They thought it well in view of the persistent silence on the first floor to bring out their knives.
If they could have made a bold attack they would have got the better of the fight, but they had before them a narrow wooden staircase which only permitted one person to pass up at a time, and they ran the risk of being bled one after the other like so many rabbits.
And that was why Barefoot held back the impetuous Carrots and why the Top tried to make his two men keep silent, in order to enter into negotiations with the enemy.
“Dodger please tell monsieur le Marquis that we don’t want to do him any harm. He’s our prisoner. He can’t get away from us whatever he does. Well, it’s not worth while to hurt anyone. We’ve only got to come to terms.”
Meantime Chéri-Bibi reflected that he had but three men against him, two of whom, Carrots and Barefoot, were possessed of no ordinary strength. He began, however to think that the match was becoming an equal one, unless the Kanaka had prepared some plot against him in his own particular manner the nature of which he could not guess. He quickly made up his mind.
“I’ll leave the Top to you. You must tackle him,” he told the Dodger.
“I’ll do my best monsieur le Marquis,” returned the Dodger with a shudder, for he had no liking for a fight. His courage rose only when it was absolutely necessary, and his part in the adventures of the old days consisted, in most cases, of playing the spy.
“Listen to me. I’m going to make a rush on them. You’ll have the advantage of being on your feet. But don’t waste any time.”
Voices below were taking up the refrain again.
“Monsieur le Marquis surrender,” shouted the Top, “otherwise we shall be compelled to get at you by the door and the window at the same time. You will be caught between two fires, and if you show fight we’ll have to take strong measures.”
“Thank you for the warning,” sneered Chéri-Bibi.
In a flash something tremendous fell upon the group of men, a huge massive body which knocked them backwards with its full force, scattering them in the darkness. The ruffians scrambled up, groped about and grabbed hold of each other.
The first man on his feet was Barefoot, but Chéri-Bibi at once seized him by the throat in an iron grip, and was choking the life out of him while with his free hand which held the jemmy, the hero of the “Bayard,” the king of convicts, whirled it so violently that Carrots who was trying to run him through with his knife was kept at a distance.
Realising that he could not reach the terrible fighter with his blade, Carrots leapt back and with lowered head, taking his chance, charged from the darkness at Chéri-Bibi.
The men were once more sprawling on the floor.
Chéri-Bibi and Carrots came to grips.
Meanwhile the Dodger had made an end of the Top by ripping him open before he had time to pick himself up. He did the work so thoroughly that the wretched man died almost instantaneously. The Dodger afterwards finished off Barefoot who was already half dead.
When he had completed his work he stood up holding his knife free in readiness to go to his master’s assistance.
But in spite of his good intentions the Dodger was not called upon to intervene in the giant combat which was being fought out on the floor of the dimly lit restaurant.
In truth as he watched in terror the shapeless mass of the two bodies rolling on the floor as if they were but one, the Dodger could not tell to whom the arm which was suddenly raised in the air, or the leg which was kicking out, or the shoulders which were weighing down upon the other man really belonged.
The gleam from the lamp on the mantelpiece threw a feeble and fantastic light on the last movements of the struggle.
The two men as they spun round overturned chairs, tables, glasses, bottles, everything, as if they were so many skittles.
The Dodger had no wish to be caught and perhaps struck down by the tumultuous and rebounding forces which were struggling backwards and forwards in the obscurity, and he climbed several stairs and leaning over the balusters encouraged Chéri-Bibi in a low voice advising him to show no mercy to his vicious enemy.
“Kill him Chéri-Bibi. Kill him, kill him I tell you,” he cried.
It is probable that Chéri-Bibi was nothing loth and if he had not already done so, it was not his fault.
Carrots was still defending himself.
Suddenly out of the darkness in which the fight was reaching its climax, an awful moan of pain and death went up. And then nothing more.... Silence fell.... Who had uttered that moan? The Dodger trembling with anxiety could not tell, for at the moment of death, nearly every voice and nearly every death-rattle is alike. Who was dead? Who was waiting until the other was motionless to leave go his hold and to come either to reassure the Dodger or to “do him in” in his turn?
In spite of the prolonged silence we must do the Dodger the justice to say that he entertained little doubt of his master’s victory.
“Is it over Chéri-Bibi?” he asked.
“I’m waiting to see if he’s shamming,” replied Chéri-Bibi.
But Carrots was not up to any tricks, Chéri-Bibi chanced while disporting himself on the floor, to touch the jemmy which slipped from his hand in his fall, and with rare good fortune he had driven it into Carrot’s brain by the ready made road of the eye.
Carrots was dead. Chéri-Bibi was not even wounded protected as he was from the knife by a splendid chain of mail belonging to his ancestor Marshal du Touchais, who wore it at the Battle of Argues, fighting on the side of the Duc de Mayenne against Henry IV the Huguenot king.
This strong and delicate masterpiece of the olden-time armourer’s art had attracted his attention at the time of his first visit to the Château du Touchais when he had arranged for his mother to return to it with all the honours due to her rank after the departure of the “Belle of Dieppe.” He put the chain of mail in his pocket saying to himself: “Here we have something which will be of great use in fights with cold steel.”
The event showed that he was right, but all the same he did not explain to the Dodger the secret of his invulnerability, preferring to witness his amazement as such luck and desirous not to lose prestige in the eyes of his staff.”
CHAPTER XIII
MORE SHOCKS
CHÉRI-BIBI HAVING RISEN requested the Dodger with a sigh to go and see if there was “anything else remaining to be done.”
The Dodger took the lamp from the mantelpiece and made for the battlefield, ready to give the finishing stroke to the vanquished if necessary. But he realised from the open mouths, the glazed eyes, and the absence of breathing that the three convicts were dead. The Dodger vouched for it and Chéri-Bibi turned his head.
“My dear Dodger you were very plucky.... Have a look at the two men upstairs,” said Chéri-Bibi who was a man of system but to whom subordinate tasks were always repugnant.
The Dodger’s voice was soon heard:
“Both are dead.”
“The world is well rid of them,” returned Chéri-Bibi. Thus he conferred on himself a diploma of good citizenship which was intended if needs be to pacify a possible feeling of remorse.
“At all events dead men tell no tales,” said the Dodger who certainly was possessed with a hatred of gossipers. “It’s all the better even if they knew nothing of your secret for they knew mine. We must regret, monsieur le Marquis, that the infamous Kanaka is not included in the picture.”
Chéri-Bibi who had rejoined his lieutenant on the first floor did not deign to smile at the bold cynicism of the phrase.
“Let’s be off Dodger. We may have a chat to-morrow morning. There’s nothing more to be done.”
“I’ve known the time when you would have shown much more curiosity” said the Dodger.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that nothing presses since the Countess is no longer waiting for us at “The Fronds,” and we’ve got plenty of time to have a look upstairs where that red blood comes from, and also to see if by any chance the
Kanaka is hiding in the roof.”
“Perhaps you’re right, but I’m very tired” sighed Chéri-Bibi.
“Oh you can stand a lot yet” objected the Dodger in a tone of the basest flattery, “and I feel certain that one good blow from your shoulders is all that is needed to break in this door which leads upstairs.”
“I’m afraid of some trap.”
“Monsieur le Marquis, after seeing you just now on the job, I’m only afraid of one thing, which is that we may be leaving the place without going to the assistance of a poor woman upstairs who is perhaps dying on your account.”
“What you say shows that you’ve got a good heart Dodger, but I can’t forget that it was that woman who lured me here by her clever lying.”
“I don’t agree with you. She was in love with you. It was she who was deceived. The Kanaka must have known that she was in sympathy with you. He said to himself: ‘If I tell her the story that the will is in the writing-table in the restaurant she will repeat it to the Marquis who will go there and hunt for it.’ If you ask me, that’s the whole story.”
“Upon my word, what you say is quite likely.”
“And what is even more likely is that the poor woman learning at the last moment that the will was somewhere else, realised that she had been fooled and feared they were setting a trap for you. She must have hastened here determined to thwart their schemes. And the Kanaka killed her... listen, monsieur le Marquis, listen... She is gasping again upstairs. The blood has stopped dripping but she is still moaning. Perhaps she is conscious... So let’s make up our minds what to do” said the Dodger, amazed at his master’s inaction.
“Of course it’s not very cheerful work to carry on a conversation with dead bodies around us, so whatever we do let’s do it quickly, and get away from this place as soon as we can “said Chéri-Bibi.
“Come on, give a good blow with your shoulder. We may get up to the poor thing in time for her to tell us, if she really knows, where the will is.”
“Well, go ahead, but bear in mind Dodger, that up to now I’ve never had any luck when murder has been done and when I’ve been found by the police near the dead bodies.”
“Oh monsieur listen... listen.”
The Dodger pointed to the ceiling. The sound of painful gasping could still be heard, and the blood again began to drip.
“God help us!” exclaimed the Marquis, using the favourite expression of sailors when they venture upon some desperate manoeuvre in a storm, and he threw himself against the door.
The door gave way and the two men reached the upper floor in a bound. The Dodger opened a door in which the key had been left outside, and in the moonlight they beheld a body lying on the floor. A low wail went up from it.
“Bring your lantern” ordered Chéri-Bibi.
The Dodger had to go downstairs to fetch it. When he returned he found his master bending over a woman whose head he was supporting. It was the Countess in her death agony. Her throat and breast had been stabbed with a knife.
“Oh the poor thing, the poor thing” groaned Chéri-Bibi. “Who could have had the cruelty to treat her like this? If it’s the Kanaka, I’ll avenge her... I’ll avenge her.”
The Dodger threw the beams of the lantern over the awful spectacle. The room was in disorder. The Countess had obviously endeavoured to defend herself, and later when her enemies left her for dead, had managed to drag herself to the desk, and with a hand covered with blood leaving traces everywhere, to find a sheet of paper, and write in letters of blood those last words to Chéri-Bibi; the final memory of herself that she left him, longing with the last strength of her dying soul for her words to reach him and show that she had not betrayed him.
The Dodger found a basin and water, moistened a towel, and wrapped it round the poor woman’s head, and she opened her eyes. Death had already imparted a glassy stare to them. Nevertheless she must have recognised Chéri-Bibi for her wan lips were touched by the flicker of a sad smile.
He remembered that she had saved his life once before, had loved him, and that he had never shown her the slightest affection, and bending over her he pressed a kiss upon her forehead.
Her face seemed to light up, her eyes opened wider and recovered a last gleam, her lips moved and she breathed a name... And then after a pause and a supreme effort another name.
Chéri-Bibi thought of “gime” the last syllable on the bloodstained letter.
“Maître Régime” he cried, “The will is with Maître Régime... Countess, I swear that I will avenge you.”
But she could no longer hear him. She was dead.
After climbing to the roof, inspecting all the rooms, and making sure that they were leaving nothing behind them but dead bodies, Chéri-Bibi and the Dodger carefully opened the front door, which was locked on the inside, and looked out on to the quay through the arcades. Not a soul was outside. The rain had started to fall again, offering them the protection of its kindly screen.
Less than an hour later they reached the Villa on the Cliff without meeting any untoward adventure. They cast off their old rags and hid them where they knew they could find them in a hole which they covered with stones, for they anticipated that they would need them again. They had worked hard enough for one night and deserved a rest.
The Marquis himself slept until eleven o’clock when he rang for his valet. He learnt that someone had come that morning from the Dowager Marchioness to fetch Cecily since the former, had suffered a relapse. Dr. Walter was in attendance on her.
“Are you certain?” enquired Chéri-Bibi, amazed at the man’s effrontery. “Are you certain that Dr. Walter is at the Château?”
“Quite certain monsieur le Marquis. I myself went to fetch him.”
“Very well. Let me dress.”
“Do you wish me to assist you monsieur le Marquis?”
“No, you clear out.”
Chéri-Bibi for reasons known to himself invariably dressed alone, and had no need of his valet to help him with his shirt.
Ten minutes later he descended to the hall and was on the point of leaving the house when two unshaven gentlemen appeared, hat in hand.
“Are you the Marquis du Touchais?”
“Yes, what do you want with me?”
“We are detective officers, monsieur le Marquis, and our orders are not to allow you to leave your house.” Chéri-Bibi grew white and retreated to the far end of the hall.
“Who gave those orders?” he had the strength to articulate mastering by an immense effort of will the terrible agitation which was suffocating him.
“Detective Inspector Costaud himself, monsieur le Marquis. Besides he will he here almost at once and will give you the necessary information.”
“Very well gentlemen. I’ll return to the drawing room.” And he disappeared shutting the door in their faces.
As soon as he reached the room he collapsed, and said in a smothered voice:
“It’s all up with me.”
Meanwhile Costaud was on his way. He hadn’t a moment to lose. The window was open. He thought he might scurry away and escape across country. He leapt forward and was getting ready to bestride the window when a form rose up before him coming from the garden.
“Good morning, monsieur le Marquis.”
It was Costaud.
CHAPTER XIV
ONE MORE EFFORT
CHÉRI-BIBI WAS STILL in a state of great excitement when Detective Inspector Costaud who came to him in the drawing room apologised for the liberty that he had taken in keeping him under observation.
“Monsieur le Marquis” explained this honest detective, “I did not wish you to leave your house this morning without being warned of the danger that hangs over you. A murder or rather a series of murders have been brought to light in Dieppe. Chéri-Bibi has returned!”
The Marquis raised to the worthy Costaud a face whose pallor was pitiful to see, and the detective did not fail to attribute to the ominous news of which he was the bearer, the agitation of which h
e was very far from suspecting the real cause.
The Marquis, however, after uttering a deep sigh seemed to recover from his sudden alarm. Costaud helped him to feel better by promising him, for his protection, the devoted assistance of his men. Costaud was literally beaming. An extraordinary delight shone upon his features, usually rather frigid. But since the event had proved only too clearly that he was right, no one could bear him malice for showing somewhat improperly his joy in his triumph. He had always said that the notorious Chéri-Bibi was not dead and would be heard of again. And now the murderer of M. Bourrelier and the old Marquis du Touchais had appeared once more on the scene of his early exploits!
“How reckless” the Marquis could not refrain from observing. “Doesn’t he know Monsieur Costaud, that you are here?”
“That’s a detail” returned the elated Costaud in no way disconcerted. “That’s a detail which did not deter him since he knew that he would have the pleasure of meeting you here.”
The Marquis cast a sidelong glance at Costaud fearing lest he was jesting, but the Detective-Inspector was never more serious. Moreover he at once explained himself.
“It’s you, monsieur le Marquis, who are most threatened in this business. There’s no doubt that the wretches have returned to these parts with the object, in the main, of extorting another little million out of you. The gang with whom you had to do on the “Bayard” were not exterminated as people were pleased to say.”
“Are you sure that Chéri-Bibi is with them?”
“Yes, monsieur le Marquis. He brought back a certain Little Buddha with him and those other flowers among convicts the Toper, Barefoot, Carrots and the Top. You need have no concern about them. They were murdered last night.”
“Murdered!... Who committed the deed, Monsieur Costaud?”
“In my opinion, Chéri-Bibi himself. Their bodies were found in the restaurant in the harbour which Little Buddha had rented — under a false name of course. It was there, no doubt, that they were going to carry out their scheme which would have placed you in their power, because we found on them certain papers in which mention is made of a trap laid for you, and we saw a card in a writing table bearing an odd inscription in Little Buddha’s handwriting in which he presents his compliments to you, and this, everything considered, must be regarded as a threat.”
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 179