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

“Come, come, sergeant! You yourself declare that there was only one departure, the stranger’s.”

“Stoop down. Look at the man’s footprints. See how they sink into the snow, until they actually touch the ground. Those are the footprints of a man, laden with a heavy burden. The stranger was carrying Madame de Gorne on his shoulder.”

“Then there’s an outlet this way?”

“Yes, a little door of which Mathias de Gorne always had the key on him. The man must have taken it from him.”

“A way out into the open fields?”

“Yes, a road which joins the departmental highway three quarters of a mile from here.⁠ ⁠… And do you know where?”

“Where?”

“At the corner of the château.”

“Jérôme Vignal’s château?”

“By Jove, this is beginning to look serious! If the trail leads to the château and stops there, we shall know where we stand.”

The trail did continue to the château, as they were able to perceive after following it across the undulating fields, on which the snow lay heaped in places. The approach to the main gates had been swept, but they saw that another trail, formed by the two wheels of a vehicle, was running in the opposite direction to the village.

The sergeant rang the bell. The porter, who had also been sweeping the drive, came to the gates, with a broom in his hand. In answer to a question, the man said that M. Vignal had gone away that morning before anyone else was up and that he himself had harnessed the horse to the trap.

“In that case,” said Rénine, when they had moved away, “all we have to do is to follow the tracks of the wheels.”

“That will be no use,” said the sergeant. “They have taken the railway.”

“At Pompignat station, where I came from? But they would have passed through the village.”

“They have gone just the other way, because it leads to the town, where the express trains stop. The procurator-general has an office in the town. I’ll telephone; and, as there’s no train before eleven o’clock, all that they need do is to keep a watch at the station.”

“I think you’re doing the right thing, sergeant,” said Rénine, “and I congratulate you on the way in which you have carried out your investigation.”

They parted. Rénine went back to the inn in the village and sent a note to Hortense Daniel by hand:

“My very dear friend,

“I seemed to gather from your letter that, touched as always by anything that concerns the heart, you were anxious to protect the love-affair of Jérôme and Natalie. Now there is every reason to suppose that these two, without consulting their fair protectress, have run away, after throwing Mathias de Gorne down a well.

“Forgive me for not coming to see you. The whole thing is extremely obscure; and, if I were with you, I should not have the detachment of mind which is needed to think the case over.”

It was then half-past ten. Rénine went for a walk into the country, with his hands clasped behind his back and without vouchsafing a glance at the exquisite spectacle of the white meadows. He came back for lunch, still absorbed in his thoughts and indifferent to the talk of the customers of the inn, who on all sides were discussing recent events.

He went up to his room and had been asleep some time when he was awakened by a tapping at the door. He got up and opened it:

“Is it you?⁠ ⁠… Is it you?” he whispered.

Hortense and he stood gazing at each other for some seconds in silence, holding each other’s hands, as though nothing, no irrelevant thought and no utterance, must be allowed to interfere with the joy of their meeting. Then he asked:

“Was I right in coming?”

“Yes,” she said, gently, “I expected you.”

“Perhaps it would have been better if you had sent for me sooner, instead of waiting.⁠ ⁠… Events did not wait, you see, and I don’t quite know what’s to become of Jérôme Vignal and Natalie de Gorne.”

“What, haven’t you heard?” she said, quickly. “They’ve been arrested. They were going to travel by the express.”

“Arrested? No.” Rénine objected. “People are not arrested like that. They have to be questioned first.”

“That’s what’s being done now. The authorities are making a search.”

“Where?”

“At the château. And, as they are innocent.⁠ ⁠… For they are innocent, aren’t they? You don’t admit that they are guilty, any more than I do?”

He replied:

“I admit nothing, I can admit nothing, my dear. Nevertheless, I am bound to say that everything is against them⁠ ⁠… except one fact, which is that everything is too much against them. It is not normal for so many proofs to be heaped up one on top of the other and for the man who commits a murder to tell his story so frankly. Apart from this, there’s nothing but mystery and discrepancy.”

“Well?”

“Well, I am greatly puzzled.”

“But you have a plan?”

“None at all, so far. Ah, if I could see him, Jérôme Vignal, and her, Natalie de Gorne, and hear them and know what they are saying in their own defence! But you can understand that I shan’t be permitted either to ask them any questions or to be present at their examination. Besides, it must be finished by this time.”

“It’s finished at the château,” she said, “but it’s going to be continued at the manor-house.”

“Are they taking them to the manor-house?” he asked eagerly.

“Yes⁠ ⁠… at least, judging by what was said to the chauffeur of one of the procurator’s two cars.”

“Oh, in that case,” exclaimed Rénine, “the thing’s done! The manor-house! Why, we shall be in the front row of the stalls! We shall see and hear everything; and, as a word, a tone of the voice, a quiver of the eyelids will be enough to give me the tiny clue I need, we may entertain some hope. Come along.”

He took her by the direct route which he had followed that morning, leading to the gate which the locksmith had opened. The gendarmes