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

by Maurice Leblanc

  “Yes, last evening.”

  “Last evening? But how? Who told you? You can only have known it by witnessing the arrest.”

  He hesitated for a second. He could have dated his interview with the deserter Baufeld to that particular moment. But he did not think of this; and he declared, in a firm tone:

  “Well, yes, I was there ... or, at least, not far off....”

  “And you heard the shots?”

  “Yes, I heard the shots and also some cries of pain.... When I arrived on the scene of the fighting, there was no one there. Then I hunted about.... You understand, I was afraid that my father or M. Jorancé had been hit by the bullets.... I hunted all night, following their track in the dark: a wrong track, first of all, which led me towards the Albern Woods. And then, this morning, I found Private Baufeld, who told me which way the attacking party had gone, and I pushed on to the factory and to the inn at Torins. But if I had told you all that, oh, by Jove, how you would have fretted about my fatigue! Why, I can picture you doing so, my poor Marthe!”

  He pretended to be gay and careless. Marthe watched him in astonishment. She nodded her head with a thoughtful air:

  “Yes ... you are right....”

  “Don’t you think so? It was much simpler to tell you that I had just left my room, feeling fit and well, after a good night’s rest.... Don’t you agree with me, mother?... Besides, you yourself ...”

  But, at that moment, a sound of voices rose under the windows on the garden-side and Catherine burst into the room, yelling:

  “The master! The master!”

  And Victor also bounded in:

  “Here’s the master coming! There he is!”

  “Who? Who?” asked Mme. Morestal, hastening forward.

  “M. Morestal! There he is! We saw him at the end of the garden.... Look, over there, near the water-fall....”

  The old lady ran to one of the windows:

  “Yes! He has seen us! O God, is it possible?”

  Staggering with excitement, she leant heavily on Marthe’s arm and dragged her to the staircase that led to the front hall and the steps.

  They had hardly disappeared when Suzanne flung herself upon Philippe:

  “Oh, please, Philippe ... please!” she implored.

  He did not understand at first:

  “What is it, Suzanne?”

  “Please, please be careful. Don’t let Marthe suspect....”

  “Do you think ...?”

  “I thought so, for a second.... She gave me such a queer look.... Oh, it would be terrible!... Please, please ...”

  She left him quickly, but her words and the scared look in her eyes gave Philippe a real fright. Hitherto, he had felt towards Marthe only the embarrassment provoked by the annoyance of having to tell a lie. He now suddenly perceived the full gravity of the situation, the peril which threatened Suzanne and which might shatter the happiness of his own household. One blunder ... and everything was discovered. And this thought, instead of clearing his brain forthwith, merely increased his confusion.

  “I must save Suzanne,” he repeated. “Above all, I must save Suzanne.”

  But he felt that he had no more power over the events at hand than a man has over the approaching storm. And a dull fear arose within his breast.

  CHAPTER III

  FATHER AND SON

  BARE-HEADED, TANGLE-HAIRED, HIS clothes torn, no collar, blood on his shirt, on his hands, on his face, blood everywhere, a wound in his neck, another on his lip, unrecognizable, horrible to look at, but magnificent in energy, heroic and triumphant: such was the appearance presented by old Morestal.

  He chortled:

  “Here!” he shouted.

  An enormous laugh rolled from under his moustache:

  “Morestal? Here!... Morestal, for the second time, a prisoner of the Teuton ... and, for the second time, free!”

  Philippe stared at him in dismay, as though at an apparition.

  “Well, sonny? Is that the way you welcome me home?”

  He caught hold of a napkin and wiped his face with a great, wide gesture. Then he drew his wife to him:

  “Kiss me, mother!... And you, Philippe! And you, Marthe!... And you too, my pretty Suzanne: once for myself and once for your father!... Don’t cry, my child.... Daddy’s all right.... They’re coddling him like an emperor, over there ... until they let him go. And that’s not far off. By Heaven, no! I hope the French government ...”

  He was talking like a drunken man, too fast and in an unsteady voice. His wife tried to make him sit down. He protested:

  “Rest? Quite unnecessary, mother. A Morestal never rests. My wounds? Scratches! What? The doctor? If he sets foot in this house, I’ll chuck him out of the window!”

  “Still, you ought to take something....”

  “Take something? A glass of wine, if you like ... a glass of good French wine.... That’s it, uncork a bottle.... We’ll have a glass all round.... Your health, Weisslicht!... Oh, what a joke!... When I think of the face of Weisslicht, the special commissary of the imperial government!... The prisoner’s gone! The bird’s flown!”

  He laughed loudly and, after drinking two glasses of wine, one on top of the other, he kissed the three women once more, kissed Philippe, called in Victor, Catherine, the gardener, shook hands with them, sent them away again and began to walk up and down the room, saying:

  “No time to be lost, children! I met the sergeant of gendarmes on the Saint-Élophe road. The authorities have been informed.... They can be here within half an hour. I want to present a report. Take a pen, Philippe.”

  “What’s much more important,” protested his wife, “is that you should not excite yourself like this. Here, tell us all about it instead, quite calmly.”

  Old Morestal was never known to refuse to talk. He therefore began his story, in short, slow sentences, as she wished, describing all the details of attack and all the incidents of the journey to Börsweilen. But, carried away once more, he raised his voice, grew indignant, worked himself into a rage, burst into sarcasm:

  “Oh, they showed no lack of civility!... It was, ‘Monsieur le commissaire spécial!... Monsieur le conseiller d’arrondissement!’... Weisslicht had his mouth crammed with our titles!... All the same, at one o’clock in the morning, we were safely locked up in two nice little rooms in the town-hall at Börsweilen.... In quod, what!... With a probable indictment for complicity, espionage, high treason and the devil knows what hanging over our heads!... Only, in that case, gentlemen, you should not carry politeness so far as to release your captives from their handcuffs; and the windows of your cells ought not to be closed with bars too slight to be of any use; and you ought not to let one of your prisoners keep his pocket-knife. If you do, as long as that prisoner has any grit in him — and a file to his knife, by Jove! — he will try what he can do. And I did try, by Jingo! At four o’clock in the morning, after cutting the window-pane and filing or loosening four of the bars, old Morestal let himself down by a waste-pipe and took to his heels. Kind friends, farewell!... It was now only a question of getting home.... The Col du Diable? The Albern Woods? The Butte-aux-Loups? No such fool! The vermin were bound to be swarming on that side.... And, in fact, I heard the drums beating and the trumpets sounding the alarm and the horses galloping. They were hunting for me, of course!... But how could they have thought of hunting for me six miles away, in the Val de Sainte-Marie, right in the middle of the Forest of Arzance? And I trotted ... I trotted until I was simply done.... I crossed the border at eight o’clock, unseen and unknown. Morestal’s foot was on his native heath! At ten o’clock, I saw the steeple of Saint-Élophe from the Côte-Blanche and I cut straight across, so as to get home quicker. And here I am! A bit tired, I admit, but quite presentable.... Well, what do you say to old Morestal now, eh?”

  He had stood up and, forgetting all about the fatigue of the night, was enlivening his discourse with a savage display of gesture which alarmed his wife.

  “And my poor father was n
ot able to escape?” asked Suzanne.

  “No, they had taken care to search him,” replied Morestal. “Besides, they watched him more closely than they did me ... so he could not do as I did....” And he added. “And a good job too! For I should have been left to languish in their prisons until the end of an interminable trial; whereas he, in forty-eight hours ... But this is all talk. The authorities can’t be far away. I want to have my report ready. There are certain things which I suspect ... the business was a plot from start to finish....”

  He interrupted himself, as though startled by an unexpected thought, and sat for a long time motionless, with his head in his hands. Then, suddenly, he struck the table with his fist:

  “That’s it! I understand the whole thing now! Upon my word, it’s taken me long enough!”

  “What?” asked his wife.

  “Dourlowski, of course!”

  “Dourlowski?”

  “Why, yes! From the first minute, I guessed that it was a trap, a trap contrived by inferior police-agents. But how was it laid? I see it now. Dourlowski came here yesterday, on some pretext or other. He knew that Jorancé and I would take the frontier-road in the evening; and the passing of the deserter was contrived to take place at that moment, in connivance with the German detectives! One of them whistles as soon as we come up; and the soldier, who has been told, of course, that this whistle is a signal from the French accomplices, the soldier, whom Dourlowski or his confederates hold in a leash, like a dog, the soldier is let go. That’s the whole mystery! It was not he, the poor wretch, whom they were after, but Jorancé and Morestal. Morestal, right enough, flies to the rescue of the fugitive. They collar him, they lay hold of Jorancé; and there we are, accomplices both. Bravo, gentlemen! Well played!”

  Mme. Morestal murmured:

  “But, I say, it might be a serious thing ...”

  “For Jorancé,” he replied, “yes, because he is in custody; only — there is an ‘only’ — the pursuit of the deserter took place on French soil. We also were arrested on French soil. It was a flagrant violation of the frontier. So there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  “You think so?” asked Suzanne. “You think that my father ...?”

  “Nothing to be afraid of,” repeated Morestal. And he declared, positively, “I look upon Jorancé as free.”

  “Tut, tut!” mumbled the old lady. “Things won’t go so fast as that.”

  “Once more, I look upon Jorancé as free and for this good reason, that the frontier has been violated.”

  “Who will prove the violation?”

  “Who? Why, I, of course!... And Jorancé!... Do you think they’ll doubt the word of honest men like us? Besides, there are other proofs. They will find the traces of the pursuit, the traces of the attack, the traces of the stand which we made. And who can tell? There may have been witnesses....”

  Marthe turned her eyes on Philippe. He was listening to his father, with a face so pale that she was astounded. She waited for a few seconds and then, seeing that he did not speak, she said:

  “There was a witness.”

  Morestal started:

  “What’s that, Marthe?”

  “Philippe was there.”

  “Nonsense! We left Philippe at the Carrefour du Grand-Chêne, at the bottom of the hill, didn’t we, Suzanne? You remained behind together.”

  Philippe intervened, quickly:

  “Suzanne went off at once! and so did I ... but I had not gone two hundred yards when I turned back.”

  “So that was why you did not answer when I called to you, half-way up the hill?”

  “I expect so. I went back to the Grand-Chêne.”

  “What for?”

  “To join you.... I was sorry I had left you.”

  “Then you were behind us at the time of the attack?”

  “Yes.”

  “In that case, of course, you heard the shots fired!... Let me see, you must have been on the Butte-aux-Loups....”

  “Somewhere near there....”

  “And perhaps you saw us.... From above!... With the moonlight!...”

  “Oh, no!” protested Philippe. “No, I saw nothing!”

  “But, if you heard the firing, you must certainly have heard Jorancé shouting.... They stuffed a gag into my mouth.... But Jorancé kept on roaring, ‘We are in France! We are on French territory!’ You heard Jorancé shouting, didn’t you, now?”

  Philippe hesitated before making a reply of which he vaguely felt the tremendous importance. But, opposite him, he saw Marthe watching him with increasing surprise and, near Marthe, he saw Suzanne’s drawn features. He said:

  “Yes, I heard him ... I heard him at a distance....”

  Old Morestal could not contain himself for joy. And, when he learnt besides that Philippe had received the last words of Baufeld the deserter, he burst out:

  “You saw him? He was alive? He told you that they had set a trap for us, didn’t he?”

  “He mentioned the name of Dourlowski.”

  “Capital! But our meeting with the soldier, the pursuit ... he must have told you that all this took place in France?”

  “Yes, I seemed to understand ...”

  “We’ve got them!” shouted Morestal. “We’ve got them! Of course, I was quite easy in my mind.... But all the same, Philippe’s evidence, the declaration of the dying private.... Ah, the brigands, they’ll have to let go their prey!... We were in France, kind friends! There has been a violation of the frontier!”

  Philippe saw that he had gone too far; and he objected:

  “My evidence is not evidence in the proper sense of the word.... As for the soldier, I could hardly make out ...”

  “We’ve got them, I tell you. The little that you were able to see, the little that you were able to hear all agrees with my own evidence, that is to say, with the truth. We’ve got them! And here come the gentlemen from the public prosecutor’s office, who will be of my opinion, I bet you what you like! And it won’t take long either! Jorancé will be free to-morrow.”

  He dropped the pen, which he had taken up in order to write his report himself, and went quickly to the window, attracted by the sound of a motor-car sweeping round the garden-lawn:

  “The sub-prefect,” he said. “By Jove, so the government know about it! The examining-magistrate and the prosecutor.... Ha, ha, they are not wasting any time, I see!... Quick, mother, have them shown in here.... I’ll be back in a minute: I must just put on a collar and change my jacket....”

  “Father!”

  Morestal stopped in the doorway:

  “What is it, my boy?” he asked.

  “I have something to say to you,” said Philippe, resolutely.

  “All right. But it’ll keep until presently, won’t it?”

  “I have something to say to you now.”

  “Oh! In that case, come along with me. Yes, you can give me a hand, instead of Victor, who is out.”

  And, laughing, he went to his room.

  Marthe involuntarily took a few steps, as though she proposed to be present at the conversation. Philippe experienced a momentary embarrassment. Then he quickly made up his mind:

  “No, Marthe, you had better stay.”

  “But ...”

  “No, once more, no. Excuse me. I will explain later....”

  And he followed his father.

  * * *

  As soon as they were alone, Morestal, who was thinking much more about his evidence than about Philippe’s words, asked, casually:

  “Is it private?”

  “Yes ... and very serious,” Philippe declared.

  “Nonsense!”

  “Very serious, as you will see in a moment, father.... It’s about a position in which I find myself placed, a horrible position which I don’t know how to get out of, unless ...”

  He went no further. Acting under an instinctive impulse, thrown off his balance by the arrival of the examining-magistrate and by a sudden vision of the events to come, he had appealed to his fath
er. He wanted to speak, to say the words that would deliver him. What words? He did not quite know. But anything, anything rather than give false evidence and affix his signature to a lying deposition!

  He stammered at first, while his brain refused to act, seeking in vain for an acceptable solution. How was he to stop on the downward course along which he was being dragged by a combination of hostile forces, accidents, coincidences and implacable, trifling facts? How was he to break through the circle which a cruel fate was doing its utmost to trace around him?

  It suddenly burst in upon him that the only possible way out lay in proclaiming the immediate truth, in bluntly revealing his conduct.

  He shuddered with disgust. What! Accuse Suzanne! Was that the half-formed idea that inspired him, unknown to himself? Had he really thought of ruining her in order that he might be saved? It was now that he first realized the full nature of his predicament, for he would a thousand times rather have died than dishonour the girl, even in his father’s eyes alone.

  Morestal, who had finished dressing, chaffed him:

  “Is that all you wanted to say?”

  “Yes.... I made a mistake,” replied Philippe. “I thought ...”

  He was leaning on the window-rail and looked out inertly at the large sort of park formed by the clustering trees and the undulating meadows of the Vosges. He was now obsessed by other thoughts, which mingled with his own anxiety. He went back to old Morestal:

  “Are you quite sure that the arrest took place on French soil?”

  “Upon my word, you must be mad!”

  “It’s possible that, without noticing it, you crossed the frontier-line....”

  “Yes ... exactly ... so we did. But, at the moment of the first attack and again at the moment of the arrest, we were in France. There is no doubt about that.”

  “Just think, father, if there were the slightest doubt!...”

  “Well, what then? What do you mean?”

  “I mean that this incident will have further consequences. The affair will create a noise.”