candle in his hand and fully dressed—as he is now, for he often worked late into the night. He seemed greatly excited and said, in a low voice: ‘There’s some one in the drawing room.’ I heard a noise myself. I got up and softly pushed the door leading to this boudoir. At the same moment, the door over there, which opens into the big drawing room, was thrown back and a man appeared who leaped at me and stunned me with a blow on the temple. I am telling you this without any details, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, for the simple reason that I remember only the principal facts, and that these facts followed upon one another with extraordinary swiftness.”
“And after that?—”
“After that, I don’t know—I fainted. When I came to, Daval lay stretched by my side, mortally wounded.”
“At first sight, do you suspect no one?”
“No one.”
“You have no enemy?”
“I know of none.”
“Nor M. Daval either?”
“Daval! An enemy? He was the best creature that ever lived. M. Daval was my secretary for twenty years and, I may say, my confidant; and I have never seen him surrounded with anything but love and friendship.”
“Still, there has been a burglary and there has been a murder: there must be a motive for all that.”
“The motive? Why, it was robbery pure and simple.”
“Robbery? Have you been robbed of something, then?”
“No, nothing.”
“In that case—?”
“In that case, if they have stolen nothing and if nothing is missing, they at least took something away.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. But my daughter and my niece will tell you, with absolute certainty, that they saw two men in succession cross the park and that those two men were carrying fairly heavy loads.”
“The young ladies—”
“The young ladies may have been dreaming, you think? I should be tempted to believe it, for I have been exhausting myself in inquiries and suppositions ever since this morning. However, it is easy enough to question them.”
The two cousins were sent for to the big drawing room. Suzanne, still quite pale and trembling, could hardly speak. Raymonde, who was more energetic, more of a man, better looking, too, with the golden glint in her brown eyes, described the events of the night and the part which she had played in them.
“So I may take it, mademoiselle, that your evidence is positive?”
“Absolutely. The men who went across the park were carrying things away with them.”
“And the third man?”
“He went from here empty-handed.”
“Could you describe him to us?”
“He kept on dazzling us with the light of his lantern. All that I could say is that he is tall and heavily built.”
“Is that how he appeared to you, mademoiselle?” asked the magistrate, turning to Suzanne de Gesvres.
“Yes—or, rather, no,” said Suzanne, reflecting. “I thought he was about the middle height and slender.”
M. Filleul smiled; he was accustomed to differences of opinion and sight in witnesses to one and the same fact:
“So we have to do, on the one hand, with a man, the one in the drawing room, who is, at the same time, tall and short, stout and thin, and, on the other, with two men, those in the park, who are accused of removing from that drawing room objects—which are still here!”
M. Filleul was a magistrate of the ironic school, as he himself would say. He was also a very ambitious magistrate and one who did not object to an audience nor to an occasion to display his tactful resource in public, as was shown by the increasing number of persons who now crowded into the room. The journalists had been joined by the farmer and his son, the gardener and his wife, the indoor servants of the chateau and the two cabmen who had driven the flies from Dieppe.
M. Filleul continued:
“There is also the question of agreeing upon the way in which the third person disappeared. Was this the gun you fired, mademoiselle, and from this window?”
“Yes. The man reached the tombstone which is almost buried under the brambles, to the left of the cloisters.”
“But he got up again?”
“Only half. Victor ran down at once to guard the little door and I followed him, leaving the second footman, Albert, to keep watch here.”
Albert now gave his evidence and the magistrate concluded:
“So, according to you, the wounded man was not able to escape on the left, because your fellow-servant was watching the door, nor on the right, because you would have seen him cross the lawn. Logically, therefore, he is, at the present moment, in the comparatively restricted space that lies before our eyes.”
“I am sure of it.”
“And you, mademoiselle?”
“Yes.”
“And I, too,” said Victor.
The deputy prosecutor exclaimed, with a leer:
“The field of inquiry is quite narrow. We have only to continue the search commenced four hours ago.”
“We may be more fortunate.”
M. Filleul took the leather cap from the mantel, examined it and, beckoning to the sergeant of gendarmes, whispered:
“Sergeant, send one of your men to Dieppe at once. Tell him to go to Maigret, the hatter, in the Rue de la Barre, and ask M. Maigret to tell him, if possible, to whom this cap was sold.”
The “field of inquiry,” in the deputy’s phrase, was limited to the space contained between the house, the lawn on the right and the angle formed by the left wall and the wall opposite the house, that is to say, a quadrilateral of about a hundred yards each way, in which the ruins of Ambrumesy, the famous mediaeval monastery, stood out at intervals.
They at once noticed the traces left by the fugitive in the trampled grass. In two places, marks of blackened blood, now almost dried up, were observed. After the turn at the end of the cloisters, there was nothing more to be seen, as the nature of the ground, here covered with pine-needles, did not lend itself to the imprint of a body. But, in that case, how had the wounded man succeeded in escaping the eyes of Raymonde, Victor and Albert? There was nothing but a few brakes, which the servants and the gendarmes had beaten over and over again, and a number of tombstones, under which they had explored. The examining magistrate made the gardener, who had the key, open the chapel, a real gem of carving, a shrine in stone which had been respected by time and the revolutionaries, and which, with the delicate sculpture work of its porch and its miniature
