The officer drew back slightly before the pallid, distorted, angry face that was lifted defiantly toward him, then with a commanding gesture of warning to Guiret to stay at a distance he spoke to his man:
“Ask the Commissioner to send a gendarme.”
But Guiret had been thinking rapidly. A moment before he had intended to get rid of these men some way, any way, and flee with Barthe. That was neither wise nor necessary.
“All right, I’ll pay you.”
“Why didn’t you say that before?”
“And if I do you will not insist on opening the trunk?”
He asked this question in a heavy constricted voice and the officer glanced at him suspiciously and took his time before replying.
“If you pay that annuls the attachment.”
“Very well, I will pay.”
He opened his wallet, having forgotten for the moment that he had given the concierge a five-hundred franc bill to change. The sweat broke out on his forehead, but he recovered quickly and turned to Barthe.
“What about it, Armand?”
“But you said yourself—that we—” Barthe stammered.
“Will you give me the money and bring this to an end?”
Barthe took out his wallet slowly. “I think you’re wrong, but—”
Guiret snatched the bills from him: “How much was it, did you say?”
“Three thousand, six hundred and sixteen francs, including costs.”
Guiret found the strength to be ironical: “Justice is not for nothing, I see!”
When he counted the money he saw that he had only three thousand francs.
“Take this and I’ll send you the rest,” he said.
“You know I cannot do that.”
“But I give you my word to send you the rest tomorrow, this afternoon if you wish.”
“My orders are formal. And anyway if you intend to pay, it is not important. In a few hours when you get the money as you say you will have it, you can pass by the office and pay. You have twenty-four hours to do that after the attachment.
“So, if you’ll let me throw an eye in that trunk—”
“No—no—no!” Guiret stammered. Then as he felt the other’s curious gaze resting upon him: “There you go again, doubting my word!”
He felt a sort of madness gaining upon him. It entered his head to throw himself upon the sheriff’s officer and strangle him, stop forever that insistence of his on opening the trunk. But the other man was there and at the first gesture he would enter into the struggle and Barthe was trembling so much that he would be of no help, doubtless would run at the first sign of conflict. Reason came at last.
“How stupid I am! Legros, the concierge, has five hundred francs that I gave him to get changed. He is waiting for his wife to get back. Perhaps he’s downstairs. Or if he’s not then he’ll be back soon with the change. Armand, go down and see—” But as Barthe moved eagerly toward the door, Guiret caught a glittering, mad, desperate light in his eyes: “No, no, you stay here, Armand. I’ll attend to all this. You realize that I am doing my utmost to get the money, do you not, Monsieur?”
His face was so pale, his eyes so distracted that after he went out, the sheriff’s officer spoke to his man: “Follow him,” he said.
Barthe, who had seated himself in the armchair, weak with relief when the affair seemed to have been arranged, looked up tensely, when he heard the officer give the order.
“I know who you are,” he said.
“Well, I know that myself,” Marbois said, shortly. “What’s the matter with you fellows, anyway?”
“You’d like to know what’s in that trunk?” Barthe asked.
“What’s all this about the trunk?”
“You’d like to know, wouldn’t you? That’s what you say to us. You know all right. Books in the trunk, eh? You know better.” He unfastened the straps, took out his key-ring which Guiret had given back to him after he had taken it from him to lock the trunk. “You’re a brave man, I hope.” With a swift turn of the wrist he turned the key: “Quietly, please. She’s asleep, that’s all. Yes, she’s there, and you’ll agree with me she’s very pretty.”
He lifted the cover with careful deliberation. An odor rose like a cloud into the face of the sheriff’s officer. The flesh on the body was mottled, there was a large hole in the breast, the lips of which had already turned purple. Marbois fell back and uttered a startled cry. Barthe laughed:
“It’s worse than you thought, eh?”
Just then Guiret pushed the door open, the change in his hand, a smile on his face. He saw the open trunk, he stared for a moment at the two men in the room, then turned to flee. The man who had followed him was coming in the door. They grappled.
“Armand—Armand—help—help me out—why do you stand there—help—”
But Barthe was seated again now: “He’s not the sheriff’s man. He’s from the police. He didn’t fool me. Marousse sent him here—Marousse sent him here—”
Guiret passed quickly from frenzy to complete submission. The money was scattered all about him on the floor and he stooped to pick it up.
“I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it,” Barthe was saying. “She came here to see me. She had money, all the money that she had won and we had lost. We asked her to give us some of it—she wouldn’t—”
“Yes, yes—” Guiret shouted, eager to shriek in a high voice the story of the events of that horrible night, words that he had repeated in a whisper for over thirty hours: “I killed her, yes. It was for the money and her jewels. Here—here is everything—” He threw on the table the jewels, tied in his handkerchief, a small distorted bundle bulging with bracelets and necklaces. He opened it and spread the jewels out: “See! She flaunted these before us. She wanted to talk to Barthe. Yes, she intended to run away with him. She flaunted her money and these when we had lost everything. I did not intend to kill her. I struck her in anger, then she threatened me—and I struck her again—and then—”
“He shot her—” Barthe said simply. “That was the way it all started.”
She Thought of Everything
IT WAS an evening much like any other evening, after a day when nothing had happened that did not happen any day, that Madame Chertier decided to kill her husband. He was reading with one elbow propped on the table, the light on his book, his face in the shadow. Nevertheless, he must have sensed something, for he looked up and spoke.
“Why do you look at me?”
And she replied: “I wasn’t looking at you, dear.”
“Thought you were,” he murmured. His wife sat back in her chair, tilted her head so that the lamplight did not reach her face, with her hands out of sight, so that he did not notice the sudden contraction of her fingers. Mr. Chertier turned a few pages rapidly, doubtless to skip some boring description. His wife shrugged, and he spoke again.
“What makes you laugh?”
“I wasn’t laughing,” she answered.
“Thought you were,” he murmured again. Then he was reading once more, vest loosened to ease his protruding abdomen, legs crossed, one foot swinging a slipper.
When she saw him thus, placid and self-satisfied, Madame Chertier thought ardently of her lover, of the many joys that freedom would bring her, and closing her eyes pictured without emotion that coarse body deprived of life, that smug, fat face motionless, the funeral, the black crepe dress which she would wear, her widow’s bonnet trimmed with white.
The idea of the murder had entered her head so gently that she accepted it calmly. It seemed to her that she had always had that idea, that it had been in her forever, fatal and almost natural. Why should she seek explanations, reasons, excuses? Everything was driving her to that end, and having dared to think and consider the idea, she felt a sort of relief, and her brain was strangely lucid.
At eleven o’clock, Mr. Chertier closed his book.
“Bed time?”
They exchanged a few words as they undressed. He kissed her forehead as usual, wen
t to sleep immediately. She turned to the wall and thought things over. All night, she mused, calculated, figured out schemes. Now that she had reached a decision, it was important that she should be careful, patient, meticulous, and wise.
In the morning, she was sweeter than ordinarily. Her husband spoke of this change of humor, congratulated her. And she replied in an absolutely candid voice: “I’m the same as usual. But you seldom notice me.”
She had an appointment at a dressmaker that day, which she kept. She selected a brilliantly colored dress. And so that her existence should be unchanged, if there was an investigation later, she went to see her lover, and did not return home before the usual hour. At dinner, while the maid was busy near them, she spoke in a casual way of a visit she planned to their summer home in the country.
Mr. Chertier was surprised.
“If it bothers you at all,” she said quietly, “I’ll stay—”
He waited until the maid had gone to the kitchen to explain.
“I wouldn’t wish to deprive you of a pleasure trip, dear. But you might have picked a better time. My business is not going so well just now—”
“Ah?” she breathed. And pretending that she had not noticed that the maid had reentered the dining-room, she added: “Business is bad, you say? You mustn’t worry so—is it very serious?”
He reminded her with a glance that they were not alone, and she showed confusion. But she had planned the remarks, had been careful that she was overheard. The last sentence— recalled at the proper time by the maid—might explain matters, direct suspicions elsewhere. From now on, every word, every act must count. She had planted in a witness’s mind the facts that she was going away on a trip and that her husband was worried.
Days and weeks elapsed. And Madame Chertier’s preoccupation grew. At times, she wished that chance would interfere, that her husband should die a natural death. But chance never works when it is needed.
As she could not wait forever, she set herself a date, and started methodical preparations. At the end of spring, vacation time drawing near, she retained a berth in a sleeping-car for the following week. The maid would testify that she had planned the trip months ago.
Mr. Chertier did not object, and he even suggested that it would be wise to hire a large taxi to carry all the baggage in one trip. She agreed that this was a good thought, and had the maid order the car, mentioning before her husband that it was his desire. Then she said that it might be a good time to grant the maid and the cook a few days of vacation. Mr. Chertier could live at a hotel, she added.
Her husband was delighted, for as a rule she did not concern herself much with others, and he complimented her on her orderliness and system. She felt some remorse to find him so easy to trick, so attentive to her every wish. But she scorned him for his foolishness, for his stupid lack of instinct; for everything he said or did seemed a new precaution to give her trouble later.
Everything seemed, to outsiders, to originate with him, he appeared to plan for her! With the servants on vacation, with him presumably living in a hotel, he would not be missed for days. His superiors, his employees would think that he had decided to go with her at the last minute. She heard him speak to the office on the telephone, hinting that he was tempted to escort her for a while.
On the morning set for her departure, the apartment was in order; tissue papers shrouded the lamps, the various trinkets, the picture frames. The trunks lined in the hall were full, and the house linen had not been packed! But Madame Chertier had ordered a new trunk, quite large, especially for it. When it was delivered, her husband admired it greatly—said it was handsome, solid, an excellent buy. For the first time, Madame Chertier felt some embarrassment. The servants were ready to go, and she took the occasion to break off his extravagant praise of the trunk she had bought for his coffin. She paid maid and cook, thanked them for their good wishes. Mr. Chertier followed them downstairs, saying that he had to purchase tobacco.
Left alone in the silent, empty apartment, Madame Chertier felt numb and frightened. She did not for a moment think of giving up her plans, but the deed she had to perform perturbed her. In her small handbag, a traveling-clock was ticking impatiently, time was passing, he would return—and she would have to act!
She tested the locks of the massive trunk. They held well, and the lid closed tight. She went through her pocketbook, saw that she had her railroad ticket, her money, a checkbook, smellingsalts. She was about to look once more at the revolver she had concealed in a drawer. She had loaded it very carefully, placed it in readiness, in her boudoir.
She turned as she heard her husband enter. And she answered his question: “Where are you?” in a steady voice. This was the room she had intended for the final episode. There was a thick tarpaulin on the floor—which had been placed there, the servants knew, to keep the metal corners of the trunks from scratching the floor. In the dresser drawer below that in which she had put the gun, she had ropes. And she had asked for waterproof tarpaulin, waterproof, hence bloodproof.
When her husband entered, she faced him, her back to the dresser. He came toward her, stood in the center of the tarpaulin. The time had come, she must reach for the gun and shoot him. Involuntarily, her eyes swept the boudoir.
“I’m not forgetting anything?” she asked to cover her nervousness. She did not expect an answer, her trembling hand was in the open drawer, groping for the revolver.
He smiled.
“What about this?” he said, holding out the gun she sought.
“That’s right, I was forgetting that,” she stammered.
Mr. Chertier laughed loudly.
“The most important thing!”
She started. She was terrified by the change in his expression. His eyes were hard as steel, and suddenly, he appeared far from stupid, a cool, resolute man. He drew her on the tarpaulin, pressed the gun’s muzzle on her forehead, between her eyes.
He fired.
Madame Chertier slumped to the tarpaulin, which was stained with blood. The husband had stepped back calmly, to allow her to drop.
Then he gathered the corpse in the tarpaulin, took the ropes from the drawer, fastened the whole into a bundle, with unshaken, expert fingers. This done, he carried her to the trunk, dropped her inside, packed the loose linen tightly to prevent shaking. Then he opened the pocketbook, took out ticket, money, checkbook and smelling-salts, tossed the empty bag with the body. After which he slammed the lid down, locked the trunk.
The bell rang, he opend the door to the janitor and the taxi chauffeur, who carried the baggage down to the waiting cab. As he saw the big trunk swaying on the porter’s shoulders, Mr. Chertier sighed and thought:
“She had thought of everything!”
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Thirty Hours with a Corpse Page 23