’t recognized my voice. After all
+this while! And I thought you loved me!”
+
+“Oh, it’s you, Barnett? Well, if you’re just fooling, you may as well
+ring off. I’m busy.”
+
+“But I’ve good news for you, old chap!” Barnett’s tone grew distinctly
+plaintive.
+
+Inspector Béchoux thawed a trifle.
+
+“What is it, then?” he asked.
+
+“Although you failed to get Arsène Lupin as you swore you would, or to
+get that photograph as per instructions, yet Fate smiles on you. Isn’t
+it lovely? I’ve put in such a good word for you with the people higher
+up, and shown them so clearly what remarkable services you rendered to
+the cause of justice in that Desroques case, that they are going to
+appoint you a Chief Inspector. Oh, don’t thank me! Merely a trifling
+mark of my esteem. From Barnett to Béchoux, as it were, in memory of
+many happy days. And now at last my conscience is at rest, for you,
+too, have reaped the fruit of our alliance in those adventures where I
+was privileged to intervene!”
+
+And Béchoux felt oddly pleased that his promotion, albeit well
+deserved, should have come through Barnett. He reflected that it took a
+man like Barnett to make a vast organization like the police force
+recognize the merits of one of the minor cogs in the machine.
+Nevertheless he had no doubts at all of the altogether special merits
+of one Inspector Béchoux and his eminent suitability for promotion!
+
+Therefore it was in a spirit of unfeigned and unclouded gratitude, but
+not altogether of surprise, that he answered now:
+
+“Thank you, thank you, Barnett. The appointment will mean twice as much
+to me, coming as it does through you!”
+
+Inspector Béchoux had set out to arrest Arsène Lupin—and had ended by
+becoming himself a prisoner of Jim Barnett’s brains!
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75896 ***
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+</head>
+<body>
+<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75896 ***</div>
+<div class="front">
+<div class="div1 cover"><span class="pageNum">[<a title="Go to the table of contents" href="#toc">Contents</a>]</span><div class="divBody">
+<p class="first"></p>
+<div class="figure cover-imagewidth"><img src="images/new-cover.jpg" alt="Newly designed front cover." width="480" height="720"></div><p>
+</p>
+</div>
+</div>
+<div class="div1 frenchtitle"><span class="pageNum">[<a title="Go to the table of contents" href="#toc">Contents</a>]</span><div class="divBody">
+<p class="first center large">ARSÈNE LUPIN <br>
+INTERVENES
+</p>
+</div>
+</div>
+<div class="div1 advertisement"><span class="pageNum">[<a title="Go to the table of contents" href="#toc">Contents</a>]</span><div class="divHead">
+<h2 class="main">BY THE SAME AUTHOR</h2>
+<ul class="center">
+<li><span class="sc"><a class="pglink xd33e40" title="Link to Project Gutenberg ebook" href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34931">The Woman of Mystery</a></span></li>
+<li><span class="sc"><a class="pglink xd33e40" title="Link to Project Gutenberg ebook" href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34795">The Golden Triangle</a></span></li>
+<li><span class="sc"><a class="pglink xd33e40" title="Link to Project Gutenberg ebook" href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34939">The Secret of Sarek</a></span></li>
+<li><span class="sc"><a class="pglink xd33e40" title="Link to Project Gutenberg ebook" href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/73662">Eyes of Innocence</a></span></li>
+<li><span class="sc"><a class="pglink xd33e40" title="Link to Project Gutenberg ebook" href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34653">The Three Eyes</a></span></li>
+<li><span class="sc"><a class="pglink xd33e40" title="Link to Project Gutenberg ebook" href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/7896">The Eight Strokes of the Clock</a></span></li>
+<li><span class="sc"><a class="pglink xd33e40" title="Link to Project Gutenberg ebook" href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33386">The Tremendous Event</a></span></li>
+<li><span class="sc"><a class="pglink xd33e40" title="Link to Project Gutenberg ebook" href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/59072">The Secret Tomb</a></span></li>
+<li><span class="sc"><a class="pglink xd33e40" title="Link to Project Gutenberg ebook" href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/70719">Memoirs of Arsène Lupin</a></span></li>
+<li><span class="sc"><a class="pglink xd33e40" title="Link to Project Gutenberg ebook" href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/74269">Arsène Lupin, Super-Sleuth</a></span></li>
+</ul>
+<p></p>
+</div>
+</div>
+<div class="div1 titlepage"><span class="pageNum">[<a title="Go to the table of contents" href="#toc">Contents</a>]</span><div class="divBody">
+<p class="first"></p>
+<div class="figure titlepage-imagewidth"><img src="images/titlepage.png" alt="Original Title Page." width="415" height="720"></div><p>
+</p>
+</div>
+</div>
+<div class="titlePage">
+<div class="docTitle">
+<h1 class="mainTitle">ARSÈNE LUPIN INTERVENES</h1>
+</div>
+<div class="byline">BY<br>
+<span class="docAuthor">MAURICE LE BLANC</span></div>
+<div class="docImprint">NEW YORK<br>
+THE MACAULAY COMPANY</div>
+</div>
+<p></p>
+<div class="div1 imprint"><span class="pageNum">[<a title="Go to the table of contents" href="#toc">Contents</a>]</span><div class="divBody">
+<p class="first center"><span class="sc">Published in England Under the Title</span><br>
+“<span class="sc">Jim Barnett Intervenes</span>”
+</p>
+<p class="center"><span class="sc">Copyright, 1929, by</span><br>
+THE MACAULAY COMPANY
+</p>
+<p class="center small">PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
+</p>
+</div>
+</div>
+<div id="toc" class="div1 last-child contents"><span class="pageNum">[<a title="Go to the table of contents" href="#toc">Contents</a>]</span><div class="divHead">
+<h2 class="main">CONTENTS</h2>
+<table class="tocList">
+<tr>
+<td class="tocDivNum">CHAPTER</td>
+<td class="tocDivTitle">
+</td>
+<td class="tocPageNum xs">PAGE</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tocDivNum">I</td>
+<td class="tocDivTitle"> <a href="#ch1" id="xd33e210">FOREWORD</a> </td>
+<td class="tocPageNum">9</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tocDivNum">II</td>
+<td class="tocDivTitle"> <a href="#ch2" id="xd33e219">“DROPS THAT TRICKLE AWAY”</a> </td>
+<td class="tocPageNum">13</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tocDivNum">III</td>
+<td class="tocDivTitle"> <a href="#ch3" id="xd33e228">THE ROYAL LOVE LETTER</a> </td>
+<td class="tocPageNum">38</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tocDivNum">IV</td>
+<td class="tocDivTitle"> <a href="#ch4" id="xd33e237">A GAME OF BACCARAT</a> </td>
+<td class="tocPageNum">61</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tocDivNum">V</td>
+<td class="tocDivTitle"> <a href="#ch5" id="xd33e246">THE MAN WITH THE GOLD TEETH</a> </td>
+<td class="tocPageNum">85</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tocDivNum">VI</td>
+<td class="tocDivTitle"> <a href="#ch6" id="xd33e255">TWELVE LITTLE NIGGER BOYS</a> </td>
+<td class="tocPageNum">108</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tocDivNum">VII</td>
+<td class="tocDivTitle"> <a href="#ch7" id="xd33e264">THE BRIDGE THAT BROKE</a> </td>
+<td class="tocPageNum">137</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tocDivNum">VIII</td>
+<td class="tocDivTitle"> <a href="#ch8" id="xd33e273">THE FATAL MIRACLE</a> </td>
+<td class="tocPageNum">164</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tocDivNum">IX</td>
+<td class="tocDivTitle"> <a href="#ch9" id="xd33e282">DOUBLE ENTRY</a> </td>
+<td class="tocPageNum">195</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tocDivNum">X</td>
+<td class="tocDivTitle"> <a href="#ch10" id="xd33e291">ARRESTING ARSÈNE LUPIN</a> </td>
+<td class="tocPageNum">226</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tocDivNum">XI</td>
+<td class="tocDivTitle"> <a href="#ch11" id="xd33e301">AFTERWORD</a> </td>
+<td class="tocPageNum">255</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+<p></p>
+<p><span class="pageNum" id="pb9">[<a href="#pb9">9</a>]</span></p>
+</div>
+</div>
+</div>
+<div class="body">
+<div id="ch1" class="div1 chapter"><span class="pageNum">[<a title="Go to the table of contents" href="#xd33e210">Contents</a>]</span><div class="divHead">
+<h2 class="super"><span class="corr" id="xd33e311" title="Source: ARSENE">ARSÈNE</span> LUPIN INTERVENES</h2>
+<h2 class="label">I</h2>
+<h2 class="main">FOREWORD</h2>
+</div>
+<div class="divBody">
+<p class="first">Contrary, perhaps, to the opinion of the Bright Young People in our midst, the World-before-the-War
+was not by any means barren of adventure and excitement. Only, they did things differently
+then. There was, in those days, a certain sparkling gaiety, a spontaneity, a <i>chic</i> sadly lacking from the exploits of a younger generation. There was wit as well as
+honor among thieves. Just as really good wine differs from that modern depravity,
+the cocktail, so does the finished artistry of Jim Barnett compare with the outrages
+of bobbed-hair bandits and cat-burglars.
+</p>
+<p>For Barnett had a brain and used it; a sense of humor, and rejoiced in it. He was
+independent of revolvers and racing cars and hypodermic syringes. He made a confidant
+of no man—or woman. He was an unassisted conjurer, as it were, performing his little
+tricks always in the full glare of the limelight, relying entirely on his own lightning
+skill to vanish his watches and evolve his rabbits.
+</p>
+<p>A curious, memorable figure, Jim Barnett. By profession, a private detective, principal
+of the Barnett <span class="pageNum" id="pb10">[<a href="#pb10">10</a>]</span>Agency in the <i>rue Laborde</i>, with a modest ground-floor office for his headquarters. Unlike others of his trade,
+he worked entirely alone. He employed no spies, and saved himself their possible treachery.
+He had no secretary for the simple reason that he kept no records. His telephone rang
+infrequently, and when it did he answered it himself.
+</p>
+<p>In appearance, Barnett was something of a problem. He gave the impression of a man
+who is wilfully badly dressed, intentionally careless of his attire. His coat’s sole
+claim to respect was its indubitable antiquity. His trousers—but we will spare possible
+heartbreak to the tailors who read this description. He wore his incongruous monocle
+like some exotic bloom—its startling aristocracy in conjunction with the rest of his
+get-up was that of an orchid in an onion patch.
+</p>
+<p>What a contrast to his friend, Inspector Béchoux, that immaculate sprig of the Paris
+Police Force. Béchoux was frankly a dandy, devoting all his off-time to the adornment
+of his person. Yet he was no fool. Only, his brain moved in the channels of detective
+routine, whereas Barnett’s leaped nimbly from point to point of a mystery until it
+plucked out the heart.
+</p>
+<p>Be it said to Inspector Béchoux’s undying honor that he recognized Barnett’s gifts
+quite openly. He even resorted to asking his help in various problems, and it is the
+inner history of some of these that this book now reveals for the first time to the
+world at large.
+</p>
+<p>The peculiar feature of all the Béchoux-Barnett <span class="pageNum" id="pb11">[<a href="#pb11">11</a>]</span>cases was always either their apparent insolubility (<i>e.g.</i>, the Disappearance of the Twelve Little Nigger Boys) or the fact that they seemed
+solved at the outset (as in the case of the Man with the Gold Teeth). And the finale
+of each presented certain similar features—a dramatic and quite unexpected eleventh-hour
+<i>dénouement</i>; a swift adjustment of account between the innocent and guilty parties; <i>and</i>—a highly satisfactory windfall for Barnett. Only, as Inspector Béchoux bitterly observed,
+it was always the kind of windfall that meant shaking the tree. Barnett’s gifts would
+have stripped an orchard.…
+</p>
+<p>What placed Inspector Béchoux in a serious dilemma was that in every case Barnett’s
+position was unassailable from start to finish. His victims were people who could
+not be brought to speak a word against him. You could call it intimidation—blackmail—what
+you liked. Barnett merely grinned and fed large checks to his banking account.
+</p>
+<p>Large checks—and yet the slogan of the Barnett Agency was:—
+</p>
+<blockquote>
+<p class="first center">“<span class="sc">Information Free. No Fees of Any Kind.</span>”</p>
+</blockquote><p>
+</p>
+<p>Which was paradoxically true. Barnett’s income was composed not of fees but of levies.
+Sometimes he took toll of his clients, sometimes of their enemies. A certain poetic
+justice characterized his depredations. The poor and the innocent had nothing to fear
+from Jim Barnett.
+</p>
+<p>And he was undeniably on the side of the law so far <span class="pageNum" id="pb12">[<a href="#pb12">12</a>]</span>as results went. Only, where it suited his purpose, he meted out his own idea of a
+suitable punishment to criminals instead of turning them over to the police.
+</p>
+<p>Inspector Béchoux was probably Barnett’s only close friend. Yet all he knew of him
+was gleaned from the hours they spent together when Barnett intervened in one of his
+cases. He was quite ignorant of Barnett’s private life—his antecedents—even his identity.
+For there was always one mystery which remained unsolved. Who was the man who called
+himself “Jim Barnett”?
+</p>
+<p>There was something about his methods and his amusing buffoonery which could not fail
+to recall the King of Crooks—the one man who persisted in eluding and baffling the
+Paris police—the man Inspector Béchoux would have given his life-savings to lay hands
+on—whom he sometimes, in his inmost heart, half suspected to be masquerading as “Barnett,”
+and then dismissed the suspicion as fantastic.
+</p>
+<p>It is a long way back to pre-war Paris, and the clash of wits between Barnett and
+Inspector Béchoux. In these days, when so much of admiration and adulation is being
+misapplied, honor to whom honor is due! The moment has come when we can openly state
+that the worthy Inspector’s instinct was right, and the “interventions” of Jim Barnett
+may safely be attributed to their perpetrator—Arsène Lupin!
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb13">[<a href="#pb13">13</a>]</span></p>
+</div>
+</div>
+<div id="ch2" class="div1 chapter"><span class="pageNum">[<a title="Go to the table of contents" href="#xd33e219">Contents</a>]</span><div class="divHead">
+<h2 class="label">II</h2>
+<h2 class="main">“DROPS THAT TRICKLE AWAY.…”</h2>
+</div>
+<div class="divBody">
+<p class="first">The courtyard bell, on the ground floor of the Baronne Assermann’s imposing residence
+in the Faubourg St. Germain, rang loudly, and a moment later the maid brought in an
+envelope.
+</p>
+<p>“The gentleman says he has an appointment with madame for four o’clock.”
+</p>
+<p>Madame Assermann slit the envelope. Taking out a card, she held it gingerly between
+her finger-tips, and read:
+</p>
+<p class="center"><span class="sc">The Barnett Agency</span>
+</p>
+<p class="center"><i>Information Free</i>
+</p>
+<p>“Show the gentleman into my boudoir,” she drawled.
+</p>
+<p>Valérie Assermann—the beautiful Valérie she had been called for some thirty years—still
+retained a measure of good looks, although she was now thick-set, past middle-age
+and elaborately made-up. Her haughty and at times harsh expression had yet a certain
+candor which was not without charm.
+</p>
+<p>As the wife of Assermann, the banker, she took pride in her vast house with its luxurious
+appointments, in her large circle of acquaintances and in all the pomp <span class="pageNum" id="pb14">[<a href="#pb14">14</a>]</span>and circumstance of her social position. Behind her back society gossips whispered
+that Valérie had been guilty of various rather more than trifling indiscretions. Even
+hardened Parisian scandalmongers professed themselves shocked at her behavior. There
+were those who suggested that the baron, an ailing old man, had contemplated getting
+a divorce.
+</p>
+<p>Baron Assermann had been confined to his bed for several weeks with heart trouble,
+and Valérie rearranged the pillows under his thin shoulders and asked him, rather
+absent-mindedly, how he was feeling, before proceeding to her boudoir.
+</p>
+<p>Awaiting her there she found a curious person—a sturdily built, square-shouldered
+man, well set up, but shockingly dressed in a funereal frock-coat, moth-eaten and
+shiny, which hung in depressed creases over worn, baggy trousers. His face was young,
+but the rugged energy of his features was spoiled by a coarse, blotchy skin, almost
+brick-red in tone. Behind the monocle, which he used for either eye indifferently,
+his cold and rather mocking glance sparkled with a boyish gaiety.
+</p>
+<p>“Mr. Barrett?” Valérie asked, on a rising inflection, making no effort to keep the
+scorn out of her voice.
+</p>
+<p>He bowed, and, before she could withdraw it, he had kissed her hand with a flourish,
+following this gallantry by a not quite inaudible click of the tongue—suggesting his
+appreciation of the perfumed flavor.
+</p>
+<p>“Jim Barnett—at your service, madame la baronne. When I got your letter I stopped
+just long enough to give my coat a brush … that was all.…”
+</p>
+<p>The baronne wondered for a moment whether she <span class="pageNum" id="pb15">[<a href="#pb15">15</a>]</span>should show her visitor the door, but he faced her with all the composure of a man
+of rank, and, a little taken aback, she merely said:
+</p>
+<p>“I’ve been told that you are quite clever at disentangling rather delicate and complicated
+matters.…”
+</p>
+<p>He gave a self-satisfied smirk.
+</p>
+<p>“Yes—I’ve rather a gift for seeing clearly; seeing <i>through</i> and <i>into</i> things—and people.”
+</p>
+<p>While his voice was soft, his tone was masterful and his whole demeanor conveyed a
+suggestion of veiled irony. He seemed so sure of himself and his powers that it was
+impossible not to share his confidence, and Valérie felt herself coming under the
+influence of this unknown common detective, this head of a private inquiry bureau.
+Resenting the feeling, she interrupted him:
+</p>
+<p>“Perhaps we had better—er—discuss terms.…”
+</p>
+<p>“Quite unnecessary,” replied Barnett.
+</p>
+<p>“But surely”—it was she who was smiling now—“you do not work merely for glory?”
+</p>
+<p>“The services of the Barnett Agency, madame la baronne, are entirely free.”
+</p>
+<p>She looked disappointed, and insisted: “I should prefer to arrange some remuneration—your
+out-of-pocket expenses, at least.”
+</p>
+<p>“A tip?” he sneered.
+</p>
+<p>She flushed angrily. Her satin-shod foot tapped the carpet.
+</p>
+<p>“I cannot possibly …” she began.
+</p>
+<p>“Be under an obligation to me? Don’t worry, madame <span class="pageNum" id="pb16">[<a href="#pb16">16</a>]</span>la baronne, I shall see to it that we end up quits for whatever slight service I may
+be able to render you.”
+</p>
+<p>Was there a note of menace in the suave voice?
+</p>
+<p>Valérie shuddered a trifle uneasily. What was the meaning of this obscure remark?
+How did this man propose to recoup himself? Really, this Jim Barnett aroused in her
+almost the same sort of dread, the same queer kind of nightmare emotion that one might
+feel if suddenly confronted with a burglar! He might even be … yes, he was quite possibly
+some undesirable, unknown admirer. She wondered what she had better do. Ring for her
+maid? But he had so far dominated her that, regardless of the consequences, she found
+herself submitting passively to his questioning as to what had caused her to apply
+to his agency. Her account was brief, as Barnett seemed to be in a hurry, and she
+spoke frankly and to the point.
+</p>
+<p class="tb"></p><p>
+</p>
+<p>“It all happened the Sunday before last,” she began. “After a game of bridge with
+some friends, I went to bed rather early and fell asleep as usual. About four o’clock—at
+ten minutes past, to be exact—a noise woke me and then I heard a bang which sounded
+to me like a door closing. It came from my boudoir—this room we are in, which communicates
+with my bedroom and also with a corridor leading to the servants’ staircase. I’m not
+nervous, so after a moment’s hesitation I got up, came in here and turned on the light.
+The room was empty, but this small show-case”—she indicated it—“had fallen down, and
+several of the curios and <span class="pageNum" id="pb17">[<a href="#pb17">17</a>]</span>statuettes in it were broken. I then went to my husband’s room and found him reading
+in bed; he said he had heard nothing. He was very much upset and rang for the butler,
+who immediately made a thorough search of the house. In the morning we called in the
+police.”
+</p>
+<p>“And the result?” asked Barnett.
+</p>
+<p>“They could find no trace of the arrival or departure of any intruder. How he entered
+and got away is a mystery. But under a footstool among the débris of the curios some
+one found half a candle, and an awl set in a very dirty wooden handle. Now on the
+previous afternoon a plumber had been to repair the taps of the <span class="corr" id="xd33e427" title="Source: wash-basin">washbasin</span> in my husband’s dressing-room. The man’s employer, when questioned, identified the
+tool and, moreover, the other half of the candle was found in his shop.”
+</p>
+<p>“On that point, then,” interrupted Jim Barnett, “you have definite evidence.”
+</p>
+<p>“Yes, but against that is the indisputable and disconcerting fact that the investigation
+also proved that the workman in question took the six o’clock express to Brussels,
+arriving there at midnight—four hours before the disturbance which awakened me.”
+</p>
+<p>“<i>Really?</i> Has the man returned?”
+</p>
+<p>“No. They lost track of him at Antwerp, where he was spending money lavishly.”
+</p>
+<p>“Is that all you can tell me?”
+</p>
+<p>“Absolutely all.”
+</p>
+<p>“Who’s been in charge of this investigation?”
+</p>
+<p>“Inspector Béchoux.”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb18">[<a href="#pb18">18</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“What! The worthy Béchoux! He’s a very good friend of mine. We’ve often worked together.”
+</p>
+<p>“It was he who mentioned your Agency.”
+</p>
+<p>“Yes, because he’d come up against a blank wall, I suppose.”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett crossed to the window and leaning his head against the pane thought hard for
+a few minutes, frowning ponderously and whistling under his breath. Then he returned
+to Madame Assermann and continued:
+</p>
+<p>“You and Béchoux, madame, conclude that this was an attempted burglary. Am I right?”
+</p>
+<p>“Yes. An unsuccessful attempt, since nothing has been taken.”
+</p>
+<p>“That’s so. But all the same there must have been a definite motive behind this attempt.
+What was it?”
+</p>
+<p>Valérie hesitated. “I really don’t know,” she said after a moment. But again her foot
+tapped restlessly.
+</p>
+<p>The detective shrugged his shoulders; then, pointing to one of the silk-draped panels
+which lined the boudoir above the wainscoting he asked:
+</p>
+<p>“What’s under that panel?”
+</p>
+<p>“I beg your pardon,” she said in some bewilderment; “what do you mean?”
+</p>
+<p>“I mean that the most superficial observation reveals the fact that the edges of that
+silk oblong are slightly frayed, and here and there they are separated from the woodwork
+by a slit: there is every reason to suppose that a safe is concealed there.”
+</p>
+<p>Valérie gave a start. How on earth could the man have guessed from such imperceptible
+indications.… <span class="pageNum" id="pb19">[<a href="#pb19">19</a>]</span>Then with a jerk she slid the panel open, disclosing a small steel door. As she feverishly
+worked the three knobs of the safe an unreasoning fear came over her. Impossible as
+the hypothesis seemed, she wondered whether this queer stranger might somehow have
+robbed her during the few minutes he had been left alone in the room!
+</p>
+<p>At length, taking a key from her pocket, she opened the safe, and gave a sigh of relief.
+There it was—the only object the safe contained—a magnificent pearl necklace. Seizing
+it quickly, she twined its triple strands round her wrist.
+</p>
+<p>Barnett laughed.
+</p>
+<p>“Easier in your mind now, madame la baronne? Yes, it’s quite a pretty piece of jewelry,
+and I can understand its having been stolen from you.”
+</p>
+<p>“But it’s not been stolen,” she protested. “Even if the thief was after this, he failed
+to steal it.”
+</p>
+<p>“Do you really think so?”
+</p>
+<p>“Of course. Here is the necklace in my hands. When anything’s stolen it disappears.
+Well—here it is.…”
+</p>
+<p>“Here’s <i>a</i> necklace,” he corrected her quietly; “but are you sure that it is <i>your</i> necklace and that it has any value?”
+</p>
+<p>“What <i>do</i> you mean?” she asked in unconcealed annoyance. “Only a fortnight ago my <span class="corr" id="xd33e477" title="Source: jeweler">jeweller</span> valued it at half a million francs.”
+</p>
+<p>“A fortnight ago—that is to say, five days before that night.… And now? Please remember
+I know nothing; I have not valued the necklace; it is merely <span class="pageNum" id="pb20">[<a href="#pb20">20</a>]</span>a supposition. But are you yourself entirely without suspicion?”
+</p>
+<p>Valérie stood quite still. What suspicion was he hinting at? In what connection? A
+vague anxiety crept over her as his suggestion persisted. As she weighed the mass
+of heaped-up pearls in her outstretched hand it seemed to get lighter and lighter.
+As she looked she discovered variations in coloring, unaccustomed reflections, a disturbing
+unevenness, a changed graduation—each detail more disturbing than the last, until
+in the back of her mind the terrible truth began to dawn, distinct and threatening.
+</p>
+<p>Jim Barnett gave vent to a short chuckle.
+</p>
+<p>“Just so. You’re getting there, are you? On the right track at last—one more mental
+effort and all is clear as day! It’s all quite logical. Your enemy doesn’t just steal—he
+substitutes. Nothing disappears, and except for the noise of the falling show-case
+everything would have been carried out in perfect secrecy and have gone undiscovered.
+Until some fresh development occurred, you would have been absolutely unaware that
+the real necklace had vanished and that you were displaying on your snowy shoulders
+a string of imitation pearls.”
+</p>
+<p>Valérie was so absorbed in her own thoughts that she hardly noticed the familiarity
+of the man’s words and manner.
+</p>
+<p>Barnett leaned towards her.
+</p>
+<p>“Well—that settles the first point. And now we know what he stole, let’s look for
+the thief. That’s the procedure in all well-conducted cases. And once we’ve <span class="pageNum" id="pb21">[<a href="#pb21">21</a>]</span>found the thief we shan’t be far from recovering the object of the theft.”
+</p>
+<p>He gave Valérie’s hand a friendly pat of reassurance.
+</p>
+<p>“Cheer up, madame. We’re on the right scent now. Let’s begin by a little guesswork—it’s
+an excellent method. We’ll suppose that your husband, in spite of his illness, had
+sufficient strength to drag himself from his own room to this one, armed with the
+candle, and, anyway, with the tool the plumber left behind; we’ll go on to suppose
+that he opened the safe, clumsily overturned the show-case and then fled in case you
+had heard the noise. Doesn’t that throw a little light on it all? How naturally it
+accounts for the absence of any trace of arrival or departure, and also for the safe
+being opened without being forced, since Baron Assermann must many a time in all these
+years have come in here with you in the evening, seen you work the lock, noted the
+clicks and intervals and counted the number of notches displaced—and so, gradually,
+have discovered the three letters of the cipher.”
+</p>
+<p>This “little guesswork,” as Jim Barnett termed it, seemed to appall the beautiful
+Valérie as he went on “supposing” step by step. It was as if she saw it all happening
+before her eyes. At last she stammered out distractedly:
+</p>
+<p>“What you suggest is madness. You don’t suppose my husband.… If someone came here
+that night, it couldn’t have been the baron. Don’t be absurd!”
+</p>
+<p>“Did you have a copy of your necklace?” he interjected.
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb22">[<a href="#pb22">22</a>]</span></p>
+<p>She paused. When she spoke it was slowly, with forced calm.
+</p>
+<p>“Yes … my husband ordered one, for safety, when we bought it—four years ago.”
+</p>
+<p>“And where is the copy?”
+</p>
+<p>“My husband kept it,” she replied, her voice a mere whisper.
+</p>
+<p>“Well,” said Barnett cheerfully, “that’s the copy you’ve got in your hands; he has
+substituted it for the real pearls which he has taken. As for his motive—well, since
+his fortune places Baron Assermann above any suspicion of theft, we must look for
+something more intimate … more subtle.… Revenge? A desire to torture—to injure—perhaps
+to punish? What do you think yourself? After all, a young and pretty woman’s rather
+reckless behavior may be very understandable, but her husband is bound to judge it
+fairly severely.… Forgive me, madame. I have no right to pry into the secrets of your
+private life. I am merely here to locate, with your help, the present whereabouts
+of your necklace.”
+</p>
+<p>“No,” cried Valérie, starting back. “No!”
+</p>
+<p>Suddenly she felt she could no longer endure this ally who, in the course of a brief,
+friendly, almost frivolous conversation, had fathomed with diabolical ease all the
+secret circumstances of her life by a method quite unlike the ordinary methods employed
+by the police. And this man was now pointing out with an air of good-natured banter
+the precipice to whose edge fate seemed to be forcing her.
+</p>
+<p>The sound of his sarcastic voice became all at once <span class="pageNum" id="pb23">[<a href="#pb23">23</a>]</span>intolerable. She hated the mere thought of his searching for her necklace.
+</p>
+<p>“No,” she repeatedly obstinately.
+</p>
+<p>He bowed, insolently servile.
+</p>
+<p>“As you wish, madame. I have not the slightest desire to seem importunate. I am simply
+here to serve you in so far as you want my help. Besides, as things are now, you can
+safely dispense with my aid, since your husband is quite unfit to go out and will
+scarcely have been so imprudent as to entrust the pearls to any one else. If you make
+a careful search, you will probably discover them hidden somewhere in his room. I
+need say no more—except that if you should need me, telephone me at my office between
+nine and ten any night. And now I respectfully withdraw, madame la baronne.”
+</p>
+<p>Again he kissed her hand and she dared not resist him. Then he took his leave jauntily,
+swinging along with an irritating air of utter complacency. The courtyard gate clanged
+behind him. To Valérie it brought a curious premonition of doom—as if a prison gate
+had now closed upon her.
+</p>
+<p class="tb"></p><p>
+</p>
+<p>That evening, Valérie summoned Inspector Béchoux, whose continued attendance seemed
+only natural, and the search began.
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux, a conscientious detective and a pupil of the famous Canimard, adhered to
+the approved methods of his profession—and proceeded to examine the baron’s bathroom
+and private study in sections. After all, a necklace with three strands of pearls
+is too large an object for it to remain hidden from an expert searcher <span class="pageNum" id="pb24">[<a href="#pb24">24</a>]</span>for very long. Nevertheless, after a week’s persistent search, including several night
+visits when, owing to the baron’s habit of taking sleeping draughts, he was able to
+examine even the bed and the bedclothes, Béchoux admitted himself discouraged. The
+necklace could not possibly be in the house.
+</p>
+<p>In spite of her instinctive aversion, Valérie was tempted to get in touch once more
+with the impossible man at the Barnett Agency. Despite the repugnance with which he
+inspired her, she felt positive he would know how to perform the miracle of finding
+the necklace.
+</p>
+<p>Then matters were brought to a head by a crisis which came suddenly, though not unexpectedly.
+One evening the servants summoned their mistress hastily—the baron lay choking and
+prostrate on a divan near the bathroom door. His distorted features and the anguish
+in his eyes were indicative of the most acute suffering.
+</p>
+<p>Almost paralyzed with fright, Valérie was about to telephone for the doctor, but the
+baron stammered out the words, “Too late … it’s … too … late.…”
+</p>
+<p>Then, trying to rise, he gasped out: “A drink …” and would have staggered to the washstand.
+</p>
+<p>Quickly Valérie thrust him back on to the divan.
+</p>
+<p>“There’s water here in the carafe,” she urged.
+</p>
+<p>“No.… I want it … from the tap.…” He fell back, exhausted.
+</p>
+<p>She turned on the tap quickly, fetched a glass and filled it, but when she took it
+to him, he would not drink.
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb25">[<a href="#pb25">25</a>]</span></p>
+<p>There was a long silence except for the sound of the water running in the basin. The
+dying man’s face became drawn and sunken. He motioned to his wife and she leaned forward—but,
+doubtless to prevent the servants hearing, he repeated the word “closer,” and again
+“closer.”
+</p>
+<p>Valérie hesitated, as though afraid of what he might want to say, but his imperious
+glance cowed her and she knelt down with her ear almost touching his lips. Then he
+whispered, incoherently, and she could scarcely so much as guess what the words meant.
+</p>
+<p>“The pearls … the necklace … you shall know before I’m gone … you never loved me …
+you married me … for … my money.…”
+</p>
+<p>She began to protest indignantly at his making such a cruel accusation at this solemn
+moment, but he seized her wrist and repeated in a kind of confused delirium: “… for
+my money, and your conduct has proved it. You have never been a good wife to me—that’s
+why I wanted to punish you—why I’m punishing you now—it’s an exquisite joy—the only
+pleasure possible to me—and I can die happily now because the pearls are vanishing
+away.… Can’t you hear them, falling, dropping away into the swirling water. Ah, Valérie,
+my wife … what a punishment! … the drops that trickle away!…”
+</p>
+<p>His strength failed him again, and the servants lifted him onto his bed. The doctor
+came very soon after, and two elderly spinster cousins who had been summoned settled
+themselves in the room and refused to budge. The final paroxysm was prolonged and
+painful. <span class="pageNum" id="pb26">[<a href="#pb26">26</a>]</span>At dawn Baron Assermann died, without uttering another word.
+</p>
+<p>At the formal request of the cousins, a seal was placed on every drawer and cupboard
+in the room. Then the long death vigil began.…
+</p>
+<p>Two days later, after the funeral, the dead man’s lawyer called and asked to speak
+to Valérie in private. He looked grave and troubled and said at once:
+</p>
+<p>“Madame, I have a most painful duty to perform, and I prefer to get it over as quickly
+as possible, while assuring you beforehand that the injustice done to you was subject
+to my profound disapproval and contrary to my advice and entreaty. But it was useless
+to oppose an unshakable determination.…”
+</p>
+<p>“I beg you, monsieur,” stammered Valérie, “to make your meaning clear.”
+</p>
+<p>“I am coming to it, madame la baronne—it is this. I hold a will drawn up by Baron
+Assermann twenty years ago, appointing you his sole heiress and residuary legatee.
+But I have to tell you that last month the baron confided to me that he had made a
+fresh will … by which he left his entire fortune to his two cousins.…”
+</p>
+<p>“He made a new will?” cried Valérie.
+</p>
+<p>“Yes.”
+</p>
+<p>“And you have it?”
+</p>
+<p>“After reading it to me he locked it in that desk. He did not wish it to be read until
+a week after his death. It may not be unsealed before that date.”
+</p>
+<p>Now Valérie realized why, a few years before, after a series of violent quarrels,
+her husband had advised <span class="pageNum" id="pb27">[<a href="#pb27">27</a>]</span>her to sell all her own jewelry and purchase a pearl necklace with the money. Disinherited,
+with no fortune of her own, and with an imitation pearl necklace in place of the real
+one, she was left penniless.
+</p>
+<p class="tb"></p><p>
+</p>
+<p>The day before the seals were to be broken, a car drew up in the <i>rue Laborde</i> in front of rather dingy premises bearing the sign:
+</p>
+<p class="center"><span class="sc">The Barnett Agency</span>
+</p>
+<p class="center">OPEN FROM TWO TO THREE
+</p>
+<p class="center"><i>Information Free</i>
+</p>
+<p>A veiled woman in deep mourning got out of the car and knocked on the glass panel
+of the inner door.
+</p>
+<p>“Come in,” called a voice from within.
+</p>
+<p>She entered.
+</p>
+<p>“Who’s that,” went on the voice in the back room, which was separated from the office
+by a curtain. She recognized the tones.
+</p>
+<p>“Baronne Assermann,” she replied.
+</p>
+<p>“Excuse me, madame. Please take a seat. I won’t keep you a moment.”
+</p>
+<p>While she waited, Valérie looked round the office. It was comparatively empty; the
+furniture consisted of a table and two old armchairs. The walls were quite bare and
+the place was innocent of files or papers. A telephone was the only indication of
+activity. An ash-tray, however, held the stubs of several expensive cigarettes, and
+a subtle fragrance hung in the air.
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb28">[<a href="#pb28">28</a>]</span></p>
+<p>The curtain swung back and Jim Barnett appeared suddenly, alert and smiling. He wore
+the same shabby frock-coat, the same impossible, made-up tie, the same monocle at
+the end of a black ribbon.
+</p>
+<p>He seized and kissed his visitor’s gloved hand.
+</p>
+<p>“How do you do, madame. This is indeed a pleasure. But what’s the matter? I see you
+are in mourning—nothing serious, I hope—oh, but how absent-minded I am—of course—Baron
+Assermann, was it not? So sad! A charming man, and such a devoted husband. I should
+so much have liked to meet him. Well, well. Let’s see—how did matters stand?”
+</p>
+<p>As he spoke, he took from his pocket a slender note-book which he fingered pensively.
+</p>
+<p>“Baronne Assermann—here we are—I remember. Imitation pearls—husband the thief—pretty
+woman.… A very pretty woman.… She is to telephone me.… Well, dear lady,” he concluded,
+with increasing familiarity, “I am still awaiting that telephone call.”
+</p>
+<p>Once more, Valérie felt disconcerted by this man. Without wishing to pretend overwhelming
+sorrow at the death of her husband, she yet felt sad, and mingled with her sadness
+was a haunting dread of future poverty. She had had a bad time during the last days—and
+her wan face showed the ravages of terror and futile remorse resulting from her nightmare
+visions of ruin and distress.… And here was this impertinent upstart detective, not
+seeming to grasp the position at all.…
+</p>
+<p>With great dignity she recounted all that had happened, <span class="pageNum" id="pb29">[<a href="#pb29">29</a>]</span>and although she avoided idle recriminations, she repeated what her husband’s lawyer
+had said.
+</p>
+<p>“Ah, yes; quite so,” interposed the detective, smiling approval. “Good … that all
+fits in admirably. It’s quite a pleasure to see how logically this enthralling and
+well constructed drama is working itself out.”
+</p>
+<p>“A pleasure?” asked Valérie tonelessly.
+</p>
+<p>“Certainly—a pleasure which my friend Inspector Béchoux must have enjoyed—for I suppose
+he’s explained to you.…”
+</p>
+<p>“What?”
+</p>
+<p>“What? Why, the key to the mystery, of course. Isn’t it priceless? Old Béchoux must
+have rocked with mirth!”
+</p>
+<p>Jim Barnett, at any rate, was laughing heartily.
+</p>
+<p>“That washbasin trick now—there’s a novelty! It’s certainly farcical rather than dramatic—but
+so adroitly worked in—of course I spotted the dodge at once when you told me about
+the plumber, and saw the connection between the repairing of the washbasin and the
+baron’s little plans. That was the crux of the whole thing. When he planned the substitution
+of the false necklace, your husband arranged a good hiding-place for the real pearls;
+it was essential for his purpose. Merely to deprive you of them and throw them or
+cause them to be <span class="corr" id="xd33e603" title="Source: thown">thrown</span> into the Seine like worthless rubbish, would only have been half a revenge. For it
+to be complete and on the grand scale he had to keep them close at hand, hidden in
+a spot at once near and inaccessible. And that’s what he did.”
+</p>
+<p>Jim Barnett was thoroughly enjoying himself and <span class="pageNum" id="pb30">[<a href="#pb30">30</a>]</span>went on jocularly: “Can’t you imagine your husband explaining it all to the plumber?
+‘See here, my man, just examine that waste-pipe under my washbasin. It goes down to
+the wainscoting and leaves the bathroom at an almost imperceptible gradient, doesn’t
+it? Well, reduce that gradient still more—take up the pipe in this dark corner, so
+as to form a sort of pocket—a blind alley, where something could be lodged if necessary.
+When the tap is turned on the water will fill the pocket and carry away the object
+lodged there. You understand? Then drill a hole about half an inch in diameter in
+the wall side of the pipe, where it won’t be noticed. Yes—there! Done it? Now plug
+it up with this rubber stopper. Does it fit? That’s all right then. Now, you understand,
+don’t you—not a word to anyone! Keep your mouth shut. Take this and catch the Brussels
+express to-night. These three checks you can cash there—one every month. In three
+months’ time you may come back to Paris. Good-bye. That’s all, thanks.’… And that
+very night you heard a noise in your boudoir, the imitation pearls were substituted
+for the real ones, and the latter secreted in the hiding-place prepared for them in
+the pocket of the pipe. Now do you see? Believing that the end has come, the baron
+calls out to you: ‘A glass of water—not from the carafe—from the tap there.’ You obey.
+And the terrible punishment is brought about by your own hand as it turns on the tap—the
+water runs, carries away the pearls, and the baron stammers out: ‘Do you hear? They’re
+trickling away—away!’ ”
+</p>
+<p>The baronne listened in distracted silence. What <span class="pageNum" id="pb31">[<a href="#pb31">31</a>]</span>impressed her most in Burnett’s terrible story was not the full revelation of her
+husband’s rancor and hatred, but the one fact which it hammered home.
+</p>
+<p>“Then you knew the truth?” she murmured at last.
+</p>
+<p>“Of course,” he replied, “it’s my job. The Barnett Agency, you see.…”
+</p>
+<p>“And you said nothing of this to me?” Her tone was an accusation.
+</p>
+<p>“But, my dear baronne, it was you yourself who stopped me from telling you what I
+knew, or was just about to discover. You dismissed me—somewhat peremptorily, I fear—and
+not wishing to be thought officious, I did not press the matter. Besides, I had still
+to verify my deductions.”
+</p>
+<p>“And have you done so?” she faltered.
+</p>
+<p>“Yes. Just out of curiosity, that’s all.”
+</p>
+<p>“When?”
+</p>
+<p>“The same night.”
+</p>
+<p>“What! You got into the house that night—into our rooms? I heard nothing.…”
+</p>
+<p>“Oh, I’ve a little way of working on the quiet.… Even Baron Assermann didn’t hear
+me. And yet.…”
+</p>
+<p>“What?…”
+</p>
+<p>“Well, just to make sure, I enlarged that hole, you see … the one through which he
+had pushed the pearls into the pipe.”
+</p>
+<p>She started.
+</p>
+<p>“Then you saw them?…”
+</p>
+<p>“I did.”
+</p>
+<p>“My pearls were actually there?”
+</p>
+<p>He nodded.
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb32">[<a href="#pb32">32</a>]</span></p>
+<p>Valérie choked, as she repeated under her breath: “My pearls were there in the pipe
+and you could have taken them?…”
+</p>
+<p>“Yes,” he admitted nonchalantly, “and I really believe that but for me, Jim Barnett,
+at your service, they would have dropped away as the baron intended they should on
+the day of his death, which he knew was not far off. What were his words: ‘They’re
+vanishing … can’t you hear them? … drops that trickle away …!’ And his plan of revenge
+would have come off—too bad—such a beautiful necklace—quite a collector’s piece!”
+</p>
+<p>Valérie was not given to violent explosions of wrath, likely to upset her complexion.
+But at this point she was worked up to such a pitch that she rushed up to Barnett
+and convulsively seized the collar of his coat.
+</p>
+<p>“It’s theft! You’re a common adventurer! I suspected it all along—a crook!”
+</p>
+<p>At the word “crook” the young man hooted with joy.
+</p>
+<p>“I—a crook? How frightfully amusing!”
+</p>
+<p>She took no notice. Shaking with passion, she rushed up and down the room shrieking:
+“I won’t have it, I tell you. Give me back my pearls at once or I’ll call the police!”
+</p>
+<p>“Oh—how ugly that sounds,” he exclaimed, “and how tactless for a pretty woman like
+yourself to behave like this to a man who has shown himself assiduous in serving you
+and only wants to coöperate peaceably with you for your good!”
+</p>
+<p>She shrugged her shoulders and demanded again: “Will you give me my necklace?”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb33">[<a href="#pb33">33</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“Of course! it’s absolutely at your disposal. Good heavens, do you suppose that Jim
+Barnett robs the people who pay him the compliment of seeking his help! What do you
+think would become of the Barnett Agency, which owes its popularity to its reputation
+for absolute integrity and disinterested service? I don’t ask my clients for a single
+penny. If I kept your pearls I should be a thief—a crook, as you would say—whereas
+I am an honest man. Here, dear lady, is your necklace.”
+</p>
+<p>He produced a small cloth bag containing the rescued pearls and laid it on the table.
+</p>
+<p>Thunderstruck, Valérie seized the precious necklace with shaking hands. She could
+hardly believe her eyes; it seemed incredible that this man should restore her property
+in this way, and with a sudden fear lest he was merely acting on a momentary impulse,
+she made abruptly for the door without a word of thanks.
+</p>
+<p>“You’re in rather a hurry all at once,” laughed Jim Barnett. “Aren’t you going to
+count them? Three hundred and forty-five. They’re all there … and they’re the real
+ones, this time.”
+</p>
+<p>“Yes,” said Valérie, “I know that.…”
+</p>
+<p>“You’re quite sure? Those really are the pearls your <span class="corr" id="xd33e654" title="Source: jeweler">jeweller</span> valued at five hundred thousand francs?”
+</p>
+<p>“Yes; they are the ones.”
+</p>
+<p>“You’d swear to that?”
+</p>
+<p>“Certainly,” she said positively.
+</p>
+<p>“In that case, I’ll buy them from you.”
+</p>
+<p>“You’ll buy them! What do you mean?”
+</p>
+<p>“Well, being penniless, you’ve got to sell them. Why <span class="pageNum" id="pb34">[<a href="#pb34">34</a>]</span>not to me, then, since I can offer you more than anyone else will—I’ll give you twenty
+times their value. Instead of five hundred thousand francs, I’ll give ten million.
+Does that startle you? Ten million’s a pretty figure.”
+</p>
+<p>“Ten million!”
+</p>
+<p>“Exactly the reputed gross amount of the baron’s estate.”
+</p>
+<p>Valérie lingered at the door, her fingers twisting the handle.
+</p>
+<p>“My husband’s estate,” she repeated. “I don’t see any connection. Please explain.”
+</p>
+<p>With gentle emphasis Jim Barnett continued: “It’s very simple. You have your choice—the
+pearl necklace or the estate!”
+</p>
+<p>“The pearl necklace … the estate?” she repeated, puzzled.
+</p>
+<p>“Certainly. As you yourself told me, the inheritance turns on two wills: the earlier
+one in your favor and the second in favor of those two old cousins, who are as rich
+as Crœsus and apparently correspondingly mean. But suppose Will Number Two can’t be
+found, Will Number One is valid.”
+</p>
+<p>“But to-morrow,” she said in faltering accents, “they intend to break the seals and
+open the desk—and the second will is there.”
+</p>
+<p>“The will may be there—or it may not,” suggested Barnett, rather contemptuously. “I’ll
+go so far as to say that in my humble opinion it is not.”
+</p>
+<p>“Is that possible?” she asked, staring at him in amazement.
+</p>
+<p>“Quite possible—even probable—in fact, I seem to <span class="pageNum" id="pb35">[<a href="#pb35">35</a>]</span>remember now that when I came to investigate the waste-pipe the evening after our
+talk, I took the opportunity of looking round your husband’s rooms as he was sleeping
+so soundly.”
+</p>
+<p>“And you took that will,” she asked haltingly.
+</p>
+<p>“This rather looks like it, doesn’t it?”
+</p>
+<p>He unfolded a sheet of stamped paper and she recognized her husband’s writing as she
+caught sight of the words: “<i>I, the undersigned, Léon Joseph Assermann, banker, in view of certain facts well known
+to her, do hereby declare that my wife Valérie Assermann shall not have the slightest
+claim upon my fortune and that.…</i>”
+</p>
+<p>She read no further. Her voice caught in her throat and falling limply into an armchair
+she gasped:
+</p>
+<p>“You stole that paper—and expect me to be your accomplice.… I won’t. My poor husband’s
+wishes must be obeyed.…”
+</p>
+<p>Jim Barnett threw up his hands enthusiastically.
+</p>
+<p>“How splendid of you, dear lady. Duty points to self-sacrifice, and I commend you
+the more when your lot is so especially hard—when for two old cousins who are quite
+undeserving of pity, you are prepared to sacrifice yourself with your own hands to
+gratify Baron Assermann’s petty spite. You bow to this injustice to expiate those
+youthful peccadilloes. The beautiful Valérie is to forego the luxury to which she
+is entitled and be reduced to abject poverty. But, before you finally make this choice,
+madame, I beg you to weigh your decision carefully and realize all it means. Let me
+be quite plain: <i>if that necklace leaves this room</i>, <span class="pageNum" id="pb36">[<a href="#pb36">36</a>]</span>the lawyer receives Will Number Two to-morrow morning and you are disinherited.”
+</p>
+<p>“And if it stays?”
+</p>
+<p>“Well, there’s no will in that desk and you inherit the whole estate—ten million francs
+in your pocket, thanks to Jim Barnett.”
+</p>
+<p>His sarcasm was obvious, and Valérie felt like a helpless animal trapped in his ruthless
+grasp. There was no way out. If she refused him the necklace, the will would be read
+out next day. He was relentless, and would turn a deaf ear to any entreaties.
+</p>
+<p>He stepped into the back room for a moment and then returned from behind the curtain,
+calmly wiping off his face the grease paint with which he had covered it, like an
+actor removing his make-up. His appearance was now completely changed—his face was
+fresh and young-looking, with a smooth, healthy skin. A fashionable tie had replaced
+the made-up atrocity. He had changed the old frock-coat and baggy trousers for a well-cut
+lounge suit. And his attitude of smiling confidence made it clear he did not fear
+denunciation or betrayal. In return, Valérie knew he would never say a word to anyone,
+even to Inspector Béchoux—the secret would be kept inviolate.
+</p>
+<p>He leaned towards her and, laughing, said: “Well—I believe you’re looking at it more
+reasonably now. That’s good! Besides, who’ll know that the wealthy Baronne Assermann
+is wearing imitation pearls? Not one of your friends will ever suspect it. You’ll
+keep your fortune and possess a necklace which everyone will think is genuine. Isn’t
+that lovely? Can’t you just <span class="pageNum" id="pb37">[<a href="#pb37">37</a>]</span>see yourself leading a full and happy life, with plenty of opportunity for fun and
+flirtation? Aha!” He waggled a jovial forefinger in her angry face.
+</p>
+<p>At that moment Valérie had not the slightest desire for fun or flirtation. She glared
+at Jim Barnett with suppressed fury, and, drawing herself up, made her exit like a
+society queen withdrawing from a hostile drawing-room.
+</p>
+<p>The little bag of pearls remained on the table.
+</p>
+<p class="tb"></p><p>
+</p>
+<p>“And they call that an honest woman!” said Jim Barnett to himself, his arms folded
+in virtuous indignation. “Her husband disinherits her to punish her for her naughty
+ways, and she disregards his wishes! There’s a fresh will—and she filches it! She
+deceives his lawyer and despoils his old cousins. Tut, tut! And how noble is the part
+of the lover of justice who chastises the culprit and sets everything to rights again!”
+</p>
+<p>He slipped the necklace deftly back into its place in the depths of his pocket, finished
+dressing, and then, his monocle carefully adjusted, and a fat cigar between his teeth,
+he left the office, and went forth in search of fresh amusement.
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb38">[<a href="#pb38">38</a>]</span></p>
+</div>
+</div>
+<div id="ch3" class="div1 chapter"><span class="pageNum">[<a title="Go to the table of contents" href="#xd33e228">Contents</a>]</span><div class="divHead">
+<h2 class="label">III</h2>
+<h2 class="main">THE ROYAL LOVE LETTER</h2>
+</div>
+<div class="divBody">
+<p class="first">There was a knock at the door of the modest office in the <i>rue Laborde</i>.
+</p>
+<p>It roused Jim Barnett of the Barnett Agency from his doze in the comfortable armchair,
+where he sat awaiting clients.
+</p>
+<p>“Come in!” he cried, and, as the door opened to admit his visitor, “why, Inspector
+Béchoux, how nice of you to look me up! How are you?”
+</p>
+<p>In both manner and appearance, Inspector Béchoux was a striking contrast to the usual
+type of detective. He aimed at sartorial elegance, exaggerated the crease in his trousers,
+had a pretty taste in ties and was very particular about the starching of his collars.
+He had a curious waxen pallor. In build, he was small, lean, and seemingly weedy.
+Oddly enough, he had the muscular arms of a heavyweight champion—arms which gave the
+impression of having been tacked haphazard on to his limp frame. He was intensely
+proud of those arms. Though quite a young man, his bearing was most self-assured.
+His eyes gleamed alert and intelligent.
+</p>
+<p>“I happened to be passing,” he announced, “and, knowing your clock-like habits, I
+thought: ‘This being old Barnett’s consultation hour, he’s sure to be there. Why not
+drop in.…’ ”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb39">[<a href="#pb39">39</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“And ask his advice,” finished Jim Barnett.
+</p>
+<p>“Perhaps,” admitted the Inspector, to whom Barnett’s perspicacity was a never-failing
+source of surprise.
+</p>
+<p>Seeing his hesitation, Barnett spoke again: “What’s up, old son? Finding it a bit
+difficult to consult the oracle to-day?”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux smote the table with his clenched fist; no mean blow, with his great arm to
+back it.
+</p>
+<p>“Fact is, I’m a bit stumped. We’ve worked together on three cases now, Barnett—you
+as a private detective and I as a police inspector—and each time I haven’t been able
+to help feeling that your clients—Baronne Assermann, for instance—ended by regarding
+you with a very jaundiced eye.”
+</p>
+<p>“As if I’d taken advantage of my opportunity to blackmail them,” Barnett interrupted,
+fiddling with his eternal monocle, and smiling sardonically.
+</p>
+<p>“No, I don’t mean.…” Béchoux forgot his resolve to find out just what <i>had</i> happened in the case of Baronne Assermann.
+</p>
+<p>Barnett clapped him on the shoulder.
+</p>
+<p>“Inspector Béchoux, you’re forgetting the slogan of this firm: ‘Information Free.’
+I give you my word of honor that I never ask my clients for a penny and I never accept
+a penny from them.”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux breathed more freely.
+</p>
+<p>“Thanks,” he said. “I’m glad to have that assurance. My professional conscience will
+only allow me to avail myself of your coöperation on certain conditions. You understand,
+don’t you? But if you don’t mind my asking <span class="pageNum" id="pb40">[<a href="#pb40">40</a>]</span>the question, there’s one thing I feel I must know. Just what financial backing have
+you in the Barnett Agency?”
+</p>
+<p>“I have a sleeping partner—a philanthropist.” Barnett’s tone was remote and casual.
+</p>
+<p>“Is he anybody I know?”
+</p>
+<p>“I rather think so. In fact, I’m almost certain. For even a police inspector must
+at some time have heard the name of—Arsène Lupin!”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux jumped.
+</p>
+<p>“That’s no name to jest about, Barnett.”
+</p>
+<p>Inspector Béchoux’s existence was dominated by two emotions—his admiration for Barnett’s
+detective ability and his fierce hatred of Arsène Lupin. Béchoux was one of Caminard’s
+little band and fully shared that great man’s bitterness, especially as he had himself
+suffered humiliating defeats at the enemy’s hands. He still smarted with resentment
+at the memory of these, and never forgot that Arsène Lupin had added insult to injury
+by robbing him more than once of the lady of his choice.
+</p>
+<p>“We won’t discuss the fellow,” he said gruffly, “unless there’s a chance of my laying
+hands on him.”
+</p>
+<p>“Or I,” and Barnett blandly extended his own hands—oddly enough, at the level of his
+nose! “But let’s get to work. Whereabouts is your new job?”
+</p>
+<p>“Near Marly. It’s the business of the murder of old Vaucherel. You’ve heard about
+it?”
+</p>
+<p>“Only vaguely.”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett’s attitude was one of acute detachment from anything so mundane as murder.
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb41">[<a href="#pb41">41</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“I’m not surprised. The newspapers aren’t giving it much space yet, though it’s infernally
+baffling.…”
+</p>
+<p>“He was done in with a knife, wasn’t he?” After all, Barnett’s detachment was only
+assumed.
+</p>
+<p>“Yes. Stabbed between the shoulder-blades.”
+</p>
+<p>“Any finger-marks on the knife?”
+</p>
+<p>“None. We found a piece of paper in ashes; it was probably wrapped round the handle
+by the murderer.”
+</p>
+<p>“Any clews?”
+</p>
+<p>Inspector Béchoux shook his head. “Vaucherel’s room was a bit disordered. Some of
+the furniture had been knocked over and the drawer of a table had been broken open,
+but we don’t know why that was done or what’s missing.”
+</p>
+<p>“Where have they got to on the inquest?”
+</p>
+<p>“They’re confronting a retired official called Leboc with the Gaudu cousins—three
+<span class="sic" title="Suggested correction: ne’er-do-well">ne’er-do-weel</span> blackguards of poachers. Without any real evidence, each side is accusing the other
+of the murder. Want me to run you over there in my car? Nothing like a good, stiff
+cross-examination, you know!”
+</p>
+<p>“Right you are.” Barnett rose, albeit reluctantly.
+</p>
+<p>“Just one thing, Barnett. Formerie, who’s conducting the inquiry, hopes to attract
+attention and get a Paris appointment. He’s a touchy sort of chap and he won’t stand
+for your usual bright bedside manner with the law, so cut out the flippancy.” Béchoux’s
+tone was eloquent with painful memories of Barnett’s past exploits.
+</p>
+<p>“I promise to treat him <i>most</i> respectfully,” replied Barnett, “and I <i>never</i> break my word!”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb42">[<a href="#pb42">42</a>]</span></p>
+<p>Half-way between the village of Fontines and Marly Forest, in a copse separated from
+the forest by a strip of ground, stands a one-storied house with a small kitchen garden,
+surrounded by a low wall. Eight days before Béchoux’s conversation with Jim Barnett,
+the cottage was still inhabited by a retired bookseller, old Vaucherel, who never
+left his little domain of flowers and vegetables except to browse in the bookstalls
+along the Paris quays. He was very miserly and reputed a rich man, although frugal
+in his habits. He had no visitors except his friend, Leboc, who lived at Fontines.
+</p>
+<p>The reconstruction of the crime and the examination of Leboc were over, and the inspection
+of the garden had begun, when Jim Barnett and Inspector Béchoux alighted from their
+car. Béchoux made himself known to the gendarmes guarding the cottage gate and, followed
+by Barnett, he joined the examining magistrate and the deputy just as the latter had
+halted before an angle of the wall. The three Gaudu cousins were there to give their
+evidence. They were all three farm-hands of just about the same age; they bore no
+facial resemblance to one another save for a similar sly stubbornness of expression.
+The eldest Gaudu was speaking:
+</p>
+<p>“Yes, your worship, that’s where we jumped over when we ran to the rescue, as you
+might say.”
+</p>
+<p>“You were coming from Fontines?”
+</p>
+<p>“Yes, your worship, from Fontines. We were on our way back to work, about two o’clock
+it must have been. It was like this: we were chatting with Mère Denise close by at
+the edge of the copse, when we heard <span class="pageNum" id="pb43">[<a href="#pb43">43</a>]</span>screams. ‘Somebody’s crying for help,’ I says. ‘It’s from the cottage.’ Old Vaucherel,
+that we knew as well as anything, your worship. So we ran like mad. We climbed over
+this here wall—a nasty bit of work, with all them broken bottles on top—and we were
+across the garden in no time, as you might say.”
+</p>
+<p>“Where exactly were you when the front door flew open<span class="corr" id="xd33e795" title="Not in source">?</span>”
+</p>
+<p>“Right here,” said the eldest Gaudu, leading the way to a flower-bed.
+</p>
+<p>“That means about twenty yards from the porch,” said the magistrate, pointing to the
+two steps leading up to the hall. “And from where you stood you saw——” He paused expectantly.
+</p>
+<p>“Monsieur Leboc himself … I saw him as clear as I see you, your worship … he was rushing
+out, as if the devil was at his heels—or the police, for that matter, which they soon
+may be—and when he saw us he bolted straight back again.”
+</p>
+<p>“You’re quite sure it was he?”
+</p>
+<p>“I swear to God it was!”
+</p>
+<p>The other two men took a similar oath.
+</p>
+<p>“You can’t have been mistaken?”
+</p>
+<p>“Why, he’s been living near our place for five years now, down the end of the village,”
+the eldest Gaudu stated. “I’ve even delivered milk at his house!”
+</p>
+<p>The magistrate gave an order. The door of the hall opened and a man came out. He was
+about sixty, and wore a brown drill suit and a straw hat. His face was pink and smiling.
+</p>
+<p>The three Gaudus spoke simultaneously.
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb44">[<a href="#pb44">44</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“Monsieur Leboc!”
+</p>
+<p>Their choral affirmation made Leboc’s entrance grotesquely like something in musical
+comedy.
+</p>
+<p>The deputy whispered, “It’s obvious there can’t be any mistake at such close range
+and the Gaudu cousins can’t have gone wrong on the identity of the fugitive—which
+means, of the murderer.”
+</p>
+<p>“Quite so,” said the magistrate. “But are they speaking the truth? Was it Monsieur
+Leboc they saw? Now we’ll go on.”
+</p>
+<p>The party went into the house and entered a big room whose walls were literally lined
+with books. There were just a few sticks of furniture; a large table—the one whose
+drawer had been broken into; and an unframed full-length portrait of old Vaucherel—a
+life-size daub by some unskilled artist who had yet managed to invest his subject
+with a certain verisimilitude.
+</p>
+<p>A dummy lay stretched on the floor to represent the victim of the tragedy.
+</p>
+<p>The magistrate resumed his examination.
+</p>
+<p>“When you came on the scene, Gaudu, you did not see Monsieur Leboc again?”
+</p>
+<p>“No, your worship. We heard groans from this room and rushed in at once.”
+</p>
+<p>“That means that Monsieur Vaucherel was still alive?”
+</p>
+<p>“Hardly that, as you might say. He was lying face down with a knife stuck right in
+the middle of his back … we knelt down by him … the poor gentleman was trying to speak.”
+</p>
+<p>“Could you catch what he said?”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb45">[<a href="#pb45">45</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“No, your worship. We could only make out the name of Leboc—he said it over several
+times—‘Monsieur Leboc, Monsieur Leboc …’ like that. Then a kind of shudder passed
+over him and he was gone. After that we searched everywhere, but Monsieur Leboc had
+vanished. He must have jumped out of the kitchen window, which was open, and made
+off down the little gravel path. It goes straight to his house and the trees hide
+it all the way.… Then we all went together to the gendarmes … and we told them all
+about it.…”
+</p>
+<p>The magistrate asked a few more questions, made the three cousins formulate even more
+definitely their charge against Monsieur Leboc, and then turned his attention to the
+latter.
+</p>
+<p>Monsieur Leboc had listened without attempting to interrupt. His perfect calm was
+unruffled by any display of indignation. He gave the impression of finding the Gaudus’
+story so utterly absurd that he did not for a moment doubt that the magistrate would
+take a precisely similar view of it. Why bother to refute such a tale?
+</p>
+<p>“Have you anything to add, Monsieur Leboc?”
+</p>
+<p>“Nothing further.”
+</p>
+<p>“Then you still maintain——”
+</p>
+<p>“I maintain what you, monsieur, know as well as I to be the truth. All the villagers
+you have examined have testified that I never go out during the daytime. At midday
+I have my lunch sent in from the inn. From one to four I sit at my window reading
+and smoking my pipe. The day in question was fine. My window was <span class="pageNum" id="pb46">[<a href="#pb46">46</a>]</span>open, and five people—no less than five—saw me, as on any other day, from the garden
+gate.”
+</p>
+<p>“I have summoned them to appear later on.”
+</p>
+<p>“I’m glad to hear it. They will repeat their evidence. Since I am not ubiquitous and
+cannot at one and the same moment be here and in my own house you must admit that
+I could not have been seen leaving the cottage, that my poor friend Vaucherel could
+not have spoken my name in his agony, and therefore that these three Gaudus are unmitigated
+scoundrels.”
+</p>
+<p>“And you turn the murder charge against them, don’t you?”
+</p>
+<p>“Oh! Merely a matter of surmise.…”
+</p>
+<p>“On the other hand, an old woman, Mère Denise, who was out gathering firewood, states
+that she was talking with the men when they first heard the screams.”
+</p>
+<p>“She was talking with <i>two</i> of them. Where was the third?”
+</p>
+<p>“A little way behind.”
+</p>
+<p>“Did she <i>see</i> him?”
+</p>
+<p>“She thinks so … she isn’t positive.…”
+</p>
+<p>“In that case, what proof have you that the third Gaudu wasn’t right here, committing
+the murder? What proof have you that the other two, posted near, didn’t climb the
+wall, not to rush to the victim’s help but to smother his cries and finish him off?”
+</p>
+<p>“If that were so, why should they accuse you personally?”
+</p>
+<p>“I have a small shoot and the Gaudus are incorrigible poachers. It was thanks to me
+that they were <span class="pageNum" id="pb47">[<a href="#pb47">47</a>]</span>twice caught in the act and sentenced. Now, as they’ve got to accuse some one to shift
+suspicion from themselves, they’re getting their own back.”
+</p>
+<p>“Merely surmise, as you said yourself. Why should they want to kill Vaucherel?”
+</p>
+<p>“How should I know?” Leboc shrugged his shoulders.
+</p>
+<p>“You have no idea what it was that may have been stolen from the drawer in the table?”
+</p>
+<p>“None, your <span class="corr" id="xd33e863" title="Source: lordhsip">lordship</span>. My friend Vaucherel was not rich, whatever people may have said. I happen to know
+that he had entrusted his savings to a broker and kept no money in the house.”
+</p>
+<p>“Nor anything valuable?”
+</p>
+<p>“Nothing whatever.”
+</p>
+<p>“What about his books?”
+</p>
+<p>“They aren’t worth anything, as you can see for yourself. He always wanted to collect
+first editions and old bindings, but he could never afford it.”
+</p>
+<p>“Did he ever mention the Gaudu cousins to you?”
+</p>
+<p>“Never. Much as I long to avenge my poor friend’s death, I have no wish to speak anything
+but the strict truth.”
+</p>
+<p>The examination went on. The magistrate questioned the cousins closely, but at the
+finish the confrontation showed no results. Having cleared up a few minor points,
+the magistrates adjourned to Fontines.
+</p>
+<p>Monsieur Leboc’s property, at the end of the village, was no bigger than the cottage.
+The garden was enclosed by a very high, neatly clipped hedge. The white-painted brick
+house faced on to a tiny, perfectly circular <span class="pageNum" id="pb48">[<a href="#pb48">48</a>]</span>lawn. As at the cottage the distance from gate to porch was between fifteen and twenty
+yards.
+</p>
+<p>The magistrate asked Monsieur Leboc to take up his position as on the fatal afternoon.
+Monsieur Leboc thereupon seated himself at the window, a book on his knees, and his
+pipe in his mouth.
+</p>
+<p>Here again no mistake was possible. Anyone passing the gate and glancing towards the
+house could not fail to see Monsieur Leboc distinctly. The five witnesses who had
+been summoned—laborers and shopkeepers of Fontines—repeated their evidence in such
+a way that it was quite impossible to doubt Monsieur Leboc’s whereabouts between midday
+and four o’clock on the day of the crime.
+</p>
+<p>The magistrates did not attempt to hide their bewilderment from the inspector, and
+Formerie, to whom Béchoux had introduced Barnett as a detective of exceptional ability,
+could not help saying:
+</p>
+<p>“A complicated case, monsieur. What do you make of it?”
+</p>
+<p>“Yes, what do you make of it?” echoed Béchoux, signing pointedly to remind Barnett
+of the need for tact.
+</p>
+<p>Jim Barnett had followed the whole investigation at the cottage in silence. Béchoux
+had kept asking him questions, to which he had only replied with nods and muttered
+monosyllables. Now he answered pleasantly:
+</p>
+<p>“A <i>most</i> complicated case, monsieur.”
+</p>
+<p>“Ah, you think so too. All things considered, the allegations of the two parties balance
+each other. On the one hand, we have Monsieur Leboc’s alibi. It is <span class="pageNum" id="pb49">[<a href="#pb49">49</a>]</span>incontestable that he could not have left his house that afternoon. On the other hand,
+the story of the three cousins impresses me favorably.”
+</p>
+<p>“That’s so. One side or the other is acting an abject farce. But which side? Can the
+three Gaudus, bad characters of brutal aspect, be innocent? Or may the smiling Monsieur
+Leboc, all candor and calm, be guilty? Or are we to take it that the appearance of
+the actors in this drama is an indication of their respective rôles, Monsieur Leboc
+being innocent and the Gaudus guilty?”
+</p>
+<p>“After all,” Monsieur Formerie concluded with some satisfaction, “you’re no nearer
+seeing daylight than we are.”
+</p>
+<p>“Oh, yes, I am!” Jim Barnett declared, a twinkle in his eye.
+</p>
+<p>Monsieur Formerie bit his lip.
+</p>
+<p>“That being so,” he observed icily, “perhaps you will be so good as to tell us what
+more you have been able to discover.”
+</p>
+<p>“I will certainly do so at the proper moment. To-day, monsieur, all I can do is to
+beg you to call a new witness.”
+</p>
+<p>“A new witness? But—what’s his name?”
+</p>
+<p>“I really don’t know.”
+</p>
+<p>“What’s that? <i>You don’t know?</i>”
+</p>
+<p>Monsieur Formerie was wondering whether this super-detective was ragging him. Béchoux
+showed signs of anxiety. Was Barnett going to pull a hornet’s nest about his ears
+at the start?
+</p>
+<p>At last Jim Barnett leaned over to Monsieur Formerie <span class="pageNum" id="pb50">[<a href="#pb50">50</a>]</span>and pointing to Monsieur Leboc, who was still puffing conscientiously at his pipe
+by the window, he whispered:
+</p>
+<p>“In the inner compartment of Monsieur Leboc’s pocketbook there is a visiting card
+pierced with four small holes in lozenge formation. That card will give us the name
+and address of our new witness.”
+</p>
+<p>This ridiculous oracular pronouncement was hardly calculated to restore Formerie’s
+equilibrium, but Inspector Béchoux did not hesitate to act. Without giving any reason,
+he ordered Monsieur Leboc to hand over his pocketbook. He opened it and took out a
+visiting card pierced with four holes arranged in a lozenge and bearing the name:
+<i>Miss Elizabeth Lovendale</i>, with an address in blue pencil: <i>Grand Hotel Vendôme, Paris</i>.
+</p>
+<p>The two magistrates looked at one another in amazement. Béchoux fairly beamed, while
+Monsieur Leboc, utterly unembarrassed, exclaimed:
+</p>
+<p>“Good gracious! What a search I had for that card! And so did poor Vaucherel!”
+</p>
+<p>“Why should he have been looking for it?”
+</p>
+<p>“Really, your lordship, you can’t expect me to know that. I expect he wanted the address.”
+</p>
+<p>“Then what are the four holes doing?”
+</p>
+<p>“Oh, I made those to mark the four points I scored in a game of <i>écarté</i>. We often played <i>écarté</i> together, and I must have picked this visiting card up without thinking and put it
+in my pocketbook.”
+</p>
+<p>Leboc gave this plausible explanation in a perfectly natural manner and it seemed
+to satisfy Formerie. What remained unexplained was how on earth Jim <span class="pageNum" id="pb51">[<a href="#pb51">51</a>]</span>Barnett could have guessed that such a card was hidden in the pocketbook of a man
+he had never seen before in his life.
+</p>
+<p>And Barnett himself furnished no elucidation. He merely smiled and insisted that they
+should call Elizabeth Lovendale as a witness. This they agreed to do.
+</p>
+<p class="tb"></p><p>
+</p>
+<p>Miss Lovendale was out of town and did not put in an appearance for a week. The inquiry
+was at a standstill for that time, although Formerie zealously pursued his investigations,
+the memory of Jim Barnett egging him on.
+</p>
+<p>“You’ve riled him,” Béchoux told Barnett on the afternoon when they were all assembled
+again at the cottage. “So much so that he’s determined to decline your assistance.”
+</p>
+<p>“Ought I to clear out?” Barnett asked. “I don’t want to cloud any one’s sky—not even
+Formerie’s!”
+</p>
+<p>“No, you can stay,” Béchoux told him. “Anyway, I fancy he’s come to a definite decision.”
+</p>
+<p>“All the better. It’s sure to be the wrong one. There’s a good time coming!”
+</p>
+<p>“Don’t be so disrespectful, Barnett!”
+</p>
+<p>“Oh, all right, I’ll be respectful and, of course, absolutely disinterested. Nothing
+in hand or pocket. But, I must say, a little more Formerie will about finish me!”
+</p>
+<p>Monsieur Leboc had been waiting half an hour when a car drew up and Miss Lovendale
+got out. Monsieur Formerie came up briskly.
+</p>
+<p>“How do you do, Mr. Barnett,” he said. “Any more bright ideas?”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb52">[<a href="#pb52">52</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“Perhaps, monsieur,” was Barnett’s cautious reply.
+</p>
+<p>“Well, wait till you’ve heard mine. But first we must get through with your witness.
+Absolutely irrelevant and a sheer waste of time, you’ll be glad to hear. Still, it
+can’t be helped.”
+</p>
+<p>Elizabeth Lovendale was a dowdily dressed, middle-aged Englishwoman, her slight eccentricity
+of manner heightened by her dishevelled hair. She spoke French fluently, but so volubly
+that she was hard to understand.
+</p>
+<p>At once, before any question could be put to her, she launched forth:
+</p>
+<p>“That poor Monsieur Vaucherel! Murdered! Such a nice man, if he was a bit queer. And
+you want to know whether I knew him? Oh, not well. I only came here once—on business.
+I wanted to buy something from him. We disagreed about the price. I was going to have
+another appointment with him after seeing my brothers. My brothers are well known
+in London—Lovendale and Lovendale, Limited, the big provision merchants.<span class="corr" id="xd33e955" title="Not in source">”</span>
+</p>
+<p>Monsieur Formerie strove to stem this flow of eloquence.
+</p>
+<p>“What was it you wanted to buy, mademoiselle?”
+</p>
+<p>“A little scrap of paper—nothing but a scrap of paper. Sentimental value only, as
+people say. But it was worth a lot to me and I made the mistake of telling him so.
+It all goes back to my great-grandmother, Dorothy Lovendale. She was a beauty and
+much admired by King George the Fourth. She kept eighteen love-letters that he wrote
+her and hid them, <span class="pageNum" id="pb53">[<a href="#pb53">53</a>]</span>one in each volume of an eighteen-volume <span class="corr" id="xd33e964" title="Source: calfbound">calf-bound</span> edition of Richardson’s works. When she died, the family found every volume except
+the fourteenth, which was missing, together with the letter inside of it—the fourteenth
+letter and the most interesting, for it was known to prove that the lovely Dorothy
+had stepped aside from virtue’s path,”—Miss Lovendale lowered her eyes discreetly
+so as not to meet Barnett’s look of amusement—“just nine months before the birth of
+her eldest son. You can understand what it would mean to us to get that letter back!
+Why, it would prove our royal descent!”
+</p>
+<p>Formerie was growing more and more impatient.
+</p>
+<p>Elizabeth Lovendale took a deep breath, and went on with her story.
+</p>
+<p>“After searching and advertising for nearly thirty years, I learned one day that among
+a number of books sold at auction was the fourteenth volume of the set of Richardson.
+I flew to the purchaser, a second-hand bookseller on the <i>Quai Voltaire</i>, who referred me to Monsieur Vaucherel who had just bought the book. Monsieur Vaucherel
+produced the precious volume, and, like a fool, I told him that the letter I was after
+must be in the back of the binding. He examined it closely and changed color. Then,
+of course, I realized my stupidity. If I had kept quiet about the letter he would
+have sold me the book for fifty francs. I offered him a thousand. Monsieur Vaucherel,
+shaking with excitement, asked ten thousand. I agreed. We both lost our heads. It
+was like a nightmare auction. Twenty thousand—thirty—finally he demanded fifty thousand
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb54">[<a href="#pb54">54</a>]</span>francs, yelling like a madman, with his eyes blazing. ‘Fifty thousand,’ he cried,
+‘not a sou less—that will buy me all the books I want—the rarest and finest—fifty
+thousand francs!’ He wanted a deposit then and there—a check. I said I would come
+back. He let me go and I saw him lock the book into the drawer of this table.”
+</p>
+<p>Elizabeth Lovendale went on embellishing her statement with much unnecessary detail.
+Nobody paid any attention to her. All eyes were for the contorted countenance of the
+magistrate. He was obviously the prey of somewhat violent emotion and was quite overwhelmed
+with excessive jubilation. At last he managed to get out:
+</p>
+<p>“In short, mademoiselle, you are asking for the return of the fourteenth volume of
+Richardson’s collected works?”
+</p>
+<p>“I am.” She looked at him with sudden hope.
+</p>
+<p>“Then here it is,” he cried, and with a theatrical gesture he produced a small calf-bound
+book from his pocket.
+</p>
+<p>“Not really!” cried Miss Lovendale.
+</p>
+<p>“Here it is,” he repeated. “But King George’s love-letter isn’t there. I should have
+noticed it. But I’ll wager I can find it if I was able to discover the missing volume
+that people have been after for the past century. The man who stole the one indubitably
+stole the other.”
+</p>
+<p>Monsieur Formerie paced the room, his hands behind his back, enjoying his triumph.
+Suddenly he drummed on the table and spoke again.
+</p>
+<p>“<i>Now</i> we know the motive for the murder. Someone overheard the conversation between Vaucherel
+and Miss <span class="pageNum" id="pb55">[<a href="#pb55">55</a>]</span>Lovendale and saw where Vaucherel had put the book. A few days later that person murdered
+Vaucherel to rob him of the book so that he could later on dispose of the fourteenth
+letter. Who was it? Why, Gaudu, the farm-hand, whose guilt I never doubted. I searched
+his house yesterday and noticed a large crack between the bricks of the fireplace.
+Hidden in a hole behind this crack I found a book, which obviously belonged to Monsieur
+Vaucherel’s library. Miss Lovendale’s story, coming as it does, proves the accuracy
+of my deductions. The Gaudu cousins will be placed under arrest, the scum, as the
+murderers of poor old Vaucherel and the criminal accusers of Monsieur Leboc.”
+</p>
+<p>Monsieur Formerie solemnly shook hands with Monsieur Leboc as a mark of his esteem
+and was effusively thanked by the latter. Then he gallantly escorted Elizabeth Lovendale
+to her car and returned, rubbing his hands together.
+</p>
+<p>After this, everybody made for the Gaudus’ house, whither the three cousins were being
+brought under escort. It was a brilliant day. Monsieur Formerie, walking between Barnett
+and Béchoux, with Leboc bringing up the rear, was full of satisfaction. The coveted
+Paris appointment loomed ever nearer on his horizon.
+</p>
+<p>“Well, well, Barnett,” he remarked, “very neatly done, eh? Not quite what you expected,
+though. After all, you <i>were</i> inclined to be hostile to Monsieur Leboc, weren’t you?”
+</p>
+<p>“I admit, monsieur,” Barnett confessed, “that I allowed my line of reasoning to be
+influenced by that confounded visiting card. Would you believe it? That <span class="pageNum" id="pb56">[<a href="#pb56">56</a>]</span>card was lying on the cottage floor during the confrontation, and I actually saw Leboc
+drawing stealthily nearer and nearer till he got his right foot on it. When we left
+the place, he had it stuck to the sole of his boot. Afterwards he detached it and
+slipped it into his pocketbook. Well, the imprint of his right sole on the damp ground
+showed me that the said sole had four spikes arranged in a lozenge. That meant that
+our friend Leboc, knowing that he had forgotten the card lying on the floor, and anxious
+to keep Elizabeth Lovendale’s name and address out of things, hit upon this neat little
+dodge. And really, it’s thanks to the visiting card that——”
+</p>
+<p>Monsieur Formerie burst out laughing.
+</p>
+<p>“My dear Barnett, don’t be childish! Why all these pointless complications? You shouldn’t
+waste your energy ferreting out mares’ nests. It’s a thing I never do. For goodness
+sake let’s stick to the facts as we find them and refrain from distorting them to
+fit impossible theories.”
+</p>
+<p>The party was by now near Monsieur Leboc’s house which was on their way to the Gaudus’.
+Monsieur Formerie took Barnett’s arm and went affably on with his curtain lecture.
+</p>
+<p>“Where you went wrong, Barnett, was in refusing to admit the incontrovertible truth
+that, after all, one man cannot be in two places at the same moment. Everything turns
+on that—Monsieur Leboc, smoking at his window, couldn’t be at the same time committing
+a murder at the cottage. Here we have Monsieur Leboc just behind us. There is the
+gate of his house, three yards away. <span class="pageNum" id="pb57">[<a href="#pb57">57</a>]</span>I say it’s impossible to conceive a miracle by which Monsieur Leboc could be at once
+behind us and at his window.”
+</p>
+<p>Suddenly Formerie stood still in his tracks, choking, helpless and amazed.
+</p>
+<p>“What is it?” Béchoux asked.
+</p>
+<p>Formerie pointed towards the house.
+</p>
+<p>“There!… Look!…”
+</p>
+<p>Through the bars of the gate, twenty yards away, beyond the lawn, they could see Monsieur
+Leboc smoking his pipe, framed in the open window—Monsieur Leboc who nevertheless
+was standing with the group in the road.
+</p>
+<p>A nightmare vision—a hallucination! It was incredible. Who could be impersonating
+the real Leboc, whom Formerie had by the arm?
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux had opened the gate and was running to the house. Formerie followed him, shouting
+threats at Leboc’s extraordinary double. But the figure in the window never heeded
+nor stirred. How should it heed or stir, since, as they could see on drawing closer,
+it was merely a picture, a painted canvas fitting the window-frame exactly and presenting
+a tolerably life-like profile of Monsieur Leboc smoking his pipe. It was daubed in
+the same style as the portrait of Vaucherel hanging in the cottage. Obviously the
+same artist had painted both.
+</p>
+<p>Formerie wheeled round. The mask of smiling placidity had dropped from Monsieur Leboc’s
+face; the man had collapsed utterly under this unforeseen blow. He began a maudlin
+confession.
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb58">[<a href="#pb58">58</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“I lost my head—I never meant to stab him—I only wanted to share in with him, fifty-fifty.…
+He refused—I didn’t know what I was doing. I never meant to stab him.”
+</p>
+<p>His whining trailed off and Jim Barnett’s voice, now harsh and scathing, was raised
+in mocking inquiry.
+</p>
+<p>“What do you say to that, Monsieur Formerie? Nice lad, Leboc, all ready with a perfect
+alibi! How were the unobservant passers-by to doubt the reality of the Monsieur Leboc
+they only saw at a distance? Personally, I suspected something like this when I saw
+the portrait of old Vaucherel. I wondered if the same artist could have painted Leboc.
+I didn’t have to look hard—Leboc was too sure he’d fooled us all. The canvas was rolled
+up and hidden in the corner of a shed under a heap of rusty tools. I only had to nail
+it in place at the window a little while ago, after Leboc had gone to answer your
+summons. That’s how a man can simultaneously murder abroad and smoke his pipe at home!”
+</p>
+<p>Jim Barnett was ruthless. His grating voice flayed the hapless Formerie.
+</p>
+<p>“Just look what a clean sheet Leboc had. What a ready answer about the visiting card—the
+four holes marking his score at <i>écarté</i>. And the book he hid the other day in the Gaudus’ fireplace. <i>I</i> was shadowing him! And the anonymous letter he sent you—for that was what got you
+going. Leboc, you scoundrel, I’ve had some real amusement out of you. D’you hear,
+my bright lad?”
+</p>
+<p>Formerie was pale but restrained. After a prolonged scrutiny of Leboc, he murmured:
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb59">[<a href="#pb59">59</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“I’m not surprised … shifty eyes … a slippery way with him.… What a rogue!” His wrath
+overflowed. “You blackguard, I’ll see you get yours! Now then, where’s that letter?”
+</p>
+<p>Leboc, stricken helpless, stammered:
+</p>
+<p>“In the bowl of the pipe that’s hanging on the wall in the room on your left. I haven’t
+cleaned it. The letter’s there.”
+</p>
+<p>They rushed into the room. Béchoux fell upon the pipe and shook out the ashes. But
+the bowl was quite empty. Leboc seemed utterly overcome and Formerie’s temper broke
+out again.
+</p>
+<p>“You liar—you confounded faker! But you’re going to tell me where that letter is—<i>at once</i>!”
+</p>
+<p>At that moment the inspector met Barnett’s gaze. Barnett was smiling a happy, childlike
+smile. Béchoux’s fists clenched convulsively. He began to understand that the Barnett
+Agency was gratuitous in a peculiar fashion all its own. Dimly he saw how Jim Barnett,
+while protesting truthfully that he never asked his clients for a penny, could afford
+to live in comfort as a private detective.
+</p>
+<p>He drew close to him and muttered:
+</p>
+<p>“You think you’re pretty clever, don’t you? The Arsène Lupin touch!”
+</p>
+<p>“What?” Barnett was all wide-eyed innocence.
+</p>
+<p>“The way you spirited that letter away!”
+</p>
+<p>“So you guessed my weakness? I always had a passion for the autographs of royalty!”
+</p>
+<p class="tb"></p><p>
+</p>
+<p>Three months later there called upon Elizabeth Lovendale, then in London, a highly
+distinguished <span class="pageNum" id="pb60">[<a href="#pb60">60</a>]</span>gentleman, who assured her that he could lay hands on King George’s love-letter to
+great-grandmother Dorothy. His price was a mere bagatelle of a hundred thousand francs.
+</p>
+<p>There were lengthy negotiations. Elizabeth took counsel with her brothers, the renowned
+provision merchants. They haggled, refused to pay, and finally gave in.
+</p>
+<p>The highly distinguished gentleman pocketed his hundred thousand francs and appropriated,
+into the bargain, an entire vanload of choice groceries which disappeared into the
+void!
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb61">[<a href="#pb61">61</a>]</span></p>
+</div>
+</div>
+<div id="ch4" class="div1 chapter"><span class="pageNum">[<a title="Go to the table of contents" href="#xd33e237">Contents</a>]</span><div class="divHead">
+<h2 class="label">IV</h2>
+<h2 class="main">A GAME OF BACCARAT</h2>
+</div>
+<div class="divBody">
+<p class="first">Jim Barnett, making his way out of Rouen railway station, was met by Inspector Béchoux,
+who clutched his arm and led him quickly away.
+</p>
+<p>“We haven’t a minute to lose. Things may take a turn for the worse at any moment!”
+</p>
+<p>“I should be much more impressed with the gravity of the situation,” Barnett remarked
+with profound logic, “if I knew what it was all about. I came in answer to your wire
+and in complete ignorance of the excitements awaiting me.”
+</p>
+<p>“You arrived according to plan—<i>my</i> plan,” said Inspector Béchoux complacently.
+</p>
+<p>“Can this mean, Béchoux”—Barnett paused to strike a dramatic attitude—“can this mean
+that you’ve got over the little affair of King George the Fourth’s love-letter and
+no longer distrust me?”
+</p>
+<p>“I still distrust you, Barnett, just as I distrust the way the Barnett Agency settles
+accounts with its clients. But there’s nothing in this case for you, old man. For
+once in your career you’ll have to give your services gratis.”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett’s lips pursed to a soft whistle. The prospect did not seem to daunt him. Béchoux
+gave him a swift <span class="pageNum" id="pb62">[<a href="#pb62">62</a>]</span>sidelong glance, already uneasy and wishing that he could manage to dispense with
+the private detective’s assistance.
+</p>
+<p>They turned into the station yard. A private car was drawn up, waiting and in it sat
+a handsome woman with a pale, tragic face. Tears stood in her eyes and her lips were
+pressed together in a desperate effort at self-control. She opened the car door and
+Béchoux introduced his friend.
+</p>
+<p>“Madame, this is Jim Barnett. I told you of him as the only man who might be able
+to save you. Barnett, let me introduce Madame Fougeraie—the wife of Monsieur Fougeraie,
+the engineer. Madame Fougeraie’s husband is on the verge of being arrested on a charge
+of——” He paused dramatically.
+</p>
+<p>“Of what?”
+</p>
+<p>“Murder.”
+</p>
+<p>Jim Barnett’s tongue clicked in ghoulish appreciation. The horrified Béchoux stammered
+an apology for his friend.
+</p>
+<p>“Forgive him, madame. He always feels so utterly at home on a really serious case.”
+</p>
+<p>The car was already speeding towards the quays of Rouen. It turned left and drew up
+in front of a big building.
+</p>
+<p>They all got out and went up in a lift to the third floor, on which were the premises
+of the Norman Club. “Here,” said Béchoux waving a hand to indicate the palatial precincts,
+“is the rendezvous where the biggest merchants and manufacturers of Rouen and the
+district meet to talk, read the papers and play cards, <span class="pageNum" id="pb63">[<a href="#pb63">63</a>]</span>especially on Friday, which is Stock Exchange day. As nobody is about in the morning
+except the cleaners, there is plenty of time for me to tell you on the spot about
+the drama that has just been enacted here.”
+</p>
+<p>They passed down a passage into a large, comfortably furnished room with a thick pile
+carpet. This, with two similar adjoining rooms, lined the façade of the third floor
+of the building. These rooms were intercommunicating, and the third led into a much
+smaller circular room, with only one window, opening on to a big balcony, which overlooked
+the banks of the Seine. They passed into the third large room.
+</p>
+<p>There they all sat down, Madame Fougeraie a little withdrawn near a window, and Béchoux
+spoke:
+</p>
+<p>“Now listen. A few weeks ago, on a Friday night, four members of this club sat down
+after a good dinner to play poker. They were all friends, mill-owners and manufacturers
+at Maromme, a big industrial centre near Rouen. Three of the men were married and
+the fathers of families: Alfred Auvard, Raoul Dupin, and Louis Batinet. The fourth,
+Maxime Tuillier, was a younger, unmarried man in the same set.
+</p>
+<p>“Towards midnight a fifth member joined them—a rich, young idler, Paul Erstein by
+name. The five started playing baccarat now that the rooms were deserted. Paul Erstein,
+an enthusiastic and regular player, held the bank.”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux pointed to one of the tables in the room, and went on:
+</p>
+<p>“They were playing there, at that table. At first it was a quiet game—they had begun
+playing half-heartedly <span class="pageNum" id="pb64">[<a href="#pb64">64</a>]</span>for want of something better to do—but gradually it warmed up, after Erstein had ordered
+two bottles of champagne for the party. From that moment luck was on the banker’s
+side—shocking, unfair, maddening luck. Paul Erstein had it all his own way. The others
+were exasperated and did their utmost to break the run, without success. Contrary
+to all common sense, they would none of them give in, with the result that at four
+o’clock in the morning the Maromme manufacturers had lost all the money they were
+bringing from Rouen to pay their hands. In addition, Maxime Tuillier had given Paul
+Erstein his I.O.U. for eighty thousand francs.”
+</p>
+<p>Inspector Béchoux drew a long breath and continued:
+</p>
+<p>“Suddenly there was a <i lang="fr">coup de théâtre</i>, a strange turn given to Fortune’s wheel by Erstein’s own happy-go-lucky generosity.
+He divided his winnings into four shares, corresponding exactly to the other men’s
+losses, then subdivided those into thirds, and proposed having three final deals.
+This meant that each of his opponents was to play him individually double or quits
+on each of the three bundles of notes. They took him on. Paul Erstein lost all three
+deals. The luck had turned. After an all-night battle there were neither winners nor
+losers.
+</p>
+<p>“ ‘All the better,’ said Erstein, standing up. ‘I felt a bit ashamed of myself, winning
+like that. Lord! what a head I’ve got! Must be the heat of the room. Anyone coming
+to smoke a cigarette with me on the balcony?<span class="corr" id="xd33e1104" title="Source: ”">’</span>
+</p>
+<p>“He stepped into the Round Room. For a few minutes, the four friends remained at the
+table, gaily discussing <span class="pageNum" id="pb65">[<a href="#pb65">65</a>]</span>the phases of the game. Then they decided to leave the club. After crossing the other
+two rooms, they warned the watchman dozing in the anteroom:
+</p>
+<p>“ ‘Monsieur Erstein is still there, Joseph. But he’s sure to be going soon.’
+</p>
+<p>“Then they left, at exactly thirty-five minutes past four. They went back to Maromme
+in Alfred Auvard’s car, as on most Friday nights. The club servant, Joseph, waited
+for another hour. Then, tiring of his vigil, he went in search of Paul Erstein, and
+found him lying in the Round Room, twisted and inert. He was dead.”
+</p>
+<p>Inspector Béchoux paused again. Madame Fougeraie’s head was bowed. Jim Barnett accompanied
+his friend into the Round Room, cast a searching glance over everything, and spoke:
+</p>
+<p>“Now then, Béchoux, let’s get down to it. What has the inquest revealed?”
+</p>
+<p>“The inquest has revealed,” answered Béchoux, “that Paul Erstein was struck on the
+left temple with a blunt instrument which must have felled him at a blow. There was
+no sign of a struggle except that his watch was broken. The hands pointed to five
+minutes to five, that’s to say, twenty minutes after the departure of the other players.
+There was no indication of theft; a signet ring and a wad of notes had not been taken;
+nothing was missing. Finally, there was absolutely no trace of the murderer, who could
+not have come or gone by way of the anteroom, since Joseph had not moved from his
+post.”
+</p>
+<p>“Then,” said Barnett, “there is no clue?”
+</p>
+<p>“There is just one.” Béchoux hesitated, then went <span class="pageNum" id="pb66">[<a href="#pb66">66</a>]</span>on: “It’s pretty important. At the inquest, one of my colleagues called the coroner’s
+attention to the fact that the balcony on the third floor of the next building is
+very close to the balcony of this room. The magistrates entered the building in question,
+the third floor of which is the Fougeraies’ flat. They found that Monsieur Fougeraie
+had left home that morning and had not returned. Madame Fougeraie took the magistrates
+into her husband’s room. The balcony of that room is the one contiguous to the balcony
+of the Round Room. Look!”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett stepped out through the open French window.
+</p>
+<p>“The distance is about four feet,” he observed. “Quite easy to get across. But there’s
+nothing to prove that it was done.”
+</p>
+<p>“Wait a moment,” said Béchoux. “D’you see those flower-boxes at the edge of the Fougeraies’
+balcony? They still contain the earth with which they were filled last summer. They’ve
+been searched. In one of them, just below the surface, with the earth freshly turned
+above it, we found a knuckle-duster. The coroner has established that the shape of
+this weapon corresponds exactly to the wound inflicted on Erstein. There were no finger-prints
+distinguishable, as it had been raining steadily since the morning. But the charge
+seems pretty well-founded. Monsieur Fougeraie, seeing Paul Erstein in the brilliantly
+lighted room opposite, must have sprung on to the club balcony; then, after murdering
+his victim with the knuckle-duster, he hid his weapon in the flower-box.
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb67">[<a href="#pb67">67</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“But what motive had he for the crime? Did he know Paul Erstein?”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux shook his head.
+</p>
+<p>“Then why——?”
+</p>
+<p>During Béchoux’s reconstruction of what had happened, Madam Fougeraie had got up and
+come over to where the two men stood. Her grief-stricken face worked pitifully. She
+kept back her tears with a visible effort. In answer to Barnett’s question, she said
+in a voice that trembled:
+</p>
+<p>“It is for me to answer, monsieur. I will be brief and perfectly frank, and then you
+will understand my fears. No, my husband did not know Paul Erstein. But <i>I</i> knew him. I had met him several times in Paris at a friend’s house, and from the
+start he made love to me. I am devoted to my husband”—poor Madame Fougeraie gave a
+choking sob—“I have always been faithful to him. Although I was sensible of Paul Erstein’s
+attraction, I resisted it. But, weakly, I gave in to the extent of meeting him several
+times in the country some way out of Rouen.”
+</p>
+<p>“And you wrote to him?”
+</p>
+<p>She nodded miserably.
+</p>
+<p>“And your letters are now in the hands of his family?”
+</p>
+<p>“Of his father.”
+</p>
+<p>“Who, I suppose, is determined the letters shall be read in court so that his son’s
+death shall be avenged at all costs.”
+</p>
+<p>“Yes. Those letters prove the harmless character of our relations. But—they prove
+that I met Paul Erstein <span class="pageNum" id="pb68">[<a href="#pb68">68</a>]</span>without my husband’s knowledge. And in one of them I wrote: ‘I beg of you, Paul, do
+be reasonable. My husband is extremely jealous and very violent. If he should suspect
+me for an instant, he would be capable of doing almost anything.’ So you see, monsieur,
+that letter would considerably strengthen the case against my husband. Jealousy would
+provide the police with the motive they want. It would explain the murder and the
+discovery of the weapon in the flower-box just outside my husband’s room.”
+</p>
+<p>“Are you yourself sure, madame, that Monsieur Fougeraie suspected nothing?”
+</p>
+<p>She nodded.
+</p>
+<p>“And you believe him innocent?”
+</p>
+<p>“Oh, there can be no doubt—no doubt at all!” she cried impulsively.
+</p>
+<p>Barnett, meeting her steadfast gaze, realized how this woman’s conviction of her husband’s
+innocence could have influenced Béchoux to the extent of making him her ally despite
+the public prosecutor and his minions, and despite professional etiquette.
+</p>
+<p>Barnett asked a few more questions, was lost in thought for some moments, and at last
+announced solemnly:
+</p>
+<p>“Madame, I can hold out no hopes. Logically, your husband must be guilty. It is for
+me to try to disprove logic.”
+</p>
+<p>“Do see my husband,” Madame Fougeraie besought him. “He will be able to explain——”
+</p>
+<p>“That’s quite useless, madame. I cannot help you unless I first of all put your husband
+right out of the <span class="pageNum" id="pb69">[<a href="#pb69">69</a>]</span>running in my own mind, and work on the basis of your belief in his innocence.”
+</p>
+<p>The preliminaries were over. Barnett was in the ring at once, and, accompanied by
+Inspector Béchoux, called on the victim’s father. With Erstein senior he came straight
+to the point:
+</p>
+<p>“Monsieur, I am looking after Madame Fougeraie’s interests for her. You are turning
+over your son’s correspondence to the prosecution, aren’t you?”
+</p>
+<p>“To-day, monsieur.”
+</p>
+<p>“You have no hesitation in ruining the life of the woman your son loved so dearly?”
+</p>
+<p>“If that woman’s husband was my son’s murderer, I shall be sorry for her sake, but
+my son’s death shall be avenged.”
+</p>
+<p>“Wait five days, monsieur. Next Tuesday the murderer shall be unmasked.”
+</p>
+<p>Against his will, Erstein made the concession.
+</p>
+<p>Barnett’s procedure in those five days of grace often disconcerted Inspector Béchoux.
+He took—and made Béchoux take—the most irregular steps, interviewed and organized
+a band of helpers, and spent money like water. However, he seemed dissatisfied, and,
+contrary to habit, was taciturn and inclined to sulk.
+</p>
+<p>On Tuesday morning he had a talk with Madame Fougeraie and told her:
+</p>
+<p>“Béchoux has got the prosecution to agree to a reconstruction of the events of the
+fatal night, in detail, at the Norman Club, and it’s to take place this afternoon.
+They have summoned both you and your husband to appear. I implore you to control yourself,
+whatever <span class="pageNum" id="pb70">[<a href="#pb70">70</a>]</span>happens, and to try to appear almost indifferent.”
+</p>
+<p>She looked at him trustingly, through unshed tears.
+</p>
+<p>“Is there any hope …?” she faltered.
+</p>
+<p>“I don’t know myself. As I told you before, I am simply playing your hunch that Monsieur
+Fougeraie is innocent. I shall try to prove his innocence by demonstrating a possible
+theory, but it’s a difficult business. Even admitting that I am on the right track,
+as I believe I am, the truth may yet elude us up to the very last moment.”
+</p>
+<p class="tb"></p><p>
+</p>
+<p>The public prosecutor and the examining magistrate who had investigated the case proved
+to be a conscientious pair. They put their trust in facts alone and refrained from
+interpreting these in the light of preconceived theories.
+</p>
+<p>“With such men,<span class="corr" id="xd33e1181" title="Not in source">”</span> said Béchoux, “I have no fear of your starting a row or employing your usual bright
+badinage. They have very kindly given me <i>carte blanche</i> to act as I see fit—or rather as <i>you</i> see fit—and don’t you forget it.”
+</p>
+<p>“My dear Béchoux,” replied Barnett, “I never indulge in badinage except when victory
+is within my grasp, which is not the case to-day.”
+</p>
+<p>The third room at the Norman Club was crowded. The magistrates talked together at
+the threshold of the Round Room; then they went into it, but came out again in a little
+while. The manufacturers waited in a group. Policemen and inspectors came and went.
+Both Paul Erstein’s father and Joseph, the club servant, <span class="pageNum" id="pb71">[<a href="#pb71">71</a>]</span>stood apart from the rest. Monsieur and Madame Fougeraie were together in a corner.
+He looked gloomy and preoccupied; she was even paler than usual. It was common knowledge
+now that the police had decided to arrest the engineer.
+</p>
+<p>One of the magistrates addressed the four men who had played baccarat with Paul Erstein:
+</p>
+<p>“Gentlemen, we are about to reconstruct what took place on the fatal Friday night.
+Will each of you please take up the position in which he sat at this table so that
+we have the game of baccarat exactly as it was played? Inspector Béchoux, you will
+hold the bank. Have you asked these gentlemen to bring exactly the same sums in notes
+as they had with them on the occasion in question?”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux nodded and sat down in the middle seat, with Alfred Auvard and Raoul Dupin
+on his left and Louis Batinet and Maxime Tuillier on his right. Six packs of cards
+were put out. The cards were cut to him and he shuffled.
+</p>
+<p>Then an odd thing happened. Immediately, just as on that tragic night, luck favored
+the banker. With the same ease as Paul Erstein, Béchoux won. He won steadily, automatically,
+as it were, in an unbroken run, without any of the fluctuations and turns of fortune
+which had, after all, characterized the original game. This mechanical continuity
+gave the scene a strange, cinematographic quality. The game might have been a fantastic
+“quick motion” picture of what had originally taken place. The atmosphere of the proceedings
+began to tell on the players. Maxime Tuillier seemed ill at ease <span class="pageNum" id="pb72">[<a href="#pb72">72</a>]</span>and twice made mistakes in his play. Jim Barnett grew irritated by the young man and
+at last officiously took his place at Béchoux’s right hand.
+</p>
+<p>Ten minutes later—for the film-like speed of the game accelerated unchecked—more than
+half the banknotes produced for the game by the four friends were stacked on the green
+cloth in front of Béchoux. Maxime Tuillier, as represented by Jim Barnett, began handing
+over I.O.U’s.
+</p>
+<p>The pace quickened again. The end of the game came soon. Suddenly Béchoux, as Paul
+Erstein had done, divided his winnings into four wads of notes, proportionate to the
+other men’s losses, and subdivided each wad into three, thus leading up to Erstein’s
+dramatic offer of “double or quits” on three deals.
+</p>
+<p>His opponents’ eyes never left him. The four men were evidently stricken by the memory
+of that other game.
+</p>
+<p>Three times Béchoux dealt on the two <i>tableaux</i>.
+</p>
+<p>And three times, instead of losing, like Paul Erstein, Béchoux won!
+</p>
+<p>A murmur of surprise rose from the onlookers. The miraculous reconstruction of the
+original game had been unaccountably flawed. The luck should have turned—but it had
+remained in the banker’s favor. Supposing—the thought slipped into being—supposing
+this was indeed a miracle, and this new ending to the game was <i>not new at all</i>?
+</p>
+<p>“I am sorry,” said Béchoux, his words oddly remote as he continued to act his rôle
+of banker. He stood up, first pocketing all the banknotes.
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb73">[<a href="#pb73">73</a>]</span></p>
+<p>Then, as Paul Erstein had done, he complained of a headache and expressed his wish
+that someone would come out on the balcony with him. He went out, lighting a cigarette.
+</p>
+<p>The other men remained motionless, with set faces. The cards lay scattered on the
+table.
+</p>
+<p>Then, and only then, Jim Barnett rose from his chair. But now, by some wizardry, his
+face and his general appearance had taken on the outward semblance of Maxime Tuillier,
+whom he had so lately supplanted in the game of baccarat. Maxime Tuillier, clean-shaven,
+about thirty, wearing a tight-fitting, double-breasted coat.… Maxime Tuillier, looking
+morose and dissatisfied.… Jim Barnett was the young man to the life!
+</p>
+<p>He went slowly towards the Round Room, moving like an automaton, his expression an
+alternating study in callous ruthlessness and frightened indecision—the expression
+of a man on the verge of doing something terrible, but a man who might yet perhaps
+take to his heels with the deed unaccomplished.
+</p>
+<p>The players could not see his face, which was turned away from them. But the magistrates
+saw it. And they forgot Jim Barnett, the skilled impersonator, and thought only of
+Maxime Tuillier, the ruined gambler, who was going to join his triumphant opponent.
+His face, which he apparently strove to compose, gave ample indication of his mental
+turmoil. Was he about to make a plea, a demand, or—a threat? When he opened the door
+of the Round Room, he was once more master of his emotions; he had regained his self-control.
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb74">[<a href="#pb74">74</a>]</span></p>
+<p>The door closed behind him.
+</p>
+<p>The staging of the imaginary “reconstruction” of the drama had been so vivid that
+everyone waited in silence. The other players also waited, staring at that closed
+door behind which was being repeated what had taken place on the night of the tragedy—behind
+which it was not Barnett and Béchoux who were playing their respective rôles of murderer
+and victim, but Maxime Tuillier and Paul Erstein pitted against one another.
+</p>
+<p>After what seemed an eternity, the murderer—there was nothing else to call him—came
+out. He staggered back to his friends, his eyes wild with horror. In one hand he held
+the four bundles of notes. One he threw down on the table. The other three he pressed
+upon the three players, saying in queer, strained tones:
+</p>
+<p>“I’ve been having a talk with Erstein. He asked me to give you back this money. He
+doesn’t want it. Let’s go home.”
+</p>
+<p>A yard or so away Maxime Tuillier, the real Maxime Tuillier, leaned on a chair for
+support. His face was pale and drawn. His jaw had fallen. Jim Barnett turned and spoke
+to him in his normal voice.
+</p>
+<p>“Am I right, Monsieur Tuillier? The scene has been reproduced correctly in all essential
+details, hasn’t it? My rendering of the part you played the other night was pretty
+accurate? Don’t you think I’ve reconstructed the crime rather cleverly—<i>your</i> crime?”
+</p>
+<p>Maxime Tuillier seemed not to hear the words. His head was bowed; his arms hung limp.
+He was a mere husk of a man, all the life gone out of him. He reeled <span class="pageNum" id="pb75">[<a href="#pb75">75</a>]</span>drunkenly, sagged at the knees, and collapsed on the chair.
+</p>
+<p>Barnett was at him at once, jerking him roughly to his feet.
+</p>
+<p>“You admit it? But anyway, nothing can save you. I can prove everything. First, that
+knuckle-duster—you always carried one. Then, you were ruined by your losses at baccarat
+that night. Investigations have established the fact that you were in financial straits.
+You had no money with which to meet your creditors at the end of the month. You were
+on the verge of bankruptcy. When you followed Erstein into the Round Room, you struck
+out, murderously. Afterwards, not knowing what to do with your weapon, you climbed
+over on to the other balcony and hid it in the flower-box. Then you altered the hands
+of the dead man’s watch to establish your alibi, and joined your friends!”
+</p>
+<p>But Barnett’s eloquent denunciation was unnecessary. Maxime Tuillier made no attempt
+at denial. Overwhelmed by the terrible burden of crime under which he had labored
+for weeks, he stammered out the confession of his guilt like a man in delirium.
+</p>
+<p>The onlookers were roused almost to frenzy. The examining magistrates bent over the
+murderer and took down his involuntary, unprompted confession. Paul Erstein’s father
+tried to hurl himself upon his son’s slayer. Fougeraie’s voice was raised excitedly.
+But the most rabid were Maxime Tuillier’s three friends. One in particular, the eldest
+and most influential, Alfred Auvard, volleyed abuse:
+</p>
+<p>“You unspeakable blackguard! You made us believe <span class="pageNum" id="pb76">[<a href="#pb76">76</a>]</span>that poor Erstein had returned the money to us—when really you had stolen it after
+murdering him!”
+</p>
+<p>He flung the notes at Maxime Tuillier’s head. The other two, equally indignant, trampled
+the loathsome money underfoot.
+</p>
+<p>By degrees order was restored. Maxime Tuillier, half fainting and uttering groans,
+was carried out of the room. An inspector gathered up the banknotes and handed them
+to the magistrates. The latter requested the Fougeraies and old Erstein to withdraw.
+They then complimented Jim Barnett on his extraordinary powers of deduction.
+</p>
+<p>“Tuillier’s collapse and confession,” he told them, “are quite commonplace features
+in the case. Its originality, the <i>real</i> mystery that lifts it out of the usual run of such crimes, lies in something quite
+different. So now, although this is none of my business, please allow me——”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett, turning to the three manufacturers who were talking together in low tones,
+went up to them and tapped Monsieur Auvard gently on the shoulder.
+</p>
+<p>“A word with you, my friend. Something tells me you can throw a little light on one
+aspect of this case that remains obscure.”
+</p>
+<p>“In what connection, pray?” asked Auvard coldly.
+</p>
+<p>“In connection with the part which you and your friends play in it, monsieur.”
+</p>
+<p>“But we don’t come into it at all!”
+</p>
+<p>“Not actively, of course, I quite see that. But there are some features which, I am
+sure you will agree with me, present a disconcerting series of contradictions. <span class="pageNum" id="pb77">[<a href="#pb77">77</a>]</span>For instance, you declared on the morning after the murder that the game of baccarat
+had ended with three deals <i>in your favor</i>, which cancelled your losses and broke up the card party. Well, the facts don’t happen
+to bear out your statement.”
+</p>
+<p>Monsieur Auvard answered him defiantly:
+</p>
+<p>“That’s so. But there’s been a misunderstanding. Actually, those last three deals
+only increased our losses. When Erstein left the table, Maxime, who seemed perfectly
+self-possessed, followed him into the Round Room for a smoke, while we three remained
+here, talking. When Tuillier came back, nearly ten minutes later, he told us that
+Erstein had never been in earnest over the game, that it had merely been a series
+of flukes following on the champagne, to be treated as a joke. He therefore insisted
+on returning the money to us, but pledged us to secrecy. If anything ever came out,
+we were to say that the end of the game had evened things up unexpectedly.”
+</p>
+<p>“And you accepted such an offer! As a present from Paul Erstein which he had absolutely
+no reason to make you!” cried Barnett. “And having accepted it, you didn’t even bother
+to thank him! And you found it perfectly natural that Erstein, who was an inveterate
+gambler, inured to gain and loss alike, should suddenly be ashamed to profit by his
+luck! <i>How</i> unlikely!”
+</p>
+<p>“It was four in the morning. We were all overwrought. Maxime Tuillier gave us no time
+for reflection. Anyhow, what reason had we to doubt his word? We didn’t know then
+that he had just murdered Erstein and robbed him.”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb78">[<a href="#pb78">78</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“But next day you learned of the murder.”
+</p>
+<p>“Yes, but we naturally thought it had happened after our departure from the club—it
+made no difference to Erstein’s last action on earth—the restoration of our losses—nor
+to his wish that we should hold our tongues about it.”
+</p>
+<p>“And you never for one moment suspected Maxime Tuillier?”
+</p>
+<p>“Why should we have suspected him? He is a member of the club. His father was a friend
+of mine and I’ve known him practically all his life. Of course we had no suspicions.”
+</p>
+<p>“Are you positive?”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett rapped the words out in ironic incredulity. Alfred Auvard hesitated, glanced
+at the other two men, and then countered haughtily:
+</p>
+<p>“Your questions, sir, are in the nature of a cross-examination. What do you think
+we’re here for anyway?”
+</p>
+<p>“In the eyes of the law you’re here as witnesses. But in mine——”
+</p>
+<p>“In yours——?”
+</p>
+<p>“That’s just what I’m going to explain now.” Quietly Barnett took the floor, toying
+with the string of his monocle.
+</p>
+<p>“The whole of this case is really dominated by one factor—the confidence you people
+inspired. Practically speaking, the crime could have been an outside or an inside
+job. Yet those investigating at once turned to the outside for the simple reason that
+one does not normally suspect such a monument of respectability and <span class="pageNum" id="pb79">[<a href="#pb79">79</a>]</span>righteousness as is constituted by four wealthy manufacturers of unblemished reputation.
+If <i>one</i> of you, say, Maxime Tuillier, had played a game of <i>écarté</i> with Paul Erstein <i>alone</i>, he would naturally and undoubtedly have been suspected. But there were four of you,
+and Tuillier was temporarily saved by the silence of his friends. It would never occur
+to anyone that three men of your standing could be guilty of complicity in a crime!
+Yet you <i>were</i> guilty—and that was what I guessed from the start.”
+</p>
+<p>Alfred Auvard started forward.
+</p>
+<p>“You must be mad. Do you seriously suggest that we were Tuillier’s accomplices?”
+</p>
+<p>“Oh, no. Obviously, you had no idea of what was going on in the Round Room after Tuillier
+joined Erstein there. But you <i>did</i> know that he had followed him in a peculiar frame of mind! And when he came back,
+you knew that <i>something</i> had happened.”
+</p>
+<p>“We knew nothing of the sort.”
+</p>
+<p>“Oh, yes, you did, and that Tuillier must have used force of some kind. There had
+not necessarily been a crime of violence, but there had certainly not been merely
+a friendly conversation. I repeat, it was quite evident that Maxime Tuillier must
+have used force to get back that money for you.”
+</p>
+<p>“Preposterous!”
+</p>
+<p>“Not at all. When a coward like your friend kills a man, his face is bound to betray
+him. It is impossible that you should have utterly failed to notice his expression
+of horror when he came back after committing the crime.”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb80">[<a href="#pb80">80</a>]</span></p>
+<p>Both Batinet and Dupin were trembling, but Auvard kept up his blustering attitude.
+</p>
+<p>“I protest that we noticed nothing.”
+</p>
+<p>“None so blind.…” Barnett shrugged his shoulders and smiled unpleasantly.
+</p>
+<p>“What do you mean by that?”
+</p>
+<p>“You didn’t <i>want</i> to see. Because you had got your money back. I know you are all rich men. But that
+game of baccarat had shaken you considerably. Like all occasional gamblers, you had
+the feeling that your money had been stolen from you, and when it was returned, you
+accepted it without troubling to inquire too closely into the methods by which your
+friend had recovered it. You clung desperately to silence. That night, as you drove
+back to Maromme together, in spite of the urgent need for you to agree upon a safer
+version of the evening’s episode, not one of you dared speak a word. I have that from
+your chauffeur. And the next day—and the days after that—when the crime had been discovered,
+you avoided meeting each other, for fear of finding your secret thoughts confirmed.”
+</p>
+<p>“This is mere conjecture.” Auvard was indignant still, but his two friends were on
+the verge of collapse.
+</p>
+<p>“Not conjecture, but certainty,” Barnett corrected him gently. “Certainty based on
+facts acquired by exhaustive inquiries among the people who know you. For you to accuse
+your friend was to expose your own criminal weakness in the beginning. It meant turning
+the searchlight of public opinion on yourselves and your families, and damaging your
+reputations for <span class="pageNum" id="pb81">[<a href="#pb81">81</a>]</span>honorable dealing with your fellow-men. It meant a scandal. So you kept silent and
+cheated justice while you shielded your friend Maxime.”
+</p>
+<p>Jim Barnett had been so vehement and telling in his accusation that for a moment Monsieur
+Auvard wavered. But, suddenly changing his tactics, the bewildering Barnett did not
+follow up his advantage. He merely laughed and said:
+</p>
+<p>“Cheer up, Monsieur Auvard. I succeeded in undoing your friend Tuillier because he
+was a weakling and suffering the agonies of remorse. I did it by faking the cards
+in the game of baccarat we had here just now. The accuracy of the reconstruction unnerved
+him. But I had no more <i>real</i> proof against him than I have against you, and you are not the sort to give in without
+showing fight. All the more so as your complicity in the crime is so vague and negative,
+very much up in the air when it comes to hard facts. So you have nothing to fear.
+Only”—he came closer to his man, and thrust his face into the other’s—“only, I did
+not want your peace of mind to be too complete. By your silence and your astuteness,
+the three of you managed to cloak your actions from the light of the law, so that
+people lost sight of your own more or less voluntary complicity in the crime. We can’t
+have that, though. You must never cease to be conscious that to a certain extent you
+shared in the committal of the murder. Had you only prevented your friend from following
+Paul Erstein into the Round Room, as you should have done, Paul Erstein would not
+be dead to-day. And had you come forward at the outset and told what you knew, Maxime
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb82">[<a href="#pb82">82</a>]</span>Tuillier would not have come within an ace of escaping his deserts.
+</p>
+<p>“Now it is for you to clear yourselves as best you may, messieurs. Somehow, I don’t
+think the law will be too hard on you. Good-day.”
+</p>
+<p>Jim Barnett took his hat, and, disregarding the manufacturers’ protest, spoke to the
+magistrates:
+</p>
+<p>“Messieurs, I promised Madame Fougeraie that I would help her and I promised Paul
+Erstein’s father to unmask the murderer. My work is done.”
+</p>
+<p>The magistrates were half-hearted in their valedictory handshake. Probably Barnett’s
+words had fallen none too pleasantly on their ears and they did not feel particularly
+inclined to follow his lead.
+</p>
+<p>To Inspector Béchoux, who had followed him on to the landing, Barnett was just a wee
+bit more expansive:
+</p>
+<p>“Those three chaps can’t be touched. They’re safe as houses. Blasted bourgeois bolstered
+up by bullion!” he almost blew bubbles in his wrath. “They’re pillars of society,
+all right, and all the case against them is the inferences to be drawn from my deductions.
+Too fine a thread for the law to noose them in, I’m afraid. Never mind, I’ve brought
+my case off well.”
+</p>
+<p>“<i>And</i> honestly,” approved Béchoux, adding, <i>sotto voce</i>, the words “for once!”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett’s eyebrows arched interrogatively.
+</p>
+<p>“I must own,” Béchoux admitted, “that there were moments when I feared for those banknotes.
+You could have snaffled them so easily.”
+</p>
+<p>“What <i>do</i> you take me for, Inspector Béchoux? <span class="pageNum" id="pb83">[<a href="#pb83">83</a>]</span>A common thief?” Barnett’s tone was one of outraged innocence.
+</p>
+<p>He left his friend and went out of the building and on to the Fougeraies’ flat next
+door. There he was effusively thanked. With great dignity he refused to take any reward
+for his services.
+</p>
+<p>Afterwards he called on Paul Erstein’s father and there exhibited the same spirit
+of disinterested philanthropy.
+</p>
+<p>“The services of the Barnett Agency are free,” he told his clients. “That is the secret
+both of its efficiency and of its integrity. We work for glory only.”
+</p>
+<p>Jim Barnett settled his hotel bill and ordered them to send his bag to the station.
+Then, presuming that Béchoux would accompany him back to Paris, he walked along the
+quayside to the club building. On the first landing he halted abruptly. The inspector
+was hurtling down the stairs. The moment he saw Barnett he cried out angrily:
+</p>
+<p>“Got you, curse you!”
+</p>
+<p>He jumped the remaining stairs at a bound and thrust his fingers inside Barnett’s
+coat collar.
+</p>
+<p>“What have you done with those notes?”
+</p>
+<p>“Doh, ray, me, fah——” began Barnett.
+</p>
+<p>“<i>Banknotes!</i>” the inspector screamed. “The notes you had when you were acting Tuillier’s part
+upstairs.”
+</p>
+<p>“What’s all this? Do let go my collar. That’s better. Why, I gave those notes back.
+Surely you remember? A little while ago you were even congratulating me on my honesty!”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb84">[<a href="#pb84">84</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“I wouldn’t have if I’d known what I know now!” said Béchoux grimly.
+</p>
+<p>“And what is this new knowledge that makes you change your tune?” chanted Barnett.
+</p>
+<p>“The notes you gave back are forgeries—counterfeit—snide!” Béchoux was frothing at
+the mouth. “You’re a rotten swindler!” he shouted. “You needn’t think you’re going
+to get away with it, either. You’re going to return the genuine notes to me <i>at once</i>! You can’t bluff <i>me</i>!”
+</p>
+<p>He choked, and Barnett’s raucous laugh rent the air.
+</p>
+<p>“The thieving skunks!” he exclaimed. “Well, well, well. So they threw forged notes
+at their young friend. The sweeps! We get them to bring their wads along and they
+turn out to be stage money!”
+</p>
+<p>“But don’t you understand?” Béchoux shrieked dancing with rage. “That money belongs
+to Paul Erstein’s heirs. He had won it before he was killed. The others must make
+restitution.”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett’s merriment overflowed.
+</p>
+<p>“Isn’t that too bad! So they’re to be fleeced twice over. Poetic justice being visited
+on the scoundrels!”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux’s teeth chattered with fury.
+</p>
+<p>“You liar! You changed those notes yourself. And now you’ve collared the cash. Thief!
+Crook!”
+</p>
+<p class="tb"></p><p>
+</p>
+<p>As the magistrates were leaving the club they caught sight of Inspector Béchoux gesticulating
+speechlessly, frantically. And before him, arms folded, convulsed with laughter, there
+leant against the wall—“Jim Barnett!”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb85">[<a href="#pb85">85</a>]</span></p>
+</div>
+</div>
+<div id="ch5" class="div1 chapter"><span class="pageNum">[<a title="Go to the table of contents" href="#xd33e246">Contents</a>]</span><div class="divHead">
+<h2 class="label">V</h2>
+<h2 class="main">THE MAN WITH THE GOLD TEETH</h2>
+</div>
+<div class="divBody">
+<p class="first">Jim Barnett held back a corner of his office window-curtain and peered into the street,
+his face on a level with those of the passers-by. Suddenly he was seized with a paroxysm
+of uncontrollable mirth and sank weakly back into his armchair.
+</p>
+<p>“Almost too beautiful,” he murmured ecstatically.
+</p>
+<p>“To think the day should come when Béchoux——” He subsided into fresh guffaws.
+</p>
+<p>“What’s the joke?” was Inspector Béchoux’s immediate demand on entering the office.
+</p>
+<p>As Barnett did not at once reply, he fixed him with a stony glare.
+</p>
+<p>“What—are—you—laughing at?”
+</p>
+<p>“Why, at your coming here, of course! After our dust-up at the club in Rouen you actually
+feel you can seek me out again! What is our police force coming to?”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux looked so crestfallen that Barnett made a valiant effort to restrain his own
+unseemly laughter. But he could not control himself completely and his utterance continued
+to be punctuated by explosive chuckles.
+</p>
+<p>“Awfully sorry, old chap, but it really <i>is</i> funny! You, the instrument of the law, presenting me with yet <span class="pageNum" id="pb86">[<a href="#pb86">86</a>]</span>another pigeon for my plucking. Who is it this time? Dare I hope for a millionaire?
+Or am I in for the Minister of Finance? Don’t mind me. I’m not particular. Really,
+though, it’s frightfully decent of you, old chap! Pardon my familiarity. Cheer up,
+now, and try not to look like a decayed zebra. Spit it out!” (Barnett’s idiom was
+deplorably vulgar.) “What’s up? Someone in trouble again?”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux, struggling to regain his composure, nodded his head.
+</p>
+<p>“Yes. It’s the very worthy <i>curé</i> of a parish in the suburbs.”
+</p>
+<p>Regardless of grammar, “Who’s he killed?” asked Barnett with interest. “One of his
+flock?”
+</p>
+<p>“Oh, no, not <i>that</i>!”
+</p>
+<p>“You mean <i>he’s</i> been polished off by a parishioner? Then, really, I fail to see how I can assist
+him!”
+</p>
+<p>“No, no. You’re getting it all wrong. I—he——”
+</p>
+<p>“I really think,” said Barnett kindly, “you’d do better not to attempt to talk at
+all. You can’t apparently achieve coherence, and I hate people who splutter in my
+face.” He made great play with a virulent bandana. “Without further ado, lead me to
+your worthy suburban <i>curé</i>. I am ever ready to hit the trail with Béchoux for my guide.”
+</p>
+<p class="tb"></p><p>
+</p>
+<p>The little village—it is no more—of Vaneuil straggles down a hollow and then up the
+three green hillsides which frame its old Romance church. Behind the church lies a
+tranquil country graveyard, which is bordered on the right by the hedge of a large
+estate <span class="pageNum" id="pb87">[<a href="#pb87">87</a>]</span>surrounding a big farmhouse, and on the left by the wall of the rectory.
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux, accompanied by Barnett, entered the latter building, walked straight into
+the dining-room and there presented his friend to the Abbé Dessole. He introduced
+Barnett as the one detective whose bright lexicon knew not the word “impossible.”
+</p>
+<p>The abbé certainly appeared to be a worthy—and probably a simple—man. He was middle-aged,
+plump, pink, and unctuous. His anxiety was written large on a face that must usually
+have worn an expression of unruffled placidity. Barnett observed his rather puffy
+hands, the rolls of fat at wrist and neck, the fat paunch distending the cheap, shiny
+cassock.
+</p>
+<p>“Père Dessole,” said Barnett, “I know nothing about whatever it is that troubles you.
+My friend, Inspector Béchoux, has so far merely told me that he first made your acquaintance
+a long while ago. Could you now give me a brief résumé of the facts of the case, avoiding
+all irrelevant detail?”
+</p>
+<p>The Abbé Dessole must have prepared his story, for immediately, without a moment’s
+hesitation, his deep bass voice boomed from the depths of his double-chin and he began:
+</p>
+<p>“First, monsieur, I must tell you that the humble priests officiating in this parish
+act at the same time as custodians of a church treasure—the bequest in the eighteenth
+century of the lords of the Château Vaneuil.
+</p>
+<p>“This treasure included two gold monstrances, two crucifixes, some candelabra, and
+a tabernacle, making in all—or, rather, as I must unfortunately say, which <span class="pageNum" id="pb88">[<a href="#pb88">88</a>]</span><i>made</i> in all nine valuable pieces which people even came here from a distance to see. Personally”—the
+Abbé Dessole mopped his brow and resumed: “Personally I must say that I always felt
+the custody of this treasure to be a perilous trust, and in fear and trembling I exercised
+every possible care in the discharge of my duty. From this window you can see the
+apse of the church, and the vestry where the treasure was kept. The walls of the vestry
+are exceptionally thick, and it has just the one great oak door opening into the chancel.
+I am the only person with a key to it, and that key is enormous. In addition to that,
+I am the possessor of the only existing key to the chest in which the treasure was
+locked. No one but myself ever acted as cicerone to the visitors who came to see the
+treasure.”
+</p>
+<p>He waggled a fat forefinger at Barnett and his tone took on added weight.
+</p>
+<p>“My bedroom window, monsieur, is less than fifteen yards away from the barred dormer
+window which lights the vestry from above. Unknown to a soul, I used, every night,
+to stretch a rope from my room to the vestry so that any attempt at burglary would
+ring a bell at my bedside. As an additional precaution, I always took the most precious
+piece in the collection—a gem-studded reliquary—to my own room. Well, last night——”
+</p>
+<p>The Abbé Dessole again mopped his brow. The sweat poured off him as he continued the
+unfolding of the tragedy.
+</p>
+<p>“Last night, towards one o’clock, I sprang out of bed, staggering in the dark and
+only half-awake. I <span class="pageNum" id="pb89">[<a href="#pb89">89</a>]</span>had been roused, not by the ringing of my bell, but by a noise which might have been
+caused by something being dropped on the floor. I called out:
+</p>
+<p>“ ‘Who’s there?’
+</p>
+<p>“There was no reply, but I could feel the presence of someone standing quite close
+to me, and I was sure the intruder had climbed in at the window, for I felt the night
+air blowing in. I groped for my flashlight, found it, and switched it on. Then, just
+for a second, I had a glimpse of a distorted face showing white between a grey slouch
+hat and a brown, turned-up collar. And in the man’s mouth, which was moving silently,
+I could distinctly see two gold teeth, on the left side of the jaw.”
+</p>
+<p>A flicker of interest crossed Barnett’s face.
+</p>
+<p>“The man at once struck my arm a sharp blow so that I dropped the flashlight.… I rushed
+forward, but—he wasn’t there! It was just as if I myself had spun round before moving,
+for I bumped into the mantelpiece over my fireplace, which is exactly opposite the
+window. By the time I had managed to find matches and strike a light there was no
+one in the room. A ladder had been left propped against the ledge of the balcony—one
+of my own ladders taken out of the shed. I got into some clothes and ran to the vestry.
+The treasure was gone!”
+</p>
+<p>For the third time the abbé wiped his streaming countenance. He was pitifully moved.
+</p>
+<p>“Of course,” said Barnett, “you found the dormer window broken and your bell-rope
+cut through? Which proves, doesn’t it, that the thief was someone familiar <span class="pageNum" id="pb90">[<a href="#pb90">90</a>]</span>with this place and with your habits? And after your discovery you were on his track
+at once?”
+</p>
+<p>“I even yelled ‘Thief!’ which was a mistake on my part, as it was the sort of thing
+to rouse the neighborhood and create a sensation. And heaven knows,” he said gloomily,
+“this affair is bound to make a stir for which I shall be blamed by my superiors.
+Luckily, the only person who heard my shouting was my neighbor, Baron de Gravières.
+He has lived next door to me for twenty years now, engaged in the personal management
+of his estate. He absolutely agreed with me that, before notifying the police and
+lodging a formal complaint, it was advisable to try to recover the stolen property.
+As he has a car, I asked him to motor to Paris and bring back Inspector Béchoux.”
+</p>
+<p>“And I was on the spot by eight in the morning,” said Béchoux, swelling with pride.
+“By eleven I had my case.”
+</p>
+<p>“What’s that?” ejaculated Barnett in surprise. “You’ve caught the thief?”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux pointed pompously to the ceiling, rather in the manner of one indicating the
+path to paradise.
+</p>
+<p>“He’s up there, locked in the attic, and Baron de Gravières is mounting guard.”
+</p>
+<p>“Fine! A masterpiece of detection! Tell me all, Béchoux, but in tabloid form, since
+life is brief.”
+</p>
+<p>“A bare statement of facts will suffice,” said the inspector, whose speech could achieve
+almost telegraphic condensation in the moment of victory: “(<i>a</i>) I found numerous footprints on the damp ground between the church and the vicarage;
+(<i>b</i>) An examination of said <span class="pageNum" id="pb91">[<a href="#pb91">91</a>]</span>footprints proved that there was only one burglar, who first carried his haul from
+the vestry some distance away, since he returned to the attack by the vicarage steps;
+(<i>c</i>) The burglar, having waked Père Dessole, hurriedly retraced his steps, collected
+his loot and fled along the highroad. His tracks vanished near the Hippolyte Inn.”
+</p>
+<p>“Immediately,” interrupted Barnett, “you cross-examined the innkeeper.…”
+</p>
+<p>“And the innkeeper,” continued Béchoux, “on my inquiring for a man with a grey hat,
+a brown overcoat, and two gold teeth, told me at once that the description exactly
+fitted a certain Monsieur Vernisson. This man, he said, was a traveller in pins, known
+in Vaneuil as Monsieur Quatre-Mars, because he was in the habit of coming each year
+on the Fourth of March. The innkeeper told me that he had got in the day before at
+midday, had stabled his gig, eaten his lunch, and then gone off to call on his customers.
+I asked when he had got back, and the innkeeper told me about two in the morning,
+as usual. After that, I ascertained that the man in question had only been gone forty
+minutes and was driving in the direction of Chantilly.”
+</p>
+<p>“Whereupon,” said Barnett, “you followed in his train?”
+</p>
+<p>“The baron drove me in his car. We soon caught up with friend Vernisson and, though
+he protested, we forced him to put his gig about and come along with us.”
+</p>
+<p>“Ah, then he maintains his innocence?”
+</p>
+<p>“Scarcely that. But all we can get out of him is <span class="pageNum" id="pb92">[<a href="#pb92">92</a>]</span>‘Don’t tell my wife!… My wife must never learn of this!’ ”
+</p>
+<p>“What about the treasure?”
+</p>
+<p>The abbé sighed dolorously and Béchoux’s triumph grew less pronounced.
+</p>
+<p>“It wasn’t in the gig.”
+</p>
+<p>“But you nevertheless find the evidence quite conclusive?”
+</p>
+<p>“Oh, absolutely. Vernisson’s shoes correspond exactly to the footprints in the graveyard.
+Besides, the <i>curé</i> can swear to having encountered the man there late that afternoon. There can be no
+doubt at all.”
+</p>
+<p>“Well then,” said Barnett a trifle impatiently, “what’s bothering you? Why call <i>me</i> in?”
+</p>
+<p>“Oh, that’s an idea of the <i>curé’s</i>,” said Béchoux, looking a bit disgruntled. “There’s a minor point in the case on
+which we disagree.”
+</p>
+<p>“Minor! That’s only in your opinion,” said the Abbé Dessole, whose handkerchief was
+by now wringing wet.
+</p>
+<p>“What’s the trouble, father?” asked Barnett.
+</p>
+<p>“Well,” the priest hesitated. “It’s about——”
+</p>
+<p>“Yes?” encouraged Barnett.
+</p>
+<p>“About those gold teeth. Monsieur Vernisson certainly <i>has</i> two gold teeth, only”—he faltered—“only, they’re on the <i>right</i> side of his mouth … whereas those <i>I saw</i> were on the <i>left</i>!”
+</p>
+<p>Jim Barnett could not restrain his hilarity. He burst into loud laughter. As the Abbé
+Dessole stared at him in blank amaze, he pulled himself together and exclaimed:
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb93">[<a href="#pb93">93</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“On the right side! Too bad! But are you sure you weren’t mistaken?”
+</p>
+<p>“Positive!”
+</p>
+<p>“But you had met the man——”
+</p>
+<p>“In the graveyard. Yes, that was Vernisson. But it couldn’t have been the same man
+who came in the night, since Vernisson’s gold teeth are on the right side, and the
+burglar’s were on the left.”
+</p>
+<p>“Perhaps he had changed them over to make it more difficult,” Barnett suggested joyously.
+“Béchoux, do bring in the prisoner.”
+</p>
+<p>Two minutes later Monsieur Vernisson was ushered in. He was forlorn and crushed looking,
+his melancholy aspect intensified by the depressed droop of his moustache. His escort,
+Baron de Gravières, was a well set-up specimen of the gentleman-farmer class, and
+carried a revolver. The prisoner, who looked dazed began moaning:
+</p>
+<p>“I don’t understand … a broken lock … what does it all mean?”
+</p>
+<p>“You’d better confess,” advised Béchoux, “instead of whining like that.”
+</p>
+<p>“I’ll confess anything you like, if only you’ll promise not to tell my wife. That
+I can’t allow. I have to meet her next week at Arras. I must be there, and I can’t
+have her know anything of this.”
+</p>
+<p>He was so frightened and upset that in his distress his mouth fell open and the gleam
+of the two gold teeth was apparent. Jim Barnett came up to him, inserted thumb and
+forefinger, and pronounced gravely:
+</p>
+<p>“They’re not a bit loose. There’s no getting away <span class="pageNum" id="pb94">[<a href="#pb94">94</a>]</span>from it, this chap’s teeth are on the right side. And here’s Père Dessole saying he
+saw them on the left.”
+</p>
+<p>Inspector Béchoux was livid.
+</p>
+<p>“That makes no difference! We’ve caught the thief. He’s been coming to the village
+for years preparing the ground for this robbery. The thing’s as clear as day. The
+<i>curé</i> must be wrong!”
+</p>
+<p>The Abbé Dessole solemnly extended his arm.
+</p>
+<p>“I call upon God to witness that I saw the teeth on the left!”
+</p>
+<p>“On the right!”
+</p>
+<p>“On the left!”
+</p>
+<p>“Time!” cried Barnett. “Now then, you two, you won’t get anywhere with this ‘Katy
+Did’ business. What is it you’re after, father?”
+</p>
+<p>“A satisfactory explanation.”
+</p>
+<p>“And if you don’t get it?”
+</p>
+<p>“Then I shall turn the case over to the police as I ought to have done in the beginning.
+If this man is not guilty, we have no right to detain him. I maintain that the burglar’s
+gold teeth were on the left side of his mouth.”
+</p>
+<p>“Right!” bawled Béchoux.
+</p>
+<p>“Left!” the abbé insisted.
+</p>
+<p>“Neither right nor left,” was Barnett’s dictum. He was in his element. “Father, I
+promise you to produce the thief here, to-morrow morning at nine, and he will tell
+you himself where to find the treasure. You, Béchoux, shall spend the night in this
+armchair, the baron in that one and we will tie Monsieur Vernisson to this one. Béchoux,
+will you wake me at a quarter to nine? <span class="pageNum" id="pb95">[<a href="#pb95">95</a>]</span>I drink chocolate with my breakfast. See that there’s toast—and I like my eggs lightly
+boiled.”
+</p>
+<p>By the end of that day, Barnett had been seen all over the place. He was seen making
+a minute examination of each tombstone in the graveyard in turn. He was seen searching
+the <i>curé’s</i> bedroom. He was seen telephoning from the post-office. He was seen at the Hippolyte
+Inn, where he dined with the proprietor. He was seen striding along the highroad and
+strolling in the fields. But those who observed his actions could only guess at their
+purport.
+</p>
+<p>He did not return until two o’clock next morning. The baron and the inspector were
+sitting very close to the man with the gold teeth, their snores reverberating in competitive
+crescendo. When he heard Barnett come in, Monsieur Vernisson groaned.
+</p>
+<p>“Mustn’t let my wife get to know of this.…”
+</p>
+<p>Jim Barnett flung himself down on the floor and was fast asleep at once.
+</p>
+<p class="tb"></p><p>
+</p>
+<p>At a quarter to nine precisely Béchoux woke Barnett. Breakfast was ready. Barnett
+wolfed four bits of toast, three cups of chocolate, and a couple of eggs. Then he
+invited his audience to gather round and said:
+</p>
+<p>“Father, behold me punctual to the appointed hour. Now, Béchoux, I’m going to demonstrate
+the extreme unimportance of all your professional sleuth stuff—footprints, and cigarette
+ends, and so forth—when confronted with the actual facts of the case as reconstructed
+by an alert intelligence, spurred by intuition and ballasted with experience.” He
+bowed modestly, <span class="pageNum" id="pb96">[<a href="#pb96">96</a>]</span>seemingly unconscious that he was a trifle mixed in his metaphors. “We’ll begin with
+Monsieur Vernisson.”
+</p>
+<p>“Anything—you can do anything—so long as you don’t tell my wife,” stammered the wretched
+commercial traveller, a wreck from anxiety and insomnia.
+</p>
+<p>So Jim Barnett launched forth.
+</p>
+<p>“Eighteen years ago Alexandre Vernisson, who was then already a traveller in pins,
+met here, in Vaneuil, a girl called Angélique, the little dressmaker of the village.
+It was a case of love at first sight on both sides. Monsieur Vernisson got several
+weeks’ leave from his employers. He courted Mademoiselle Angélique, and they eloped.
+She loved him dearly and was his devoted companion until her death, two years later.
+He was quite inconsolable, and although later on a forward young woman called Honorine
+got him to marry her, his memories of Mademoiselle glowed the brighter, since Honorine,
+a jealous shrew, never ceased nagging at him and reproaching him with his two years’
+idyll, which had somehow come to her knowledge. Hence the pathetic pilgrimage in secret
+to Vaneuil which Alexandre Vernisson has made without fail each year. That’s so, isn’t
+it, Monsieur Vernisson?”
+</p>
+<p>“Have it your own way,” muttered the latter, “only don’t tell.…”
+</p>
+<p>Jim Barnett went on:
+</p>
+<p>“So, each year, Monsieur Vernisson plans his rounds so as to call at Vaneuil in his
+gig, unknown to Madame Honorine. He kneels beside the tomb of Angélique on each anniversary
+of her death, for it was here in this graveyard she was buried according to her dying
+wish. <span class="pageNum" id="pb97">[<a href="#pb97">97</a>]</span>He revisits the places where they walked together on the day they first met, and returns
+to the inn at two in the morning, just as on that occasion. Not far from where we
+are sitting at this moment you can see the humble headstone with the inscription that
+gave me the explanation of Monsieur Vernisson’s movements: ‘Here lies Angélique who
+died on March the fourth.<span class="corr" id="xd33e1581" title="Not in source">’</span> Alexandre loved her and mourns for her!”
+</p>
+<p>The worthy abbé’s eyes filled with tears.
+</p>
+<p>“You can see now why Monsieur Vernisson is so afraid lest Madame Honorine should learn
+of his present plight. What would her attitude be on hearing that her faithless husband
+is suspected of theft on account of his late beloved?”
+</p>
+<p>Poor Monsieur Vernisson was mourning openly—partly no doubt for Angélique, and even
+more at the thought of his wife’s wrath. His concern was all with this aspect of the
+affair, and he seemed oblivious of the main issue. Béchoux, the baron and the Abbé
+Dessole all listened intently.
+</p>
+<p>“This,” Barnett went on, “solves one of the problems confronting us—I mean Monsieur
+Vernisson’s exactly timed visits to Vaneuil. This solution leads us logically up to
+that of the second riddle—who stole the treasure? The two are interdependent. You
+will readily admit that the existence of such a valuable collection is likely to rouse
+the imagination and excite the cupidity of many people. The idea of stealing it must
+have occurred occasionally to both visitors and villagers. Though, thanks to your
+precautions, father, the theft was made pretty difficult, yet the obstacles are quite
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb98">[<a href="#pb98">98</a>]</span>easily surmounted by anyone who happens to know the exact nature of those precautions,
+and who has for years enjoyed the advantage of being able to spy out the land, plan
+the burglary and avoid all danger of discovery. For the crux of this kind of case
+is—that the thief should go unsuspected. And to avoid suspicion, there is no better
+stratagem than to fix suspicion on someone else … on this man, for instance, who pays
+furtive annual visits to the graveyard on a fixed date, who covers up his movements
+and invites suspicion by his very secrecy. Thus, slowly, laboriously, the plot takes
+shape. A grey hat, a brown overcoat, shoeprints, gold teeth—all these characteristics
+are the subject of minute observation by <i>someone</i>. This comparatively unknown commercial traveller is to be the culprit, while the
+real thief goes free. By the real thief I mean that mysterious <i>someone</i> who, secretly, perhaps in the friendly guise of a frequent visitor at the rectory,
+plots his ingenious manœuvre year after year.”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett was silent for a moment. Bit by bit he was bringing the truth to light. Monsieur
+Vernisson began to assume an expression of martyrdom. Barnett’s hand went out to him.
+</p>
+<p>“Madame Vernisson shall not know a thing about your pilgrimage, Monsieur Vernisson.
+Forgive the misunderstanding through which you have been made to suffer so grievously.
+And forgive <i>me</i> for having ransacked your gig last night and unearthed the rather amateurish hiding-place
+under the seat where you keep Mademoiselle Angélique’s letters along with your <span class="pageNum" id="pb99">[<a href="#pb99">99</a>]</span>private papers. You are a free man, Monsieur Vernisson.” He loosed the other’s bonds.
+</p>
+<p>The commercial traveller stood up.
+</p>
+<p>“One moment, <i>please</i>!” protested Béchoux, roused to indignation by Barnett’s <i>dénouement</i>.
+</p>
+<p>“Say on, Béchoux.”
+</p>
+<p>“What about the gold teeth?” cried the inspector, “There’s no getting away from <i>them</i>. Père Dessole undoubtedly saw two gold teeth in the burglar’s mouth. And Monsieur
+Vernisson has two gold teeth—here, on the right side. What do you make of that?”
+</p>
+<p>“Those <i>I</i> saw were on the left,” the abbé corrected him.
+</p>
+<p>“On the right, father.”
+</p>
+<p>“On the left, I swear.”
+</p>
+<p>Jim Barnett laughed yet again.
+</p>
+<p>“Shut up, both of you. You’re squabbling over a trifle. Good lord, Béchoux, here are
+you, a police inspector, stumped by a potty little problem. Why, it’s positively elementary,
+my poor friend. It’s the sort of thing they ask the Lower Third.… Father, this room
+is an exact replica of your bedchamber, isn’t it?”
+</p>
+<p>“It is. My bedroom is directly overhead.”
+</p>
+<p>“Well, father, would you be so kind as to close the shutters and draw the curtains.
+Monsieur Vernisson, lend me your hat and coat.”
+</p>
+<p>Jim Barnett clapped the gray slouch hat on his head and donned the brown overcoat,
+turning up the collar. Then, when the room was quite dark, he produced a flashlight
+from his pocket and stood in front <span class="pageNum" id="pb100">[<a href="#pb100">100</a>]</span>of the <i>curé</i>, projecting the beam of the torch into his own open mouth.
+</p>
+<p>“The man! The man with the gold teeth!” faltered the Abbé Dessole, staring hard.
+</p>
+<p>“On which side are my gold teeth, father?”
+</p>
+<p>“On the right side. But—those <i>I</i> saw were on the left!”
+</p>
+<p>Jim Barnett’s flashlight clicked out. He seized the abbé by the shoulders and spun
+him round quickly several times. Then he switched on the torch again suddenly and
+said in a tone of command:
+</p>
+<p>“Look ahead of you,… straight ahead. You can see the gold teeth, can’t you? On which
+side are they?”
+</p>
+<p>“On the left,” said the abbé, utterly dumbfounded.
+</p>
+<p>Jim Barnett drew back the curtains and opened the shutters.
+</p>
+<p>“On the right … on the left … you’re not quite sure, after all! Well, father, that
+explains what happened the other night. When you jumped out of bed, with a sleep-dazed
+brain, you never realized that you were facing <i>away</i> from the window and standing directly before the fireplace, so that the intruder,
+instead of being <i>in front of you</i>, was actually <i>behind you</i>. Therefore, when you switched on your flashlight, its beam fell not on <i>him</i> but on <i>his reflection in the mirror</i>! I’ve just brought about a repetition of the phenomenon by spinning you round and
+making you giddy. Do you see now? Or shall I dot the <i>i</i>’s of elucidation by reminding you that a mirror when it reflects an object shows
+you the right and left sides <i>reversed</i>? That is how you <span class="pageNum" id="pb101">[<a href="#pb101">101</a>]</span>happened to see the gold teeth on the left side when they were really on the right.”
+</p>
+<p>“Yes!” cried Inspector Béchoux, in triumph. “But that only proves that I <i>was</i> right, and yet Père Dessole was not wrong in maintaining his assertion. Therefore
+it’s up to you to produce a new man with gold teeth to take the place of Monsieur
+Vernisson.”
+</p>
+<p>“Quite unnecessary, I assure you.”
+</p>
+<p>“But you must admit that the burglar is a man with gold teeth?”
+</p>
+<p>“Have <i>I</i> got gold teeth?” demanded Barnett, and took from his mouth a small piece of gold
+paper, which still bore the imprint of two of his teeth.
+</p>
+<p>“Here’s your proof. I hope you find it properly convincing. With shoe-prints, a grey
+hat, a brown overcoat and two gold teeth, <i>someone</i> has fabricated an indisputable Monsieur Vernisson for your benefit. And how simple
+it is! One only has to get hold of a little bit of gilt paper—like this, which I got
+from the same shop in Vaneuil, where a whole sheet of it was purchased about three
+months ago, by the—Baron de Gravières.”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett’s words, which he let fall quite casually, seemed to reëcho in the amazed
+silence which followed them. As a matter of fact, Béchoux, who had followed Barnett’s
+line of argument pretty closely, was not altogether surprised at the climax. But the
+Abbé Dessole looked as though he would choke at any moment. His eyes were fixed on
+his estimable parishioner, the Baron de Gravières, who sat with heightened color,
+but said not a word. Barnett gave Monsieur Vernisson back <span class="pageNum" id="pb102">[<a href="#pb102">102</a>]</span>his hat and coat. The latter mumbled as he took his leave:
+</p>
+<p>“You promise faithfully, don’t you, that Madame Vernisson shall never hear of this?
+It would be terrible if she got to know … you can imagine.…”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett escorted him to the door and returned beaming. He rubbed his hands together
+gleefully.
+</p>
+<p>“A good run and a quick kill. I feel thoroughly braced. You see how it’s done, Béchoux?
+Just the same method I applied to the other cases where we’ve worked together. Never
+begin by accusing the man you suspect. Don’t ask him to furnish an alibi. Don’t even
+take any notice of him. <i>But</i>, while he thinks himself perfectly safe, reconstruct the case step by step in his
+presence. This drives him to a mental reënaction of the part he played in it. He sees
+what he had thought buried in dark oblivion dragged to light. He feels himself cornered,
+hopelessly involved, quite unable to fight against the proofs of his guilt. The ordeal
+is such a strain on his nerves that it scarcely occurs to him to utter a word in self-defense
+or protest. Isn’t that so, baron? I take it we are all agreed. There’s no point in
+going over it all again, is there? You are satisfied that my deductions are correct?”
+</p>
+<p>Baron de Gravières was evidently undergoing the exact ordeal described by Barnett,
+for he made no attempt to confront his adversary or to conceal his own distress. His
+attitude was that of a criminal caught red-handed.
+</p>
+<p>Jim Barnett came over and tendered affable reassurance.
+</p>
+<p>“You need have no fears, monsieur. Abbé Dessole, <span class="pageNum" id="pb103">[<a href="#pb103">103</a>]</span>who is anxious at all costs to avoid a scandal, only asks you to return the treasure.
+Once that’s back in its place, the incident can be regarded as closed.”
+</p>
+<p>The baron raised his head, stared a moment at the man who had compassed his downfall,
+and, under Barnett’s relentless gaze, murmured:
+</p>
+<p>“There will be no prosecution? Nothing more will be said? I have your promise, father?”
+</p>
+<p>“I shall say nothing, I promise,” said the Abbé Dessole. “I shall blot everything
+from my memory the minute the treasure is restored. But I can hardly believe, even
+now, that <i>you</i> stole it, monsieur le baron—that <i>you</i>, whom I trusted as I would myself, should turn criminal—it’s incredible!”
+</p>
+<p>With the awed humility of a child confessing his sins and gaining relief by the recital,
+the baron whispered:
+</p>
+<p>“It was too much for me, father. My thoughts kept coming back to that treasure lying
+there, so close … so close … I resisted the temptation … I didn’t want to be a thief.…
+Then, the whole thing seemed to take shape in my brain of its own accord.…”
+</p>
+<p>“I can hardly believe it!” the abbé repeated sorrowfully. “Surely—surely——”
+</p>
+<p>“It’s true enough. I had lost money in rash speculation. I had nothing left to live
+on. Two months ago, father, I stored all my valuable antique furniture, with several
+grandfather clocks and some fine tapestries in my garage. I meant to sell them … that
+would have been my salvation. But I couldn’t bear to part with them … and the fourth
+of March was so near. Temptation assailed me … the idea of carrying out <span class="pageNum" id="pb104">[<a href="#pb104">104</a>]</span>the plan that had come to me. I fell … forgive me.…”
+</p>
+<p>“I forgive you,” said the Abbé Dessole, “and I shall pray the Lord to be merciful
+in His punishment to you.”
+</p>
+<p>The baron stood up and said in a firm voice:
+</p>
+<p>“Now, will you please come with me?”
+</p>
+<p>They all walked along the highroad, like men out for a stroll. The Abbé Dessole mopped
+his brow. The baron’s tread was heavy and his bearing bowed. Béchoux felt acute anxiety.
+He had little doubt that Barnett, after deftly unravelling the threads of the case,
+had cheerfully helped himself to the treasure.
+</p>
+<p>In high feather, Barnett held forth at his side:
+</p>
+<p>“How on earth you came to miss the real thief, Béchoux, beats me. You must be blind.
+I saw at once that Monsieur Vernisson couldn’t have plotted the crime at the rate
+of one trip a year; that it was much more likely to be the work of a resident, and
+preferably of a neighbor. When I saw the neighbor!… Why, the baron’s house commands
+an unimpeded view of church and rectory. He was familiar with the <i>curé’s</i> various precautions. He knew all about Monsieur Vernisson’s annual pilgrimage on
+the fourth of March. Then.…”
+</p>
+<p>But Béchoux was not listening. He was too much taken up with his fears, which solemn
+meditation did nothing to mitigate.
+</p>
+<p>Barnett went jestingly on:
+</p>
+<p>“Then, when I was sure of my case, I denounced the criminal to his face. I had no
+actual proof at all—<span class="pageNum" id="pb105">[<a href="#pb105">105</a>]</span>nothing that would stand in a court of law. But I observed my man’s face as I built
+up the story of what had happened and saw that he was almost beside himself. Ah, Béchoux,
+that’s a grand and glorious feeling! And you see where it has landed us?”
+</p>
+<p>“Yes, I see … or rather, I soon shall see … you in clover and me in the soup, I expect,”
+said Béchoux, morbidly resigned to the ultimate doom.
+</p>
+<p>Baron de Gravières had led them the length of several ditches on his estate, and they
+were now taking a narrow grass path across a field. He stopped short a few minutes
+later, near a clump of oaks.
+</p>
+<p>“There,” he said in a staccato voice, “in that field on the right … in the haystack.”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux’s mouth wore a twisted smile. Feeling he might as well get it over, he darted
+to the haystack, followed by the others.
+</p>
+<p>The haystack was quite a small one. In a minute, Béchoux had tumbled the top layer
+to the ground. Then he rummaged in the hay, working like a ferret. Suddenly he gave
+a shout of triumph.
+</p>
+<p>“Here they are! A monstrance!” his arm brandished it clear of the hay. “A candlestick!
+A sconce!” he burrowed fiercely. “Six things … no, seven.”
+</p>
+<p>“There should be nine!” cried the abbé.
+</p>
+<p>“Nine there are! Why, they’re all here! Bully for you, Barnett. Bless you, old son.”
+</p>
+<p>Overcome with joy, and gathering the beloved objects to his ample bosom, the abbé
+murmured:
+</p>
+<p>“Mr. Barnett, you have my profound thanks. Heaven will reward you.”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb106">[<a href="#pb106">106</a>]</span></p>
+<p>Barnett’s inscrutable smile at this remark was perhaps indicative of his belief in
+the old saying: “Heaven helps those who help themselves.”
+</p>
+<p>Inspector Béchoux had been right in expecting an unpleasant surprise, only it came
+a little later.
+</p>
+<p>On their return, as the baron and his companions again skirted the farm, they heard
+cries coming from the orchard. The baron rushed to the garage, in front of which three
+of his employees stood gesticulating.
+</p>
+<p>He guessed at once what had happened. The door of the small stable adjoining the garage
+had been forced open and all the valuable antique furniture, the grandfather clocks
+and the tapestries stored there—the baron’s last resources—had disappeared. He reeled
+back, stammering:
+</p>
+<p>“This is ghastly! When did it happen?”
+</p>
+<p>“Last night,” said a servant. “We heard the dogs barking about eleven o’clock.”
+</p>
+<p>“But how could all the things have been spirited away?”
+</p>
+<p>“In your car, sir.”
+</p>
+<p>“In my car! They’ve stolen that too.…”
+</p>
+<p>The wretched baron sank into the arms of the priest, who comforted him as best he
+could.
+</p>
+<p>“God’s punishment has not tarried, my poor friend. Accept it with a contrite heart.…”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux advanced on Barnett with clenched fists, ready to spring and strike.
+</p>
+<p>“You must notify the police, monsieur le baron,” he rasped, in a tone of fury. “I
+can assure you that your furniture is not lost.”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb107">[<a href="#pb107">107</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“Of course not,” agreed Barnett amicably. “But to prefer a charge would be most dangerous
+for the baron.”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux continued his measured advance. His eyes were steely, and his attitude one
+of threat. But Barnett drew him gently aside.
+</p>
+<p>“Don’t you realize what would have happened without me? The <i>curé</i> would not have got his treasure back. The innocent Vernisson would be in jail and
+Madame Vernisson would know all about her unfortunate husband’s backsliding. The only
+thing left for you in the circumstances would have been to jump into the Seine.”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux sank limply down upon a tree stump. He was inarticulate with rage.
+</p>
+<p>“Quick, quick!” cried Barnett. “Something to pull Béchoux round.… He’s not feeling
+well!”
+</p>
+<p>Baron de Gravières gave an order. A bottle of old wine was opened. Béchoux drank down
+one glass, the <i>curé</i> another. The baron finished the bottle.…
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb108">[<a href="#pb108">108</a>]</span></p>
+</div>
+</div>
+<div id="ch6" class="div1 chapter"><span class="pageNum">[<a title="Go to the table of contents" href="#xd33e255">Contents</a>]</span><div class="divHead">
+<h2 class="label">VI</h2>
+<h2 class="main">TWELVE LITTLE NIGGER BOYS</h2>
+</div>
+<div class="divBody">
+<p class="first">Monsieur Gassire’s first waking thought that morning was for the safety of the bundle
+of securities which he had brought home the previous evening. He stretched out an
+exploring hand, and encountered the bundle still safely on the little table by his
+bed.
+</p>
+<p>His mind set at rest, he proceeded to get out of bed and begin the business of dressing
+for the day.
+</p>
+<p>Nicolas Gassire was a short, corpulent man with a shriveled hawk-face. He was an outside
+broker doing business in the Invalides quarter of Paris, with a sound clientele of
+worthy bourgeois. These latter entrusted their savings to him and were rewarded by
+the singularly attractive profits he netted for them, in part from lucky speculations
+and in part from his own little private business of money-lending.
+</p>
+<p>He had a flat on the first floor of a narrow old house of which he was the owner.
+This flat comprised a hall, his bedroom, a dining-room which he used as his office,
+and another room in which his three clerks worked. Right at the back there was the
+kitchen.
+</p>
+<p>Gassire’s economy led him to do without a servant. Every morning at eight the concierge,
+a stout, cheerful, active woman, came up with his post and <i lang="fr">petit déjeuner</i><span class="pageNum" id="pb109">[<a href="#pb109">109</a>]</span>—a cup of coffee and a <i>croissant</i>, which she laid on his desk—and then cleaned up the flat.
+</p>
+<p>On the morning in question the concierge departed at half-past eight, and Monsieur
+Gassire, as was his custom, breakfasted in leisurely fashion, opened his letters and
+glanced through the morning paper while he awaited the arrival of his clerks.
+</p>
+<p>Suddenly, just five minutes before nine, he thought he heard a noise in his bedroom.
+Remembering the bundle of securities which he had left in there, he jumped up, overturning
+his coffee-cup in his agitation. In a twinkling he was in the other room, but—the
+bundle of securities had vanished! At the very same moment he heard the hall-door
+on the landing slam violently.
+</p>
+<p>Monsieur Gassire tried to open it, but it was a spring lock and he had left the key
+on his desk. He was afraid that if he went to get it the thief would escape without
+being seen.
+</p>
+<p>He therefore opened the hall window, which gave on the street. It was physically impossible
+for any one to have had time to leave the building. In any case, the street was empty.
+</p>
+<p>Mastering his excitement, Monsieur Nicolas Gassire refrained from crying “Thief!”
+But, a minute later, when he caught sight of his head clerk coming towards the house
+from the direction of the neighboring boulevard, he beckoned furiously to him.
+</p>
+<p>“Hurry up, Sarlonat!” he cried, leaning out of the window. “Come in, lock the street
+door and don’t let any one out. I’ve been robbed!”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb110">[<a href="#pb110">110</a>]</span></p>
+<p>As soon as his commands had been obeyed, he hastened downstairs, panting and distraught.
+</p>
+<p>“Tell me, Sarlonat, have you seen anybody?”
+</p>
+<p>“Not a soul, monsieur.”
+</p>
+<p>He hurried to the concierge’s little room, which was wedged between the foot of the
+stairs and a small, dark courtyard. She was sweeping the floor.
+</p>
+<p>“Madame Alain, I’ve been robbed!” he cried. “Is any one hiding here?”
+</p>
+<p>“Why, no, monsieur,” faltered the poor woman in utter bewilderment.
+</p>
+<p>“Where do you keep the key to my flat?”
+</p>
+<p>“I put it here, monsieur, behind the clock. Anyhow, no one could have taken it, for
+I’ve not stirred out of my room this last half-hour.”
+</p>
+<p>“That means that instead of coming down the thief must have run upstairs. Oh, this
+is terrible, terrible!”
+</p>
+<p>Nicolas Gassire went back to the street door. His other two clerks had just come on
+the scene. Hurriedly, in a few breathless words, he gave them their orders. They were
+to let no one enter or leave the house until he came back.
+</p>
+<p>“You understand, Sarlonat? <i>No one.</i>”
+</p>
+<p>He dashed upstairs and into his flat. In an instant he had grabbed hold of the telephone.
+</p>
+<p>“Hello!” he bawled into the mouthpiece, “hello! Put me through to the <i>Préfecture</i>!… No, I don’t mean police headquarters, you fool, I mean the <i>café de la Préfecture</i> … what number is it?… How should I know?… Hurry!… Give me information.… Oh, be quick,
+be quick, can’t you!”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb111">[<a href="#pb111">111</a>]</span></p>
+<p>Dancing with rage the little man at last succeeded in getting on to the proprietor
+of the café, and thundered:
+</p>
+<p>“Is Inspector Béchoux there? Then call him to the telephone—at once. Hurry … hurry!
+I want him on business. There’s no time to lose.… Hello!… Inspector Béchoux? This
+is Gassire speaking, Béchoux.… Yes, I’m all right … at least, I’m not … I’ve just
+been robbed of some securities—a whole bundle.… I’m waiting for you.… What’s that?
+Say it again!… You can’t come? You’re off on your holiday? Holiday be hanged, man!
+Béchoux, you must come, as quickly as possible! Your twelve African mining shares
+were in the bundle!”
+</p>
+<p>Monsieur Gassire heard a volcanic monosyllable at the other end, which fully reassured
+him on the score of Inspector Béchoux’s purpose and promptitude. Indeed, it was barely
+a quarter of an hour before Inspector Béchoux arrived, running, his face a study in
+abject anxiety. He rushed up to the <span class="corr" id="xd33e1818" title="Source: stock-broker">stockbroker</span>.
+</p>
+<p>“My Nigger Boys! My Twelve Little Nigger Boys! All my savings! What’s become of them?”
+</p>
+<p>“Stolen, along with the bonds and shares of other clients … and all my own securities.”
+</p>
+<p>“Stolen?”
+</p>
+<p>“Yes, from my bedroom, half an hour ago!”
+</p>
+<p>“Damnation! But what were my Nigger Boys doing in your room?”
+</p>
+<p>“I took the bundle out of the safe at the Crédit Lyonnais yesterday to deposit it
+at another bank, nearer here. And I made the mistake of——”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb112">[<a href="#pb112">112</a>]</span></p>
+<p>Béchoux’s hand descended heavily on the other’s shoulder.
+</p>
+<p>“I shall hold you responsible, Gassire. You will have to make good my loss.”
+</p>
+<p>“How can I? I’m ruined.”
+</p>
+<p>“What do you mean? You have this house.”
+</p>
+<p>“Mortgaged to the hilt!”
+</p>
+<p>The two men faced each other, convulsed with rage and shouting unintelligibly.
+</p>
+<p>The concierge and the three clerks had also lost their heads, and were barring the
+way to two girls from the top floor, who had just come down and were quite determined
+to be allowed out.
+</p>
+<p>“Nobody shall leave this house!” roared Béchoux, beside himself with fury. “Nobody
+shall leave this house until my Twelve Little Nigger Boys are restored to me!”
+</p>
+<p>“Perhaps we’d better call in help,” suggested Gassire. “There’s the butcher’s boy
+… and the grocer … they’re both dependable.”
+</p>
+<p>“Not for me,” the inspector pronounced with decision. “If we need some one else we’ll
+telephone the Barnett Agency in the <i>rue Laborde</i>. Then we’ll notify the police. But for the moment that would be sheer waste of time.
+Action is what we want!”
+</p>
+<p>He tried to control himself and to regain the pontifical calm that best befits a police
+inspector. But he was trembling from head to foot, and his quivering mouth betrayed
+his distress.
+</p>
+<p>“Keep your head,” he told Gassire. “After all, we have the whip hand. Nobody has left
+the house. The <span class="pageNum" id="pb113">[<a href="#pb113">113</a>]</span>thing is to retrieve my little Nigger Boys before any one can find a way of sneaking
+them out of the building. That’s all that really matters.”
+</p>
+<p>He turned to the two girls and began to question them. He ascertained that one was
+a typist who copied reports and circulars at home. The other gave lessons in flute-playing,
+also at home. They were both anxious to get out and do their marketing before lunch,
+but Béchoux was adamant.
+</p>
+<p>“I’m sorry,” he said, “but this door stays closed for the morning. Monsieur Gassire,
+two of your clerks shall mount guard here. The third can run errands for the tenants.
+In the afternoon the latter will be allowed out, but with my permission only in each
+case, and all parcels, boxes, baskets or packages of any kind will be submitted to
+a rigorous search. You have your orders. Now, Monsieur Gassire, it is for us to get
+to work. The concierge will lead the way.”
+</p>
+<p>The building was so planned as to make investigation easy. There were three upper
+stories, with a single flat on each floor. This made four flats in the house, counting
+that on the ground floor, which was temporarily unoccupied. Monsieur Gassire lived
+on the first floor. On the second dwelt Monsieur Touffémont, an ex-Cabinet Minister.
+The top floor was partitioned off into two flatlets, occupied by Mademoiselle Legoffier,
+the typist, and Mademoiselle Haveline, who taught the flute.
+</p>
+<p>That morning Monsieur Touffémont had left at half-past eight for the <i lang="fr">Chambre des Députés</i>, where he was president of a commission. Since his flat was cleaned <span class="pageNum" id="pb114">[<a href="#pb114">114</a>]</span>by a woman who came in daily at lunch-time and had not yet arrived, they decided to
+await his return.
+</p>
+<p>First, then, they explored the girls’ rooms thoroughly, and satisfied themselves that
+the missing securities were not there.
+</p>
+<p>Next they searched every corner of the attic at the top of the house, getting up there
+by means of a ladder.
+</p>
+<p>After this, choking with dust, they came downstairs again and searched the courtyard
+and Monsieur Gassire’s own flat.
+</p>
+<p>Their efforts went unrewarded. In bitterness of spirit, Béchoux brooded over the unkind
+fate that had overtaken his Twelve Little Nigger Boys.
+</p>
+<p>Towards noon Monsieur Touffémont came in. He proved to be an earnest parliamentarian,
+burdened with the type of portfolio proper to the use of an ex-Cabinet Minister. His
+industry commanded the respect of all parties in the house, and his rare but masterly
+interventions could make a Cabinet tremble apprehensively.
+</p>
+<p>With measured tread he approached the concierge’s room and asked for his letters.
+Gassire came up to him and told him of the theft.
+</p>
+<p><span class="corr" id="xd33e1867" title="Source: Touffémount">Touffémont</span> gave him that grave attention he seemed to bestow even on the most flippant utterances.
+Then he promised his coöperation if Gassire decided to call in the police, and urged
+at the same time that they should search his flat.
+</p>
+<p>“You never know,” he said. “Someone might have got in with a skeleton key.”
+</p>
+<p>Accordingly they searched the flat, but here again <span class="pageNum" id="pb115">[<a href="#pb115">115</a>]</span>they drew a blank. Béchoux and Gassire tried to keep one another’s courage up by voicing
+each in turn his meed of hope and comfort, but their words rang hollow and their faces
+grew drawn and pale.
+</p>
+<p>At last they thought they would go in search of refreshment to a small café just opposite,
+so placed that they could keep an eye on the home all the time. But when they got
+there, Béchoux found he had no appetite. The Twelve Little Nigger Boys lay heavy on
+his stomach. Gassire said that <i>he</i> felt dizzy. No, he wouldn’t take anything, thank you. They both went over and over
+what had happened, trying to find some ray of reassurance in the prevailing gloom.
+</p>
+<p>“It’s quite obvious,” said Béchoux. “Someone got into your flat and stole the securities.
+Well, as the thief can’t have escaped from the building, that means that he or she
+is still in the house.”
+</p>
+<p>“Absolutely,” agreed Gassire.
+</p>
+<p>“And if he or she is in the house, my Twelve Little Nigger Boys are there too. Hang
+it all, they can’t have flown out through the roof!”
+</p>
+<p>“Not unless they were nigger angels,” suggested Gassire.
+</p>
+<p>“So,” Béchoux went on, ignoring him, “we are forced to the conclusion that——”
+</p>
+<p>He never finished the sentence. Suddenly a look of terror came into his eyes, and
+he stared speechless at someone who was jauntily approaching the house opposite.
+</p>
+<p>“Barnett!” he whispered. “Barnett! How did <i>he</i> get to know of this?”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb116">[<a href="#pb116">116</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“You mentioned him, and the Barnett Agency in the <i>rue Laborde</i>,” Gassire confessed, not without hesitation, “and I thought that, in the appalling
+circumstances, it was just worth giving him a ring.”
+</p>
+<p>“You fool!” spluttered Béchoux. “Who’s in charge of the case, anyhow? You or me? Barnett
+has nothing to do with this. We must be on our guard against him or there will be
+the devil to pay. Let Barnett in on this? Not much!”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux was quite sure in his own mind that Barnett’s assistance would prove the last
+straw. Jim Barnett in the house and on the case would only mean that, if the mystery
+were solved, a bundle of securities, including Twelve Little Nigger Boys of vital
+import to their owner, would surely vanish into thin air.
+</p>
+<p>He tore across the street, and, as Barnett raised his hand to the bell, he seized
+his arm and said in trembling tones:
+</p>
+<p>“Get out! Hop it! We don’t want your help. You were called in by mistake. Cut along
+now, and be quick about it.”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett gave him an astonished stare full of reproach and childlike innocence.
+</p>
+<p>“My dear Béchoux, what’s the matter? Tell your Uncle Barnett! You seem a trifle rattled,
+old lad. Still sore about the grandfather clocks of Baron de Gravières? And those
+gold teeth? Left, right!”
+</p>
+<p>“Get out, I tell you!”
+</p>
+<p>“Then they told me the truth just now on the telephone? Have you really been robbed
+of your savings? <span class="pageNum" id="pb117">[<a href="#pb117">117</a>]</span>And don’t you want your Uncle Barnett to lend a helping hand?”
+</p>
+<p>“My Uncle Barnett can go to hell!” declared Béchoux, furious. “I know all about your
+helping hand! It goes into other people’s pockets and helps itself.”
+</p>
+<p>“Are you in a stew because of your Twelve Little Nigger Boys?”
+</p>
+<p>“I shall be if <i>you</i> come poking your nose in!”
+</p>
+<p>“Oh, all right. I leave you to it!”
+</p>
+<p>“You’re off, then?” Béchoux’s frown cleared.
+</p>
+<p>“Rather not! I’ve come here on business.”
+</p>
+<p>He turned to Gassire, who had joined them and was holding the door ajar.
+</p>
+<p>“Can you tell me if Mademoiselle Haveline lives here—Mademoiselle Haveline who teaches
+the flute? She took second prize at the Conservatoire.”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux grew wrathful.
+</p>
+<p>“Huh, you’re asking for her because you’ve just seen her brass plate up there.…”
+</p>
+<p>“Well,” replied Barnett, “haven’t I a perfect right to learn the flute if I like?
+It’s a free country!”
+</p>
+<p>“You can’t come here.”
+</p>
+<p>“Sorry, but I am consumed with a passion for the flute.”
+</p>
+<p>“I absolutely forbid it.”
+</p>
+<p>For sole answer Barnett snapped his fingers in the other’s face and pushed past him
+into the house. No one dared bar his way. Béchoux, his heart full of misgivings, watched
+him ascend the first flight of stairs and vanish out of sight.
+</p>
+<p>It must have taken Barnett only a little while to get <span class="pageNum" id="pb118">[<a href="#pb118">118</a>]</span>started with his teacher, for in ten minutes’ time wobbly scales on the flute began
+floating down from the top floor. Mademoiselle Haveline’s pupil was on the job!
+</p>
+<p>“The scoundrel!” cried Béchoux, his anxiety increasing every minute. “With him in
+the house, heaven help us!”
+</p>
+<p>He set to work again madly. They ransacked the empty ground floor flat, also the concierge’s
+room, in case the bundle of securities had been thrown down somewhere. It was all
+fruitless. And the whole afternoon the sound of flute practice went on, like a mocking
+goblin under the eaves. Béchoux nearly collapsed beneath the strain.
+</p>
+<p>At last, on the stroke of six, Barnett appeared, skipping down the stairs and humming
+a ribald tune. And, as he went, he swung to and fro a large cardboard box.
+</p>
+<p>A cardboard box! Béchoux, with a strangled exclamation, seized it and snatched off
+the lid. Out tumbled some old hat-shapes and bits of moth-eaten fur.
+</p>
+<p>“Since she is not allowed to leave the house,” Barnett explained solemnly, “Mademoiselle
+Haveline has asked me to throw this stuff away for her. I say, isn’t she a peach?
+And what a flautist! She thinks I am full of talent and says that if I keep on at
+it I shall soon be able to qualify for the post of blind man on the church steps.
+Ta, ta!” And he was gone.
+</p>
+<p>All night long, Béchoux and Gassire mounted guard, one inside and the other outside
+the street door, in case the thief should try to throw a parcel out of a window <span class="pageNum" id="pb119">[<a href="#pb119">119</a>]</span>to an accomplice waiting below. And next day they set to work again, but all in vain.
+</p>
+<p>At three o’clock that afternoon Barnett was on the scene again, carrying the empty
+cardboard box. He went straight upstairs, nodding affably to poor Béchoux in the manner
+of one whose time is well and fully occupied.
+</p>
+<p>The flute lesson began. Scales, followed by exercises. The critical listener would
+have detected plenty of wrong notes.
+</p>
+<p>Suddenly all was quiet. The silence continued unbroken, until Béchoux was thoroughly
+puzzled.
+</p>
+<p>“What on earth can he be up to now?” he wondered, as he pictured Barnett busy with
+those private researches which would assuredly culminate in some extraordinary discovery.
+</p>
+<p>He ran upstairs and stood listening on the landing. No sound came from Mademoiselle
+Haveline’s room. But a man’s voice was distinctly audible in the next door flatlet
+of Mademoiselle Legoffier, the typist.
+</p>
+<p>“Barnett’s voice,” thought Béchoux, his curiosity now at white-heat. Then, incapable
+of holding back any longer, he rang the bell.
+</p>
+<p>“Come in!” called Barnett from within. “The key is in the lock outside.”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux entered the room. Mademoiselle Legoffier, an attractive brunette, was sitting
+at a table by her typewriter, taking shorthand at Barnett’s dictation.
+</p>
+<p>“The hunt is up, is it?” said the latter. “Carry on, old man. Nothing up my sleeves”—he
+mimicked a conjurer—“and as for Mademoiselle Legoffier——” That <span class="pageNum" id="pb120">[<a href="#pb120">120</a>]</span>damsel blushed discreetly; her arms were bare to the shoulder.
+</p>
+<p>“Well,” Barnett continued, “I’m dictating my memoirs. You won’t mind if I go on?”
+</p>
+<p>And, while Béchoux peered under the furniture, he proceeded:
+</p>
+<p>“That afternoon Inspector Béchoux dropped in while I was dictating my memoirs to a
+charming young lady called Legoffier. She had been recommended to me by her friend,
+the flautist. Béchoux searched high and low for his Twelve Little Nigger Boys, who
+heartlessly persisted in eluding him. Under the couch he collected three grains of
+dust; under the wardrobe a shoe-heel and a hairpin. Inspector Béchoux never overlooks
+the slightest detail. What a life!”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux stood up and shook his fist in Barnett’s face, volleying abuse. The other
+went on dictating, and the detective departed in a fury.
+</p>
+<p>A little later Barnett came down with his cardboard box. Béchoux, who was keeping
+watch, had a moment’s hesitation. But his fears conquered him and he opened the box,
+to find that it contained nothing but old papers and rags.
+</p>
+<p>Life became unbearable for the unhappy Béchoux. Barnett’s continued presence, his
+quizzical attitude and freakish pranks threw the detective into fresh fits of rage.
+Every day Barnett came to the house, and after each flute lesson or shorthand séance,
+he would display his cardboard box.
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux did not know what to do. He had no doubt that the whole thing was a farce
+and that Barnett was <span class="pageNum" id="pb121">[<a href="#pb121">121</a>]</span>ragging him. All the same, there was always the chance that this time Barnett really
+<i>was</i> spiriting away the securities. Suppose he was kidnapping the Twelve Little Nigger
+Boys? Suppose he was smuggling his haul out of the house?
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux was forced to rummage in the box, empty it and run his hands over its oddly
+assorted contents of torn clothing, rags, old feather dusters, broom handles, ashes
+and potato peelings. And this made Barnett roar with laughter.
+</p>
+<p>“He’s found his shares! No, false alarm! He’s getting warm … try that lettuce leaf!
+Ah, Béchoux, what a lot of quiet fun you manage to give me, bless you!”
+</p>
+<p>This went on for a week. Béchoux lost the whole of his holiday over the wretched business,
+and made himself the laughing-stock of the neighborhood. For neither he nor Nicolas
+Gassire had been able to stop the tenants from attending to their own affairs, even
+while allowing their persons to be searched on exit and entrance. Gossip <span class="corr" id="xd33e1969" title="Source: traveled">travelled</span> apace. Gassire’s misfortune became known. His terrified clients flocked to the office
+and demanded the immediate return of their money.
+</p>
+<p>As for Monsieur Touffémont, the ex-Cabinet Minister, who came under the amateur surveillance
+four times a day, to his great annoyance and the interruption of his customary routine,
+<i>he</i> was all for calling in the police officially, and urged Gassire to take this course
+without further delay. The situation could not be prolonged indefinitely.
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb122">[<a href="#pb122">122</a>]</span></p>
+<p>At last things came to a head. Late one afternoon Gassire and Béchoux heard sounds
+of violent quarreling coming from the top of the house. Two high-pitched voices were
+raised in rival but continuous clamor, the uproar punctuated by stamps and screams.
+It sounded most alarming.
+</p>
+<p>The two men hurried upstairs. On the top landing Mademoiselle Haveline and Mademoiselle
+Legoffier were doing battle. Standing over them like an umpire was Jim Barnett!
+</p>
+<p>Although quite unable to restrain the combatants, Barnett wore an expression of genuine
+enjoyment. The girls continued to fly at each other, their hair like that of Furies,
+and their frocks getting torn to shreds. The air was thick with Parisienne invective!
+</p>
+<p>After heroic efforts the pair was separated. The typist promptly went into hysterics,
+and Barnett carried her into her flat, while the flute teacher proceeded to expound
+her wrongs to Béchoux and Gassire on the landing.
+</p>
+<p>“Caught them together, I did,” shrilled Mademoiselle Haveline. “Barnett was mine first,
+and then I caught him kissing <i>her</i>! I can tell you, he’s up to no good, that Barnett. He’s a queer sort and no mistake.
+Why don’t you ask him, Monsieur Béchoux, what his game’s been up here all this week,
+questioning the two of us and poking his nose everywhere? I’m going to give him away,
+though. <i>He</i> knows who the thief is. It’s the concierge, Madame Alain. But he made us swear we
+wouldn’t let on to you. Another thing, he knows where those securities are. Didn’t
+he tell us: ‘The securities <span class="pageNum" id="pb123">[<a href="#pb123">123</a>]</span>are in the house, and yet not in it, and they’re out of it, and yet in it’? Those
+were his very words. You want to be careful of him, Monsieur Béchoux!”
+</p>
+<p>Jim Barnett had finished with the typist and now came forth. Taking Mademoiselle Haveline
+by the shoulders, he pushed her firmly through her own front door.
+</p>
+<p>“Come along, professor mine, and no idle gossip, <i>if</i> you please! You’re going right off the handle. Stop talking nonsense and stick to
+the flute. I don’t want you playing in <i>my</i> band!”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux did not stay any longer. Mademoiselle Haveline’s sudden revelation had shed
+a ray of light on the case. He now saw that the thief must be Madame Alain. He only
+marveled that he could ever have overlooked her guilt.
+</p>
+<p>Spurred by his conviction, he rushed downstairs, followed by Nicolas Gassire, and
+burst in upon the concierge.
+</p>
+<p>“My Africans! Where are they? It was you who stole them!”
+</p>
+<p>Nicolas Gassire panted at his heels.
+</p>
+<p>“My securities! Where have you put them, you thief?”
+</p>
+<p>They each took hold of the poor woman, shaking her violently and overwhelming her
+with abuse and questions. She seemed quite dazed by it all, but stuck bravely to her
+protestations of innocence and ignorance.
+</p>
+<p>When at last they let her be, she retired to bed and passed a sleepless night. Next
+morning the inquisition <span class="pageNum" id="pb124">[<a href="#pb124">124</a>]</span>recommenced, and that day and its successor were long hours of unrelieved ordeal for
+the poor woman.
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux would not for a minute admit that Jim Barnett could have made a mistake. Besides,
+in the light of this definite accusation, it was easy to put the right construction
+on the facts of the case. The concierge, while cleaning the flat, had doubtless noticed
+the unaccustomed bundle on the table by the bed. She was the only person who had the
+key to the flat. Knowing Monsieur Gassire’s regular habits, she might well have returned
+to the flat, seized the securities, run off with them, and taken refuge in the little
+room where Nicolas Gassire found her when he rushed downstairs.
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux began to get discouraged.
+</p>
+<p>“Yes,” he said, “it’s obvious that this woman is the guilty party. But still we’re
+no nearer a solution of the mystery. I don’t care if the criminal is the concierge
+or the man in the moon. It makes no odds as long as we are still without news of my
+Twelve Little Nigger Boys. I can see that she had them in her room, but by what miracle
+did they leave it between nine o’clock and the time we searched her belongings?”
+</p>
+<p>All their threats, and the “third degree” cross-examination to which she was subjected
+failed to make the fat Madame Alain disclose any helpful information. She denied everything.
+She had seen nothing. She knew nothing. Even though there was now no doubt of her
+guilt she stood firm.
+</p>
+<p>“We’ve simply got to settle this,” Gassire told Béchoux one morning. “You know that
+Touffémont overthrew the Cabinet last night. The reporters will be here <span class="pageNum" id="pb125">[<a href="#pb125">125</a>]</span>any minute to interview him, and we can’t possibly go searching them, too.”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux agreed that they had come to an impasse.
+</p>
+<p>“But keep smiling,” he urged, “for within three hours I shall know the truth.”
+</p>
+<p>That afternoon he called at the Barnett Detective Agency.
+</p>
+<p>“I was waiting for you to drop in, Béchoux,” said Barnett amicably. “What do you want?”
+</p>
+<p>“I want your coöperation, Barnett. I’m at a loss what to do.”
+</p>
+<p>This was unvarnished admission of defeat. The inspector’s surrender was unconditional.
+Béchoux was making the <i>amende honorable</i>.
+</p>
+<p>Jim Barnett clapped him friendliwise on the back, then took him by the shoulders and
+rocked him gently to and fro, by sheer geniality sparing the other humiliation. This
+was no meeting of vanquished and victor. Rather was it a scene of reconciliation between
+two comrades.
+</p>
+<p>“To tell you the truth, Béchoux, I was awfully cut up about that misunderstanding
+between us. I couldn’t bear to think of our being enemies. It worried me till I could
+hardly sleep at nights!”
+</p>
+<p>A frown clouded Béchoux’s brow. His professional conscience pricked him sore for being
+on friendly terms with Barnett. He cursed the unkind fate that forced him to collaborate
+with a man he felt sure was a crook, and to incur obligations to the fellow into the
+bargain. But there are moments and circumstances when even the just man stretches
+a point. The loss of a dozen <span class="pageNum" id="pb126">[<a href="#pb126">126</a>]</span>valuable African mining shares explained Béchoux’s course of action.
+</p>
+<p>Swallowing his scruples, he whispered:
+</p>
+<p>“It’s the concierge, of course?”
+</p>
+<p>“It is she for the reason, <i>inter alia</i>, that it could not be any one else.”
+</p>
+<p>“But how do you account for a woman who has always been honest and respectable suddenly
+turning crook?”
+</p>
+<p>“If you had troubled to make a few inquiries about her you would know that the poor
+creature is afflicted with a son who is a thorough bad hat. He is always sponging
+on her. It was on his account that she suddenly gave way to temptation.”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux jumped up.
+</p>
+<p>“Did she manage to give him my shares?” he asked anxiously.
+</p>
+<p>“Of course not! Do you think I should have allowed a thing like that? I regard your
+Twelve Little Nigger Boys as sacred.”
+</p>
+<p>“Where are they, then?”
+</p>
+<p>“In your own coat-pocket.”
+</p>
+<p>“Please don’t joke about it.”
+</p>
+<p>“But, Béchoux, I’m <i>not</i> joking. I never joke in times of stress. Look for yourself!”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux’s hand went gingerly to his coat-pocket, felt in it and took out a large envelope
+which bore the following superscription: “To my friend Béchoux.” With trembling fingers
+he tore it open. Oh, joy, his Nigger Boys were restored to him, all twelve! Clutching
+the precious shares to his breast, he turned very pale <span class="pageNum" id="pb127">[<a href="#pb127">127</a>]</span>and closed his eyes. Barnett hastened to revive him with smelling salts held under
+the nose.
+</p>
+<p>“Sniff hard, Béchoux. This is no time to faint.”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux did not faint, though he surreptitiously wiped away a few tears of relief.
+He was inarticulate with emotion. Of course he had no doubt but that Barnett had stuffed
+the envelope into his pocket the moment he came into the Agency, while they were making
+up their differences. But anyhow there were the Twelve Little Nigger Boys in his still
+trembling hands, and Barnett’s virtue was for him untarnished.
+</p>
+<p>Reviving suddenly, he began capering about, dancing a kind of Spanish jig shaking
+imaginary castanets.
+</p>
+<p>“I’ve got them back! My own little pickaninnies! Bless you, Barnett, for a friend
+in need. From now on there is only one Barnett—Béchoux’s preserver! You deserve a
+statue <i>and</i> a drinking fountain. You are one of our truly great men. But how on earth did you
+bring it off? Tell me all.”
+</p>
+<p>Once again Barnett’s little way was a source of amazement to Inspector Béchoux. His
+professional curiosity thoroughly aroused, he asked:
+</p>
+<p>“Won’t you tell me?”
+</p>
+<p>“Tell you what?” Barnett’s tone was one of amused indolence.
+</p>
+<p>“How you unravelled everything! Where was the bundle? ‘In the house yet out of it,’
+was what you said, I believe?”
+</p>
+<p>“ ‘And out of the house but in it,’ ” added Barnett with a laugh.
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb128">[<a href="#pb128">128</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“What <i>does</i> it mean?”
+</p>
+<p>“D’you give it up?”
+</p>
+<p>“Yes, yes; I give it up. I’ll do anything you ask.”
+</p>
+<p>“Will you promise never again to take up that chilly and reproachful attitude towards
+my harmless exploits, which almost convinces me at times that I must have wandered
+from the straight and narrow path?”
+</p>
+<p>“Go on, tell me, Barnett!”
+</p>
+<p>“Ah,” exclaimed the other, “<i>what</i> a story! I’ve never come across anything more neatly done, more unexpected, more
+spontaneous or more baffling. It was at once human and fantastic. And withal so simple
+that you, Béchoux, gifted as you are in your profession, were absolutely in the dark.”
+</p>
+<p>“Well, hang it all, come to the point,” said Béchoux in some annoyance. “How did the
+bundle of securities leave the house?”
+</p>
+<p>“Under your own eyes, my bright lad! And not only did it leave the house, but it came
+in again. It left the house twice daily, and twice daily it returned! And under your
+own eyes, Béchoux, under your bright, benignant eyes! And for ten days you bowed to
+it respectfully. You almost grovelled on your knees before it!”
+</p>
+<p>“I don’t believe you!” cried Béchoux. “It’s absurd. We searched everything.”
+</p>
+<p>“Everything was searched, Béchoux, except that. Parcels, boxes, handbags, pockets,
+hats, tins, dustbins … all those, but not <i>that</i>. At the frontier they search all luggage, except the diplomat’s valise. Naturally,
+you searched everything but that.”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb129">[<a href="#pb129">129</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“What is <i>that</i>?” yelled Béchoux frenziedly. “For goodness sake, answer me.”
+</p>
+<p>“The portfolio of the ex-Cabinet Minister!”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux sprang up in astonishment.
+</p>
+<p>“What do you mean, Barnett? Are you accusing Monsieur Touffémont?”
+</p>
+<p>“Idiot, should I dare accuse a member of parliament? In the first place, that man,
+an ex-Cabinet Minister, is above suspicion. And among all members of parliament and
+ex-Cabinet Ministers—and Lord knows their name is legion—I regard Touffémont as the
+least open to suspicion. All the same, Madame Alain made him a receiver of stolen
+goods!”
+</p>
+<p>“Then he was her accomplice?”
+</p>
+<p>“Not a bit of it!”
+</p>
+<p>“Then who was?”
+</p>
+<p>“His portfolio!” And, with a broad smile, Barnett proceeded to elucidate. “A minister’s
+portfolio, Béchoux, has a personality of its own. In this world we have Monsieur Touffémont
+and we have his portfolio. The two are inseparable, and each is the other’s <i lang="fr">raison d’être</i>. You can’t imagine Monsieur Touffémont minus his portfolio—nor the portfolio minus
+Monsieur Touffémont. But it happens that Monsieur Touffémont lays down his portfolio
+when he eats and sleeps, and on various other occasions through the day. At such times
+the portfolio assumes a separate identity and may lend itself to actions for which
+Monsieur Touffémont cannot be held responsible.
+</p>
+<p><span class="corr" id="xd33e2109" title="Not in source">“</span>That was what happened on the morning of the theft.”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb130">[<a href="#pb130">130</a>]</span></p>
+<p>Béchoux stared at Barnett, wondering what on earth he was getting at.
+</p>
+<p>“That was what happened,” Barnett repeated, “on the morning that your twelve African
+mining shares vanished away. The concierge, terrified by what she had done, and dreading
+the consequences of her action, could not think how to get rid of the securities,
+which were bound to betray her guilt. Suddenly she noticed the providential presence
+of Monsieur Touffémont’s portfolio on her mantelpiece—the portfolio all by itself!
+Monsieur Touffémont had come in there to collect his post. He put his portfolio down
+on the mantelpiece and proceeded to open his letters, while Gassire and you, Béchoux,
+were telling him about the disappearance of the securities.
+</p>
+<p>“Then Madame Alain had an inspiration of sheer genius. Her room had not yet been searched,
+but it was bound to be ransacked in a little while, and the securities would be discovered.
+She had no time to lose. She turned her back on the three of you standing there discussing
+the theft. With quick, deft fingers she opened the portfolio, emptied one of the flap
+pockets of all its papers, and slipped the securities into their place. The deed was
+done, the great bell rung. No one suspected anything. And when Monsieur Touffémont
+withdrew, he took away in the portfolio under his arm your Twelve Little Nigger Boys
+and all Gassire’s securities.”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux never questioned Barnett’s asseverations when they were made on that particular
+note of absolute conviction. Instead, he bowed his head humbly <span class="pageNum" id="pb131">[<a href="#pb131">131</a>]</span>in the Temple of Truth and believed what he was told.
+</p>
+<p>“Certainly,” he said, “I noticed a sheaf of papers and reports lying about down there
+that morning, but I paid no attention to it. And surely she must have given those
+documents back to Monsieur Touffémont?”
+</p>
+<p>“I hardly think so,” answered Barnett. “Rather than incur any suspicion she probably
+burned them.”
+</p>
+<p>“But <i>he</i> must have asked after them?”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett shook his head and smiled quietly.
+</p>
+<p>“You mean to say he hasn’t noticed the disappearance of a whole sheaf of his papers?”
+</p>
+<p>“Has he noticed the appearance of the bundle of securities?”
+</p>
+<p>“But—but what happened when he opened the portfolio?”
+</p>
+<p>“He didn’t open it. He never opens it. Monsieur Touffémont’s portfolio, like that
+of many a <span class="corr" id="xd33e2132" title="Source: politican">politician</span>, is only a sham—a dummy—a useful prop on the parliamentary stage. If he had opened
+it he would have demanded the return of his own papers, and restored the securities.
+He has done neither.”
+</p>
+<p>“But when he works.…”
+</p>
+<p>“He doesn’t work. The mere fact of a man’s carrying a portfolio does not necessarily
+imply that he works. As a matter of fact, the possession of an ex-minister’s portfolio
+is in itself a dispensation from work. A portfolio stands for power, authority, omnipotence,
+and omniscience. Last night, at the <i lang="fr"><span class="corr" id="xd33e2139" title="Source: Chambres">Chambre</span> des Députés</i>—I was there myself, by the way—Monsieur Touffémont laid down his portfolio on the
+rostrum. You can see <span class="pageNum" id="pb132">[<a href="#pb132">132</a>]</span>that his doing this at such a crisis was tantamount to announcing <span class="corr" id="xd33e2145" title="Source: publicity">publicly</span> that he was once again a candidate for office. The Cabinet realized that it was lost.
+The great man’s portfolio must be full of crushing documents crammed with statistics!
+Monsieur Touffémont even undid it, though he took nothing from its bulging compartments.
+It was so obvious that he had everything there.… But really, there was nothing there
+except your twelve African mining shares, Gassire’s securities and some old newspapers.
+They carried the day, however, and Monsieur Touffémont’s portfolio overthrew the Cabinet.”
+</p>
+<p>“But how do you know all this?”
+</p>
+<p>“Because, when Monsieur Touffémont was strolling home from the House at one o’clock
+in the morning, a person unknown came into clumsy collision with him and sent him
+sprawling on the pavement. Another man—an accomplice—snatched up the portfolio and
+replaced the securities with a bundle of old papers, carrying off the former. Need
+I tell you the name of the second man?”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux laughed heartily. Every time his hand felt the twelve shares in his pocket
+he was struck afresh with the humor of the story and of Monsieur Touffémont’s little
+adventure.
+</p>
+<p>Barnett, beaming on his friend, concluded:
+</p>
+<p>“That’s all there is to know, and it was in my endeavor to ferret out the truth and
+collect evidence in the case that I’ve dictated my memoirs and taken lessons on the
+flute. What a pleasant week it’s been! Flirtations up above and a variety entertainment
+on <span class="pageNum" id="pb133">[<a href="#pb133">133</a>]</span>the ground floor. Gassire, Béchoux, Madame Alain, Touffémont … my own little marionettes,
+dancing when I pulled the strings! The hardest nut I had to crack was that Touffémont
+could actually be oblivious of his portfolio’s guilty secret, and be taking your Twelve
+Little Nigger Boys to and fro in blissful <span class="corr" id="xd33e2156" title="Source: ignorrance">ignorance</span>. At first it had me absolutely beat. And how surprised the poor concierge must have
+been! She must think Touffémont a common crook, since she certainly believes that
+he has stuck to your Little Nigger Boys and the rest of the bundle. Fancy Touffémont——”
+</p>
+<p>“Hadn’t I better tell him?” broke in Béchoux.
+</p>
+<p>“What’s the good? Let him go on carting his old newspapers about and sleeping with
+the portfolio under his pillow. Don’t let on about this to anyone, Béchoux.”
+</p>
+<p>“Except Gassire, of course,” said Béchoux. “I shall have to explain to him when I
+give him back his securities.”
+</p>
+<p>“What securities?” asked Barnett blankly.
+</p>
+<p>“The ones you found in Monsieur Touffémont’s portfolio—they’re his!”
+</p>
+<p>“You must be crazy, Béchoux. You don’t suppose Gassire will ever see his securities
+again?”
+</p>
+<p>“Naturally I do.”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett brought his fist down on the table and gave vent to a sudden burst of righteous
+indignation.
+</p>
+<p>“Look here, Béchoux, do you know what sort of man Nicolas Gassire is? He’s a scoundrel
+like the concierge’s son! He robbed his clients—I can prove it! He gambled with their
+money. He was even preparing to steal the lot. Look, here is his first-class railway
+ticket to <span class="pageNum" id="pb134">[<a href="#pb134">134</a>]</span>Brussels. He bought it on the same day that he withdrew the securities from his safe
+deposit, not to hand them over to another bank as he told you, but to bolt with them!
+How do you feel about Nicolas Gassire now?”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux could say nothing. Ever since the theft of his shares his confidence in Nicolas
+Gassire had been considerably shaken. Still, he raised the obvious objection.
+</p>
+<p>“His clients are all decent people. It’s not fair to ruin them as well.”
+</p>
+<p>“Who ever talked of ruining them? That would be disgraceful. It would upset me terribly!”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux looked his interrogation.
+</p>
+<p>“Gassire is rich,” observed Barnett.
+</p>
+<p>“He’s broke,” contradicted Béchoux.
+</p>
+<p>“Not at all. I have information that he has enough money to pay back all his clients
+and then leave something over. You can be quite sure that the reason he didn’t call
+in the police the very first day was that he didn’t want them meddling in his private
+affairs. Threaten him with imprisonment, and watch him skip! Why, Nicolas Gassire
+is a millionaire. It’s up to him to right his client’s wrongs, no business of mine!”
+</p>
+<p>“Which means that you intend keeping the securities?”
+</p>
+<p>“Certainly not! They’re already sold!”
+</p>
+<p>“Yes, but you’ve got the cash.”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett was virtuously indignant and protested that he had kept nothing.
+</p>
+<p>“I’m merely distributing it,” he declared.
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb135">[<a href="#pb135">135</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“To whom?”
+</p>
+<p>“To friends in distress and to various deserving charities which I supply with funds.
+You needn’t worry, Béchoux. I’m making good use of Gassire’s money.”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux did not doubt it. Yet another treasure-hunt in which the prize was forfeit
+at the finish! Barnett, as usual, walked off with the spoils. He punished the guilty
+and saved the innocent—and never forgot to line his pockets in the process. Well-ordered
+charity invariably begins at home.
+</p>
+<p>Inspector Béchoux found himself blushing. If he made no protest, he became Barnett’s
+accomplice. But, as he felt the precious bundle of shares in his pocket, and realized
+that without Barnett’s intervention he would have lost them for ever, he cooled down.
+It was hardly an opportune moment to enter the lists!
+</p>
+<p>“What’s up?” asked Barnett. “Aren’t you pleased?”
+</p>
+<p>“Oh, rather,” said the luckless Béchoux hastily. “Delighted!”
+</p>
+<p>“Then smile, smile, smile!”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux managed a grimace like a watery sunset.
+</p>
+<p>“<i>That’s</i> better,” cried Barnett. “It’s been a pleasure to do you this small service, and I
+thank you for giving me the opportunity. And now it’s time for us to part. You must
+be very busy, and I’m expecting a lady.”
+</p>
+<p>“So long,” said Béchoux, and made for the door.
+</p>
+<p>“To our next merry meeting,” answered Barnett.
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux took his leave, delighted, indeed, but at loggerheads with his conscience
+and firmly resolved to shun Barnett’s society henceforward.
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb136">[<a href="#pb136">136</a>]</span></p>
+<p>As he turned the corner of the <i>rue Laborde</i> he noticed the pretty typist from the Invalides hurrying along. Doubtless she was
+the lady Barnett was expecting!
+</p>
+<p>And, a couple of days later, Béchoux saw Barnett at the cinema, accompanied by the
+equally charming Mademoiselle Haveline, who played upon the flute.…
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb137">[<a href="#pb137">137</a>]</span></p>
+</div>
+</div>
+<div id="ch7" class="div1 chapter"><span class="pageNum">[<a title="Go to the table of contents" href="#xd33e264">Contents</a>]</span><div class="divHead">
+<h2 class="label">VII</h2>
+<h2 class="main">THE BRIDGE THAT BROKE</h2>
+</div>
+<div class="divBody">
+<p class="first">It was a Tuesday afternoon in midsummer. Paris was deserted—a city of the dead. Jim
+Barnett sat in his office with his feet on his desk. He was in his shirt-sleeves.
+A glass of lager beer stood at his elbow. A green blind shut out the blazing sun.
+To the prejudiced eye, Barnett’s appearance would have suggested slumber, and this
+impression would have been strengthened by his rather loud and rhythmical breathing.
+</p>
+<p>A sharp tap on his door made him bring his feet down with a jerk and sit bolt upright.
+</p>
+<p>“No! It can’t be! The heat must be affecting my eyesight.” Barnett affected elaborate
+astonishment.
+</p>
+<p>Inspector Béchoux, for it was he, closed the door behind him and observed with some
+distaste his friend’s state of <span class="corr" id="xd33e2222" title="Source: déshabille">déshabillé</span>. It was a fad with Béchoux to present at all times a perfectly groomed appearance.
+On this sweltering day he was cool and immaculate, not a hair out of place.
+</p>
+<p>“How <i>do</i> you do it?” Barnett demanded, sinking back wearily into his chair.
+</p>
+<p>“Do what?”
+</p>
+<p>“Look like a fashion-plate off the ice. Damned superior, I call it!”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb138">[<a href="#pb138">138</a>]</span></p>
+<p>Béchoux smiled with conscious pride.
+</p>
+<p>“It’s quite simple,” he remarked modestly.
+</p>
+<p>“But I take it the case you are working on is <i>not</i> quite so simple, or you wouldn’t be coming to the enemy camp for assistance, eh Béchoux?”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux reddened. It was a very sore point with him that in his difficulties he had
+several times been forced to accept Jim Barnett’s help. For Barnett <i>was</i> helpful—almost uncannily so. The trouble was that he always managed to help himself
+as well as others. But Béchoux felt profoundly grateful to Barnett for having retrieved
+these African shares—his precious Twelve Little Nigger Boys.
+</p>
+<p>“What is it this time? I’ve all day to spare—and to-morrow—and the day after. The
+Barnett Agency doesn’t get many clients at this time of year, though it does guarantee
+‘Information Free.’ I hear that they can’t even get deadheads to go to the theatres—pouf!”
+</p>
+<p>“How would you like a trip into the country?”
+</p>
+<p>“Béchoux, you are a blessing, albeit heavily disguised. What is the case, though?”
+</p>
+<p>Inspector Béchoux grimaced involuntarily.
+</p>
+<p>“It’s a real mystery—the sudden death of the famous scientist, Professor Saint-Prix.”
+</p>
+<p>“I know the name, but I haven’t read about his death in the papers. Has he been murdered?”
+</p>
+<p>Inspector Béchoux’s countenance took on a sphinx-like expression.
+</p>
+<p>“That’s what I want you to help me to determine. I have my car at a garage near here.
+Pack a bag and <span class="pageNum" id="pb139">[<a href="#pb139">139</a>]</span>come right along. I’ll tell you the facts of the case as we go.”
+</p>
+<p>Reluctantly Barnett got up, drained the last of his beer, and made his simple preparations
+for the trip.
+</p>
+<p>A quarter of an hour later they were spinning out of Paris in Inspector Béchoux’s
+little two-seater.
+</p>
+<p>“I was called in on the case,” said Béchoux, “by Doctor Desportes of Beauvray—an old
+friend. He rang up on Monday morning to say there was going to be an inquest at Beauvray—Professor
+Saint-Prix, the scientist, had been killed by falling into the stream at the bottom
+of his garden.”
+</p>
+<p>“Nothing very mysterious in that.”
+</p>
+<p>“Ah, but wait. The professor was crossing the stream by a plank bridge, and that bridge
+gave way under him and precipitated the old man into the water. His head hit a sharp
+rock and he was killed instantaneously.”
+</p>
+<p>“Was the bridge rotten, then?”
+</p>
+<p>Inspector Béchoux shook his head.
+</p>
+<p>“My doctor friend informed me that though the police had not been called in, they
+would have to be. The bridge was perfectly sound, but—it had been <i>sawed through</i>!”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett whistled.
+</p>
+<p>“And so you went to Beauvray at once?”
+</p>
+<p>“Yes.”
+</p>
+<p>“And what did you find?”
+</p>
+<p>“A queer situation. The professor had a little house where he lived with his daughter,
+Thérèse Saint-Prix. Joined on to the house was a very fine laboratory. <span class="pageNum" id="pb140">[<a href="#pb140">140</a>]</span>The garden sloped down, first a lawn and then a dense shrubbery, to a stream, sunk
+deep between rocky banks. A stout plank bridge was the means of crossing from the
+Saint-Prix garden to the adjoining property of the Villa Eméraude, the home of a married
+couple, the Lenormands.
+</p>
+<p>“Louis Lenormand is a young stockbroker. His wife, Cécile, is a delicate, beautiful
+girl. Last Sunday afternoon, Madame Lenormand was going to have tea with Thérèse Saint-Prix.
+Louis Lenormand was spending the week-end in Paris with his invalid mother, but was
+expected back that night.
+</p>
+<p>“Madame Lenormand went through the garden of the Villa Eméraude down to the stream.
+When she got there, she pulled up short and gave a cry of horror! The plank bridge
+was broken, and in the water lay the body of Professor Saint-Prix. She rushed back
+to the house for help, and then fainted.”
+</p>
+<p>“Well, where do I come in?”
+</p>
+<p>“Almost as soon as they had got Madame Lenormand to bed, and were breaking the news
+of her father’s death to Thérèse Saint-Prix, Louis Lenormand arrived in his car, driving
+like a fury. He was pale and trembling. The first words he spoke were: ‘Am I in time?
+Tell me—tell me. My God, I’ve been a fool!’ He was like a madman and rushed upstairs
+to his wife’s room without waiting for an answer from the astonished servants. His
+wife’s maid told him what had happened. At first he did not seem to understand. Then
+he stole to his wife’s bedside and kissed her hands passionately, weeping and murmuring,
+‘Cécile, I am a murderer.’ ”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb141">[<a href="#pb141">141</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“Still I confess I don’t understand. You have your murder—you have your murderer,
+self-confessed. What more do you want?”
+</p>
+<p>“Well, the thing is this. We checked up on Louis Lenormand’s movements while he was
+away from Beauvray. We know that the bridge was perfectly safe on the Saturday morning,
+for a gardener crossed by it. Now all Saturday afternoon Lenormand spent at his mother’s
+bedside. He sat with her again after dinner until eleven o’clock, and then turned
+into bed himself. Old Madame Lenormand’s maid and cook heard him kicking off his shoes
+in the room next to theirs. And the maid swears that in the small hours she heard
+him switch off his light, so she supposes he must have been lying awake reading. All
+Sunday morning he did not stir out, so it is out of the question that he could possibly
+have sawed through the bridge between the gardens at Beauvray.”
+</p>
+<p>“What made you establish such a thorough alibi for your suspect?”
+</p>
+<p>“Madame Lenormand, though still weak from the shock, has recovered consciousness.
+Her belief in her husband’s innocence is absolute. Her one aim is to clear him. She
+insisted on these investigations being made. He will not say a word in his own defence.
+It’s all very mystifying.”
+</p>
+<p>“You say that Louis Lenormand was not expected back until Sunday evening. Do you know
+why he left Paris so much earlier?”
+</p>
+<p>“That,” said Béchoux, “is a curious point. Apparently he was alone in one of the rooms
+in his mother’s <span class="pageNum" id="pb142">[<a href="#pb142">142</a>]</span>flat, reading a book while the old lady had a nap after her lunch. The servants were
+both in the kitchen, and testify that suddenly, at about three o’clock, he rushed
+into them and said he was going home at once but would not disturb his mother to say
+good-bye.”
+</p>
+<p>“And the motive? What reason could Louis Lenormand have to murder his neighbor?”
+</p>
+<p>Inspector Béchoux shrugged his shoulders.
+</p>
+<p>“I have an idea, and Doctor Desportes is making some investigations on my behalf.”
+</p>
+<p>“Is there no one else who comes under suspicion? What about Madame Lenormand?”
+</p>
+<p>Inspector Béchoux was silent. The car swung off the main road up a shady avenue. They
+turned into the drive of the Villa Eméraude. They were met outside the house by Doctor
+Desportes, who announced:
+</p>
+<p>“The Beauvray police have arrested Monsieur Lenormand, but I have been busy on the
+telephone to headquarters, and you are now officially in charge of the case.”
+</p>
+<p>“But his alibi—he was in Paris all the time—he could not have sawed through the bridge!”
+</p>
+<p>The doctor looked grave.
+</p>
+<p>“Monsieur Lenormand had a latch-key to his mother’s flat. The Paris police have inquired
+at the garage where he kept his car and they find that he took it out shortly after
+midnight and told a mechanic that he was unable to sleep because of the heat, and
+was going to try and get a breath of air in the Bois. He returned after two in the
+morning.”
+</p>
+<p>“Which,” observed Barnett, “gave him plenty of <span class="pageNum" id="pb143">[<a href="#pb143">143</a>]</span>time to drive out here, saw through the bridge and get back to Paris. And what the
+maid heard was Monsieur Lenormand switching off his light when he really went to bed
+at last. Both servants must have been asleep when he slipped out of the flat.”
+</p>
+<p>The doctor looked at Barnett in some curiosity, for he spoke in such an assured tone
+and was so obviously no subordinate of Inspector Béchoux.
+</p>
+<p>Barnett smiled and bowed easily.
+</p>
+<p>“Allow me to remedy my friend Béchoux’s deplorable lack of manners. Jim Barnett, at
+your service, doctor.”
+</p>
+<p>“A friend of mine, who has helped me on more than one occasion,” said Béchoux, not
+so easily. “Come, doctor, what news have you for me after your confidential interview
+with the bank manager at Beauvray?”
+</p>
+<p>“Poor Monsieur Lenormand.” The doctor shook his head sadly. “I wish it had been a
+policeman who had found it out. But justice cannot be cheated. I have established
+that for the past two years Monsieur Lenormand has from time to time paid quite large
+checks into the banking account of Professor Saint-Prix.”
+</p>
+<p>“Blackmail?” Barnett and Béchoux came out with the word simultaneously.
+</p>
+<p>“There we have at last the motive!” cried Béchoux, in purely professional triumph.
+“Monsieur Lenormand must have had a very good reason for sawing through that bridge——”
+</p>
+<p>“But he did not do it!”
+</p>
+<p>A young woman, deathly pale, wearing a brilliant Chinese wrap, was coming slowly down
+the stairs into <span class="pageNum" id="pb144">[<a href="#pb144">144</a>]</span>the hall, clutching at the banister for support. A maid followed anxiously behind
+her.
+</p>
+<p>“I repeat,” she said in a voice trembling with suppressed emotion, “Louis is innocent!”
+</p>
+<p>“Madame,” said Béchoux, “allow me to present my friend, Jim Barnett.” Barnett bowed
+low. “If anyone can achieve the impossible and establish your husband’s innocence,
+it is he! I admit, however, that I originally brought him here because your husband’s
+alibi upset all my deductions: Now that alibi no longer holds, and I have no objection
+if Barnett transfers his assistance to you. Provided”——he grew thoughtful and did
+not finish his sentence.
+</p>
+<p>“Oh,” cried Madame Lenormand, taking Barnett’s hands impulsively in hers, “save my
+husband, and I will give you any reward you care to name.”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett shook his head.
+</p>
+<p>“I ask no reward, madame, beyond the privilege of serving you. Never shall it be said
+that the Barnett Agency descended to base commercialism in accepting a fee for its
+labors.”
+</p>
+<p>At this point a gendarme came running in from the garden with a pair of rubber boots.
+</p>
+<p>“Where did you find those?” asked Béchoux.
+</p>
+<p>“In a garden shed at the back of the grounds of the Villa.”
+</p>
+<p>The boots were covered with fresh mud. In this sweltering weather the only moisture
+on the ground would be along the channel of the stream. Cécile Lenormand gave a sharp
+exclamation.
+</p>
+<p>“Your husband’s?”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb145">[<a href="#pb145">145</a>]</span></p>
+<p>She nodded reluctantly.
+</p>
+<p>“Well,” said Barnett, “let’s go and have a look at the stream—and we ought to take
+those with us. <i lang="fr"><span class="corr" id="xd33e2335" title="Source: A">À</span> bientôt</i>, madame.”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux and Barnett, accompanied by the doctor and the gendarme, walked through the
+garden and down to the stream. The water was running swiftly over the rocks below.
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux looked unwillingly at the muddy foothold below the broken bridge, and then
+at his shining new patent leather shoes topped by snowy spats.
+</p>
+<p>“I’ll do it!” cried Barnett gallantly, and, seizing a boot from Béchoux, he leapt
+down, so that he sank ankle-deep in the mud beside the torrent.
+</p>
+<p>“Are there any marks?” asked the doctor eagerly.
+</p>
+<p>“Yes,” said Barnett. “And they were made by these boots!”
+</p>
+<p>“A clear case!” said Béchoux. “I need never have brought you along, Barnett, and I’m
+afraid it’s no use your transferring your services to Madame Lenormand. Really, I
+think you’d better hop back to Paris.”
+</p>
+<p>“My dear Béchoux!” said Barnett in tones of shocked surprise. “Go off and leave a
+client in the lurch? Do you imagine the Barnett Agency shirks what appears to be a
+losing case?”
+</p>
+<p>“Then you definitely regard Madame Lenormand as your client?”
+</p>
+<p>“Why not?”
+</p>
+<p>He handed up the boot and grovelled a few minutes longer in the mud. Then he clambered
+up again, somewhat apoplectic of countenance.
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb146">[<a href="#pb146">146</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“Now,” he said briskly, “suppose we visit Mademoiselle Saint-Prix and inspect both
+the properties prior to consuming beef and wine at the village inn.”
+</p>
+<p>“What good can that do? I have my case.”
+</p>
+<p>“And I have my own way of working. If you prefer it, I will pursue my course quite
+independently on behalf of Madame Lenormand, and you needn’t see me again until I,
+too, have my case.”
+</p>
+<p>But this course Béchoux viewed with some apprehension, so he and Barnett made their
+way round by the road to the Saint-Prix house.
+</p>
+<p>On the way there Barnett solemnly handed Béchoux a very grubby sealed envelope.
+</p>
+<p>“Will you please keep that carefully for me?” he said, “and don’t let it out of your
+inner pocket until I ask for it.”
+</p>
+<p>“What is it?”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett smiled mysteriously and laid a finger to his nose.
+</p>
+<p>“A valuable diamond, old horse!”
+</p>
+<p>“Idiot!”
+</p>
+<p>At this point, they had arrived at the late professor’s house. Here all the blinds
+were drawn. Barnett observed that the paint was peeling off the walls, and the matting
+in the passage was worn and old. A down-at-heel servant girl showed them into a small
+boudoir where they were received by Thérèse Saint-Prix.
+</p>
+<p>She was quite a young woman—a girl in years, but strikingly poised and mature in bearing
+and appearance, tall and supple. She wore black, with no ornament of any kind. Her
+smooth black hair, parted in the <span class="pageNum" id="pb147">[<a href="#pb147">147</a>]</span>middle, was drawn off her ears into a knot low on her neck. Her grave, dark eyes searched
+the faces of the two men—she had already met Béchoux and presumed Barnett to be an
+assistant.
+</p>
+<p>She sat, very pale, though calm, in a high-backed, carved chair. Only her strong white
+hands strained at her handkerchief as if there alone her grief found outlet.
+</p>
+<p>Barnett bowed low.
+</p>
+<p>“Accept my profound sympathy, mademoiselle,” he murmured. “Your father’s death will
+be felt by all France!”
+</p>
+<p>“Yes,” the girl said, in a low voice. “Five years ago he discovered the antiseptic
+which is now used in every hospital. That brought him renown, though it did not mend
+our fortunes when we lost our money in Russia.” She gave a pathetic little smile.
+</p>
+<p>“How was that?”
+</p>
+<p>“My father was half Russian. He invested everything in his brother’s oil-wells near
+St. Petersburg. Revolutionaries burned the factory and murdered my uncle. After that
+loss, we lived very modestly. But even in poverty my father was generous. And he would
+take no money for his discovery. He said his reward was to have been able to help
+in the great war against disease. When my father died, however, he was on the verge
+of completing another discovery of a different kind—one that would have brought him
+wealth as well as fame.”
+</p>
+<p>“What was this discovery?”
+</p>
+<p>“A secret process which would have revolutionized the dye industry. But I know scarcely
+anything about <span class="pageNum" id="pb148">[<a href="#pb148">148</a>]</span>it—my father was secretive in some matters and would not let me help him in his experiments.”
+Again she smiled sadly. “I could only be his housekeeper, never his assistant. And
+my chief occupation was to interest myself in the garden. Cécile and I used to spend
+hours planning our flower-beds. She was always so kind, helping me with gifts of plants.
+She was coming to tea on that afternoon, you know, to advise me about some fruit-trees.
+Poor Cécile! What will she do?”
+</p>
+<p>“You are aware, mademoiselle,” said Béchoux, rather stiffly, as if to recall his presence
+to her consciousness, “that Louis Lenormand is under arrest? The case is practically
+complete against him.”
+</p>
+<p>She nodded.
+</p>
+<p>“What made Louis Lenormand do such a thing? Can you imagine?” Barnett asked abruptly.
+</p>
+<p>“<i>If</i> he did it,” said Thérèse gently. “We must remember that nothing is proved yet.”
+</p>
+<p>“But what reason can he have had? Well off, prosperous, married to a charming wife——”
+</p>
+<p>“Against the wishes of her family,” interposed the girl. “Louis Lenormand was a penniless
+clerk, and it was by speculating with his wife’s money that he became rich. The family
+all thought that was why he wanted to marry her, though, of course, it was untrue.
+And Cécile was passionately fond of her husband—she grudged every minute he spent
+elsewhere. Indeed, I used to wonder if she was not a little jealous of the time he
+spent with my father in the laboratory. I wondered, too, if she minded his helping
+my father occasionally with loans of money. But I do wrong if I suggest that <span class="pageNum" id="pb149">[<a href="#pb149">149</a>]</span>Cécile is not all that is generous. Only, where her husband is concerned, if you understand,
+I have often wondered if she can be quite normal.”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett looked distinctly interested, though Béchoux was obviously bored.
+</p>
+<p>“Mademoiselle,” said Barnett, “I have a favor to ask of you. May I see the laboratory
+in which your father worked?”
+</p>
+<p>Without another word she led the way down a passage and through a baize door, which
+opened into the airy, white building.
+</p>
+<p>The laboratory was in contrast to the house itself. Here all was new and spotless.
+Phials were ranged in orderly rows along the shelves; clean vessels sparkled on the
+benches. In all this dazzling whiteness there was but one dark patch—a muddy coat
+trailing from a stool.
+</p>
+<p>“What’s that?” asked Barnett.
+</p>
+<p>“My poor father’s coat,” said Thérèse. “They carried him in here and removed his coat
+when they were trying to restore life. But he must have been killed instantaneously.”
+</p>
+<p>“And these are all his chemicals?” Barnett indicated the gleaming phials.
+</p>
+<p>“Yes—to think he will never use them again!” She averted her head slightly. “Ah, how
+my father loved this place; and so, I always thought, did Louis Lenormand. Cécile
+did not, but that was because she did not understand. She loved flowers, everything
+beautiful; but science she thought ugly and repellent. Why, I have seen her shake
+her fist at the laboratory windows <span class="pageNum" id="pb150">[<a href="#pb150">150</a>]</span>when my father and her husband were talking there together.”
+</p>
+<p>“Well, mademoiselle, I thank you very much for being so helpful to us in what must
+be painful and terrible circumstances so far as you are concerned. And I won’t hide
+from you that I have already made one little discovery.”
+</p>
+<p>“What’s that?” demanded Béchoux.
+</p>
+<p>“Aha, I thought you would want to know. Well, it is that I am on the track of the
+<i>motive</i> for the murder. You have the murderer; I shall soon have the motive. And there we
+are!”
+</p>
+<p>Then, hastily dissembling his cheerfulness, he took a dignified farewell of Thérèse
+Saint-Prix, and departed with Béchoux.
+</p>
+<p>At the garden gate they were met by the doctor and the gendarme.
+</p>
+<p>“We’ve been waiting for you,” the former observed. “We have found the instrument of
+the crime.”
+</p>
+<p>The gendarme held up a medium-sized saw.
+</p>
+<p>“Where did you find it?” asked Béchoux eagerly.
+</p>
+<p>“Among some laurel bushes, near the tool-shed where the boots were discovered.”
+</p>
+<p>“See,” cried Béchoux, turning eagerly to Barnett, “it is plainly marked, ‘Villa Eméraude.’ ”
+</p>
+<p>“Very interesting,” observed Barnett. “Béchoux, I feel your case is becoming ever
+clearer. I almost wish I had never left Paris; it’s just as hot here. In fact, I am
+getting distinctly warm. What about a drink at the local hostelry? I hope you will
+join us, doctor?” He beamed a comprehensive invitation.
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb151">[<a href="#pb151">151</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“I shall be delighted to join you and your colleague,” answered the doctor.
+</p>
+<p>At the word “colleague,” Béchoux smiled wryly. He was wishing pretty heartily that
+he had never brought Barnett into the case.
+</p>
+<p class="tb"></p><p>
+</p>
+<p>The sultry, airless evening was followed by a night of storm, but Barnett slept through
+the thunderclaps. The next day dawned clear and much cooler.
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux informed his friend that Louis Lenormand was to be examined by the magistrate
+up at the Saint-Prix house that afternoon.
+</p>
+<p>“I am going to complete the necessary formalities this morning,” he announced, sipping
+his coffee. After a moment he continued, “Won’t you change your mind and pop back
+to Paris?”
+</p>
+<p>“I’m sorry my society bores you so badly,” said Barnett sorrowfully, and sought solace
+in a third cup of chocolate.
+</p>
+<p>“Oh, very well!” Béchoux was inclined to be huffy. He left the inn, and Barnett attacked
+another soft boiled egg.
+</p>
+<p>When he had finished his breakfast, Jim Barnett spruced himself up and made his way
+to the Villa Eméraude. Madame Lenormand received him in her sitting-room, and for
+over an hour he remained talking with her. Towards the end of the interview they moved
+into Louis Lenormand’s study, and Béchoux, coming up the drive, could see through
+the open window Barnett and <span class="corr" id="xd33e2434" title="Source: Cécil">Cécile</span> Lenormand bending over an open desk together.
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb152">[<a href="#pb152">152</a>]</span></p>
+<p>Barnett came out into the hall and greeted his friend as if the Villa Eméraude was
+his own ancestral hall.
+</p>
+<p>“Welcome, welcome, Béchoux. But I’m afraid you can’t see Madame Lenormand. She’s feeling
+overtired already—a little hysterical—and she must rest in view of her ordeal this
+afternoon. A charming woman; in many ways a delightful woman——” He did not finish,
+but paused thoughtfully.
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux grunted. “I came up to find you,” he said, “to tell you a bit of news.”
+</p>
+<p>“What’s that?”
+</p>
+<p>“We searched Louis Lenormand, and found on him a note-book in which he made entries
+of payments made by him during the past six months or so. One of these, dated three
+weeks ago, was for five thousand francs, paid to ‘S,’ and against it was written ‘<i>The last payment</i>.’ Investigation has shown that this amount was paid to Professor Saint-Prix. The
+case is pretty black against Lenormand, Barnett, and I really should advise you to
+quit now.”
+</p>
+<p>But all Barnett answered was:
+</p>
+<p>“I’m ready for a spot of lunch. Are you?”
+</p>
+<p>The inquiry began at three o’clock. It was held in the narrow dining-room of the Saint-Prix
+house. Louis Lenormand sat at one end, between two gendarmes, never raising his eyes
+from the ground. The magistrates and Béchoux conferred together in low tones. Doctor
+Desportes gazed thoughtfully out of the window.
+</p>
+<p>Barnett ushered in Madame Lenormand. She was very pale and leaned on his arm for support.
+She took her seat in a low chair, looking all around her with <span class="pageNum" id="pb153">[<a href="#pb153">153</a>]</span>quick, nervous glances. Her husband seemed not to observe her, so sunken was he in
+dejection.
+</p>
+<p>Then Thérèse Saint-Prix entered the room. Her presence was like a calming influence.
+She went over to Cécile Lenormand and laid a compassionate hand on her shoulder, but
+the other started away violently.
+</p>
+<p>Almost immediately the examining magistrate began<span class="corr" id="xd33e2457" title="Source: ,">.</span> He took the medical evidence, which Doctor Desportes gave in even, colorless tones,
+clearly establishing that the professor had been killed through his fall into the
+stream.
+</p>
+<p>After this came the questioning of Louis Lenormand.
+</p>
+<p>“Did you take your car out late on Sunday night from the Paris garage?”
+</p>
+<p>“I did.”
+</p>
+<p>“Where did you drive?”
+</p>
+<p>The prisoner was silent.
+</p>
+<p>“Answer me!”
+</p>
+<p>“I really forget.”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux gave Barnett a significant look.
+</p>
+<p>“Did you pay Professor Saint-Prix large sums of money from time to time?”
+</p>
+<p>“I did.”
+</p>
+<p>“For what reason?”
+</p>
+<p>Louis Lenormand hesitated, and then replied haltingly:
+</p>
+<p>“To assist him in his researches.”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux’s pitying contempt was unmistakable.
+</p>
+<p>A small note-book was produced.
+</p>
+<p>“This is yours?”
+</p>
+<p>The prisoner assented.
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb154">[<a href="#pb154">154</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“Here you have entered various payments made by you. There is one of five thousand
+francs dated a month ago which says: ‘S. <i>The last payment.</i>’ Was that a check paid to Professor Saint-Prix?”
+</p>
+<p>“It was.”
+</p>
+<p>“Won’t you tell us why you were being—blackmailed? Perhaps the circumstances——” The
+magistrate seemed anxious to give Lenormand a chance to defend himself.
+</p>
+<p>“I have nothing to say.”
+</p>
+<p>“Is it a fact that Professor Saint-Prix was in the habit of coming to your house for
+a game of chess on Sunday afternoons?”
+</p>
+<p>“Yes,” said the young man sullenly.
+</p>
+<p>“Did you saw through the bridge?”
+</p>
+<p>The prisoner was silent.
+</p>
+<p>“You do not deny that these are your boots?” Béchoux produced them. The prisoner looked
+slightly startled but made no protest.
+</p>
+<p>“I submit,” said Béchoux, “that the case is clear.”
+</p>
+<p>“Yes, indeed,” said Barnett, “there never was a clearer. As clear as crystal—as a
+diamond—Béchoux, won’t you produce that little envelope I entrusted to your care?”
+</p>
+<p>With a premonition of disaster, Béchoux extracted the rather grubby envelope from
+his inner pocket.
+</p>
+<p>“Open it!” commanded Barnett.
+</p>
+<p>He did so, and held up—a diamond earring!
+</p>
+<p>Cécile Lenormand gave a little gasp. Her husband started up and then sank back into
+his chair.
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb155">[<a href="#pb155">155</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“Can anyone identify this little exhibit of jewelry?” Barnett asked the assembly.
+</p>
+<p>Doctor Desportes looked intensely worried. Poor man, his quiet life was being rudely
+disturbed!
+</p>
+<p>“Those earrings——” He paused. “They were given to Madame Lenormand by her husband
+not very long ago!”
+</p>
+<p>“Is that so?” Béchoux asked of Louis Lenormand.
+</p>
+<p>The latter nodded.
+</p>
+<p>Cécile had bowed her head in her hands. Thérèse reached out a pitying hand to her,
+but she shook it off wildly.
+</p>
+<p>“You have seen these earrings,” pursued Barnett, “but you can’t guess where I found
+one of them. Inspector Béchoux will tell you, though. In the mud by the stream, at
+the point where the body of Professor Saint-Prix was found lying dead!”
+</p>
+<p>“Can you tell us, madame,” inquired the magistrate of Cécile Lenormand, “whether you
+were wearing those earrings on Sunday afternoon?”
+</p>
+<p>Looking up, the young woman shook her head.
+</p>
+<p>“I can’t—remember—when I last wore them!” she said in a confused manner.
+</p>
+<p>“You must forgive my asking you, madame, but you must tell us now whether you left
+the Villa at any time during Saturday night.”
+</p>
+<p>There was the merest hint of menace in the smooth tones. Louis Lenormand’s mouth twitched
+painfully.
+</p>
+<p>“I—I——” She looked from one face to another of those gathered in the room. “Why, I
+believe I did. It <span class="pageNum" id="pb156">[<a href="#pb156">156</a>]</span>was so hot.… I went out into the garden for a little.…”
+</p>
+<p>“Was this before you retired for the night?”
+</p>
+<p>“Yes—no—not exactly. I had gone to my room, but I had not undressed. I had told my
+maid to go to bed. Then I felt oppressed by the heat and went out into the garden
+through the French window of my boudoir.”
+</p>
+<p>“So that no one heard you come or go?”
+</p>
+<p>“No one, monsieur.”
+</p>
+<p>“And, on Sunday afternoon, you were going to tea with Mademoiselle Saint-Prix?”
+</p>
+<p>“Yes.”
+</p>
+<p>“At four o’clock?”
+</p>
+<p>“That’s so——”
+</p>
+<p>Thérèse Saint-Prix’s voice here interrupted gently, like a low-toned bell.
+</p>
+<p>“Don’t you remember, Cécile, the arrangement was that you should come over soon after
+three to me, but that if you did not arrive by four, I was to come up to the Villa?
+Why, I was just getting ready to come when—when <i>it</i> happened. You see,” she turned to address the magistrate, “we were going to make
+gardening plans together, but just lately Cécile hasn’t been feeling too well, and
+she thought it possible that she might not feel up to walking about the garden in
+the hot sun. So I was quite prepared for her to stay resting in her boudoir that afternoon,
+and then we would have had tea together there.”
+</p>
+<p>“Is that true, madame?” asked the magistrate of Cécile Lenormand.
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb157">[<a href="#pb157">157</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“I—I can’t remember. Perhaps that was the arrangement.”
+</p>
+<p>“But—but——” Béchoux was stammering under the force of his discovery—“if you, mademoiselle,
+had been just a few minutes quicker in getting ready to go up to the Villa, you might
+yourself have been killed!”
+</p>
+<p>“The question that presents itself,” said Barnett, in a level voice, “is—for whom
+was the trap laid? Did Louis Lenormand lay it to kill Professor Saint-Prix? We must
+remember that the old professor was absent-minded, and was in the custom of going
+to play chess with his neighbor on Sunday afternoon. Or, was the attack directed by
+Louis Lenormand against his own wife? Or against Mademoiselle Saint-Prix?”
+</p>
+<p>“Or,” said Béchoux, annoyed to find Barnett calmly taking the floor, “did Madame Lenormand
+saw through the bridge because she guessed Professor Saint-Prix would be coming that
+way? Remember what Mademoiselle Saint-Prix has told us——”
+</p>
+<p>Thérèse Saint-Prix was covered with confusion.
+</p>
+<p>“I never meant you to take it that way,” she cried.
+</p>
+<p>“Why, I only said Cécile sometimes appeared a little jealous of her husband’s intimacy
+with my poor father. But that was nothing! Poor darling, she was always jealous where
+Louis—Monsieur Lenormand—was concerned. Why, she even at one time——” She broke off
+and was silent.
+</p>
+<p>“She even what, mademoiselle?” asked the magistrate.
+</p>
+<p>“Oh, it’s too silly. But at one time I used to wonder if she were not a little jealous
+of <i>me</i>! I was giving <span class="pageNum" id="pb158">[<a href="#pb158">158</a>]</span>Monsieur Lenormand lessons in Russian—a language he was eager to learn—and so we were
+naturally together a good deal. I even wondered if Cécile could be—could be spying
+on us—she seemed so queer. But please don’t misunderstand me, I’m not suggesting a
+thing against her.”
+</p>
+<p>“But mademoiselle is right,” said Barnett gravely. “Madame Lenormand had the most
+odd ideas concerning her husband and mademoiselle—almost unbelievable. She imagined—I
+ask you!—that Mademoiselle Saint-Prix had almost forced Monsieur Lenormand into having
+Russian lessons, in the hope that she might thereby succeed in teaching him something
+besides Russian! She had the absurd hallucination that she once saw her husband kissing
+you, mademoiselle, in the little summer-house at the bottom of the garden. And yet,
+and this is the most unbelievable part of all, she never really doubted her husband—she
+believed that, like so many men, he was capable of being superficially attracted without
+being guilty of any serious infidelity. A trusting woman, one would say. But her clemency
+hardly extended to her supposed rival.
+</p>
+<p>“Now, on Sunday afternoon a woman telephoned from Beauvray to Louis Lenormand at his
+mother’s flat and told him something terrible—so terrible, in fact, as to bring him
+racing home in his car to try and avert disaster. But he was too late. The tragedy
+had occurred. Only, it was something quite different from what he had feared! To-day
+you have before you a woman telling a vague, unsubstantiated story of having wandered
+about on Saturday night in her garden—of <span class="pageNum" id="pb159">[<a href="#pb159">159</a>]</span>having, <i>perhaps</i>, asked her friend to come to tea instead of going to tea with her. And, on the other
+hand, you must picture to yourselves a woman mad with jealousy and fury—a woman telephoning
+in words of ice-cold rage—‘She shall no longer come between us—she and she alone is
+the obstacle to our love—it is because of her that you have turned a deaf ear to my
+entreaties, but soon, soon the obstacle will be removed!’
+</p>
+<p>“Gentlemen, which story are you going to believe?”
+</p>
+<p>“There can be but one answer to that,” observed the magistrate, “if you have proof
+of what you say. And much is explained if Cécile Lenormand did indeed telephone to
+her husband in Paris that afternoon!”
+</p>
+<p>“Did I say that Cécile Lenormand telephoned?” asked Barnett, looking most surprised.
+“But that would be quite contrary to my own belief—and to the truth!”
+</p>
+<p>“Then what on earth do you mean?”
+</p>
+<p>“Exactly what I say. The telephone call from Beauvray to Paris was made by a woman
+maddened by jealousy and frustration, by a desire to annihilate her rival in Louis
+Lenormand’s affections——”
+</p>
+<p>“But that woman is Cécile Lenormand.”
+</p>
+<p>“Not a bit of it! I can assure you she had nothing whatever to do with the telephone
+call.”
+</p>
+<p>“Then whom are you accusing?”
+</p>
+<p>“The other woman!”
+</p>
+<p>“But there were only two—Cécile Lenormand and Thérèse Saint-Prix.”
+</p>
+<p>“Precisely, and since I am <i>not</i> accusing Cécile Lenormand, that means that I <i>do</i> accuse.…”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett left the sentence unfinished. There was a <span class="pageNum" id="pb160">[<a href="#pb160">160</a>]</span>horrified silence. Here was a direct and totally unforeseen accusation! Thérèse Saint-Prix,
+who was at this moment standing near the window, hesitated for a long moment, pale
+and trembling. Suddenly she sprang over the low balcony and down into the garden.
+</p>
+<p>The doctor and a gendarme made to pursue her, but found themselves in collision with
+Barnett, who was barring the way. The gendarme protested hotly:
+</p>
+<p>“But we shall have her escaping!”
+</p>
+<p>“I think not,” said Barnett.
+</p>
+<p>“You’re right,” said the doctor, appalled, “but I fear something else—something ghastly!…
+Yes, look, look! She’s running towards the stream … towards the bridge where her father
+was killed.”
+</p>
+<p>“What next?” came from Barnett with terrible calm.
+</p>
+<p>He stood aside. The doctor and the gendarme were out of the window like lightning,
+and he closed it behind them. Then, turning to the magistrate, he said:
+</p>
+<p>“Do you understand the whole business now, monsieur? Is it quite clear to you? It
+was Thérèse Saint-Prix who, after trying vainly to rouse the passion of Louis Lenormand
+beyond the passing fancy of a flirtation—Thérèse Saint-Prix who, starved for years
+of all enjoyment and luxury, was suddenly blinded by hatred of Cécile Lenormand. She
+was too proud to believe that Louis Lenormand genuinely did not want her love and
+was devoted to his wife. She thought that if once Cécile Lenormand were out of the
+way, she would come into her own. So she planned the appalling, cold-blooded murder
+of her rival, and—compassed the death of her own father! In the night she sawed through
+the <span class="pageNum" id="pb161">[<a href="#pb161">161</a>]</span>bridge—there was no one to see her. So blinded was she by her passions that next day,
+just before the tragedy would occur, she telephoned to Louis Lenormand to tell him
+what she had done.
+</p>
+<p>“Confronted by the utterly unexpected result of her strategy, she immediately planned
+to throw the guilt on to Cécile Lenormand and so at one stroke save herself and get
+her rival out of the way. It was with this in view that she stole one of Cécile’s
+earrings and dropped it on Sunday night into the ditch, and then told her tale of
+Cécile having been jealous of the old professor. Then, here in this room, she was
+struck with a more plausible idea altogether—she tried to get us all to believe that
+the bridge had been sawed through with the object of killing <i>her</i> and not her father at all!”
+</p>
+<p>“How do you account for the boots and the saw?” asked the magistrate.
+</p>
+<p>“The Lenormands and the Saint-Prix shared a tool-shed, their garden implements were
+used in common.”
+</p>
+<p>“How do you know all about Thérèse Saint-Prix?” asked Lenormand, speaking for the
+first time.
+</p>
+<p>“I helped him to find out,” said Cécile swiftly. “My dear, I realized all along how
+you were placed in the matter, but my pride kept me from speaking to you. I was afraid
+you would think I was being jealous, and trying to find something to throw in your
+face because my parents tried to prevent our marriage.”
+</p>
+<p>“Then you forgive me?”
+</p>
+<p>For answer she ran across the room to her husband, and her arms went round his neck.
+</p>
+<p>“But,” objected the magistrate, “that entry in the <span class="pageNum" id="pb162">[<a href="#pb162">162</a>]</span>note-book of ‘the last payment’—what did that mean?”
+</p>
+<p>“Merely,” said Barnett, “that Professor Saint-Prix had told Louis Lenormand that this
+was the last loan he would need, as his discovery was on the verge of completion.”
+</p>
+<p>“And that discovery——”
+</p>
+<p>“Was something which would have revolutionized the dye industry. Doubtless he was
+going eagerly up to the Villa <span class="corr" id="xd33e2609" title="Source: Emèraude">Eméraude</span> to show it to his friend, and the stream washed it out of his dying grasp. What a
+loss!”
+</p>
+<p>“And where <i>did</i> Monsieur Lenormand drive that night?”
+</p>
+<p>“He shall tell us himself.”
+</p>
+<p>“I drove,” said the erstwhile prisoner, “into the country a little way. I honestly
+could not say exactly where. I did so because it was very hot and I couldn’t sleep.
+But no one could prove the truth of what I say.”
+</p>
+<p>At this point the gendarme came back, rather pale.
+</p>
+<p>Barnett signed to him to speak.
+</p>
+<p>“She is dead!” he faltered. “She threw herself down—there, where the professor was
+killed! The doctor sent me to tell you.”
+</p>
+<p>The magistrate looked grave.
+</p>
+<p>“Perhaps, after all, it is for the best,” he said. “But for you, monsieur,” he turned
+to Barnett, “there might have been a grave miscarriage of justice.”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux stood awkwardly silent.
+</p>
+<p>“Come, Béchoux,” said Barnett, clapping him on the shoulder, “let’s be off and pack
+our things. I want to be back in the <i>rue Laborde</i> to-night.”
+</p>
+<p>“Well,” said Béchoux when they were alone together <span class="pageNum" id="pb163">[<a href="#pb163">163</a>]</span>again, “I admit that I do not see how you reconstructed the case so quickly.”
+</p>
+<p>“Quite simple, my dear Béchoux—like all my little <i>coups</i>. What faith that woman had in her husband!”
+</p>
+<p>For a moment he was silent in admiration of his client.
+</p>
+<p>“Still,” said Béchoux, “brilliant as you were, I fail to see where you get anything
+out of this for yourself!”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett’s gaze grew dreamy.
+</p>
+<p>“That was a beautiful laboratory of the professor’s,” he said. “By the way, Béchoux,
+do you happen to know the address of the biggest dye concern in the country? I may
+be paying them a call in the near future!”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux gave a curious gasp, rather like a slowly expiring balloon.
+</p>
+<p>“Done me again!” he breathed. “Stolen the paper—the formula of the secret process.…”
+</p>
+<p>Jim Barnett was moved to injured protest.
+</p>
+<p>“Dear old chap,” he observed, “when it’s a question of rendering a service to one’s
+fellow-men and to one’s country, what <i>you</i> designate as theft becomes the sheerest heroism. It is the highest manifestation
+of duty’s sacred fire, blazing within the breast of mere man.” He thumped himself
+significantly on the chest. “And personally, when duty calls, you will always find
+me ready, aye ready. Got that, Béchoux?”
+</p>
+<p>But Béchoux was sunk in gloom.
+</p>
+<p>“I wonder,” Barnett mused, “what they will call the new process? I think a suitable
+name might be—but there, I won’t bore you with my reflections, Béchoux. Only I can’t
+help feeling it would be rather touching to take out a patent in the name of—Lupin!”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb164">[<a href="#pb164">164</a>]</span></p>
+</div>
+</div>
+<div id="ch8" class="div1 chapter"><span class="pageNum">[<a title="Go to the table of contents" href="#xd33e273">Contents</a>]</span><div class="divHead">
+<h2 class="label">VIII</h2>
+<h2 class="main">THE FATAL MIRACLE</h2>
+</div>
+<div class="divBody">
+<p class="first">Shortly after the suicide of Thérèse Saint-Prix, Inspector Béchoux, primed with official
+information, was hastily despatched from police headquarters on the mission of solving
+the Old Dungeon mystery. He left Paris on an evening train and spent the night at
+Guéret in central France. Next day he took a car on to the village of Mazurech, where
+his first move was to visit the château—a vast, rambling structure, of great age,
+built on a promontory in a loop of the river Creuse. He found the owner, Monsieur
+Georges Cazévon, in residence.
+</p>
+<p>Georges Cazévon was a rich manufacturer of about forty—handsome in a florid style,
+and not without a certain animal attraction. He had a bluff, hearty manner which commanded
+the respect of the neighborhood. Thanks to influence, he was chairman of the County
+Council and a person of considerable importance. Since the Old Dungeon was on his
+estate, he was eager to take Béchoux there himself immediately.
+</p>
+<p>They walked across the great park with its fine chestnuts, and came to a ruined tower,
+all that was left of the ancient feudal castle of Mazurech. This tower soared skywards
+right from the bottom of the canyon <span class="pageNum" id="pb165">[<a href="#pb165">165</a>]</span>where the Creuse crawled like a wounded snake along its rock-strewn bed.
+</p>
+<p>The opposite bank of the river was the property of the d’Alescar family, and on it,
+about forty yards away from where Béchoux stood with Cazévon, rose a rubble wall,
+glistening with moisture and forming a kind of dam. Higher up it was surmounted by
+a shady terrace with a balustrade along it, forming the end of a garden alley. It
+was a wild, forlorn spot. Here it was that, on a morning ten days before, the young
+Comte Jean d’Alescar had been found lying dead on a great rock. The body apparently
+had no injuries other than those due to the ghastly fall. There was a broken branch
+hanging down the trunk of one of the trees on the terrace. It was easy to reconstruct
+the tragedy—the young Comte had climbed out along the branch, it had snapped beneath
+his weight, and he had fallen into the river. A clear case of death by misadventure.
+There had been no hesitation in bringing in the verdict.
+</p>
+<p>“But what on earth was the young Comte doing climbing that tree?” Béchoux wanted to
+know.
+</p>
+<p>Georges Cazévon was ready with the answer.
+</p>
+<p>“He wanted to get a really close view from above of this dungeon. The old castle is
+the cradle of the d’Alescar family, who lorded it here in feudal times.” He added
+immediately: “I shan’t say anything more, inspector. You know that you have been sent
+here at my urgent request. The trouble is that ugly rumors have got about and I am
+being attacked on all sides. That’s got to stop. So please make the fullest investigations
+and question everyone. It is especially important that <span class="pageNum" id="pb166">[<a href="#pb166">166</a>]</span>you should call on Mademoiselle d’Alescar, the young Comte’s sister, and the last
+surviving member of the family. Look me up again before you leave Mazurech.”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux went about his work quickly. He explored round the foot of the tower and then
+entered the inner court which was now a mass of fallen masonry caused by the collapse
+of stairs and flooring. He then made his way back into Mazurech, picking up stray
+bits of information from the inhabitants. He called on the priest and on the mayor,
+and lunched at the inn.
+</p>
+<p>At two o’clock that afternoon, Béchoux stood in the narrow garden which ran down to
+the terrace and was bisected by a small building of farmhouse type, called the Manor—a
+nondescript structure in bad repair. An old servant took his card into Mademoiselle
+d’Alescar and he was at once shown into a low, plainly furnished room where he found
+the object of his call in conversation with a man.
+</p>
+<p>Both rose at his entrance, and, as the man turned towards him, Béchoux recognized—Jim
+Barnett!
+</p>
+<p>“Ah, you’ve come at last!” exclaimed Barnett joyously and held out his hand. “When
+I read in my morning paper that you were cruising Creuse-ward I leapt into my car
+and hastened to the scene of action so that I might be ready at your service. In fact,
+I was here waiting for you! Mademoiselle, may I introduce Inspector Béchoux, who has
+been put in charge of the case by headquarters. With Béchoux at the helm you need
+fear nothing. Probably by now he has the whole thing cut and dried. Béchoux puts the
+sleuth in <span class="pageNum" id="pb167">[<a href="#pb167">167</a>]</span>sleuthing—burglars frighten their young with tales of Bogey Béchoux. Let him speak
+for himself!”
+</p>
+<p>But Béchoux uttered not a word. He was flabbergasted. Barnett’s presence—the last
+thing he had either expected or desired—floored him completely. It was a case of Barnett
+morning, noon, and night. Barnett popping up like a jack-in-the-box on every possible—and
+impossible—occasion. Every time that fate brought the two together, Béchoux found
+himself perforce submitting to Barnett’s accursed coöperation. And where Jim Barnett
+helped others, he was always careful to help himself. His hand went out to his fellow-men,
+but never drew back empty!
+</p>
+<p>In truth, there was little enough Béchoux could say anyway, for he was still quite
+at sea and had found no clue in the Old Dungeon mystery—if mystery it should prove.
+</p>
+<p>As he remained silent, Barnett spoke again:
+</p>
+<p>“The position, mademoiselle, is this: Inspector Béchoux, having by this time, doubtless,
+examined the evidence and made up his own mind, is here to ask if you will be so kind
+as to confirm the results of the inquiries he has already made. Since we ourselves
+have only had the briefest of conversation so far, would you be good enough to tell
+us all you know about the terrible tragedy which resulted in the death of your brother,
+Comte d’Alescar?”
+</p>
+<p>Elizabeth d’Alescar was a tall girl, classically beautiful, her pallor accentuated
+by her mourning. She kept her face turned away into the shadow so that the two men
+saw only her delicate profile. It was with a visible <span class="pageNum" id="pb168">[<a href="#pb168">168</a>]</span>effort that she restrained her grief. She answered without hesitation:
+</p>
+<p>“I would rather have said nothing, have accused no one. But since it is my painful
+duty to reveal all I know to you, I am ready to speak.”
+</p>
+<p>It was Barnett who authoritatively usurped the law’s prerogative.
+</p>
+<p>“My friend, Inspector Béchoux, would like to know the exact time at which you last
+saw your brother alive.”
+</p>
+<p>“At ten o’clock at night. We had dined together—our usual light-hearted meal. I was
+very, very fond of Jean; he was several years younger than myself, and I had practically
+brought him up from when he was quite a little boy. We were always the best of friends,
+and happy in each other’s company.”
+</p>
+<p>“He went out during the night?”
+</p>
+<p>“He left the house a little before dawn, towards half-past three in the morning. Our
+old servant heard him go.”
+</p>
+<p>“Did you know where he was going?”
+</p>
+<p>“He had told me the day before that he was going to fish from the terrace. Fishing
+was one of his favorite occupations.”
+</p>
+<p>“Then there is nothing you can tell us about the time elapsing between half-past three
+and the discovery of your brother’s body?”
+</p>
+<p>“Yes, there is.” She paused. “At a quarter past six I heard a shot!”
+</p>
+<p>“Oh, yes. Several people heard it. But it’s quite possible it was only a poacher.”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb169">[<a href="#pb169">169</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“That was what I thought at the time. But somehow I felt anxious, so at last I got
+out of bed and dressed. When I reached the terrace I saw men from the village on the
+opposite bank of the river. They were carrying my poor brother up to the grounds of
+the Château, because it was too steep to get the body up the other side.”
+</p>
+<p>“Then you are surely of opinion that the shot could not have been in any way connected
+with what happened to your brother? Otherwise the inquest would have revealed a bullet
+wound, which, of course, it did not.”
+</p>
+<p>Seeing Mademoiselle d’Alescar’s hesitation, Barnett pressed home his question.
+</p>
+<p>“Won’t you answer me?”
+</p>
+<p>The girl’s hands clenched at her sides.
+</p>
+<p>“Whatever actually happened, I only know that I am perfectly certain in my own mind
+that there <i>is</i> some connection.”
+</p>
+<p>“What makes you think that?”
+</p>
+<p>“Well, to begin with, there is no other possible explanation.”
+</p>
+<p>“An accident.…”
+</p>
+<p>She shook her head, smiling sadly.
+</p>
+<p>“Oh, no. Jean was extraordinarily agile, and he had also plenty of good sense and
+caution. He would never have trusted himself to that branch. Why, it was obviously
+much too slender to bear his weight.”
+</p>
+<p>“But you admit that it was broken.”
+</p>
+<p>“There is nothing to prove that it was broken by him and on that particular night.”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb170">[<a href="#pb170">170</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“Then, mademoiselle, it is your honest belief that a crime has been committed?”
+</p>
+<p>She nodded gravely.
+</p>
+<p>“You have even gone so far as to accuse a certain person by name and in the presence
+of witnesses?”
+</p>
+<p>Again she nodded.
+</p>
+<p>“What grounds have you for making this assertion? Is there any definite proof pointing
+to someone’s guilt? That is what Inspector Béchoux is anxious to know.”
+</p>
+<p>For a few moments Elizabeth was lost in reflection. They could see that it distressed
+her to recall such dreadful memories. But she made a valiant effort and said:
+</p>
+<p>“I will tell you everything. But to do so, I must go back to something that happened
+twenty-four years ago. It was then that my father lost all his money in a bank failure.
+He found himself ruined, but he told no one. His creditors were paid. Of course, it
+was common knowledge that he had lost a large part of his fortune, but no one guessed
+that the whole of it had been engulfed. What actually happened was that my father
+threw himself on the mercy of a rich manufacturer in Guéret. This man lent him two
+hundred thousand francs on one condition only—that the Château, the estate, and all
+the Mazurech acres should become his property if the loan were not repaid within five
+years.”
+</p>
+<p>“That manufacturer was Georges Cazévon’s father, wasn’t he?”
+</p>
+<p>“Yes,” she said, a note of hatred in her voice.
+</p>
+<p>“Was he anxious to own the Château?”
+</p>
+<p>“Very anxious indeed. He had tried to buy it several <span class="pageNum" id="pb171">[<a href="#pb171">171</a>]</span>times. Well, exactly four years and eleven months later, my father died of cerebral
+congestion. It came on rapidly, and towards the close of his life he was obviously
+troubled and preoccupied with something of which we knew nothing. Immediately after
+his death, Georges Cazévon told us about the loan he had made my father, and warned
+my uncle, who was looking after us, that we had just one month in which to discharge
+our debt. He had absolute proof of his claim, such proof as no lawyer could dispute.
+My father left nothing. Jean and I were driven out of our home and were taken in by
+our uncle, who lived in this very house, and was himself far from wealthy. He died
+very soon after, and so did old Monsieur Cazévon.”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux and Barnett had listened to her attentively. Now Barnett spoke on behalf of
+his friend:
+</p>
+<p>“My friend the inspector doesn’t quite see how all this links up with the events of
+the present day.”
+</p>
+<p>Mademoiselle d’Alescar gave Béchoux a glance of slightly contemptuous surprise and
+continued, without answering:
+</p>
+<p>“So Jean and I lived alone here on this little manor, right in front of the Dungeon
+and the Château that had always belonged to our family. This caused Jean a sorrow
+which grew with the years, and intensified as his intelligence developed and he grew
+towards manhood. It grieved and hurt him to feel that he had lost his heritage and
+been driven from what he considered his rightful domain. In all his work and play
+he made time to devote whole days to delving in the family archives, and reading up
+our history and genealogy. <span class="pageNum" id="pb172">[<a href="#pb172">172</a>]</span>Then, one day, he found among these books a ledger in which our father had kept his
+accounts during the latter years of his life, showing the money he had saved by exercising
+the strictest economy and by several successful real estate deals. There were also
+bank receipts. I went to the bank that had issued them and learned that our father,
+a week before his death, had withdrawn his entire deposit—two hundred <span class="corr" id="xd33e2742" title="Source: bank-notes">banknotes</span> of a thousand francs each!”
+</p>
+<p>“The exact amount,” said Barnett, “which he was due to pay in a few weeks’ time. Then
+why did he put off paying it?”
+</p>
+<p>“I have no idea.”
+</p>
+<p>“Therefore you think he must have put the money in a safe place somewhere?” He paused,
+and twiddled his monocle thoughtfully. “Somewhere—ah, but where?”
+</p>
+<p>Elizabeth d’Alescar produced the ledger of which she had spoken and showed it to Barnett
+and Béchoux.
+</p>
+<p>“It is here that we must look for the answer to that question,” she said, turning
+to the last page, on which was sketched a diagram representing three-quarters of a
+circle, to which was added, at the right side, a semicircle of shorter radius. This
+semicircle was barred by four lines, between two of which was a small cross. All the
+lines in the diagram had been drawn first in pencil and then gone over in ink.
+</p>
+<p>“What’s all this mean?” asked Barnett.
+</p>
+<p>“It took us a long time to understand it,” replied Elizabeth. “At last, poor Jean
+guessed one day that the diagram represented an accurate plan of the Old Dungeon,
+reduced to its outside lines. It is on that <span class="pageNum" id="pb173">[<a href="#pb173">173</a>]</span>exact plan, on the unequal parts of two circles connected with each other. The four
+lines indicate four embrasures.”
+</p>
+<p>“And the cross,” finished Barnett, “indicates the place where the Comte d’Alescar
+hid his two hundred thousand francs to await the day of repayment.”
+</p>
+<p>“Yes,” said the girl, with conviction.
+</p>
+<p>Barnett thought it over, took another look at the map and finally remarked:
+</p>
+<p>“It’s quite probable. The Comte d’Alescar would, of course, have been sure to take
+the precaution of leaving some clue to the hiding-place, and his sudden death prevented
+his passing on the secret. But surely, all you had to do on finding this was to tell
+Monsieur Cazévon’s son and ask his permission to——”
+</p>
+<p>“To climb to the top of the tower! That is just what we immediately did. Georges Cazévon,
+although we were not on the best of terms with him, was quite pleasant about it. But
+how could any human being get to the top of that tower? The stairs had fallen in fifteen
+years before. All the stones are loose. The top is crumbling. No ladder—no ladders
+even—could ever have reached high enough. The Dungeon battlements are over ninety
+feet above the ground. And it was quite out of the question to scale the wall. We
+discussed the whole problem and drew up plans for several months, but it all ended
+in——”
+</p>
+<p>She broke off, blushing hotly.
+</p>
+<p>“A quarrel!” Barnett finished for her. “Georges Cazévon fell in love with you and
+asked you to marry him. You refused him. He tried to force you to his will. <span class="pageNum" id="pb174">[<a href="#pb174">174</a>]</span>You broke off all intercourse with him, and Jean d’Alescar was no longer allowed to
+set foot on Mazurech land.”
+</p>
+<p>“That is exactly what did happen,” the girl said. “But my brother would not give up.
+He simply had to have that money. He wanted it to buy back part of our estate or to
+give me a <i>dot</i> which would set me free to marry as I chose. Very soon the idea obsessed him. He
+spent his days in front of the tower. He was always staring up at the inaccessible
+battlements. He imagined a thousand schemes for getting up there. He practiced until
+he was a skilled archer, and then, from daybreak, he would stand there shooting arrows
+on long strings, hoping that one of them would fall in such a way that a rope could
+be tied to the string and pulled up to the top of the tower. He even had sixty yards
+of rope all ready for the attempt. Everything he tried was hopeless, and his failure
+plunged him into melancholy and despair. On the very day before he died he said to
+me: ‘The only reason I go on trying is that I am certain to succeed in the end. Fate
+will be in my favor. There will be a miracle—I am sure of it—a miracle! That is what
+I pray for and what I confidently expect.’ Poor Jean, he never had his miracle!”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett put another question.
+</p>
+<p>“Then you believe that his death occurred while he was making yet another attempt?”
+</p>
+<p>Seeing that she assented, he continued:
+</p>
+<p>“Is the rope no longer where he kept it?”
+</p>
+<p>“Yes, it is.”
+</p>
+<p>“Then what proof have you?”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb175">[<a href="#pb175">175</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“That shot! Georges Cazévon must have caught my brother in his attempt and fired.”
+</p>
+<p>“Good God!” cried Barnett. “You believe Georges Cazévon is capable of doing such a
+thing?”
+</p>
+<p>“I do. He is very impulsive. He controls himself as a rule, but he might easily be
+led into violence—or even into crime.”
+</p>
+<p>“But why should he have fired? To rob your brother of the money he had recovered?”
+</p>
+<p>“That I cannot say,” said Mademoiselle d’Alescar. “Nor do I know how the murder could
+have been committed, since poor Jean’s dead body showed no trace of a bullet wound.
+But I am absolutely firm in my belief.”
+</p>
+<p>“Quite so, but you must admit that your belief is based on intuition rather than on
+the known facts,” observed Barnett. “And I think I ought to tell you that in a court
+of law, intuition is not enough. I’m sure Béchoux will agree with me, it’s quite on
+the cards that Georges Cazévon will be so furious at your accusing him that he will
+sue you for libel.”
+</p>
+<p>Mademoiselle d’Alescar rose from her chair.
+</p>
+<p>“That would matter very little to me,” she said. “I have not made this accusation
+to avenge my brother, for to punish the criminal would not restore Jean to life. I
+am merely stating what I believe to be the truth. If Georges Cazévon likes to sue
+me, he is perfectly free to do so and my defence will simply be what my conscience
+moves me to say.”
+</p>
+<p>She was silent for a moment, and then added:
+</p>
+<p>“But you can rely on his keeping quiet, gentlemen. <span class="pageNum" id="pb176">[<a href="#pb176">176</a>]</span>I don’t think there is much chance of his bringing any action against me!”
+</p>
+<p>The interview was at an end. Jim Barnett did not attempt to engage the girl in further
+conversation. Mademoiselle d’Alescar knew her own mind, and no one would be able to
+intimidate her or upset her evidence in the least.
+</p>
+<p>“Mademoiselle,” said Barnett, “we apologize for this intrusion, but we were obliged
+to trouble you in order to get at the truth of this tragic affair. You may be sure
+Inspector Béchoux will make the right deductions from all that you have said and act
+accordingly.”
+</p>
+<p>He bowed and took his leave. Béchoux bowed likewise, and followed him into the courtyard.
+</p>
+<p>Once they were out of the house, the inspector, who had not spoken during the interview,
+continued silent, partly in protest against Barnett’s interference in the case, and
+partly because he was totally bewildered by the turn events were taking. His taciturnity
+only encouraged the loquacious Barnett.
+</p>
+<p>“Yes, yes, Béchoux,” he said reflectively, “I can easily understand your being puzzled.
+It’s a matter for deep thought. The lady’s statement had a good deal in it, but it
+was compounded of such a mixture of the possible with the impossible, the rational
+with the fantastic, that it needs careful sifting if we are to make use of it. For
+instance, on the face of it, young d’Alescar’s actions seem pure fantasy. If the unlucky
+youth got to the top of the tower—and, contrary to your own private belief, I rather
+think he <i>did</i> get there—then it was due to that unimaginable miracle he had hoped and prayed <span class="pageNum" id="pb177">[<a href="#pb177">177</a>]</span>for—a miracle whose nature we are as yet unable to conceive.
+</p>
+<p>“The problem we are up against is—how could the boy, within the space of two hours,
+invent a means of climbing the tower, put his scheme into execution, and climb down
+again, only to be hurled into the abyss by a bullet … which did not hit him! That’s
+the culminating impossibility, that he went to his death through a shot which never
+touched him—<i>that</i> seems to me to have been a miracle from hell!”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett and Béchoux met again that evening at the inn, but dined apart. During the
+next two days they only saw each other at mealtimes. Béchoux was busy making investigations
+and inquiries throughout the neighborhood. Barnett, like one of the lilies of the
+field, took root on a grassy slope some way beyond the terrace, from which spot he
+had a good view of the Old Dungeon and the river Creuse. He confined his activities
+to fishing, smoking, and reflection. The heart of a mystery is to be plucked out by
+sheer divination rather than by fevered probing. So Barnett sat there, angling with
+his rod for the fish in the river, and with his mind for the nature of the miracle
+with which Fate had favored Jean d’Alescar.
+</p>
+<p>On the third day, however, he bestirred himself and went off to Guéret in the manner
+of a man with a definite object. And the day after that he ran into Béchoux, who told
+him that he had now finished his investigation.
+</p>
+<p>“So have I,” said Barnett. “If you’re going back to Paris, I’ll give you a lift in
+my car.”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb178">[<a href="#pb178">178</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“Thanks,” said Béchoux. “In about half an hour I am going up to see Monsieur Cazévon.”
+</p>
+<p>“Right, I’ll meet you at the Château,” said Barnett. “I’m fed to the teeth with this
+place, aren’t you?”
+</p>
+<p>He paid his bill at the inn, and drove to the gates of the Château. Leaving his car
+in the road, he strolled through the park, and when he got to the house presented
+his card. Underneath his own name he had written the words: “<i>Working in collaboration with Inspector Béchoux</i>.”
+</p>
+<p>He was shown into a vast hall, which spread over the ground floor of an entire wing.
+Stags’ heads looked down from the walls, which were hung with weapons and trophies
+of every description. Here he was joined by Georges Cazévon.
+</p>
+<p>“My colleague, Inspector Béchoux,” said Barnett, “is to meet me here. We have been
+working together on the case, and we are to-day returning to Paris.”
+</p>
+<p>“And what opinion has Inspector Béchoux formed as a result of his investigation?”
+asked Georges Cazévon, a shade eagerly.
+</p>
+<p>“Oh, he has definitely made up his mind that there is nothing, absolutely nothing
+to justify any fresh theory of the case. He is satisfied that the rumors set afloat
+are quite groundless.”
+</p>
+<p>“And Mademoiselle d’Alescar?”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett shrugged his shoulders.
+</p>
+<p>“According to Inspector Béchoux her mind is almost unhinged by her bereavement, so
+that no reliance can be placed on anything she says at present.”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb179">[<a href="#pb179">179</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“And you agree with Inspector Béchoux?”
+</p>
+<p>“I?” Barnett raised his eyes and lowered them, his whole attitude one of abject humility.
+“I am nothing but a humble assistant. I have no views of my own at all!”
+</p>
+<p>He began wandering aimlessly about the hall, looking at the glass cases full of rifles
+and shotguns. These exhibits seemed to interest him considerably.
+</p>
+<p>“A fine collection, aren’t they?” said Georges Cazévon at his elbow.
+</p>
+<p>“Magnificent!”
+</p>
+<p>“Are you an enthusiast?”
+</p>
+<p>“I have a great admiration for good marksmanship. I see by these cups and certificates
+that you must be a remarkable shot. Let’s see—<i>Disciples de Saint Hubert</i>, Creuse Sporting Club—oh, yes, that’s what they were telling me about you yesterday
+when I was in Guéret.”
+</p>
+<p>“Is the case much talked about at Guéret?”
+</p>
+<p>“Oh, very little. But the accuracy of your shooting is proverbial among the townsfolk!”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett took up a gun, balancing it casually in his hands.
+</p>
+<p>“Careful!” said Cazévon sharply. “That’s a service rifle. It’s loaded.”
+</p>
+<p>“Really?” observed Barnett with polite interest. “Is that in case of burglars?”
+</p>
+<p>Cazévon smiled. “I really keep it handy for poachers. I should never shoot to kill,
+though. A broken leg would be all I should aim for!”
+</p>
+<p>“And would you shoot from one of these windows?”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb180">[<a href="#pb180">180</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“Oh, poachers don’t come so close to the Château!”
+</p>
+<p>“That almost seems a pity,” said Barnett thoughtfully, and opened a very narrow window—almost
+a loophole—which shed a ray of light into one corner of the hall.
+</p>
+<p>“Fancy that now!” he exclaimed. “Looking through the trees, one can see a section
+of the Old Dungeon—right across the park. Isn’t that the portion of the ruin which
+overlooks the river, Monsieur Cazévon?”
+</p>
+<p>“Just about, I should say.”
+</p>
+<p>“Why, yes, it is!” cried Barnett excitedly. “I recognize that tuft of flowers growing
+between two stones. Isn’t the air wonderfully clear? Can you see that yellow flower,
+looking along the bore?”
+</p>
+<p>He had raised the gun to his shoulder as he spoke, and without hesitating a moment,
+he fired. The yellow flower disappeared, while a puff of smoke hung in the still air.
+</p>
+<p>Georges Cazévon made a gesture of annoyance. His displeasure was manifest. This “humble
+assistant” was an incredibly skilled marksman, and, anyway, it was cool cheek his
+letting off a gun like that in the house!
+</p>
+<p>“I believe your servants are at the other end of the Château?” said Barnett. “Then
+they won’t have heard the noise I made. But I’m sorry I did that—it must have startled
+Mademoiselle d’Alescar, the sound being so painfully associated for her with the memory——”
+He broke off.
+</p>
+<p>Georges Cazévon smiled sardonically.
+</p>
+<p>“Then does Mademoiselle d’Alescar still believe <span class="pageNum" id="pb181">[<a href="#pb181">181</a>]</span>there is some connection between the shot that was heard that morning and her brother’s
+death?”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett nodded.
+</p>
+<p>“I wonder where she got the idea?”
+</p>
+<p>“Where I got it myself a minute ago. It’s a curiously vivid picture—the unknown watcher
+in ambush at this window, while Jean d’Alescar was hanging on half-way down the Dungeon
+wall!”
+</p>
+<p>“But d’Alescar died of a fall!” protested Cazévon.
+</p>
+<p>“Quite so,” said Barnett, with deadly calm, “of a fall. And the reason for his fall
+was, of course, the sudden crumbling of some projection or shelf to which he was clinging
+with both hands at the time!”
+</p>
+<p>Cazévon scowled at the urbane Barnett.
+</p>
+<p>“I didn’t know,” he said, “that Mademoiselle d’Alescar had been so—so definite in
+her statements to people. Why, this constitutes a direct accusation!”
+</p>
+<p>“Yes, a—direct—accusation,” repeated Barnett slowly, so that the words seemed to hang
+in the air as the smoke from the gun had done a few moments before.
+</p>
+<p>Cazévon stared at him. The calm self-assurance and decisive manner of this “humble
+assistant” rather astonished him. He even began to wonder if this detective might
+not have come to the Château in the rôle of aggressor. For the conversation, begun
+so casually and conventionally, was now rapidly turning into an attack on Cazévon
+himself!
+</p>
+<p>He sat down rather heavily, and asked:
+</p>
+<p>“Why, according to Mademoiselle d’Alescar, was her brother climbing that wall?”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb182">[<a href="#pb182">182</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“To recover the two hundred thousand francs which the old Comte d’Alescar hid in the
+place which is marked with a cross on the map you have been shown.”
+</p>
+<p>“But I never for a moment believed in that yarn,” exclaimed Cazévon. “Even presuming
+that the Comte d’Alescar had managed to raise such a sum, why should he have concealed
+it instead of immediately handing it over to my father?”
+</p>
+<p>“Quite a valid objection,” admitted Barnett. “Unless the hidden treasure happened
+not to be a sum of money at all!”
+</p>
+<p>“But what else could it be?”
+</p>
+<p>“That I don’t know. We shall have to use our imaginations a bit.”
+</p>
+<p>Georges Cazévon made a movement of impatience.
+</p>
+<p>“You can be quite sure that Elizabeth d’Alescar and her brother long ago exhausted
+the possible alternatives!”
+</p>
+<p>“How do you know? They are not professionals like myself.”
+</p>
+<p>“Even a hypersensitized intelligence,” sneered Cazévon, “cannot evolve something from
+nothing!”
+</p>
+<p>“Yes, it can—sometimes! For example, do you know a man called Gréaume, who is the
+Guéret newsagent, and was at one time an accountant in your factory?”
+</p>
+<p>“Certainly I know him. A very worthy fellow.”
+</p>
+<p>“Well, Gréaume is prepared to swear that Jean d’Alescar’s father called on your own
+father the very next day after he had drawn his two hundred thousand francs from the
+bank.”
+</p>
+<p>“Well?” snapped Cazévon.
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb183">[<a href="#pb183">183</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“Isn’t it only logical to suppose that the money was handed over to your father on
+that occasion, and that it was <i>the receipt</i> which was temporarily concealed in some cranny of the Dungeon?”
+</p>
+<p>Georges Cazévon gave a sudden start, then controlled himself.
+</p>
+<p>“Mr.—uh—Barnett, do you realize what you are insinuating? It’s an insult to my father’s
+memory!”
+</p>
+<p>“An insult! I don’t follow you!” said Barnett innocently.
+</p>
+<p>“If my father had received that money he would most certainly have acknowledged the
+fact.”
+</p>
+<p>“Why should he? He was under no obligation to tell his neighbors that some one had
+paid him back a private loan!”
+</p>
+<p>Georges Cazévon’s fist came down with a bang on his desk.
+</p>
+<p>“But if that money had been paid him, how do you explain that a fortnight later, just
+a few days after his former debtor’s death, he was taking possession of the Mazurech
+estate?”
+</p>
+<p>“Yet that is exactly what he did!”
+</p>
+<p>“You must be crazy! There’s absolutely no ground for suggesting such a thing. Even
+granting that my father was capable of demanding to be paid what he had already received,
+he would never have done it, because he would have known that the receipt could be
+produced!”
+</p>
+<p>“Perhaps he knew,” suggested Barnett diffidently, “that its existence was a secret
+and that the heirs were in ignorance of both loan and repayment. And since <span class="pageNum" id="pb184">[<a href="#pb184">184</a>]</span>he had set his heart on owning this place and had, so they tell me, sworn he would
+get it, he was tempted and fell.”
+</p>
+<p>“But no one would hide a receipt away where it could never be found.”
+</p>
+<p>“Remember that the old Comte died of cerebral congestion. During his last days he
+was very queer. His mind reasoned imperfectly. He was ashamed of having borrowed that
+money. He was ashamed of the receipt, yet dared not destroy it. So he evolved a tortuous
+manner of concealment, with an equally tortuous clew.”
+</p>
+<p>Gradually Barnett was putting a completely different complexion on the whole case.
+Georges Cazévon’s father was now appearing in the light of a rogue and blackguard.
+Cazévon himself, pale and shaking, stood with clenched fists, impotent with fear and
+rage, glaring at the immovable Barnett. The audacity of this “underling” completely
+unnerved him.
+</p>
+<p>“I protest!” he stammered. “You have no right to jump to these—these abominable conclusions!”
+</p>
+<p>“Believe me,” said Barnett, “I never leap before I look. All my allegations are founded
+on fact.”
+</p>
+<p>Georges Cazévon darted a hunted look over his shoulder. He felt as if some unseen
+enemy were closing in on him. In a high, unnatural voice he cried:
+</p>
+<p>“Lies! all lies! You have no proof. To prove that my father ever did such a thing
+you would—why, you would have to go and look for evidence at the top of the Old Dungeon!”
+</p>
+<p>“Well,” contested Barnett, “Jean d’Alescar managed to get there, didn’t he?”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb185">[<a href="#pb185">185</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“He didn’t! I tell you he didn’t! I tell you it’s impossible to scale a ninety-foot
+tower all in two hours. It’s beyond human power!”
+</p>
+<p>“All the same, Jean d’Alescar accomplished this—impossibility,” pursued Barnett doggedly.
+</p>
+<p>“But how?” asked Georges Cazévon, on a note of sheer exasperation. “Do you expect
+me to believe he went up on a witch’s broomstick?”
+</p>
+<p>“Not that,” said Barnett gently. “He used a rope!”
+</p>
+<p>Cazévon laughed long and loud, but quite unmirthfully.
+</p>
+<p>“A rope? You’re crazy. Of course, I often saw the boy shooting his arrows in the vain
+hope that one day his rope would catch hold. Poor devil! Miracles like that never
+happen nowadays. And anyway, two hours! Oh, it’s out of the question. Besides, the
+rope would have been found hanging from the tower, or lying on the rocks of the Creuse
+after the tragedy. Whereas I am told it is at the Manor.”
+</p>
+<p>With unshakable calm Barnett rejoined:
+</p>
+<p>“Quite. But it wasn’t that rope he used, you see.”
+</p>
+<p>“Then what rope <i>did</i> he use?” asked Cazévon, turning a gulp into a laugh. “You can’t expect me to take
+all this seriously, you know. The Comte Jean d’Alescar, carrying the magic rope, came
+out on to the terrace of his garden at daybreak. He muttered the one word ‘Abracadabra,’
+and lo! his rope uncoiled and rose to the top of the tower, so that he might promptly
+ascend. The good old Indian rope-trick—retired colonels write to the papers every
+day and solemnly aver it’s a miracle!”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb186">[<a href="#pb186">186</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“And yet you, too, monsieur,” said Barnett, “are driven to conjure up a miracle;—just
+like Jean d’Alescar—and like myself. There is no other explanation, of course. But
+the miracle was the opposite of what you imagine—it did not work from bottom to top,
+as would seem more usual and probable, but from top to bottom!”
+</p>
+<p>Cazévon made a feeble attempt to joke.
+</p>
+<p>“A kind Providence, eh, throwing a life-line to help a struggling mortal?”
+</p>
+<p>“Why call Providence into it?” asked Barnett. “No need for that. This miracle was
+merely one of those which Chance may perform at any time nowadays.”
+</p>
+<p>“Chance?”
+</p>
+<p>“Remember that Chance knows no impossibilities. Chance is the unknown factor—Chance
+the disturber, the malicious, capricious visitant, swooping to make fantastic moves
+on the chessboard of human existence, forever proving the old platitude that truth
+is stranger than fiction! Chance is to-day the great worker of miracles. And the miracle
+I have in mind is not so wonderful, really, in an age when meteors are not the only
+bolts from the blue, so to speak.”
+</p>
+<p>“Do the skies rain ropes?” asked Cazévon sardonically.
+</p>
+<p>“Certainly, ropes among other things. The ocean-bed is strewn with things dropped
+overboard by the ships that sail the seas!”
+</p>
+<p>“There are no ships in the sky,” observed Cazévon.
+</p>
+<p>“Oh, yes, there are,” Barnett contradicted him, “only we don’t think of them as that.
+We call them <span class="pageNum" id="pb187">[<a href="#pb187">187</a>]</span>balloons, and aeroplanes, and—after all, airships! They ride the air as ships ride
+the ocean, and any number of things may fall or be thrown overboard from them! Suppose
+one of these things is a coil of rope, which slips over the battlements of the Old
+Dungeon, and there you have the solution of the mystery.”
+</p>
+<p>“A nice, convenient explanation!”
+</p>
+<p>“Pardon me, an extremely well-founded explanation. If you glance through the local
+papers for the past week, as I did yesterday, you will see that a balloon flew over
+this part of the country on the night preceding Jean d’Alescar’s death. It was travelling
+from north to south, and ballast was heaved overboard ten miles north of Guéret. The
+obvious inference is that a coil of rope was also thrown out, that one end got caught
+in a tree on the terrace, and to free it Jean d’Alescar had to break off a branch.
+He then went down to the terrace, tied the two ends of the rope together, and climbed
+up to the tower. Not an easy thing to do, but possible for a lad of his years.”
+</p>
+<p>“And then?” came in a whisper from Cazévon, whose face had grown suddenly gray.
+</p>
+<p>“Then,” Barnett continued, “someone who was standing here, at this window, and who
+was a remarkable shot, observed the boy hanging suspended in midair, took aim at the
+rope, and—severed it!”
+</p>
+<p>Cazévon made a choking noise.
+</p>
+<p>“That is your explanation of the—accident?”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett took no notice of the interruption, but went on:
+</p>
+<p>“Afterwards, this person hurried to the bank of the <span class="pageNum" id="pb188">[<a href="#pb188">188</a>]</span>Creuse and searched the dead body to get the receipt. He took hold of the dangling
+rope, and hauled it down—then threw the highly compromising piece of evidence into
+a neighboring well—not a very safe hiding-place!”
+</p>
+<p>The accusation had shifted to Georges Cazévon himself—a kind of guilty legacy from
+the man’s dead father. The past was being linked up with the present—the net was closing
+in.
+</p>
+<p>With a convulsive effort, Cazévon shook himself, as if to rid himself of Barnett’s
+odious presence.
+</p>
+<p>“I’ve had enough of your lies!” he shouted. “The whole thing’s ridiculous invention
+on your part—you’re simply making this up to terrorize me. I shall tell Monsieur Béchoux
+that I have had you thrown out as a common blackmailer. That’s what you are, a blackmailer!
+But you won’t get any change out of me!”
+</p>
+<p>“If I had come here to blackmail you,” said Barnett blithely, “I should have started
+off by producing my proofs.”
+</p>
+<p>Blind with rage, Cazévon screamed:
+</p>
+<p>“Your proofs! What proofs have you got? Nothing but a cock-and-bull story. You haven’t
+a single proof of any kind—how could you have? Why, there’s only one proof that would
+be worth anything—only one. And if you can’t produce that, then your whole story collapses
+at once, and you’re a fool as well as a knave!”
+</p>
+<p>“And what is that proof?” asked Barnett, still smiling.
+</p>
+<p>“The receipt, of course! The receipt signed by my father!”
+</p>
+<p>“Here it is,” said Barnett, holding out a sheet of <span class="pageNum" id="pb189">[<a href="#pb189">189</a>]</span>stamped paper, frayed and yellow at the edges. “This is your father’s handwriting,
+isn’t it? Pretty explicit, this document: ‘<i>I, the undersigned, Auguste Cazévon, hereby acknowledge the receipt from the Comte
+d’Alescar of the sum of two hundred thousand francs previously loaned to him by me,
+and I hereby declare that this repayment renders null and void any and every claim
+of mine to the Château and lands of Mazurech.</i>’
+</p>
+<p>“The date,” continued Barnett, “corresponds to that mentioned by Gréaume. The receipt
+is signed. Therefore it is indisputably genuine, and you, Cazévon, must have known
+about it from your father’s own lips or from the private papers he left when he died.
+The discovery of this document meant disgrace for your father and yourself, and the
+loss of the Château, for which you felt all your father’s attachment. That’s why you
+killed d’Alescar!”
+</p>
+<p>“If I had killed him,” faltered Cazévon, “I should have removed the receipt from his
+body.”
+</p>
+<p>“You had a good look for it,” said Barnett grimly, “but it wasn’t on him. Jean d’Alescar
+had prudently wrapped it round a stone and thrown it down from the top of the tower,
+meaning to pick it up when he got to the ground again. I found it near the river,
+some twenty yards away.”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett only just stepped back in time to prevent Cazévon snatching the receipt from
+his hand. There was a moment’s pause, and then Barnett, breathing a trifle quicker,
+spoke again:
+</p>
+<p>“That is tantamount to admitting your guilt! Looking at you now, I can well believe
+Mademoiselle d’Alescar’s <span class="pageNum" id="pb190">[<a href="#pb190">190</a>]</span>statement that you are capable of almost anything. You are the slave of your own unreasoning
+impulse! Carried away by the passions of greed and hatred, you raised your gun and
+fired that morning. Steady, man!” as Cazévon seemed about to collapse, “control yourself.
+Someone’s ringing! It must be Béchoux. Perhaps you won’t want him to know all this!”
+</p>
+<p>A full minute passed in silence. At last, Cazévon, his eyes still those of a maniac,
+whispered:
+</p>
+<p>“How much? What must I pay you for the receipt?”
+</p>
+<p>“It is not for sale.”
+</p>
+<p>“What do you mean to do with it?”
+</p>
+<p>“It will be handed over to you, on certain conditions, which I will outline in Inspector
+Béchoux’s presence.”
+</p>
+<p>“And if I refuse to accept your terms?”
+</p>
+<p>“Then it will be my painful duty to expose you!”
+</p>
+<p>“No one will believe you!”
+</p>
+<p>“Oh, won’t they?”
+</p>
+<p>Cazévon’s head slumped in utter dejection. Barnett’s driving, implacable will-power
+had beaten him. At that moment Béchoux was shown in.
+</p>
+<p>The inspector had not expected to find Barnett on the scene. He was unpleasantly surprised,
+and wondered what the two men could have been talking about; whether the incalculable
+Barnett had been busy digging pits for the luckless representative of the law to fall
+into.
+</p>
+<p>Fearing something of the sort, he was quite aggressively positive in his assertions
+from the word “go.”
+</p>
+<p>Shaking Cazévon warmly by the hand he declared:
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb191">[<a href="#pb191">191</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“Monsieur, I promised to let you know the result of my investigations before I left,
+and to tell you what kind of report I should make. So far, my own views are in complete
+accord with the construction that has been put upon the case. There is absolutely
+nothing in what Mademoiselle d’Alescar has been saying against you.”
+</p>
+<p>“Hear, hear,” said Barnett. “That’s just what I’ve been telling Monsieur Cazévon.
+Béchoux, my guide, philosopher and friend, is displaying his usual acumen. Nevertheless,
+the fact is that Monsieur Cazévon is bent on returning good for evil, and meeting
+calumny with generosity. He insists on restoring the domain of her ancestors to Mademoiselle
+d’Alescar!”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux looked thunderstruck.
+</p>
+<p>“Wh—what? You mean to say——”
+</p>
+<p>“Just that,” said Barnett. “The affair has not unnaturally filled Monsieur Cazévon
+with distaste for the district, and he has his eye on a château nearer his factories
+in Guéret. When I got here this afternoon Monsieur Cazévon was actually drafting the
+deed of gift. He also expressed his wish to add a bearer check for one hundred thousand
+francs to be handed to Mademoiselle d’Alescar as compensation. That’s so, isn’t it,
+Monsieur Cazévon?”
+</p>
+<p>Without a second’s hesitation, Cazévon acted on Barnett’s promptings as if they had
+been the dictates of his heart’s desires. He seated himself at his desk, wrote out
+the deed of gift and signed the check.
+</p>
+<p>“There you are,” he said. “For the rest, I will instruct my solicitor.”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb192">[<a href="#pb192">192</a>]</span></p>
+<p>Barnett took both check and document, slipped them into an envelope, and said to Béchoux:
+</p>
+<p>“Here, take this to Mademoiselle d’Alescar. I feel sure she will appreciate Monsieur
+Cazévon’s generosity. Monsieur, I am at your service. I cannot tell you how happy
+you have made us both by furnishing such a satisfactory solution to the business.”
+</p>
+<p>He swaggered off, followed by Béchoux. The latter, utterly astounded, waited till
+they were out of the park, and then demanded:
+</p>
+<p>“What’s it all mean? Did he fire that shot? Has he made a statement to you?”
+</p>
+<p>“None of your business, Béchoux,” said Barnett. “Let bygones be bygones. The case
+has been settled to everyone’s best advantage. All you have to do is to speed on your
+mission to Mademoiselle d’Alescar. Ask her to forgive and forget, and not to breathe
+a word to anyone. Then come and pick me up at the inn.”
+</p>
+<p>In a short while Béchoux was back again. He brought the news that Mademoiselle d’Alescar
+had accepted the gift of the Mazurech estate and her solicitor would take the matter
+up at once, but the money she refused to take. In her indignation at being offered
+it she had torn up the check.
+</p>
+<p>Barnett and Béchoux took their leave. The return journey was made in silence. The
+inspector was lost in unprofitable speculation. His mind was in a whirl of interrogation,
+but Barnett looked disinclined for confidential converse.
+</p>
+<p>They got to Paris at close on to three o’clock. Barnett invited Béchoux to lunch with
+him near the Bourse, <span class="pageNum" id="pb193">[<a href="#pb193">193</a>]</span>and Béchoux, incapable of resistance, went with him meekly.
+</p>
+<p>“You do the ordering,” said Barnett, rising from the table a moment after they had
+entered the restaurant. “I’ve some business I must attend to. Won’t be a moment!”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux did not have long to wait. Barnett was back again almost immediately, and
+the two men ate a hearty meal. When they were drinking their coffee, Béchoux ventured
+a remark:
+</p>
+<p>“I must send the torn bits of that check back to Monsieur Cazévon.”
+</p>
+<p>“Oh, I shouldn’t bother to do that, Béchoux.”
+</p>
+<p>“Why not?”
+</p>
+<p>“The check was quite worthless.”
+</p>
+<p>“But how?”
+</p>
+<p>“Oh,” said Barnett airily, “I foresaw that Mademoiselle d’Alescar was certain to refuse
+to take it, so when I put the deed of gift into the envelope I slipped in with it
+an old cancelled check. Waste not, want not.”
+</p>
+<p>“But what happened to the genuine check?” groaned Béchoux, “the one Monsieur Cazévon
+signed?”
+</p>
+<p>“Oh, <i>that</i>! I’ve just been and cashed it at the bank!”
+</p>
+<p>He opened his coat, displaying a wad of notes. Béchoux’s coffee cup slipped from his
+nerveless grasp. With an effort he controlled himself.
+</p>
+<p>For a long while they sat smoking in silence, facing one another across the table.
+At last Barnett spoke:
+</p>
+<p>“There’s no denying it, Béchoux, so far our collaboration has proved decidedly fruitful.
+We seem to ring the bell every time, and it’s all helped to enlarge my <span class="pageNum" id="pb194">[<a href="#pb194">194</a>]</span>little nest-egg. But, honestly, I’m beginning to feel very troubled about you, old
+horse. Here we are, working side by side, and I always pocket the dibs. Look here,
+Béchoux, won’t you come into partnership with me? The Barnett and Béchoux Agency?
+It really sounds rather well!”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux gave him a look of hatred. The man goaded him beyond endurance. He rose, flung
+down a note to pay for the lunch, and mumbled as he took his leave:
+</p>
+<p>“There are times when I think it must be Arsène Lupin after all!”
+</p>
+<p>“I sometimes wonder, too,” said Barnett—and laughed.
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb195">[<a href="#pb195">195</a>]</span></p>
+</div>
+</div>
+<div id="ch9" class="div1 chapter"><span class="pageNum">[<a title="Go to the table of contents" href="#xd33e282">Contents</a>]</span><div class="divHead">
+<h2 class="label">IX</h2>
+<h2 class="main">DOUBLE ENTRY</h2>
+</div>
+<div class="divBody">
+<p class="first">A serious breach in the Béchoux-Barnett friendship seemed to have been caused by the
+affair of the Old Dungeon at Mazurech, and the fleecing of Georges Cazévon, so that
+when a taxi came to a halt in the <i>rue Laborde</i> and Inspector Béchoux leapt from it and hurled himself into the office of his friend,
+Jim Barnett, no one was more surprised than the latter.
+</p>
+<p>“This is indeed a pleasure,” he said, advancing with alacrity. “Our last parting was
+rather in silence and tears, and I was afraid you were feeling sore. And is there
+anything I can do for you in a small way this merry morning?”
+</p>
+<p>“There is.”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett shook the inspector warmly by the hand.
+</p>
+<p>“Splendid! But what’s up? You look positively apoplectic. Please don’t burst in <i>my</i> office.”
+</p>
+<p>“Kindly be serious, Barnett,” said poor Béchoux stiffly. “I’m working on a most complicated
+case from which I particularly want to emerge triumphant.”
+</p>
+<p>“What’s it all about?”
+</p>
+<p>“My wife,” said Béchoux, and there was anguish in his tone.
+</p>
+<p>Barnett’s eyebrows shot up.
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb196">[<a href="#pb196">196</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“Your wife?” he echoed. “Then you’re married?”
+</p>
+<p>“Been divorced six years,” was the laconic answer.
+</p>
+<p>“Incompatibility?”
+</p>
+<p>“No. My wife found she had a vocation for the stage! The stage—I ask you! Married
+to an inspector of police and she wanted to go on——” Béchoux sneezed abruptly and
+violently, giving Barnett time to ask:
+</p>
+<p>“Then she became an actress?”
+</p>
+<p>“A singer.”
+</p>
+<p>“At the Opéra?”
+</p>
+<p>“No. The Folies Bergère. She’s Olga Vaubant.”
+</p>
+<p>“What, not the lady who does the Acrobatic Arias? But she’s wonderful, Béchoux. Olga
+Vaubant is a superb artiste. She has created a new art form. Her latest number brings
+down the house. It’s sheer genius—absolutely. You know, she stands on her head and
+sings:
+</p>
+<div class="lgouter xd33e3078">
+<p class="line">“ ‘I’m in luck, I gotta boy
+</p>
+<p class="line">Fills his momma’s heart with joy—
+</p>
+<p class="line">Yes, you otta see my Jim!’</p>
+</div>
+<p class="first">And she’s your wife!”
+</p>
+<p>“Was,” said Béchoux shortly. “Well, I’m glad you like the lady’s performance. I’ve
+just been honored with a note from her.”
+</p>
+<p>He produced a sheet of rose-colored notepaper, with an embossed crimson O in one corner.
+Scrawled in pencil and dated that very morning was the following message:
+</p>
+<blockquote>
+<p class="first">“<i>My bedroom suite has been stolen. Mother in a state of collapse. Come at once.—Olga.</i>”</p>
+</blockquote><p>
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb197">[<a href="#pb197">197</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“The moment I got this,” said Béchoux, “I telephoned the préfecture. They had already
+been called in on the case, and I obtained permission to collaborate with the men
+who are handling it.”
+</p>
+<p>“Then why are you all of a dither?” asked Barnett.
+</p>
+<p>“It’s—it’s because this will mean meeting her again,” said Béchoux, ashamed and furious.
+</p>
+<p>“Are you still in love with her?”
+</p>
+<p>“Whenever I see her—it’s idiotic, but something comes over me—I can’t help myself.
+I feel myself blushing like a schoolboy. My mouth goes dry and I begin stammering.
+You must see, Barnett, that I can’t take charge of the case like that. I should make
+a perfect fool of myself.”
+</p>
+<p>“Whereas, what you <i>want</i> to do is to impress madame with the cool dignity, the daring and resource that go
+to make Inspector Béchoux the Pride of Paris Police?”
+</p>
+<p>“Er—yes.”
+</p>
+<p>“And you look to me to help you. Béchoux, you can count on me. Now tell me, what sort
+of life does your ex-wife lead off the stage?”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux looked almost pained at the question.
+</p>
+<p>“She is above suspicion and lives for her art alone. If it weren’t for her profession,
+Olga would still be Madame Béchoux.”
+</p>
+<p>“Which would be a nation’s loss,” pronounced Barnett solemnly, gathering up hat and
+coat.
+</p>
+<p>A few minutes later the two men came to one of the quietest, most deserted streets
+near the Luxembourg. Olga Vaubant lived on the top floor of an old-fashioned <span class="pageNum" id="pb198">[<a href="#pb198">198</a>]</span>house whose bricks breathed respectability. The ground-floor windows were heavily
+barred.
+</p>
+<p>“Before we go any further,” said Béchoux, “I am going to suggest that in this instance
+you refrain from playing your own hand and making a dishonorable private profit out
+of the case, as you have unhappily been known to do in the past.”
+</p>
+<p>“My conscience …” began Barnett, but Béchoux waved away the objection.
+</p>
+<p>“Never mind <i>your</i> conscience,” he said. “Think of the way mine has pricked me whenever we’ve worked
+together!”
+</p>
+<p>“You don’t think I’d rob your own ex-wife? Oh, Béchoux, how you wrong me!”
+</p>
+<p>“I don’t want you to rob <i>anyone</i>,” said Béchoux.
+</p>
+<p>“Not even those who deserve it?”
+</p>
+<p>“Leave Justice to take its course. Heaven has not appointed you as an avenging angel.”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett sighed.
+</p>
+<p>“You are spoiling all my fun, Béchoux, but what you say goes.”
+</p>
+<p class="tb"></p><p>
+</p>
+<p>One policeman was on guard at the door, and another was with the concierges—husband
+and wife—who were badly upset by what had happened.
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux learned that the district superintendent and two headquarters’ men had just
+left after making a preliminary investigation.
+</p>
+<p>“Now’s our chance,” said Béchoux to Barnett. “Let’s get a move on while the coast
+is clear.”
+</p>
+<p>As they went up the staircase he explained to his <span class="pageNum" id="pb199">[<a href="#pb199">199</a>]</span>friend that the house was run on old-fashioned lines, and the street door was kept
+shut.
+</p>
+<p>“No one has a key, and everyone has to ring for admittance. A priest lives on the
+first floor and a magistrate on the second. The concierge acts as housekeeper to both
+of them. Olga has the top floor flat and leads a most conventional existence, complete
+with her mother and two old maidservants who have always been in the family.”
+</p>
+<p>They knocked at the door of Olga Vaubant’s flat, and one of the maids let them into
+the hall. Béchoux rapidly explained the position of the rooms to Barnett—the passage
+on the right led to Olga’s bedroom and boudoir, that on the left to her mother’s room
+and the servants’ quarters. Straight ahead was a studio fitted up as a gymnasium,
+with a horizontal bar, a trapeze, rings, ropes and ribstalls. Strewn about the place
+were Indian clubs, dumb-bells, foils, and so forth.
+</p>
+<p>As the two men entered this vast room, something seemed to drop in a heap at their
+feet from the sky-light. The heap resolved itself into a slender, laughing boy, with
+a mop of untidy red hair framing the delicate features of a charming face. Wide green
+eyes, tip-tilted nose, slightly crooked mouth—all were unmistakable, and Barnett immediately
+recognized in the pajama-clad “boy” the one and only Olga Vaubant. She exclaimed at
+once in the Parisian drawl that has its parallel in the Londoner’s cockney:
+</p>
+<p>“<i>Maman’s</i> all right, Béchoux. Sleeping like a top, bless her. Lucky, isn’t it?”
+</p>
+<p>She made a sudden dive floorwards, stood on her <span class="pageNum" id="pb200">[<a href="#pb200">200</a>]</span>hands and, with her feet waving in the air, began singing in a husky, thrilling contralto:
+</p>
+<div class="lgouter xd33e3078">
+<p class="line">“I’m in luck, I gotta boy,
+</p>
+<p class="line">Fills his momma’s heart with joy—</p>
+</div>
+<p class="first">And believe me, Béchoux, you fill my heart with joy, too, old dear,” she added, standing
+up. “You’re a real sport to have got here so soon. Who’s the boy-friend?”
+</p>
+<p>“Jim Barnett. He’s an old—acquaintance,” said Béchoux, vainly attempting to control
+his twitching countenance.
+</p>
+<p>“Fine,” said Olga. “Well let’s hope between the pair of you you’ll solve the mystery
+and get back my bedroom suite. I leave it to you. Now it’s my turn to do a bit of
+introducing,” as a bulky form hove up from the far end of the studio. “May I present
+Del Prego, my gym instructor? He’s masseur, make-up expert, and beauty doctor, and
+he’s the darling of the chorus. Regular osteopath, he is, for dislocation and rejuvenation!
+Say pretty to the gentlemen, Del Prego!”
+</p>
+<p>Del Prego bowed low. He was a broad-shouldered, copper-skinned fellow, genial of countenance
+and vaguely suggesting the clown in his appearance. He wore a grey suit, with white
+spats and gloves, and held a light-colored felt hat in his hands.
+</p>
+<p>Immediately, gesticulating violently and speaking with a marked foreign accent, he
+began to discourse on his method of “progressive dislocation,” larding his outlandish
+French with phrases in Spanish, English, and Russian. Olga cut him short.
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb201">[<a href="#pb201">201</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“We’ve no time to waste. What do you want me to tell you, Béchoux?”
+</p>
+<p>“First,” said Béchoux, “will you show us your bedroom?”
+</p>
+<p>“Right! Half a mo’.” She sprang up in the air, caught on to the trapeze, swung from
+that to the rings, and landed at a door in the wall on the right.
+</p>
+<p>“Here you are,” she told them, kicking it open.
+</p>
+<p>The room was absolutely empty. Bed, chairs, curtains, mirrors, rugs, dressing-table,
+ornaments, pictures—all gone. Furniture removers could not have made a better job
+of it. The place was stripped.
+</p>
+<p>Olga began to giggle helplessly.
+</p>
+<p>“See that? Thorough, weren’t they? They even pinched my ivory toilet set. Almost walked
+off with the floor-boards. Don’t you think it’s a shame, Mr. Barnett?” she went on,
+addressing Jim, her eyes wider than ever. “I’m a girl that’s real fond of good furniture.
+All pure Louis Quinze it was, that I’d collected bit by bit—and they all had a history,
+including a genuine Pompadour bed! Why, furnishing this room cost me nearly everything
+I made on my American tour.”
+</p>
+<p>Abruptly she broke off to turn a somersault, then tossed the hair off her face and
+went on cheerfully:
+</p>
+<p>“Oh, well, there’s plenty of good fish in the sea and I can replace all that lot.
+I needn’t worry so long as I have my india rubber muscles and my bee-yewtiful cracked
+voice.… What are you looking at me like that for, Béchoux? Going to faint at my feet?
+Give us a kiss, and let’s get on with any questions you want <span class="pageNum" id="pb202">[<a href="#pb202">202</a>]</span>to ask before we have the rest of the police force back on the scene.”
+</p>
+<p>“Tell me exactly what happened,” said Béchoux.
+</p>
+<p>“Oh, there isn’t much to tell,” answered Olga. “Let’s see, last night, it had just
+gone half-past ten.… Oh, I should have told you, I left here at eight with Del Prego,
+who escorted me to the Folies Bergère in <i>maman’s</i> place.… Well, as I was saying, it had just gone the half-hour, and <i>maman</i> was in her room knitting, when suddenly she heard a faint sound like someone moving
+about in my room. She rushed along the passage, and found two men taking my bed apart
+by the light of a flash-lamp! The light was switched off at once, and one chap sprang
+at her and knocked her down while the other flung a tablecloth over her head. How’s
+that for assault and battery? Poor old <i>maman</i>! Then, if you please, these two blighters calmly proceeded to remove the furniture
+bit by bit, one of them carrying it downstairs, while the other stayed in the room.
+<i>Maman</i> kept quiet and managed not to scream. After a while she heard a big car starting
+up in the street outside, and then she was so overcome with the strain that she fainted
+right off.”
+</p>
+<p>“So that when you got back from the show——?” prompted Béchoux.
+</p>
+<p>“I found the street door open, the flat door open, and <i>maman</i> lying unconscious on the floor of my room. You could have knocked me down with a
+feather!”
+</p>
+<p>“What had the concierges to say?”
+</p>
+<p>“You know them, Béchoux. Two old dears who’ve been here for thirty years now. An earthquake
+wouldn’t <span class="pageNum" id="pb203">[<a href="#pb203">203</a>]</span>rouse ’em. The only sound they ever hear is the door-bell. Well, they swear by all
+their gods that no one rang between ten o’clock, when they went to bed, and next morning.”
+</p>
+<p>“Which means,” said Béchoux, “that they had no cause at any time during the night
+to pull the string that opens the door.”
+</p>
+<p>“You’ve said it.”
+</p>
+<p>“Did the other tenants hear nothing?”
+</p>
+<p>“Nothing at all.”
+</p>
+<p>“Then the conclusion is——”
+</p>
+<p>“How do you mean, conclusion?”
+</p>
+<p>“Well, what do you make of it?”
+</p>
+<p>Olga’s expression was one of wrath.
+</p>
+<p>“Don’t be an idiot! It’s not my business to make anything of it. That’s your job,
+Béchoux. In a moment you’ll have me thinking you as big a fool as those policemen
+we’ve had all over the flat.”
+</p>
+<p>“But,” faltered Béchoux, “we’re only beginning.”
+</p>
+<p>“Can’t you get action with what I’ve told you, you boob? If that pal of yours there
+isn’t any brighter than you, I can bid my Pompadour bed a fond farewell!”
+</p>
+<p>The “pal” at this point stepped forward and asked:
+</p>
+<p>“On what particular day would you like your bed back, madame?”
+</p>
+<p>“What’s that?” said Olga, staring at this stranger to whom, up to now, she had paid
+but slight attention.
+</p>
+<p>Barnett became glibly detailed.
+</p>
+<p>“I should like to know the day and hour on which you desire to regain possession of
+your Pompadour bed and of your furniture, etcetera.”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb204">[<a href="#pb204">204</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“Is this your idea of a joke?”
+</p>
+<p>“Let’s fix the day,” said the imperturbable Barnett.
+</p>
+<p>“To-day is Tuesday. Will next Tuesday be satisfactory?”
+</p>
+<p>Olga’s eyes widened, and widened yet again. She could not make Barnett out a bit.
+Suddenly she began to rock with mirth.
+</p>
+<p>“You <i>are</i> a one, I must say! Where did you pick it up, Béchoux? Out of the asylum? I must say
+your friend’s got a nerve. In a week, he says, cool as you please. You might think
+the bed was in his pocket! You’ve got another <span class="corr" id="xd33e3223" title="Source: think">thing</span> coming if you fancy I’m going to waste my time with two mutts like you.” With a hand
+on the chest of each, she pushed them <span class="corr" id="xd33e3226" title="Source: vigorouly">vigorously</span> into the hall. “Out you go, my lads, and you can stay out! And don’t think I’m going
+to let <i>myself</i> be fooled by a couple of rotten jokers!”
+</p>
+<p>The studio door slammed violently on the two “rotten jokers,” and Béchoux groaned
+aloud.
+</p>
+<p>“And we’ve only been in the flat ten minutes!”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett was calmly examining the hall. He then talked to one of the old servants.
+After that, he went downstairs to the concierges’ quarters and questioned the pair
+of them. He then hailed a passing taxi, giving the driver his address in the rue Laborde.
+Inspector Béchoux, deserted and aghast, stood forlornly on the pavement and watched
+the disappearing chariot of his friend.
+</p>
+<p class="tb"></p><p>
+</p>
+<p>However much Jim Barnett held Inspector Béchoux spellbound, the latter stood in even
+greater awe of the <span class="pageNum" id="pb205">[<a href="#pb205">205</a>]</span>imperious Olga. He never dreamed of doubting her assertion that Barnett had turned
+the whole thing off by making a promise no one could take seriously.
+</p>
+<p>This gloomy view of affairs was confirmed next day when he called at the office in
+the <i>rue Laborde</i> and found Barnett lolling back in an armchair, his feet upon his desk, smoking peacefully.
+</p>
+<p>“Really, Barnett,” said Béchoux in exasperation, “if this is your idea of getting
+down to things, we may as well give up the case. Back at the house we’re all hopelessly
+at sea. We none of us know what to make of it. We are agreed on certain points, of
+course. The main thing is, that it’s a physical <span class="corr" id="xd33e3248" title="Source: impossiblity">impossibility</span> to enter the place, even using a skeleton key, unless the door is opened from the
+inside. Since none of the residents can be suspected of being concerned in the burglary,
+we are driven to two unavoidable conclusions: first, that one of the thieves had been
+in the house, concealed, since early in the evening, and this man let in a confederate;
+second, that he could not have got inside without being seen by one of the concierges,
+as the street door is never left open. But who can have been in the house ready to
+admit the other thief? That’s what floors us, and I don’t see how on earth we’re going
+to find it out. Have you any theory, Barnett?”
+</p>
+<p>But Barnett was silent, absorbed in blowing smoke-rings. Béchoux’s words might have
+fallen on deaf ears, but he continued:
+</p>
+<p>“We’ve made a list of people who called during that day—there weren’t many—and the
+concierges are positive that every single one of them left the house again. <span class="pageNum" id="pb206">[<a href="#pb206">206</a>]</span>So you see we’re without a clue. We can easily reconstruct the <i>modus operandi</i> of the crime, but its authors elude us. What do you make of it all?”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett gave a prodigious yawn, stretched his arms and legs till they cracked, and
+then drawled:
+</p>
+<p>“A perfect peach!”
+</p>
+<p>“Wh-what’s that? Who’re you calling a peach?”
+</p>
+<p>“Your ex-wife,” Barnett told the astonished Béchoux. “She’s as much of a knock-out
+off the stage as she is on. So full of <i lang="fr">joie de vivre</i>, so—so electric! A regular <i>gamine</i>. Wonderful taste, too. I just can’t get over the idea of her investing her earnings
+in that Pompadour bed! Béchoux, you’re a lucky dog!”
+</p>
+<p>“I lost my luck pretty quickly—only kept it a month!”
+</p>
+<p>“A whole month? Then what <i>are</i> you grumbling at?”
+</p>
+<p class="tb"></p><p>
+</p>
+<p>Next Saturday saw Béchoux back at the Barnett Agency, trying to rouse his torpid ally,
+but Barnett was wreathed in smoke and silence, and Béchoux got no satisfaction.
+</p>
+<p>On Monday he came in again, thoroughly depressed.
+</p>
+<p>“It’s a mug’s game,” he averred, “the men on the job are utter idiots, and all this
+time Olga’s bedroom suite is probably on its way to some port or other for shipment
+abroad. It’s maddening! And what do you suppose all this makes me look like to Olga—me,
+a police inspector, I ask you? Why, she thinks I’m the most colossal ass that ever
+stepped.”
+</p>
+<p>He glared at the imperturbable Barnett, absorbed in <span class="pageNum" id="pb207">[<a href="#pb207">207</a>]</span>his eternal smoke-rings, and let loose the full force of his fury.
+</p>
+<p>“Here are we, up against an entirely new type of criminal—fighting men who must be
+adepts in their own line—and there you sit, you—you lotus-eater, and don’t lift a
+finger to help!”
+</p>
+<p>“One quality in her,” said Barnett, musing aloud, “pleases me more than all.”
+</p>
+<p>“<i>What?</i>” shouted Béchoux.
+</p>
+<p>“Her naturalness—her superb spontaneity. She is absolutely devoid of anything theatrical,
+any pose. Olga says exactly what she means, follows her instincts and lives according
+to impulse. Béchoux, she’s a marvel!”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux brought his fist down on the desk with a bang.
+</p>
+<p>“Would you like to know what she thinks of <i>you</i>? She thinks you’re a D-U-D, dud! She and Del Prego can’t mention your name without
+hooting. They speak of you as ‘That boob Barnett—that crazy bluffer’.…”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett heaved a sigh.
+</p>
+<p>“Harsh words! How can I prove the cap doesn’t fit?”
+</p>
+<p>“By ceasing to wear it,” suggested Béchoux grimly. “To-morrow is Tuesday, and you’ve
+promised to produce that Pompadour bed!”
+</p>
+<p>“Good lord, so I have!” said Barnett, as if realizing it for the first time. “The
+trouble is, I haven’t the faintest idea where to look for it! Be a sportsman, Béchoux,
+and ladle out a word of advice.”
+</p>
+<p>“If you can lay hold of the thieves, they’ll know where to find the bed.”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb208">[<a href="#pb208">208</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“It might be done,” said Barnett. “Got a warrant?”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux nodded.
+</p>
+<p>“Right. Then telephone the <i>préfecture</i> to send two of their beefiest men to-day to the Odéon Arcades, near the Luxembourg.”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux looked both <span class="corr" id="xd33e3311" title="Source: suprised">surprised</span> and irresolute.
+</p>
+<p>“No fooling?”
+</p>
+<p>“Absolutely not. Do you think I relish being thought a boob by Olga Vaubant? And,
+anyway, don’t I always keep my promises?”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux thought hard for a moment. Something told him that Barnett meant what he said,
+and that during the last week, while he had lolled in his armchair, his brain had
+been alert and busy with the problem. He remembered Barnett’s dictum that there were
+times when meditation proved more profitable than investigation. Without further hesitation,
+Béchoux took up the telephone and called up one, Albert, who was the right-hand man
+of the chief. He arranged for two inspectors to be sent to the Odéon.
+</p>
+<p>Barnett heaved himself out of his chair, and the clock struck three as the two men
+left the Agency.
+</p>
+<p>“Are we going to Olga’s flat?” Béchoux asked.
+</p>
+<p>“To that of the concierges,” Barnett told him.
+</p>
+<p>When they arrived Barnett conversed in low tones with the concierges and asked them
+to say nothing of his and Béchoux’s presence in the house. They then stationed themselves
+in the rear of the concierges’ quarters, concealed behind a voluminous bed-curtain.
+By peering out at each side, they could see anyone leave the house, or enter it when
+the door was opened.
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb209">[<a href="#pb209">209</a>]</span></p>
+<p>They saw the priest from the first floor pass. Then came one of Olga’s old servants,
+carrying a market-basket.
+</p>
+<p>“Who on earth are we waiting for?” whispered Béchoux. “What’s your game?”
+</p>
+<p>“To teach you your job! Now then, not another word!”
+</p>
+<p>At half-past three Del Prego was admitted, resplendent in white gloves, white spats,
+grey suit and grey Stetson. He waved a greeting to the concierges and went up the
+stairs two at time. It was the hour for Olga’s gym lesson.
+</p>
+<p>Three-quarters of an hour later he left the house, returning shortly with a packet
+of cigarettes he had gone out to buy. His white gloves and spats flickered up the
+stairs.
+</p>
+<p>Three other people came and went. Suddenly Béchoux hissed in Barnett’s ear:
+</p>
+<p>“Look, he’s coming in again for the third time. How on earth did he <span class="corr" id="xd33e3332" title="Source: got">get</span> out?”
+</p>
+<p>“By the door, I suppose.”
+</p>
+<p>“Oh, surely not,” said Béchoux, albeit less authoritatively. “That is, unless he caught
+us napping. Eh, Barnett?”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett pushed back the curtain and answered:
+</p>
+<p>“The time has come for action. Béchoux, go and pick up your beefy friends.”
+</p>
+<p>“And bring them here?”
+</p>
+<p>“That’s the stuff.”
+</p>
+<p>“What about you?”
+</p>
+<p>“I’m going up aloft. When you get back, I want all <span class="pageNum" id="pb210">[<a href="#pb210">210</a>]</span>three of you to station yourselves on the landing of the second floor. You’ll get
+word when to move.”
+</p>
+<p>“Then it’s zero at last?”
+</p>
+<p>“It is, and pretty stiff odds. Now, off you go, and make it snappy.”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux was off like the wind, while Barnett mounted to the third floor and rang the
+flat bell. He was shown into the studio-gymnasium where Olga was finishing her exercises
+under Del Prego’s supervision.
+</p>
+<p>“Fancy that now, here’s that bright boy Barnett!” called Olga from the top of a rope-ladder.
+“Our Mr. Barnett, the Man of Mystery!” She peered at him from between her shapely
+legs. “Well, Mr. Barnett, I hope you’ve got my Pompadour bed with you!”
+</p>
+<p>“Almost, but not quite, madame. I hope I’m not in the way?”
+</p>
+<p>“Not a bit.”
+</p>
+<p>The incredible Olga continued her evolutions at Del Prego’s curt commands. Her instructor
+alternately praised and criticised, and occasionally gave a brief personal demonstration.
+He was himself a trained acrobat, but vigorous rather than supple. He seemed out to
+demonstrate his prodigious muscular strength.
+</p>
+<p>The lesson came to an end, and, Del Prego put on his coat, fastened his snowy spats,
+and gathered up his white gloves and ash-colored hat.
+</p>
+<p>“See you to-night at the theatre, Madame Olga,” he said.
+</p>
+<p>“Oh, aren’t you going to wait for me to-day, Del Prego? You might have escorted me.
+You know <i>maman</i> is away.”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb211">[<a href="#pb211">211</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“Impossible, madame, I fear. Much as I regret, I fear I have another appointment before
+dinner.”
+</p>
+<p>He made for the door, but before he got there he was brought up short by Jim Barnett,
+who stood in his way.
+</p>
+<p>“A word with you, my friend,” said Barnett, “since chance has obligingly brought us
+together.”
+</p>
+<p>“I’m sorry, but really.…”
+</p>
+<p>“Must I, then, introduce myself afresh? Jim Barnett, private detective, of the Barnett
+Agency—Inspector Béchoux’s friend.”
+</p>
+<p>Del Prego took another step towards the door.
+</p>
+<p>“A thousand apologies, Mr. Barnett, but I’m in rather a hurry.”
+</p>
+<p>“Oh, I won’t keep you a moment. I only want to call to your remembrance——” He paused
+dramatically.
+</p>
+<p>“What?” snapped Del Prego.
+</p>
+<p>“A certain Turk.”
+</p>
+<p>“I don’t understand what you mean.”
+</p>
+<p>“A Turk called Ben-Vali.”
+</p>
+<p>The professor’s face wore an expression of stony blankness.
+</p>
+<p>“The name means nothing to me.”
+</p>
+<p>“Then perhaps you may remember a certain Avernoff?”
+</p>
+<p>“Never heard of him either. Who were they both, anyway?”
+</p>
+<p>“Two—murderers.”
+</p>
+<p>There was a brief, pregnant pause. Then Del Prego laughed noisily and said:
+</p>
+<p>“Scarcely a class among which I care to cultivate my friendships.”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb212">[<a href="#pb212">212</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“And yet,” pursued Barnett, “rumor persists in urging that you knew both men well.”
+</p>
+<p>Del Prego’s glance travelled like lightning up and down Barnett’s form. Then he snarled,
+with scarcely a trace of foreign accent:
+</p>
+<p>“What are you getting at? Cut out the mystery stuff. I don’t go in for riddles.”
+</p>
+<p>“Sit down, Signor Del Prego,” suggested Barnett. “We can chat more comfortably sitting
+down!”
+</p>
+<p>Del Prego was fuming with impatience. Olga had come up to them, full of curiosity,
+looking like a bewitching boy in her gym kit.
+</p>
+<p>“Do sit down, Del Prego,” she said, laying a hand on the professor’s arm. “After all,
+it’s about my Pompadour bed.”
+</p>
+<p>“Just so,” said Barnett. “And I can assure Signor Del Prego that I am not asking a
+riddle. Only, on my very first visit here after the robbery, I was forcibly reminded
+of two cases that made rather a sensation some time ago. I should like his opinion
+on them. It’ll only take a few minutes.”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett’s attitude had subtly changed from one of deference to one of authority. His
+tone was unmistakable in its note of command. Olga Vaubant found herself feeling impressed
+by this strange man. Del Prego, overborne, merely growled:
+</p>
+<p>“Hurry up, then!”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett began his story:
+</p>
+<p>“Once upon a time—three years ago, to be precise—there lived in Paris a jeweller called
+Saurois. He and his father shared a big top-floor flat. This jeweller <span class="pageNum" id="pb213">[<a href="#pb213">213</a>]</span>formed a business connection with a man named Ben-Vali. The latter went about in a
+turban and full Turkish costumes, baggy trousers and all, and traded in second-grade
+precious stones, such as oriental topazes, irregular pearls, amethysts, and so forth.
+Well, one evening, on a day when Ben-Vali had called several times at his flat, Saurois
+came back from the theatre and found his father stabbed to death, and all his jewels
+gone. The inquiry revealed that the crime had been committed not by Ben-Vali himself—he
+produced an unshakable alibi—but by someone he must have brought round in the afternoon.
+But they never managed to lay hands on the assassin, nor on the Turk. The case was
+shelved. Do you remember, now?”
+</p>
+<p>“I’ve only been in Paris two years,” Del Prego parried swiftly. “And, anyway, I don’t
+see the point.…”
+</p>
+<p>Jim Barnett went on:
+</p>
+<p>“Nearly a year before that a similar crime took place. The victim in this case was
+a collector of medals called Davoul. It was established that the man who killed him
+was brought to his place and hidden by a Count Avernoff, a Russian, who wore an astrakhan
+cap and a long overcoat.”
+</p>
+<p>“Why, I remember that,” exclaimed Olga Vaubant, who had turned suddenly pale.
+</p>
+<p>“I saw at once,” continued Barnett, “that between these two cases and the burglary
+of your bedroom there existed not, perhaps, a very close analogy, but a certain family
+resemblance. The robberies of Saurois the jeweller and of Davoul the medal collector
+were <span class="pageNum" id="pb214">[<a href="#pb214">214</a>]</span>both the work of a pair of foreigners, and here again the method is identical. I mean,
+in each case there was the introduction of an accomplice who was responsible for the
+actual crime. The problem is—how were those accomplices introduced? I own that at
+first this completely baffled me. For the last few days I have been thrashing the
+solution out in silence and solitude. Working with the two given quantities, so to
+speak, of the Ben-Vali crime and the Avernoff crime, I set myself to reconstruct the
+general scheme—the ‘constant’—<span class="corr" id="xd33e3408" title="Source: of of">of</span> a crime-system that had probably been applied in many other cases unknown to me.”
+</p>
+<p>“And did you succeed?” asked Olga breathlessly.
+</p>
+<p>“I did,” Barnett told her. “Frankly, the idea is superb. It’s the highest form of
+art—a manifestation of creative genius, wholly original in conception and execution.
+While the ordinary run of thieves and gun-men work with great secrecy, disguising
+themselves sometimes as plumbers or commercial travellers to gain entrance to a house,
+these people keep full in the limelight, and do the job without any attempt at concealment.
+The more observation they meet with, the better pleased they are. The method is for
+one of them quite openly to enter a house where he is already a frequent visitor,
+and his comings and goings are familiar to the residents. Then, on a chosen day, he
+goes out … and comes in again … and goes out once more … and comes in yet again …
+and then, while this man is in the house, <i>another</i> man comes in who is so like the first man in appearance that no one spots the difference!
+And there you have your accomplice introduced. The <span class="pageNum" id="pb215">[<a href="#pb215">215</a>]</span>first man leaves the house again, quite openly, and his accomplice remains there concealed.
+Then, in the watches of the night, the first man returns to the house, and is admitted
+by the accomplice. Ingenious, isn’t it?”
+</p>
+<p>Then, with a peculiar intensity in his tone, Barnett went on, now directly to Del
+Prego:
+</p>
+<p>“It’s genius, Del Prego, absolute genius. Ordinary crooks, as I said, try to make
+themselves as inconspicuous as possible in their criminal pursuits. They wear nondescript,
+neutral clothing, and do their best to merge with their surroundings like creatures
+of the jungle. But the men I’m telling you about realized that the great thing in
+their scheme was to make a vivid and outstanding impression—to attract plenty of attention.
+A Russian wearing a fur cap, or a Turk in baggy trousers is a conspicuous and unusual
+figure. If such a man is habitually seen four times a day going up and downstairs
+in a house, no one will notice whether he comes in once oftener than he goes out.
+The point is, though, that the fifth time he comes in, it’s the accomplice! And no
+one suspects it. That’s how it’s done, and I take my hat off to the inventor. It stands
+to reason that a man must be a master criminal to evolve and apply such a method—the
+kind of arch-crook who only occurs once in a generation. To me it is obvious that
+Ben-Vali and Count Avernoff are the same person. From this, isn’t it only logical
+to conclude that this man has materialized a third time, in yet another guise, in
+the particular case which concerns us? He began by being a Russian, later on he appeared
+as a Turk, and <span class="pageNum" id="pb216">[<a href="#pb216">216</a>]</span>this time—well, who comes here who, besides being a foreigner, dresses rather unusually?”
+</p>
+<p>There was a dead silence. Olga put out a hand towards Barnett as if to stop him from
+she hardly knew what. She had only just tumbled to what he had been leading up to
+all this time, and the realization frightened her.
+</p>
+<p>“No, no!” she cried. “I won’t have you accusing people!”
+</p>
+<p>Del Prego smiled blandly.
+</p>
+<p>“Come, come, Madame Olga, don’t get upset. Mr. Barnett will have his little joke.”
+</p>
+<p>“That’s it, Del Prego,” said Barnett, “I <i>will</i> have my little joke. You’re perfectly right not to take my yarn of mystery and adventure
+seriously—that is, not until you know the finish. Of course, there’s the obvious fact
+that you’re a foreigner, and that your get-up is calculated to attract attention.
+White gloves … white spats.… And, of course, too, you’ve got one of those mobile,
+india rubber faces, which could pretty easily turn you from a Russian into a Turk,
+and from a Turk into a shady adventurer, nationality unspecified! <i>And</i>, of course, you’re well known in this house, and business brings you here several
+times a day. But, after all, your reputation for honesty is unblemished, and you enjoy
+the patronage of no less a person than <span class="corr" id="xd33e3434" title="Source: Olgo">Olga</span> Vaubant. So no one would <i>dream</i> of accusing <i>you</i>.
+</p>
+<p>“But what was I to think? You see my difficulty, don’t you? You were the only possible
+suspect, and yet you were above suspicion. Isn’t that so, madame?” He turned to Olga
+for confirmation.
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb217">[<a href="#pb217">217</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“Oh, yes,” she agreed, eyes feverishly bright. “Then who <i>are</i> we to suspect? How can we find out who did it?”
+</p>
+<p>“Aha,” said Barnett, “that’s simple enough. I’ve set a trap for the mystery mouse!”
+</p>
+<p>“A trap? How could you do that?”
+</p>
+<p>“Tell me, madame,” said Barnett, “Baron de Laureins telephoned you on Saturday? I
+thought so. And yesterday he came to see you here?”
+</p>
+<p>Olga nodded, full of wonder.
+</p>
+<p>“And he brought you a chest full of silver, engraved with the Pompadour crest?”
+</p>
+<p>“That’s it,” said Olga, “on the table. But——”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett cut her short. In the manner of a fortune-teller he continued:
+</p>
+<p>“Baron de Laureins, who is very hard up, is trying to sell the silver which is a family
+heirloom that has come down to him from the d’Etoiles, and he has left it in your
+care until to-morrow.”
+</p>
+<p>“How … how do you know all this?” Olga was quite scared.
+</p>
+<p>“I,” said Barnett, “and the Baron—very new <i>noblesse</i>! Have you displayed the handsome silverware to your admiring friends?”
+</p>
+<p>“Certainly.”
+</p>
+<p>“And, on the other hand, I take it your mother has had a telegram from the country,
+summoning her to the bedside of your ailing aunt?”
+</p>
+<p>“How on earth do you know <i>that</i>?”
+</p>
+<p>“I sent the telegram. Oh, believe me, I’m the whole works! So your mother went off
+this morning, and <span class="pageNum" id="pb218">[<a href="#pb218">218</a>]</span>the chest stays in this room till to-morrow. What a temptation for the unknown friend
+who so cleverly burgled your bedroom to get up to his tricks again and snaffle the
+chest of silver. Much easier than a suite of furniture!”
+</p>
+<p>Olga, now thoroughly alarmed, demanded:
+</p>
+<p>“Will the attempt be made to-night?”
+</p>
+<p>“Of course it will,” Barnett assured her.
+</p>
+<p>“Oh, how awful!” she wailed.
+</p>
+<p>Del Prego, who had listened to all this in silence, now got up.
+</p>
+<p>“What’s so awful, madame?” he asked, with a faint sneer. “Forewarned is forearmed.
+You have only to ring up the police. With your permission, I will do so at once.”
+</p>
+<p>“Oh, dear me, no,” protested Barnett. “I shall need you, Del Prego.”
+</p>
+<p>“I fail to see in what way you can require my services.”
+</p>
+<p>“Why, in helping to arrest the accomplice, of course!”
+</p>
+<p>“Plenty of time for that, if the attempt is to be made to-night.”
+</p>
+<p>“Yes, but <i>do</i> bear in mind,” urged Barnett gently but firmly, “that the accomplice was, in each
+case, introduced beforehand!”
+</p>
+<p>“You mean he’s already in the flat?” asked Del Prego.
+</p>
+<p>“He’s been here for the last half-hour,” declared Barnett.
+</p>
+<p>“Since I arrived, you mean?”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb219">[<a href="#pb219">219</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“Since you arrived the second time,” said Barnett quietly. “I saw him as plainly as
+I see you now.”
+</p>
+<p>“Then he’s hiding in the flat?”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett pointed to the door.
+</p>
+<p>“In the hall there’s a clothes cupboard which hasn’t been opened all the afternoon.
+He’s in there.”
+</p>
+<p>“But he couldn’t have got into the flat on his own!”
+</p>
+<p>“Of course not.”
+</p>
+<p>“Then who opened the door to him?”
+</p>
+<p>“You, Del Prego.”
+</p>
+<p>The brief statement was almost shockingly abrupt.
+</p>
+<p>Even though from the beginning of the conversation Barnett’s remarks had been obviously
+aimed at the gym instructor, becoming increasingly plain in their import, yet this
+downright attack took Del Prego by surprise. Rage, fear, and the determination to
+act swiftly were easily discernible in his changed expression. Divining his adversary’s
+perplexity, Barnett took advantage of it to run out into the hall. He jerked a man
+out of the cupboard, and pushed him, struggling, before him into the studio.
+</p>
+<p>“Oh,” cried Olga, utterly taken aback, “then it’s true!”
+</p>
+<p>The man was the same height as Del Prego. Like Del Prego he wore a grey suit and white
+spats. He had much the same type of greasy, mobile countenance.
+</p>
+<p>“Milord has <span class="corr" id="xd33e3508" title="Source: forgottn">forgotten</span> his hat and gloves,” said Barnett, and clapped an ash-colored hat on the man’s head,
+at the same time handing him a pair of white gloves.
+</p>
+<p>Struck dumb with amazement, Olga drew slowly <span class="pageNum" id="pb220">[<a href="#pb220">220</a>]</span>from the scene of action, and, never shifting her gaze from the two men, proceeded
+to climb a rope-ladder backwards. It had now fully dawned on her what kind of man
+Del Prego was, and what frightful risks she had run during the time spent in his company.
+</p>
+<p>“Funny, isn’t it?” Barnett said, laughing. “Not as like as twins, of course, but they’re
+the same height and have much the same sort of physiog., and what with that and their
+dressing in duplicate, they might be brothers!”
+</p>
+<p>The two crooks were recovering from their confusion, and simultaneously began to realize
+that, after all, they were only up against one man, and that a poor-looking specimen,
+with apparently a wretched physique under his shabby frock-coat.
+</p>
+<p>Del Prego spluttered some words in a foreign language which Barnett translated immediately.
+</p>
+<p>“No use speaking Russian,” he observed, “to ask your friend if he’s got a gun handy!”
+</p>
+<p>Del Prego shook with rage and spoke again in a different language.
+</p>
+<p>“Unluckily for you,” Barnett told him, “I know Turkish inside out. Berlitz has nothing
+on me. Also, I think it only fair to tell you that Béchoux—you know, Olga’s policeman
+husband that was—is waiting on the stairs with two friends. If that gun goes off,
+they will break down the door!”
+</p>
+<p>Del Prego and the other man exchanged glances. They saw they were cornered, but they
+were the sort that doesn’t give in without putting up a stiff fight.
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb221">[<a href="#pb221">221</a>]</span></p>
+<p>Without seeming to move, they drew imperceptibly closer to Barnett.
+</p>
+<p>“Fine!” the latter told them genially. “You propose to set upon me and finish me off
+at close quarters, do you? And when I’m done for, you’ll try to elude Béchoux. Now
+then, madame, keep your eyes open and you’ll see something! Tom Thumb and the two
+Giants! David and the twin Goliaths! Get a move on, Del Prego. Brace up, now! Try
+springing at my throat for a start!”
+</p>
+<p>The distance between them had lessened again. The two men stood tense, ready to hurl
+themselves on Barnett.
+</p>
+<p>But Barnett most unexpectedly forestalled them. In a flash he had dived to the floor,
+seized a leg of each and brought them crashing! Before they had time to counter, the
+head of each was being ground into the floor by an implacable, murderous hand. They
+gasped convulsively, choking in Barnett’s vise-like grip. Their countenances took
+on a purple tinge.
+</p>
+<p>“Olga!” called Barnett with perfect calm, “be a good girl and open the door and call
+Béchoux, will you?”
+</p>
+<p>Olga dropped, monkey-like, from her ladder, and tottered rather than ran out of the
+room, calling “Béchoux! Béchoux!”
+</p>
+<p>A moment later she returned with the inspector, babbling excitedly to him:
+</p>
+<p>“<i>He</i> did it! Bowled them both over single-handed! I’d never have believed it of him!”
+</p>
+<p>“Behold,” said Barnett to Béchoux, “your two bright <span class="pageNum" id="pb222">[<a href="#pb222">222</a>]</span>lads. Just slip the bracelets on them so that I can let ’em come up for breath! You
+needn’t worry about fixing them too tightly. They’ll come quietly, won’t you, Del
+Prego? All lamb-like and pretty!”
+</p>
+<p>He rose from the floor, gallantly kissed Olga’s hand, while she regarded him in ever-growing
+wonder, and chortled gaily:
+</p>
+<p>“How’s that for a haul, Béchoux? Two of the most cunning criminals in Paris snared
+at last. Really, Del Prego, you must allow me to congratulate you on your methods!”
+</p>
+<p>He dug the professor playfully in the ribs, while the latter was powerless, handcuffed
+to Béchoux, and continued jubilantly:
+</p>
+<p>“My good man, you’re a genius. Why, when Béchoux and I were on the watch downstairs,
+I, having tumbled to your trick, naturally saw that it was <i>not</i> you the third time, but Béchoux, who didn’t know, soon swallowed the bait and really
+thought the gentleman in white gloves, white spats, grey hat and grey suit was the
+same Del Prego that he had already seen pass several times. So Del Prego the Second
+was able to go quietly upstairs, sneak through the door—which you had left ajar for
+him—and hide in the hall cupboard. Exactly the same tactics as you employed on the
+night when the bedroom suite disappeared into space. You can’t deny it, Del Prego,
+you’re a genius!”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett was by now bubbling over with sheer exuberance. With a flying leap, he was
+astride the trapeze; in a moment he was twirling like a top round and round an upright
+pole; he swung on to a rope, then to the <span class="pageNum" id="pb223">[<a href="#pb223">223</a>]</span>rings, then up the ladder he went, swaying like a sailor in the rigging. The tails
+of his ancient frock-coat flapped stiffly, disapprovingly behind him, the venerable
+garment seeming to protest against these unseemly gambols.
+</p>
+<p>Olga gave a little gasp as he unexpectedly landed at her feet, bowing low.
+</p>
+<p>“Feel my heart, madame; beating quite normally. And I’m not the least bit out of breath.
+Don’t you wonder, Béchoux, how I keep in training?”
+</p>
+<p>He snatched up the telephone and called a number.
+</p>
+<p>“That the <i>préfecture</i>?… Extension two, please.… That you, Albert? Béchoux speaking.… It doesn’t sound like
+my voice?… Well, I can’t help that. Now then, listen. You can report that I have just
+arrested two murderers who are wanted for the Olga Vaubant robbery.”
+</p>
+<p>He hung up, and held out a hand to Béchoux.
+</p>
+<p>“The laurels are all yours, old chap. Madame, it’s time I took my leave. What’s up,
+Del Prego? You are not regarding me with that warm affection I could desire!”
+</p>
+<p>Del Prego was muttering furiously:
+</p>
+<p>“There’s only one man alive who could get the better of me … only one.…”
+</p>
+<p>“Who’s that?”
+</p>
+<p>“Arsène Lupin!”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett laughed as though he would split.
+</p>
+<p>“Bully for you, my boy. You ought to have been a Professor of Psychology. And then
+you would never have got yourself into this mix-up!”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb224">[<a href="#pb224">224</a>]</span></p>
+<p>He had another joyous spasm, bowed to Olga, and went off in a gale of merriment, humming
+that catchy little tune:
+</p>
+<div class="lgouter xd33e3078">
+<p class="line">“Yes, you otta see my Jim!”</p>
+</div>
+<p class="first">Next day Del Prego, overwhelmed by the case against him, revealed the whereabouts
+of the garage in the suburbs in which he had hidden Olga Vaubant’s bedroom suite.
+This was on the Tuesday. Barnett had fulfilled his promise.
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux was sent out of Paris on a fresh case, and was away some days. When he got
+back he found a note from Barnett.
+</p>
+<p>“You must own that I have played strictly fair. There hasn’t been a sou of profit
+for me in the whole business—none of the ‘pickings’ that have distressed your gentle
+soul in the past. It is satisfaction for me to know that I retain your friendship
+and respect!”
+</p>
+<p>That afternoon Béchoux, who had made up his mind to part brass-rags once and for all
+with Barnett, went along to the office in the <i>rue Laborde</i>. The office was closed, and there was a notice on the door which read:
+</p>
+<blockquote>
+<p class="first">“<i>Closed on account of a sudden attachment. Reopening after the honeymoon trip.</i>”</p>
+</blockquote><p>
+</p>
+<p>“And what the hell may that mean?” muttered Béchoux, smitten with sudden vague anxiety.
+He rushed off to Olga’s flat. It was shut up. He rushed on to the Folies Bergère.
+There he was told that the star had paid a large forfeit to break her contract and
+had gone off on holiday.
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb225">[<a href="#pb225">225</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“<i lang="fr">Nom d’un Nom d’un Nom!</i>” spluttered Béchoux when he got out in the street. “Is it possible?… Instead of collaring
+some cash, can he have used his triumph to … can he have dared to.…”
+</p>
+<p>The cloud of suspicion grew bigger and blacker. Béchoux became frantic. How was he
+to learn the truth? Or rather, what course could he take that would keep the truth
+from him, and save him from appalling certainty in place of his suspicion?
+</p>
+<p class="tb"></p><p>
+</p>
+<p>But Barnett was not the man to leave his victim in peace. At intervals the unlucky
+Béchoux was the recipient of highly colored post-cards, scrawled with even more lurid
+legends:
+</p>
+<p>“<i>Oh, Béchoux! One moonlight night in Rome!</i>”
+</p>
+<p>“<i>Béchoux, next time you’re in love, bring her to Sicily!</i>”
+</p>
+<p>And from Venice: “<i>If you were here, Béchoux, I should have to stop you jumping in a canal!</i>”
+</p>
+<p>“I will never forgive him this, never! He has outraged me past hope of pardon! Next
+time I will have my revenge!”
+</p>
+<p>And, like a mocking echo, he seemed to hear Olga’s husky tones:
+</p>
+<div class="lgouter xd33e3078">
+<p class="line">“I’m in luck, I gotta boy
+</p>
+<p class="line">Fills his momma’s heart with joy.
+</p>
+<p class="line">Yes, you otta see my Jim!”</p>
+</div>
+<p><span class="pageNum" id="pb226">[<a href="#pb226">226</a>]</span></p>
+</div>
+</div>
+<div id="ch10" class="div1 chapter"><span class="pageNum">[<a title="Go to the table of contents" href="#xd33e291">Contents</a>]</span><div class="divHead">
+<h2 class="label">X</h2>
+<h2 class="main">ARRESTING <span class="corr" id="xd33e3625" title="Source: ARSENE">ARSÈNE</span> LUPIN!</h2>
+</div>
+<div class="divBody">
+<p class="first">Suddenly, unexpectedly, the fight between Barnett and Béchoux, which had dragged on
+so long under cover, had reached the last round—in the open!
+</p>
+<p>Inspector Béchoux sped through the arched gateway of the <i><span class="corr" id="xd33e3632" title="Source: prèfecture">préfecture</span></i> and across a couple of courtyards, took the stairs two at a time, and dashed, without
+pausing to knock, into the sanctum of his chief. Pale and breathless, he stammered:
+</p>
+<p>“Arsène Lupin is mixed up in the Desroques case!”
+</p>
+<p>The chief gave a startled exclamation.
+</p>
+<p>“Surely not!”
+</p>
+<p>“I saw him myself only a little while ago, outside Desroques’ flat, and recognized
+him at once.”
+</p>
+<p>“Don’t try and be funny, Béchoux. Nobody ever <i>recognizes</i> Arsène Lupin.”
+</p>
+<p>“<i>I</i> do!” declared Béchoux. “This time he’s disguised as a private detective and calls
+himself Jim Barnett—you remember, the chap I told you about before, who left Paris
+a little while ago.”
+</p>
+<p>The chief gave a slight chuckle.
+</p>
+<p>“Left with Olga Vaubant of the Folies Bergère, didn’t he?”
+</p>
+<p>“Yes,” assented Béchoux wrathfully. “Olga Vaubant, the singing acrobat, and my ex-wife!”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb227">[<a href="#pb227">227</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“Well,” said the chief, “what did you do when you—recognized Lupin?”
+</p>
+<p>“I shadowed him.”
+</p>
+<p>“Without his knowing it?” The other was frankly incredulous.
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux drew himself up stiffly. “When I shadow a man, chief, he never knows it,”
+he declared. “All the same,” he added thoughtfully, “although the beggar was pretending
+to be out for a stroll, he didn’t take any chances. First he walked round the Place
+de l’Etoile. Then he went along the Avenue Kléber and stopped on the east side of
+the Rond Point du Trocadéro. Sitting on a bench there was a gipsy girl. She was a
+pretty piece of goods, with her black head bare in the sunshine, and her colored shawl
+wrapped about her. Well I watched Lupin, alias Barnett, sit down beside her, and a
+minute later they were talking away together, but hardly moving their lips—an old
+prison trick that, chief. More than once I noticed them looking up at a house on the
+corner of the Place du Trocadéro and the Avenue Kléber. After a while, Lupin got up
+and took the Metro.”
+</p>
+<p>“Did you keep on shadowing him?”
+</p>
+<p>“Yes—or, rather, I tried to,” said Béchoux. “But he jumped aboard a train that was
+just moving while I was held up in the crowd. When I got back to the bench, the gipsy
+girl was gone.”
+</p>
+<p>“And what about the house they were looking up at?”
+</p>
+<p>“That’s where I’ve just come from,” said Béchoux. He took a deep breath, and launched
+forth: “On the fourth floor of that house is a furnished flat where for <span class="pageNum" id="pb228">[<a href="#pb228">228</a>]</span>the last month old General Desroques, Jean Desroques’ father, has been living. You
+remember that he came up from Limoges to defend his son when the latter was arrested
+and charged”—Béchoux swelled with the majesty of the law—“with abduction, illegal
+detention, and wilful murder!”
+</p>
+<p>This repetition of the roll of crimes seemingly impressed the chief, who nodded solemnly
+and asked his subordinate:
+</p>
+<p>“Did you call on the general?”
+</p>
+<p>“I did, and he opened the door to me himself. Then I described to him the little comedy
+that had just been played under his windows, leaving out all mention of Arsène Lupin,
+of course. He was not surprised, and told me that the day before a gipsy girl had
+come to see him. She offered to tell his fortune and reveal the outcome of the trial.
+She demanded three thousand francs and said she would await his answer next afternoon
+in the Place du Trocadéro between two and half-past two.”
+</p>
+<p>“But why should the general pay her all that money?”
+</p>
+<p>“She assured him that she could get hold of the mystery photograph and let him have
+it.”
+</p>
+<p>“What?” the chief was genuinely surprised. “You mean that photograph we’ve all been
+searching for and can’t find anywhere?”
+</p>
+<p>“That’s it,” said Béchoux. “The photograph that would save the general’s son—or finally
+establish his guilt!”
+</p>
+<p>Both were silent for a while. At last the chief said:
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb229">[<a href="#pb229">229</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“I expect you know, Béchoux, how anxious we are to get hold of that photograph ourselves?”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux nodded.
+</p>
+<p>“It means even more than you realize, though. Listen, Béchoux, if you can lay hands
+on that photograph it must be turned over to me before the Parquet gets wind of it.”
+He added in a whisper: “The Department comes first, see?…”
+</p>
+<p>And, with equal seriousness and set purpose, Béchoux replied, “Chief, you shall have
+it. I will get it for you, and, at the same time, I will get Jim Barnett, or rather
+Arsène Lupin!”
+</p>
+<p class="tb"></p><p>
+</p>
+<p>Just a month before this conversation at the <i>préfecture</i>, Jacques Veraldy had been kept waiting for his dinner. Jacques Veraldy, one of the
+foremost figures in Parisian society, a man of vast wealth, one of the unscrupulous
+spiders that spin political webs, had waited till long past the dinner hour for the
+return of his wife, Christiane. But she did not come home that night, and next morning
+the police were called in. They soon elicited the following facts:
+</p>
+<p>On the afternoon of her disappearance, Christiane Veraldy had gone for a walk in the
+Bois de Boulogne, near her house. On this walk she had been stopped by a well-dressed
+man who, after a brief conversation, had led her to a closed car, with the blinds
+pulled down, which was waiting in a deserted alley. They both got into the car and
+drove off quickly in the direction of Saint-Cloud.
+</p>
+<p>None of the witnesses who came forward to describe <span class="pageNum" id="pb230">[<a href="#pb230">230</a>]</span>this meeting in the Bois had been able to see the man’s face. He seemed young, they
+said, and they were all agreed that he wore a very smart dark-blue overcoat and a
+black beret.
+</p>
+<p>Two days passed, and still there was no news of the missing Christiane Veraldy. Then,
+suddenly, the tragedy happened.
+</p>
+<p>About sunset, some peasants working in the fields on the main road from Paris to Chartres
+noticed a car being driven at a reckless speed. Even as they watched its onrush, the
+car door was pushed open, and a woman fell out on the road. They rushed to her assistance.
+At the same time the car raced up the steep bank at the side of the road, crashed
+into a tree and overturned. A man sprang from it, miraculously uninjured, and dashed
+to where the woman lay. She was dead. Her head had struck a heap of stones in her
+fall. They carried her body to the nearest village and told the gendarmes what had
+happened.
+</p>
+<p>The man made no secret of his identity. He was Député Jean Desroques, a well-known
+political figure, and at that time leader of the Opposition.
+</p>
+<p>The dead woman was Christiane Veraldy.
+</p>
+<p>Immediately trouble began brewing. The bereaved husband, thirsting for revenge rather
+than overcome with grief, was determined to make his supplanter, as he considered
+Jean Desroques, pay the penalty of the law. The accused man, on the other hand, had
+powerful political supporters, who strenuously denied that the leader of their party
+could be guilty of such a crime. These in turn brought pressure to bear on the police.
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb231">[<a href="#pb231">231</a>]</span></p>
+<p>Meanwhile, the peasants, one and all, swore that they had seen a man’s arm push the
+woman out of the car. Nor did there seem any possible doubt that the man who had been
+observed talking with Madame Veraldy in the Bois was indeed Desroques. At the time
+of the accident Jean Desroques was wearing a dark-blue greatcoat and a black beret.
+</p>
+<p>In any case, Desroques did not attempt to advance an alibi. He admitted having abducted
+Madame Veraldy, and acknowledged that he had detained her illegally. On the other
+hand, he swore that he had done all in his power to prevent her committing—suicide!
+For that was his explanation of the tragic occurrence.
+</p>
+<p>Desroques’ account of what had happened was that he had been struggling to hold Madame
+Veraldy down in her seat, that the door of the car had been forced open when she flung
+her weight against it, and she had fallen out.
+</p>
+<p>But concerning what had led up to the struggle, where they had spent the days since
+their meeting in the Bois, what had happened during that time, or even when and how
+he had first made the acquaintance of Madame Veraldy, Jean Desroques was obstinately
+silent.
+</p>
+<p>This last point—the question of the first meeting of Desroques and the banker’s wife—remained
+one of the minor yet most baffling mysteries of the case, since Veraldy declared he
+had never, since his marriage, had anything to do with Desroques, whom he regarded
+as a dangerous Radical. He testified to having frequently <span class="pageNum" id="pb232">[<a href="#pb232">232</a>]</span>spoken disparagingly about him to Christiane, who had invariably refrained from comment.
+</p>
+<p>The examining magistrate tried in vain to get past the accused’s enigmatic barrier
+of reserve. The only reply his efforts elicited was:
+</p>
+<p>“I have nothing to say. You can do what you like with me. Whatever happens I shall
+not speak another word.”
+</p>
+<p>And when the police officials, one of whom was Béchoux, called at Desroques’ flat,
+he opened the door to them in person, saying:
+</p>
+<p>“I am quite ready to come with you, gentlemen.”
+</p>
+<p>Before leaving, a thorough search was made of the flat. There was a pile of ashes
+in the study fireplace, showing that Desroques had been burning papers. The police
+found nothing of any importance in the drawers of the desk or anywhere else. They
+took down every volume from the well-stocked bookshelves and shook them vigorously,
+but no telltale document fluttered out to reward their efforts. They took up the carpet
+and discovered nothing but dust!
+</p>
+<p>While this routine search was going on, Béchoux, pursuing his own rather more intuitive
+methods, stood perfectly still near the door and darted a lightning glance over the
+room. Suddenly he swooped down on the waste-paper basket. To one side of it lay a
+screw of paper which might have been an <span class="corr" id="xd33e3715" title="Source: advertisment">advertisement</span> leaflet.
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux had it in his hands and was just smoothing it out, when Jean Desroques, who
+had been standing quietly by during the search of his study, sprang forward and snatched
+it from the detective’s hands.
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb233">[<a href="#pb233">233</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“You don’t want that,” he cried, “its only an old photograph. It came off its mount
+and I threw it away.”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux, struck by Desroques’ eagerness to retain possession of an apparently worthless
+bit of rubbish that he had self-avowedly thrown away, was on the point of using force
+to make him give it up.
+</p>
+<p>But Desroques was too quick for him. Before the detective could bar the way, he had
+darted into the adjoining room and slammed the door behind him.
+</p>
+<p>There was a policeman on guard in the anteroom into which he had fled. When Béchoux
+and the others got the door open, this man had Desroques pinned on the floor. Immediately
+Béchoux searched his prisoner. He turned out the man’s pockets, made him take off
+his shoes and socks. But the unmounted photograph had disappeared!
+</p>
+<p>The window was tightly shut and there was no fire in the room. The policeman stated
+that he had stopped Desroques when he rushed in in case he should be trying to escape,
+but had seen no sign of any photograph or paper.
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux had a warrant for Desroques’ arrest, and, without vouchsafing a word, he went
+quietly off to prison.
+</p>
+<p>The foregoing are the bare facts of the case which, a little while before the Great
+War, caused such a stir in the press and among the public of Paris. There is no need
+to give in detail the inquiry conducted by the examining magistrate, as it shed no
+light on the mystery. But there should be considerable interest in the relation for
+the first time of an episode which led <span class="pageNum" id="pb234">[<a href="#pb234">234</a>]</span>up to certain startling disclosures and put an entirely different complexion on the
+case, besides marking the last encounter in the long duel between Inspector Béchoux
+and his “friendly enemy,” Jim Barnett, of the Barnett Agency.
+</p>
+<p class="tb"></p><p>
+</p>
+<p>The stage was set, and for once Béchoux felt happy in the possession of a little advance
+information as to the program. He knew what Barnett was up to—had watched his little
+confabulation with the gipsy girl under the windows of General Desroques’ flat. This
+time he intended to be first on the scene and to spoil Barnett’s entrance!
+</p>
+<p>On the day after the conversation with his chief at the <i>préfecture</i>, Béchoux again called at General Desroques’ flat. The latter had been advised by
+headquarters of the inspector’s visit.
+</p>
+<p>A rather corpulent, clean-shaven man-servant opened the door to Béchoux. In silence,
+and exuding a kind of aura of intense respectability, he ushered the inspector into
+the drawing-room, then softly withdrew.
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux took up his stand at a window from which he could survey the entire extent
+of the Place du Trocadéro without himself being seen from the street. For a long while
+he scrutinized the people passing to and fro in the busy square below.
+</p>
+<p>There was no sign of the gipsy girl, nor of the wily “Barnett” in whom Béchoux declared
+he had recognized Arsène Lupin.
+</p>
+<p>Neither of the suspects showed up all that day, nor the day after.
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb235">[<a href="#pb235">235</a>]</span></p>
+<p>During his self-imposed vigil, Béchoux sometimes had the company of General Desroques.
+The latter was tall, lean, grey-haired—the typical retired cavalry officer who has
+spent much of his life outdoors, and is in the habit of giving orders and having them
+promptly obeyed. Ordinarily taciturn, the general was one of those men who, when deeply
+moved, will lay aside some of their customary reserve. The charge against his son
+had wounded him terribly. Not only was he firmly convinced of Jean’s innocence, but
+he was certain that the young man was the victim of one of those mysterious political
+plots which occasionally blot the fair fame of every state.
+</p>
+<p>Although undetermined as to whence the blow had come, the old man stood at bay—like
+a lion defending its cub.
+</p>
+<p>“Jean would not, could not, do such a thing,” he declared. “The boy’s only fault is
+that he is over-scrupulous, absurdly quixotic. He is perfectly capable of sacrificing
+his own interests to some exaggerated idea of honor. He is the sort of person who
+would unhesitatingly shoulder a friend’s guilt and let the culprit go free. I am so
+sure of what I say, that I’m not going to see Jean in his cell. I won’t pay the slightest
+attention to what his lawyer says, or to what they print in the newspapers. Pack of
+lies, probably! The boy’s innocent, whether he says so or not. And I’m going to prove
+it, whether he likes it or not! We all have our own idea of what’s our duty. He thinks
+he ought to keep his mouth shut. Well and good. But I know <i>I</i> ought to clear his name, no matter who gets hurt in the process!”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb236">[<a href="#pb236">236</a>]</span></p>
+<p>One day, when the reporters were harrying him with questions, the general burst out:
+</p>
+<p>“Do you really want to know what I think? Jean never kidnaped any one. The woman followed
+him of her own free will. He won’t admit it, because he is trying to shield her reputation.
+But if the facts come to light—and, believe me, they will—we shall find that my son
+and she knew each other and were probably on terms of intimacy. And I’m going to get
+to the bottom of things, whatever the result!”
+</p>
+<p>Now, while Béchoux crouched, like Sister Anne, at his window, and kept watch on the
+square, the general would come in and sit near him. Then the old man would go over
+the case and review the deadlock reached by himself and the police.
+</p>
+<p>“You and I, my friend, are after the same thing,” he would say, “but someone else
+is after it, too! I have friends who are in the know, and they tell me Veraldy has
+offered a fabulous reward to anyone who will solve the mystery of his wife’s death.
+He and my son’s political opponents are convinced that Jean is guilty. What we all
+want to find, though for very different reasons, is that photograph! Veraldy and his
+friends believe that if they can lay hands on it they will have proof of Jean’s guilt.
+I <i>know</i> that it will prove him innocent!”
+</p>
+<p>From Béchoux’s point of view, what the photograph might or might not prove was the
+least of his worries. His task was limited to getting hold of it for his chief. Any
+possible sequel had almost ceased to interest him.
+</p>
+<p>Meanwhile, day after day, he sat at his window watching for the gipsy girl who never
+came, filled with <span class="pageNum" id="pb237">[<a href="#pb237">237</a>]</span>anguished speculation as to Barnett’s activities, and listening inattentively to the
+general’s eternal monologue about his hopes and plans and disappointments.
+</p>
+<p>One day old Desroques seemed unusually thoughtful. He obviously imagined he had hit
+on a fresh clue, or, at any rate, a new factor in the tragic problem. After a prolonged
+silence he addressed Béchoux at his post:
+</p>
+<p>“Inspector, my friends and I have come to the conclusion that the only human being
+who can possibly throw any light on how the photograph disappeared is the policeman
+who stopped my son in his flight the day he was arrested. It’s rather curious that
+he has never been called to give evidence. His name has never appeared in the press.
+In fact, but for the energetic inquiries of my friends, I should not now be in possession
+of”—he paused significantly—“certain information!”
+</p>
+<p>Inspector Béchoux looked distinctly uncomfortable, but did not speak. The general
+resumed:
+</p>
+<p>“We now know that this policeman was added to the group of men sent here from headquarters
+quite accidentally, just as they were leaving the police-station of this district
+on their way here. They rather doubted whether their numbers were strong enough in
+case my son offered violent resistance, and this policeman apparently offered to join
+them with some alacrity. They gladly accepted his assistance.
+</p>
+<p>“My friends have not been able to ascertain the identity of that policeman. For some
+reason or other none of your colleagues has been willing or able to tell us. Yet we
+are certain that the higher officials at the <i>préfecture</i> know who he is, and have been questioning <span class="pageNum" id="pb238">[<a href="#pb238">238</a>]</span>him daily. We have reason to believe that he has been under strict surveillance ever
+since the arrest of my son. That he was taken to the police-station immediately after
+the disappearance of the photograph and searched; that he has not been allowed home;
+that he is, in fact, a prisoner. And we have more than an inkling of the reason for
+the strict reticence of the police on his account!” The general bent nearer to Béchoux,
+a certain triumph overspreading his hawklike features.
+</p>
+<p>Outwardly calm and indifferent, Béchoux was quaking inwardly. But he said nothing,
+feeling it wisest to let the general put all his cards on the table.
+</p>
+<p>“What do you say,” said the general, “to the suggestion that the mysterious policeman
+was, to say the least of it, rather a peculiar character to have got into the police
+force at all? A nice story it would make for the newspapers—and not particularly creditable.
+Ho, ho!” He waggled a gouty finger under the inspector’s nose.
+</p>
+<p>Still Béchoux was silent.
+</p>
+<p>“Well,” said the general, “it isn’t going to further my son’s interests to make a
+laughing-stock of the police force. But what I do demand as a right is that I may
+be allowed to question this policeman myself. Your people haven’t been able to get
+anything out of him. I think I may be more successful.”
+</p>
+<p>“And if I say that you cannot have this interview?” Béchoux’s voice was cold and level
+as chilled steel.
+</p>
+<p>“In that case, inspector, I shall—regretfully, of course—communicate with the editor
+of a well-known daily in regard to this somewhat curious ornament of the police force!”
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb239">[<a href="#pb239">239</a>]</span></p>
+<p>“No need for that, general.” Béchoux forced a smile. “There is no objection at all
+to your interviewing Constable Rimbourg—er, the policeman in question. I shall have
+pleasure in arranging for him to come along!”
+</p>
+<p>In truth, Béchoux was not particularly unwilling in the matter. His own plans had
+proved fruitless. He was absolutely without information about Barnett’s movements,
+and quite in the dark as to his adversary’s connection with the case. In the past,
+Barnett had always met him openly, albeit under the guise of lending his aid. Barnett
+had even been noticeably to the fore throughout the cases on which he had “coöperated”
+with the inspector. Béchoux had an uneasy feeling that this time, for some reason
+of his own, Barnett was working under cover, ready to burst out at any moment with
+a startling and probably unwelcome <i>dénouement</i> of the whole affair. And then it would be too late to circumvent him!
+</p>
+<p>His superiors gave Béchoux <i>carte blanche</i> to go ahead. Two days later, Sylvestre, the general’s rotund man-servant, gravely
+ushered Béchoux and Constable Rimbourg into the drawing-room.
+</p>
+<p>The constable was a very ordinary looking man—not at all the sort of figure to suggest
+a mystery. His eyes and mouth betrayed his weariness. He had been put through something
+of a “third degree” over the missing photograph. He was in uniform, with the customary
+revolver in a black leather case, and the policeman’s baton—that world-wide symbol
+of law and order.
+</p>
+<p>The general came in, and the three men sat a long while in conference. But no fresh
+light was shed on the <span class="pageNum" id="pb240">[<a href="#pb240">240</a>]</span>problem of the photograph. Rimbourg was respectful, stolidly sympathetic, ready with
+his answers. But he denied having seen anything of any photograph.
+</p>
+<p>Then the general changed the trend of his interrogations. Abruptly he asked:
+</p>
+<p>“When did you first meet my son?”
+</p>
+<p>“We did our military service together, sir,” was the surprising answer.
+</p>
+<p>“You said nothing of this,” cried Béchoux.
+</p>
+<p>“I was not asked about it, inspector,” replied the man.
+</p>
+<p>“I must tell you, general,” said Béchoux, “that one of the reasons for our very strict
+surveillance of Constable Rimbourg was that he obtained his appointment through your
+son’s influence!”
+</p>
+<p>“What?” cried the general “But it has been freely hinted that this man, Rimbourg——”
+He broke off, suddenly thoughtful. Then he asked the constable: “What was your profession
+before you joined the police force?”
+</p>
+<p>“I did various odd jobs, sir. I was carpenter and scene-shifter for a touring company.
+I travelled round with a circus. I was lift-man in a hotel.”
+</p>
+<p>“Why did you leave the hotel?”
+</p>
+<p>“I tired of the job, sir.” Rimbourg’s voice was infinitely respectful, but there was
+a slight flicker in his eyes that belied his stolid calm.
+</p>
+<p>“And you found the police force suited you?”
+</p>
+<p>“Oh, perfectly, sir.”
+</p>
+<p>The general gave a disheartened shrug of dismissal.
+</p>
+<p>“Thank you, thank you; that will do for the present, <span class="pageNum" id="pb241">[<a href="#pb241">241</a>]</span>I think,” he said. “I wish I could believe what you tell me, but frankly, I cannot
+help feeling you are keeping something back. Your previous acquaintance with my son
+is certainly an extraordinary coincidence, and I think, Inspector Béchoux, if I were
+you, I would investigate Constable Rimbourg’s past a bit more closely. Find out why
+he left that job as lift-man. And remember what I said before about the suggestion
+that he is, perhaps, a curious kind of constable altogether. Look up some of the cases
+in which he has been concerned—it might prove illuminating!” He rang the bell. “Sylvestre,
+give Monsieur Rimbourg a drink before he goes.” The door closed. “He’ll be quite safe
+with my man,” the general told Béchoux, as he poured out a glass of wine for the inspector.
+Then, raising his own glass:
+</p>
+<p>“<span class="corr" id="xd33e3819" title="Source: Heres">Here’s</span> to my son’s speedy liberation,” he said.
+</p>
+<p>For a second Béchoux could have sworn he saw a gleam of triumphant merriment in the
+general’s eye. A most uncalled-for emotion, surely, and yet.…
+</p>
+<p>He wheeled sharply round, for the general was grinning broadly now. The drawing-room
+door had swung silently open. On the threshold he beheld a strange manifestation.
+There was slowly approaching a creature that walked <i>on its hands</i>! The empurpled face almost touched the floor. Above it protruded a comfortable paunch,
+surmounted by a pair of oddly slim and wildly kicking legs that pointed ceiling-wards.
+For a moment Béchoux was forcibly reminded of the antics of his acrobat wife, Olga.
+</p>
+<p>All at once the creature somersaulted, bringing its feet neatly together, and, right
+side up, began spinning <span class="pageNum" id="pb242">[<a href="#pb242">242</a>]</span>round and round at terrific speed like a human top. And now Béchoux recognized—Sylvestre,
+the man-servant. Obviously the fellow was out of his mind. As he spun around, his
+stomach quivered like a jelly, and from his wide mouth issued a series of rousing
+guffaws.
+</p>
+<p>But—was it really Sylvestre? As he watched the extraordinary performance, Béchoux
+felt his brow bathed in a clammy dew. <i>Could</i> this wild figure be the imperturbable, perfectly trained, intensely respectable man-servant?
+</p>
+<p>The top ceased spinning. Sylvestre, if he it was, fixed the detective with a steady
+stare, relaxed his set expression of grotesque mirth, undid jacket and waistcoat,
+divested himself of <i>a rubber paunch</i>, and slipped gracefully into the coat which General Desroques handed him. Once more
+looking fixedly at the inspector he murmured solemnly:
+</p>
+<p>“Sold again, Béchoux!”
+</p>
+<p>And Béchoux, incapable of protest, sank weakly into a chair, breathing the one word—“Barnett.…”
+</p>
+<p>“Yes, Barnett,” said the erstwhile man-servant, smiling.
+</p>
+<p>And Barnett it was, but a resplendent Barnett. Gone was the air of shabby gentility,
+the seedy get-up. This new Barnett approximated more nearly to Inspector Béchoux’s
+mental portrait of the redoubtable Arsène Lupin!
+</p>
+<p>And the general was chuckling unrestrainedly!
+</p>
+<p>Turning to him, Barnett bowed courteously.
+</p>
+<p>“Forgive my antics, sir, but whenever something happens that especially delights me
+I am apt to cut a few <span class="pageNum" id="pb243">[<a href="#pb243">243</a>]</span>capers out of sheer exuberance. I am sure you will understand.”
+</p>
+<p>“In this instance, my friend, you are surely entitled to behave like a whole circus
+of clowns. Your little plan has succeeded to perfection.”
+</p>
+<p>“What’s all this?” asked Béchoux, recovering slightly from his first sense of shock
+and dismay. “Have you any special cause for joy, Barnett?”
+</p>
+<p>“Why, yes, Béchoux; and the best of it is that it is all thanks to you, dear old chap.
+(He’s the best of good fellows, general, I may tell you.) But I can see you are bursting
+to hear all about it. I will reserve my praises for another time, and start in on
+my little story.”
+</p>
+<p>He lit a cigarette, handing his case to the general, who also elected to smoke. Then,
+puffing appreciatively, he began:
+</p>
+<p>“Well, Béchoux, a short while ago I was <span class="corr" id="xd33e3857" title="Source: traveling">travelling</span> in Spain with a lady, if you remember? Ah, I see you do. A friend of mine telegraphed,
+asking me to help in unravelling the Desroques case. As it happened, my little<span class="corr" id="xd33e3860" title="Source: —or—"> </span>idyll was by then distinctly on the wane—a total eclipse of the honeymoon, if I may
+use the expression. I seized the chance of regaining my freedom. And fortune smiled
+on me. New lamps for old, Béchoux!
+</p>
+<p>“For, at Granada, I fell in with a gipsy girl—a wild, southern beauty, Béchoux—and
+we travelled up together.
+</p>
+<p>“I was attracted to the Desroques case chiefly, I own, because you were working on
+it. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that if there existed
+any proof of the guilt or innocence of Jean <span class="pageNum" id="pb244">[<a href="#pb244">244</a>]</span>Desroques, it must be in the hands of the policeman who stopped him in his flight
+when they were making the arrest. But when I came to make investigations, I found
+myself up against a blank wall. I was unable to ascertain the identity of this man.
+I only guessed that he was being kept virtually a prisoner. What was I to do? Time
+was passing. The general and his son were both suffering severely under the strain.
+There was only one person in Paris who could help me—yourself!”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux did not move. He longed for the ground to open and swallow him up with his
+shame. He had been tricked once again, more thoroughly than ever before. Barnett had
+shown him up as being the typical, slow-witted detective, the butt of every mystery
+novelist!
+</p>
+<p>“You were the only person who could help me,” Barnett repeated, “for the reason that
+you, and only you, were in possession of the truth. You had been given the job of
+putting Rimbourg through the <span class="corr" id="xd33e3871" title="Source: “">‘</span>third degree.<span class="corr" id="xd33e3874" title="Source: ”">’</span> But how was I to get in touch with you without your suspecting anything? How was
+I to work it so that you trotted off to retrieve the bird my chance shot had brought
+down?
+</p>
+<p>“In the end I found an easy way. I deliberately let you shadow me. I led you along,
+like Follow-my-Leader, to the Place du Trocadéro. There my bright-eyed gipsy lass
+was waiting for me. A whispered colloquy … a furtive glance or two up at this flat
+… and you took the bait! Fired with the idea of catching me or my accomplice, you
+took up your vigil here, in this very flat, under the same roof as General Desroques
+and his faithful servant—Sylvestre Barnett! So that I was able <span class="pageNum" id="pb245">[<a href="#pb245">245</a>]</span>to keep you under close observation, hear just what you were doing, and, through General
+Desroques, suggest to your receptive mind exactly such thoughts as I wanted to implant
+there.”
+</p>
+<p>Turning to the general, Jim Barnett gave the latter a glance of genuine admiration.
+</p>
+<p>“I must tell you, general, that I cannot sufficiently commend your acting. You led
+Béchoux blindfold, step by step, towards our goal—namely, to find out the unknown
+constable’s name, and then get him into this flat for a few minutes. Just a few minutes,
+Béchoux—not more. For the thing I was after was the same thing that you, the police,
+the State, and everyone else were after—that photograph!
+</p>
+<p>“Knowing your industry, your ingenuity, your excessive energy in the pursuit of your
+duty, I realized that it would be useless to waste time going over ground you had
+already covered. What I had to do was to imagine the unimaginable—think of some utterly
+extraordinary and unheard-of hiding-place. I had to visualize it in advance, so that
+I could, if possible, possess myself of this secret receptacle on the day the constable
+came to the flat with you. And I had to obtain possession of it without his knowledge,
+for there wouldn’t be time to search him, explore the linings of his clothes and the
+soles of his shoes, and so forth. And yet I <i>knew</i> that somewhere about his person he would have that photograph. The question was,
+where?
+</p>
+<p>“I don’t want to digress, but as soon as I knew the name of this constable of yours,
+Béchoux, I was considerably enlightened. The general’s questions only confirmed what
+I already suspected—that this man, Rimbourg, <span class="pageNum" id="pb246">[<a href="#pb246">246</a>]</span>was a clever fellow who, before he joined the police force, had had a distinctly varied
+experience and rather a checkered career! In short, I knew him to be just the man
+to hit upon some hiding-place so bold as to be unbelievable, so obvious as to seem
+fantastic! Something <i>he</i> could make use of, but which would never occur to anyone else as a possible place
+of concealment.
+</p>
+<p>“Now, Béchoux, suppose we test the intelligence of the class. What is it that distinguishes
+a policeman on duty from a postman, a dustman, a railway porter, a fireman—in short,
+from every other kind of uniformed employee? Give it a moment’s thought, while I count
+three. Your eagle intelligence will surely see it! One—two—three. Now, where was the
+hiding-place?”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux made no reply. Despite the disadvantage at which he found himself, he was
+trying desperately to snatch at this straw and guess the solution of the riddle, so
+apparent to the triumphant Barnett. But he could not for the life of him think what
+was the distinguishing characteristic of a policeman on duty.
+</p>
+<p>“My poor friend,” sympathized Barnett. “Out with the boys last night? Your brain seems
+a trifle dulled to-day. I don’t usually have to enlighten you in words of one syllable
+only before you get your nose to the trail!”
+</p>
+<p>But there was no rôle for Béchoux’s nose to play in the incident which followed. Like
+a flash, Barnett darted out of the room, and returned a moment later gravely balancing
+on the tip of his own olfactory organ the shining baton—truncheon—nightstick—the same
+the wide world over, wielded by every police force, that bane of malefactors, that
+safeguard of life and property, that wooden club which has attained to the dignity
+of a <span class="pageNum" id="pb247">[<a href="#pb247">247</a>]</span>symbol, and is able to break up the fiercest street-fight or halt the haughtiest limousine.
+</p>
+<p>Barnett toyed with this particular baton like a music-hall juggler with a bottle.
+He let it slither down his nose, caught it, twirled it behind his leg, round his neck,
+and down his back. Before it could fall to the ground, he had grasped it again, and,
+holding it out between thumb and finger, he addressed it in accents of mock solemnity:
+</p>
+<p>“O most honorable, most respectable, most admirable baton! Symbol of civic and municipal
+authority! A short while ago, you were hanging at Constable Rimbourg’s belt. A little
+sleight of hand and, hey presto! another baton, your double hung in your place. You
+were left behind when the constable departed!” Béchoux started violently, but Barnett
+motioned him back to his seat. “He is unlikely to return to retrieve you. In fact,
+I doubt whether we shall ever hear from him again. His rôle in the drama is over;
+he filled it not unworthily. But you, O baton, will fulfil to the last <i>your</i> rôle of defender of those in distress, and from you we shall learn the secret of
+Jean Desroques and the beautiful Christiane Veraldy. Speak, little baton, I conjure
+you to speak!”
+</p>
+<p>With his left hand Barnett seized firm hold of the handle, circled with narrow grooves.
+In his right, he held tightly the heavy body of the club, made of ash-wood, painted
+white, and attempted to twist it.
+</p>
+<p>“I was right!” he exclaimed joyously. “But it’s a miracle of workmanship. Not for
+nothing was Constable Rimbourg at one time a carpenter—the man must have been a master
+of his craft! See, he has hollowed out the <span class="pageNum" id="pb248">[<a href="#pb248">248</a>]</span>heart of this club without ever breaking the outside, fixed this almost invisible
+channel for the screw, so that the two pieces of wood fit together so perfectly that
+there is no danger of the head of the club working loose.”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett gave the baton another twist. The handle came unscrewed, revealing a metal
+ring. The stick of the baton was now in two bits. In the longer section they could
+see a copper tube running the length of the club.
+</p>
+<p>The faces of all three men wore expressions of rapt attention. They held their breath,
+so that the silence of the room was intensified. Despite himself, even Barnett was
+obviously impressed with the solemnity of the moment. He turned over the copper tubing,
+tapping it several times hard on the table. Out fell a roll of paper!
+</p>
+<p>“That’s it—the photograph!” murmured Béchoux.
+</p>
+<p>“You recognize it, do you? It fits the official description all right. About six inches
+long, detached from its mount and rather crumpled. Will you kindly unroll it yourself,
+General Desroques?”
+</p>
+<p>With trembling eagerness the general picked up the paper. His usually steady hand
+shook as he began unrolling the fateful scroll. There were four sheets of notepaper
+and a telegram pinned to the photograph. For a moment, the general stared in silence
+at the latter, then he showed it to the other two. In a voice vibrant with emotion
+he began speaking on a note of joy, which quickly gave place to one of grief.
+</p>
+<p>“You see, it is the portrait of a woman. A young woman with a child on her lap. The
+face is that of Madame Veraldy—it tallies with the pictures in the press, except that
+here she is younger. This photograph must have been taken nine or ten years ago by
+the look <span class="pageNum" id="pb249">[<a href="#pb249">249</a>]</span>of it. Yes; here’s the date, in the bottom, left-hand corner. I was right. This picture
+is eleven years old. And it is signed ‘Christiane’—Madame Veraldy’s name!”
+</p>
+<p>The general paused, then added thoughtfully:
+</p>
+<p>“This establishes the fact that Jean must have known this woman in the past, possibly
+before her marriage to Veraldy.”
+</p>
+<p>“Read the letters, monsieur,” suggested Barnett, handing over the first sheet, closely
+covered with fine, feminine handwriting.
+</p>
+<p>General Desroques began reading. He had hardly read the first few lines, when he gave
+a kind of groan, as of a man who stumbles suddenly on a terrible and painful secret.
+Hurriedly he scanned the first letter, then, with increasing anxiety, turned to the
+others which, with the telegram, Barnett passed to him one by one.
+</p>
+<p>“Can you tell us what you have found out, general?”
+</p>
+<p>The general did not answer at once. His eyes were filled with tears when at last he
+muttered huskily:
+</p>
+<p>“It is I who am to blame! I alone who am guilty.… About twelve years ago Jean fell
+in love with a little shop-girl. They had a baby, a boy. Jean wanted to marry his
+<i lang="fr">amie</i>, but my heart was hardened by pride and snobbishness. I forbade the marriage and
+refused to see the girl. Jean was meaning to disobey me—for the first time—and marry
+her out of hand. But she would not let him. She sacrificed her own happiness so that
+my son should not quarrel with me. Here is her letter—the first one. She says: ‘<i>It’s good-bye Jean. Your father won’t let us get married. You must give in to him.
+If you don’t it might mean bad luck for our darling baby. <span class="pageNum" id="pb250">[<a href="#pb250">250</a>]</span>I send you a picture of us both. Keep it always, and don’t forget about us too soon.</i>…’ ”
+</p>
+<p>The general paused, overcome with emotion. He continued, more calmly:
+</p>
+<p>“But it was she who forgot. Some time later she got engaged to Veraldy, then at the
+beginning of his career. Jean learned of their marriage, and had his little son brought
+up by a retired schoolmaster near Chartres. There the mother would sometimes visit
+him secretly.”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux and Barnett were listening intently so as not to lose a word. It was not easy
+to follow the general’s speech, as he dropped his voice until it was little more than
+a whisper. The hand that had held the letters trembled uncontrollably.
+</p>
+<p>“The last letter,” he continued, “is dated five months ago. It is very short. Christiane
+tells of her remorse and unhappiness. She is passionately fond of her child, and it
+is agony to her not to have him with her. Then comes the telegram, sent to Jean by
+the old schoolmaster: ‘<i>Child dangerously ill, come at once.</i>’ At the bottom of the telegraph form are just these few words, scrawled by my son
+after the tragedy: ‘<i>Our child is dead. Christiane has killed herself.</i>’ ”
+</p>
+<p>Again the general paused. No further explanations were needed. It was easy to guess
+what had happened. On receipt of the telegram, Jean had immediately sought out Christiane
+and taken her to the bedside of the dying child. On the way back to Paris, Christiane
+overcome with grief, had committed suicide.
+</p>
+<p>“What shall we do about it?” Barnett wanted to know.
+</p>
+<p>“We must reveal the truth,” was the general’s reply. <span class="pageNum" id="pb251">[<a href="#pb251">251</a>]</span>“Jean’s reasons for keeping silence are obvious. He was shielding the dead woman,
+but he also wanted to shield me, since I was really responsible for the terrible tragedy.
+Also, though he felt certain neither the schoolmaster at Chartres, nor Constable Rimbourg,
+who owed him a debt of gratitude, would betray him, he definitely did not want this
+conclusive piece of evidence to be destroyed. He wanted Fate to bring the truth to
+light. Now that you, Monsieur Barnett, have succeeded in effecting this revelation.…”
+</p>
+<p>“If I succeeded, general,” said Barnett quickly, “it was solely due to the help of
+my friend, Béchoux. We mustn’t lose sight of that. If Béchoux had not led us to Constable
+Rimbourg and his baton, I should have failed. It is Béchoux who deserves your thanks,
+general.”
+</p>
+<p>“My thanks are due to both of you,” said the old soldier. “You have saved my son,
+and I shall not hesitate to do my duty.”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux approved the general’s decision. He was so deeply moved by what had just happened
+that he was even prepared to waive making any attempt to take possession of the documents
+the police were so urgently wanting. He was ready to take this course, although it
+meant sacrificing his personal prestige. His humanity triumphed over his professional
+conscience—not for the first time.
+</p>
+<p>But as the general made to withdraw to his own room Béchoux stepped up to Barnett
+and tapped him on the shoulder with the curt words: “I arrest you, Jim Barnett!”
+</p>
+<p>He spoke in the accents of sincerity. He was quite obviously <span class="pageNum" id="pb252">[<a href="#pb252">252</a>]</span>going through what was a futile formality which he felt himself obliged to perform.
+He had instructions to arrest Barnett, and would do so, no matter what the circumstances.
+</p>
+<p>Barnett held out his hand to the inspector.
+</p>
+<p>“You win, Béchoux,” he said, “you’ve arrested me, and carried out orders. Old Kaspar’s
+work is done. And now, if you’ve no objection, I will make my escape. In that way
+our friendship will be saved and honor satisfied! You know I should do it anyway.”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux shook the outstretched hand of his strange friend with heartfelt warmth. Between
+these two alternately allies and enemies, a truce was called—perhaps even a permanent
+amnesty. Both men recalled with genuine emotion their former encounters, the adventures
+they had experienced in company.
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux expressed his feelings with that characteristic blunt simplicity that made
+him so popular with his colleagues and the world at large.
+</p>
+<p>“You’re the greatest of all of them, Barnett. You stand absolutely alone. Your feat
+to-day is nothing short of miraculous. No one but you could have solved the puzzle!”
+</p>
+<p>“I don’t know,” said Barnett reflectively. “After all, I had that inkling of Rimbourg’s
+past to help me. Do you know the man had actually worked for an illusionist and conjurer
+at one time. And his little idea in joining the police force was probably mainly the
+advantage of being in close proximity to the pickings on every possible occasion.
+Although he demonstrated unwavering loyalty to his benefactor, Jean Desroques, we
+must not lose sight of Rimbourg’s real character. He was a <span class="pageNum" id="pb253">[<a href="#pb253">253</a>]</span>policeman, much as you suspect me of being a detective——”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux cut him short.
+</p>
+<p>“None of that now,” he cried. “Oh, but you’re a wonder. Who on earth but you would
+ever have discovered such an improbable hiding-place as the inside of a police baton?”
+</p>
+<p>Barnett cocked his head on one side and simpered unbecomingly in imitation of a blushing
+schoolgirl.
+</p>
+<p>“Any one’s wits are sharper when there is a prize at stake.”
+</p>
+<p>“A prize? How do you mean? Surely you’re not thinking of any reward General Desroques
+may offer you? You must know he’s not at all well off.”
+</p>
+<p>“And if he did offer me anything, I should have to refuse it<span class="corr" id="xd33e3979" title="Source: ..">.</span> You mustn’t forget the proud motto of the Barnett Agency. No fees of any kind—services
+gratis—we work for glory!”
+</p>
+<p>“Well, then.…” Inspector Béchoux looked distinctly puzzled; worried, too. Barnett
+smiled guilelessly.
+</p>
+<p>“The fact is, as I was glancing quickly through the fourth letter before passing it
+to the general, I saw that it stated Christiane Veraldy had from the outset told her
+husband of her past! Consequently, the banker was fully cognizant of his wife’s former
+love affair, and knew that she had a child! Yet he deliberately neglected to inform
+the police of these facts. This he did out of jealousy and in the hope that his silence
+might bring Jean Desroques to the scaffold. He knew that Desroques would never reveal
+the dead woman’s secret.
+</p>
+<p>“You will agree that this was a pretty blackguardly <span class="pageNum" id="pb254">[<a href="#pb254">254</a>]</span>thing to do. Now don’t you think that, with all his money, Veraldy would be prepared
+to come down handsomely in order to prevent that letter becoming public property?
+Don’t you think that if some trustworthy, respectable man—Sylvestre, for instance,
+General Desroques’ servant—were to go to Veraldy and offer quite spontaneously to
+hand over that piece of paper, the banker would be prepared to talk business? I am
+taking a chance on being right in my supposition, as I was about the police baton,
+for instance. In fact, just so as to be able to play my hunch I slipped the letter
+into my pocket!”
+</p>
+<p>Béchoux groaned. It was all wrong, of course. And yet, it seemed only fair that Barnett
+should reap some reward for the exercise of his special deductive skill. The laborer
+is worthy of his hire. And if the innocent were saved and wrongs were righted, what
+objection could there really be to those “commissions” Barnett habitually extracted
+from the pockets of the guilty parties in a case?
+</p>
+<p>“<i lang="fr">Au revoir</i>, Barnett,” said the inspector, shaking hands again. And at the back of his mind lurked
+the certainty that next time he had a knotty problem to tackle he would be quite ready
+to compromise with his scruples and call in Barnett’s invaluable aid.
+</p>
+<p>“<i lang="fr">Au revoir</i>, Béchoux,” said Barnett. “I shall be ringing you up in a day or so, I expect.”
+</p>
+<p>“What about?”
+</p>
+<p>“You’ll know all in good time,” and Jim Barnett was off and away.
+<span class="pageNum" id="pb255">[<a href="#pb255">255</a>]</span></p>
+</div>
+</div>
+<div id="ch11" class="div1 last-child chapter"><span class="pageNum">[<a title="Go to the table of contents" href="#xd33e301">Contents</a>]</span><div class="divHead">
+<h2 class="label">XI</h2>
+<h2 class="main">AFTERWORD</h2>
+</div>
+<div class="divBody">
+<p class="first">“Hallo! I want to speak to Chief Inspector Béchoux!”
+</p>
+<p>It was Barnett’s voice on the line.
+</p>
+<p>“<i>Inspector</i> Béchoux speaking,” replied Béchoux coldly. “Is that some one trying to be funny?”
+</p>
+<p>“Oh, Béchoux, don’t tell me you haven’t recognized my voice. After all this while!
+And I thought you loved me!”
+</p>
+<p>“Oh, it’s you, Barnett? Well, if you’re just fooling, you may as well ring off. I’m
+busy.”
+</p>
+<p>“But I’ve good news for you, old chap!” Barnett’s tone grew distinctly plaintive.
+</p>
+<p>Inspector Béchoux thawed a trifle.
+</p>
+<p>“What is it, then?” he asked.
+</p>
+<p>“Although you failed to get Arsène Lupin as you swore you would, or to get that photograph
+as per instructions, yet Fate smiles on you. Isn’t it lovely? I’ve put in such a good
+word for you with the people higher up, and shown them so clearly what remarkable
+services you rendered to the cause of justice in that Desroques case, that they are
+going to appoint you a Chief Inspector. Oh, don’t thank me! Merely a trifling mark
+of my esteem. From Barnett to Béchoux, as it were, in memory of many happy days. And
+now at last my conscience is <span class="pageNum" id="pb256">[<a href="#pb256">256</a>]</span>at rest, for you, too, have reaped the fruit of our alliance in those adventures where
+I was privileged to intervene!”
+</p>
+<p>And Béchoux felt oddly pleased that his promotion, albeit well deserved, should have
+come through Barnett. He reflected that it took a man like Barnett to make a vast
+organization like the police force recognize the merits of one of the minor cogs in
+the machine. Nevertheless he had no doubts at all of the altogether special merits
+of one Inspector Béchoux and his eminent suitability for promotion!
+</p>
+<p>Therefore it was in a spirit of unfeigned and unclouded gratitude, but not altogether
+of surprise, that he answered now:
+</p>
+<p>“Thank you, thank you, Barnett. The appointment will mean twice as much to me, coming
+as it does through you!”
+</p>
+<p>Inspector Béchoux had set out to arrest Arsène Lupin—and had ended by becoming himself
+a prisoner of Jim Barnett’s brains!
+</p>
+</div>
+</div>
+</div>
+<div class="back">
+<div class="transcriberNote">
+<h2 class="main">Colophon</h2>
+<p>The new cover art included with this eBook is hereby granted to the public domain.</p>
+<h3 class="main">Revision History</h3>
+<ul>
+<li>2025-03-29 Started.
+</li>
+</ul>
+<h3 class="main">Corrections</h3>
+<p>The following 43 corrections have been applied to the text:</p>
+<table class="correctionTable">
+<tr>
+<th>Page</th>
+<th>Source</th>
+<th>Correction</th>
+<th>Edit distance</th>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e311">9</a>, <a class="pageref" href="#xd33e3625">226</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">ARSENE</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">ARSÈNE</td>
+<td class="bottom">1 / 0</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e427">17</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">wash-basin</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">washbasin</td>
+<td class="bottom">1</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e477">19</a>, <a class="pageref" href="#xd33e654">33</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">jeweler</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">jeweller</td>
+<td class="bottom">1</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e603">29</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">thown</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">thrown</td>
+<td class="bottom">1</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e795">43</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">
+[<i>Not in source</i>]
+</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">?</td>
+<td class="bottom">1</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e863">47</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">lordhsip</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">lordship</td>
+<td class="bottom">2</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e955">52</a>, <a class="pageref" href="#xd33e1181">70</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">
+[<i>Not in source</i>]
+</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">”</td>
+<td class="bottom">1</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e964">53</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">calfbound</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">calf-bound</td>
+<td class="bottom">1</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e1104">64</a>, <a class="pageref" href="#xd33e3874">244</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">”</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">’</td>
+<td class="bottom">1</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e1581">97</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">
+[<i>Not in source</i>]
+</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">’</td>
+<td class="bottom">1</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e1818">111</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">stock-broker</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">stockbroker</td>
+<td class="bottom">1</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e1867">114</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">Touffémount</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">Touffémont</td>
+<td class="bottom">1</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e1969">121</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">traveled</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">travelled</td>
+<td class="bottom">1</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e2109">129</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">
+[<i>Not in source</i>]
+</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">“</td>
+<td class="bottom">1</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e2132">131</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">politican</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">politician</td>
+<td class="bottom">1</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e2139">131</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="fr">Chambres</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="fr">Chambre</td>
+<td class="bottom">1</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e2145">132</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">publicity</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">publicly</td>
+<td class="bottom">2</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e2156">133</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">ignorrance</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">ignorance</td>
+<td class="bottom">1</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e2222">137</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">déshabille</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">déshabillé</td>
+<td class="bottom">1 / 0</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e2335">145</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="fr">A</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="fr">À</td>
+<td class="bottom">1 / 0</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e2434">151</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">Cécil</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">Cécile</td>
+<td class="bottom">1</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e2457">153</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">,</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">.</td>
+<td class="bottom">1</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e2609">162</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">Emèraude</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">Eméraude</td>
+<td class="bottom">1 / 0</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e2742">172</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">bank-notes</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">banknotes</td>
+<td class="bottom">1</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e3223">204</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">think</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">thing</td>
+<td class="bottom">1</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e3226">204</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">vigorouly</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">vigorously</td>
+<td class="bottom">1</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e3248">205</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">impossiblity</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">impossibility</td>
+<td class="bottom">1</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e3311">208</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">suprised</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">surprised</td>
+<td class="bottom">1</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e3332">209</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">got</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">get</td>
+<td class="bottom">1</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e3408">214</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">of of</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">of</td>
+<td class="bottom">3</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e3434">216</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">Olgo</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">Olga</td>
+<td class="bottom">1</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e3508">219</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">forgottn</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">forgotten</td>
+<td class="bottom">1</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e3632">226</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">prèfecture</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">préfecture</td>
+<td class="bottom">1 / 0</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e3715">232</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">advertisment</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">advertisement</td>
+<td class="bottom">1</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e3819">241</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">Heres</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">Here’s</td>
+<td class="bottom">1</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e3857">243</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">traveling</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">travelling</td>
+<td class="bottom">1</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e3860">243</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">—or—</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en"> </td>
+<td class="bottom">4</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e3871">244</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">“</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">‘</td>
+<td class="bottom">1</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e3979">253</a></td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">..</td>
+<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">.</td>
+<td class="bottom">1</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+</div>
+</div>
+<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75896 ***</div>
+</body>
+</html>
+
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+This book, including all associated images, markup, improvements,
+metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be
+in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES.
+
+Procedures for determining public domain status are described in
+the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org.
+
+No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in
+jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize
+this book outside of the United States should confirm copyright
+status under the laws that apply to them.
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+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
+book #75896 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/75896)