Messengers of Evil Part 46

He was, certainly, the only living soul in the place: listen as he might, and his sense of hearing was acute, he could not hear any sound of breathing. Yes, the time to quit his prison had come!

Fandor had with him, besides his revolver, a box of matches, and a hunter's knife consisting of several blades, and a little saw. Getting out his knife with some difficulty, he began to hack at the wickerwork.

Dry and pliant, the interlaced rods did not long resist the saw's steel teeth. It took him a bare ten minutes to make an opening, sufficiently large to push his head and shoulders through: the rest of his body followed easily. Such was his haste to be free, that he tore, not only his clothes, but his elbows and hands, on the jagged ends of the broken wickerwork: large drops of blood fell on the flooring.

"Bah! I've got off cheaply!" cried Fandor, standing up to relax his cramped muscles and stretching his aching legs and arms.

"Unless I am jolly well mistaken, I am lord of all I survey. I am alone in my glory! There's not a soul in the place! Good luck indeed!"

He turned for a last look at his broken prison house, the cage in which he had spent such exciting hours. He suddenly stiffened and drew back: a nervous trembling seized him--the nervous trembling due to sudden shock.

Between the trunk which had been dumped down in the centre of a large square room, without a sc.r.a.p of furniture in it, and the window, through whose shutters the rays of morning sunshine shone, Fandor had caught sight of a body lying on the floor--a man's body! Fandor leapt forward.

Was this same cunning criminal feigning sleep for some evil purpose?

Standing over that motionless figure, Fandor bent and touched one of the man's hands: it was ice-cold and rigid. The man was dead!

To see his face was imperative: it was turned towards the floor. With difficulty Fandor raised the head and shoulders, for they were unusually large and strongly built. Fandor glanced at the face and suddenly withdrew his hand: the corpse fell back on the floor with a thud!

"Thomery!" murmured Fandor. "Why, it's Thomery!"

It was the well-known sugar refiner's body. The face was purple, the tongue protruding. Round his neck was tied a tricoloured scarf, the scarf of a police inspector! Was this the murderer's ironic touch?

Fandor sank down quite overcome. He tried to collect his thoughts.

"A disgusting joke this! If someone should take into his head to enter the room at this moment, what kind of explanation could I give? Here I am, alone with the dead body of a man I know, and in a room I don't know, in a neighbourhood whose whereabouts I know no more than the man in the moon."

"Where am I?... In whose house?... For what purpose?... Have those beauties of last night no suspicion of the truth?... Did they leave me in this lair of theirs of set purpose, knowing I was cooped up inside the trunk?"

Just then, Fandor felt a slight moisture on the palm of his hand: it was all red: the scratches, made by the jagged edges of the wickerwork, were still bleeding.

"Better and better I declare!" murmured Fandor. "If I don't look like a little holy Saint John! A corpse, and a man with blood on his hands seated beside the dead body of this murdered man! Nothing more is required to jail me with all the power of the law!... To go to prison under such suspicious circ.u.mstances is serious!... The police, who are floundering about in a maze of investigations, without any result so far, will be only too delighted to kill two birds with one stone--to suppress a journalist and discover a criminal!... I have got to get out of here; that is plain as a pikestaff!... Get away? Yes, but with the honour of war!... I must establish an alibi--that is absolutely necessary.... I like to think that my false police inspector and his accomplice have cut and run for some time; at any rate, that they will be in no hurry to come back to see what is happening where they have so neatly and nicely left the corpse of this Thomery.... What part did this fellow play in the drama?... Criminal or victim?"

Fandor had reached the door of the hall opening on to the main staircase. He was listening.... He had explored the flat. It was empty.

He had found water in the kitchen, had washed his face, and removed every trace of blood from his person. It was a flat suitable for a middle-cla.s.s household. There were three large rooms, decorated with a certain amount of luxury.

Fandor looked at his watch. It was seven o'clock. He stood listening.

Someone, a man, was coming downstairs: someone, a woman, was coming up.

They met on the landing just outside.

"Monsieur Mercadier, here are your letters! I was bringing them up to you!"

"It was hardly worth while, my good lady. I have to come down, you see, so you can save yourself five flights of stairs!"

"Oh, no, monsieur! I have to come up to go down my stairs."

Monsieur Mercadier continued to descend, and the portress continued to mount.

Fandor's heart beat faster when he realised that she was approaching the door. Would she come in and find him there? Had the new tenants left a key of the flat with her? No, the portress dusted the landing quickly and continued her ascent: he heard her going up and up....

He made up his mind to slip out on to the landing. Despite his efforts, he could not prevent his shoes creaking: it was spring-time, and already the stair carpet had been taken up. He was on the point of going downstairs, when he heard the portress calling from above:

"Who's there?... What do you want?"

Had she heard him leave the flat? Was he to be stupidly caught, just as he was escaping?... He must act at once. He went up a step or two of the next flight of stairs and called out:

"Is Monsieur Mercadier at home?"

"Ah, no, monsieur! He has just this minute gone out! I am surprised you did not meet him!..."

"Very good, madame. I will come another time!"

Fandor turned on his heel, and, whistling, with hands in pockets, he gained the ground floor, pa.s.sed the entrance gate, and found himself in the street. He mingled with the pa.s.sers-by, and learned from the first plaque he came to with the name of the street on it, that he was in rue Lecourbe, Vaugirard....

XX

UNDER THE HOODED MASK

What had happened? By way of what mysterious adventures had the corpse of sugar refiner Thomery reached that empty room in rue Lecourbe, where Jerome Fandor had come across it?

Two days previous, on the afternoon of Elizabeth Dollon's arrest, Monsieur Thomery was working in his study, when a servant came to tell him that a lady wished to speak to him.

"Did she give you her name?" asked Thomery.

"No, monsieur, this person said her name would tell you nothing; but she was sure monsieur would see her, for she would only detain him a minute or two...."

Piles of papers were stacked on the great sugar refiner's study table: typists were laying numerous letters before him, which awaited his signature. Thomery thought to himself:

"I have still a good half-hour's work before me ... deuce take this importunate visitor!" He was on the point of saying he could not see any one, when the servant added:

"This person declares she comes with reference to Madame the Princess Danidoff."

Though he was a man of business, Thomery was a gallant man also; and very much in love; his approaching marriage with the Princess, which had been kept secret, was now known. The name of Princess Danidoff settled the question.

"Very well, let her come in!"

The manservant disappeared a minute, then ushered into the study a very una.s.suming woman of uncertain age and quite ordinary looking.

Thomery rose to meet her, pointing pleasantly to one of the large arm-chairs in the room. The visitor was profusely apologetic.

"I am so exceedingly sorry, Monsieur Thomery, to disturb you at such an hour, when you must certainly have a great deal to occupy your attention; but the matter I have come about will not wait, and I am sure it will interest you...."

This little person seemed very intelligent, and Thomery was favourably impressed by her manner, which was both simple and decided.

"Madame, I am listening to you. In what way can I be of service to you?"

"I am not here, monsieur," she protested, "to pester you with any wants and wishes for myself. I am a diamond broker and ..."

She had not finished her sentence when Thomery, smiling but firm, rose, and said sharply: