The Eight Strokes of the Clock, Maurice Leblanc [summer books TXT] 📗

is possible,” said Dutreuil. “Still, I must repeat that nobody, to my knowledge, has been to my rooms; that there is only one key; that I am my own housekeeper; and that I can’t quite understand.⁠ ⁠…”

Hortense too could not understand. With her eyes fixed on Prince Rénine’s, she was trying to read his innermost thoughts. What game was he playing? Was it her duty to support his statements? She ended by saying:

“Mr. Chief-inspector, since Prince Rénine maintains that the notes have been put away upstairs, wouldn’t the simplest thing be to go and look? M. Dutreuil will take us up, won’t you?”

“This minute,” said the young man. “As you say, that will be simplest.”

They all four climbed the five storys of the house and, after Dutreuil had opened the door, entered a tiny set of chambers consisting of a sitting-room, bedroom, kitchen and bathroom, all arranged with fastidious neatness. It was easy to see that every chair in the sitting-room occupied a definite place. The pipes had a rack to themselves; so had the matches. Three walking-sticks, arranged according to their length, hung from three nails. On a little table before the window a hatbox, filled with tissue-paper, awaited the felt hat which Dutreuil carefully placed in it. He laid his gloves beside it, on the lid.

He did all this with sedate and mechanical movements, like a man who loves to see things in the places which he has chosen for them. Indeed, no sooner did Rénine shift something than Dutreuil made a slight gesture of protest, took out his hat again, stuck it on his head, opened the window and rested his elbows on the sill, with his back turned to the room, as though he were unable to bear the sight of such vandalism.

“You’re positive, are you not?” the inspector asked Rénine.

“Yes, yes, I’m positive that the sixty notes were brought here after the murder.”

“Let’s look for them.”

This was easy and soon done. In half an hour, not a corner remained unexplored, not a knickknack unlifted.

“Nothing,” said Inspector Morisseau. “Shall we continue?”

“No,” replied Rénine, “The notes are no longer here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that they have been removed.”

“By whom? Can’t you make a more definite accusation?”

Rénine did not reply. But Gaston Dutreuil wheeled round. He was choking and spluttered:

“Mr. Inspector, would you like me to make the accusation more definite, as conveyed by this gentleman’s remarks? It all means that there’s a dishonest man here, that the notes hidden by the murderer were discovered and stolen by that dishonest man and deposited in another and safer place. That is your idea, sir, is it not? And you accuse me of committing this theft don’t you?”

He came forward, drumming his chest with his fists: “Me! Me! I found the notes, did I, and kept them for myself? You dare to suggest that!”

Rénine still made no reply. Dutreuil flew into a rage and, taking Inspector Morisseau aside, exclaimed:

“Mr. Inspector, I strongly protest against all this farce and against the part which you are unconsciously playing in it. Before your arrival, Prince Rénine told this lady and myself that he knew nothing, that he was venturing into this affair at random and that he was following the first road that offered, trusting to luck. Do you deny it, sir?”

Rénine did not open his lips.

“Answer me, will you? Explain yourself; for, really, you are putting forward the most improbable facts without any proof whatever. It’s easy enough to say that I stole the notes. And how were you to know that they were here at all? Who brought them here? Why should the murderer choose this flat to hide them in? It’s all so stupid, so illogical and absurd!⁠ ⁠… Give us your proofs, sir⁠ ⁠… one single proof!”

Inspector Morisseau seemed perplexed. He questioned Rénine with a glance. Rénine said:

“Since you want specific details, we will get them from Madame Aubrieux herself. She’s on the telephone. Let’s go downstairs. We shall know all about it in a minute.”

Dutreuil shrugged his shoulders:

“As you please; but what a waste of time!”

He seemed greatly irritated. His long wait at the window, under a blazing sun, had thrown him into a sweat. He went to his bedroom and returned with a bottle of water, of which he took a few sips, afterwards placing the bottle on the windowsill:

“Come along,” he said.

Prince Rénine chuckled.

“You seem to be in a hurry to leave the place.”

“I’m in a hurry to show you up,” retorted Dutreuil, slamming the door.

They went downstairs to the private room containing the telephone. The room was empty. Rénine asked Gaston Dutreuil for the Aubrieuxs’ number, took down the instrument and was put through.

The maid who came to the telephone answered that Madame Aubrieux had fainted, after giving way to an access of despair, and that she was now asleep.

“Fetch her mother, please. Prince Rénine speaking. It’s urgent.”

He handed the second receiver to Morisseau. For that matter, the voices were so distinct that Dutreuil and Hortense were able to hear every word exchanged.

“Is that you, madame?”

“Yes. Prince Rénine, I believe?”

“Prince Rénine.”

“Oh, sir, what news have you for me? Is there any hope?” asked the old lady, in a tone of entreaty.

“The enquiry is proceeding very satisfactorily,” said Rénine, “and you may hope for the best. For the moment, I want you to give me some very important particulars. On the day of the murder, did Gaston Dutreuil come to your house?”

“Yes, he came to fetch my daughter and myself, after lunch.”

“Did he know at the time that M. Guillaume had sixty thousand francs at his place?”

“Yes, I told him.”

“And that Jacques Aubrieux was not feeling very well and was proposing not to take his usual cycle-ride but to stay at home and sleep?”

“Yes.”

“You are sure?”

“Absolutely certain.”

“And you all three went to the cinema together?”

“Yes.”

“And you were all sitting together?”

“Oh, no! There was no room. He took a seat farther away.”

“A seat where you could see him?”

“No.”

“But he came to you during the interval?”

“No, we did not see him until we