Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17)

by Maurice Leblanc

  Throughout the day, I continued my searches in the library. It was a large room, much too large for the requirements of such a house, and the decoration of which attested the bizarre taste of its founder. The floor was a mosaic of multicolored stones, formed into large symmetrical designs. The walls were covered with a similar mosaic, arranged in panels, Pompeiian allegories, Byzantine compositions, frescoes of the Middle Ages. A Bacchus bestriding a cask. An emperor wearing a gold crown, a flowing beard, and holding a sword in his right hand.

  Quite high, after the style of an artist’s studio, there was a large window — the only one in the room. That window being always open at night, it was probable that the men had entered through it, by the aid of a ladder. But, again, there was no evidence. The bottom of the ladder would have left some marks in the soft earth beneath the window; but there were none. Nor were there any traces of footsteps in any part of the yard.

  I had no idea of informing the police, because the facts I had before me were so absurd and inconsistent. They would laugh at me. However, as I was then a reporter on the staff of the ‘Gil Blas,’ I wrote a lengthy account of my adventure and it was published in the paper on the second day thereafter. The article attracted some attention, but no one took it seriously. They regarded it as a work of fiction rather than a story of real life. The Saint-Martins rallied me. But Daspry, who took an interest in such matters, came to see me, made a study of the affair, but reached no conclusion.

  A few mornings later, the door-bell rang, and Antoine came to inform me that a gentleman desired to see me. He would not give his name. I directed Antoine to show him up. He was a man of about forty years of age with a very dark complexion, lively features, and whose correct dress, slightly frayed, proclaimed a taste that contrasted strangely with his rather vulgar manners. Without any preamble, he said to me — in a rough voice that confirmed my suspicion as to his social position:

  “Monsieur, whilst in a café, I picked up a copy of the ‘Gil Blas,’ and read your article. It interested me very much.

  “Thank you.”

  “And here I am.”

  “Ah!”

  “Yes, to talk to you. Are all the facts related by you quite correct?”

  “Absolutely so.”

  “Well, in that case, I can, perhaps, give you some information.”

  “Very well; proceed.”

  “No, not yet. First, I must be sure that the facts are exactly as you have related them.”

  “I have given you my word. What further proof do you want?”

  “I must remain alone in this room.”

  “I do not understand,” I said, with surprise.

  “It’s an idea that occurred to me when reading your article. Certain details established an extraordinary coincidence with another case that came under my notice. If I am mistaken, I shall say nothing more. And the only means of ascertaining the truth is by my remaining in the room alone.”

  What was at the bottom of this proposition? Later, I recalled that the man was exceedingly nervous; but, at the same time, although somewhat astonished, I found nothing particularly abnormal about the man or the request he had made. Moreover, my curiosity was aroused; so I replied:

  “Very well. How much time do you require?”

  “Oh! three minutes — not longer. Three minutes from now, I will rejoin you.”

  I left the room, and went downstairs. I took out my watch. One minute passed. Two minutes. Why did I feel so depressed? Why did those moments seem so solemn and weird? Two minutes and a half....Two minutes and three quarters. Then I heard a pistol shot.

  I bounded up the stairs and entered the room. A cry of horror escaped me. In the middle of the room, the man was lying on his left side, motionless. Blood was flowing from a wound in his forehead. Near his hand was a revolver, still smoking.

  But, in addition to this frightful spectacle, my attention was attracted by another object. At two feet from the body, upon the floor, I saw a playing-card. It was the seven of hearts. I picked it up. The lower extremity of each of the seven spots was pierced with a small round hole.

  A half-hour later, the commissary of police arrived, then the coroner and the chief of the Sûreté, Mon. Dudouis. I had been careful not to touch the corpse. The preliminary inquiry was very brief, and disclosed nothing. There were no papers in the pockets of the deceased; no name upon his clothes; no initial upon his linen; nothing to give any clue to his identity. The room was in the same perfect order as before. The furniture had not been disturbed. Yet this man had not come to my house solely for the purpose of killing himself, or because he considered my place the most convenient one for his suicide! There must have been a motive for his act of despair, and that motive was, no doubt, the result of some new fact ascertained by him during the three minutes he was alone.

  What was that fact? What had he seen? What frightful secret had been revealed to him? There was no answer to these questions. But, at the last moment, an incident occurred that appeared to us of considerable importance. As two policemen were raising the body to place it on a stretcher, the left hand thus being disturbed, a crumpled card fell from it. The card bore these words: “Georges Andermatt, 37 Rue de Berry.”

  What did that mean? Georges Andermatt was a rich banker in Paris, the founder and president of the Metal Exchange which had given such an impulse to the metallic industries in France. He lived in princely style; was the possessor of numerous automobiles, coaches, and an expensive racing-stable. His social affairs were very select, and Madame Andermatt was noted for her grace and beauty.

  “Can that be the man’s name?” I asked. —— —— —— —

  The chief of the Sûreté leaned over him.

  “It is not he. Mon. Andermatt is a thin man, and slightly grey.”

  “But why this card?”

  “Have you a telephone, monsieur?”

  “Yes, in the vestibule. Come with me.”

  He looked in the directory, and then asked for number 415.21.

  “Is Mon. Andermatt at home?....Please tell him that Mon. Dudouis wished him to come at once to 102 Boulevard Maillot. Very important.”

  Twenty minutes later, Mon. Andermatt arrived in his automobile. After the circumstances had been explained to him, he was taken in to see the corpse. He displayed considerable emotion, and spoke, in a low tone, and apparently unwillingly:

  “Etienne Varin,” he said.

  “You know him?”

  “No.... or, at least, yes.... by sight only. His brother....”

  “Ah! he has a brother?”

  “Yes, Alfred Varin. He came to see me once on some matter of business....I forget what it was.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “The two brothers live together — rue de Provence, I think.”

  “Do you know any reason why he should commit suicide?”

  “None.”

  “He held a card in his hand. It was your card with your address.”

  “I do not understand that. It must have been there by some chance that will be disclosed by the investigation.”

  A very strange chance, I thought; and I felt that the others entertained the same impression.

  I discovered the same impression in the papers next day, and amongst all my friends with whom I discussed the affair. Amid the mysteries that enveloped it, after the double discovery of the seven of hearts pierced with seven holes, after the two inscrutable events that had happened in my house, that visiting card promised to throw some light on the affair. Through it, the truth may be revealed. But, contrary to our expectations, Mon. Andermatt furnished no explanation. He said:

  “I have told you all I know. What more can I do? I am greatly surprised that my card should be found in such a place, and I sincerely hope the point will be cleared up.”

  It was not. The official investigation established that the Varin brothers were of Swiss origin, had led a shifting life under various names, frequenting gambling resorts, associating with a band of foreig
ners who had been dispersed by the police after a series of robberies in which their participation was established only by their flight. At number 24 rue de Provence, where the Varin brothers had lived six years before, no one knew what had become of them.

  I confess that, for my part, the case seemed to me so complicated and so mysterious that I did not think the problem would ever be solved, so I concluded to waste no more time upon it. But Jean Daspry, whom I frequently met at that period, became more and more interested in it each day. It was he who pointed out to me that item from a foreign newspaper which was reproduced and commented upon by the entire press. It was as follows:

  “The first trial of a new model of submarine boat, which is expected to revolutionize naval warfare, will be given in presence of the former Emperor at a place that will be kept secret until the last minute. An indiscretion has revealed its name; it is called ‘The Seven-of-Hearts.’”

  The Seven-of-Hearts! That presented a new problem. Could a connection be established between the name of the sub-marine and the incidents which we have related? But a connection of what nature? What had happened here could have no possible relation with the sub-marine.

  “What do you know about it?” said Daspry to me. “The most diverse effects often proceed from the same cause.”

  Two days later, the following foreign news item was received and published:

  “It is said that the plans of the new sub-marine ‘Seven-of-Hearts’ were prepared by French engineers, who, having sought, in vain, the support of their compatriots, subsequently entered into negotiations with the British Admiralty, without success.”

  I do not wish to give undue publicity to certain delicate matters which once provoked considerable excitement. Yet, since all danger of injury therefrom has now come to an end, I must speak of the article that appeared in the ‘Echo de France,’ which aroused so much comment at that time, and which threw considerable light upon the mystery of the Seven-of-Hearts. This is the article as it was published over the signature of Salvator:

  “THE AFFAIR OF THE SEVEN-OF-HEARTS.

  “A CORNER OF THE VEIL RAISED.

  “We will be brief. Ten years ago, a young mining engineer, Louis

  Lacombe, wishing to devote his time and fortune to certain studies,

  resigned his position he then held, and rented number 102 boulevard

  Maillot, a small house that had been recently built and decorated

  for an Italian count. Through the agency of the Varin brothers of

  Lausanne, one of whom assisted in the preliminary experiments and

  the other acted as financial agent, the young engineer was

  introduced to Georges Andermatt, the founder of the Metal Exchange.

  “After several interviews, he succeeded in interesting the banker

  in a sub-marine boat on which he was working, and it was agreed

  that as soon as the invention was perfected, Mon. Andermatt would

  use his influence with the Minister of Marine to obtain a series of

  trials under the direction of the government. For two years, Louis

  Lacombe was a frequent visitor at Andermatt’s house, and he

  submitted to the banker the various improvements he made upon his

  original plans, until one day, being satisfied with the perfection

  of his work, he asked Mon. Andermatt to communicate with the

  Minister of Marine. That day, Louis Lacombe dined at Mon.

  Andermatt’s house. He left there about half-past eleven at night.

  He has not been seen since.

  “A perusal of the newspapers of that date will show that the

  young man’s family caused every possible inquiry to be made, but

  without success; and it was the general opinion that Louis Lacombe —

  who was known as an original and visionary youth — had quietly left

  for parts unknown.

  “Let us accept that theory — improbable, though it be, — and let us

  consider another question, which is a most important one for our

  country: What has become of the plans of the sub-marine? Did Louis

  Lacombe carry them away? Are they destroyed?

  “After making a thorough investigation, we are able to assert,

  positively, that the plans are in existence, and are now in the

  possession of the two brothers Varin. How did they acquire such a

  possession? That is a question not yet determined; nor do we know

  why they have not tried to sell them at an earlier date. Did they

  fear that their title to them would be called in question? If so,

  they have lost that fear, and we can announce definitely, that the

  plans of Louis Lacombe are now the property of foreign power, and

  we are in a position to publish the correspondence that passed

  between the Varin brothers and the representative of that power.

  The ‘Seven-of-Hearts’ invented by Louis Lacombe has been actually

  constructed by our neighbor.

  “Will the invention fulfill the optimistic expectations of those

  who were concerned in that treacherous act?”

  And a post-script adds:

  “Later. — Our special correspondent informs us that the preliminary

  trial of the ‘Seven-of-Hearts’ has not been satisfactory. It is

  quite likely that the plans sold and delivered by the Varin

  brothers did not include the final document carried by Louis

  Lacombe to Mon. Andermatt on the day of his disappearance, a

  document that was indispensable to a thorough understanding of the

  invention. It contained a summary of the final conclusions of the

  inventor, and estimates and figures not contained in the other

  papers. Without this document, the plans are incomplete; on the

  other hand, without the plans, the document is worthless.

  “Now is the time to act and recover what belongs to us. It may

  be a difficult matter, but we rely upon the assistance of Mon.

  Andermatt. It will be to his interest to explain his conduct which

  has hitherto been so strange and inscrutable. He will explain not

  only why he concealed these facts at the time of the suicide of

  Etienne Varin, but also why he has never revealed the disappearance

  of the paper — a fact well known to him. He will tell why, during

  the last six years, he paid spies to watch the movements of the

  Varin brothers. We expect from him, not only words, but acts. And

  at once. Otherwise—”

  The threat was plainly expressed. But of what did it consist? What whip was Salvator, the anonymous writer of the article, holding over the head of Mon. Andermatt?

  An army of reporters attacked the banker, and ten interviewers announced the scornful manner in which they were treated. Thereupon, the ‘Echo de France’ announced its position in these words:

  “Whether Mon. Andermatt is willing or not, he will be, henceforth, our collaborator in the work we have undertaken.”

  Daspry and I were dining together on the day on which that announcement appeared. That evening, with the newspapers spread over my table, we discussed the affair and examined it from every point of view with that exasperation that a person feels when walking in the dark and finding himself constantly falling over the same obstacles. Suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, the door opened and a lady entered. Her face was hidden behind a thick veil. I rose at once and approached her.

  “Is it you, monsieur, who lives here?” she asked.

  “Yes, madame, but I do not understand—”

  “The gate was not locked,” she explained.

  “But the vestibule door?”

  She did not reply, and it occurred to me that she had used the servants’ entrance. How did she know the way? Then there
was a silence that was quite embarrassing. She looked at Daspry, and I was obliged to introduce him. I asked her to be seated and explain the object of her visit. She raised her veil, and I saw that she was a brunette with regular features and, though not handsome, she was attractive — principally, on account of her sad, dark eyes.

  “I am Madame Andermatt,” she said.

  “Madame Andermatt!” I repeated, with astonishment.

  After a brief pause, she continued with a voice and manner that were quite easy and natural:

  “I have come to see you about that affair — you know. I thought I might be able to obtain some information—”

  “Mon Dieu, madame, I know nothing but what has already appeared in the papers. But if you will point out in what way I can help you....”

  “I do not know....I do not know.”

  Not until then did I suspect that her calm demeanor was assumed, and that some poignant grief was concealed beneath that air of tranquility. For a moment, we were silent and embarrassed. Then Daspry stepped forward, and said:

  “Will you permit me to ask you a few questions?”

  “Yes, yes,” she cried. “I will answer.”

  “You will answer.... whatever those questions may be?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know Louis Lacombe?” he asked.

  “Yes, through my husband.”

  “When did you see him for the last time?”

  “The evening he dined with us.”

  “At that time, was there anything to lead you to believe that you would never see him again?”

  “No. But he had spoken of a trip to Russia — in a vague way.”

  “Then you expected to see him again?”

  “Yes. He was to dine with us, two days later.”

  “How do you explain his disappearance?”

  “I cannot explain it.”

  “And Mon. Andermatt?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Yet the article published in the ‘Echo de France’ indicates—”

  “Yes, that the Varin brothers had something to do with his disappearance.”

  “Is that your opinion?”