“It’s quite simple. My shares are at five hundred francs or thereabouts. I’ll let Chardin maneuver. I’ll let them fall to two hundred. But then I’ll set myself against the lowering. I’ll buy them back and keep buying them back at constantly higher prices. By that means, I’ll force the value up, and ward off the danger. Except that I’ll need a lot of capital. I’ll find it, because the business is good, but it’s thanks to you that I’ll have the time to assemble it. Once again, I truly don’t know how to thank you.” He struck his forehead. “But I’ve thought of one…it’s necessary that you profit from your information. Now you know the double movement that the share price will follow, speculate at the low point, at two hundred, and then sell at the high. It’s child’s play. You’ll only need a small cover. If you want, I’ll facilitate the operation for you...”
Mirande felt himself blushing. Did Quatrefin suspect him of a calculation? He sounded the financier’s thought. No. Quatrefin really want to prove his gratitude in his fashion, as a fighter preparing to enter the lists and who wants someone to bet on the combat himself.
Before that sincere impulse he hesitated momentarily, tempted. But he was still far from having spent all his winnings at Dorville, and he hoped to complete his task before having exhausted his reserves.
“No, thank you,” he said. “Truly, that would spoil my gesture for me.”
He went back to the Rue Monge rapidly, on foot, through the fête of the street, where the denser crowds and the brighter shop-fronts were celebrating the approach of the new year. The action of the serum, the dose of which he had moderated, wore off. He savored the serenity of sorts that succeeded the fever, the vertigo and the alerts of the divination.
He reviewed the few hours spent under its influence. Oh, how much another, more ambitious and more avid than him could have accomplished with such a talisman! How he could have extended himself, increased his power...building a fortune in an instant by playing the stock market…glimpsing the hidden flaws in all human life and holding at his mercy all those whose secret shame he had discovered!
And what if, in spite of his master’s will, he allowed his power to be gradually divined? The man who could read the depths of hearts...
Oh, how people would tremble, how they would kneel before him. How broadly he would be conscious of his domination…but he was not born for those strong intoxications. And were they, fundamentally, worth as much as the obscure joy of obtaining a little justice?
II
Warmly wrapped up in his fur coat, Dr. Castillan came down the perron of the hospital, traversed the courtyard and passed through the gate. His chauffeur, having perceived him, had already started the engine.
Just as he was about to get into the limousine, however, a hoarse voice breathed behind him: “Pardon, M’sieur. Apologies. A few words.”
He turned round with a start, and recognized, with as much anxiety as chagrin, old Gagny’s murderer.
Since the day when he had launched him on that trail, he had not seen him again. He thought himself definitively liberated. And now the man had risen up from the lower depths, emerged beside him...
Careful not to embolden his accomplice by too much benevolence, and not to irritate him with too much abruptness, he asked: “What do you want?”
“Well, this is it, my prince. It’s in regard to the affair that you know. I believe someone’s looking for me. Even women are mixed up in it. Two days ago, I was forced to take care of one who was certainly with the police. A little more and I’d have been pinched. She was already hanging on the telephone in a bistro on the quay. Fortunately, I’d followed her. Without that, I’d have been swept up. She was asking all the time for a Monsieur Maran…Moran...”
“Mirande!” exclaimed Castillan, involuntarily.
“Yes, that’s it, Mirande. He’s surely someone at the Prefecture. Do you know him?”
Swiftly, Castillan replied: “No, no, I don’t know him. So?”
“So, well, it was necessary to settle her business. Oh, you can be tranquil. That one won’t talk anymore.”
In a muffled voice, Castillan asked: “Dead?”
“Rather. Anyway, one’s being tracked, no? Necessary that you be up to date. Above all, don’t get upset. You see, Monsieur Castillan, I have it. Time comes when you read about my arrest in the papers, don’t worry. Even if I’m done, nothing to fear for you. I don’t know anything. I won’t talk. That’s sworn. I’m all honor and gratitude, me.”
Castillan inclined his head gravely. He was embarrassed by the presence of his chauffeur, by the comings and goings of the hospital personnel. But so what? Humble patients often came to see, even in the street, the physician who had saved them.
“That’s good,” he said.
He was already climbing into his auto, but he changed his mind.
“Oh, how can I find you, if necessary?”
The man moved closer. “I’ve moved—because Billancourt, you see, smelled bad for me. My name’s Forteau, known as Le Crabe. Necessary to write to me at the Deux Goujons, a bistro in Charenton.”
This time, Castillan took his leave with a glance. To his driver he said: “To the house.”
He lay back on the cushions and closed his eyes. In spite of the brute’s oath, a frightful anguish oppressed him. Mirande? Mirande was on the track of the pirate, then? Did he suspect the plot woven against his friend Lacaze? Get away! So many chimeras for such a simple alert. Alone in the world, he and his accomplice knew the truth, and neither one of them had talked.
But that woman—who as she? How did she know Mirande? Oh, in that direction, he would make enquiries. He would discover the identity of the victim that had been found two days earlier on the suburban quay.
The auto stopped. He resumed his mask of smiling indifference.
As he went into his study, Simone said to him: “You know that Francette hasn’t returned. Don’t you think it’s time to notify the police?”
Suddenly, a suspicion crossed his mind. That girl has disappeared two days ago. Perhaps she had been placed in his house in order to spy on him? Perhaps she had been executed by the pirate?
Initially, he had not attached any great importance to her disappearance. That Francette had seemed odd. He had thought it some caprice, some amorous flight. He had expected her return at any moment. But now, all kinds of small indications presented themselves to his memory: papers disturbed, drawers open. He had only seen it as the traces of a venial curiosity, frequent among domestics. Perhaps, however, they were the signs of a serious espionage.
His resolution was quickly made.
“You’re right,” he said to Simone. “I’ll go today to notify the commissariat of the girl’s absence. But before then, I’ll go look in her room to see whether she’s left any indication useful to the police.”
Refusing any aid, he armed himself with a hammer and chisel, climbed the service stairs and immediately went to the trunk: the poor trunk with the furry lid, made of plywood, which simultaneously served as a wardrobe, writing-desk and strong-box. Three blows broke the fragile lock.
Feverishly, the scattered the carefully-folded garments and thin piles of underwear around the room. Nothing in particular. Already, he had reached the bottom and was despairing of his search when he fell upon a clipping from a newspaper: Mirande’s portrait!
It was a half-tone photograph, a good likeness, doubtless published at the time of Brion’s death, which a pious hand must have cut out with scissors.
Castillan sniggered. So, he had not been mistaken. The girl knew Mirande well. And she even retained a tender enough memory of him to keep his image hidden away like a treasure.
But perhaps he was still in error. It was necessary not to take a false track. The girl might have served in his house years ago and, flattered, simply clipped the portrait of her former master out of the paper. Had she remained in contact with him? That was what it was important to know.
He finished emptying the trunk, scattering its contents
on the parquet. He did not discover any other clue. So be it. In the meantime, the portrait sufficed to affirm his conviction. Mirande and Francette were acquainted.
He was inspecting the room with one last glance when he noticed, standing on the dressing table, two worn cuffs that Francette must have taken off at the moment of her departure. There appeared to be characters inscribed in pencil on the fabric.
He drew closer and read, indeed: 1326-21…1900-05.
1326-21. But that was the telephone number of the Institut Brion. It was requested often enough at the hospital, in order to obtain serums. As for the other, he did not know it—but perhaps Mirande had a telephone in his private domicile, since he had, in a sense, replaced his former master at the institute. The fellow was singularly spruced up since Brion’s death.
He noted down the number, went downstairs and consulted directories. A recent supplement confirmed his anticipation. Francette wanted to have the two telephone numbers incessantly to hand that permitted her to communicate with Mirande, either at his laboratory or at home...
For a moment, he was subject to the disturbing impression of being besieged, of being watched from the shadows. But he was not a man to give in without a fight. After all, of what was he afraid? Who could establish the proof of his complicity? The pirate would never talk, even with his head under the blade.
And then, exactly what did Mirande know, for what was he searching? Immediately, Castillan made his decision. He would confront the enemy. He would take the offensive. That was always the secret of victory.
Under the cover of demanding that petty scientist to account for his espionage, he would discover his intentions, his goal, his information and his suspicions. It was the only means of paralyzing his action in future.
The following morning, he presented himself at the Institut Brion.
Mirande read Castillan’s name on the card that the porter brought him with an anxious amazement. What did he want? He regretted not sensing himself armed with the power, all of whose advantage he had felt the previous day in his meetings with Raucourt and Favery. Oh, if only the serum had acted instantly, how quickly he would have had recourse to the divine injection. Immediately, he would have unmasked and undermined the monstrous bandit’s plan.
He received him in Brion’s old laboratory. Perfectly at ease, Castillan sat on the divan where the dying master had revealed the incredible discovery to his pupil, his arms posed on the cushions, his legs crossed, the tip of his boot swinging.
“My dear Monsieur,” he said. “I have some information to ask of you. A…domestic matter. Can you imagine that my wife recently took into her service a girl named Francette. She hasn’t reappeared in three days. Yesterday, before notifying the commissariat of her disappearance, I wanted to carry out a summary investigation myself, and I discovered, among her clothing, your portrait…”
“My portrait!”
Poor little Francette, that was just like her, to take the image of the “petit patron” even into Castillan’s house. Mirande’s embarrassment and confusion was extreme. How could he explain…?
“Yes,” said Castillan, “Your portrait. Oh, a simple newspaper cutting. I immediately imagined that the girl had been in your service and that, justly proud of her former master, she had taken that souvenir from some newspaper. Am I mistaken?”
Was he mocking? Was he sincere? Mirande dug his fingernails into his palms. Oh, not to know his adversary’s true thoughts…! And there, two paces away, was the little cupboard in which the talisman reposed. What should he do? He could not hesitate any longer. What if he hid the truth? But Castillan might be keeping evidence in reserve to confound him. He made his decision.
“Indeed. My sister and I had a maidservant of that name.”
“And she left you recently?” Castillan enquired. “I beg your pardon for these questions, which are taking on the appearance of a small interrogation, but you’ll understand the interest, from the viewpoint of the poor girl herself. Perhaps you know her family, her associates? Perhaps she continues to see Mademoiselle your sister? Perhaps, even, you have not broken off all communication with her yourself?”
Mirande was under torture. This time, the necessity of a lie was imposed. “No, no…we haven’t seen one another...since her departure.”
Castillan stood up. His face hardened. “Why, then, have I found your telephone number and that of the Institut inscribed on cuffs that she had just taken off? Was that also a pious memory? A testimony of amour, like the portrait? Come on, Monsieur Mirande, masks off. It was you who placed that girl with me. You’re spying on me. I have the right to know why. Speak.”
Mirande had stood up in his turn. Why? Castillan asked. Oh, the temptation, the keen desire to hurl all his crimes in his face! But no, no. He could not, before having laid hands on his accomplice. Incapable, however, of hiding his indignant scorn completely, he said to him, in a profound and contained voice: “And it’s you who’s asking me why…?”
“Yes, of course I’m asking you,” Castillan retorted. “And I insist. I won’t tolerate, do you hear, anyone interfering in my affairs. And I took you for a good young fellow! In truth, it’s very easy to make one’s maidservant one’s mistress, and having thus softened her up, to send her to spy on one’s friends to find out what’s happening there!”
So much cynicism…to sully thus little Francette, of whom Doisteau still seemed to despair of saving…must the bandit think himself unsuspected, to venture thus on the attack, to push audacity so far?
Mirande succeeded in containing himself, however. He disdained to interrupt Castillan, who continued: “For you are one of our friends, Monsieur Mirande. I haven’t forgotten that I owe you the salvation of Madame Castillan. I retain for you, believe me, the keenest gratitude. Although, on thinking about it, I have difficulty understanding why, in the middle of the night, you were leaning over close enough to her tomb to hear her plaints. An umbrageous husband might be anxious about such a sharp grief on the part of a childhood friend. And you’d be quite capable, after having seduced the soubrette, of employing yourself in other gallant projects...”
To dare to touch Simone! No—anything except that. Mirande threatened him with a gesture.
“Shut up! Shut up! Don’t push me too far. You can see that I’m trying to contain myself. But you also sense that I hate you, that I despise you, that you horrify me…in sum, that I know you. Do you understand? I know you...”
But Castillan, ironically, provoked him with his gaze. “Bah! That’s jealousy, and the most base. The rage of an ousted lover who sees his beauty in another’s arms. But you shan’t have her. I know how to keep her...”
That was too much. Mirande burst out: “By burying her alive, no doubt!”
Castillan, impassively, immediately demanded: “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that you wanted to kill her, as you had Gagny killed, out of cupidity, for that Lambrine...”
Mirande shut up, afraid of having betrayed himself. At least he hoped to have overwhelmed his adversary—but no. Very calmly, almost smiling, Castillan nodded his head.
“Is that all? Have I not committed other crimes too? Well! Is it the atmosphere of this laboratory? Has that old madman Brion bequeathed you his insanity? For between us, at the end of his life, he was losing his mind. The pessimism and the misanthropy that one finds in his last papers testify to a senile dementia. But you, at least, aren’t waiting for old age. Come, come, young man, it’s necessary to pay attention, damn it! One doesn’t throw such accusations at people’s feet without proof.”
Mirande did not reply, So much impudence disconcerted him. He had begun to doubt Brion, the serum, having discovered the bandit’s secret.
Castillan had picked up his hat from the table and brushed it carefully with the back of his hand.
“Take note that I’m not annoyed. I’m anxious for you. Do you know that this game risks putting you in a straitjacket?”
But Mirande did not reply to th
e insult. He had said too much. Fortunately, he had kept the secret of his power. And the concern of not allowing that to be drawn from him sealed his lips. He merely grated, swiftly: “Go away…get out...”
“That’s the first sane thing you’ve said,” Castillan sniggered. “I believe, in fact, that my presence can only excite you further.” And he added, in a severe tone, his finger menacing: “But remember my advice. If you don’t want to be locked up, never repeat those absurd accusations unless you can justify them. And that, I defy you to do.”
He adjusted his hat on his head with a cavalier gesture. And as he went out he repeated: “I defy you to do it.”
III
Leaning over the balustrade of the main staircase in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Mirande watched the guests come in. A diplomatic soirée in all its banal splendor: black suits, uniforms, bright dresses unfurling their polychromatic ribbon along the steps. An usher posted in the embrasure of the large salon collected the names and titles with an urgent ear and proclaimed them in a stentorian voice, mangling them. Further away, the Minister and his wife bowed, briefly or deeply, shaking hands with a fixed smile and an inexhaustible good grace.
Mirande was watching for Raucourt. He had seized this opportunity to see him without importuning him with a request for an audience. Here, on an equal footing, he could stimulate the minister’s zeal. Castillan’s arrogance and cynicism, his recent provocation, had pushed his impatience to unmask the monstrous individual to paroxysm. But the incorruptible did not appear. Was he disdaining his colleague’s soirée? In the meantime, Mirande collected the thoughts of the crowd, for he had put himself under the influence of the serum.
The booty was meager. The desire to appear, a somber ennui, occupied numerous minds. Puerile concerns held the others. A petty Balkan attaché, wedged into a gilt-laden costume, was deploring not having received his emoluments. An austere ambassador was composing the seduction of a love-letter. His beard fanned out and his saber rattling against his boots, a Russian warrior coveted the savor of the champagne at the buffet. A Japanese was regretting the smooth water of his gardens, where lotus leaves lay dormant. A powerful American despised the anemic races of the old continent, from the height of his firm corsage.
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