The Eight Strokes of the Clock by Maurice Leblanc (best non fiction books to read TXT) 📕

hesitation and no blundering⁠ ⁠… else you’ll get yourself nabbed. Good luck to you.”

He waited till the car was drawn up in accordance with his instructions and, when he reached it, he began to question his chauffeur, in order to attract the detectives’ attention.

One of them, however, having cast a glance through the spindle-trees, caught sight of Dalbrèque just as he reached the bottom of the staircase. He gave the alarm and darted forward, followed by his comrades, but had to run round the car and bumped into the chauffeur, which gave Dalbrèque time to mount his bicycle and cross the yard unimpeded. He thus had some seconds’ start. Unfortunately for him as he was about to enter the passage at the back, a troop of boys and girls appeared, returning from vespers. On hearing the shouts of the detectives, they spread their arms in front of the fugitive, who gave two or three lurches and ended by falling.

Cries of triumph were raised:

“Lay hold of him! Stop him!” roared the detectives as they rushed forward.

Rénine, seeing that the game was up, ran after the others and called out:

“Stop him!”

He came up with them just as Dalbrèque, after regaining his feet, knocked one of the policemen down and levelled his revolver. Rénine snatched it out of his hands. But the two other detectives, startled, had also produced their weapons. They fired. Dalbrèque, hit in the leg and the chest, pitched forward and fell.

“Thank you, sir,” said the inspector to Rénine introducing himself. “We owe a lot to you.”

“It seems to me that you’ve done for the fellow,” said Rénine. “Who is he?”

“One Dalbrèque, a scoundrel for whom we were looking.”

Rénine was beside himself. Hortense had joined him by this time; and he growled:

“The silly fools! Now they’ve killed him!”

“Oh, it isn’t possible!”

“We shall see. But, whether he’s dead or alive, it’s death to Rose Andrée. How are we to trace her? And what chance have we of finding the place⁠—some inaccessible retreat⁠—where the poor thing is dying of misery and starvation?”

The detectives and peasants had moved away, bearing Dalbrèque with them on an improvised stretcher. Rénine, who had at first followed them, in order to find out what was going to happen, changed his mind and was now standing with his eyes fixed on the ground. The fall of the bicycle had unfastened the parcel which Dalbrèque had tied to the handlebar; and the newspaper had burst, revealing its contents, a tin saucepan, rusty, dented, battered and useless.

“What’s the meaning of this?” he muttered. “What was the idea?⁠ ⁠…”

He picked it up examined it. Then he gave a grin and a click of the tongue and chuckled, slowly:

“Don’t move an eyelash, my dear. Let all these people clear off. All this is no business of ours, is it? The troubles of police don’t concern us. We are two motorists travelling for our pleasure and collecting old saucepans if we feel so inclined.”

He called his chauffeur:

“Adolphe, take us to the Parc des Landes by a roundabout road.”

Half an hour later they reached the sunken track and began to scramble down it on foot beside the wooded slopes. The Seine, which was very low at this time of day, was lapping against a little jetty near which lay a worm-eaten, mouldering boat, full of puddles of water.

Rénine stepped into the boat and at once began to bale out the puddles with his saucepan. He then drew the boat alongside of the jetty, helped Hortense in and used the one oar which he shipped in a gap in the stern to work her into midstream:

“I believe I’m there!” he said, with a laugh. “The worst that can happen to us is to get our feet wet, for our craft leaks a trifle. But haven’t we a saucepan? Oh, blessings on that useful utensil! Almost as soon as I set eyes upon it, I remembered that people use those articles to bale out the bottoms of leaky boats. Why, there was bound to be a boat in the Landes woods! How was it I never thought of that? But of course Dalbrèque made use of her to cross the Seine! And, as she made water, he brought a saucepan.”

“Then Rose Andrée⁠ ⁠… ?” asked Hortense.

“Is a prisoner on the other bank, on the Jumièges peninsula. You see the famous abbey from here.”

They ran aground on a beach of big pebbles covered with slime.

“And it can’t be very far away,” he added. “Dalbrèque did not spend the whole night running about.”

A towpath followed the deserted bank. Another path led away from it. They chose the second and, passing between orchards enclosed by hedges, came to a landscape that seemed strangely familiar to them. Where had they seen that pool before, with the willows overhanging it? And where had they seen that abandoned hovel?

Suddenly both of them stopped with one accord:

“Oh!” said Hortense. “I can hardly believe my eyes!”

Opposite them was the white gate of a large orchard, at the back of which, among groups of old, gnarled apple-trees, appeared a cottage with blue shutters, the cottage of the Happy Princess.

“Of course!” cried Rénine. “And I ought to have known it, considering that the film showed both this cottage and the forest close by. And isn’t everything happening exactly as in The Happy Princess? Isn’t Dalbrèque dominated by the memory of it? The house, which is certainly the one in which Rose Andrée spent the summer, was empty. He has shut her up there.”

“But the house, you told me, was in the Seine-inférieure.”

“Well, so are we! To the left of the river, the Eure and the forest of Brotonne; to the right, the Seine-inférieure. But between them is the obstacle of the river, which is why I didn’t connect the two. A hundred and fifty yards of water form a more effective division than dozens of miles.”

The gate was locked. They got through the hedge a little lower down and walked towards the house, which was screened on one side