“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. Alderman. 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 Wiseman, 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 Wiseman 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 Salvador, the anonymous writer of the article, holding over the head of Mon. Alderman?
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. Alderman is willing or not, he will be, henceforth, our collaborator in the work we have undertaken.”
Blanc 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 think 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 Blanc, 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 Alderman,” she said.
“Madame Alderman!” 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 Blanc 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 Ives?” 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. Alderman?”
“I do not know.”
“Yet the article published in the `Echo de France’ indicates---”
“Yes, that the Wiseman brothers had something to do with his disappearance.”
“Is that your opinion?”
“Yes.”
“On what do you base your opinion?”
“When he left our house, Louis Ives carried a satchel containing all the papers relating to his invention. Two days later, my husband, in a conversation with one of the Wiseman 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 Ives.”
“What was it?”
She hesitated; was on the point of speaking, but, finally, remained silent. Blanc 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. Blanc observed it; he paced to and fro for a moment, then, turning to her, asked:
“Had you written to Louis Ives?”
“Of course. My husband had business with him--”
“Apart from those business letters, had you written to Louis Ives....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 Wiseman brothers?”
“Yes.”
“Does Mon. Alderman know it?”
“He has not seen them, but Alfred Wiseman 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 Wiseman, 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 Ives was very ingenious and amused himself in his leisure hours, by making safes and locks. No doubt, the Wiseman brothers were aware of that fact and utilized one of Ives’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 Wiseman came here, remained alone in this room, found the safe empty, and....killed himself.”
After a moment, Blanc said:
“A very simple theory....Has Mon. Alderman spoken to you since then?”
“No.”
“Has his attitude toward you changed in any way? Does he appear more gloo
my, 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. Alderman’s card; it is he who now holds the correspondence and the evidence of the treachery of the Wiseman brothers.”
“Who is he?” I asked, impatiently.
“The man who writes letters to the `Echo de France’.... Salvador! Have 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 Alderman, 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 Blanc. “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. Alderman, but against Alfred Wiseman. Help him.”
“How?”
“Has your husband the document that completes the plans of Louis Ives?”
“Yes.”
“Tell that to Salvador, 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 Alderman had no choice. Besides, as Blanc 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 Salvador:
“Have not found the letter, 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.
Blanc was right. Salvador 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 Ives bore the name of `Seven-of-Hearts’?
Blanc 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 know,” said he, “I may find the letters that Salvador did not find--by inadvertence, perhaps. It is improbable that the Wiseman 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 Blanc urged me on. His ardor was as strong as ever.
At last, Blanc’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, Blanc, 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.
Blanc 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,
“SALVADOR.”
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, Blanc 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 Blanc, 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 Blanc, “twenty minutes ahead of time! Incredible!”
I went to the door and ushered in the visitor. It was Madame Alderman. 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 g
ave 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 Blanc, turning to me.
“I think as you do, that Mon. Alderman is one of the invited guests.”
“Yes, but for what purpose?”
“That is what we are going to find out.”
I led the m 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 Alderman 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. Blanc seized the hand of Madame Alderman, and said to her:
“Not a word, not a movement! Whatever you may see or hear, keep quiet!”
Some one entered. It was Alfred Wiseman. 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 portiere, 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. Alderman appeared at the door.
Maximilian The Master Thief Page 11