The Third Mystery

by James Holding

  “It has something to do with the sealed orders Aunt Martha left with you,” Tommy Nast said eagerly.

  “That’s right, Tommy. That envelope contained the evidence which would have convicted the murderer of James Burnett. The murderer knew the envelope existed. How? I didn’t tell him. The only other person who knew about it was Martha Nast. So—she told the murderer and had a reason for doing so. As long as the envelope was in existence, the murderer couldn’t wipe out Burnett. Mrs. Nast simply held him in check that way.

  “Her death was from natural causes, but it was also the trigger which set this whole series of events off. Because when she died, she released Burnett from any promises he made, and forced the murderer’s hand. He had to get possession of that letter before I opened it.

  “The murderer knew of Mrs. Nast’s death long before anyone else did—except for a maid who worked at the Nast home. She was installed there by the killer to check on Mrs. Nast and to advise him at once if she was dead or in danger of dying. When he received the message of her death, he acted at once. He summoned me to the dinner party which, as luck had it, was already arranged for.”

  “But why?” Willis Lally asked.

  “Because he wanted to tell me, himself, that James Burnett had been murdered. He knew I’d go at once to whatever hiding place I kept the letter and he wanted to find it. By some trick or other he obtained a key to my office. He fixed the window shade so it could not be lowered and watched me take the letter from its place of safe keeping. He merely observed everything I did from an office across the court.

  “Later, he visited my office, fixed the shade so it would work again. He got the letter from an ordinary steel filing cabinet which could be opened without too much trouble. He had lots of time. He unlocked the steel box I kept the letter in too, removed it and steamed it open. Perhaps in the privacy of his own home. He had all night to do it.

  “Then he put into the envelope, so I’d never know just when it had been looted, some pages from a poultry catalogue. Very well. Before coming to the dinner, he killed Burnett and arranged to frame his wife for the killing. That would involve Tommy. Are you following me, Mr. Manning?”

  Manning nodded coldly. “I’m beginning to think I shall be accused of killing Burnett and robbing your strong box.

  “Yes, I’m accusing you now. The maid who tipped you off used to work at your factory and you brought her to Mrs. Nast. You did not receive a poultry catalogue, that’s true, but in your apartment house the mail boxes aren’t too big. Things like catalogues are merely stuffed into the slot of the mailboxes.”

  “Naturally,” Manning said with heavy sarcasm, “you will have to prove this.”

  “I intend to. Your alibi for the time prior to the murder of Burnett is wishy-washy, but no more so than the alibis of Tommy and Willis. You claim to have been at your office. If you were, why are you afraid to show us that wire? It’s from one of your best customers and takes you to task for not being around when they telephoned. At eight-fifteen. About the time when Burnett was killed.”

  Manning tried to destroy the wire, but Willis and Tommy landed on him heavily. Reed took the telegram out of his hand.

  “It isn’t important anyway,” he chuckled, “because one of my clerks sent it. I wanted to find out if Manning could or could not afford to show evidence he hadn’t been at the office. However, the main clue which impelled me to suspect Manning was this. The murderer must have been extremely busy after our dinner party broke up. For the time of the killing, he made as sure as he could of having an alibi, but for afterwards he never thought he’d have to account.”

  “Why did he kill Burnett?” Tommy asked. “Was it about that fight they had a couple of years ago? Aunt Martha had to enter the squabble. Burnett had developed something—a product which would make a lot of money after the war. Until restrictions were lifted, the stuff couldn’t be manufactured, but Burnett wanted rights to it. There was a grand blowup. Aunt Martha told Burnett to go into business for himself and leave Manning.”

  Reed sighed. “There is your motive, the one thing I lacked. I sensed it would be something like that. Burnett had a money-maker and Manning wanted it. Martha Nast knew he’d probably kill to get it and keep Burnett from manufacturing the stuff. Hence, her sealed orders to me which held Manning in check. Tommy, will you telephone the police!”

  FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW, by Maurice LeBlanc

  Taken from The Eight Strokes of the Clock.

  To Prince Serge Rénine,

  Boulevard Haussmann,

  Paris

  LA RONCIÈRE

  NEAR BASSICOURT,

  14 NOVEMBER.

  “MY DEAR FRIEND—

  “You must be thinking me very ungrateful. I have been here three weeks; and you have had not one letter from me! Not a word of thanks! And yet I ended by realizing from what terrible death you saved me and understanding the secret of that terrible business! But indeed, indeed I couldn’t help it! I was in such a state of prostration after it all! I needed rest and solitude so badly! Was I to stay in Paris? Was I to continue my expeditions with you? No, no, no! I had had enough adventures! Other people’s are very interesting, I admit. But when one is one’s self the victim and barely escapes with one’s life?… Oh, my dear friend, how horrible it was! Shall I ever forget it?…

  “Here, at la Roncière, I enjoy the greatest peace. My old spinster cousin Ermelin pets and coddles me like an invalid. I am getting back my colour and am very well, physically…so much so, in fact, that I no longer ever think of interesting myself in other people’s business. Never again! For instance (I am only telling you this because you are incorrigible, as inquisitive as any old charwoman, and always ready to busy yourself with things that don’t concern you), yesterday I was present at a rather curious meeting. Antoinette had taken me to the inn at Bassicourt, where we were having tea in the public room, among the peasants (it was market-day), when the arrival of three people, two men and a woman, caused a sudden pause in the conversation.

  “One of the men was a fat farmer in a long blouse, with a jovial, red face, framed in white whiskers. The other was younger, was dressed in corduroy and had lean, yellow, cross-grained features. Each of them carried a gun slung over his shoulder. Between them was a short, slender young woman, in a brown cloak and a fur cap, whose rather thin and extremely pale face was surprisingly delicate and distinguished-looking.

  “‘Father, son and daughter-in-law,’ whispered my cousin.

  “‘What! Can that charming creature be the wife of that clod-hopper?’

  “‘And the daughter-in-law of Baron de Gorne.’

  “‘Is the old fellow over there a baron?’

  “‘Yes, descended from a very ancient, noble family which used to own the château in the old days. He has always lived like a peasant: a great hunter, a great drinker, a great litigant, always at law with somebody, now very nearly ruined. His son Mathias was more ambitious and less attached to the soil and studied for the bar. Then he went to America. Next, the lack of money brought him back to the village, whereupon he fell in love with a young girl in the nearest town. The poor girl consented, no one knows why, to marry him; and for five years past she has been leading the life of a hermit, or rather of a prisoner, in a little manor-house close by, the Manoir-au-Puits, the Well Manor.’

  “‘With the father and the son?’ I asked.

  “‘No, the father lives at the far end of the village, on a lonely farm.’

  “‘And is Master Mathias jealous?’

  “‘A perfect tiger!’

  “‘Without reason?’

  “‘Without reason, for Natalie de Gorne is the straightest woman in the world and it is not her fault if a handsome young man has been hanging around the manor-house for the past few months. However, the de Gornes can’t get over it.’

  “‘What, the father neither?’

  “‘The handsome young man is the last descendant of the people who bought the château long ago. This explai
ns old de Gorne’s hatred. Jérôme Vignal—I know him and am very fond of him—is a good-looking fellow and very well off; and he has sworn to run off with Natalie de Gorne. It’s the old man who says so, whenever he has had a drop too much. There, listen!’

  “The old chap was sitting among a group of men who were amusing themselves by making him drink and plying him with questions. He was already a little bit ‘on’ and was holding forth with a tone of indignation and a mocking smile which formed the most comic contrast:

  “‘He’s wasting his time, I tell you, the coxcomb! It’s no manner of use his poaching round our way and making sheep’s-eyes at the wench.… The coverts are watched! If he comes too near, it means a bullet, eh, Mathias?’

  “He gripped his daughter-in-law’s hand:

  “‘And then the little wench knows how to defend herself too,’ he chuckled. ‘Eh, you don’t want any admirers, do you Natalie?’

  “The young wife blushed, in her confusion at being addressed in these terms, while her husband growled:

  “‘You’d do better to hold your tongue, father. There are things one doesn’t talk about in public.’

  “‘Things that affect one’s honour are best settled in public,’ retorted the old one. ‘Where I’m concerned, the honour of the de Gornes comes before everything; and that fine spark, with his Paris airs, sha’n’t.…’

  “He stopped short. Before him stood a man who had just come in and who seemed to be waiting for him to finish his sentence. The newcomer was a tall, powerfully-built young fellow, in riding-kit, with a hunting-crop in his hand. His strong and rather stern face was lighted up by a pair of fine eyes in which shone an ironical smile.

  “‘Jérôme Vignal,’ whispered my cousin.

  “The young man seemed not at all embarrassed. On seeing Natalie, he made a low bow; and, when Mathias de Gorne took a step forward, he eyed him from head to foot, as though to say:

  “‘Well, what about it?’

  “And his attitude was so haughty and contemptuous that the de Gornes unslung their guns and took them in both hands, like sportsmen about to shoot. The son’s expression was very fierce.

  “Jérôme was quite unmoved by the threat. After a few seconds, turning to the inn-keeper, he remarked:

  “‘Oh, I say! I came to see old Vasseur. But his shop is shut. Would you mind giving him the holster of my revolver? It wants a stitch or two.’

  “He handed the holster to the inn-keeper and added, laughing:

  “‘I’m keeping the revolver, in case I need it. You never can tell!’

  “Then, still very calmly, he took a cigarette from a silver case, lit it and walked out. We saw him through the window vaulting on his horse and riding off at a slow trot.

  “Old de Gorne tossed off a glass of brandy, swearing most horribly.

  “His son clapped his hand to the old man’s mouth and forced him to sit down. Natalie de Gorne was weeping beside them.…

  “That’s my story, dear friend. As you see, it’s not tremendously interesting and does not deserve your attention. There’s no mystery in it and no part for you to play. Indeed, I particularly insist that you should not seek a pretext for any untimely interference. Of course, I should be glad to see the poor thing protected: she appears to be a perfect martyr. But, as I said before, let us leave other people to get out of their own troubles and go no farther with our little experiments.…

  * * * *

  Rénine finished reading the letter, read it over again and ended by saying:

  “That’s it. Everything’s right as right can be. She doesn’t want to continue our little experiments, because this would make the seventh and because she’s afraid of the eighth, which under the terms of our agreement has a very particular significance. She doesn’t want to…and she does want to…without seeming to want to.”

  He rubbed his hands. The letter was an invaluable witness to the influence which he had gradually, gently and patiently gained over Hortense Daniel. It betrayed a rather complex feeling, composed of admiration, unbounded confidence, uneasiness at times, fear and almost terror, but also love: he was convinced of that. His companion in adventures which she shared with a good fellowship that excluded any awkwardness between them, she had suddenly taken fright; and a sort of modesty, mingled with a certain coquetry; was impelling her to hold back.

  That very evening, Sunday, Rénine took the train.

  And, at break of day, after covering by diligence, on a road white with snow, the five miles between the little town of Pompignat, where he alighted, and the village of Bassicourt, he learnt that his journey might prove of some use: three shots had been heard during the night in the direction of the Manoir-au-Puits.

  “Three shots, sergeant. I heard them as plainly as I see you standing before me,” said a peasant whom the gendarmes were questioning in the parlour of the inn which Rénine had entered.

  “So did I,” said the waiter. “Three shots. It may have been twelve o’clock at night. The snow, which had been falling since nine, had stopped…and the shots sounded across the fields, one after the other: bang, bang, bang.”

  Five more peasants gave their evidence. The sergeant and his men had heard nothing, because the police-station backed on the fields. But a farm-labourer and a woman arrived, who said that they were in Mathias de Gorne’s service, that they had been away for two days because of the intervening Sunday and that they had come straight from the manor-house, where they were unable to obtain admission:

  “The gate of the grounds is locked, sergeant,” said the man. “It’s the first time I’ve known this to happen. M. Mathias comes out to open it himself, every morning at the stroke of six, winter and summer. Well, it’s past eight now. I called and shouted. Nobody answered. So we came on here.”

  “You might have enquired at old M. de Gorne’s,” said the sergeant. “He lives on the high-road.”

  “On my word, so I might! I never thought of that.”

  “We’d better go there now,” the sergeant decided. Two of his men went with him, as well as the peasants and a locksmith whose services were called into requisition. Rénine joined the party.

  Soon, at the end of the village, they reached old de Gorne’s farmyard, which Rénine recognized by Hortense’s description of its position.

  The old fellow was harnessing his horse and trap. When they told him what had happened, he burst out laughing:

  “Three shots? Bang, bang, bang? Why, my dear sergeant, there are only two barrels to Mathias’ gun!”

  “What about the locked gate?”

  “It means that the lad’s asleep, that’s all. Last night, he came and cracked a bottle with me…perhaps two…or even three; and he’ll be sleeping it off, I expect…he and Natalie.”

  He climbed on to the box of his trap—an old cart with a patched tilt—and cracked his whip:

  “Good-bye, gentlemen all. Those three shots of yours won’t stop me from going to market at Pompignat, as I do every Monday. I’ve a couple of calves under the tilt; and they’re just fit for the butcher. Good-day to you!”

  The others walked on. Rénine went up to the sergeant and gave him his name:

  “I’m a friend of Mlle. Ermelin, of La Roncière; and, as it’s too early to call on her yet, I shall be glad if you’ll allow me to go round by the manor with you. Mlle. Ermelin knows Madame de Gorne; and it will be a satisfaction to me to relieve her mind, for there’s nothing wrong at the manor-house, I hope?”

  “If there is,” replied the sergeant, “we shall read all about it as plainly as on a map, because of the snow.”

  He was a likable young man and seemed smart and intelligent. From the very first he had shown great acuteness in observing the tracks which Mathias had left behind him, the evening before, on returning home, tracks which soon became confused with the footprints made in going and coming by the farm-labourer and the woman. Meanwhile they came to the walls of a property of which the locksmith readily opened the gate.

  From here
onward, a single trail appeared upon the spotless snow, that of Mathias; and it was easy to perceive that the son must have shared largely in the father’s libations, as the line of footprints described sudden curves which made it swerve right up to the trees of the avenue.

  Two hundred yards farther stood the dilapidated two-storeyed building of the Manoir-au-Puits. The principal door was open.

  “Let’s go in,” said the sergeant.

  And, the moment he had crossed the threshold, he muttered:

  “Oho! Old de Gorne made a mistake in not coming. They’ve been fighting in here.”

  The big room was in disorder. Two shattered chairs, the overturned table and much broken glass and china bore witness to the violence of the struggle. The tall clock, lying on the ground, had stopped at twenty past eleven.

  With the farm-girl showing them the way, they ran up to the first floor. Neither Mathias nor his wife was there. But the door of their bedroom had been broken down with a hammer which they discovered under the bed.

  Rénine and the sergeant went downstairs again. The living-room had a passage communicating with the kitchen, which lay at the back of the house and opened on a small yard fenced off from the orchard. At the end of this enclosure was a well near which one was bound to pass.

  Now, from the door of the kitchen to the well, the snow, which was not very thick, had been pressed down to this side and that, as though a body had been dragged over it. And all around the well were tangled traces of trampling feet, showing that the struggle must have been resumed at this spot. The sergeant again discovered Mathias’ footprints, together with others which were shapelier and lighter.

  These latter went straight into the orchard, by themselves. And, thirty yards on, near the footprints, a revolver was picked up and recognized by one of the peasants as resembling that which Jérôme Vignal had produced in the inn two days before.