Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

  “It’s extraordinary how inclined you are to defend that fellow?” observed Jean-

  “Oh, not so fast. I will tell you to a certainty this evening what I think about him.”

  Chatting in this way Rouletabille led Jean to a wineshop not a stone’s throw from the Arles-Trinquet railway station. He took from his pocket his tobacco-pouch.

  “Now we can have a quiet pipe.”

  “But what are we waiting here for?”

  “News of de Lauriac.”

  Two hours later they were still waiting. Rouletabille after a third pipe fell peacefully asleep. Jean, on the other hand, left the place thrice and thrice returned to it. His impatience and irritation had reached their eliminating point. At last a form swung into sight on the dusty road. Rouletabille at once opened his eyes as though some instinct told him that the person whom he was expecting had come.

  Old Tavan stood before him. Rouletabille motioned that he could speak out before Jean.

  “Well, he’s gone,” said old Tavan.

  “Tell me everything, down to the least detail.”

  “There’s not much to tell. He didn’t stay more than a couple of hours in his house. His servant went off and came back with a small motor-car, and then went in to let him know. Then I saw our man come out with a knapsack in which he must have packed his luggage. He jumped into the car and drove off at a good speed.”

  “Did you pump the servant?”

  “Oh, yes. If our man isn’t back within a week he’s got to lock up the place and give the key to Lou Rousso Fiamo.”

  “Is that all?”

  “That’s all.”

  Rouletabille took a banknote from his pocket-book and handed it to old Tavan, who broke into profuse thanks and walked away.

  “Your intelligence department is quite all right,” said Jean, “but what are you driving at with de Lauriac? He is certainly following up Odette’s trail. Are we going to let him catch her up before we do?”

  Having unburdened himself, he stood fidgeting, and Rouletabille’s impassive manner merely had the effect of exasperating him as usual. Rouletabille lighted his pipe once more.

  “You say that he is certainly following Odette’s tracks, but I am not so sure about it as all that. We’ll discuss this again to-night. Meanwhile let’s go back.”

  “Where to?”

  “To Viei-Castou-Nou. Now we shan’t interfere with de Lauriac’s plans. Had he known that we were so close upon his heels he would never have left the place.”

  “Why not?”

  “He would have been afraid of our following him.”

  “Then you think he was a party to Odette’s abduction.”

  “I assure you that I don’t know.”

  During the dinner-hour that evening Rouletabille made his way into de Lauriac’s house by his usual expedient. He waited, to no purpose, for the servants to leave Lou Cabanou; but taking advantage of their master’s absence and apparently wishing to celebrate his release, they gave a supper-party to the servants in the neighbourhood. When the cat is away the mice will play. Whatever Jean may have thought, Rouletabille was eager to discover certain things which it was of importance that he should know. In spite of the sounds of festivities which reached his ear from the servants’ quarters, he took his risk and was not a little pleased to find himself in de Lauriac’s study without disturbing the company in their good cheer.

  Close to de Lauriac’s desk a newspaper lay crumpled up among many others. Rouletabille picked it up. It was full of the Lavardens case, and he read the last part of a telegram which had been despatched by its correspondent from Arles “The two gipsies made no scruple in admitting that they had effected Mademoiselle Odette de Lavardens’ abduction, but they resolutely refused to give any clue as to the place where the hapless young girl was being held prisoner.... Callista declared that in this way she was taking her revenge for the alleged treachery of Jean de S — , her lover.”

  Rouletabille threw down the newspaper and, turning to the bureau, stared at the shelf. The Book of Ancestors was not in its place.

  He at once heaved a deep sigh. An intense joy seemed to flood his entire being, and he left the house without making the least effort at concealment. But his departure did not pass unobserved and the servants, raising a great outcry, went in pursuit of him.

  He had the start of them. He leapt the wall, but this time the luck was against him. A hand caught hold of him:

  “Where on earth are you going?”

  It was Monsieur Crousillat, who was taking a short rest, fishing with rod and line, after his exceptional labours.

  “After de Lauriac.”

  “Well I never! So he is guilty.”

  No, but he will be.”

  And he sprang forward and resumed his flight, returning by a roundabout way to Viei-Castou-Nou, where he stumbled up against Jean this time.

  “My dear fellow,” he said, “not only is de Lauriac innocent of the abduction as I felt certain, but he is not even implicated in it as I feared he might be. This greatly simplifies our task. Fortunately the book has divulged its secret.”

  “What book?”

  “Of course, you don’t know. I will explain things later on.” —

  “Where are you going now in such a hurry?”

  “To think things over.” —

  CHAPTER XXI

  JEAN VERSUS THE OCTOPUS

  MONSIEUR CROUSILLAT, THE examining magistrate, and Monsieur Bartholasse, his clerk, had returned that same evening — it was the evening of the day after de Lauriac’s release — to the prison in which for the time being the gipsies were incarcerated. Monsieur Crousillat had subjected them that afternoon to a further examination, and they had positively refused to answer any question. Monsieur Crousillat had requested to see the governor of the gaol.

  Monsieur Crousillat was not in the best of tempers. He was suffering from a bad press. The morning newspapers had turned him into ridicule. The story of the nail that killed excited a great deal of laughter at his expense and was treated as another score for Rouletabille. Monsieur Crousillat would be unable to get out of the infernal business with honour unless he could turn the fables; in other words, unless he could discover what had become of Mademoiselle de Lavardens.

  When he found himself face to face with the governor of the prison, a worthy man in every sense of the word, but a strict disciplinarian and a stickler for rules and regulations, he had little difficulty in making himself understood. As the prisoners refused to say anything in the examining magistrate’s office, they would have to resort to other means to make them speak in their cell.

  “A prison spy?” suggested Monsieur Mathieu, the governor. “I see no objection to that. But still we shall have to get hold of one.”

  “What! Haven’t you a sharp-witted fellow among your prisoners?”

  “I have never troubled about such matters,” returned the governor. “There’s no mention of them in the regulations, and when in certain cases the police have found it necessary to employ a police-spy they have always obtained one for me.... Apply to the Criminal Investigation Department. They’ve sent their men down here.”

  “But they are not here now,” objected Monsieur Crousillat with a sigh. “They are searching high and low for Mademoiselle de Lavardens, scouring the country for every caravan, and they may find her before I get the chance. We’re wasting a great deal of time.”

  “Meanwhile Rouletabille is making game of us,” interposed Monsieur Bartholasse acidly.

  “By the way,” said Monsieur Mathieu, “Rouletabille came to see me.”

  “Be on your guard,” exclaimed the clerk. “What did he come here for?”

  “He wanted to go over the prison. He said it was for the purpose of an article — one of a series. It seems that he has visited and described all the prisons in France!”

  “Did you agree to let him?”

  “No, monsieur. To me the regulations are the only things that matter, and the man named Rouletab
ille had no order. He was in no way entitled to visit my prison.”

  “Oh, don’t flatter yourself that that will interfere with his plans,” returned Monsieur Bartholasse. “He probably didn’t tell you how he visited the Moulins prison during the trial of the Marquis de T — ?”

  “Good heavens, no. He bowed very politely and I haven’t seen him since.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you the story myself. I was in Moulins at the time, and the incident caused a bit of a row. You will remember the famous case. The Marquis was charged with having thrown his son-in-law over a cliff while they were out for a walk. The whole thing was complicated by the extraordinary relations which existed between the tutor and the Marquis.... In short, the newspapers of the whole world sent their representatives to the town and they filled the hotels long before the trial began. At that time Rouletabille, almost a boy, was a beginner. Well, he began by a master stroke which brought about a change of prefects, caused the governor of the prison to be dismissed, and the suspension of I don’t know how many members of the prison staff.”

  “The devil he did!”

  “There you are! The thing for him was to see the Marquis and interview him before anyone else. Two days before the trial, Rouletabille appeared at the prison record office with a properly-stamped permit from police-headquarters authorizing Monsieur Arnault, anthropologist, to inspect the prisons in the Allier district....

  “I need not say that he had dressed himself for the part, making himself up as a respectable old gentleman, and the governor of the prison saw before him a man of learning as worthy of esteem as were his credentials. He allowed him to go over the entire prison — the cells, the courtyard, the chapel, and even to taste the ‘skilly’ — and Monsieur Arnault had but to express the wish, and he was shown for a moment into the Marquis’s cell. In that moment the Marquis uttered three words, and next morning Rouletabille had transformed those three words into three columns!”

  Just then there was a knock at the door of Monsieur Mathieu’s room and a warder came in to say that a caller, an anthropologist, was in the record office claiming to have received an order to inspect the prisons in the Rhone valley.

  Monsieur Mathieu, Monsieur Crousillat and Monsieur Bartholasse exchanged a glance of amazement.

  “Bring the person here,” ordered the governor in a somewhat broken voice.

  During the few minutes which ensued no word was spoken by the three men. They were expecting to see Rouletabille disguised as a scientist. They saw before them a woman.

  She was dressed with extreme simplicity, but very smartly. Her manners were lady-like and, without being beautiful, there was something in her expression which, though hard to define, was curiously attractive. As soon as the door was closed she began to speak, and her voice with its musical intonation, the pleasant and child-like roll of her words and her perfect pronunciation, seemed to suggest that she was of Slavonic origin.

  The three officials stood up and she gave the governor, who had introduced himself to her, an official document, apologizing for disturbing him at that late hour, but she had an urgent mission to perform.

  “Are persons interested in anthropology in such a hurry as all that?” inquired Monsieur Mathieu, on the defensive.

  “Yes, to tell you the truth, monsieur, we are, in this instance, in a great hurry. But I feel somewhat embarrassed, somewhat confused, I assure you. I prefer to say what I think — it is better so — and these gentlemen will excuse me, but I should prefer to speak to you in private.”

  “You can speak before these gentlemen, who are my good friends, and from whom I have no secrets. Allow me to introduce them to you: — Monsieur Crousillat, the examining magistrate, and Monsieur Bartholasse, his clerk.”

  Then turning to them and indicating his visitor he presented:

  “Madame de Meyrens.”

  The governor had just read her name on a letter from the prefect’s office introducing the distinguished anthropologist to his notice.

  Madame de Meyrens’ face expressed the utmost satisfaction.

  “The examining magistrate! The clerk!” she cried. “Why, in that case I can speak out. Now this is what I have to say to you, but it must be understood, of course, that I am telling you a state secret.” She gave her most seductive smile, and looked towards the door as if to make certain that nobody could overhear her. “Well, I am not an anthropologist, and though I’ve brought you this official order it is only to ‘clear’ you, as they say in government service, so that the regulations might not be infringed. This, monsieur, will tell you who I am.”

  She drew from her bodice an envelope, which she handed to Monsieur Mathieu. He took out a number of documents, including a passport with Madame de Meyrens’ photograph, and several letters written on the notepaper of the Criminal Investigation Department. A recent letter from the Chief of the Department was pinned to the papers and produced a decisive effect. He passed the letter to Monsieur Crousillat:

  “Well, you are on the look-out for a police-spy. Here is what you want.”

  “You call a police-spy in French a sheep,” said Madame de Meyrens.... “I shall be your little lamb!”

  It appeared from the papers that the highest authorities in Paris had sent one of their cleverest agents, Madame de Meyrens, to Arles to “pump” the two prisoners and endeavour to extract information which might assist the police, for they had lost every trace of Mademoiselle de Lavardens. We know that the custom-house authorities, on their side, who were set going by Rouletabille, had not obtained any greater success.

  A quarter of an hour later Madame de Meyrens was admitted to Callista’s cell. The latter could scarcely conceal her dismay when she recognized in the new prisoner, who was to be her companion, the Octopus.

  “I am here to save you,” said Madame de Meyrens, as soon as they were left to themselves; and she let slip from underneath her skirt a jersey, a bricklayer’s overalls, stained with plaster, and a cap.

  When the Octopus entered the cell, Callista was crouching in a corner with her elbows on the knees of her ragged skirt, her long pitiless face held in her burning hands, a picture of utter dejection. Any person who had watched her in the examining magistrate’s office, holding her own with Rouletabille and displaying an undaunted spirit, and saw her now alone in her cell, no longer playing a game either for her own or others’ sake, would have found it difficult to believe that she was the same woman.

  She had determined to take her revenge. She had succeeded, but none the less, everything was lost to her. Her love for Jean? Doubtless she believed that she really loved him, but if she could have analysed her feelings, she would have found that they were made up more of ruffled pride than love driven to despair.... Callista had suffered a humiliating downfall. With childish simplicity she imagined, in her inordinate ambition, that she would one day be a great lady and that great lady would be called Madame Jean de Santierne. Such a thought could only have occurred to the mind of a daughter of the road, ignorant of modern conventions and believing that every barrier was overthrown when she was transplanted one day from her native caravan to a flat in the Champs Ëlysées.

  Without saying a word to Jean — for, however artless she was in her ambition, she possessed an instinctive cunning — she had more than once visited Lavardens unknown to him. She sought to view his château and estates from a distance. Possibly in her solitary walks she had encountered Zina, who had settled herself in the district long years before. Possibly she had confided her dreams to her, discovering an ally in this old woman of her own race. Be that as it may, Zina had often said to Odette:

  “You should marry, my child.”

  But, as she gave her the advice while reading the lines of her hand, Odette had merely laughed at her.

  And now Odette was not married. Nor was Callista. Though Odette was bowling along to nobody knew what tragedy, who could say where Callista’s adventure would eventually lead her?...

  The prison cell for a number of years, and wh
en she left it — Andréa! Andréa who terrified her and would never let her go.

  But at the moment when she believed that everything was lost, the Octopus appeared in her cell to save her. She could not believe her eyes and ears. She drew herself erect, unable to speak a word, or understand what was coming.... The Octopus!... She had heard that this woman was in the pay of the police. Ought she not to be on her guard against her?

  Madame de Meyrens gathered up the garments which she had clandestinely brought with her, and hid them in Callista’s straw mattress, and quietly seated herself on the one stool in the cell. She drew a dainty cigarette-case from her pocket and offered it open to Callista.

  “Have a fag?” she asked. “You know, my poor dear Callista, we have plenty of time; as much time as I please.”

  She lighted the two cigarettes and went on:

  “You say nothing, my dear. You seem to be surprised, and I don’t wonder at it. You would like to know how I managed to get here. I won’t keep you in suspense, and you’ll see how easy it was. People say that I belong to the police. I belong to the police only when it suits me.... I use the police much more than they use me. Do you follow me?... Yes?... Well, then, I wish to save you, therefore I belong to the police. I have got all my papers in due form. I am put into your cell so as to get you to tell me things — to tell me where Odette is.”

  “Never!... Not to a living soul. Not even to save my life!”

  “I know that, of course. Calm yourself, my poor dear Callista. I am telling you that I belong to the police because I want you to trust me. I am, as they say in prisons, a police-spy, sent here to get you to give yourself away, but I shall not get you to give yourself away because I tell you I am a police-spy, but I am not a police-spy to you.”

  “I see,” said Callista, nodding her head.

  I congratulate you, my dear. With the exercise of a little willingness one can do anything, you know. I am supposed, as far as you are concerned, to be a society lady, a very dangerous museum thief, arrested this afternoon. I’ll tell you what it is,” she added, bursting out laughing, “I came to Arles to rob the Roman amphitheatre. Doesn’t it make you laugh, too? It must. And now let’s be serious.