by George Right
Soon a letter informed Dubois that his worst presentiments had come true: his rival had used Dubois's canceled trip to his own advantage and what should have made profits turned into losses. It seemed that everything pushed Dubois to leave the house and to return to the city; however he was stubborn and wasn't accustomed to shrink back before obstacles–on the contrary, the more serious the impediments seemed, the stronger became his determination to overcome them; without this trait, he wouldn't have risen from a newsdealer boy to a successful businessman.
In the evening of the same day when the distressing news came, the estate owner and his paramour sat in the dining room waiting for dinner. Dubois mechanically bent and folded a napkin: half-and-half, again half-and-half... He always did such things when he was irritated. Suddenly the footman whose duties included serving at the table ran into the room out of breath.
"Monsieur, monsieur! The cook..."
"Don't say she's dead!" Dubois exclaimed.
"Not yet, monsieur... but she is very bad."
The old woman was in a really bad way: she was suffocating, her face had turned blue, and her body shuddered in spasms. On the floor lay a big spoon with morsels of food. Obviously, the cook had choked trying her own dish; Dubois, however, didn't understood it at once–at first he thought of poison. One of servants tried to help the cook while another ran for the doctor. But when Clavier arrived, everything was already over. The list of deaths grew longer.
This time Leblanc, apparently, was full of determination to arrest someone. He reviewed the incident very carefully; it became clear that at the moment of the cook's misfortune, only the footman and one of servants had no alibi. The inspector, however, didn't detain them and asked Dubois and the doctor to discuss the situation.
All three passed to Dubois's office, which previously had been the place of de Montreux's death; the businessman wasn't distressed at all by the aristocrat's demise.
"I am sure that we are dealing with a crime," Leblanc stated without preface. "More precisely, with a series of crimes."
"Are you implying that I'm killing my own servants?" Dubois arose.
"No, it is quite obvious that it is not you. In the last case, you simply couldn't have done it–if, of course, the whole house is not in collusion and doesn't protect you specially. But an arrangement between a murderer and his victims is absurd."
"As well as murders without a motive!"
"You see," the doctor cleared his throat, "purely theoretically you could have a reason... I'm not a specialist in mental disorders; here, in rural areas, people seldom go mad. But just recently I've read one article... Sometimes a man who has done a certain act subconsciously regrets it and tries to correct his deeds. Thus, he acts as a somnambulist, without being aware of his actions and without remembering them. So, as you were indirectly involved in the death of count de Montreux..."
"Nonsense," Dubois cut him off. "In your theory, I subconsciously try to execute his curse and lose my rest? But I don't feel any guilt, either conscious or subconscious. I see no reasons to stand on ceremony with these dried-up branches of the old aristocracy."
"Anyway, you have an alibi," the inspector interjected, "and we may not consider the exotic hypothesis of the doctor."
"Your hypothesis seems to me no less exotic," noticed Dubois, "you speak about murders, but, after all, these events are just accidents."
"It was not too difficult to arrange last three deaths," the inspector objected. "In order to cause a night heart attack of an old man, it's enough to frighten him badly. The same is applicable to the choked old woman. And it was possible to mix a drinkable potion which would agitate the horse into a frenzy.”
"Do you think one of the servants is behind all this?"
"No, not they. And not your... um... girlfriend. Yet Romans, investigating a crime, first of all asked a question: cui prodest–to whom is it favorable? You, obviously, have enemies, don't you?"
"As well as any businessman. But none of them would settle scores in such a Gothic novel style. Besides, if someone wants to destroy me, why would he kill my servants?"
"That's true, your business rivals are not suspects. These deaths seem more like revenge, and revenge with definite aims. It would seem that someone aspires to expel you from this house, simultaneously bringing down its price because of ill fame. For this purpose, he kills servants who previously served de Montreux's family and then betrayed them by serving you..."
"In other words, a de Montreux wants to buy back the family home cheaply? But the late count was the last in his line, no relatives remained. I found that out."
"In such affairs, there never can be full confidence. The relative could be distant and have another surname; it could be just a friend and, at lastly... even Armand count de Montreux himself."
"The dead man? You saw his body."
"Now I am not so sure that we saw the body of the count. You remember, the face was disfigured by the shot. Certainly, there is a question as to whose corpse was palmed off on us... but that's another matter. But look, how all the facts fit. The count knows the house better than anybody else, and he has keys to all the doors; he can easily get into any place on the estate. And, certainly, his emergence alone is enough to literally frighten to death the gardener and the cook."
"It's too romantic to be true," Dubois made a wry face.
"Because of the loss of his house, the count could have developed an idee fixe," noticed Clavier. "And then, quite probably, he would began to act exactly in such a way."
"Are you saying that a revenge-thirsting maniac is walking around my house? In that case, why does he limit himself to servants and not kill me?"
"And who told you that he wouldn't do that?" the inspector said with police directness. "Before killing you, he just wants to make you quake with fear, that's all."
"So what do you think I should do?"
"I would recommend that you leave... for some time. You see, here I can't guarantee your safety. In rural areas, there is not a large number of police... we can't assign a gendarme to each inhabitant of the house."
"In other words, you decline all responsibility?" Dubois sneered.
"No, certainly not. I will do my utmost... but after all, formally, we don't even have a legally defined crime. There is only a series of accidents–and a hypothesis which would seem even more fantastic to my superiors than to you."
"Don't bother, I understood. Well, I can take care of myself."
"But remember that the danger threatens not only you."
"If you cannot protect us, at least refrain from condescending to tell me what to do. Besides, as you say, these are only hypotheses in which I don't much believe. But if this unknown avenger, be it de Montreux or anybody else, intrudes in my house, I will shoot him."
"In any case, you should warn all inhabitants of the house about the danger."
"So that they all run away? Superstitious rumors are one thing and a real threat of murder is absolutely another one. No, they are frightened enough even without that."
"In that case, monsieur Dubois, I must warn them myself."
"Inspector, you have no formal grounds to consider these deaths criminal. Thus, you have no right to alarm my people, thus causing ..."
At this moment came a knock at the door. It was Leroi.
"I beg your pardon for interrupting you, monsieur," he said, "but the matter is that the servants... they are preparing to depart."
"What, all of them?" the businessman shouted angrily. "Try to dissuade them!"
"It's impossible, monsieur, I tried. They want to leave the estate immediately, before the night. So will you allow me to settle with them?"
"And what if not?"
"They say, monsieur, that they will leave now and will return for their money later."
"Damn! You see, inspector, your efforts aren't required any more. All right, Leroi, settle with these superstitious idiots and then go to the village and hire somebody for couple of days until new permane
nt servants can be found."
"Yes, monsieur. But I am afraid that nobody in the village will agree to work in this house, even for a threefold payment."
"I need servants, not your guesses! Go!"
"You see, monsieur Dubois," the inspector said when the majordomo left the room, "all circumstances favor your departure."
"Like hell! If someone wants to expel me from this house, he won't achieve it!" the businessman rose from his chair, letting the others know that conversation was ended.
Jeannette met him in tears.
"Jacques!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around his neck. "Let's leave this damned place! Let's leave right now!"
"One of my enemies would like it very much. And that's why we remain here. Don't be afraid of anything. While you are with me, nothing may threaten you," for greater persuasiveness he showed Jeannette the loaded pistol, which probably frightened her even more.
It happened that not all the servants left the house: unexpectedly from somewhere Marie appeared. However, Dubois's satisfaction with this fact almost instantly disappeared: the maid's usual cheerfulness was gone, and she probably could only increase the despondency of her mistress now. Then Leroi returned–as he had expected, with nothing: no villager would agree to work in de Montreux's house or even approach it after sunset. For the night, Dubois ordered everyone to lock their doors, and he himself, contrary to his normal practice, remained in Jeannette's bedroom till morning.
That night in the forest the wolf howled again.
In the morning, having left Jeannette in the care of her maid and having strictly ordered the majordomo to keep watch over both of them, Dubois went to the village and bought several of the strongest padlocks and bolts; then, having employed a temporary worker for an absolutely unreasonable fee, he came back to the estate. Together with Leroi, they went all over house, replacing locks and nailing up doors. Dubois even tapped walls in search of secret passages–a week ago even a thought about something similar would have seemed to him absolute paranoia. Eventually the house began to resemble a fortress not only from outside, but also from within; the locked and boarded up doors gave it a completely dismal and uninhabited look. The worker received his payment and went away with obvious relief; his appearance said: "No locks will save you from de Montreux's curse!"
Whether it was caused by natural irritation because things were developing so unsuccessfully or the gloomy atmosphere of the house and the events which had happened in it, Dubois for the first time felt really uncomfortable in his house and all day stayed in Jeannette's company. He managed to brighten up and, perhaps even more importantly, to amuse his concubine so that she stopped asking to leave the house and behaved as though she believed that after the arrival of new servants, everything would go in a different way. At last Jeannette went to her bedroom. Dubois sat on a sofa, leaning back and clamping a cigar between his thick hairy fingers, when suddenly the silence of the house was pierced by a terrifying female cry. The owner of the ill-starred estate jumped up as if stung, pulled out a pistol from a table box, and rushed to a corridor.
Jeannette, mortally pale, lay motionless on the threshold of her bedroom. Having knelt down beside her, Dubois saw with relief that she had only fainted. Suddenly, at the other end of the corridor the scared majordomo appeared.
"What happened?" he shouted.
"She is alive," Dubois answered and only at this moment thought about the reason for her screaming and fainting. He glanced in the bedroom and felt growing cold inside him.
Marie, whose carefree temperament even the ominous events of the last few days couldn't trouble, hung under the room ceiling. The overturned chair lay on a floor. Having looked at the terrible face of the strangled girl, Dubois understood that death had already come and any attempts to aid her were useless.
"Damned bastard!" the businessman shouted. "Where are you hiding?! Come out–or are you afraid to meet me face to face?!"
"No, no, monsieur," said Leroi. He tried to speak calmly, but his voice quavered. "There is nobody here, except us. That's a suicide, no doubt, a suicide..."
Dubois turned to him. Having seen his face, the majordomo started back.
"Suicide?! Why the hell, in your learned opinion, should she have hanged herself?!"
"Who knows... girls at such an age... some amorous troubles..."
"Go for the doctor," Dubois restrained himself. "And if upon your return you don't find me alive, know that it won't be a suicide."
Soon after Leroi's departure, Jeannette came to her senses.
"Is it true that Marie is dead?" she asked. "It didn't seem real to me."
"Yes, unfortunately, it's true," Dubois answered.
"Poor Marie... Well, now we will leave here. Leave immediately."
"We will leave... " he absentmindedly responded, looking around like a badgered animal. The businessman who pulled off million-franc deals and managed the lives of many people, for the first time in many years was really frightened. All the previous deaths had reasonable explanations; but Marie's death was so absurd, irrational...
The doctor, however, demonstrated no special surprise–as well as the inspector with whom he, obviously, already shared his information.
"Poor Marie," Clavier echoed the words of Jeannette. "If only I had known that she would go there..."
"What are you trying to say?" Dubois impatiently exclaimed. "Is this a suicide?"
"Undoubtedly."
"But the motive?"
"Yesterday Marie asked me to examine her... She was pregnant."
Dubois suddenly felt idiotic desire to exclaim: "I had nothing to do with it!" Instead he addressed Leblanc:
"But, Inspector, if your hypothesis about the avenger is true, he could hang the maid, imitating suicide."
"I quite agree with the doctor," Leblanc answered, finishing inspecting the body. "You see, when a person is hanged against his will, either his hands are tied or he is previously made unconscious. Obviously, in both cases the victim can't grasp the rope. On the contrary, suicides usually reflexively do it at the last moment, which leaves on their hands the corresponding traces present in this case... Certainly, without a motive it wouldn't be absolute proof, but the doctor's information..."
Dubois pity for Marie disappeared instantly.
"She shouldn't have done it in my house!" he angrily exclaimed.
"I do not think that she specially wanted to cause you trouble," the doctor shook his head. "Possibly, it was a sudden impulsive decision. Probably, the oppressive atmosphere of the house was a factor...”
"Leave my house alone! 'The oppressive atmosphere,' 'the house of death'–all this is idiotic malarkey, and I will prove to all of you that it is possible to live a fine life here!"
As soon as the visitors left, Jeannette asked with anxiety:
"Jacques, you aren't going to remain here?"
"Certainly, we will remain."
"But you promised!"
"I thought that we were dealing with a devilishly capable and artful killer. But it appears that nobody killed Marie, so there is no danger."
"No danger?! Five deaths in two weeks!"
"It's just an extremely unpleasant coincidence. Well, not absolutely a coincidence... Each subsequent incident plays on the nerves of people, thereby increasing the probability of new tragedies..."
"You can argue as much as you want with a clever look on your face, but I won't remain here any longer."
"Jeannette, it is necessary to endure just a day more. And then new servant will arrive, and life will return to normal. We should not flee now; it is necessary to stop this growing fear..."
"I'm leaving, Jacques, I will leave immediately. If you don't want to go, I'm going alone."
Dubois lost his patience.
"You may go anywhere. I don't need hysterical women. If you leave now, everything will be over between us."
"Jacques, don't speak so... I want to be with you... but only not in this house. I am scared, Jacques... so scared..
."
"You are under my protection!"
"There are things over which even you have no control..."
"Well, enough of this superstitious bullshit! I ask... I demand that you stay. No? Have you thought about what you are losing? Still no?"
He stepped closer to her and slapped her cheek. He had done it before, though very seldom, when it was necessary to correct her. Previously it had helped.
Jeannette turned away in tears.
"Farewell, monsieur Dubois," she said.
"Leroi! Leroi!" the enraged businessman cried. The alarmed majordomo arrived.
"Go to the village and hire somebody who will take the mademoiselle to the city. Right now."
"It's useless, monsieur. Now, at night, nobody will agree to render you services. Maybe, we'll wait till the morning?"
"I said now! If you can't hire anybody, you will drive her yourself! Enough, get out of my sight! Both of you!"
Dubois remained in the huge house alone. Black moonless night shrouded the estate, the gloomy forest, the road passing through the forest... The candle crackled and went out, leaving the owner of the house alone with darkness. Again from afar a wolf howl reached; this time, as it seemed to Dubois, not in anxiety but in triumph and at the same time a dreary threat sounded in it. He imagined how it would be for a lonely traveler to listen to this howl in the cold and unfriendly night, and that made him shudder.
The carriage rolled through the night forest. On the left and on the right, huge trunks of old trees, which probably remembered yet the first count de Montreux, towered in gloom; their long clumsy branches here and there intertwined over the road. The cold night breeze whispered in foliage and moved in bushes; suddenly somewhere an eagle owl dully screeched. Leroi, who handled the reins, involuntarily shivered. It seemed improbable that somewhere there was Paris decked by lights, that in cabarets and restaurants people were having fun, that it was the pragmatic nineteenth century in the outer world. Here, in the forest, everything was as if impregnated with the spirit of antiquity, the spirit of times gone long ago–or more likely, of non-time at all, of a stiffened and hardened eternity. Leroi, probably, would not have been surprised much if from the nearest turn a knight in armor or a medieval monk in a hooded cowl had appeared. He already regretted that he had agreed to bring his master's concubine to the city at night—or, as he suspected, the former concubine; if he had simply informed Dubois that nobody would undertake this task, then, probably, his master would have told Jeannette: "Reach Paris yourself as best you can." She, facing such a prospect, probably would have tried for a reconciliation–maybe the master expected exactly that? Anyway, it was too late already for such thought, unless Jeannette herself would ask to turn back...