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

strength a little in thinking of what she had done and in defending herself with such energy. Faced by the intriguing woman whose hatred had driven both of them to death and crime, she clenched her fists, ready for the struggle, all quivering with resolution.

Germaine Astaing did not flinch. She had listened without a word, with a relentless expression which grew harder and harder as Thérèse’s confessions became precise. No emotion seemed to soften her and no remorse to penetrate her being. At most, towards the end, her thin lips shaped themselves into a faint smile. She was holding her prey in her clutches.

Slowly, with her eyes raised to a mirror, she adjusted her hat and powdered her face. Then she walked to the door.

Thérèse darted forward:

“Where are you going?”

“Where I choose.”

“To see the examining-magistrate?”

“Very likely.”

“You shan’t pass!”

“As you please. I’ll wait for him here.”

“And you’ll tell him what?”

“Why, all that you’ve said, of course, all that you’ve been silly enough to say. How could he doubt the story? You have explained it all to me so fully.”

Thérèse took her by the shoulders:

“Yes, but I’ll explain other things to him at the same time, Germaine, things that concern you. If I’m ruined, so shall you be.”

“You can’t touch me.”

“I can expose you, show your letters.”

“What letters?”

“Those in which my death was decided on.”

“Lies, Thérèse! You know that famous plot exists only in your imagination. Neither Jacques nor I wished for your death.”

“You did, at any rate. Your letters condemn you.”

“Lies! They were the letters of a friend to a friend.”

“Letters of a mistress to her paramour.”

“Prove it.”

“They are there, in Jacques’ pocketbook.”

“No, they’re not.”

“What’s that you say?”

“I say that those letters belonged to me. I’ve taken them back, or rather my brother has.”

“You’ve stolen them, you wretch! And you shall give them back again,” cried Thérèse, shaking her.

“I haven’t them. My brother kept them. He has gone.”

Thérèse staggered and stretched out her hands to Rénine with an expression of despair. Rénine said:

“What she says is true. I watched the brother’s proceedings while he was feeling in your bag. He took out the pocketbook, looked through it with his sister, came and put it back again and went off with the letters.”

Rénine paused and added,

“Or, at least, with five of them.”

The two women moved closer to him. What did he intend to convey? If Frédéric Astaing had taken away only five letters, what had become of the sixth?

“I suppose,” said Rénine, “that, when the pocketbook fell on the shingle, that sixth letter slipped out at the same time as the photograph and that M. d’Ormeval must have picked it up, for I found it in the pocket of his blazer, which had been hung up near the bed. Here it is. It’s signed Germaine Astaing and it is quite enough to prove the writer’s intentions and the murderous counsels which she was pressing upon her lover.”

Madame Astaing had turned grey in the face and was so much disconcerted that she did not try to defend herself. Rénine continued, addressing his remarks to her:

“To my mind, madame, you are responsible for all that happened. Penniless, no doubt, and at the end of your resources, you tried to profit by the passion with which you inspired M. d’Ormeval in order to make him marry you, in spite of all the obstacles, and to lay your hands upon his fortune. I have proofs of this greed for money and these abominable calculations and can supply them if need be. A few minutes after I had felt in the pocket of that jacket, you did the same. I had removed the sixth letter, but had left a slip of paper which you looked for eagerly and which also must have dropped out of the pocketbook. It was an uncrossed cheque for a hundred thousand francs, drawn by M. d’Ormeval in your brother’s name⁠ ⁠… just a little wedding-present⁠ ⁠… what we might call pin-money. Acting on your instructions, your brother dashed off by motor to Le Havre to reach the bank before four o’clock. I may as well tell you that he will not have cashed the cheque, for I had a telephone-message sent to the bank to announce the murder of M. d’Ormeval, which stops all payments. The upshot of all this is that the police, if you persist in your schemes of revenge, will have in their hands all the proofs that are wanted against you and your brother. I might add, as an edifying piece of evidence, the story of the conversation which I overheard between your brother and yourself in a dining-car on the railway between Brest and Paris, a fortnight ago. But I feel sure that you will not drive me to adopt these extreme measures and that we understand each other. Isn’t that so?”

Natures like Madame Astaing’s, which are violent and headstrong so long as a fight is possible and while a gleam of hope remains, are easily swayed in defeat. Germaine was too intelligent not to grasp the fact that the least attempt at resistance would be shattered by such an adversary as this. She was in his hands. She could but yield.

She therefore did not indulge in any playacting, nor in any demonstration such as threats, outbursts of fury or hysterics. She bowed:

“We are agreed,” she said. “What are your terms?”

“Go away. If ever you are called upon for your evidence, say that you know nothing.”

She walked away. At the door, she hesitated and then, between her teeth, said:

“The cheque.”

Rénine looked at Madame d’Ormeval, who declared:

“Let her keep it. I would not touch that money.”

When Rénine had given Thérèse d’Ormeval precise instructions as to how she was to behave at the enquiry and to answer the questions put to her, he left the chalet, accompanied by Hortense Daniel.

On the beach below, the magistrate and the public prosecutor were continuing their investigations, taking measurements, examining the witnesses and generally laying their heads together.

“When I think,” said Hortense, “that you have