The Champdoce Mystery, Emile Gaboriau [ebooks that read to you .TXT] 📗

son-in-law was really the heir to the Champdoce dukedom; and finally it was agreed that the Duke should come to breakfast the next morning and take away Paul. Eleven was the hour fixed, but the Duke appeared at the banker’s house at ten, where he, Catenac, Hortebise, and Paul were assembled together in solemn conclave.

“Now, papa,” said Flavia, who kept her father on thorns by her gay and frolicsome criticisms, “you will no longer blame me for falling in love with a poor Bohemian, for you see that he is a Champdoce, and that his father possesses millions.”

The Duke was now seated on the sofa, holding the hand of the young man whom he believed to be his son tightly in his. The Duchess, to whom he had given a hint of what was going on, had been taken seriously ill from over-excitement, but had recovered herself a little, and the Duke was describing this when he was suddenly interrupted by a series of full and heavy blows struck upon the other side of the wall of the room. A pickaxe was evidently at work. The whole house was shaken by the violence of the attack, and a screen, which stood near the spot, was thrown down.

The plotters gazed upon each other with pale and terror-stricken faces, for it was evident that the fresh brick wall, the work of Mascarin and Beaumarchef, was being destroyed. The Duke sat in perfect amazement, for the alarm of his host and his friends was plainly evident. He could feel Paul’s hand tremble in his, but could not understand why work evidently going on in the next house could cause such feelings of alarm. Flavia was the only one who had no suspicion, and she remarked, “Dear me! I should like to know the meaning of this disturbance.”

“I will send and inquire,” said her father; but scarcely had he opened the door than he retreated with a wild expression of terror in his face, and his arms stretched out in front of him, as though to bar the approach of some terrible spectre. In the doorway stood an eminently respectable-looking gentleman, wearing a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, and behind him a commissary of police, girt with his official scarf, while farther back still were half a dozen police officers.

“M. Lecoq,” cried the three confederates in one breath, while through their minds flashed the same terrible idea—“We are lost.”

The celebrated detective advanced slowly into the room, curiously watching the group collected there. There was an air of entire satisfaction visible on his countenance.

“Aha!” he said, “I was right, it seems. I was sure that I was making no mistake in rapping at the other side of the wall. I knew that it would be heard in here.”

By this time, however, the banker had, to all outward appearance, regained his self-command.

“What do you want here?” asked he insolently. “What is the meaning of this intrusion?”

“This gentleman will explain,” returned Lecoq, stepping aside to make way for the commissary of police to come forward. “But, to shorten matters, I may tell you that I have obtained a warrant for your arrest, Martin Rigal, alias Tantaine, alias Mascarin.”

“I don’t understand you!”

“Indeed. Do you think that Tantaine has cleaned his hands so completely that not a drop of Andre’s blood clings to the fingers of Martin Rigal?”

“On my word, you are speaking in riddles.”

A bland smile passed over Lecoq’s face as, drawing a folded letter from his pocket, he answered,—

“Perhaps you are acquainted with the handwriting of your daughter. Well, then, listen to what she wrote not so very long ago to the very Paul who is sitting on the sofa there.

“‘MY DEAREST PAUL,—

“‘We should be guilty of the deepest ingratitude if——‘”

“Enough! Enough!” cried the banker in a hoarse voice. “Lost, lost, lost! My own child has been my ruin!”

The calmest of the conspirators was now the one who was generally the first to take alarm, and this was the genial Doctor Hortebise. When he recognized Lecoq, he had gently opened his locket and taken from it a small pellet of grayish-colored paste, and, holding it between his fingers, had waited until his leader should declare that all hope was gone.

In the meantime Lecoq turned towards Catenac.

“And you too are included in this warrant,” said he.

Catenac, perhaps owing to his legal training, made no reply to Lecoq, but addressing the commissary, observed,—

“I am the victim of a most unpleasant mistake, but my position——”

“The warrant is quite regular,” returned the commissary. “You can see it if you desire.”

“No, it is not necessary. I will only ask you to conduct me to the magistrate who issued it, and in five minutes all will be explained.”

“Do you think so?” asked Lecoq in a quiet tone of sarcasm. “You have not heard, I can see, of what took place yesterday. A laborer, in the course of his work, discovers the remains of a newly-born infant, wrapped in a silk handkerchief and a shawl. The police soon set inquiries on foot, and have found the mother—a girl named Clarisse.”

Had not Lecoq suddenly grasped Catenac’s arm, the lawyer would have flown at Martin Rigal’s throat.

“Villain, traitor!” panted he, “you have sold me!”

“My papers have been stolen,” faltered the banker.

He now saw that the blows struck upon the other side of the wall were merely a trick, for Lecoq had thought that a little preliminary fright would render them more amenable to reason.

Hortebise still looked on calmly; he knew that the game was lost.

“I belong to a respectable family,” thought he, “and I will not bring dishonor upon it. I have no time to lose.”

As he spoke he placed the contents of the locket between his lips and swallowed them.

“Ah,” murmured he, as he did so, “with my constitution and digestion, it is really hard to end thus.”

No one had noticed the doctor’s movements, for Lecoq had moved the screen, and was showing the commissary a hole which had been made in the wall large enough for the body of a man to pass through. But a sudden sound cut these investigations short, for Hortebise had fallen to the ground, and was struggling in a series of terrible convulsions.

“How stupid of me not to have foreseen this,” exclaimed Lecoq. “He has poisoned himself; let some one run for a doctor. Take him into another room and lay him on a bed.”

While these orders were being carried out, Catenac was removed to a cab which was in waiting, and Martin Rigal seemed to have lapsed into a state of moody imbecility. Suddenly he started to his feet, crying,—

“My daughter Flavia! yes, her name is Flavia, what