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

to Le Havre. Up to the present, Rose Andrée’s disappearance does not seem to have become known. Before it does and before the police identify the woman carried off by Dalbrèque with the woman who did not turn up to claim her cabin, we will get on Rose Andrée’s track.”

There was not much said on the journey. At four o’clock Hortense and Rénine reached Rouen. But here Rénine changed his road.

“Adolphe, take the left bank of the Seine.”

He unfolded a motoring-map on his knees and, tracing the route with his finger, showed Hortense that, if you draw a line from Le Havre, or rather from Quillebeuf, where the road crosses the Seine, to Dreux, where the stolen car was found, this line passes through Routot, a market-town lying west of the forest of Brotonne:

“Now it was in the forest of Brotonne,” he continued, “according to what I heard, that the second part of The Happy Princess was filmed. And the question that arises is this: having got hold of Rose Andrée, would it not occur to Dalbrèque, when passing near the forest on the Saturday night, to hide his prey there, while his two accomplices went on to Dreux and from there returned to Paris? The cave was quite near. Was he not bound to go to it? How should he do otherwise? Wasn’t it while running to this cave, a few months ago, that he held in his arms, against his breast, within reach of his lips, the woman whom he loved and whom he has now conquered? By every rule of fate and logic, the adventure is being repeated all over again⁠ ⁠… but this time in reality. Rose Andrée is a captive. There is no hope of rescue. The forest is vast and lonely. That night, or on one of the following nights, Rose Andrée must surrender⁠ ⁠… or die.”

Hortense gave a shudder:

“We shall be too late. Besides, you don’t suppose that he’s keeping her a prisoner?”

“Certainly not. The place I have in mind is at a crossroads and is not a safe retreat. But we may discover some clue or other.”

The shades of night were falling from the tall trees when they entered the ancient forest of Brotonne, full of Roman remains and medieval relics. Rénine knew the forest well and remembered that near a famous oak, known as the Wine-cask, there was a cave which must be the cave of the Happy Princess. He found it easily, switched on his electric torch, rummaged in the dark corners and brought Hortense back to the entrance:

“There’s nothing inside,” he said, “but here is the evidence which I was looking for. Dalbrèque was obsessed by the recollection of the film, but so was Rose Andrée. The Happy Princess had broken off the tips of the branches on the way through the forest. Rose Andrée has managed to break off some to the right of this opening, in the hope that she would be discovered as on the first occasion.”

“Yes,” said Hortense, “it’s a proof that she has been here; but the proof is three weeks old. Since that time.⁠ ⁠…”

“Since that time, she is either dead and buried under a heap of leaves or else alive in some hole even lonelier than this.”

“If so, where is he?”

Rénine pricked up his ears. Repeated blows of the axe were sounding from some distance, no doubt coming from a part of the forest that was being cleared.

“He?” said Rénine, “I wonder whether he may not have continued to behave under the influence of the film and whether the man of the woods in The Happy Princess has not quite naturally resumed his calling. For how is the man to live, to obtain his food, without attracting attention? He will have found a job.”

“We can’t make sure of that.”

“We might, by questioning the woodcutters whom we can hear.”

The car took them by a forest-road to another crossroads where they entered on foot a track which was deeply rutted by wagon-wheels. The sound of axes ceased. After walking for a quarter of an hour, they met a dozen men who, having finished work for the day, were returning to the villages near by.

“Will this path take us to Routot?” ask Rénine, in order to open a conversation with them.

“No, you’re turning your backs on it,” said one of the men, gruffly.

And he went on, accompanied by his mates.

Hortense and Rénine stood rooted to the spot. They had recognized the butler. His cheeks and chin were shaved, but his upper lip was covered by a black moustache, evidently dyed. The eyebrows no longer met and were reduced to normal dimensions.

Thus, in less than twenty hours, acting on the vague hints supplied by the bearing of a film-actor, Serge Rénine had touched the very heart of the tragedy by means of purely psychological arguments.

“Rose Andrée is alive,” he said. “Otherwise Dalbrèque would have left the country. The poor thing must be imprisoned and bound up; and he takes her some food at night.”

“We will save her, won’t we?”

“Certainly, by keeping a watch on him and, if necessary, but in the last resort, compelling him by force to give up his secret.”

They followed the woodcutter at a distance and, on the pretext that the car needed overhauling, engaged rooms in the principal inn at Routot.

Attached to the inn was a small café from which they were separated by the entrance to the yard and above which were two rooms, reached by a wooden outer staircase, at one side. Dalbrèque occupied one of these rooms and Rénine took the other for his chauffeur.

Next morning he learnt from Adolphe that Dalbrèque, on the previous evening, after all the lights were out, had carried down a bicycle from his room and mounted it and had not returned until shortly before sunrise.

The bicycle tracks led Rénine to the uninhabited Château des Landes, five miles from the village. They disappeared in a rocky path which ran beside the park down to the