The slow train from Luchon was drawing near its Paris terminus and the travellers were all making hasty toilettes and tidying themselves up after their long night journey. Just, however, as it was approaching the goods station it slowed down and stopped. The passengers, surprised, put their heads out of the windows, to ascertain the reason for the unexpected delay, hazarding various conjectures but unanimous in their vituperation of the company.
Three men were walking slowly along the line, looking carefully at every door. Two were porters, and they were manifesting the most respectful attention to everything the third man said: he was a grave individual, very correctly attired.
“Look there, sir,” one of the porters exclaimed; “there is a door where the safety catch has either been undone or not fastened; that is the only one on the train.”
“That is so,” said the gentleman, and grasping the handle he opened the door of the compartment and got in. Two travellers were busy strapping up their bags, and they turned round in simultaneous surprise.
“You will pardon me, gentlemen, when you know who I am,” said the intruder, and throwing open his coat he showed his tricolour scarf. “I have to make enquiry relative to a dead body that has been found on the line near Bretigny; it probably fell from this train, and perhaps from this compartment, for I have just observed that the safety catch is not fastened. Where did you get into the train?”
The two passengers looked at one another in astonishment.
“What a dreadful thing!” one of them exclaimed. “Why, sir, to-night, while my friend here and I were asleep, one of our fellow-travellers did disappear. I made a remark about it, but this gentleman very reasonably pointed out that he must have got out at some station while we were asleep.”
The official was keenly interested.
“What was this passenger like?”
“Quite easily recognised, sir; a man of about sixty, rather stout, and wearing whiskers.”
“That tallies with the description. Might he have been a butler or a steward?”
“That is exactly what he looked like.”
“Then that must be the man whose body has been found upon the line. But I do not know whether it is to be regarded as a case of suicide or of murder, for some hand baggage has been picked up as well: a suicide would not have thrown his luggage out, and a thief would not have wanted to get rid of it.”
The passenger who had not yet spoken, broke in.
“You are wrong, sir; at any rate all his luggage was not thrown on to the line,” and he pointed to the bundle left upon the seat. “I thought that belonged to the gentleman here, but he has just told me it isn’t his.”
The official rapidly unfastened the straps and started back.
“Hullo! A bottle of liquid carbonic acid! Now what does that mean?” He looked at it. “Did this bundle belong to the man who disappeared?”
The two passengers shook their heads.
“I don’t think so,” one of them said; “I should certainly have noticed that Scotch rug; but I did not see it.”
“Then there was a fourth passenger in this compartment?” the official enquired.
“No, we travelled alone,” said one of the men, but the other dissented.
“It is very odd, and I am not sure about it, but I really am wondering whether someone did not get into our compartment last night while we were asleep. I have a vague impression that someone did, but I can’t be sure.”
“Do try to remember, sir,” the official urged him; “it is of the very highest importance.”
But the passenger shook his shoulders doubtfully.
“No, I really can’t say anything definite; and, besides, I have a shocking headache.”
The official was silent for a minute or two.
“In my opinion, gentlemen, you have been uncommonly lucky to escape murder yourselves. I do not quite understand yet how the murder was done, but I incline to think it proves almost incredible daring. However——” He stopped and put his head out of the window. “You can send the train on now,” he called to a porter, and resumed: “However, I must ask you to accompany me to the stationmaster’s office and give me your names and addresses, and to help me afterwards in the conduct of the legal investigation.”
The two travellers looked at one another in distressed surprise.
“It is really appalling,” said one of them; “you’re not safe anywhere nowadays.”
“You really aren’t,” the other agreed. “Such a number of awful murders and crimes are being perpetrated every day that you would think not one, but a dozen Fantômas were at work!”
XXVII. THREE SURPRISING INCIDENTS
Nibet went off duty at five in the morning, and returned to his own home to go to bed. As a general rule he slept like a top, after a night on duty, but on this occasion he could not close an eye, being far too uneasy about the consequences of his co-operation in Gurn’s escape.
A few minutes before six in the evening he had taken advantage of no warders being about to slip Gurn from cell number 127 into number 129, whence he could make his way to the roof. At six, when he actually came on duty, Nibet opened the peephole in the door of number 127, as he did in all the others, and saw that Gurn had made an admirable dummy figure in the bed: it was so good that it even deceived a head warder who made a single rapid inspection of all the cells when Nibet was on one of his several rounds during the night. Obviously Guru must have got clear away from the prison, for if he had been caught it would certainly have become generally known.
These reflections somewhat comforted the restless man, but he knew that the most difficult part of his task was still before him: the difficulty of simulating astonishment and distress when he should get back to the prison presently and be told by his fellow-warders of the prisoner’s escape, and the difficulty of answering in a natural manner to the close interrogation to which he would be subjected by the governor and the police, and possibly even M. Fuselier, who would be in a fine rage when he learned that his captive had escaped him. Nibet meant to pretend ignorance and even stupidity. He would far rather be called a fool, than found out to be a knave and an accomplice.
About half-past eleven Nibet got up; Gurn’s escape must certainly be known at the prison by this time. The warder on duty would have gone to the cell about seven to wake the prisoner, and though nothing might have been detected then, the cell would infallibly have been found to be empty at eight o’clock, when the morning broth was taken round. And then——
As he walked from his home round to the prison, Nibet met the gang of masons coming out for dinner; he crossed the street towards them, hoping to hear some news, but they passed by him in silence, one or two of them giving a careless nod or word of greeting; at first Nibet took their silence for a bad sign, thinking they might have been warned to give him no alarm, but he reflected that if Gurn’s escape were discovered, as it surely must be, the authorities would probably prefer not to let the matter become widely known.
As he reached the porter’s lodge his heart beat violently. What would old Morin have to tell him? But old Morin was very busy trying to make his kitchen fire burn properly instead of sending all the smoke pouring out into the room; the old man’s slovenly figure was just visible in a clearing in the smoke, and he returned Nibet’s salutation with nothing more than a silent salute.
“That’s funny!” thought Nibet, and he passed through the main courtyard towards the clerks’ offices at the end. Through the windows he could see the staff, a few bending over their work, most of them reading newspapers, none of them obviously interested in anything special. Next he presented himself before the warders’ turnkey, and again he was allowed to pass on without a word.
By this time Gurn’s accomplice was in a state of such nervous tension that he could hardly restrain himself from catching hold of one or other of the warders whom he saw at their work, and asking them questions. How could the escape of so important a prisoner as the man who had murdered Lord Beltham cr
eate so little excitement as this? Nibet longed to rush up the flights of stairs to number 127 and interrogate the warder who had gone on duty after himself, and whom he was now about to relieve in turn. He must surely know all about it. But it would not do to create suspicion, and Nibet had sufficient self-control left to go upstairs at his usual leisurely pace. Outwardly calm and steady, he reached his post just as the clock was striking twelve; he was ever punctuality itself, and he was due on duty at noon.
“Well, Colas,” he said to his colleague, “here I am; you can go now.”
“Good!” said the warder. “I’ll be off at once. I’m on again at six to-night,” and he moved away.
“Everything all right?” Nibet enquired, in a tone he tried to make as casual as possible, but that trembled a little nevertheless.
“Quite,” said Colas, perfectly naturally, and he went away.
Nibet could contain himself no longer, and the next second he threw caution to the winds: rushing to Gurn’s cell he flung the door open.
Gurn was there, sitting on the foot of his bed with his legs crossed and a note-book on his knees, making notes with the quietest attention: he scarcely appeared to notice Nibet’s violent invasion.
“Oh! So you are there?” stammered the astonished warder.
Gurn raised his head and looked at the warder with a cryptic gaze.
“Yes, I’m here.”
All manner of notions crowded through Nibet’s brain, but he could find words for none of them. Had the plot been discovered before Gurn had had time to get away, or had a trap been laid for himself through the medium of one of the prisoners to test his own incorruptibility? Nibet went white, and leaned against the wall for support. At last Gurn spoke again, reassuring him with a smile.
“Don’t look so miserable,” he said. “I am here. That is a matter of absolutely no importance. We will suppose that nothing passed between us yesterday, and—that’s an end to it.”
“So you haven’t gone, you didn’t go?” said Nibet again.
“No,” Gurn replied; “since you are so interested, all I need say is that I was afraid to risk it at the last minute.”
Nibet had cast a keen and experienced eye all over the cell; under the washstand he saw the little bundle of clothes which he had brought the prisoner the previous day. He rightly opined that the first thing to do was to remove these dangerous articles, whose presence in Gurn’s cell would appear very suspicious if they happened to be discovered. He took the bundle and was hurriedly stowing it away under his own clothes, when he uttered an exclamation of surprise; the things were wet, and he knew from his own experience that the rain had never ceased throughout the whole of the night.
“Gurn,” he said reproachfully, “you are up to some trick! These things are soaked. You must have gone out last night, or these things would not be like this.”
Gurn smiled sympathetically at the warder.
“Not so bad!” he remarked; “that’s pretty good reasoning for a mere gaoler.” And as Nibet was about to press the matter, Gurn anticipated his questions, and made frank confession. “Well, yes, I did try to get out,—got as far as the clerk’s office last evening, but at the last minute I funked it, and went back on to the roof. But when I got into number 129 again I found I could not get back into my own cell, for, as you know, 129 was locked outside; so to avoid detection I returned to the roof and spent the night there; at daybreak I took advantage of the little disturbance caused by the workmen coming in, and slipped down from the roof just as they were going up. As soon as I found myself on this floor I ran along this corridor and slipped into my cell. When your friend Colas brought me my broth he did not notice that my cell was unlocked,—and there you are!”
The explanation was not altogether convincing, but Nibet listened to it and pondered the situation. On the whole, it was much better that things should be as they were, but the warder was wondering how the great lady, who paid so mighty well, might take the matter. She most certainly had not promised so large a sum of money, nor paid the good round sum of ten thousand francs down in advance, merely in order that Gurn might have a little walk upon the tiles. What was to be done with regard to that personage? With much ingenuousness Nibet confided his anxiety to the prisoner, who laughed.
“It’s not all over yet,” he declared. “Indeed, it is only just beginning. What if we only wanted to test you, and prove your quality? Make your mind easy, Nibet. If Guru is in prison at the present moment it is because he has his own reasons for being there. But who is able to predict the future?”
It was time for Gurn to go to the exercise yard, and Nibet, reassuming the uncompromising attitude that all warders ought to maintain when in custody of prisoners, led the murderer down to the courtyard.
In his office at the Law Courts, M. Fuselier was having a private interview with Juve, and listening with much interest to what the clever detective inspector was saying to him.
“I tell you again, sir, I attach great importance to the finding of this ordnance map in Gurn’s rooms.”
“Yes?” said M. Fuselier, with a touch of scepticism.
“And I will tell you why,” Juve went on. “About a year ago, when I was engaged on the case of the murder of the Marquise de Langrune at her château of Beaulieu, down in Lot, I found a small piece of a map showing the district in which I was at the time. I took it to M. de Presles, the magistrate who was conducting the enquiry. He attached no importance to it, and I myself could not see at the time that it gave us any new evidence.”
“Quite so,” said M. Fuselier. “There is nothing particularly remarkable in finding a map, or a piece of a map, showing a district, in the district itself.”
“Those are M. de Presles’ very words to me,” said Juve with a smile. “And I will give you the same answer I gave him, namely, that if some day we could find the other portion of the map which completed the first piece we found, and could identify the owner of the two portions, there would then be a formal basis on which to proceed to base an argument.”
“Proceed to base it,” M. Fuselier suggested.
“That’s very easy,” said Juve. “The fragment of map numbered 1, found at Beaulieu, belongs to X. I do not know who X is; but in Paris, in Gurn’s rooms, I find the fragment of map numbered 2, which belongs to Gurn. If it turns out, as I expect, that the two fragments of map, when placed together, form a single and complete whole, I shall conclude logically that X, who was the owner of fragment number 1, is the same as the owner of fragment number 2, to wit, Gurn.”
“How are you going to find out?” enquired M. Fuselier.
“It is in order to find it out that we have sent for Dollon,” Juve replied. “He was steward to the late Marquise de Langrune, and has all the circumstantial evidence relating to that case. If he has still got the fragment of map, it will be simplicity itself to prove what I have suggested, and perhaps to make the identification I suggest.”
“Yes,” said M. Fuselier, “but if you do succeed, will it be of really great importance in your opinion? Will you be able to infer from that one fact that Gurn and the man who murdered the Marquise de Langrune are one and the same person? Is not that going rather far? Especially as, if I remember rightly, it was proved that the murderer in that case was the son of a M. Rambert, and this young Rambert committed suicide after the crime?”
Juve evaded the issue.
“Well, we shall see,” was all he said.
The magistrate’s clerk came into the room and unceremoniously interrupted the conversation.
“It has gone two, sir,” he said. “There are some prisoners to examine, and a whole lot of witnesses,” and he placed two bulky bundles of papers before the magistrate and waited for a sign to call the various persons, free or otherwise, whom the magistrate had to see.
The first bundle caught Juve’s attention. It was endorsed “Royal Palace Hotel Case.”
“Anything new about the robbery from Mme. Van den Rosen and Princess Sonia Danidoff?” he enquir
ed, and as the magistrate shook his head, he added, “Are you going to examine Muller now?”
“Yes,” said the magistrate; “at once.”
“And after that you are to examine Gurn, aren’t you, in connection with the Beltham case?”
“Quite so.”
“I wish you would oblige me by confronting the two men here, in my presence.”
M. Fuselier looked up in surprise: he could not see what connection there could be between the two utterly dissimilar cases. What object could Juve have in wanting the man who had murdered Lord Beltham to be confronted with the unimportant little hotel servant who had really been arrested rather as a concession to public opinion than because he was actually deemed capable of burglary or attempted burglary? Might not Juve, with his known mania for associating all crimes with each other, be going just a little too far in the present instance?
“You have got some idea in the back of your head?” said M. Fuselier.
“I’ve got a—a scar in the palm of my hand,” Juve answered with a smile, and as the magistrate confessed that he failed to understand, Juve enlightened him. “We know that the man who did that robbery at the Royal Palace Hotel burned his hand badly when he was cutting the electric wires in the Princess’s bathroom. Well, a few weeks ago, while I was on the look out for someone with a scar from such a wound, I was told of a man who was prowling about the slums. I had the fellow followed up, and the very night the hunt began I was going to arrest him, when, a good deal to my surprise, I discovered that he was no other than Gurn. He escaped me that time, but when he was caught later on I found that he has an unmistakable scar inside the palm of his right hand; it is fading now, for the burn was only superficial, but it is there. Now do you see my idea?”
Fantômas Page 26