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

by Maurice Leblanc

  “Yes.”

  “On what do you base your opinion?”

  “When he left our house, Louis Lacombe carried a satchel containing all the papers relating to his invention. Two days later, my husband, in a conversation with one of the Varin brothers, learned that the papers were in their possession.”

  “And he did not denounce them?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because there was something else in the satchel — something besides the papers of Louis Lacombe.”

  “What was it?”

  She hesitated; was on the point of speaking, but, finally, remained silent. Daspry continued:

  “I presume that is why your husband has kept a close watch over their movements instead of informing the police. He hoped to recover the papers and, at the same time, that compromising article which has enabled the two brothers to hold over him threats of exposure and blackmail.”

  “Over him, and over me.”

  “Ah! over you, also?”

  “Over me, in particular.”

  She uttered the last words in a hollow voice. Daspry observed it; he paced to and fro for a moment, then, turning to her, asked:

  “Had you written to Louis Lacombe?”

  “Of course. My husband had business with him—”

  “Apart from those business letters, had you written to Louis Lacombe.... other letters? Excuse my insistence, but it is absolutely necessary that I should know the truth. Did you write other letters?”

  “Yes,” she replied, blushing.

  “And those letters came into the possession of the Varin brothers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does Mon. Andermatt know it?”

  “He has not seen them, but Alfred Varin has told him of their existence and threatened to publish them if my husband should take any steps against him. My husband was afraid.... of a scandal.”

  “But he has tried to recover the letters?”

  “I think so; but I do not know. You see, after that last interview with Alfred Varin, and after some harsh words between me and my husband in which he called me to account — we live as strangers.”

  “In that case, as you have nothing to lose, what do you fear?”

  “I may be indifferent to him now, but I am the woman that he has loved, the one he would still love — oh! I am quite sure of that,” she murmured, in a fervent voice, “he would still love me if he had not got hold of those cursed letters — —”

  “What! Did he succeed?....But the two brothers still defied him?”

  “Yes, and they boasted of having a secure hiding-place.”

  “Well?”

  “I believe my husband discovered that hiding-place.”

  “Well?”

  “I believe my husband has discovered that hiding-place.”

  “Ah! where was it?”

  “Here.”

  “Here!” I cried in alarm.

  “Yes. I always had that suspicion. Louis Lacombe was very ingenious and amused himself in his leisure hours, by making safes and locks. No doubt, the Varin brothers were aware of that fact and utilized one of Lacombe’s safes in which to conceal the letters.... and other things, perhaps.”

  “But they did not live here,” I said.

  “Before you came, four months ago, the house had been vacant for some time. And they may have thought that your presence here would not interfere with them when they wanted to get the papers. But they did not count on my husband, who came here on the night of 22 June, forced the safe, took what he was seeking, and left his card to inform the two brothers that he feared them no more, and that their positions were now reversed. Two days later, after reading the article in the ‘Gil Blas,’ Etienne Varin came here, remained alone in this room, found the safe empty, and.... killed himself.”

  After a moment, Daspry said:

  “A very simple theory....Has Mon. Andermatt spoken to you since then?”

  “No.”

  “Has his attitude toward you changed in any way? Does he appear more gloomy, more anxious?”

  “No, I haven’t noticed any change.”

  “And yet you think he has secured the letters. Now, in my opinion, he has not got those letters, and it was not he who came here on the night of 22 June.”

  “Who was it, then?”

  “The mysterious individual who is managing this affair, who holds all the threads in his hands, and whose invisible but far-reaching power we have felt from the beginning. It was he and his friends who entered this house on 22 June; it was he who discovered the hiding-place of the papers; it was he who left Mon. Andermatt’s card; it is he who now holds the correspondence and the evidence of the treachery of the Varin brothers.”

  “Who is he?” I asked, impatiently.

  “The man who writes letters to the ‘Echo de France’.... Salvator! Have we not convincing evidence of that fact? Does he not mention in his letters certain details that no one could know, except the man who had thus discovered the secrets of the two brothers?”

  “Well, then,” stammered Madame Andermatt, in great alarm, “he has my letters also, and it is he who now threatens my husband. Mon Dieu! What am I to do?”

  “Write to him,” declared Daspry. “Confide in him without reserve. Tell him all you know and all you may hereafter learn. Your interest and his interest are the same. He is not working against Mon. Andermatt, but against Alfred Varin. Help him.”

  “How?”

  “Has your husband the document that completes the plans of Louis Lacombe?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell that to Salvator, and, if possible, procure the document for him. Write to him at once. You risk nothing.”

  The advice was bold, dangerous even at first sight, but Madame Andermatt had no choice. Besides, as Daspry had said, she ran no risk. If the unknown writer were an enemy, that step would not aggravate the situation. If he were a stranger seeking to accomplish a particular purpose, he would attach to those letters only a secondary importance. Whatever might happen, it was the only solution offered to her, and she, in her anxiety, was only too glad to act on it. She thanked us effusively, and promised to keep us informed.

  In fact, two days later, she sent us the following letter that she had received from Salvator:

  “Have not found the letters, but I will get them. Rest easy. I am watching everything. S.”

  I looked at the letter. It was in the same handwriting as the note I found in my book on the night of 22 June.

  Daspry was right. Salvator was, indeed, the originator of that affair.

  We were beginning to see a little light coming out of the darkness that surrounded us, and an unexpected light was thrown on certain points; but other points yet remained obscure — for instance, the finding of the two seven-of-hearts. Perhaps I was unnecessarily concerned about those two cards whose seven punctured spots had appeared to me under such startling circumstances! Yet I could not refrain from asking myself: What role will they play in the drama? What importance do they bear? What conclusion must be drawn from the fact that the submarine constructed from the plans of Louis Lacombe bore the name of ‘Seven-of-Hearts’?

  Daspry gave little thought to the other two cards; he devoted all his attention to another problem which he considered more urgent; he was seeking the famous hiding-place.

  “And who knows,” said he, “I may find the letters that Salvator did not find — by inadvertence, perhaps. It is improbable that the Varin brothers would have removed from a spot, which they deemed inaccessible, the weapon which was so valuable to them.”

  And he continued to search. In a short time, the large room held no more secrets for him, so he extended his investigations to the other rooms. He examined the interior and the exterior, the stones of the foundation, the bricks in the walls; he raised the slates of the roof.

  One day, he came with a pickaxe and a spade, gave me the spade, kept the pickaxe, pointed to the adjacent vacant lots, and said: “Come.”


  I followed him, but I lacked his enthusiasm. He divided the vacant land into several sections which he examined in turn. At last, in a corner, at the angle formed by the walls of two neighboring proprietors, a small pile of earth and gravel, covered with briers and grass, attracted his attention. He attacked it. I was obliged to help him. For an hour, under a hot sun, we labored without success. I was discouraged, but Daspry urged me on. His ardor was as strong as ever.

  At last, Daspry’s pickaxe unearthed some bones — the remains of a skeleton to which some scraps of clothing still hung. Suddenly, I turned pale. I had discovered, sticking in the earth, a small piece of iron cut in the form of a rectangle, on which I thought I could see red spots. I stooped and picked it up. That little iron plate was the exact size of a playing-card, and the red spots, made with red lead, were arranged upon it in a manner similar to the seven-of-hearts, and each spot was pierced with a round hole similar to the perforations in the two playing cards.

  “Listen, Daspry, I have had enough of this. You can stay if it interests you. But I am going.”

  Was that simply the expression of my excited nerves? Or was it the result of a laborious task executed under a burning sun? I know that I trembled as I walked away, and that I went to bed, where I remained forty-eight hours, restless and feverish, haunted by skeletons that danced around me and threw their bleeding hearts at my head.

  Daspry was faithful to me. He came to my house every day, and remained three or four hours, which he spent in the large room, ferreting, thumping, tapping.

  “The letters are here, in this room,” he said, from time to time, “they are here. I will stake my life on it.”

  On the morning of the third day I arose — feeble yet, but cured. A substantial breakfast cheered me up. But a letter that I received that afternoon contributed, more than anything else, to my complete recovery, and aroused in me a lively curiosity. This was the letter:

  “Monsieur,

  “The drama, the first act of which transpired on the night of 22

  June, is now drawing to a close. Force of circumstances compel me

  to bring the two principal actors in that drama face to face, and I

  wish that meeting to take place in your house, if you will be so

  kind as to give me the use of it for this evening from nine o’clock

  to eleven. It will be advisable to give your servant leave of

  absence for the evening, and, perhaps, you will be so kind as to

  leave the field open to the two adversaries. You will remember

  that when I visited your house on the night of 22 June, I took

  excellent care of your property. I feel that I would do you an

  injustice if I should doubt, for one moment, your absolute

  discretion in this affair. Your devoted,

  “SALVATOR.”

  I was amused at the facetious tone of his letter and also at the whimsical nature of his request. There was a charming display of confidence and candor in his language, and nothing in the world could have induced me to deceive him or repay his confidence with ingratitude.

  I gave my servant a theatre ticket, and he left the house at eight o’clock. A few minutes later, Daspry arrived. I showed him the letter.

  “Well?” said he.

  “Well, I have left the garden gate unlocked, so anyone can enter.”

  “And you — are you going away?”

  “Not at all. I intend to stay right here.”

  “But he asks you to go—”

  “But I am not going. I will be discreet, but I am resolved to see what takes place.”

  “Ma foi!” exclaimed Daspry, laughing, “you are right, and I shall stay with you. I shouldn’t like to miss it.”

  We were interrupted by the sound of the door-bell.

  “Here already?” said Daspry, “twenty minutes ahead of time! Incredible!”

  I went to the door and ushered in the visitor. It was Madame Andermatt. She was faint and nervous, and in a stammering voice, she ejaculated:

  “My husband.... is coming.... he has an appointment.... they intend to give him the letters....”

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “By chance. A message came for my husband while we were at dinner. The servant gave it to me by mistake. My husband grabbed it quickly, but he was too late. I had read it.”

  “You read it?”

  “Yes. It was something like this: ‘At nine o’clock this evening, be at Boulevard Maillot with the papers connected with the affair. In exchange, the letters.’ So, after dinner, I hastened here.”

  “Unknown to your husband?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you think about it?” asked Daspry, turning to me.

  “I think as you do, that Mon. Andermatt is one of the invited guests.”

  “Yes, but for what purpose?”

  “That is what we are going to find out.”

  I led the men to a large room. The three of us could hide comfortably behind the velvet chimney-mantle, and observe all that should happen in the room. We seated ourselves there, with Madame Andermatt in the centre.

  The clock struck nine. A few minutes later, the garden gate creaked upon its hinges. I confess that I was greatly agitated. I was about to learn the key to the mystery. The startling events of the last few weeks were about to be explained, and, under my eyes, the last battle was going to be fought. Daspry seized the hand of Madame Andermatt, and said to her:

  “Not a word, not a movement! Whatever you may see or hear, keep quiet!”

  Some one entered. It was Alfred Varin. I recognized him at once, owing to the close resemblance he bore to his brother Etienne. There was the same slouching gait; the same cadaverous face covered with a black beard.

  He entered with the nervous air of a man who is accustomed to fear the presence of traps and ambushes; who scents and avoids them. He glanced about the room, and I had the impression that the chimney, masked with a velvet portière, did not please him. He took three steps in our direction, when something caused him to turn and walk toward the old mosaic king, with the flowing beard and flamboyant sword, which he examined minutely, mounting on a chair and following with his fingers the outlines of the shoulders and head and feeling certain parts of the face. Suddenly, he leaped from the chair and walked away from it. He had heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Mon. Andermatt appeared at the door.

  “You! You!” exclaimed the banker. “Was it you who brought me here?”

  “I? By no means,” protested Varin, in a rough, jerky voice that reminded me of his brother, “on the contrary, it was your letter that brought me here.”

  “My letter?”

  “A letter signed by you, in which you offered—”

  “I never wrote to you,” declared Mon. Andermatt.

  “You did not write to me!”

  Instinctively, Varin was put on his guard, not against the banker, but against the unknown enemy who had drawn him into this trap. A second time, he looked in our direction, then walked toward the door. But Mon. Andermatt barred his passage.

  “Well, where are you going, Varin?”

  “There is something about this affair I don’t like. I am going home. Good evening.”

  “One moment!”

  “No need of that, Mon. Andermatt. I have nothing to say to you.”

  “But I have something to say to you, and this is a good time to say it.”

  “Let me pass.”

  “No, you will not pass.”

  Varin recoiled before the resolute attitude of the banker, as he muttered:

  “Well, then, be quick about it.”

  One thing astonished me; and I have no doubt my two companions experienced a similar feeling. Why was Salvator not there? Was he not a necessary party at this conference? Or was he satisfied to let these two adversaries fight it out between themselves? At all events, his absence was a great disappointment, although it did not detract from the dramatic strength of the situation.


  After a moment, Mon. Andermatt approached Varin and, face to face, eye to eye, said:

  “Now, after all these years and when you have nothing more to fear, you can answer me candidly: What have you done with Louis Lacombe?”

  “What a question! As if I knew anything about him!”

  “You do know! You and your brother were his constant companions, almost lived with him in this very house. You knew all about his plans and his work. And the last night I ever saw Louis Lacombe, when I parted with him at my door, I saw two men slinking away in the shadows of the trees. That, I am ready to swear to.”

  “Well, what has that to do with me?”

  “The two men were you and your brother.”

  “Prove it.”

  “The best proof is that, two days later, you yourself showed me the papers and the plans that belonged to Lacombe and offered to sell them. How did these papers come into your possession?”

  “I have already told you, Mon. Andermatt, that we found them on Louis Lacombe’s table, the morning after his disappearance.”

  “That is a lie!”

  “Prove it.”

  “The law will prove it.”

  “Why did you not appeal to the law?”

  “Why? Ah! Why — ,” stammered the banker, with a slight display of emotion.

  “You know very well, Mon. Andermatt, if you had the least certainty of our guilt, our little threat would not have stopped you.”

  “What threat? Those letters? Do you suppose I ever gave those letters a moment’s thought?”

  “If you did not care for the letters, why did you offer me thousands of francs for their return? And why did you have my brother and me tracked like wild beasts?”

  “To recover the plans.”

  “Nonsense! You wanted the letters. You knew that as soon as you had the letters in your possession, you could denounce us. Oh! no, I couldn’t part with them!”

  He laughed heartily, but stopped suddenly, and said:

  “But, enough of this! We are merely going over old ground. We make no headway. We had better let things stand as they are.”

  “We will not let them stand as they are,” said the banker, “and since you have referred to the letters, let me tell you that you will not leave this house until you deliver up those letters.”