813 by Maurice LeBlanc (best non fiction books of all time .TXT) 📖
- Author: Maurice LeBlanc
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She had taken bad aim, without a doubt, for a head looked round the other side of the hood and the man, catching sight of the motor-cab, gave his horse a great lash with the whip and it started off at a gallop. The next moment, a turn of the road hid the carriage from sight.
M. Lenormand finished his tacking in a few seconds, darted straight up the incline, passed the girl without stopping and turned round boldly. He found himself on a steep, pebbly forest road, which ran down between dense woods and which could only be followed very slowly and with the greatest caution. But what did he care! Twenty yards in front of him, the carriage, a sort of two-wheeled cabriolet, was dancing over the stones, drawn, or rather held back, by a horse which knew enough only to go very carefully, feeling its way and taking no risks. There was nothing to fear; escape was impossible.
And the two conveyances went shaking and jolting down-hill. At one moment, they were so close together that M. Lenormand thought of alighting and running with his men. But he felt the danger of putting on the brake on so steep a slope; and he went on, pressing the enemy closely, like a prey which one keeps within sight, within touch…
“We’ve got him, chief, we’ve got him!” muttered the inspectors, excited by the unexpected nature of the chase.
At the bottom, the way flattened out into a road that ran towards the Seine, towards Bougival. The horse, on reaching level ground, set off at a jog-trot, without hurrying itself and keeping to the middle of the road.
A violent effort shook the taxi. It appeared, instead of rolling, to proceed by bounds, like a darting fawn, and, slipping by the roadside slope, ready to smash any obstacle, it caught up the carriage, came level with it, passed it…
An oath from M. Lenormand… shouts of fury… The carriage was empty!
The carriage was empty. The horse was going along peacefully, with the reins on its back, no doubt returning to the stable of some inn in the neighborhood, where it had been hired for the day…
Suppressing his inward rage, the chief detective merely said:
“The major must have jumped out during the few seconds when we lost sight of the carriage, at the top of the descent.”
“We have only to beat the woods, chief, and we are sure.. “
“To return empty-handed. The beggar is far away by this time. He’s not one of those who are caught twice in one day. Oh, hang it all, hang it all!”
They went back to the young girl, whom they found in the company of Jacques Doudeville and apparently none the worse for her adventure. M. Lenonnand introduced himself, offered to take her back home and at once questioned her about the English major, Parbury.
She expressed astonishment:
“He is neither English nor a major; and his name is not Parbury.”
“Then what is his name?”
“Juan Ribeira. He is a Spaniard sent by his government to study the working of the French schools.”
“As you please. His name and his nationality are of no importance. He is the man we are looking for. Have you known him long?”
“A fortnight or so. He had heard about a school which I have founded at Garches and he interested himself in my experiment to the extent of proposing to make me an annual grant, on the one condition that he might come from time to time to observe the progress of my pupils. I had not the right to refuse… “
“No, of course not; but you should have consulted your acquaintances. Is not Prince Sernine a friend of yours? He is a man of good counsel.”
“Oh, I have the greatest confidence in him; but he is abroad at present.”
“Did you not know his address?”
“No. And, besides, what could I have said to him? That gentleman behaved very well. It was not until to-day… But I don’t know if…”
“I beg you, mademoiselle, speak frankly. You can have confidence in me also.”
“Well, M. Ribeira came just now. He told me that he had been sent by a French lady who was paving ashort visit to Bougival, that this lady had a little girl whose education she would like to entrust to me and that she wished me to come and see her without delay. The thing seemed quite natural. And, as this is a holiday and as M. Ribeira had hired a carriage which was waiting tor him at the end of the road, I made; no difficulty about accepting a seat in it.”
“But what was his object, after all?”
She blushed and said: Ç..
“To carry me off, quite simply. He confessed it to me after half an hour…”
“Do you know nothing about him?”
“No.”
“Does he live in Paris?”
“I suppose so.”
“Has he ever written to you? Do you happen to have a few lines in his handwriting, anything which he left behind, that may serve us as a clue?”
“No due at all… Oh, wait a minute… but I don’t think that has any importance…”
“Speak, speak… please…”
“Well, two days ago, the gentleman asked permission to use my typewriting machine; and he typed out—with difficulty, for he evidently had no practice—a letter of which I saw the address by accident.”
“What was the address?”
“He was writing to the Journal and he put about twenty stamps into the envelope.”
“Yes… the agony-column, no doubt,” said M. Lenormand.
“I have to-day’s number with me, chief,” said Gourel.
M. Lenormand unfolded the sheet and looked at the eighth page. Presently, he gave a start. He had read the following sentence, printed with the usual abbreviation:*
[* Personal advertisements in the French newspapers are charged by the line, not by the word; and consequently nearly every word is clipped down to two, three or four letters.-_Translator’s Note,_]
“To any person knowing Mr. Steinweg. Advertiser wishes to know if he is in Paris and his address. Reply through this column.”
“Steinweg!” exclaimed Gourel. “But that’s the very man whom Dieuzy is bringing to you!”
“Yes, yes,” said M. Lenormand, to himself, “it’s the man whose letter to Mr. Kesselbach I intercepted, the man who put Kesselbach on the track of Pierre Leduc… So they, too, want particulars about Pierre Leduc and his past?… They, too, are groping in the dark?…”
He rubbed his hands: Steinweg was at his disposal. In less than an hour, Steinweg would have spoken. In less than an hour, the murky veil which oppressed him and which made the Kesselbach case the most agonizing and the most impenetrable that he had ever had in hand: that veil would be torn asunder.
MLENORMAND was back in his room at the Prefecture of Police at six o’clock in the evening. He at once sent for Dieuzy:
“Is your man here?”
“Yes, chief.”
“How far have you got with him?”
“Not very. He won’t speak a word. I told him that, by a new regulation, foreigners were ‘bliged to make a declaration at the Prefecture as to the object and the probable length of their stay in Paris; and I brought him here, to your secretary’s office.”
“I will question him.”
But, at that moment, an office-messenger appeared:
“There’s a lady asking to see you at once, chief.”
“Have you her card?”
“Here, chief.”
“Mrs. Kesselbach! Show her in.”
He walked across the room to receive the young widow at the door and begged her to take a seat. She still wore the same disconsolate look, the same appearance of illness and that air of extreme lassitude which revealed the distress of her life.
She held out a copy of the Journal and pointed to the line in the agony-column which mentioned Steinweg:
“Old Steinweg was a friend of my husband’s,” she said, “and I have no doubt that he knows a good many things.”
“Dieuzy,” said M. Lenormand, “bring the person who is waiting… Your visit, madame, will not have been useless. I will only ask you, when this person enters, not to say a word.”
The door opened. A man appeared, an old man with white whiskers meeting under his chin and a face furrowed with deep wrinkles, poorly clad and wearing the hunted look of those wretches who roam about the world in search of their daily pittance.
He stood on the threshold, blinking his eyelids, stared at M. Lenormand, seemed confused by the silence that greeted him on his entrance and turned his hat in his hands with embarrassment.
But, suddenly, he appeared stupefied, his eyes opened wide and he stammered:
“Mrs… Mrs. Kesselbach!”
He had seen the young widow. And, recovering his serenity, smiling, losing his shyness, he went up to her and in a strong German accent:
“Oh, I am glad!… At last!… I thought I should never… I was so surprised to receive no news down there… no telegrams… And how is our dear Rudolf Kesselbach?”
The lady staggered back, as though she had been struck in the face, and at once fell into a chair and began to sob.
“What’s the matter?… Why, what’s the matter?” asked Steinweg.
M. Lenormand interposed:
“I see, sir, that you know nothing about certain events that have taken place recently. Have you been long travelling?”
“Yes, three months… I had been up to the Rand. Then I went back to Capetown and wrote to Rudolf from there. But, on my way home by the East Coast route, I accepted some work at Port Said. Rudolf has had my letter, I suppose?”
“He is away. I will explain the reason of his absence. But, first, there is a point on which we should be glad of some information. It has to do with a perse, i whom you knew and to whom you used to refer, in your intercourse with Mr. Kesselbach, by the name of Pierre Leduc.”
“Pierre Leduc! What! Who told you?”
The old man was utterly taken aback.
He spluttered out again:
“Who told you? Who disclosed to you… ?”
“Mr. Kesselbach.”
“Never! It was a secret which I confided to him and Rudolf keeps his secrets… especially this one…”
“Nevertheless, it is absolutely necessary that you should reply to our questions. We are at this moment engaged on an inquiry about Pierre Leduc which must come to a head without delay; and you alone can enlighten us, as Mr. Kesselbach is no longer here.”
“Well, then,” cried Steinweg, apparently making up his mind, “what do you want?”
“Do you know Pierre Leduc?”
“I have never seen him, but I have long been the possessor of a secret which concerns him. Through a number of incidents which I need not relate and thanks to a series of chances, I ended by acquiring the certainty that the man in whose discovery I was interested was leading a dissolute life in Paris and that he was calling himself Pierre Leduc, which is not his real name.”
“But does he know his real name himself?”
“I presume so.”
“And you?”
“Yes, I know it.”
“Well, tell it to us.”
He hesitated; then, vehemently:
“I can’t,” he said. “No, I can’t.”
“But why not?”
“I have no right to. The whole secret lies there. When I revealed the secret to Rudolf, he attached so much importance to it that he gave me a large sum of money to purchase my silence and he
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