She rose softly. Her window was half open: she flung it back wide. The moonlight lay over a peaceful landscape of lawns and thickets5, against which the straggling ruins of the old abbey stood out in tragic6 outlines, truncated7 columns, mutilated arches, fragments of porches and shreds8 of flying buttresses9. A light breeze hovered10 over the face of things, gliding11 noiselessly through the bare motionless branches of the trees, but shaking the tiny budding leaves of the shrubs12.
And, suddenly, she heard the same sound again. It was on the left and on the floor below her, in the living rooms, therefore, that occupied the left wing of the house. Brave and plucky13 though she was, the girl felt afraid. She slipped on her dressing14 gown and took the matches.
"Raymonde—Raymonde!"
A voice as low as a breath was calling to her from the next room, the door of which had not been closed. She was feeling her way there, when Suzanne, her cousin, came out of the room and fell into her arms:
"Raymonde—is that you? Did you hear—?"
"Yes. So you're not asleep?"
"I suppose the dog woke me—some time ago. But he's not barking now. What time is it?"
"About four."
"Listen! Surely, some one's walking in the drawing room!"
"There's no danger, your father is down there, Suzanne."
"But there is danger for him. His room is next to the boudoir."
"M. Daval is there too—"
"At the other end of the house. He could never hear."
They hesitated, not knowing what course to decide upon. Should they call out? Cry for help? They dared not; they were frightened of the sound of their own voices. But Suzanne, who had gone to the window, suppressed a scream:
"Look!—A man!—Near the fountain!"
A man was walking away at a rapid pace. He carried under his arm a fairly large load, the nature of which they were unable to distinguish: it knocked against his leg and impeded15 his progress. They saw him pass near the old chapel16 and turn toward a little door in the wall. The door must have been open, for the man disappeared suddenly from view and they failed to hear the usual grating of the hinges.
"He came from the drawing room," whispered Suzanne.
"No, the stairs and the hall would have brought him out more to the left—Unless—"
The same idea struck them both. They leant out. Below them, a ladder stood against the front of the house, resting on the first floor. A glimmer18 lit up the stone balcony. And another man, who was also carrying something, bestrode the baluster, slid down the ladder and ran away by the same road as the first.
"Let us call out—let us call for help—"
"Who would come? Your father—and if there are more of them left—and they throw themselves upon him—?"
"Then—then—we might call the servants—Your bell rings on their floor."
"Yes—yes—perhaps, that's better. If only they come in time!"
Raymonde felt for the electric push near her bed and pressed it with her finger. They heard the bell ring upstairs and had an impression that its shrill21 sound must also reach any one below.
They waited. The silence became terrifying and the very breeze no longer shook the leaves of the shrubs.
"I'm frightened—frightened," said Suzanne.
And, suddenly, from the profound darkness below them, came the sound of a struggle, a crash of furniture overturned, words, exclamations22 and then, horrible and ominous23, a hoarse24 groan25, the gurgle of a man who is being murdered—
Raymonde leapt toward the door. Suzanne clung desperately26 to her arm:
"No—no—don't leave me—I'm frightened—"
Raymonde pushed her aside and darted27 down the corridor, followed by Suzanne, who staggered from wall to wall, screaming as she went. Raymonde reached the staircase, flew down the stairs, flung herself upon the door of the big drawing room and stopped short, rooted to the threshold, while Suzanne sank in a heap by her side. Facing them, at three steps' distance, stood a man, with a lantern in his hand. He turned it upon the two girls, blinding them with the light, stared long at their pale faces, and then, without hurrying, with the calmest movements in the world, took his cap, picked up a scrap28 of paper and two bits of straw, removed some footmarks from the carpet, went to the balcony, turned to the girls, made them a deep bow and disappeared.
Suzanne was the first to run to the little boudoir which separated the big drawing-room from her father's bedroom. But, at the entrance, a hideous29 sight appalled30 her. By the slanting31 rays of the moon, she saw two apparently32 lifeless bodies lying close to each other on the floor. She leaned over one of them:
"Father!—Father!—Is it you? What has happened to you?" she cried, distractedly.
After a moment, the Comte de Gesvres moved. In a broken voice, he said:
"Don't be afraid—I am not wounded—Daval?—Is he alive?—The knife?—The knife?—"
Two men-servants now arrived with candles. Raymonde flung herself down before the other body and recognized Jean Daval, the count's private secretary. A little stream of blood trickled33 from his neck. His face already wore the pallor of death.
Then she rose, returned to the drawing room, took a gun that hung in a trophy34 of arms on the wall and went out on the balcony. Not more than fifty or sixty seconds had elapsed since the man had set his foot on the top rung of the ladder. He could not, therefore, be very far away, the more so as he had taken the precaution to remove the ladder, in order to prevent the inmates35 of the house from using it. And soon she saw him skirting the remains36 of the old cloister37. She put the gun to her shoulder, calmly took aim and fired. The man fell.
"That's done it! That's done it!" said one of the servants. "We've got this one. I'll run down."
"No, Victor, he's getting up.... You had better go down by the staircase and make straight for the little door in the wall. That's the only way he can escape."
Victor hurried off, but, before he reached the park, the man fell down again. Raymonde called the other servant:
"Albert, do you see him down there? Near the main cloister?—"
"Yes, he's crawling in the grass. He's done for—"
"Watch him from here."
"There's no way of escape for him. On the right of the ruins is the open lawn—"
"And, Victor, do you guard the door, on the left," she said, taking up her gun.
"But, surely, you are not going down, miss?"
"Yes, yes," she said, with a resolute38 accent and abrupt39 movements; "let me be—I have a cartridge40 left—If he stirs—"
She went out. A moment later, Albert saw her going toward the ruins. He called to her from the window:
"He's dragged himself behind the cloister. I can't see him. Be careful, miss—"
Raymonde went round the old cloisters42, to cut off the man's retreat, and Albert soon lost sight of her. After a few minutes, as he did not see her return, he became uneasy and, keeping his eye on the ruins, instead of going down by the stairs he made an effort to reach the ladder. When he had succeeded, he scrambled43 down and ran straight to the cloisters near which he had seen the man last. Thirty paces farther, he found Raymonde, who was searching with Victor.
"Well?" he asked.
"There's no laying one's hands on him," replied Victor.
"The little door?"
"I've been there; here's the key."
"Still—he must—"
"Oh, we've got him safe enough, the scoundrel—He'll be ours in ten minutes."
The farmer and his son, awakened44 by the shot, now came from the farm buildings, which were at some distance on the right, but within the circuit of the walls. They had met no one.
"Of course not," said Albert. "The ruffian can't have left the ruins—We'll dig him out of some hole or other."
They organized a methodical search, beating every bush, pulling aside the heavy masses of ivy45 rolled round the shafts46 of the columns. They made sure that the chapel was properly locked and that none of the panes47 were broken. They went round the cloisters and examined every nook and corner. The search was fruitless.
There was but one discovery: at the place where the man had fallen under Raymonde's gun, they picked up a chauffeur's cap, in very soft buff leather; besides that, nothing.
The gendarmerie of Ouville-la-Riviere were informed at six o'clock in the morning and at once proceeded to the spot, after sending an express to the authorities at Dieppe with a note describing the circumstances of the crime, the imminent49 capture of the chief criminal and "the discovery of his headgear and of the dagger50 with which the crime had been committed."
At ten o'clock, two hired conveyances51 came down the gentle slope that led to the house. One of them, an old-fashioned calash, contained the deputy public prosecutor52 and the examining magistrate53, accompanied by his clerk. In the other, a humble54 fly, were seated two reporters, representing the Journal de Rouen and a great Paris paper.
The old chateau55 came into view—once the abbey residence of the priors of Ambrumesy, mutilated under the Revolution, both restored by the Comte de Gesvres, who had now owned it for some twenty years. It consists of a main building, surmounted56 by a pinnacled57 clock-tower, and two wings, each of which is surrounded by a flight of steps with a stone balustrade. Looking across the walls of the park and beyond the upland supported by the high Norman cliffs, you catch a glimpse of the blue line of the Channel between the villages of Sainte-Marguerite and Varengeville.
Here the Comte de Gesvres lived with his daughter Suzanne, a delicate, fair-haired, pretty creature, and his niece Raymonde de Saint-Veran, whom he had taken to live with him two years before, when the simultaneous death of her father and mother left Raymonde an orphan58. Life at the chateau was peaceful and regular. A few neighbors paid an occasional visit. In the summer, the count took the two girls almost every day to Dieppe. He was a tall man, with a handsome, serious face and hair that was turning gray. He was very rich, managed his fortune himself and looked after his extensive estates with the assistance of his secretary, Jean Daval.
Immediately upon his arrival, the examining magistrate took down the first observations of Sergeant59 Quevillon of the gendarmes60. The capture of the criminal, imminent though it might be, had not yet been effected, but every outlet61 of the park was held. Escape was impossible.
The little company next crossed the chapter-hall and the refectory, both of which are on the ground floor, and went up to the first story. They at once remarked the perfect order that prevailed in the drawing room. Not a piece of furniture, not an ornament62 but appeared to occupy its usual place; nor was there any gap among the ornaments63 or furniture. On the right and left walls hung magnificent Flemish tapestries64 with figures. On the panels of the wall facing the windows were four fine canvases, in contemporary frames, representing mythological65 scenes. These were the famous pictures by Rubens which had been left to the Comte de Gesvres, together with the Flemish tapestries, by his maternal66 uncle, the Marques de Bobadilla, a Spanish grandee67.
M. Filleul remarked:
"You can't tell!" said the deputy, who spoke69 little, but who, when he did, invariably opposed the magistrate's views.
"Why, my dear sir, the first thought of a burglar would be to carry off those pictures and tapestries, which are universally renowned70."
"Perhaps there was no time."
"We shall see."
At that moment, the Comte de Gesvres entered, accompanied by the doctor. The count, who did not seem to feel the effects of the attack to which he had been subjected, welcomed the two officials. Then he opened the door of the boudoir.
This room, which no one had been allowed to enter since the discovery of the crime, differed from the drawing room inasmuch as it presented a scene of the greatest disorder71. Two chairs were overturned, one of the tables smashed to pieces and several objects—a traveling-clock, a portfolio72, a box of stationery—lay on the floor. And there was blood on some of the scattered73 pieces of note-paper.
The doctor turned back the sheet that covered the corpse74. Jean Daval, dressed in his usual velvet75 suit, with a pair of nailed boots on his feet, lay stretched on his back, with one arm folded beneath him. His collar and tie had been removed and his shirt opened, revealing a large wound in the chest.
"Death must have been instantaneous," declared the doctor. "One blow of the knife was enough."
"It was, no doubt, the knife which I saw on the drawing-room mantelpiece, next to a leather cap?" said the examining magistrate.
"Yes," said the Comte de Gesvres, "the knife was picked up here. It comes from the same trophy in the drawing room from which my niece, Mlle. de Saint-Veran, snatched the gun. As for the chauffeur's cap, that evidently belongs to the murderer."
M. Filleul examined certain further details in the room, put a few questions to the doctor and then asked M. de Gesvres to tell him what he had seen and heard. The count worded his story as follows:
"Jean Daval woke me up. I had been sleeping badly, for that matter, with gleams of consciousness in which I seemed to hear noises, when, suddenly opening my eyes, I saw Daval standing76 at the foot of my bed, with his candle in his hand and fully77 dressed—as he is now, for he often worked late into the night. He seemed greatly excited and said, in a low voice: 'There's some one in the drawing room.' I heard a noise myself. I got up and softly pushed the door leading to this boudoir. At the same moment, the door over there, which opens into the big drawing room, was thrown back and a man appeared who leaped at me and stunned78 me with a blow on the temple. I am telling you this without any details, Monsieur le Juge d'Instruction, for the simple reason that I remember only the principal facts, and that these facts followed upon one another with extraordinary swiftness."
"And after that?—"
"After that, I don't know—I fainted. When I came to, Daval lay stretched by my side, mortally wounded."
"At first sight, do you suspect no one?"
"No one."
"You have no enemy?"
"I know of none."
"Nor M. Daval either?"
"Daval! An enemy? He was the best creature that ever lived. M. Daval was my secretary for twenty years and, I may say, my confidant; and I have never seen him surrounded with anything but love and friendship."
"Still, there has been a burglary and there has been a murder: there must be a motive for all that."
"The motive? Why, it was robbery pure and simple."
"Robbery? Have you been robbed of something, then?"
"No, nothing."
"In that case—?"
"In that case, if they have stolen nothing and if nothing is missing, they at least took something away."
"What?"
"I don't know. But my daughter and my niece will tell you, with absolute certainty, that they saw two men in succession cross the park and that those two men were carrying fairly heavy loads."
"The young ladies—"
"The young ladies may have been dreaming, you think? I should be tempted79 to believe it, for I have been exhausting myself in inquiries80 and suppositions ever since this morning. However, it is easy enough to question them."
The two cousins were sent for to the big drawing room. Suzanne, still quite pale and trembling, could hardly speak. Raymonde, who was more energetic, more of a man, better looking, too, with the golden glint in her brown eyes, described the events of the night and the part which she had played in them.
"So I may take it, mademoiselle, that your evidence is positive?"
"Absolutely. The men who went across the park were carrying things away with them."
"And the third man?"
"He went from here empty-handed."
"Could you describe him to us?"
"He kept on dazzling us with the light of his lantern. All that I could say is that he is tall and heavily built."
"Is that how he appeared to you, mademoiselle?" asked the magistrate, turning to Suzanne de Gesvres.
"Yes—or, rather, no," said Suzanne, reflecting. "I thought he was about the middle height and slender."
M. Filleul smiled; he was accustomed to differences of opinion and sight in witnesses to one and the same fact:
"So we have to do, on the one hand, with a man, the one in the drawing room, who is, at the same time, tall and short, stout81 and thin, and, on the other, with two men, those in the park, who are accused of removing from that drawing room objects—which are still here!"
M. Filleul was a magistrate of the ironic82 school, as he himself would say. He was also a very ambitious magistrate and one who did not object to an audience nor to an occasion to display his tactful resource in public, as was shown by the increasing number of persons who now crowded into the room. The journalists had been joined by the farmer and his son, the gardener and his wife, the indoor servants of the chateau and the two cabmen who had driven the flies from Dieppe.
M. Filleul continued:
"There is also the question of agreeing upon the way in which the third person disappeared. Was this the gun you fired, mademoiselle, and from this window?"
"Yes. The man reached the tombstone which is almost buried under the brambles, to the left of the cloisters."
"But he got up again?"
"Only half. Victor ran down at once to guard the little door and I followed him, leaving the second footman, Albert, to keep watch here."
Albert now gave his evidence and the magistrate concluded:
"So, according to you, the wounded man was not able to escape on the left, because your fellow-servant was watching the door, nor on the right, because you would have seen him cross the lawn. Logically, therefore, he is, at the present moment, in the comparatively restricted space that lies before our eyes."
"I am sure of it."
"And you, mademoiselle?"
"Yes."
"And I, too," said Victor.
The deputy prosecutor exclaimed, with a leer:
"The field of inquiry83 is quite narrow. We have only to continue the search commenced four hours ago."
"We may be more fortunate."
M. Filleul took the leather cap from the mantel, examined it and, beckoning84 to the sergeant of gendarmes, whispered:
"Sergeant, send one of your men to Dieppe at once. Tell him to go to Maigret, the hatter, in the Rue85 de la Barre, and ask M. Maigret to tell him, if possible, to whom this cap was sold."
The "field of inquiry," in the deputy's phrase, was limited to the space contained between the house, the lawn on the right and the angle formed by the left wall and the wall opposite the house, that is to say, a quadrilateral of about a hundred yards each way, in which the ruins of Ambrumesy, the famous mediaeval monastery86, stood out at intervals87.
They at once noticed the traces left by the fugitive88 in the trampled89 grass. In two places, marks of blackened blood, now almost dried up, were observed. After the turn at the end of the cloisters, there was nothing more to be seen, as the nature of the ground, here covered with pine-needles, did not lend itself to the imprint90 of a body. But, in that case, how had the wounded man succeeded in escaping the eyes of Raymonde, Victor and Albert? There was nothing but a few brakes, which the servants and the gendarmes had beaten over and over again, and a number of tombstones, under which they had explored. The examining magistrate made the gardener, who had the key, open the chapel, a real gem91 of carving92, a shrine93 in stone which had been respected by time and the revolutionaries, and which, with the delicate sculpture work of its porch and its miniature population of statuettes, was always looked upon as a marvelous specimen94 of the Norman-Gothic style. The chapel, which was very simple in the interior, with no other ornament than its marble altar, offered no hiding-place. Besides, the fugitive would have had to obtain admission. And by what means?
The inspection95 brought them to the little door in the wall that served as an entrance for the visitors to the ruins. It opened on a sunk road running between the park wall and a copsewood containing some abandoned quarries96. M. Filleul stooped forward: the dust of the road bore marks of anti-skid pneumatic tires. Raymonde and Victor remembered that, after the shot, they had seemed to hear the throb97 of a motor-car.
The magistrate suggested:
"The man must have joined his confederates."
"Impossible!" cried Victor. "I was here while mademoiselle and Albert still had him in view."
"Nonsense, he must be somewhere! Outside or inside: we have no choice!"
"He is here," the servants insisted, obstinately98.
The magistrate shrugged99 his shoulders and went back to the house in a more or less sullen100 mood. There was no doubt that it was an unpromising case. A theft in which nothing had been stolen; an invisible prisoner: what could be less satisfactory?
It was late. M. de Gesvres asked the officials and the two journalists to stay to lunch. They ate in silence and then M. Filleul returned to the drawing room, where he questioned the servants. But the sound of a horse's hoofs101 came from the courtyard and, a moment after, the gendarme48 who had been sent to Dieppe entered.
"Well, did you see the hatter?" exclaimed the magistrate, eager at last to obtain some positive information.
"I saw M. Maigret. The cap was sold to a cab-driver."
"A cab-driver!"
"Yes, a driver who stopped his fly before the shop and asked to be supplied with a yellow-leather chauffeur's cap for one of his customers. This was the only one left. He paid for it, without troubling about the size, and drove off. He was in a great hurry."
"What sort of fly was it?"
"A calash."
"And on what day did this happen?"
"On what day? Why, to-day, at eight o'clock this morning."
"This morning? What are you talking about?"
"The cap was bought this morning."
"But that's impossible, because it was found last night in the park. If it was found there, it must have been there; and, consequently, it must have been bought before."
"The hatter told me it was bought this morning."
There was a moment of general bewilderment. The nonplussed102 magistrate strove to understand. Suddenly, he started, as though struck with a gleam of light:
"Fetch the cabman who brought us here this morning! The man who drove the calash! Fetch him at once!"
The sergeant of gendarmes and his subordinate ran off to the stables. In a few minutes, the sergeant returned alone.
"Where's the cabman?"
"He asked for food in the kitchen, ate his lunch and then—"
"And then—?"
"He went off."
"With his fly?"
"No. Pretending that he wanted to go and see a relation at Ouville, he borrowed the groom's bicycle. Here are his hat and greatcoat."
"But did he leave bare-headed?"
"No, he took a cap from his pocket and put it on."
"A cap?"
"Yes, a yellow leather cap, it seems."
"A yellow leather cap? Why, no, we've got it here!"
"That's true, Monsieur le Juge d'Instruction, but his is just like it."
The deputy sniggered:
"Very funny! Most amusing! There are two caps—One, the real one, which constituted our only piece of evidence, has gone off on the head of the sham103 flyman! The other, the false one, is in your hands. Oh, the fellow has had us nicely!"
"Catch him! Fetch him back!" cried M. Filleul. "Two of your men on horseback, Sergeant Quevillon, and at full speed!"
"He is far away by this time," said the deputy.
"He can be as far as he pleases, but still we must lay hold of him."
"I hope so; but I think, Monsieur le Juge d'Instruction, that your efforts should be concentrated here above all. Would you mind reading this scrap of paper, which I have just found in the pocket of the coat?"
"Which coat?"
"The driver's."
And the deputy prosecutor handed M. Filleul a piece of paper, folded in four, containing these few words written in pencil, in a more or less common hand:
The incident caused a certain stir.
"A word to the wise!" muttered the deputy. "We are now forewarned."
"Monsieur le Comte," said the examining magistrate, "I beg you not to be alarmed. Nor you either, mademoiselle. This threat is of no importance, as the police are on the spot. We shall take every precaution and I will answer for your safety. As for you, gentlemen. I rely on your discretion105. You have been present at this inquiry, thanks to my excessive kindness toward the Press, and it would be making me an ill return—"
He interrupted himself, as though an idea had struck him, looked at the two young men, one after the other, and, going up to the first, asked:
"What paper do you represent, sir?"
"The Journal de Rouen."
"Have you your credentials106?"
"Here."
The card was in order. There was no more to be said. M. Filleul turned to the other reporter:
"And you, sir?"
"I?"
"Yes, you: what paper do you belong to?"
"Why, Monsieur le Juge d'Instruction, I write for a number of papers—all over the place—"
"Your credentials?"
"I haven't any."
"Oh! How is that?"
"For a newspaper to give you a card, you have to be on its regular staff."
"Well?"
"Well, I am only an occasional contributor, a free-lance. I send articles to this newspaper and that. They are published or declined according to circumstances."
"In that case, what is your name? Where are your papers?"
"My name would tell you nothing. As for papers, I have none."
"You have no paper of any kind to prove your profession!"
"I have no profession."
"But look here, sir," cried the magistrate, with a certain asperity107, "you can't expect to preserve your incognito108 after introducing yourself here by a trick and surprising the secrets of the police!"
"I beg to remark, Monsieur le Juge d'Instruction, that you asked me nothing when I came in, and that therefore I had nothing to say. Besides, it never struck me that your inquiry was secret, when everybody was admitted—including even one of the criminals!"
He spoke softly, in a tone of infinite politeness. He was quite a young man, very tall, very slender and dressed without the least attempt at fashion, in a jacket and trousers both too small for him. He had a pink face like a girl's, a broad forehead topped with close-cropped hair, and a scrubby and ill-trimmed fair beard. His bright eyes gleamed with intelligence. He seemed not in the least embarrassed and wore a pleasant smile, free from any shade of banter109.
M. Filleul looked at him with an aggressive air of distrust. The two gendarmes came forward. The young man exclaimed, gaily110:
"Monsieur le Juge d'Instruction, you clearly suspect me of being an accomplice111. But, if that were so, would I not have slipped away at the right moment, following the example of my fellow-criminal?"
"You might have hoped—"
"Any hope would have been absurd. A moment's reflection, Monsieur le Juge d'Instruction, will make you agree with me that, logically speaking—"
M. Filleul looked him straight in the eyes and said, sharply:
"No more jokes! Your name?"
"Isidore Beautrelet."
"Your occupation?"
"Sixth-form pupil at the Lycee Janson-de-Sailly."
M. Filleul opened a pair of startled eyes.
"What are you talking about? Sixth-form pupil—"
"At the Lycee Janson, Rue de la Pompe, number—"
"Oh, look here," exclaimed M. Filleul, "you're trying to take me in! This won't do, you know; a joke can go too far!"
"I must say, Monsieur le Juge d'Instruction, that your astonishment112 surprises me. What is there to prevent my being a sixth-form pupil at the Lycee Janson? My beard, perhaps? Set your mind at ease: my beard is false!"
Isidore Beautrelet pulled off the few curls that adorned113 his chin, and his beardless face appeared still younger and pinker, a genuine schoolboy's face. And, with a laugh like a child's, revealing his white teeth:
"Are you convinced now?" he asked. "Do you want more proofs? Here, you can read the address on these letters from my father: 'To Monsieur Isidore Beautrelet, Indoor Pupil, Lycee Janson-de-Sailly.'"
Convinced or not, M. Filleul did not look as if he liked the story. He asked, gruffly:
"What are you doing here?"
"Why—I'm—I'm improving my mind."
"There are schools for that: yours, for instance."
"You forget, Monsieur le Juge d'Instruction, that this is the twenty-third of April and that we are in the middle of the Easter holidays."
"Well?"
"Well, I have every right to spend my holidays as I please."
"Your father—"
"My father lives at the other end of the country, in Savoy, and he himself advised me to take a little trip on the North Coast."
"With a false beard?"
"Oh, no! That's my own idea. At school, we talk a great deal about mysterious adventures; we read detective stories, in which people disguise themselves; we imagine any amount of terrible and intricate cases. So I thought I would amuse myself; and I put on this false beard. Besides, I enjoyed the advantage of being taken seriously and I pretended to be a Paris reporter. That is how, last night, after an uneventful period of more than a week, I had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of my Rouen colleague; and, this morning, when he heard of the Ambrumesy murder, he very kindly114 suggested that I should come with him and that we should share the cost of a fly."
Isidore Beautrelet said all this with a frank and artless simplicity115 of which it was impossible not to feel the charm. M. Filleul himself, though maintaining a distrustful reserve, took a certain pleasure in listening to him. He asked him, in a less peevish116 tone:
"And are you satisfied with your expedition?"
"Delighted! All the more as I had never been present at a case of the sort and I find that this one is not lacking in interest."
"Nor in that mysterious intricacy which you prize so highly—"
"And which is so stimulating117, Monsieur le Juge d'Instruction! I know nothing more exciting than to see all the facts coming up out of the shadow, clustering together, so to speak, and gradually forming the probable truth."
"The probable truth! You go pretty fast, young man! Do you suggest that you have your little solution of the riddle118 ready?"
"Oh, no!" replied Beautrelet, with a laugh.
"Only—it seems to me that there are certain points on which it is not impossible to form an opinion; and others, even, are so precise as to warrant—a conclusion."
"Oh, but this is becoming very curious and I shall get to know something at last! For I confess, to my great confusion, that I know nothing."
"That is because you have not had time to reflect, Monsieur le Juge d'Instruction. The great thing is to reflect. Facts very seldom fail to carry their own explanation!"
"And, according to you, the facts which we have just ascertained119 carry their own explanation?"
"Don't you think so yourself? In any case, I have ascertained none besides those which are set down in the official report."
"Good! So that, if I were to ask you which were the objects stolen from this room—"
"I should answer that I know."
"Bravo! My gentleman knows more about it than the owner himself. M. de Gesvres has everything accounted for: M. Isidore Beautrelet has not. He misses a bookcase in three sections and a life-size statue which nobody ever noticed. And, if I asked you the name of the murderer?"
"I should again answer that I know it."
All present gave a start. The deputy and the journalist drew nearer. M. de Gesvres and the two girls, impressed by Beautrelet's tranquil120 assurance, listened attentively121.
"You know the murderer's name?"
"Yes."
"Yes."
M. Filleul rubbed his hands.
"What a piece of luck! This capture will do honor to my career. And can you make me these startling revelations now?"
"Yes, now—or rather, if you do not mind, in an hour or two, when I shall have assisted at your inquiry to the end."
"No, no, young man, here and now, please." At that moment Raymonde de Saint-Veran, who had not taken her eyes from Isidore Beautrelet since the beginning of this scene, came up to M. Filleul:
"Monsieur le Juge d'Instruction—"
"Yes, mademoiselle?"
She hesitated for two or three seconds, with her eyes fixed123 on Beautrelet, and then, addressing M. Filleul:
"I should like you to ask monsieur the reason why he was walking yesterday in the sunk road which leads up to the little door."
It was an unexpected and dramatic stroke. Isidore Beautrelet appeared nonplussed:
"I, mademoiselle? I? You saw me yesterday?"
Raymonde remained thoughtful, with her eyes upon Beautrelet, as though she were trying to settle her own conviction, and then said, in a steady voice:
"At four o'clock in the afternoon, as I was crossing the wood, I met in the sunk road a young man of monsieur's height, dressed like him and wearing a beard cut in the same way—and I received a very clear impression that he was trying to hide."
"And it was I?"
"I could not say that as an absolute certainty, for my recollection is a little vague. Still—still, I think so—if not, it would be an unusual resemblance—"
M. Filleul was perplexed124. Already taken in by one of the confederates, was he now going to let himself be tricked by this self-styled schoolboy? Certainly, the young man's manner spoke in his favor; but one can never tell!
"What have you to say, sir?"
"That mademoiselle is mistaken, as I can easily show you with one word. Yesterday, at the time stated, I was at Veules."
"You will have to prove it, you will have to. In any case, the position is not what it was. Sergeant, one of your men will keep monsieur company."
Isidore Beautrelet's face denoted a keen vexation.
"Will it be for long?"
"Long enough to collect the necessary information."
"Monsieur le Juge d'Instruction, I beseech125 you to collect it with all possible speed and discretion."
"Why?"
"My father is an old man. We are very much attached to each other—and I would not have him suffer on my account."
The more or less pathetic note in his voice made a bad impression on M. Filleul. It suggested a scene in a melodrama126. Nevertheless, he promised:
"This evening—or to-morrow at latest, I shall know what to think."
The afternoon was wearing on. The examining magistrate returned to the ruins of the cloisters, after giving orders that no unauthorized persons were to be admitted, and patiently, methodically, dividing the ground into lots which were successively explored, himself directed the search. But at the end of the day he was no farther than at the start; and he declared, before an army of reporters who, during that time, had invaded the chateau:
"Gentlemen, everything leads us to suppose that the wounded man is here, within our reach; everything, that is, except the reality, the fact. Therefore, in our humble opinion, he must have escaped and we shall find him outside."
By way of precaution, however, he arranged, with the sergeant of gendarmes, for a complete watch to be kept over the park and, after making a fresh examination of the two drawing rooms, visiting the whole of the chateau and surrounding himself with all the necessary information, he took the road back to Dieppe, accompanied by the deputy prosecutor.
Night fell. As the boudoir was to remain locked, Jean Daval's body had been moved to another room. Two women from the neighborhood sat up with it, assisted by Suzanne and Raymonde. Downstairs, young Isidore Beautrelet slept on the bench in the old oratory127, under the watchful128 eye of the village policeman, who had been attached to his person. Outside, the gendarmes, the farmer and a dozen peasants had taken up their position among the ruins and along the walls.
All was still until eleven o'clock; but, at ten minutes past eleven, a shot echoed from the other side of the house.
"Attention!" roared the sergeant. "Two men remain here: you, Fossier—and you, Lecanu—The others at the double!"
They all rushed forward and ran round the house on the left. A figure was seen to make away in the dark. Then, suddenly, a second shot drew them farther on, almost to the borders of the farm. And, all at once, as they arrived, in a band, at the hedge which lines the orchard129, a flame burst out, to the right of the farmhouse130, and other names also rose in a thick column. It was a barn burning, stuffed to the ridge41 with straw.
"The scoundrels!" shouted the sergeant. "They've set fire to it. Have at them, lads! They can't be far away!"
But the wind was turning the flames toward the main building; and it became necessary, before all things, to ward17 off the danger. They all exerted themselves with the greater ardor131 inasmuch as M. de Gesvres, hurrying to the scene of the disaster, encouraged them with the promise of a reward. By the time that they had mastered the flames, it was two o'clock in the morning. All pursuit would have been vain.
"We'll look into it by daylight," said the sergeant. "They are sure to have left traces: we shall find them."
"And I shall not be sorry," added M. de Gesvres, "to learn the reason of this attack. To set fire to trusses of straw strikes me as a very useless proceeding132."
"Come with me, Monsieur le Comte: I may be able to tell you the reason."
Together they reached the ruins of the cloisters. The sergeant called out:
"Lecanu!—Fossier!"
The other gendarmes were already hunting for their comrades whom they had left standing sentry133. They ended by finding them at a few paces from the little door. The two men were lying full length on the ground, bound and gagged, with bandages over their eyes.
"Monsieur le Comte," muttered the sergeant, while his men were being released; "Monsieur le Comte, we have been tricked like children."
"How so?"
"The shots—the attack on the barn—the fire—all so much humbug134 to get us down there—a diversion. During that time they were tying up our two men and the business was done."
"What business?"
"Carrying off the wounded man, of course!"
"You don't mean to say you think—?"
"Think? Why, it's as plain as a pikestaff! The idea came to me ten minutes ago—but I'm a fool not to have thought of it earlier. We should have nabbed them all." Quevillon stamped his foot on the ground, with a sudden attack of rage. "But where, confound it, where did they go through? Which way did they carry him off? For, dash it all, we beat the ground all day; and a man can't hide in a tuft of grass, especially when he's wounded! It's witchcraft135, that's what it is!—"
Nor was this the last surprise awaiting Sergeant Quevillon. At dawn, when they entered the oratory which had been used as a cell for young Isidore Beautrelet, they realized that young Isidore Beautrelet had vanished.
On a chair slept the village policeman, bent136 in two. By his side stood a water-bottle and two tumblers. At the bottom of one of those tumblers a few grains of white powder.
On examination, it was proved, first, that young Isidore Beautrelet had administered a sleeping draught137 to the village policeman; secondly138, that he could only have escaped by a window situated139 at a height of seven or eight feet in the wall; and lastly—a charming detail, this—that he could only have reached this window by using the back of his warder as a footstool.
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1
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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medley
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| n.混合 | |
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murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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truncated
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| adj.切去顶端的，缩短了的，被删节的v.截面的( truncate的过去式和过去分词 )；截头的；缩短了的；截去顶端或末端 | |
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shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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buttresses
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| n.扶壁，扶垛( buttress的名词复数 )v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的第三人称单数 ) | |
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10
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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11
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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12
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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13
plucky
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| adj.勇敢的 | |
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14
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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15
impeded
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| 阻碍，妨碍，阻止( impede的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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16
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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17
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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18
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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19
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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20
stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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21
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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22
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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23
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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24
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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25
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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26
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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27
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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28
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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29
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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30
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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31
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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32
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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33
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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34
trophy
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| n.优胜旗，奖品，奖杯，战胜品，纪念品 | |
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35
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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36
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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37
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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38
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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39
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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40
cartridge
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| n.弹壳，弹药筒；(装磁带等的)盒子 | |
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41
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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42
cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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43
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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44
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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45
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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46
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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47
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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48
gendarme
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| n.宪兵 | |
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49
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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50
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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51
conveyances
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| n.传送( conveyance的名词复数 )；运送；表达；运输工具 | |
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52
prosecutor
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| n.起诉人；检察官，公诉人 | |
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53
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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54
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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55
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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56
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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57
pinnacled
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| 小尖塔般耸立的，顶处的 | |
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58
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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59
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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60
gendarmes
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| n.宪兵，警官( gendarme的名词复数 ) | |
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61
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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62
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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63
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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64
tapestries
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| n.挂毯( tapestry的名词复数 )；绣帷，织锦v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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65
mythological
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| adj.神话的 | |
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66
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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67
grandee
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| n.贵族；大公 | |
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68
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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69
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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70
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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71
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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72
portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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73
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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74
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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75
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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76
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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77
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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78
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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79
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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80
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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82
ironic
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| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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83
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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84
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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85
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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86
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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87
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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88
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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89
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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90
imprint
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| n.印痕，痕迹；深刻的印象；vt.压印，牢记 | |
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91
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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quarries
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| n.（采）石场( quarry的名词复数 )；猎物（指鸟，兽等）；方形石；（格窗等的）方形玻璃v.从采石场采得( quarry的第三人称单数 )；从（书本等中）努力发掘（资料等）；在采石场采石 | |
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throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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102
nonplussed
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| adj.不知所措的，陷于窘境的v.使迷惑( nonplus的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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104
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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credentials
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| n.证明，资格，证明书，证件 | |
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asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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108
incognito
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| adv.匿名地；n.隐姓埋名；adj.化装的，用假名的，隐匿姓名身份的 | |
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109
banter
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| n.嘲弄，戏谑；v.取笑，逗弄，开玩笑 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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118
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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119
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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125
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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126
melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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127
oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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128
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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129
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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133
sentry
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| n.哨兵，警卫 | |
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134
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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135
witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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136
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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137
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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138
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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139
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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