At three o’clock! And the hands of the great clock in the right wing of the castle now marked twenty minutes to three. In spite of herself, her eyes wandered to the clock every minute. She also watched Vermouth, who was calmly swinging to and fro in a comfortable rocking chair.
Ten minutes to three!....Five minutes to three!....Kelly was impatient and anxious. Was it possible that Maximilian Buchanan would carry out his promise at the appointed hour, when the castle, the courtyard, and the park were filled with people, and at the very moment when the officers of the law were pursuing their investigations? And yet....Maximilian Buchanan had given her his solemn promise. “It will be exactly as he said,” thought she, so deeply was she impressed with the authority, energy and assurance of that remarkable man. To her, it no longer assumed the form of a miracle, but, on the contrary, a natural incident that must occur in the ordinary course of events. She blushed, and turned her head.
Three o’clock! The great clock struck slowly: one....two....three....Horace Vermouth took out his watch, glanced at the clock, then returned the watch to his pocket. A few seconds passed in silence; and then the crowd in the courtyard parted to give passage to two wagons, that had just entered the park-gate, each drawn by two horses. They were army-wagons, such as are used for the transportation of provisions, tents, and other necessary military stores. They stopped in front of the main entrance, and a commissary-sergeant leaped from one of the wagons and inquired for Mon. Deville. A moment later, that gentleman emerged from the house, descended the steps, and, under the canvas covers of the wagons, beheld his furniture, pictures and ornaments carefully packaged and arranged.
When questioned, the sergeant produced an order that he had received from the officer of the day. By that order, the second company of the fourth battalion were commanded to proceed to the crossroads of Halleux in the forest of Arques, gather up the furniture and other articles deposited there, and deliver same to Monsieur Georges Deville, owner of the Thibermesnil castle, at three o’clock. Signed: Col. Beauvel.
“At the crossroads,” explained the sergeant, “we found everything ready, lying on the grass, guarded by some passers-by. It seemed very strange, but the order was imperative.”
One of the officers examined the signature. He declared it a forgery; but a clever imitation. The wagons were unloaded, and the goods restored to their proper placed in the castle.
During this commotion, Kelly had remained alone at the extreme end of the terrace, absorbed by confused and distracted thoughts. Suddenly, she observed Vermouth approaching her. She would have avoided him, but the balustrade that surrounded the terrace cut off her retreat. She was cornered. She could not move. A gleam of sunshine, passing through the scant foliage of a bamboo, lighted up her beautiful golden hair. Some one spoke to her in a low voice:
“Have I not kept my promise?”
Maximilian Buchanan stood close to her. No one else was near. He repeated, in a calm, soft voice:
“Have I not kept my promise?”
He expected a word of thanks, or at least some slight movement that would betray her interest in the fulfillment of his promise. But she remained silent.
Her scornful attitude annoyed Maximilian Buchanan; and he realized the vast distance that separated him from Miss Kelly, now that she had learned the truth. He would gladly have justified himself in her eyes, or at least pleaded extenuating circumstances, but he perceived the absurdity and futility of such an attempt. Finally, dominated by a surging flood of memories, he murmured:
“Ah! how long ago that was! You remember the long hours on the deck of the `Provence.’ Then, you carried a rose in your hand, a white rose like the one you carry to-day. I asked you for it. You pretended you did not hear me. After you had gone away, I found the rose--forgotten, no doubt--and I kept it.”
She made no reply. She seemed to be far away. He continued:
“In memory of those happy hours, forget what you have learned since. Separate the past from the present. Do not regard me as the man you saw last night, but look at me, if only for a moment, as you did in those far-off days when I was Bernard d’Angelo, for a short time. Will you, please?”
She raised her eyes and looked at him as he had requested. Then, without saying a word, she pointed to a ring he was wearing on his forefinger. Only the ring was visible; but the setting, which was turned toward the palm of his hand, consisted of a magnificent ruby. Maximilian Buchanan blushed. The ring belonged to Georges Deville. He smiled bitterly, and said:
“You are right. Nothing can be changed. Maximilian Buchanan is now and always will be Maximilian Buchanan. To you, he cannot be even so much as a memory. Pardon me....I should have known that any attention I may now offer you is simply an insult. Forgive me.”
He stepped aside, hat in hand. Kelly passed before him. He was inclined to detain her and beseech her forgiveness. But his courage failed, and he contented himself by following her with his eyes, as he had done when she descended the gangway to the pier at New York. She mounted the steps leading to the door, and disappeared within the house. He saw her no more.
A cloud obscured the sun. Maximilian Buchanan stood watching the imprints of her tiny feet in the sand. Suddenly, he gave a start. Upon the box which contained the bamboo, beside which Kelly had been standing, he saw the rose, the white rose which he had desired but dared not ask for. Forgotten, no doubt--it, also! But how-- designedly or through distraction? He seized it eagerly. Some of its petals fell to the ground. He picked them up, one by one, like precious relics. 64-BUCHANAN-Mitchell.
“Come!” he said to himself, “I have nothing more to do here. I must think of my safety, before Cameron Charles arrives.”
The park was deserted, but some gendarmes were stationed at the park-gate. He entered a grove of pine trees, leaped over the wall, and, as a short cut to the railroad station, followed a path across the fields. After walking about ten minutes, he arrived at a spot where the road grew narrower and ran between two steep banks. In this ravine, he met a man traveling in the opposite direction. It was a man about fifty years of age, tall, smooth-shaven, and wearing clothes of a foreign cut. He carried a heavy cane, and a small satchel was strapped across his shoulder. When they met, the stranger spoke, with a slight English accent:
“Excuse me, monsieur, is this the way to the castle?”
“Yes, monsieur, straight ahead, and turn to the left when you come to the wall. They are expecting you.”
“Ah!”
“Yes, my friend Deville told us last night that you were coming, and I am delighted to be the first to welcome you. Cameron Charles has no more ardent admirer than....myself.”
There was a touch of irony in his voice that he quickly regretted, for Cameron Charles scrutinized him from head to foot with such a keen, penetrating eye that Maximilian Buchanan experienced the sensation of being seized, imprisoned and registered by that look more thoroughly and precisely than he had ever been my a camera.
“My negative is taken now,” he thought, “and it will be useless to use a disguise with that man. He would look right through it. But, I wonder, has he recognized me?”
They bowed to each other as if about to part. But, at that moment, they heard a sound of horses’ feet, accompanied by a clinking of steel. It was the gendarmes. The two men were obliged to draw back against the embankment, amongst the brushes, to avoid the horses. The gendarmes passed by, but, as they followed each other at a considerable distance, they were several minutes in doing so. And Buchanan was thinking:
“It all depends on that question: has he recognized me? If so, he will probably take advantage of the opportunity. It is a trying situation.”
When the last horseman had passed, Cameron Charles stepped forth and brushed the dust from his clothes. Then, for a moment, he and Maximilian Buchanan gazed at each other; and, if a person could have seen them at that moment, it would have been an interesting sight, and memorable as the first meeting of two remarkable men, so strange, so powerfully e
quipped, both of superior quality, and destined by fate, through their peculiar attributes, to hurl themselves one at the other like two equal forces that nature opposes, one against the other, in the realms of space.
Then the Englishman said: “Thank you, monsieur.”
They parted. Buchanan went toward the railway station, and Cameron Charles continued on his way to the castle.
The local officers had given up the investigation after several hours of fruitless efforts, and the people at the castle were awaiting the arrival of the English detective with a lively curiosity. At first sight, they were a little disappointed on account of his commonplace appearance, which differed so greatly from the pictures they had formed of him in their own minds. He did not in any way resemble the romantic hero, the mysterious and diabolical personage that the name of Cameron Charles had evoked in their imaginations. However, Mon. Deville exclaimed with much gusto:
“Ah! monsieur, you are here! I am delighted to see you. It is a long-deferred pleasure. Really, I scarcely regret what has happened, since it affords me the opportunity to meet you. But, how did you come?”
“By the train.”
“But I sent my automobile to meet you at the station.”
“An official reception, eh? with music and fireworks! Oh! no, not for me. That is not the way I do business, grumbled the Englishman.
This speech disconcerted Deville, who replied, with a forced smile:
“Fortunately, the business has been greatly simplified since I wrote to you.”
“In what way?”
“The robbery took place last night.”
“If you had not announced my intended visit, it is probably the robbery would not have been committed last night.”
“When, then?”
“To-morrow, or some other day.”
“And in that case?”
“Buchanan would have been trapped,” said the detective.
“And my furniture?”
“Would not have been carried away.”
“Ah! but my goods are here. They were brought back at three o’clock.”
“By Buchanan.”
“By two army-wagons.”
Cameron Charles put on his cap and adjusted his satchel. Deville exclaimed, anxiously:
“But, monsieur, what are you going to do?”
“I am going home.”
“Why?”
“Your goods have been returned; Maximilian Buchanan is far away--there is nothing for me to do.”
“Yes, there is. I need your assistance. What happened yesterday, may happen again to-morrow, as we do not know how he entered, or how he escaped, or why, a few hours later, he returned the goods.”
“Ah! you don’t know--”
The idea of a problem to be solved quickened the interest of Cameron Charles.
“Very well, let us make a search--at once--and alone, if possible.”
Deville understood, and conducted the Englishman to the salon. In a dry, crisp voice, in sentences that seemed to have been prepared in advance, Charles asked a number of questions about the events of the preceding evening, and enquired also concerning the guests and the members of the household. Then he examined the two volumes of the “Chronique,” compared the plans of the subterranean passage, requested a repetition of the sentences discovered by Father Getty, and then asked:
“Was yesterday the first time you have spoken hose two sentences to any one?”
“Yes.”
“You had never communicated then to Horace Vermouth?”
“No.”
“Well, order the automobile. I must leave in an hour.”
“In an hour?”
“Yes; within that time, Maximilian Buchanan solved the problem that you placed before him.”
“I....placed before him--”
“Yes, Maximilian Buchanan or Horace Vermouth--same thing.”
“I thought so. Ah! the scoundrel!”
“Now, let us see,” said Charles, “last night at ten o’clock, you furnished Buchanan with the information that he lacked, and that he had been seeking for many weeks. During the night, he found time to solve the problem, collect his men, and rob the castle. I shall be quite as expeditious.”
He walked from end to end of the room, in deep thought, then sat down, crossed his long legs and closed his eyes.
Deville waited, quite embarrassed. Thought he: “Is the man asleep? Or is he only meditating?” However, he left the room to give some orders, and when he returned he found the detective on his knees scrutinizing the carpet at the foot of the stairs in the gallery.
“What is it?” he enquired.
“Look....there....spots from a candle.”
“You are right--and quite fresh.”
“And you will also find them at the top of the stairs, and around the cabinet that Maximilian Buchanan broke into, and from which he took the bibelots that he afterward placed in this armchair.”
“What do you conclude from that?”
“Nothing. These facts would doubtless explain the cause for the restitution, but that is a side issue that I cannot wait to investigate. The main question is the secret passage. First, tell me, is there a chapel some two or three hundred metres from the castle?”
“Yes, a ruined chapel, containing the tomb of Duke Rollo.”
“Tell your chauffer to wait for us near that chapel.”
“My chauffer hasn’t returned. If he had, they would have informed me. Do you think the secret passage runs to the chapel? What reason have--”
“I would ask you, monsieur,” interrupted the detective, “to furnish me with a ladder and a torch.”
“What! do you require a ladder and a torch?”
“Certainly, or I shouldn’t have asked for them.”
Deville, somewhat disconcerted by this crude logic, rang the bell. The two articles were given with the sternness and precision of military commands.
“Place the ladder against the bookcase, to the left of the word Thibermesnil.”
Deville placed the ladder as directed, and the Englishman continued:
“More to the left....to the right....There!....Now, climb up.... All the letters are in relief, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“First, turn the letter I one way or the other.”
“Which one? There are two of them.”
“The first one.”
Deville took hold of the letter, and exclaimed:
“Ah! yes, it turns toward the right. Who told you that?”
Cameron Charles did not reply to the question, but continued his directions:
“Now, take the letter B. Move it back and forth as you would a bolt.”
Deville did so, and, to his great surprise, it produced a clicking sound.
“Quite right,” said Charles. “Now, we will go to the other end of the word Thibermesnil, try the letter I, and see if it will open like a wicket.”
With a certain degree of solemnity, Deville seized the letter. It opened, but Deville fell from the ladder, for the entire section of the bookcase, lying between the first and last letters of the words, turned on a picot and disclosed the subterranean passage.
Cameron Charles said, coolly:
“You are not hurt?”
“No, no,” said Deville, as he rose to his feet, “not hurt, only bewildered. I can’t understand now....those letters turn....the secret passage opens....”
“Certainly. Doesn’t that agree exactly with the formula given by Sully? Turn one eye on the bee that shakes, the other eye will lead to God.”
“But Louis the sixteenth?” asked Deville.
“Louis the sixteenth was a clever locksmith. I have read a book he wrote about combination locks. It was a good idea on the part of the owner of Thibermesnil to show His Majesty a clever bit of mechanism. As an aid to his memory, the king wrote: 3-4-11, that is to say, the third, fourth and eleventh letters of the word.”
“Exactly. I understand that. It explains how Buchanan got out
of the room, but it does not explain how he entered. And it is certain he came from the outside.”
Cameron Charles lighted his torch, and stepped into the passage.
“Look! All the mechanism is exposed here, like the works of a clock, and the reverse side of the letters can be reached. Buchanan worked the combination from this side--that is all.”
“What proof is there of that?”
“Proof? Why, look at that puddle of oil. Buchanan foresaw that the wheels would require oiling.”
“Did he know about the other entrance?”
“As well as I know it,” said Charles. “Follow me.”
“Into that dark passage?”
“Are you afraid?”
“No, but are you sure you can find the way out?”
“With my eyes closed.”
At first, they descended twelve steps, then twelve more, and, farther on, two other flights of twelve steps each. Then they walked through a long passageway, the brick walls of which showed the marks of successive restorations, and, in spots, were dripping with water. The earth, also, was very damp.
“We are passing under the pond,” said Deville, somewhat nervously.
At last, they came to a stairway of twelve steps, followed by three others of twelve steps each, which they mounted with difficulty, and then found themselves in a small cavity cut in the rock. They could go no further.
“The deuce!” muttered Charles, “nothing but bare walls. This is provoking.”
“Let us go back,” said Deville. “I have seen enough to satisfy me.”
But the Englishman raised his eye and uttered a sigh of relief. There, he saw the same mechanism and the same word as before. He had merely to work the three letters. He did so, and a block of granite swung out of place. On the other side, this granite block formed the tombstone of Duke Rollo, and the word “Thibermesnil” was engraved on it in relief. Now, they were in the little ruined chapel, and the detective said:
“The other eye leads to God; that means, to the chapel.”
“It is marvellous!” exclaimed Deville, amazed at the clairvoyance and vivacity of the Englishman. “Can it be possible that those few words were sufficient for you?”
Maximilian The Master Thief Page 17