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

down your remorse, your uneasiness, your fear of punishment and your dread of God’s wrath.⁠ ⁠… It was highly imprudent of you, Pancaldi! People don’t write such confessions! And, above all, they don’t leave them lying about! Be this as it may, I read them and I noted one passage, which struck me as particularly important and was of use to me in preparing my plan of campaign: ‘Should she come to me, the woman whom I robbed, should she come to me as I saw her in her garden, while Lucienne was taking the clasp; should she appear to me wearing the blue gown and the toque of red leaves, with the jet necklace and the whip of three plaited rushes which she was carrying that day; should she appear to me thus and say: “I have come to claim my property,” then I shall understand that her conduct is inspired from on high and that I must obey the decree of Providence.’ That is what is written in your book, Pancaldi, and it explains the conduct of the lady whom you call Mlle. Hortense. Acting on my instructions and in accordance with the setting thought out by yourself, she came to you, from the back of beyond, to use your own expression. A little more self-possession on her part; and you know that she would have won the day. Unfortunately, you are a wonderful actor; your sham suicide put her out; and you understood that this was not a decree of Providence, but simply an offensive on the part of your former victim. I had no choice, therefore, but to intervene. Here I am.⁠ ⁠… And now let’s finish the business. Pancaldi, that clasp!”

“No,” said the dealer, who seemed to recover all his energy at the very thought of restoring the clasp.

“And you, Madame Pancaldi.”

“I don’t know where it is,” the wife declared.

“Very well. Then let us come to deeds. Madame Pancaldi, you have a son of seven whom you love with all your heart. This is Thursday and, as on every Thursday, your little boy is to come home alone from his aunt’s. Two of my friends are posted on the road by which he returns and, in the absence of instructions to the contrary, will kidnap him as he passes.”

Madame Pancaldi lost her head at once:

“My son! Oh, please, please⁠ ⁠… not that!⁠ ⁠… I swear that I know nothing. My husband would never consent to confide in me.”

Rénine continued:

“Next point. This evening, I shall lodge an information with the public prosecutor. Evidence: the confessions in the account-book. Consequences: action by the police, search of the premises and the rest.”

Pancaldi was silent. The others had a feeling that all these threats did not affect him and that, protected by his fetish, he believed himself to be invulnerable. But his wife fell on her knees at Rénine’s feet and stammered:

“No, no⁠ ⁠… I entreat you!⁠ ⁠… It would mean going to prison and I don’t want to go!⁠ ⁠… And then my son!⁠ ⁠… Oh, I entreat you!⁠ ⁠…”

Hortense, seized with compassion, took Rénine to one side:

“Poor woman! Let me intercede for her.”

“Set your mind at rest,” he said. “Nothing is going to happen to her son.”

“But your two friends?”

“Sheer bluff.”

“Your application to the public prosecutor?”

“A mere threat.”

“Then what are you trying to do?”

“To frighten them out of their wits, in the hope of making them drop a remark, a word, which will tell us what we want to know. We’ve tried every other means. This is the last; and it is a method which, I find, nearly always succeeds. Remember our adventures.”

“But if the word which you expect to hear is not spoken?”

“It must be spoken,” said Rénine, in a low voice. “We must finish the matter. The hour is at hand.”

His eyes met hers; and she blushed crimson at the thought that the hour to which he was alluding was the eighth and that he had no other object than to finish the matter before that eighth hour struck.

“So you see, on the one hand, what you are risking,” he said to the Pancaldi pair. “The disappearance of your child⁠ ⁠… and prison: prison for certain, since there is the book with its confessions. And now, on the other hand, here’s my offer: twenty thousand francs if you hand over the clasp immediately, this minute. Remember, it isn’t worth three louis.”

No reply. Madame Pancaldi was crying.

Rénine resumed, pausing between each proposal:

“I’ll double my offer.⁠ ⁠… I’ll treble it.⁠ ⁠… Hang it all, Pancaldi, you’re unreasonable!⁠ ⁠… I suppose you want me to make it a round sum? All right: a hundred thousand francs.”

He held out his hand as if there was no doubt that they would give him the clasp.

Madame Pancaldi was the first to yield and did so with a sudden outburst of rage against her husband:

“Well, confess, can’t you?⁠ ⁠… Speak up!⁠ ⁠… Where have you hidden it?⁠ ⁠… Look here, you aren’t going to be obstinate, what? If you are, it means ruin⁠ ⁠… and poverty.⁠ ⁠… And then there’s our boy!⁠ ⁠… Speak out, do!”

Hortense whispered:

“Rénine, this is madness; the clasp has no value.⁠ ⁠…”

“Never fear,” said Rénine, “he’s not going to accept.⁠ ⁠… But look at him.⁠ ⁠… How excited he is! Exactly what I wanted.⁠ ⁠… Ah, this, you know, is really exciting!⁠ ⁠… To make people lose their heads! To rob them of all control over what they are thinking and saying!⁠ ⁠… And, in the midst of this confusion, in the storm that tosses them to and fro, to catch sight of the tiny spark which will flash forth somewhere or other!⁠ ⁠… Look at him! Look at the fellow! A hundred thousand francs for a valueless pebble⁠ ⁠… if not, prison: it’s enough to turn any man’s head!”

Pancaldi, in fact, was grey in the face; his lips were trembling and a drop of saliva was trickling from their corners. It was easy to guess the seething turmoil of his whole being, shaken by conflicting emotions, by the clash between greed and fear. Suddenly he burst out; and it was obvious that his words were