“I’m all right now—you can continue, Monsieur Superintendent.” Her face blooming, the housekeeper lightly passed one hand over the backs of the chairs, as if caressing the recovered house, and pressed Babylas to her heart with the other. “I beg your pardon!” she said. “That’s what he was always saying, as if to himself: Vésinet or Ontario.”
The thieving pilot muttered into his beard without raising his head. “I confess! I confess!” he said, hoarsely. “I hesitated between the two. I didn’t dare go back to Paris, and I looked for the Ontario for want of the Vésinet. Besides, the fish must be more varied in the Ontario. Oh, a nice little house like the Villa Beauséjour, on the shore of a lake, a well-shaded spot—that’s the dream! That’s why I wanted to take her away—she pleased me so much! Lake Ontario also pleased me a great deal; I barely glimpsed it, but I miss it…I have tranquil tastes. I’ve had enough of traveling; a Villa Beauséjour, that’s what I really needed. I landed it on a little stony substratum, shut off all the machinery, and it made me a nice country house—my dream, exactly! But it’s finished, my dream!”
The man was standing up now. He extended his bound hands and punctuated his confession with heavy sighs.
“Poor devil!” said Monsieur Cabrol.
“Oh, I’ve had it with voyages! I’ve globe-trotted at all altitudes, under all skies…I’m entitled to be thirsty for a little rest, you understand, Monsieur? Oh to fish with a line, comfortably installed in my little corner…in my own little house. It was a golden opportunity—I let myself be tempted—that’s it! What are they going to do with me? Let me go back to Paris, Monsieur—I promise not to do it again.”
“After all,” said Monsieur Cabrol, hesitantly, “the house has been recovered…”
“One moment!” said the superintendent. “The law has caught him; there’s been an established theft; the police had to be mobilized, to carry out a search to catch the malefactor; the district attorney has been notified; the process can’t be stopped. The law is severe, particularly in cases of aerial theft. It’s necessary, Monsieur—you must understand that.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” said Monsieur Cabrol, “there’s been a misappropriation; but as I’ve got my property back, I’m leaning toward indulgence…”
“Impossible, Monsieur. The case will follow the usual course; it will doubtless be presented at the next assizes.”
It was now Monsieur Cabrol’s turn to stand before the police with a long face—almost as long as Barlotin’s.
“Oh, Uncle,” said Moderan, in a low voice, “as long as they don’t want to keep the Villa until the trial, as an item of evidence.”
“Damn it!” whispered Monsieur Cabrol. “Yes, so long as…”
“That would be a bit of bad luck!” exclaimed Andoche. “But then, are we going to escape right away and take the superintendent with us?”
“Monsieur Superintendent,” Cabrol went on, “I’ll send you the registration papers and give you all the necessary explanations; then, recommending the guilty party to your indulgence, we’ll resume our interrupted voyage. Serious matters require my presence 1000 kilometers from here. We wanted to pay a flying visit to New York; that’s done. Very nice, very interesting—we’re charmed—but I have to leave.”
“Very well, Monsieur.”
“I shall therefore leave you the aforementioned Barlotin, and take off again in my aerovilla.”
“One moment!” said the superintendent, stopping him with a gesture. “If urgent business requires your presence, you may go—but the aerovilla must remain here; that’s indispensable. Evidence, Monsieur, indispensable for the depositions, for the preparation of the case for the prosecution….”
“But I’ll be able to communicate as much as the prosecuting attorneys need by Tele.”
“Impossible, Monsieur—that’s not admissible.”
“But…”
“Don’t worry, though; the case is quite straightforward—it won’t take more than five or six weeks, two months at the most. You can answer us from wherever you might be by Tele, but the principal item of evidence in the case must remain here, at the disposition of the judge. You can stay, or leave someone here, as guardian of the item of evidence.”
Andoche and Moderan let themselves fall into chairs, sighing, discouraged and distressed.
“What a predicament!” murmured Monsieur Cabrol, no less discomfited than they were. “Oh, that Barlotin!”
“Now, let’s continue our investigation,” said the superintendent. “Let’s see—let’s make a tour of the house to see if anything is missing, and whether there’s any damage…”
“Oh yes, that’s true!” exclaimed Monsieur Cabrol. “I forgot to check! My great work in progress, my History of the Lunatic Civilizations…that would be serious. Great God! It’s very important to me. Quickly, let’s take a look at my room, my work-desk…”
He was already in his room; the superintendent followed him, jostled slightly by the youngsters.
“It’s there, Monsieur Superintendent. Would you care to go in?”
The key of the item of furniture in which each drawer was consecrated to a particular work was still in it. Monsieur Cabrol swiftly made a tour of it, and lifted up his papers, but nothing had been touched—neither the precious manuscript nor the documents. Barlotin had disdained the opportunity to obtain cognizance of his employer’s great scholarly work.
“He didn’t have time to disturb anything,” said the superintendent, “and that’s thanks to the vigilance of or police aircraft, it should be said, for he was spotted very quickly and pursued immediately. Let’s look at the other rooms…”
“Nothing’s missing,” said Monsieur Cabrol. “I assure you that the unfortunate fellow isn’t a professional thief, like your pirates of the clouds or your aerial burglars. It was the opportunity that awoke an evil impulse in him.”
“Yes, he seemed very sincere in his confessions and protestations of repentance. He can explain that to the judge; he can say that his desire for a quiet life on the shore of a lovely lake, and his dreams of line-fishing, suddenly turned his head. His advocate can plead a fit of madness.”
“Ah! Yes, we’ll have to find the poor wretch a lawyer, to get him out of the affair as cheaply as possible…”
“You’re very good. You’ll need one too, for the civil action.”
“What a bother!”
“I’ll try to hurry the affair along,” the superintendent said, finishing taking a few notes. “Don’t worry, see the lawyers. It’s possible to make arrangements for a raid or extra-rapid solution.”
The superintendent made a tour of the house. “Ah!” he said, pointing at the plaque above the balcony bearing the name of the villa. “Your thief has begun to camouflage the inscription of your flying home.”
“Look, Uncle, it’s true!” said Andoche. “We didn’t notice it, in our joy at recovering our home, you see! He’d begun to change ‘Villa Beauséjour’ into ‘Villa B…ien le bonjour.’ That’s his paint-pot on the balcony.”
“It was the pursuit by the police aircraft that interrupted him,” said the superintendent.
Barlotin tried to bury his head in his waistcoat. “A fruit of madness—you said it! An aberration. I was too content, I put on airs—it brought me misfortune!”
“There we are,” aid the superintendent. “Crystal clear—we should be able to settle it for you as quickly as possible. I’ll let you have the addresses of a few lawyers. See them right away, since you’re in such a hurry.”
Monsieur Cabrol escorted the superintendent to the elevator. Behind them marched the air policeman and his prisoner, who darted a lamentable glance at the Villa Beauséjour as he left.
“The prison is close by,” the superintendent was generous enough to say, “and it’s comfortable, of course—every modern comfort. Don’t worry about your thief; he’ll be fine.”
X. The Barlotin Case.
“Now we’re in a pretty pickle,” said Monsieur Cabrol, letting himsel
f fall into a rocking-chair. “Oof! Oof! All this excitement’s breaking my arms and legs; I feel faint.”
He lowered his head and closed his eyes, uttering long sighs. A joyful purring along with a gentle silky friction on his face made him open his eyes again; it was Babylas, who had jumped on to his lap and was testifying to his delight by means of that music.
“You’re very sweet, my brave Babylas, but you’re pricking my eyes with your whiskers. That’s all right—you’re family! Go see Moderan. As for you, Phanor, don’t bark any more, you’ve already told us…go see Andoche and let me think.”
“Yes,” said Andoche, “but what about the lunch we’re forgetting?”
“Soon, when I’ve had a moment to think about the situation…but your appetite is making demands. So be it! I’ll think afterwards. First we’ll go…”
A bell rang on the villa’s Tele.
“Again!” groaned Monsieur Cabrol, getting up painfully from his armchair.
The screen of the Tele lit up. Monsieur and Madame des Ormettes appeared. It was morning in Paris. They had only just got up and had come in search of information.
“Good morning, Cabrol. How are things aboard? Everyone’s health is good? Good morning, my dear Moderan. You’re still keeping your big brother on the end of a none-too-long string? Keep him firmly in hand—don’t let him bolt, the daredevil, the excitable young fellow!”
“No fear, Papa, I’m watching him. Good morning, Mama!”
“Good morning, good morning, children. What excitement, eh? Well, what’s new? I see that the Villa Beauséjour has returned to its berth after a little excursion, eh? Everything has been explained, hasn’t it? Your pilot left in search of tobacco and forgot the number of your garage?”
Andoche and Moderan burst out laughing, at the sight of which Monsieur and Madame des Ormettes joined in.
“In search of tobacco…not exactly. In brief, here it is: he really did steal our house and left, leaving us in the lurch. But I set the police in motion without delay, and they caught the thief after a lively pursuit, and brought back our house, as you can see…”
“Nothing broken, I see—that’s perfect. I suppose you’ve given that Barlotin a slight reprimand. Tell him to come and talk to me!”
“I can’t—he’s in prison. Jailhouse No.18, for those caught in the act.”
“What? You’ve had him locked up?”
“Not me—the superintendent! A very serious case, prosecution in hand; it will go to the criminal court.”
“Really? Quite remarkable. There’s a little adventure for your travel diary.”
“An amusing adventure? Rather say misadventure! These days, alas, there are only misadventures!”
“You seem rather annoyed.”
“To say the least!”
“Oh yes, definitely!” exclaimed Andoche and Moderan, nodding their heads with conviction.
“We too, are in prison, here at the Airstrip! The poor Villa Beauséjour has been retained as a piece of evidence, of which we will be the guardians until the trial.”
“What?” said Monsieur des Ormettes. “How long will it be until this trial—three or four days?”
“Six weeks or two months,” the superintendent told me, “but I’m not confident about that.”
“My dear chap,” said Monsieur des Ormettes, “don’t get too upset: you left to escape all the annoyance of our great resurfacing of the terrestrial globe, and God knows we’re in the midst of it now, amid the great disemboweling of the world’s carcass in the Parisian region. Things must be quieter in New York—the great work began there 20 years ago.”
“Wait a minute before judging our tranquility. I’ll take you through our neighborhood of the Chicago-New York sector in the Tele.”
“No, no, don’t do that—I believe you.”
“Yes, the Chicago-New York sector is advanced enough as far as the resurfacing of the carcass goes, but I’m only talking about the infernal daily routine. Oh, when one leaves the Caucasian Archipelago, and its delightful shores, the diabolical din every day, here, has nothing cheerful about it. My brain has already turned to marmalade in my head. And to think that we’ll have to remain here for some time! I’m going to see a lawyer, to take every possible step to hasten the moment of our liberation as much as possible…”
“Come on, don’t get so upset. Be brave! We’re going to leave you now…go to your lawyer right away, hurry!”
“Not right away—only tomorrow; you’re forgetting that it’s evening here. We’ll try to sleep, and tomorrow morning, the fight! Au revoir.”
The evening was short. They had had enough of discussing the annoying consequences of the theft of the Villa. Andoche and Moderan had already made up their minds—too bad; everything would work out. Then again, they were sleepy.
Phanor and Babylas were already asleep. Brave Phanor was barking in his dream, but Babylas, curled up in a ball on an armchair, had already forgotten the risks he had run.
Before going to her room, Melanie made a circuit of the vicinity. From the balcony of the Airstrip her anxious eyes tried to pierce the ocean of darkness streaked with long searchlight beams, punctuated by gleams of every color bursting like bombs. The entire nocturnal landscape was humming with a rumor compounded out of 100,000 noises. She shook the balustrade as if to assure herself of its solidity. “As long as the Airstrip doesn’t fly away!” she said, shaking her head.
She went back in, and locked all the doors carefully. “Well, we’ll see tomorrow morning whether we’re still here.”
No one got up early the next morning. After so many fatiguing incidents and emotions, they were entitled to lie in, in spite of the buzz of the 100,000 noises.
It was nearly 11 a.m. when Monsieur Cabrol went out, having consulted the notes and addresses that he police superintendent had given to him.
“Let’s see: the lawyers Mr. and Mrs. Bloomfield, number 1235, 738th Avenue—that’s a long way from here, at least a quarter of an hour by taxi-plane.”
A little taxi-plane that had just brought some passengers to the Airstrip was just preparing to plunge down below. Monsieur Cabrol hailed it and gave the address.
A quarter of an hour later, indeed, he got down on 738th Avenue, in front of a three-step pyramid of three-story houses in the form of square towers stacked one on top of another, seven or eight at the bottom, five on the first platform, three on the second platform and a single one on top. The edifice was exactly similar to those built by children with their construction kits.
Mr. and Mrs. Bloomfield lived on the third stage of the building at the very top of the pyramid. Monsieur Cabrol took the elevator and ran the bell n the third stage. He was immediately introduced into the lawyer’s office, where two people were swaying in rocking-chairs, each studying files placed in front of them on the armchair’s desk-top.
Which of the two people, identically dressed in long morning-coats, both clean-shaven—or so it seemed—with their long hair similarly plastered down over their foreheads and descending as far as the silk scarves around their necks, was Mr. Bloomfield and which was Mrs. Bloomfield? At first glance, it was hard to tell.
With a beard one is always certain, but this happened to be a period in which beards had been proscribed for 90 years. It was taken for granted that those absurd, uncomfortable and unaesthetic chin-fleeces were intolerable. In another 90 years the wheel would turn again. Every century has its particular aesthetic; people would find those shaved chins ridiculous, those stripped lips quite ugly, those plump hairless faces overly comical, and beards would flourish once more.
In the meantime, with respect to Monsieur Cabrol—who was from Europe, where beards had been worn again for some time—this gave rise to a certain unpleasant scorn.
He addressed himself to the first armchair and asked: “Please, is it to Mr. Bloomfield that I have the honor of speaking?”
“No,” the first armchair replied, its swaying ceasing. “Mr. Bloomfield is over there.”
“Excusez-moi…scusate mi…I beg your pardon—I meant Mrs. Bloomfield.”
“Then yes, I’m Mrs. Bloomfield.”
On leaving the Villa Beauséjour, Monsieur Cabrol had intended to hire Mr. Bloomfield as his lawyer, but so be it—it would be Madame. That was unimportant, since both had the same reputation for eloquence and the same expertise in legal matters.
“Madame,” he said, “I’m a foreigner; I have been told, with a recommendation of our great ability, that you might perhaps consent to attend to a very disagreeable matter in which I have become involved.”
“Would you care to explain, Monsieur?”
Monsieur Cabrol had a gift for languages; he therefore recounted rapidly, in almost pure American, a salad of Anglo-French-German, Russian, Italian and even Chinese terms, the tale of the theft of the Villa Beauséjour by its treacherous pilot, the rapid pursuit, the capture and the return of the house, along with the thief, who was to be brought before a judge in the criminal court.
He explained that he was in a hurry to leave New York to continue his journey, and that he would be glad to see the case reach count as soon as possible. The thief, giving the lie to an entire life of honesty and hard work, had had a moment of madness, he was now conscience-stricken and merited every indulgence.
“If you consent, Madame, to undertake the defense of this unfortunate man, I will ask Mr. Bloomfield to act for me, as the injured party. I will ask him to put all the blame on us; he may say whatever he wishes; he will be able to let his imagination run wild, etc. The essential thing for me is to take off again with my aerovilla.”
“Perfectly understood,” said Mrs. Bloomfield. “And you, Will, understand equally?”
“Entirely, Arabella.”
“Then you’ll become the injured party and I the defender of that poor man, the pilot, the innocent victim of a culpable obsession, who might perhaps have the right to clam damages. That’s understood. And an extra-rapid resolution, if possible.”
Things did not drag on with the two Bloomfields. Monsieur Cabrol thought that boded well. After a few supplementary explanations, the final arrangements were soon made, and Monsieur Cabrol was able to return to his taxi-plane, which was waiting for him on the terrace.
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