813 - Maurice LeBlanc (best short novels of all time TXT) 📗

of the tall chestnuts were beginning to unfold their new-born leaves.

“What on earth is Chapman doing?” muttered Kesselbach. “The time he wastes in palavering!…”

He took a cigarette from the table, lit it and drew a few puffs. A faint exclamation escaped him. Close before him stood a man whom he did not know.

He started back:

“Who are you?”

The man—he was a well-dressed individual, rather smart-looking, with dark hair, a dark moustache and hard eyes—the man gave a grin:

“Who am I? Why, the Colonel!”

“No, no… The one I call the Colonel, the one who writes to me under that… adopted… signature… is not you!”

“Yes, yes… the other was only… But, my dear sir, all this, you know, is not of the smallest importance. The essential thing is that I… am myself. And that, I assure you, I am!”

“But your name, sir?…”

“The Colonel… until further orders.”

Mr. Kesselbach was seized with a growing fear. Who was this man? What did he want with him?

He called out:

“Chapman!”

“What a funny idea, to call out! Isn’t my company enough for you?”

“Chapman!” Mr. Kesselbach cried again. “Chapman! Edwards!”

“Chapman! Edwards!” echoed the stranger, in his turn. “What are you doing? You’re wanted!”

“Sir, I ask you, I order you to let me pass.”

“But, my dear sir, who’s preventing you?”

He politely made way. Mr. Kesselbach walked to the door, opened it and gave a sudden jump backward. Behind the door stood another man, pistol in hand. Kesselbach stammered:

“Edwards… Chap…”

He did not finish. In a corner of the lobby he saw his secretary and his servant lying side by side on the floor, gagged and bound.

Mr. Kesselbach, notwithstanding his nervous and excitable nature, was not devoid of physical courage; and the sense of a definite danger, instead of depressing him, restored all his elasticity and vigor. Pretending dismay and stupefaction, he moved slowly back to the chimney piece and leant against the wall. His hand felt for the electric bell. He found it and pressed the button without removing his finger.

“Well?” asked the stranger.

Mr. Kesselbach made no reply and continued to press the button. “Well? Do you expect they will come, that the whole hotel is in commotion, because you are pressing that bell? Why, my dear sir, look behind you and you will see that the wire is cut!”

Mr. Kesselbach turned round sharply, as though he wanted to make sure; but, instead, with a quick movement, he seized the traveling-bag, thrust his hand into it, grasped a revolver, aimed it at the man and pulled trigger.

“Whew!” said the stranger. “So you load your weapons with air and silence?”

The cock clicked a second time and a third, but there was no report.

“Three shots more, Lord of the Cape! I shan’t be satisfied till you’ve lodged six bullets in my carcass. What! You give up? That’s a pity… you were making excellent practice!”

He took hold of a chair by the back, spun it round, sat down a-straddle and, pointing to an arm-chair, said:

“Won’t you take a seat, my dear sir, and make yourself at home? A cigarette? Not for me, thanks: I prefer a cigar.”

There was a box on the table: he selected an Upmann, light in color and flawless in shape, lit it and, with a bow:

“Thank you! That’s a perfect cigar. And now let’s have a chat, shall we?”

Rudolf Kesselbach listened to him in amazement. Who could this strange person be?… Still, at the sight of his visitor sitting there so quiet and so chatty, he became gradually reassured and began to think that the situation might come to an end without any need to resort to violence or brute force.

He took out a pocketbook, opened it, displayed a respectable bundle of banknotes and asked:

“How much?”

The other looked at him with an air of bewilderment, as though he found a difficulty in understanding what Kesselbach meant. Then, after a moment, he called:

“Marco!”

The man with the revolver stepped forward.

“Marco, this gentleman is good enough to offer you a few bits of paper for your young woman. Take them, Marco.”

Still aiming his revolver with his right hand, Marco put out his left, took the notes and withdrew.

“Now that this question is settled according to your wishes,” resumed the stranger, “let us come to the object of my visit. I will be brief and to the point. I want two things. In the first place, a little black morocco pocket-case, shaped like an envelope, which you generally carry on you. Secondly, a small ebony box, which was in that traveling-bag yesterday. Let us proceed in order. The morocco case?”

“Burnt.”

The stranger knit his brows. He must have had a vision of the good old days when there were peremptory methods of making the contumacious speak:

“Very well. We shall see about that. And the ebony box?”

“Burnt.”

“Ah,” he growled, “you’re getting at me, my good man!” He twisted the other’s arm with a pitiless hand. “Yesterday, Rudolf Kesselbach, you walked into the Credit Lyonnais, on the Boulevard des Italiens, hiding a parcel under your overcoat. You hired a safe… let us be exact: safe No. 16, in recess No. 9. After signing the book and paying your safe-rent, you went down to the basement; and, when you came up again, you no longer had your parcel with you. Is that correct?”

“Quite.”

“Then the box and the pocket-case are at the Credit Lyonnais?”

“No.”

“Give me the key of your safe.”

“No.” , “Marco!”

Marco ran up.

“Look sharp, Marco! The quadruple knot!”

Before he had even time to stand on the defensive, Rudolf Kesselbach was tied up in a network of cords that cut into his flesh at the least attempt which he made to struggle. His arms were fixed behind his back, his body fastened to the chair and his legs tied together like the legs of a mummy.

“Search him, Marco.”

Marco searched him. Two minutes after, he handed his chief a little flat, nickel-plated key, bearing the numbers 16 and 9.

“Capital. No morocco pocket-case?”

“No, governor.”

“It is in the safe. Mr. Kesselbach, will you tell me the secret cypher that opens the lock?”

“No.”

“You refuse?”

“Yes.”

“Marco!”

“Yes, governor.”

“Place the barrel of your revolver against the gentleman’s temple.”

“It’s there.”

“Now put your finger to the trigger.”

“Ready.”

“Well, Kesselbach, old chap, do you intend to speak?”

“No.”

“I’ll give you ten seconds, and not one more. Marco!”

“Yes, governor.”

“In ten seconds, blow out the gentleman’s brains.”

“Right you are, governor.”

“Kesselbach, I’m counting. One, two, three, four, five, six…”

Rudolph Kesselbach made a sign.

“You want to speak?”

“Yes.”

“You’re just in time. Well, the cypher… the word for the lock?”

“Dolor.”

“Dolor… Dolor… Mrs. Kesselbach’s name is Dolores, I believe? You dear boy!… Marco, go and do as I told you… No mistake, mind! I’ll repeat it: meet Jerome at the omnibus office, give him the key, tell bun the word: Dolor. Then, the two of you, go to the Credit Lyonnais. Jerome is to walk in alone, sign the name-book, go down to the basement and bring away everything in the safe. Do you quite understand?”

“Yes, governor. But if the safe shouldn’t open; if the word Dolor…”

“Silence, Marco. When you come out of the Credit Lyonnais, you must leave Jerome, go to your own place and telephone the result of the operation to me. Should the word Dolor by any chance fail to open the safe, we (my friend Rudolf Kesselbach and I) will have one… last… interview. Kesselbach, you’re quite sure you’re not mistaken?”

“Yes.”

“That means that you rely upon the futility of the search. We shall see. Be off, Marco!”

“What about you, governor?”

“I shall stay. Oh, I’m not afraid! I’ve never been in less danger than at this moment. Your orders about the door were positive, Kesselbach, were they not?”

“Yes.”

“Dash it all, you seemed very eager to get that said! Can you have been trying to gain time? If so, I should be caught in a trap like a fool…” He stopped to think, looked at his prisoner and concluded, “No… it’s not possible… we shall not be disturbed…”

He had not finished speaking, when the door-bell rang. He pressed his hand violently on Rudolf Kesselbach’s mouth:

“Oh, you old fox, you were expecting some one!”

The captive’s eyes gleamed with hope. He could be heard chuckling under the hand that stifled him.

The stranger shook with rage:

“Hold your tongue, or I’ll strangle you! Here, Marco, gag him! Quick!… That’s it!”

The bell rang again. He shouted, as though he himself were Kesselbach and as though Edwards were still there:

“Why don’t you open the door, Edwards?”

Then he went softly into the lobby and, pointing to the secretary and the manservant, whispered:

“Marco, help me shift these two into the bedroom… over there… so that they can’t be seen.”

He lifted the secretary. Marco carried the servant.

“Good! Now go back to the sitting-room.”

He followed him in and at once returned to the lobby and said, in a loud tone of astonishment:

“Why, your man’s not here, Mr. Kesselbach… No, don’t move… finish your letter… I’ll go myself.”

And he quietly opened the hall-door.

“Mr. Kesselbach?”

He found himself faced by a sort of jovial, bright-eyed giant, who stood swinging from one foot to the other and twisting the brim of his hat between his fingers. He answered:

“Yes, that’s right. Who shall I say… ?”

“Mr. Kesselbach telephoned… He expects me…”

“Oh, it’s you… I’ll tell him… Do you mind waiting a minute?.. Mr. Kesselbach will speak to you.”

He had the audacity to leave the visitor standing on the threshold of the little entrance-hall, at a place from which he could see a portion of the sitting-room through the open door, and, slowly, without so much as turning round, he entered the room, went to his confederate by Mr. Kesselbach’s side and whispered:

“We’re done! It’s Gourel, the detective…”

The other 4rew his knife. He caught him by the arm:

“No nonsense! I have an idea. But, for God’s sake, Marco, understand me and speak in your turn. Speak as if you were Kesselbach… You hear, Marco! You are Kesselbach.”

He expressed himself so coolly, so forcibly and with such authority that Marco understood, without further explanation, that he himself was to play the part of Kesselbach. Marco said, so as to be heard:

“You must apologize for me, my dear fellow. Tell M. Gourel I’m awfully sorry, but I’m over head and ears in work… I will see him tomorrow morning, at nine… yes, at nine o’clock punctually.”

“Good!” whispered the other. “Don’t stir.”

He went back to the lobby, found Gourel waiting, and said:

“Mr. Kesselbach begs you to excuse him. He is finishing an important piece of work. Could you possibly come back at nine o’clock tomorrow morning?”

There was a pause. Gourel seemed surprised, more or less bothered and undecided. The other man’s hand clutched the handle of a knife at the bottom of his pocket. At the first suspicious movement, he was prepared to strike.

At last, Gourel said:

“Very well… At nine o’clock tomorrow… But, all the same… However, I shall be here at nine tomorrow…”

And, putting on his hat, he disappeared down the passage of the hotel.

Marco, in the sitting-room, burst out laughing:

“That was jolly clever of you, governor! Oh, how nicely you spoofed him!”

“Look alive, Marco, and follow him. If he leaves the hotel, let him be, meet Jerome at the omnibus-office, as arranged… and telephone.”

Marco went away quickly.

Then the man took a water-bottle on the chimney-piece, poured himself out a tumblerful, which he swallowed at a