On the upper floors, the firemen had set up a ladder to replace the demolished staircase, and he reached the landing on which the smoking remains of the floorboards remained, thanks to a few joists that were still intact.
The panels of the apartment door were three-quarters burned, but the lock was still attached to its slot and the policeman observed that it had been locked with a key. It was, therefore, inadmissible that Monsieur Grillard had tried to get out during the blaze, for he certainly would not have taken the trouble to lock the door again.
Administering a thrust of his shoulder to the remaining woodwork, Rosamour passed over the threshold of the apartment and walked with precaution over the beams. The first two rooms had been completely obliterated by the flames. Beyond them, thanks no doubt to the presence of a partition wall, the laboratory still existed in part, encumbered by the mass of rubble that the roof had accumulated there in collapsing.
At the back wall, a cracked section of what had been the chimney-hood still remained. The slate-topped table, which a counterweight permitted to be raised and lowers at will, was intact. In one of the corners was the scientist’s iron-framed bed, and nearby, heaped up pell-mell, cages containing the asphyxiated cadavers of animals and broken or twisted apparatus.
The disorder was indescribable. Rosamour took it all in at a glance, and advanced further into the middle of the slates and debris, clouds of black soot escaping therefrom under his feet.
He went to the bed and, methodically clearing away the clutter heaped upon it, examined it carefully. It had not been remade since the scientist had slept in it for the last time. There was no visible trace of blood beneath the stains inflicted by the fire, but the agent was surprised, on lifting the covers, to find a crumpled nightshirt and a cotton bonnet thrown carelessly on to the bed.
Two hypotheses presented themselves to the detective’s brain. Either the scientist was dressed when he left the apartment, or, if there had been a crime, the murders had stripped their victim naked in order to make him disappear more easily. In any case, it could not be admitted that Monsieur Grillard had been surprised by the fire in his bed.
Rosamour left it until later to have those pieces of evidence taken away in order that he could examine them more closely. Without concerning himself with hem any further, he continued his inspection.
On the top of the stove, in the midst of broken retorts, he noticed objects of bizarre form, and, on approaching, found that there was a collection of motionless small animals, especially frogs. When he reached out to touch one, he observed that the brown color covering it was due to a thick layer of dust and soot. Underneath, the polish of metal appeared. The strange fauna was nickel-plated.
At first, the policeman only looked at all that out of simple curiosity. What connection could the objects have with his own research? But a sudden reflection stopped him.
Had not these metal animals, nickel-plated like the sculptor’s statue, been sculpted by the same hand? In that case, they attested that Bémolisant, the sculptor, and his uncle were not such strangers to one another as they appeared to be.
In any case, it was curious to observe works in the home of one of them that had evidently come from that of the other.
Let’s put one of these paperweights in my pocket, Rosamour said to himself, continuing his investigations.
In spite of his attention, though, he did not find a single object that put him on a new track, and he was about to leave when his gaze fell upon the slate blackboard. He noticed the outline of letters there, or, rather, the vague traces left by chalk after a rapid and summary erasure.
A man who knew the importance of the smallest details, the policeman approached again, trying to read the inscription. The string of letters was inconsequential, and made no sense.
It was scarcely probable that a scientist like Monsieur Grillard had wasted time on a handwriting exercise, and as the letters were not reminiscent of chemical formulae or mathematical calculations, our man, very intrigued, resolved to clarify the matter.
He searched for a bit of sponge, which he moistened lightly in the bottom of a dish, and dabbed the inscription, without rubbing it, in such a manner as not to erase is any further.
Immediately, thanks to the greater contrast between black and white, the characters stood out with sufficient distinction. There were gaps, unfortunately, but after a rapid examination, Rosamour remained convinced that he was in the presence of a cryptogam.
The most urgent thing was to collect it, at all costs.
Calmly, the policeman took out his cigar-case, to which, in the place where it is often customary to embed a small watch, there was an orifice closed with a lens several centimeters wide. He aimed that eye at the slate board, pressed a small button next to the catch, and, having completed that simple operation, replaced the case in his pocket. He had just photographed the inscription.
That done, and quite tranquilly, he retraced his steps and went back down to the ground floor.
Madame Paponot was waiting for him on the threshold of her lodge.
“Come in and I’ll give you a lick with the brush,” she said. “You’re a little untidy. Well, did you see anything good in the attic?”
“In truth, nothing worth the trouble of going up there,” Rosamour replied, in a disenchanted fashion. “Anyway, I’m wasting my time. All this isn’t my business; I’m just a journalist. Well, bonsoir, Madame Paponot.”
“You’ll send me the paper in which there’s mention of me, won’t you?”
“You can count on it...”
Rosamour took away several precious items of information from the theater of the blaze. None, however, was of a nature to extract him from his perplexity. The cryptogram was so truncated that it would certainly not be easily deciphered.
By way of recapitulation, he went over the facts that appeared to him to be established.
First of all, Bémolisant had come to see his uncle. How many times? The concierge affirmed that he could not have made more than one visit; at any rate, he could not have gone past the lodge often without being seen. During his visit on December the thirty-first—the only one clearly established—with the connivance of Pilesèche, he had concealed his identity and the two of them had taken away a heavy box of unusual form.
What could the box have contained? That was perhaps the nub of the problem.
If the laboratory assistant and the nephew had murdered the old man, was it probable that they had enclosed the cadaver in such a box? No; they would have chosen a recipient attracting less attention by virtue of its length. The concierge had said that one might have taken it for a coffin. One does not choose a coffin to transport a body that one wishes to make disappear. One puts it in a trunk of usual appearance, by folding it up. If the box was long, it was because it contained something long and rigid. Furthermore, the weight of a body was insufficient on its own to make it as heavy as it was said to be.
Was it the statue?
But how had it got into the scientist’s abode? A statue of that size does not arrive at someone’s home without being noticed. It would have been seen on arrival, as on departure…unless the method used to produce it only permitted it to be contrived in the laboratory...
And Rosamour remembered that nickel lent itself to galvanoplastic deposit.
“Bah!” he said. “Bémolisant would have had to come back often for that operation, as well as to establish a mock-up, and until there’s proof to the contrary, it’s necessary to admit that his visits were rare.”
He slapped his forehead.
“Of course!” he added, continuing his monologue. “One session would suffice for a molding from life; perhaps it was a plaster mold that was transported thus. The fellow does; he’s molded; and then his cadaver is made to disappear, one way or another. Perhaps it was burned in the laboratory furnace...
“Yes, but a mold cut up into pieces doesn’t occupy such a great length. I’d rather believe that it was the statue itself, obtained by
galvanoplasty, that the two men took away. When I’ve visited the artist’s studio and observed that he hasn’t installed any equipment for galvanoplasty, I’ll believe that my deduction is the only logical one. And the proof is the toad that I have in my pocket, and which was obtained by the same procedure...
“Come on, let’s not get carried away prematurely in hypotheses, and let’s not abandon the scientific method for an instant.”
The agent took out his watch.
“Good,” he murmured. “I still have time to go see Madame Bémolisant and get her to talk.”
IX. What Happened at the Artist’s House
The artist’s domicile had been in a singular disarray since the disappearance of its master.
Bémolisant had announced as he went out that he was going to fetch his statue and collect the fee for its exhibition.
That operation should not have taken long and could not have retained him beyond dinner time. He had been patiently awaited, however, for he had not accustomed his family to overly meticulous punctuality. At eight o’clock, however, the child had been crying; they had fed him and put him to bed. At nine o’clock the women had decided to sit down at table in their turn, but without any great appetite.
“I wouldn’t be anxious,” Madame Legris said, “if he hadn’t collected a considerable sum of money, but these days, you hear about people murdered in the boulevard, which isn’t reassuring.”
Weary of waiting, at about one o’clock in the morning, the ladies had resigned themselves to going to bed, but at the slightest noise, Madame Bémolisant, who was not asleep, shuddered, thinking that she could hear someone at the door.
Early the next morning, she went to the Rue de Sèze, where no one could tell her anything; all that anyone knew was that the artist had collected five thousand francs, had taken the statue and left in a fiacre with another man, who had joined him.
She went home and imparted that discovery to her mother, all of whose attention was immediately focused on the high figure of the receipts.
“Five thousand francs!” she said. “That would come in handy, for our capital is considerably eroded. I don’t suppose your husband has thought of spending it all on his own...”
“Oh, Maman, you know Népomucène; he’s incapable of such an action. He has his faults, I grant you, but he’s honest and disinterested.”
“Then it’s necessary to go to the police and ask that they make the necessary investigation.”
Hélène set forth and asked for directions to the local commissariat. When she went in, she approached an employee timidly, who was leaning back in his chair stretching his arms.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“Monsieur le Commissaire?”
“He’s gone out. What do you have to say to him?”
“It’s just that…I’d like to speak to him...”
“Since I’ve told you that he’s gone out, if you don’t want to say what brings you here, you can go away.”
He picked up his newspaper “It’s just that...it might be urgent.”
“Well then, explain yourself.”
“My husband didn’t come home last night.”
“Ha ha ha!” chuckled the clerk. “It happens.”
“He’d just collected a large sum of money.”
“What a rogue. Go on, make your declaration.” He had reached out a hand to pick up a printed form, which he filled in as he interrogated the young woman and as she replied.
When he had finished, he said, by way of conclusion: “That’s that. You can go home, little lady, and sleep tranquilly. Husbands don’t get lost. They always turn up.”
Hélène was no more reassured by that imbecile’s comments than by the verbiage of her mother, who found every consolation.
“Listen,” she said to her daughter when she came back come. “Népomucène isn’t the husband you need. He’s a crackpot, and I groan every day over the circumstances that forced me, in Tonkin, to give him to you as a husband. It wouldn’t be any great loss, you see...”
“But with all his faults, he’s my husband!”
“A colonial husband! The most unfortunate thing is that he’s disappeared with the money, just at the moment when—I don’t know how—he’d created a certain celebrity. Oh, perhaps it’s a stroke of luck after all, for he wouldn’t have been able to sustain his renown.”
“But since he’d succeeded in making that statue...”
“There’s something incomprehensible in that, you know. A statue doesn’t sprout overnight like a mushroom. He can say that he wanted to give us a surprise, but we’d have seen him making the mock-up, coming and going, and the model…and the founder…what do I know? I repeat, I scent trickery.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m very anxious.”
“You’re playing your role...”
The discussion was interrupted by the arrival of a visitor, who insinuated himself into the apartment as soon as the door was ajar, and said, as he handed over his card: “Is it to Madame Bémolisant that I have the honor of speaking?”
“Yes, Monsieur,” Hélène replied, while she scanned the piece of cardboard with her eyes, and read: Isidore Boissonnald, Enquiry Agent, Director of Family Security.
“Madame,” said the short man, taking a seat that no one had offered him, “my card indicates to you the kind of business in which I’m occupied: it’s principally research in the interests of families. I can say without boasting that I’ve never taken charge of an affair without seeing it through to the end. My agents are all possessed of a skill that one doesn’t encounter in the official police, for the simple reason that it’s necessary to pay talent what it’s worth. I’m not miserly with them, but, on the contrary, I’m extremely easy-going with families. We get paid by results, and except for a small fee to cover our expenses we don’t receive any money until we have succeeded. Finally, you can be sure of our most complete discretion. My motto is Hush! and my blazon, a finger over lips...”
During this little speech, Hélène examined the singular visitor, whose broad face framed by slack cheeks was illuminated by a perpetual vague smile beneath a fleeting and uncertain gaze.
“Monsieur,” she said finally, “I don’t quite understand what you want with me...”
The other took on an expression of afflicted and discreet condolence.
“Oh, my God, Madame, it’s quite simple! My agency has learned, at an early hour, of the disappearance…the cruel disappearance”—he emphasized the addition—“of the eminent artist whose wife you are, and I have come to offer you my services to find him.”
“I don’t believe I should hide it from you that I’ve already approached the commissariat. Perhaps it’s necessary to wait for the result.”
“Oh, Madame, don’t be under any illusion. The Prefecture won’t do anything. Act yourself, don’t waste any time, for searches are much more difficult when they’re belated.”
At the same time the officious individual inspected the furniture which was not of a kind to give a high idea of the resources of the family and the remuneration that might be expected therefrom.
“But in sum, Monsieur,” said the young woman, “what do you think of this disappearance?”
“I must confess that we avoid all hazardous and premature hypotheses; we only occupy ourselves with affairs with which we are charged. If you would like to pay us a modest sum of a hundred and fifty francs for our initial research, I will be able to tell you shortly what it is necessary to think of this occurrence. Then, depending on the difficulty of the ulterior research, according to whether there has been a murder, a sequestration or a flight, and, finally, whether it is necessary to operate in France or abroad, I shall quote you a simple, categorical and definitive fee.”
“Permit me to consult my mother, for, in truth, I’m very embarrassed,” Hélène relied, after a moment’s hesitation.
But Madame Legris, as soon as she was brought up to date, hastened to declare the she saw no opportunity for that e
xpense.
“Think about it,” said the enquiry agent. “Perhaps you’ll reproach yourself later for having neglected such a justified step. The sum for which I’m asking scarcely covers my initial expenses. Anyway, you have my address, and I shall come again tomorrow to obtain our definitive reply.
He stood up and headed for the door, slowly, like a man who still hopes that there might be a change of mind, but he was allowed to depart, and as he went out backwards he collided with a man who was just reaching out for the electric bell-push.
Isidore Boissonnald turned around and darted an oblique glance at the newcomer, a man correctly dressed, who stood side to let him pass.
Madame Bémolisant could not hide. She allowed the new visitor to come in, slightly annoyed by all these disturbances.
“I shall not employ any subterfuge or artifice with you, Madame,” said the newcomer, without any preamble. “My name is Rosamour, but that will tell you nothing. I have come to collect some information from you regarding your husband’s disappearance.”
“I’m desolate, Monsieur, but the agent who his just left has already proposed to make a similar search...”
She held out the card that she was still holding to Rosamour. Without taking it, the policeman darted a negligent glance at it.
“…And I refused his proposal,” Hélène continued, before having had a response from the Prefecture of Police, to which I made my declaration.”
“Good! Precisely—I’ve been charged by the Prefecture to ask you various questions that will aid us in the research that you have requested.”
“That’s different. Please sit down, Monsieur.”
“First of all, what indications do you have regarding the present whereabouts of your husband?”
“None, Monsieur, and as he had just collected some money, I can only suppose one thing, alas, which is that he has been drawn into some trap.”
Rosamour was perhaps not absolutely of the same opinion, but he did not let anything show and contented himself with asking a few questions about the employment of the sculptor’s day.
“I’m obliged,” he added, “also to obtain information about your family situation. You must excuse me, Madame, but our task is delicate and seemingly insignificant indications are sometimes flashes of enlightenment for us. You live with Madame your mother and a child. I have no need to ask you whether Monsieur Bémolisant was a model husband?”
The Nickel Man Page 20