Chapter VI: The Unexpected

In the pitch darkness the two men mounted the stone steps, fully expecting a savage assault at any moment. So quiet was everything that the sound of their breathing seemed tremendous. Wallace took comfort from the fact that a revolver bullet would have to be fired within a yard or two to inflict any injury--close enough for him to use the cudgel to effect.

Round and round they went, each counting the steps mentally. There were sixty-three of them all told. Outside the door, Conrad was enabled to come to the side of his companion. He gripped the dangerous-looking sword tighter as Wallace opened the door.

“Empty!”

The ejaculation leaped from Wallace’s lips. The interior was well lighted by the sunset, and the window was bolted on the inside. Conrad passed his hand across his brow, which was clammy with perspiration.

“Gone!” he said. “How the devil----”

“He may be outside.”

“How could he fasten the window behind him?”

“How does he manage to perform all these astonishing tricks?”

He was not satisfied until he had opened the window and climbed through it in order to see if the mysterious figure was making a retreat along the ivy. But there was no sign of him. He rejoined his companion.

“He must have slid along the corridor like lightning,” he said. “He had to climb through the window, descend sixty-three stairs, and run the whole length of the corridor while I was getting up stairs. I could have sworn it was impossible.”

“We are evidently dealing with a creature of amazing agility. By Jove, what a size it was--at least seven feet.”

“Big men as a rule are not very agile. But, assuming he beat us in the race, where did he vanish to?”

“There are the other towers and probably many outlets--old staircases and so forth.”

“It is very disappointing.”

“It is--in a way. Yet I think we were mad to attempt to nab him with nothing but a club and an old sword. This man is a killer--have no doubt about that. In future I am going to carry something more deadly than an antique sword.”

“What are we to do now?”

“Nothing until the morning. We’ll take the car and run into the nearest place that has firearms for sale. This game has long passed the pastime stage. I think I can hear the dinner-gong. Lord, I can do with a bottle of wine.”

On reaching the lower regions, they were surprised to find Yolande in conversation with a stranger. He was a portly individual, and had a rough bandage round his head.

“Well?” asked Yolande excitedly.

“We were too late. He had vanished.”

“I feared he would.”

“His good luck won’t hold for ever,” said Wallace. “If I could have knocked two seconds off my time I believe we should have got him.”

Yolande shook her head, and then suddenly burst a surprise upon them.

“This gentleman is Arnaud Fouchard,” she said.

“Fouchard--Arnaud Fouchard!” gasped Conrad, staring at the new arrival.

“Yes, monsieur--_the_ Arnaud Fouchard.”

“But we-- I don’t understand this.”

“I should have arrived early this morning, but there seems to have been a little conspiracy afoot. There was but one conveyance at the station and I engaged it. I admit I was badly tricked. The driver stopped the car some four miles from the château and swore he had a puncture. He was clever enough to hit me here with the handle of the jack and to deposit my body in a foul pit. That is a little incident I shall not forget in a hurry.”

“Great Scott! But who was the man who came-- I get you now. That little wretch with the scrubby beard was the man who drove you?”

“Precisely. He removed my card-case and my money. I was hoping I should find him here.”

“He has not returned since this morning.”

“Nor will he return.”

“I am not quite clear on this,” said Wallace. “Why should that man want to masquerade as you?”

“Merely to get inside the house and to keep me off the trail for a bit. He certainly succeeded in knocking me out for ten hours, but here I am.”

“This gets more and more involved,” said Conrad. “He must have had an important object.”

“Yes, a keen desire to know how much you knew about this--this mysterious disappearance. He had an opportunity of questioning everybody, and, having learned all he wanted to know, he vanished.”

“But how could he have known you were on your way to the château?” asked Yolande.

“There we approach the edge of the conspiracy--whatever it may be. Someone in this house knew that a message had gone to Paris over the telephone--someone in touch with our masquerading friend. There is but one train from Paris to Arveyes after midnight. There were few passengers, and I think I am fairly well known to most people with criminal tendencies. That brings three persons into the case--the phantom whom I believe you have just seen, the man with the scrubby beard who knocked me out, and the person in the château who communicated with the latter.”

“It may have been the Monster who overheard,” suggested Yolande.

“Possibly--but I doubt it.”

“You had better join us at dinner,” said Yolande. “You are looking fatigued, and some refreshment will revive you.”

“Thank you,” he replied with a smile. “Fortunately ‘Bluebeard’ left my suit-case with my injured person. I will join you very soon.”

Severin was called and, taking the suit-case, showed Fouchard to his room. Yolande sighed as she turned to the other two.

“What will happen next?” she asked pensively.

“At any rate, a little progress has been made,” said Wallace. “We now know that there is more than one person in this business. And I certainly like the real Fouchard better than the false.”

“Are there any servants in the house whom you have cause to mistrust?” enquired Conrad.

“I know of none. But we are changing them so often that it is difficult to say. Severin of course knows more about them than I. We engaged three new ones a month ago.”

Fouchard was not long in changing his clothes and removing most of the signs of his adventure. He seemed a jovial kind of personage and not at all secretive. His appetite was enormous and he made the most of the excellent meal. Yolande, however, ate very little. It was obvious that, despite her patience and fortitude, she was suffering from terrible anxiety.

“You have heard all about this affair?” asked Wallace of Fouchard, when the last course was served.

“Mademoiselle has put me in possession of most of the facts. It would be vain to pretend that I have any theory to propound so far. The only thing that is evident is that certain persons are in league to achieve some object as yet unknown.”

“Yet this has been going on for two years.”

“Big schemes require time. The fact that this has been going on for so long leads one to the conclusion that great things are at stake. If I can only lay hands on that little ruffian who molested me, I warrant I will make him talk up.”

“Is that as important as laying hands on the Monster?”

Fouchard stroked his chin. It was clear that the phantom puzzled him deeply. He could see no logical connection between the breaking of mirrors and the befouling of furniture, and the perpetration of any ordinary crime.

“This flinging of muck savours of Sadism,” he mused.

“What is Sadism?” asked Wallace.

“A kind of moral perversion. There was a Marquis de Sade who delighted in propagating a new cult. It is not a pleasant subject and is better left alone. But I should like to provide a test. Has mademoiselle any objection to having a big mirror installed in one of the reception-rooms?”

“I’ll do anything that will help,” replied Yolande.

“Very good. But there are more pressing duties. I want to get the lay-out of the château. At the same time we can institute a search for Monsieur Fallières. I propose to make a start in half an hour.”

This was more like business, and Wallace became enthusiastic immediately. There were no firearms in the château, but Fouchard was well prepared. He possessed a small armoury and offered to lend the other two men automatics, which offer they accepted.

“I want to be frank about this,” he said. “The circumstances attending the disappearance of Monsieur Fallières point to the existence of considerable danger. I suggest that it might be advisable if mademoiselle were to pay a visit to some friends.”

Yolande shook her head determinedly.

“I know there is danger,” she added. “I feel that my poor father has been savagely murdered, but I refuse to leave this place. For years he faced the danger, and I will face it too. Please act as if I were not here.”

“Very well. One thing, however, I would advise. Severin informed me that your room was some distance from the other occupied rooms. I would counsel you changed it for one nearer mine, or of these two gentlemen.”

She agreed to have this change made immediately, and chose the room next to that occupied by Wallace, access to which there was positively none except by the door.

“Now we will call Monsieur Severin,” said Fouchard.

When the butler heard what was required of him he displayed distinct signs of nervousness. Apparently there were parts of the château which he preferred to let alone after darkness had fallen.

“We want to go all over the place, monsieur,” said Fouchard. “In every room, cupboard, and corner.”

“But there are parts of the château unlighted,” stammered Severin.

“Watkins will provide you with electric torches,” said Yolande and overcame that obstacle.

“Very good, mademoiselle,” mumbled Severin. “I will get them at once.”

“I suppose he _is_ to be trusted,” said Conrad.

“You need have no doubt about that. He is merely nerve-shattered. Poor Severin--I shall have to give him a holiday.”

A few minutes later Severin presented himself again. He carried two large hand-lamps, and asked if the gentlemen were ready.

“Quite ready,” said Fouchard. “You would prefer to stay here, mademoiselle?”

“Yes. I am a little fatigued.”

“I’ll take one of those lamps,” said Fouchard. “I think we will make a start at the top and work our way down. Lead on!”

Then began an excursion which was somewhat eerie. The top gallery of the château had no illumination of any kind, and the electric lamps had to be brought into use. As Wallace had surmised, the four towers were identical, and were connected by the gallery which entirely circumscribed the big building. Their boots echoed on the flagstones, and the lamps threw strange shadows. Severin advanced slowly, talking a lot, probably to bolster up his nerves. From the western gallery there was an old staircase leading to the lower floor.

“We will go down there on our return,” said Fouchard. “Now I shall be glad if you will show me where you found the bloodstains, Monsieur Wallace.”

Severin nearly dropped the lamp at this remark. In the north tower Wallace pointed out the stains, and explained how it was possible to reach it from several rooms on the first floor by climbing the ivy. He expected that Fouchard would ridicule his theory about the carrying of Fallières’s body, but he merely inclined his head.

“This part seems to be plain sailing,” he said. “There seem to be but two ways down--the main staircase, and the passage we passed just now. We will descend.”

The alternative staircase was a curious affair. It wound between the walls and took an enormous distance to connect with the lower floor. Here the business was much more complicated, for the building had evidently been altered at several periods and there were all kinds of connecting passages and dead ends.

“Quite a maze!” said Fouchard. “One needs a plan to get the hang of it.”

Suddenly there was a curious squeak, and something dark hit him in the face.

“Only a bat,” he muttered. “Ah, that is better. We can now see what we are doing.”

This as Severin found an electric light switch and illuminated the surroundings. There were a dozen or so rooms, mostly unfurnished, and in all of them the patient Fouchard went. Severin with his huge bunch of keys opened all sorts of queer chambers, and in every case things were in order. The ground floor was equally well searched, and Severin led the way to the cellars.

These vaults extended the full length of the château in a series of arches. A portion of the space was given up to wine-bins, which were plentifully stocked. Here and there was an electric light, but on the whole the place was gloomy, and very damp. In one spot the water had percolated through the walls, leaving a thin layer of mud on the ground. Fouchard was stepping gingerly over this when he noticed something and stooped down. Bringing the light of the electric lamp to his aid, he observed two enormous footprints.

“Interesting!” he said. “Our monster walks here, and his last visit was within twenty-four hours.”

“What a foot!” gasped Conrad. “Why, it is four inches longer than mine.”

“The foot of a seven-foot man, unless he is abnormal in that respect. They point this way. Lead on, Severin!”

But Monsieur Severin collapsed on an old keg. His lips moved nervelessly and he shook his head.

“I have never been farther than this, monsieur. I--I am afraid I feel unwell.”

“Sorry to hear that,” said Fouchard in a sympathetic voice. “Stay here and rest while we investigate.”

To stay there alone was not at all to Severin’s taste. He pulled himself together, and averred that the faintness had passed.

“I’ll go first,” said Fouchard. “I want to see if there are any more footprints.”

So Monsieur Severin insinuated his person between Fouchard and Wallace, and seemed to be much more at ease. Fouchard kept the beam of the electric lamp fixed on the ground, but no more footprints came to view. They came up against a blank wall covered with cobwebs and snail trails, and the passage took a sharp bend to the left.

“Catacombs!” said Fouchard. “Hello, what is that?”

Stooping down, he picked up a small shining object. It proved to be a hairpin.

“The third side of the triangle,” he said. “The woman in the case. A blonde, I fancy.”

“How do you arrive at that conclusion?” asked Conrad.

“It is hypothetical, but I doubt if any woman other than a blonde would use tortoiseshell hairpins. They do not go well with dark hair. How many blonde women are there in the establishment, Monsieur Severin?”

“I can remember only two.”

“Hm! We will see them later. I presume that in the ordinary way none of the female staff would come down here?”

“No, monsieur.”

Fouchard seemed quite delighted with his discovery, and moved forward at a quicker pace. A series of recesses came to view. Some of them contained old gardening tools and empty kegs. In one of them Fouchard noticed a very large wine-barrel standing on its end.

“A fine fellow that,” he said.

“It was used as a rain-water tub,” explained Severin. “But it began to leak and was brought down here six months ago. It is now a receptacle for empty bottles.”

“My God--look at that!”

The cry came from Conrad, and his finger was pointing to a dark patch at the base of the huge vessel. A low cry came from Fouchard. In a moment he pulled aside the covering and flashed the torch inside the barrel.

“At last,” he said.

“You mean----”

“We have found Monsieur Fallières.”

With tense expressions all gazed inside. The late owner of the château lay on a pile of bottles, face upturned, and his throat cut from ear to ear.