by Sapper
“‘ “Rossignol,” it said, “where is the car?”
“‘I was not alone: le BossuMasqué was there too.
“‘ “M’sieur,” I cried, “I do not know. That accursed traitor le Crapeau struck me from behind with what must have been a spanner. See – I am wet with blood.”
“‘And, in truth, I was, gentlemen – soaked with it – my coat, my shirt, everything.’
“‘ “Accursed fool,” went on the voice, and I could dimly see le Bossu’s outline in the gloom. “Blundering idiot. Do I plan with my great brain this wonderful coup in order that you should allow yourself to be sandbagged like an English tourist? And by le Crapeau of all people.”
“‘ “M’sieur,’’ I pleaded, “I did not suspect him. I was standing in the door wondering what our next instructions would be when he crept on me from behind.”
“‘ “Be silent, worm,” he said. “It is well for you, Rossignol, that your shirt is soaked with blood. Were it otherwise I might be tempted to think that this was a put-up job between you.”
“‘ “By the blood of the Virgin, M’sieur,” I cried, “I swear to you — ”
“Be silent,’’ he snarled. “I said it was well for you that he hit so hard. It proves to me that you are only a fool and not a traitor. Were you the second, Rossignol, I would strangle you here and now with my own hands. As it is, your punishment is sufficient.”
“‘ “But, M ’sieur,” I cried, “what am I to do?”
“‘There was no answer, le Bossu Masqué had gone. I was alone now, in very truth – miles from anywhere.’
“So did the Nightingale ramble on. We let him talk, but there was obviously nothing more that he could tell us. He was very incoherent as to dates and times, and I think he undoubtedly remained in that shed in a semi-delirious state for three or four days. How he finally arrived at Rouen we never found out: he hardly seemed to know himself. Anyway, the point was not important.
“He was brought up on a charge of robbery with violence, and sentenced to twenty-one years’ imprisonment in Devil’s Island. And with that we can leave him for the present. And with that also my story of the quarter of a century ago is practically finished. Le Rossignol, with a characteristic outburst of frenzied invective against the Toad, disappeared from the dock into twenty-one years of hell.
“And now, gentlemen, we pass out of the region of certain fact into the region of guesswork. To take the Toad first. I do not think there can be any doubt as to what he did. Overcome by the thought of so much loot, he determined to try and get it all for himself. He laid out the Nightingale, and went off in the car. What happened then we can only surmise. Perhaps he found that he couldn’t manage the car: perhaps he lost his nerve. But somewhere in that area of country he hid the stolen stuff. Probably he put in his pocket sufficient jewellery to keep him in comfort for many a long day. But the bulk of the stuff he must have hidden, intending to go back for it when the hue and cry was over. Then he ran the car into a wood, hid it as well as he could, and disappeared. And it is a fact that he did disappear. Years passed by: the war came, but never a trace of the Toad did we see. He vanished from the underworld of Paris as completely as a stone vanishes in the sea. Many people thought he was dead, though, personally, I never agreed with them. But at last the whole thing was forgotten: even the search for the treasure was abandoned. That had really been hopeless from the first, unless we could lay our hands on the Toad and make him lead us to it.
“As to what happened to le Bossu Masqué we are equally in doubt. Many people believed that he had caught the Toad, and had murdered him for his treachery, first compelling him to reveal the hiding-place of the loot. There was a great deal to be said for the theory, though, somehow, I never believed it myself. No body was ever found anywhere which could possibly have been the Toad’s. And I felt tolerably certain that a big man like le Bossu would never have taken the trouble to follow an object of that sort out of the country merely to kill him. It was the loot he was after – not the Toad. We still felt his activities in Paris, though, as years went by, they seemed to grow less and less. And there are strange stories told of incredible deeds of heroism performed in the war by a masked hunchback, who appeared suddenly in different parts of the line. Fiction, of course, but le poilu likes his little bit of mystery – just as your Tommy does.
“And so we come to the present moment, and this strange reunion of the principals in that drama of nearly thirty years ago. As a matter of fact, you will see that it is not quite so strange as it would appear at first sight, but a perfectly logical affair.
“It starts with the release of the Nightingale from Devil’s Island five years ago. I was then working with the police in New York, but not because I had to. I happen to be of independent means, and I work for the love of the thing, not for the salary. And the case of all others that intrigued me most during my whole career was the one I have just told you. It was unsolved: I felt I had been beaten.
“Now I have a fairly good knowledge of the criminal nature. And quite by chance I happened to learn that an uncle of le Rossignol’s had died leaving his money to his nephew. So I gambled on the result that twenty-one years in Devil’s Island would produce on a man like the Nightingale, believing, as he did, that he was there principally because of the Toad’s treachery. I chucked up my job, and got on the heels of the Nightingale.
“Well, my guess proved right. He was now, for a man in his position, comparatively affluent, which enabled him to be free from the necessity of working. And, as I thought would prove the case, he was obsessed with one idea, to the exclusion of everything else. And that idea was revenge on the Toad. If le Crapeau was still alive he was going to find him.
“Gentlemen, these past few years may seem to you to have been dull: to me they have been fascinating. Backwards and forwards, searching and ferreting, the Nightingale has chased his man. Old companions of twenty years previously have been interrogated: clues have been followed up, only to be discarded. And all the time, unknown to him, I have been sitting on his heels, patiently waiting. I knew that no one was better qualified to find the Toad than he was. He had access to information that I could never have got: in addition it was the sole driving force of his life.
“It is true, I admit, that at one period, when for months he seemed completely defeated, I very nearly gave it up. And then, quite suddenly out of the blue, there came the message that gave me the greatest thrill of my life. It was proof of what I had always thought in days gone by. Just an envelope handed to me by a gamin as I sat outside a café in Paris.
“‘Keep out of this.’ That was all that was written on the paper: that – and the drawing I hadn’t seen for so many years. So le Bossu Masqué was not dead: le BossuMasqué was on the trail, too. He also was following the Nightingale: he also was working on the same lines as myself. A strange situation as you will agree: I and that greatest of criminals both using the same dog to hunt our man, and the dog quite unconscious of the fact that he was being so used. It added zest to it, I can assure you. It meant sleeping with one eye permanently open: it meant that the whole time it was necessary to look in every direction, not only at the Nightingale. Several times I sensed his presence near me: how, I can’t tell you. And remember the terrible handicap that I was working under. He knew me, but I didn’t know him.
“However, that is neither here nor there. Just as the obsession of le Rossignol’s life was to lay hands on the Toad, so the obsession of mine became the desire to catch le Bossu Masqué. It had turned into a duel between him and me. And that duel is now approaching its end.”
For a moment or two Victor Matthews fell silent, his eyes fixed on the little drawing still pinned to the tree above my head. And we, enthralled though we were, let him take his own time.
“The rest,” he continued after a while, “is fairly soon told. Little by little, from a clue here and a clue there, it
became increasingly certain that the Toad had left France. But where had he gone, and had he taken the loot with him? And then came a sudden and astounding stroke of luck. The Nightingale, in the course of his search, had reached Boulogne, and one evening he was sitting in a small wine shop on the Quai Gambetta. At the next table to him was a French ouvrier, and I venture to think that not even the Bossu Masqué himself would have recognised me in that excellent workman. The café was fairly empty, and I was on the point of going when two French fishermen came in. They were both a little tight, and their conversation was clearly audible. But what principally attracted my attention was the fact that they obviously were full of money.
“At first I listened idly, and then a stray sentence struck my ear.
“‘Le moulin à Bonneval.’
“The mill at Bonneval, and Bonneval was the name of a village between Chateaudun and Chartres. Moreover, it was the nearest village to the quarry where the motorcar had been hidden during the day. Isn’t it an astounding fact how sometimes, after months and years of fruitless labour, a stray remark casually overheard may provide a clue? As it stood, of course, there was nothing in it – but the coincidence attracted my attention. It was well it did so: amazing though it seems that a chance remark was destined to end our search.
“I stole a glance at the Nightingale: he, too, had caught the phrase, and was listening intently. And after a while, as the full significance of their conversation sank into his mind, he began to quiver like a terrier when it sees a rat. Sometimes the men lowered their voices, but for the most part what they said was clearly audible. And one fact was soon established definitely. These two sailors owned the ketch Rose Marie, and they had recently smuggled over a cargo consisting of three large wooden cases, which had been landed on Romney Marsh somewhere between Rye and Dungeness. Further, that these cases had something to do with the mill at Bonneval.
“I give you my word that by this time I was almost as excited as the Nightingale himself. I remembered that there was an old disused mill, standing a little back from the road, about a kilometre north of Bonneval.
“Was it possible that that was the hiding-place which we had searched for in vain? And if so, who was the recipient of the cases on Romney Marsh?
“Then another thought struck me: was le Bossu Masqué present? I glanced round the room: there were only some fisher-folk and a pale youth who looked as if he served in some shop. Honestly I could not think he was there, and yet–”
He waved his hand at the tree behind me.
“However,” he continued, “it may be that he wasn’t. The Nightingale is an easy man to track, and that may easily account for it. To return to that evening. The two sailors didn’t say much more, but what they had said was quite enough to send the Nightingale flying over to England. He has one gift which you probably noticed the night before last – he speaks English fluently. And that was a considerable help to him. It was impossible for him to tell, of course, if the cases had been landed on Romney Marsh because the Toad was near at hand, or simply because it is an admirably situated locality for smuggling.”
“Hold hard a moment,” said Hugh. “How long ago did you overhear this conversation in the wine shop?”
“About six weeks,” answered Matthews. “Rather more. Well, I can’t tell you when the Nightingale first discovered that the man he wanted was your next-door neighbour. He’s no fool, and presumably his suspicions at once fell on a house fortified like Temple Tower. So did mine. But the Toad is a secretive gentleman, and suspicion is not proof. Personally, I have not seen the man who now calls himself Granger, though I’ve lain up for hours waiting for him. I assume that the Nightingale has; at any rate, he has satisfied himself somehow that Granger is the Toad. And so his quest is ended: he has found his enemy. Theatrical as all those people are, he has flashed his warning across the Marsh – red and blue lights, the colours of the gang. For years that man – ever since le Rossignol was liberated from Devil’s Island – has lived in fear of being found. And now he has been.”
Young Freckles took a deep breath.
“I say, chaps,” he remarked, “we are having a jolly party, aren’t we? And how do the Beaver and the girl come in?”
“I was just coming to them,” said Matthews. “Paul Vandali is one of those men, well-known to the police to be criminals, who have yet succeeded in steering clear of trouble. The only commandment they keep is the eleventh – thou shalt not be found out. The lady has not, I think, ever been united to Vandali in the holy bonds of matrimony, but she has been his inseparable companion for three years.”
“I suppose he is not the Bossu Masqué?” I asked.
Matthews shook his head.
“Quite impossible,” he said. “He is not old enough. Vandali is a man of only about thirty-five. So that rules him out. Oh, no! He comes in a very different way. I have mentioned, if you remember, the Prince’s cousin, who chose his parties for him. Now that cousin is also the Prince’s heir, and he is alive today in Paris. He inherited all the Prince’s money, and so is an extremely wealthy man. After the affair at the Chateau du Lac Noir, he offered an enormous reward for the recovery of the stolen property – no less than fifty thousand pounds. Naturally he, years ago, gave up all hope of getting it back, though the reward still stood. And then Vandali and the lady appeared on the scene. You have seen them, and you will realise that they are people who are quite at home in the highest society. At any rate, they met Count Vladimar – that is the cousin – at supper one night not very long ago. And the conversation came round to the affair at the Chateau du Lac Noir. My informant was the waiter – who was not a waiter. To be more explicit, the Paris police were after Vandali over a little matter at Nice. They had no proof, but they were trying to trap him in an unguarded moment. And the waiter was really a detective.
“Well, he got nothing from the meal which helped him over the Nice business, but what he did get was that Vladimar most categorically stated that the reward of fifty thousand pounds still held good. He said it with a laugh, almost as if he implied that it might just as well be a million for the good it would do. But the detective caught a very significant glance that passed between the two. And here they are.
“How they spotted this place I can’t tell you. It may be that they, too, through friends in the underworld, have kept themselves posted in the Nightingale’s movements, realising, as I did, that in him lay their best chance of being led to the treasure. At any rate, they are here.”
Matthews paused and lit a cigarette.
“Well, gentlemen, so much for the past, and the original causes that have led up to the situation as it stands today. Of my doings since I have been here there is little to say. I have told you that the main obsession of my life is to lay hands on the man who nearly murdered me tonight. And I have been lying up in a small place in Rye, watching and waiting for what I knew must happen, sooner or later – his arrival. I have kept my eye on le Rossignol: you saw me the other night when I very foolishly got caught in the light. But until tonight I did not know le Bossu was here. I don’t know quite what took me up there – restlessness, perhaps, or something deeper. It sounds strange, I know,” his voice grew almost solemn, “but I veritably believe, though I have never seen him until tonight, that there is some channel of communication between him and me which cannot be explained by any natural means. Gentlemen, I have felt him near me in Paris: I know it. And tonight an overmastering impulse took me to Temple Tower. You know with what result. Suddenly I saw him – looming out of the darkness – right on top of me. And although I had half expected it, the shock at the moment was almost paralysing. I even forgot to draw my gun till it was too late: he had gone.”
He paused, and a dreamy look came into his eyes.
“But he is here, and I am here, and this time it is the end, one way or the other.”
For a moment or two no one spoke: there was something
almost awe-inspiring in the quiet finality of his words. Just as at Spragge’s Farm, the soft melodious voice of le Rossignol had seemed to ring Granger’s death knell, so, now, did this second deadly hatred promise a fight to the finish.
“Enough, gentlemen,” he went on in his normal voice. “No good has ever come of dreaming. Will you now return the compliment, and tell me what has happened to you? Then we will draw up a plan of campaign and decide what to do.”
We told him everything: about the chimney-pot episode, the sparking plugs, the stolen map, and Miss Verney’s letter. And when we had finished, he smoked a complete cigarette before he spoke.
“Captain Drummond,” he said quietly, “I congratulate you. I think your deductions are absolutely correct. Whether he meant to kill you with the chimney-pot, or only put you out of the way temporarily, is immaterial – but that was his first idea. And I think your appearance on the scene has changed all his plans. He has only just arrived, of that I am sure. He came expecting to find le Rossignol and me: instead, he finds all of you, to say nothing of the Vandalis.”
He rose and began pacing up and down, his face working eagerly as he emphasised each point.
“What is the result? Merely that time becomes all important. He hears of the map belonging to Sir John: he steals it. Not knowing of the verse behind, he thinks that he has solved the method of getting in to Temple Tower. And he was looking for the entrance tonight when the dog found him. Probably alarmed by the din the animal made, he hid for a while near by, and it was then that Gaspard stumbled on him, only to be strangled. Who knows why he did that? It is possible he did not know you were in the grounds, and thought he might gain access to the house by pretending to be Gaspard: it is possible he had no alternative. But of one thing, gentlemen, I am very sure: time is now even more all important to le Bossu than it was a few hours ago.