The Eight Strokes of the Clock - Maurice Leblanc (reading in the dark .TXT) 📗

Seine, opposite the Jumièges peninsula.

Next night, he took up his position there. At eleven o’clock, Dalbrèque climbed a bank, scrambled over a wire fence, hid his bicycle under the branches and moved away. It seemed impossible to follow him in the pitchy darkness, on a mossy soil that muffled the sound of footsteps. Rénine did not make the attempt; but, at daybreak, he came with his chauffeur and hunted through the park all the morning. Though the park, which covered the side of a hill and was bounded below by the river, was not very large, he found no clue which gave him any reason to suppose that Rose Andrée was imprisoned there.

He therefore went back to the village, with the firm intention of taking action that evening and employing force:

“This state of things cannot go on,” he said to Hortense. “I must rescue Rose Andrée at all costs and save her from that ruffian’s clutches. He must be made to speak. He must. Otherwise there’s a danger that we may be too late.”

That day was Sunday; and Dalbrèque did not go to work. He did not leave his room except for lunch and went upstairs again immediately afterwards. But at three o’clock Rénine and Hortense, who were keeping a watch on him from the inn, saw him come down the wooden staircase, with his bicycle on his shoulder. Leaning it against the bottom step, he inflated the tires and fastened to the handlebar a rather bulky object wrapped in a newspaper.

“By Jove!” muttered Rénine.

“What’s the matter?”

In front of the café was a small terrace bordered on the right and left by spindle-trees planted in boxes, which were connected by a paling. Behind the shrubs, sitting on a bank but stooping forward so that they could see Dalbrèque through the branches, were four men.

“Police!” said Rénine. “What bad luck! If those fellows take a hand, they will spoil everything.”

“Why? On the contrary, I should have thought.⁠ ⁠…”

“Yes, they will. They will put Dalbrèque out of the way⁠ ⁠… and then? Will that give us Rose Andrée?”

Dalbrèque had finished his preparations. Just as he was mounting his bicycle, the detectives rose in a body, ready to make a dash for him. But Dalbrèque, though quite unconscious of their presence, changed his mind and went back to his room as though he had forgotten something.

“Now’s the time!” said Rénine. “I’m going to risk it. But it’s a difficult situation and I’ve no great hopes.”

He went out into the yard and, at a moment when the detectives were not looking, ran up the staircase, as was only natural if he wished to give an order to his chauffeur. But he had no sooner reached the rustic balcony at the back of the house, which gave admission to the two bedrooms than he stopped. Dalbrèque’s door was open. Rénine walked in.

Dalbrèque stepped back, at once assuming the defensive:

“What do you want? Who said you could.⁠ ⁠…”

“Silence!” whispered Rénine, with an imperious gesture. “It’s all up with you!”

“What are you talking about?” growled the man, angrily.

“Lean out of your window. There are four men below on the watch for you to leave, four detectives.”

Dalbrèque leant over the terrace and muttered an oath:

“On the watch for me?” he said, turning round. “What do I care?”

“They have a warrant.”

He folded his arms:

“Shut up with your piffle! A warrant! What’s that to me?”

“Listen,” said Rénine, “and let us waste no time. It’s urgent. Your name’s Dalbrèque, or, at least, that’s the name under which you acted in The Happy Princess and under which the police are looking for you as being the murderer of Bourguet the jeweller, the man who stole a motorcar and forty thousand francs from the World’s Cinema Company and the man who abducted a woman at Le Havre. All this is known and proved⁠ ⁠… and here’s the upshot. Four men downstairs. Myself here, my chauffeur in the next room. You’re done for. Do you want me to save you?”

Dalbrèque gave his adversary a long look:

“Who are you?”

“A friend of Rose Andrée’s,” said Rénine.

The other started and, to some extent dropping his mask, retorted:

“What are your conditions?”

“Rose Andrée, whom you have abducted and tormented, is dying in some hole or corner. Where is she?”

A strange thing occurred and impressed Rénine. Dalbrèque’s face, usually so common, was lit up by a smile that made it almost attractive. But this was only a flashing vision: the man immediately resumed his hard and impassive expression.

“And suppose I refuse to speak?” he said.

“So much the worse for you. It means your arrest.”

“I dare say; but it means the death of Rose Andrée. Who will release her?”

“You. You will speak now, or in an hour, or two hours hence at least. You will never have the heart to keep silent and let her die.”

Dalbrèque shrugged his shoulders. Then, raising his hand, he said:

“I swear on my life that, if they arrest me, not a word will leave my lips.”

“What then?”

“Then save me. We will meet this evening at the entrance to the Parc des Landes and say what we have to say.”

“Why not at once?”

“I have spoken.”

“Will you be there?”

“I shall be there.”

Rénine reflected. There was something in all this that he failed to grasp. In any case, the frightful danger that threatened Rose Andrée dominated the whole situation; and Rénine was not the man to despise this threat and to persist out of vanity in a perilous course. Rose Andrée’s life came before everything.

He struck several blows on the wall of the next bedroom and called his chauffeur.

“Adolphe, is the car ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Set her going and pull her up in front of the terrace outside the café, right against the boxes so as to block the exit. As for you,” he continued, addressing Dalbrèque, “you’re to jump on your machine and, instead of making off along the road, cross the yard. At the end of the yard is a passage leading into a lane. There you will be free. But no