All that made a lot of noise, but people are accustomed to paying no attention to the racket made by a caged prisoner; people in a lock-up do not behave like angels.
The prisoner listened briefly to see of anything abnormal succeed the noise, and then, squeezing through the opening they had contrived, they found themselves in the vestibule of the Mairie. Their captors had thought they had done enough by locking the doors, and, by virtue of habit, had left the keys to the interior doors in the locks. Everything was going smoothly.
The fugitives hesitated as to the direction to take, and finally decided to go out via the gardens, after having locked the door and thrown the key into a field.
The squall had calmed down, chasing away the clouds, and the moon’s silvery rays were reflecting from the snow.
As soon as they had escaped the enclosures and were in open country, Pilesèche signaled to his companion that he could not leave the body of his former employer at the mercy of the local people.
“Just think,” he said. “What if, by chance, he were still alive!”
“Oh, again…!”
“It doesn’t matter—it’s a scruple you ought to share. Follow the road, walking slowly, while I go back to the inn. Don’t worry—no one will see me. I’ll get the cart and catch up with you in a few minutes. If I’m caught, too bad—save yourself, without worrying about me, and...good luck.”
Bémolisant hesitated over letting his companion take the risk alone, but the other would find it easier to get himself out of trouble that way, so, all things having been considered, they split up.
Pilesèche started running, sticking close to the walls. The snow stifled the sound of his footfalls.
He had no difficulty reaching the courtyard of the inn and slipped into the shed—but the place where he had left the cart a few hours before was now empty.
Assuming that the gendarmes had taken possession of that piece of evidence, he retraced his steps rapidly, and as soon as he had caught up with his companion they both moved behind the hedge bordering the road, so that they could walk while sheltered from view.
They made haste, to the extent that the fresh snow, in which they sank ankle-deep, permitted.
Suddenly, they perceived by means of the moonlight a vehicle stopped on the road a hundred paces ahead of them. They moved closer with caution.
There, its wheels caught in the snow, was one of those large fairground caravans, whose vast flanks can accommodate an entire family, with the accessories of their trade.
Between its shafts, a single meager horse was striving to drag the heavy machine, and its panting breath, condensed by the cold, was forming a cloud of vapor around its head. A man was encouraging it with a forceful reinforcement of oaths and whiplashes, while a woman was trying to push one of the wheels.
The two fugitives moved closer, and we not a little surprised to see, attached behind the vehicle, a little handcart which bore a strong resemblance to their own, and recognized, in the charioteer and his acolyte, the performers of the previous evening.
They told themselves that there might be some advantage to be gained from the situation, and that in any case, they were not running any great risk in revealing themselves to a man who, by virtue of his profession, must be more often at odds with the police than with malefactors.
Quitting the shelter provided by the hedge, therefore, they leapt out on to the road and marched resolutely toward the performers.
Professor Joël saw them, and recognized them immediately. He was evidently wondering what disposition the two dangerous criminals might have toward him, but he was vigorous and scarcely accessible to fear. At any rate, he remained prudently in position, ready to receive them in case of aggression.
The two men did not seem to be paying any attention to the handcart that had been stolen from them, however, and Joël was the first to speak, in a good-humored tone.
“Well, well, Messeigneurs—so we’ve given the gentlemen of the constabulary the slip!”
“Monsieur,” said Bémolisant, “you don’t know us, but we swear to you that we’re honest men. There’s been a mistake. Help us to get out of it, and give us shelter in our vehicle.”
“We’re no longer as proud as we were yesterday evening. Personally, I don’t see anything in your difficulties with the police, but to offer you the hospitality of my house would be a little risky. The gendarmes are after you, and I don’t want them on my back.”
Miss Adda gazed at her Master with an imploring expression, without daring to say a word but gripped by a supreme pity.
“It would be so easy for you to hide us in the back of your vehicle,” hazarded Pilesèche.
Bémolisant joined in with more solid arguments.
“We’re not without money,” he said, “and we’d be grateful for your hospitality. Combining actions with words, he took a five-hundred-franc bill out of his wallet.
Five hundred francs!
Joël’s eyes gleamed with covetousness. Five hundred francs! These people, so poorly dressed, must be very great criminals to have five hundred francs in their possession. Where the devil had they stolen that money? After all, that wasn’t his business. His fingers stretched out toward the blue piece of paper, which disappeared immediately into some pocket or other.
“Come on,” he said, “let’s not waste time here. Give me a hand to get my wheels out of this accursed snow, and perhaps we can come to some arrangement.”
The two men applied themselves to the wheels, while Joël whipped the horse, which, having recovered its breath, put sudden pressure on its collar and succeeded in getting under way again.
“Now let’s chat,” said the mountebank. “I’d like to get you out of difficulty, but one good turn deserves another. You doubtless still have a few notes in your pocket. Hire my outfit and you can remain my associates, and least as far as Nantes. I’m dreaming of spectacular shows and phenomenal receipts.” He addressed Pilesèche. “You play the hypnotist like no one.” He turned back to Bémolisant and added: “And you must have some hidden talent?”
“I play all kinds of musical instruments pleasantly,” the artist replied, modestly.
“That’s perfect.” In a detached tone, he added: “I won’t hide it from you that I thought to render you a real service by getting rid of the cart and the crate that you neglected to take to prison; all that might have fallen into the hands of the gendarmerie. It’s no trouble. I’ve even committed the indiscretion of looking to see what’s in the box. As an anatomical specimen it’s not bad. We’ll exhibit it and I’ll take change of the patter. Now it’s time to hide; dawn’s about to break. Climb inside with Miss Adda.
They did not need to have the suggestion repeated.
In the depths of the vehicle there was an immense wicker basket. Joël explained to them that it was the nacelle of a balloon that he used for ascensions in large towns where there as a chance of suitable receipts. The two fugitives climbed into the nacelle, over a clutter of objects of every sort. Adda carefully arranged the rigging of the balloon, which succeeded in hiding them from view without inconveniencing them.
“You’ll be in clover there,” said the showman, laughing broadly. “At the slightest alert, burrow down under that mass of fabric—they won’t find you under all that.”
The side road that the caravan had been following had joined the highway again, where the snow was not as deep and required less effort from the emaciated horse that was pulling the mobile house. The showman climbed on to the driving seat, with Miss Adda by his side, still silent, but emotional without showing it, turning round from time to time to check that the others were well hidden.
It had been daylight for some time already and they had occasionally crossed paths with carts whose drivers, well wrapped up, cracked their whips to warm themselves up, when they suddenly heard two horses trotting behind them. Joël craned his neck to see who the early morning riders were.
“Look out! This is the critical moment,” he said, ducking
back into the vehicle hurried. Don’t move and leave it to me.”
It was the two gendarmes.
The noise of the cavalcade drew nearer, and the representatives of the public force, drawing level with the vehicle, fell into step with it.
“Bonjour,” said the brigadier. “Have you seen anything unusual this morning?”
“My word, no. Not many people about because of the cold, and if I didn’t have to get to Courtalain in good time, I’d have slept in late at the inn—but what can you do? One has to make a living.”
The brigadier darted a suspicious glance into the depths of the carriage.
Without paying any heed to that, Joël continued: “By the way, Brigadier, if you have a yen to take the numbness out of your limbs and have a drop, I’ve got a nice bottle of rum in the bottom of the basket. Let me offer you two fingers. My beast can get his breath back in the meantime.”
He did, in fact, bring his horse to a halt. “Adda, get that bottle and glasses,” he went on. And so saying, he leapt to the ground, stamped his feet and stretched his legs.
In her turn, Adda briskly leapt down from the footstep and presented glasses to the two gendarmes. They hesitated, still suspicious, but the fairground performers seemed so innocently confident.
The brigadier placed his horse sideways, in order to get a better view of the inside of the vehicle. It was crammed with boxes and baskets; there was no space wasted and even less disposable.
“Well, what about your amiable crooks yesterday evening?” said Joël, in the most natural fashion in the world.
“In truth,” said the brigadier, laughing sardonically, “I was wondering whether you were taking then away in your wagon?”
“No jokes, Brigadier; I don’t carry vermin with me. But what do you mean? Has someone stolen them?”
“They’ve decamped. They’re clever fellows, but they can’t get very far on foot, and we’ll show them that one can’t make fools of us twice. I hoped that you might have run into them.”
“Haven’t seen anything of them. They’ve more likely cut across the fields.”
“Too bad, too bad...”
The gendarmes clicked their tongues, raised their fingers to their kepis as a sign of gratitude, and resumed their trot.
XII. On the Track
Rosamour, a stubborn man, persisted in occupying himself uniquely with finding Grillard, dead or alive.
That was the corpus delicti; in its disappearance lay the whole of the mystery that the police had to decipher. Thus, the policeman, without wasting his time running after the fugitives, was collecting the slightest indication, in order to reconstitute, piece by piece, the kind of life that the scientist ordinarily led.
In truth, Monsieur Grillard’s relations were restricted and very intermittent. Among the people who might be able to shed some light on the habits of Népomucène Grillard, Rosamour suddenly thought about his notary, Maître Durand, a shrewd fellow who had known him for a long time, having been at the École de Droit when the future scientist was frequenting the laboratories of the Sorbonne, and who, not being afraid to stand up to him, had always remained on good enough terms with him—which is to say in a permanent dispute that never went as far as falling out.
When Rosamour sought to obtain some enlightenment, however, Maître Durand contented himself with smiling and shaking his head, and his mocking eyes sparkled behind his spectacles. He knew nothing more than the public, but “that old devil Grillard was so extraordinary in every way that he was bound to finish in an extraordinary fashion.” As for him, all he could say was that he was the depository of his testament.
“Aha!” exclaimed Rosamour. “I hoped so; that document might perhaps tell us something...”
“Not so fast,” the notary interrupted. You’ll only have access to that information in six months time, at the earliest.”
“How’s that?”
“I’m only to open it six months after his actual or presumed death.”
“Very well—but to inform the police...”
“The police and the notariat are two different things. Professional secrecy, Monsieur—what about that?”
Rosamour had a strong desire to by-pass the lawyer’s professional secrecy and obtain a formal warrant from an examining magistrate to search the office that had the pretention of being a tomb of secrets—but that was a major step that would certainly have put him at odds with the entire chamber of notaries, and he went home pensive, cursing the fatality that blocked all his best schemes.
It was in that state of mind that a message from Monsieur Fischer, the examining magistrate reached him, summoning him to the Palais urgently.
Only taking the time to grab an overcoat, our policeman hurtled into the street.
The magistrate as waiting for him, striding back and forth in his office impatiently.
“They’ve been arrested!” he cried, as soon as he saw him, showing him the yellow slip of a telegram open on the desk.
“Who?” said Rosamour, still thinking about nothing but his cadaver in his distress.
“Eh? Bémolisant and his acolyte, of course. What do you expect me to be thinking about, if not this accursed Panthéon affair—my nightmare?”
“Damn it!” the agent could not help saying. “That upsets my plans. What impetuosity people have, arresting people before it’s time! Have you any means of confounding them and getting them to confess?”
“Bah! The worthy gendarmes might have been a little hasty, but it’s done now. It’s a matter of making the best of it. Perhaps it’s a fortunate diversion, anyway, since your research hasn’t turned up anything.”
“Patience! One can’t expect to fall on the right track at the first step—but I persist in believing that old Grillard’s corpse is the key to the mystery, and that it’s necessary, above all, to find it. Anyway, since the two fugitives have been arrested, I’ll go...”
“Yes, by talking to them cleverly, you’ll certainly be able to tie them in knots, and end up finding the truth—although, to tell the truth, those two fellows appear to me to be much less naïve than they seemed at first. Mistrust, Monsieur Rosamour, mistrust—they’re sly ones; they’re very clever.”
“Oh, very clever,” replied Rosamour, with absolute skepticism. “Anyway, I’ll go, and we’ll see...”
At that moment, someone knocked on the door. An office boy handed another telegram to the examining magistrate, who opened it. On reading it, however, his expression suddenly changed, in spite of the mask of impassivity that was habitual to him. It was with pinched lips, without saying a word, that he handed the piece of paper to the policeman.
The latter read it attentively in his turn, shook his head and sketched a vague smile.
“I see,” he said, “that if the gendarmes of Briseval arrest people inappropriately, they let them escape in the same fashion. That doesn’t change my plans, if you don’t mind. I’ll set out anyway, and I won’t take long to find our fugitives, be sure of that.”
“I suppose, in fact, that they’re continuing to make for Nantes and Saint-Nazaire, by a more-or-less roundabout route, still having the intention of taking to the sea.”
“I’ll follow them step by step.”
“Don’t let them slip through your fingers at the last moment and embark.”
“They won’t embark without me.”
“Try to succeed—public opinion is beginning to get impatient. The press, which never loses an opportunity to criticize the police, is already shouting from the rooftops that it’s another file to be closed and that we can only arrest criminals if they turn themselves in.”
“I’d like to see the reporters doing our job!”
Rosamour was particularly piqued by the examining magistrate’s slightly sarcastic remarks, but he was forced to recognize their justice. In spite of all his skill and all his steps, the case was no further forward than on the day it had been assigned to him. He had collected an ample dossier of information. He knew every detail now of
the lives of Bémolisant and Pilesèche. He had been able to reconstruct their comings and goings throughout the week that had preceded Grillard’s mysterious disappearance and the one that had followed it. Only one thing escaped him—and that was the only important one.
What had become of the estimable scientist?
Of him, there was no trace.
He had come to believe that it was definitely his body that had been taken away in the box. But what had become of it thereafter, and where had the statue come from? The sole hypothesis that did not come to his mind was to identify the body with the effigy.
The nature of the metal and the opinion of competent people suggested that galvanoplastic methods must have been used to fabricate that statue, which no founder has cast; that was a conclusion acquired—but no galvanoplastic workshop in Paris or the surrounding area had ever been commissioned to carry out such work.
Learning that Monsieur Grillard’s last endeavors had necessitated the employment of those processes of metallization, and that the scientist must, in consequence, have had the necessary equipment in his laboratory, Rosamour, moving from one deduction to another, was inclined to believe that the statue must have been finished there; it must, therefore have been the statue that was in the box, which was more in accordance with the excessive weight than the policeman’s first hypothesis.
But in that case, once again, what had become of the scientist?
There was no way out of the dilemma: the box contained either the body or the statue, and in either case, the mystery, for being different, was no less indecipherable—as well as the famous cryptogram on which he had counted momentarily to supply the key to the enigma.
Decidedly, the examining magistrate was right. It was to the presumed guilty parties that it was necessary to go to seek the solution to the problem.
The agent ate a hasty meal and took the train at twenty minutes past midday with a ticket to Gault Saint-Denis, the nearest station to Briseval. There he took a cab, which deposited him at the door of the gendarmerie of the latter village.
The brigadier had just returned, rather discomfited by his fruitless pursuit.
The Nickel Man Page 23