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

“No, no,” he said, thoughtfully, “it’s not all up. It was, a few seconds ago. But now there is a gleam of light⁠ ⁠… and one that gives me hope.”

“God grant that it may be justified!”

“We must go slowly,” he said. “It is only an attempt, but a fine, a very fine attempt; and it may succeed.”

He was silent for a moment; then, with an amused smile and a click of the tongue, he said:

“An infernally clever fellow, that Dutreuil! His trick of burning the notes: what a fertile imagination! And what coolness! A pretty dance the beggar has led me! He’s a master!”

He fetched a broom from the kitchen and swept a part of the ashes into the next room, returning with a hatbox of the same size and appearance as the one which had been burnt. After crumpling the tissue paper with which it was filled, he placed the hatbox on the little table and set fire to it with a match.

It burst into flames, which he extinguished when they had consumed half the cardboard and nearly all the paper. Then he took from an inner pocket of his waistcoat a bundle of banknotes and selected six, which he burnt almost completely, arranging the remains and hiding the rest of the notes at the bottom of the box, among the ashes and the blackened bits of paper:

“M. Morisseau,” he said, when he had done, “I am asking for your assistance for the last time. Go and fetch Dutreuil. Tell him just this: ‘You are unmasked. The notes did not catch fire. Come with me.’ And bring him up here.”

Despite his hesitation and his fear of exceeding his instructions from the head of the detective service, the chief-inspector was powerless to throw off the ascendancy which Rénine had acquired over him. He left the room.

Rénine turned to Hortense:

“Do you understand my plan of battle?”

“Yes,” she said, “but it’s a dangerous experiment. Do you think that Dutreuil will fall into the trap?”

“Everything depends on the state of his nerves and the degree of demoralization to which he is reduced. A surprise attack may very well do for him.”

“Nevertheless, suppose he recognizes by some sign that the box has been changed?”

“Oh, of course, he has a few chances in his favour! The fellow is much more cunning than I thought and quite capable of wriggling out of the trap. On the other hand, however, how uneasy he must be! How the blood must be buzzing in his ears and obscuring his sight! No, I don’t think that he will avoid the trap.⁠ ⁠… He will give in.⁠ ⁠… He will give in.⁠ ⁠…”

They exchanged no more words. Rénine did not move. Hortense was stirred to the very depths of her being. The life of an innocent man hung trembling in the balance. An error of judgment, a little bad luck⁠ ⁠… and, twelve hours later, Jacques Aubrieux would be put to death. And together with a horrible anguish she experienced, in spite of all, a feeling of eager curiosity. What was Prince Rénine going to do? What would be the outcome of the experiment on which he was venturing? What resistance would Gaston Dutreuil offer? She lived through one of those minutes of superhuman tension in which life becomes intensified until it reaches its utmost value.

They heard footsteps on the stairs, the footsteps of men in a hurry. The sound drew nearer. They were reaching the top floor.

Hortense looked at her companion. He had stood up and was listening, his features already transfigured by action. The footsteps were now echoing in the passage. Then, suddenly, he ran to the door and cried:

“Quick! Let’s make an end of it!”

Two or three detectives and a couple of waiters entered. He caught hold of Dutreuil in the midst of the detectives and pulled him by the arm, gaily exclaiming:

“Well done, old man! That trick of yours with the table and the water-bottle was really splendid! A masterpiece, on my word! Only, it didn’t come off!”

“What do you mean? What’s the matter?” mumbled Gaston Dutreuil, staggering.

“What I say: the fire burnt only half the tissue-paper and the hatbox; and, though some of the banknotes were destroyed, like the tissue-paper, the others are there, at the bottom.⁠ ⁠… You understand? The long-sought notes, the great proof of the murder: they’re there, where you hid them.⁠ ⁠… As chance would have it, they’ve escaped burning.⁠ ⁠… Here, look: there are the numbers; you can check them.⁠ ⁠… Oh, you’re done for, done for, my beauty!”

The young man drew himself up stiffly. His eyelids quivered. He did not accept Rénine’s invitation to look; he examined neither the hatbox nor the banknotes. From the first moment, without taking the time to reflect and before his instinct could warn him, he believed what he was told and collapsed heavily into a chair, weeping.

The surprise attack, to use Rénine’s expression, had succeeded. On seeing all his plans baffled and the enemy master of his secrets, the wretched man had neither the strength nor the perspicacity necessary to defend himself. He threw up the sponge.

Rénine gave him no time to breathe:

“Capital! You’re saving your head; and that’s all, my good youth! Write down your confession and get it off your chest. Here’s a fountain-pen.⁠ ⁠… The luck has been against you, I admit. It was devilishly well thought out, your trick of the last moment. You had the banknotes which were in your way and which you wanted to destroy. Nothing simpler. You take a big, round-bellied water-bottle and stand it on the windowsill. It acts as a burning-glass, concentrating the rays of the sun on the cardboard and tissue-paper, all nicely prepared. Ten minutes later, it bursts into flames. A splendid idea! And, like all great discoveries, it came quite by chance, what? It reminds one of Newton’s apple.⁠ ⁠… One day, the sun, passing through the water in that bottle, must have set fire to a scrap of cotton or the head of a match; and, as you had the sun