The Holladay Case: A Tale by Burton Egbert Stevenson (thriller books to read .txt) 📖

us. When should messieurs be expected to return? It was impossible to say.

We set off along the street, leaving the inn-keeper staring after us—along the Rue Alphonse Karr, lined on both sides by[Pg 271] houses, each with its little shop on the ground floor. Three minutes' walk brought us to the bay, a pretty, even picturesque place, with its perpendicular cliffs and gayly-colored fishing-smacks. But we paused for only a glance at it, and turned toward the Casino at the other end. "Mâitre Fingret?" we inquired of the first passer-by, and he pointed us to a little house, half-hidden in vines.

A knock brought the notary himself to the door, a little dried-up man, with keen face, and eyes incredibly bright. My companion explained our errand in laborious French, supplemented by much gesticulation—it is wonderful how the hands can help one to talk!—and after a time the little Frenchman caught his meaning, and bustled away to get his hat and coat, scenting a fat fee. Our first step was to be an easy one, thanks to the severity and thoroughness of French administration, but I admit that I saw not what we should do further, once we had[Pg 272] verified the date of Miss Holladay's birth. The next step must be left to chance.

The notary unlocked the door, showed us into his office, and set out chairs for us. Then he got down his register of births for 1876. It was not a large book, for the births at Etretat are not overwhelming in number.

"The name, I think you said, was Holladay?" he asked.

"Hiram W. Holladay," nodded Mr. Royce.

"And the date June 10th?"

"Yes—June 10th."

The little man ran his finger rapidly down the page, then went back again and read the entries one by one more slowly, with a pucker of perplexity about his lips. He turned the leaf, began farther back, and read through the list again, while we sat watching him. At last he shut the book with a little snap and looked up at us.

"Messieurs," he said quietly, "no such birth is recorded here. I have examined the[Pg 273] record for the months of May, June, and July."

"But it must be there!" protested Mr. Royce.

"Nevertheless it is not here, monsieur."

"Could the child have been born here and no record made of it?"

"Impossible, monsieur. No physician in France would take that responsibility."

"For a large fee, perhaps," suggested my companion.

"In Paris that may, sometimes, be possible. But in a small place like this, I should have heard of it, and it would have been my duty to investigate."

"You have been here for that length of time, then?"

"Oh, yes, monsieur," smiled the little man. "For a much longer time than that."

Mr. Royce leaned forward toward him. He was getting back all his old power as a cross-examiner.

"Monsieur Fingret," he began impressively,[Pg 274] "I am quite certain that Hiram W. Holladay and his wife were here during the months of May, June, and July, 1876, and that while they were here a daughter was born to them. Think again—have you no recollection of them or of the event?"

The little notary sat for some moments with knitted brows. At last he shook his head.

"That would be the height of the season, you see, monsieur," he said apologetically. "There are a great many people here, at that time, and I cannot know all of them. Nevertheless, it seemed to me for a moment that there was about the name a certain familiarity—as of an old tune, you know, forgotten for years. Yet it must have been my fancy merely, for I have no recollection of the event you mention. I cannot believe that such a birth took place at Etretat."

There was one other chance, and I gave Mr. Royce the clew.

"Monsieur Fingret," he asked, "are you[Pg 275] acquainted with a man by the name of Pierre Bethune?"

And again the notary shook his head.

"Or Jasper Martigny?"

"I never before heard either name, monsieur," he answered.

We sat silent a moment, in despair. Was our trip to Etretat to be of no avail? Where was my premonition, now? If we had lost the trail thus early in the chase, what hope was there that we should ever run down the quarry? And how explain the fact that no record had been made of Frances Holladay's birth? Why should her parents have wished to conceal it? Would they not naturally have been anxious to see that it was properly recorded?

An hour had passed; the shops were opening, and a bustle of life reached us through the open door. People began to pass by twos and threes.

"The first train for three days is about to arrive," said the little notary. "You see,[Pg 276] this is a very small town, messieurs. The arrival of a train is an event."

Again we fell silent. Mr. Royce got out his purse and paid the fee. We had come to an impasse—a closed way, we could go no farther. I could see that the notary was a-hungered for his roll and coffee. With a sigh, I arose to go. The notary stepped to the door and looked up the street.

"Ah," he said, "the train has arrived, but it seems there were not many passengers. Here is one, though, who has finished a long journey."

He nodded to someone who approached slowly, it seemed. He was before the door—he passed on—it was Martigny!

"That is the man!" I cried to Mr. Royce. "That is Martigny! Ask who he really is."

He understood on the instant, and caught the notary's arm.

"Monsieur Fingret, who is that man?"

The notary glanced at him, surprised by his vehemence.[Pg 277]

"That," he said, "is Victor Fajolle. He is just home from America and seems very ill, poor fellow."

"And he lives here?"

"Oh, surely; on the cliffs just above the town—the first house—you cannot miss it—buried in a grove of trees. He married the daughter of Madame Alix some years ago—he was from Paris."

"And his wife is living?"

"Oh, surely, she is living; she herself returned from America but three weeks ago, together with her mother and sister. The sister, they say, is—well——" and he finished with a significant gesture toward his head.

I saw my companion's face turn white—I steadied myself with an effort. I knew that, at last, the veil was to be lifted.

"And they are at home now?"

"I believe so," said the notary, eying him with more and more astonishment. "They[Pg 278] have been keeping close at home since their return—they will permit no one to see the—invalid. There has been much talk about it."

"Come, we must go!" I cried. "He must not get there before us!"

But a sudden light gleamed in the notary's eyes.

"Wait, messieurs!" he cried. "A moment. But a moment. Ah, I remember it now—it was the link which was wanting, and you have supplied it—Holladay, a millionaire of America, his wife, Madame Alix—she did not live in the villa, then, messieurs. Oh, no; she was very poor, a nurse—anything to make a little money; her husband, who was a fisherman, was drowned, and left her to take care of the children as best she could. Ah, I remember—one a mere baby!"

He had got down another book, and was running his finger rapidly down the page—his finger all a-tremble with excitement.[Pg 279] Suddenly, he stopped with a little cry of triumph.

"Here it is, messieurs! I knew I could not be mistaken! See!"

Under the date of June 10, 1876, was an entry of which this is the English:

"Holladay, Hiram W., and Elizabeth, his wife, of the city of New York, United States of America; from Céleste Alix, widow of Auguste Alix, her daughter Céleste, aged five months. All claim surrendered in consideration of the payment of 25,000 francs."

Mr. Royce caught up the book and glanced at the back. It was the "Record of Adoptions."

[Pg 280]

CHAPTER XVIII The Veil is Lifted

In a moment we were hurrying along the street, in the direction the notary had pointed out to us. Martigny was already out of sight, and we had need of haste. My head was in a whirl. So Frances Holladay was not really the daughter of the dead millionaire! The thought compelled a complete readjustment of my point of view. Of course, she was legally his daughter; equally of course, this new development could make no difference in my companion's feeling for her. Nothing, then, was really changed. She must go back with us; she must take up the old life——But I had no time to reason it all out.

We had reached the beach again, and we turned along it in the direction of the cliffs. Far ahead, I saw a man hurrying in the same direction—I could guess at what agony and[Pg 281] danger to himself. The path began to ascend, and we panted up it to the grassy down, which seemed to stretch for miles and miles to the northward. Right before us was a little wood, in the midst of which I caught a glimpse of a farmhouse.

We ran toward it, through a gate, and up the path to the door. It was closed, but we heard from within a man's excited voice—a resonant voice which I knew well. I tried the door; it yielded, and we stepped into the hall. The voice came from the room at the right. It was no time for hesitation—we sprang to the door and entered.

Martigny was standing in the middle of the floor, fairly foaming at the mouth, shrieking out commands and imprecations at two women who cowered in the farther corner. The elder one I knew at a glance—the younger—my heart leaped as I looked at her—was it Miss Holladay? No, yet strangely like.

He saw their startled eyes turn past him[Pg 282] to us, and swung sharply round. For an instant he stood poised like a serpent about to strike, then I saw his eyes fix in a frightful stare, his face turned livid, and with a strangled cry, he fell back and down. Together we lifted him to the low window-seat, pursuers and pursued alike, loosened his collar, chafed his hands, bathed his temples, did everything we could think of doing; but he lay there staring at the ceiling with clenched teeth. At last Royce bent and laid his ear against his breast. Then he arose and turned gently to the women.

"It is no use," he said. "He is dead."

I looked to see them wince under the blow; but they did not. The younger woman went slowly to the window and stood there sobbing quietly; the other's face lit up with a positive blaze of joy.

"So," she exclaimed, in that low, vibrant voice I so well remembered, "so he is dead! That treacherous, cruel heart has burst at last!"[Pg 283]

Royce gazed at her a moment in astonishment. She looked not at him, but at the dead man on the window-seat, her hands clasping and unclasping.

"Madame Alix," he said, at last, "you know our errand—we must carry it out."

She bowed her head.

"I know it, monsieur," she answered. "But for him, there would have been no such errand. As it is, I will help you all I can. Cécile," she called to the woman at the window, "go and bring your sister to these gentlemen."

The younger woman dried her eyes and left the room. We waited in tense silence, our eyes on the door. We heard the sound of footsteps on the stair; a moment, and she was on the threshold.

She came in slowly, listlessly—it gave me a shock to see the pallor of her face. Then she glanced up and saw Royce standing there; she drew in her breath with a quick gasp, a great wave of color swept over[Pg 284] her cheeks and brow, a great light sprang into her eyes.

"Oh, John!" she cried, and swayed toward him.

He had her in his arms, against his heart, and the glad tears sprang to my eyes as I looked at them. I glanced at the elder woman, and saw that her eyes were shining and her lips quivering.

"And I have come to take you away, my love," he was saying.

"Oh, yes; take me away," she sobbed, "before the other comes."

She stopped, her eyes on the window-seat, where "the other" lay, and the color died out of her cheeks again.

"He, at least, has paid the penalty," said Royce. "He can trouble you no more, my love."

She was sobbing helplessly upon his shoulder, but as the moments passed she grew more calm, and at last stood upright from him. The younger