In the dining-room, brightly lit by chandelier and torches, the chatelain of Beech Grove and his guests not only dined in fine style—for Amélie was a first-rate cook—but with what even almost approached joy! Vivacious Jeannette, who was serving, was at once excited and bewildered. This relative euphoria seemed to be due not only to the presence of the famous and lively Léo Saint-Clair, but also to the obvious and extraordinary fact that Jacques d’Hermont, his sister Laure and their older daughter Madeleine, had suffered hardly at all from the stubborn fever which usually started at sunset, worsened around midnight, then remain stationary and disappear abruptly at dawn, leaving its victims in a desperate state of mental anxiety and physical depression.
Now, on the evening of the first day of Saint-Clair’s presence at Beech Grove, it was evident that the victims, except for their thinness and yellow complexions, were far less sick than on any other previous evenings, and ate with pleasure and a strong appetite.
As for Basilie d’Hermont, she looked even freer and happier than usual, contributing the most amusing, spiritually childish and malicious sallies into the conversation. Saint-Clair observed her closely, and saw in the deep clearness of the young girl’s pale periwinkle eyes nothing but honest wonder and the innocent, joyous egotism of living.
Jacques d’Hermont, his sister and his daughters were very sincere in begging him to stay up late—Laure would play the piano, Madeleine would sing, because she felt “so much better,” and Basilie would recite some fables of La Fontaine, which, her father said, she did “with a naturalness and a naive drollery that verged on genius,” but Saint-Clair held fast in his decision to retire almost immediately after dinner, and at ten o’clock, he shut himself up in the Red Room.
According to his habit, he had eaten hardly anything, and only out of courtesy—for at home, in a hotel or at a house familiar enough for him to enjoy some freedom, the Nyctalope rarely dined at night. He had practically suppressed the evening meal from his life. A fruit, an infusion, a bowl of milk, often with a simple glass of Vichy or Vittel water, was his normal supper. As an exception, he consented to sit at table when he was a guest at a house, or in company where worldly convenience made him consider his duty to not stand out and act like everyone else. Even then, skillful and discreet, he ate very little without it being noticed.
Once again in his pajamas, Saint-Clair settled himself in an armchair in front of the fireplace with a blazing fire, and began to smoke a pipe while reading the monthly review of Les Œuvres Libres. This evening hour of reading and smoking was for him the most pleasant hour of the day, and its solitude, abstraction, relaxation and forgetfulness of everything helped him transition between the activities of day and the rest of the night.
He didn’t even mentally review the events of the day. No! The day was over. Now it was time to rest, to sleep. Tomorrow would be another day! His mind would be fresh, and he would resume his activities at the peak of his powers. Night was made for man to sleep, just like almost all of nature’s creatures. Saint-Clair slept like a log during the nights, usually without exception.
This night—the night of Tuesday 20 to Wednesday 21 January 1925—was no exception. After closing his eyes a little after midnight, Saint-Clair reopened them after the normal duration of sleep, somewhere around 6 a.m.
He opened his eyes, stretched, rubbed down, washed, and changed out of his pajamas, breathing in the fresh air from the window he’d left half-open during the night.
It was 6:45 a.m. when Saint-Clair rang the bell. Two minutes later, Firmin entered the Red Room.
“Good morning, Monsieur. Has Monsieur slept well?”
“Yes, very well, thank you. Good morning, Firmin.”
“Does Monsieur want me to light the fire?”
“Yes, and close the window. When will breakfast be served?”
“Monsieur le Comte has given orders. A breakfast spread will be served at exactly 7:30 a.m. Does Monsieur want it here?”
“Yes, please.”
“Very well, Monsieur.”
From the moment he woke, until breakfast, while washing, dressing, and eating, Saint-Clair did nothing but review again and again the circumstances of the drama at Beech Grove. Lucid and lively as his well-rested mind was, however, nothing emerged to throw light on the mysterious drama.
After a hearty breakfast, Saint-Clair murmured:
“First of all, the footprints. Classic and banal as they are, they often give valuable clues. Then, a private interrogation of Laure Dauzet and Madeleine d’Hermont. Finally, a detailed visit of the castle, the servants’ quarters, the gardens and the park. That will be the program for the day. This afternoon, I will send Soca with a letter for the Prefect of Tours, to request a list of all the citizens of Saint-Christophe who may have registered the possession of a Browning 9mm. It is an expensive weapon, and therefore not very common. Unless that ‘human shadow’ comes from farther away, which is unlikely, I hope this list will allow me to narrow my list of suspects…”
He then asked himself:
“I wonder if the condition of our three victims will be as euphoric today as it was yesterday?”
The answer to this question was given to him at 8 a.m. when, descending to the ground floor, he heard talking in the dining-room. He entered and said:
“Good morning, Madame, Mesdemoiselles, my dear d’Hermont… Please, I beg of you, do not disturb yourselves!”
Chocolate, coffee, milk, toasts, butter and jam were on the table. The chatelain, his sister and his daughters were tucking into the first meal of the day. Jacques, Laure and Madeleine were visibly well. In front of Saint-Clair, who sat in an armchair between the table and a French window, they continued to eat with an appetite. Basilie reminded him of a fresh, beautiful, perfumed flower, still almost a bud, whose magnificent blossoming one could not imagine without a certain pleasant disturbance.
Through the large window with drawn curtains, one could see that this day, while colder than the previous one, would still be sunny.
“Would you like to go hunting?” d’Hermont asked Saint-Clair.
The latter gave the answer expected by his friend:
“My goodness, no! I feel lazy. If you permit, my dear fellow, I will amuse myself by strolling through the park that must still be magnificent despite the winter, with corners of truly Lamartinian romanticism.2 Am I mistaken?”
“Not at all, Monsieur Saint-Clair,” said Basilie, laughing heartily. “But my father never told us that the Nyctalope had a romantic soul.”
“Bah! It depends on the day, Mademoiselle. Everything is within us. It’s simply a question of not systematically rejecting any impulses.”
“Well! As for me,” the young girl replied, “I don’t believe there’s anything romantic about me. I’m more the sporty type. Papa even reproaches me for being a frightful materialist. You’re going to despise me: I hardly ever read a book. I love horses, cars and bicycles; in winter, canoeing, and in summer, swimming in the lake to the north of the park. It’s beautiful, you’ll see. I admit that its banks may strike you as romantic, but I limit myself to finding them picturesque. Above all, they’re an excellent hunting ground, full of game. Our clever Bottot has created a little place there, next to the water, for breeding pheasants.
“This Bottot is no doubt your gamekeeper?”
“Yes, of course.” And, with a naive vanity, she added: “The head gamekeeper, in fact, for he has three subordinates.”
“Yes,” explained d’Hermont. “Our park is bordered by some large woods and natural meadows that form a vast hunting ground. To the west, the estate is bordered by the national road from Tours to Le Mans. Prowlers and poachers would have good game if I employed only one gamekeeper. Four at least are indispensable. They live in pavilions in the woods. I will show you all this, my dear friend.”
And in another tone, paternally tender, he added:
“The weather’s so very fine, Basilie. Will you go out riding this morning?”
�
�Yes,” replied the young girl, surprised. “Ah! It’s true, I was seated when you came in, and didn’t get up. You didn’t see that I’m already in my riding breeches and boots.”
“Very well! Will you give me the pleasure of going to the Fosses-Blanches? The farmer there bought two horses the day before yesterday, at the fair of Château-du-Loir. I’d like you to examine them and give me your impression.”
“No, not my impression, my reasoned opinion,” corrected Basilie in a tone at once so pert and so assured that it was almost comical, to the extent that Saint-Clair himself could not help but laugh, as did the Comte, Laure and Madeleine. They were all decidedly well that morning, at least as much as they could be after months of the progressive weakening of all their vital organs—a weakening during which their weight, yellow complexion and hollow eyes revealed the seriousness of their ailment and made a disturbing in contrast with Basilie’s dazzling health.
Saint-Clair observed everything and everyone. He said to himself:
“Can my presence alone be responsible for this reprieve? In that case, the influence of the mental on the physical is even prompter and more effective than even the illustrious Cabanis affirmed, explained, and demonstrated.3 Patience! We shall see.”
After breakfast was over, they all got up. Laure and Madeleine occupied themselves, as they did every morning, with the progress of domestic life, which involved talking to the cook, the chambermaid and the servants. Basilie went out to the stable, passing through the pantry to pick up Firmin, her groom.
D’Hermont said to Saint-Clair:
“If you want, my dear friend, I will take a little walk with you. But in half an hour, I will leave you, because I have some accounting to do. I plan to come back and shut myself away in my office until noon. When you return, Laure and Madeleine will keep you company until lunch.”
“Thank you. I’ll take Vitto and Soca; I enjoy their company.”
“Understood!” said d’Hermont. “I remember what they were to you, and you to them, during the War.”
While they spoke, the two men had passed into the grand entrance hall, which Laure, Madeleine and Basilie never entered.
Saint-Clair put on a large coat with a fur collar, which Vitto had hung the day before on the coat stand. Jacques d’Hermont threw a pelerine over his shoulders. Summoned by a bell that they had specially arranged, Vitto and Soca appeared from the office, also wearing large jackets similar to that of their master, except with collars of padded cloth. Completing their look with boots, peccary gloves and a Basque beret, the Nyctalope and his two Corsicans followed the Comte, who himself wore an old gray felt hat, wool gloves and tightly laced-up shoes.
They exited through the door of the great portico. D’Hermont showed his admiring friend the beautiful spectacle of the valley still wrapped in gauzy mist, as well as the houses in the amphitheater valley of Saint-Christophe, illuminated by the rising sun. Here and there, the glass shimmered and sparkled.
Saint-Clair had packed a short pipe and now lit it. Then they set off toward the north side of the lawn, where the low squat pedestal stood without a statue. As they circled the large dovetower, they heard a clear voice cry out with joy:
“Hey! Hop! Diane!”
A fine bay mare trotting along came to a halt. It was mounted by Basilie, head bare, gold hair flying in the wind. She wore a kind of fitted blue jacket, trimmed with fur at the collar and sleeves and molded about her firm bust.
Passing ten steps in front of them, the modern Amazon took them in with a keen glance and made a gesture of salute. They had no time to reply, for at that very moment, making a quarter-turn, the impatient mare carried its light and lively load down a forest path.
Saint-Clair said softly:
“Jacques, let’s wait a while.”
While they waited, they looked closely at the outside of the castle.
“I don’t want anyone to see us while we examine the imprints of the shoes,” explained the Nyctalope.
For no apparent reason, Comte d’Hermont was suddenly very moved, and did not look to suppress the emotion, also revealed in the expressions of his face and voice:
“At this hour, no one has any business on this side of the castle,” he stated.
Glancing in the direction of the woods, Saint-Clair made sure that Basilie had taken the turn about two hundred meters into the forest path. Then he said:
“Well! Come on.”
They only had to walk fifty steps.
Beyond the bulge of the lawn with its pedestal and the circular path with its thick layer of gravel, the green front area in front of the first row of trees was a bare space of three to five meters in width. In it there alternated random patches of grass or moss and patches of soil, frozen from the cold. This space was not very trafficked, as the humans in the castle and outbuildings had the habit of entering the park only by one of the many paths that stretched around the lawn and buildings.
At a rapid clip, Jacques d’Hermont led his three companions to the foot of an enormous and immense beech tree. Its great trunk was divided, almost at the level of the earth, into three diverging segments that projected their branches nearly horizontally ten or fifteen meters around them.
Just one step in front of the tree with light gray bark, Jacques d’Hermont stopped. Leaning forward, he held out his right arm, pointed his index and spoke in a slightly hoarse voice.
“Saint-Clair, there they are... There are the footprints... Right there, just between those two parallel footprints, is where I picked up the intact cartridge.”
“Good,” said the Nyctalope softly. “Would you move slightly, my dear friend? That’s enough... Vitto, take the measurements. Soca, write them down; please also note all the details you see. It’s necessary to have take impressions, and we need an exact and complete description... You know how to do these things. Hurry up!”
Then, to d’Hermont, he asked:
“Did you see the human shadow running away?”
“Yes,” replied the Comte.
“Where did it go?”
“Ah—that, I’m not sure. At first, I could see the shadow, then it melted into the night.”
“When you first saw the human shadow, you said it seemed to peel away from the light gray of this trunk, which received some light from that enigmatic nimbus. When the shadow saw you heading with such energy towards the pedestal, it fled. One leap is enough for anyone to pass from here into the nearest path. Most likely the man went that way to avoid giving away his trail. If he had plunged into the woods, he would have made the dead branches creak on the ground and rustled the living branches in the thickets. So he must have gone the other way… Well then! Vitto, Soca, where are you?”
Soca did not hesitate:
“Indeed, Monsieur, it’s very clear. The footsteps came, trampled about a bit, stayed for a while in absolute immobility, and suddenly left.”
“Where did they go?”
“Down this path, Monsieur, where the impressions that interest us are lost among the many other footprints of men and animals... Unfortunately this is a forest path that crosses the park, which no doubt everyone uses.”
Jacques d’Hermont had been listening attentively. He smiled at this last statement, before saying cordially:
“No, Soca, not everyone. Only the people of the castle and the gatekeepers. It’s true, this is enough to blur traces as banal as those of a shoe... For if I’ve seen right, they are some kind of shoe, aren’t they?”
“Yes, Monsieur le Comte,” replied the Corsican after looking at Saint-Clair, who gave him a brief smile of encouragement. “The shoes that made those impressions are not very remarkable, at least as far as their soles go. All the same, Vitto has noticed a peculiar detail—nothing escapes him.”
“Ah!” said d’Hermont in a lively tone, advancing a step toward Soca. “This detail, what is it?”
Saint-Clair intervened.
“Vitto, you discovered the thing. Answer.”
The taciturn Cor
sican was kneeling on the ground. He had finished observing, measuring, dictating to Soca. He stood up with a smooth movement. After having also sought the approval anticipated from the Nyctalope, he faced the chatelain and replied:
“Monsieur le Comte, the shoes that left their impressions here are ordinary country shoes, the kind with nails, not too thick. In short, they are strong lace-up shoes with thick soles, carefully hobnailed. The left shoe, however, has a peculiar detail about it—one might describe it as a fissure, or a crack, produced in the middle of the sole by exposure to a strong source of heat. I imagine a man who has returned from a walk in cold weather, warming up before the fire; he brings his left foot too close to the fire, and leaves it there too long. The leather of the sole dries up abruptly; it shrivels, cracks, splits. And this crack gives the footprints a very neat, very significant form in the dirt, impossible to mistake. I will add that the footprints came from old shoes that have worn for a long time; many of the nails are missing, and those that remain are flattened. What’s more, the man who usually wears these shoes has legs that are rather far apart, with the tips of his feet turned out. He must be heavy; large or small, he is no weakling. There it is, that’s all, Monsieur le Comte.”
“That’s quite a lot!” said Jacques d’Hermont, impressed.
“And it’s as definitive as it is beyond doubt,” said Saint-Clair. “Vitto speaks rarely and briefly. What he has just told you, my dear Jacques, is a very long speech for him. He has said nothing useless, and everything he said was important. As for the footprints and soles of the shoes, we would learn nothing more now, even if we had the shoes under our eyes, unless you can identify them as belonging to a man of your acquaintance. They are certainly the shoes of a man of quite large size...”
“Forty-two wide,” Soca said calmly.
“I will think about this,” said d’Hermont, puzzled. “Yes, I will think… We’ll talk some more about it later, Saint-Clair.”
The Nyctalope and The Tower of Babel Page 5