Chapter VII: Bertha

Conrad shuddered as he gazed at the limp corpse. Here was all that remained of their charming host. The man who had done so much for the Château Grammont now lay in a wine-barrel, drenched in his own blood.

“This is monstrous!” he said. “He was one of the finest gentlemen in France.”

“My poor master!” almost sobbed Severin.

“Poor Yolande!” said Wallace, whose thoughts naturally turned to the bereaved daughter.

“A savage affair,” mused Fouchard. “The work of a razor if I am not mistaken. There are some curious anomalies here. The murderer goes to all the trouble to remove the corpse from the bedroom, performing an acrobatic feat along the ivy. At tremendous risk he somehow transports the body through the house, and then he has no more sense than to hide it here. There were fifty better places. Yes, it is somewhat strange.”

“Where does this woman come in?” asked Conrad.

“I don’t know. I don’t know where our scrubby-bearded masquerader comes in either. What is most puzzling of all is the motive.”

“What is to be done now?”

“I must get into touch with the local police. So long as it was a mere disappearance I could act alone, but now murder is obvious I am bound to notify the local authorities. I am afraid the château will be bombarded with a lot of dunderheads and journalists.”

“We have to break the news to Yolande. Poor--poor girl,” said Conrad.

“I think she has accepted the fact already,” said Fouchard. “It must have been obvious.”

He replaced the top of the barrel, and resumed his investigations. Nothing new came to light, and ultimately the quartet stood in the hall of the château.

“Who--who will tell her?” whispered Conrad.

“It would come best from you, I think,” replied Fouchard.

“Very well.”

The exceedingly painful task was carried out. Yolande’s face went as pale as death, and for a moment she looked as if she would collapse, but she recovered herself.

“I--I knew it,” she said in a strangled voice. “Thank you--thank you for all you have done. I--I think I will go to my room now.”

She left them--a pathetic little figure with a vast load of sorrow on her young head. Wallace bit his lip as she vanished, and felt a queer lump rise in his throat. Fouchard swung round on Severin whose eyes were full of tears.

“What of these two blonde women--who are they?”

“One is Thérèse--a chambermaid. She comes from Provence and is young--not yet eighteen. She has been with us for six months.”

“Fair hair?”

“Yes.”

“Long?”

“No--very short. She looks almost like a boy. I can vouch for her respectability, monsieur, for she is the daughter of an old friend of mine.”

“And the other?”

“An older woman. She is called Bertha, and is Swiss, I believe.”

“Long hair?”

“Yes, monsieur. A large head of hair, coiled up in plaits. One might call it red.”

“Ah! How long has she been here?”

“A month. She was engaged as a parlourmaid.”

“I would like to see this Bertha. Find some excuse to send her in here. A little cognac might be a good thing after our investigations.”

Severin bowed and went out. Fouchard flung himself into a chair and bit his finger nails.

“I shall not ring up the police now,” he said. “Perhaps you would be good enough to drive me into Arveyes early in the morning. We can bring the doctor and the local officer back with us.”

“Certainly,” said Wallace.

A few minutes later there was a knock on the door and a woman entered with cognac and glasses. She was extremely well built and good-looking. Her age might have been anything between twenty-eight and thirty-five. Fouchard pretended not to see her, but it was fairly evident that he had her under observation the whole time. She put the tray on the table. Fouchard suddenly stared straight at her.

“I seem to remember you, mademoiselle,” he said pleasantly in French. “Yes, I am sure of it.”

“I do not remember monsieur,” she replied.

“Then I have a better memory than you. It was at Lyons, I believe. In a hotel called----”

“You are mistaken. I have never been in Lyons.”

“That is strange. Was it Switzerland?”

“It is true I come from Switzerland, but all the same I think monsieur is mistaken.”

“Was it Geneva?”

“I come from Berne,” she said. “I am Bernois.”

Fouchard suddenly changed from French into a peculiarly guttural language. Bertha laughed and made some reply.

“Well, one can always be mistaken,” said Fouchard. “Pour out the cognac please.”

While she filled the three glasses Wallace noticed a dexterous movement of Fouchard’s hand. It was done so swiftly that he did not realise at the moment what it signified.

“Thank you,” said Fouchard. “Please leave the decanter.”

She walked majestically from the room, and Fouchard sighed as she closed the door.

“I am fortunate in being able to speak Swiss-German,” he said. “In fact, I speak it better than she does. Our charming Bertha was never born anywhere outside Germany.”

“So she lied?”

“Oh, yes--she was compelled to. I like her hairpins too.”

He opened his hand and displayed a hairpin, which with that dexterous movement which Wallace had observed, he had contrived to extract from her abundant hair.

“Now we have a beautifully matched pair, I think.”

From his waistcoat pocket he produced the one he had picked up in the cellar. They were exactly alike.

“That means she----”

“It means we have really made a start. It is a curious thing that there is nearly always a woman mixed up in any crime or mystery. Some of them are hard nuts to crack, and Bertha, I imagine, comes into that category. It was Bertha who heard Monsieur Conrad talking to Paris on the telephone, and it was Bertha who at once communicated with our whiskered friend in order that he should delay my arrival. Yet you probably noticed she was perfectly composed while she was here. A brazen-faced woman that.”

“Pretty, too,” said Conrad.

“The pretty ones are the worst. Excellent cognac this.”

He was now in the best of humours, quite unlike his two companions, who were not used to such grim situations, and whose minds were occupied with the awful tragedy that had been enacted so recently.

“It grows late,” said Conrad. “I think I will retire.”

“I too,” said Wallace.

“I think it would be wise to keep your doors locked,” said Fouchard. “People who run amok with razors are awkward visitors.”

“A thick-skinned devil,” said Conrad as they walked up the stairs. “He is just beginning to enjoy himself.”

Wallace read for an hour or so in bed, for his brain was far too active to permit of sleep. His life so far had been singularly free of unpleasant incidents--apart from the loss of his parents. With ample means at his disposal, he had enjoyed himself in a healthy, moderate fashion, and had never troubled to delve into the gloomy side of life. A murder read about in the papers was not a very exciting business. One felt too far away from it, the assassin and victim assuming the rôle of more or less lifeless puppets. They were scarcely more real to him than Othello or any other character of drama.

The affair at the château aroused very different feelings. Excitement, sympathy, and repugnance were strangely mixed. Here he was in the very arena--no longer a spectator, but a participant. There was danger too, without doubt, or the case-hardened Fouchard would not have given warning. Despite his lack of “nerves” he could not help experiencing a certain apprehension. The fear of injury or even violent death had never crossed his mind. What he loathed was the idea of being taken unawares, as Fallières had been. If only this phantom form would come into the open and wage battle!

His eyes wandered from the printed page every few minutes, and his ears were alert for any strange sound. Then he laughed as he reflected that with all his youth and strength he was not proof against spectres born of the nocturnal stillness, and of the tragic and inexplicable happenings of the past two days.

He slept at last and did not open his eyes until the morning sun flooded the room. He went to the garage quite early and found Watkins washing the Hispano car. The chauffeur had already heard of the discovery of the night before and could talk of nothing else.

“I nearly ran over a black cat on my way back,” he whispered confidentially. “Is there any clue, sir?”

“Not yet,” replied Wallace guardedly. “It is a very sad business.”

He got his own car out and drove it to the main entrance in order to save time. Conrad came down and intimated that he would stay at the château while Wallace drove Fouchard into Arveyes.

“Sleep well?” enquired Wallace.

“Devil a bit. I had awful dreams. Shall you be back to lunch?”

“I suppose so. It depends how long Fouchard takes to do his business. Ah, here he comes.”

“All ready?” said Fouchard cheerily. “That’s a very neat little car. Looks like a thoroughbred.”

“I flatter myself it is.”

“Well, let us make a start. I want to get back as soon as possible.”

He seated himself beside Wallace, and the car moved down the drive. It was a dead straight road to Arveyes, and they entered the dirty little town in half an hour. The police station was a single room in a five-story building, and the “gendarmerie” consisted of two men. They received the famous Fouchard as they might a foreign potentate. Wallace saw it all through the window, and smiled at the stagelike gesticulations and the look of blank amazement that followed the reception of the news.

After some delay, Fouchard appeared with one of the officers. A doctor was picked up at the end of the narrow street, and Fouchard announced that he was ready to return. In the back seat the doctor and the gendarme were in agitated conversation. Wallace overheard snatches from time to time, though their voluble French was not easy to follow.

“Murdered! _Mon Dieu!_ It will be the talk of the countryside.”

“Ah, monsieur le docteur, the château has a bad reputation. One hears strange stories. No woman from the village will work there. They say----”

“Nothing like a murder to appeal to the common mind,” whispered Fouchard. “I warrant that within half an hour every living soul in Arveyes knows what has happened, and every one of them will have a theory.”

They were speeding along the straight road at a fine rate when Wallace noticed a car approaching. As the road was narrow he slowed down in order to pass without undue risk. It was when the other car was within fifty yards that Fouchard uttered a loud ejaculation. His eyes were riveted on the driver of it, and Wallace suddenly realised why. It was the little man who had masqueraded as Fouchard on the day before.

“Stop!” said Fouchard.

But Wallace had already jammed on the brakes. He looked for some place to turn the car, but there was none.

“I’ll lose him if I go on. I am going to risk turning here,” he said. “Lean over to the right.”

He put the car on full lock and took the sloping bank. The wheels mounted until the car was at a fearful angle, and the passengers went pallid, but he knew the lock to an inch and the wheels came down to the horizontal plane, with the bonnet of the car facing the disappearing vehicle. Two quick gear changes and he was in “top” and treading on the accelerator.

“We’ve got him now, I guess,” he said. “Hold tight!”

The note of the exhaust rose higher and higher, and Fouchard saw the speedometer needle register fifty--fifty-five--sixty, sixty-five, seventy.

“_Mon Dieu!_” he gasped.

Still the hand moved round, but slower than before.

“What are we doing?” asked Wallace whose eyes were on the road.

“Seventy-four--seventy-six.”

“I thought it was child’s play,” he growled. “Gosh, I don’t know what he has got there, but I can’t gain an inch.”

“Seventy-eight,” said Fouchard. “He has taken the road for Lefroy. Take care--it is a bad turning.”

The speedometer needle made a rapid movement backwards, and Wallace took the bend at fifty. Far ahead of him was the fugitive car. He fumbled with the controls, determined not to be beaten. A little less air and a touch on the ignition control brought the best from the willing engine. Eighty miles an hour was reached, and then eighty-two.

“I’ve got her all out,” he shouted. “I can’t get another mile from her. And I’m damned if we are gaining.”

“If only I had got his number,” moaned Fouchard.

“There are some binoculars in the pocket--your side. They are good ones. I’ll hang on while you get the number.”

Fouchard dived for the pocket. In a few seconds the glasses were at his eyes.

“Got it!” he cried triumphantly. “You can let him go now.”

“He’s going,” replied Wallace dismally. “He is five miles an hour better at least. Why, the thing looked like a transmogrified Ford. This is the saddest day of my life.”

At the next turning he put the car round and ambled to the château at a respectable “forty.”