“I know. Are they there, in the lobby?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Close the hall-door and don’t open it again except to M. Gourel, the detective-sergeant. You go and bring the gentlemen in, Chapman, and tell them that I would like to speak to the Colonel first, to the Colonel alone.”
Edwards and Chapman left the room, shutting the door after them. Rudolf Kesselbach went to the window and pressed his forehead against the glass.
Outside, just below his eyes, the carriages and motorcars rolled along in parallel furrows, marked by the double line of refuges. A bright spring sun made the brass-work and the varnish gleam again. The trees were putting forth their first green shoots; and the buds of the tall chestnuts were beginning to unfold their newborn leaves.
“What on earth is Chapman doing?” muttered Kesselbach. “The time he wastes in palavering! …”
He took a cigarette from the table, lit it and drew a few puffs. A faint exclamation escaped him. Close before him stood a man whom he did not know.
He started back:
“Who are you?”
The man—he was a well-dressed individual, rather smart-looking, with dark hair, a dark moustache and hard eyes—the man gave a grin:
“Who am I? Why, the Colonel!”
“No, no. … The one I call the Colonel, the one who writes to me under that … adopted … signature … is not you!”
“Yes, yes … the other was only … But, my dear sir, all this, you know, is not of the smallest importance. The essential thing is that I … am myself. And that, I assure you, I am!”
“But your name, sir? …”
“The Colonel … until further orders.”
Mr. Kesselbach was seized with a growing fear. Who was this man? What did he want with him?
He called out:
“Chapman!”
“What a funny idea, to call out! Isn’t my company enough for you?”
“Chapman!” Mr. Kesselbach cried again. “Chapman! Edwards!”
“Chapman! Edwards!” echoed the stranger, in his turn. “What are you doing? You’re wanted!”
“Sir, I ask you, I order you to let me pass.”
“But, my dear sir, who’s preventing you?”
He politely made way. Mr. Kesselbach walked to the door, opened it and gave a sudden jump backward. Behind the door stood another man, pistol in hand. Kesselbach stammered:
“Edwards … Chap …”
He did not finish. In a corner of the lobby he saw his secretary and his servant lying side by side on the floor, gagged and bound.
Mr. Kesselbach, notwithstanding his nervous and excitable nature, was not devoid of physical courage; and the sense of a definite danger, instead of depressing him, restored all his elasticity and vigor. Pretending dismay and stupefaction, he moved slowly back to the chimneypiece and leant against the wall. His hand felt for the electric bell. He found it and pressed the button without removing his finger.
“Well?” asked the stranger.
Mr. Kesselbach made no reply and continued to press the button.
“Well? Do you expect they will come, that the whole hotel is in commotion, because you are pressing that bell? Why, my dear sir, look behind you and you will see that the wire is cut!”
Mr. Kesselbach turned round sharply, as though he wanted to make sure; but, instead, with a quick movement, he seized the traveling-bag, thrust his hand into it, grasped a revolver, aimed it at the man and pulled the trigger.
“Whew!” said the stranger. “So you load your weapons with air and silence?”
The cock clicked a second time and a third, but there was no report.
“Three shots more, Lord of the Cape! I shan’t be satisfied till you’ve lodged six bullets in my carcass. What! You give up? That’s a pity … you were making excellent practice!”
He took hold of a chair by the back, spun it round, sat down astraddle and, pointing to an armchair, said:
“Won’t you take a seat, my dear sir, and make yourself at home? A cigarette? Not for me, thanks: I prefer a cigar.”
There was a box on the table: he selected an Upmann, light in color and flawless in shape, lit it and, with a bow:
“Thank you! That’s a perfect cigar. And now let’s have a chat, shall we?”
Rudolf Kesselbach listened to him in amazement. Who could this strange person be? … Still, at the sight of his visitor sitting there so quiet and so chatty, he became gradually reassured and began to think that the situation might come to an end without any need to resort to violence or brute force.
He took out a pocketbook, opened it, displayed a respectable bundle of banknotes and asked:
“How much?”
The other looked at him with an air of bewilderment, as though he found a difficulty in understanding what Kesselbach meant. Then, after a moment, he called:
“Marco!”
The man with the revolver stepped forward.
“Marco, this gentleman is good enough to offer you a few bits of paper for your young woman. Take them, Marco.”
Still aiming his revolver with his right hand, Marco put out his left, took the notes and withdrew.
“Now that this question is settled according to your wishes,” resumed the stranger, “let us come to the object of my visit. I will be brief and to the point. I want two things. In the first place, a little black morocco pocket-case, shaped like an envelope, which you generally carry on you. Secondly, a small ebony box, which was in that traveling-bag yesterday. Let us proceed in order. The morocco case?”
“Burnt.”
The stranger knit his brows. He must have had a vision of the good old days when there were peremptory methods of making the contumacious speak:
“Very well. We shall see about that. And the ebony box?”
“Burnt.”
“Ah,” he growled, “you’re getting at me, my good man!” He twisted the other’s arm with a pitiless hand. “Yesterday, Rudolf Kesselbach, you walked into the Crédit Lyonnais, on the Boulevard des Italiens, hiding a parcel under your overcoat. You hired a safe … let us be exact: safe No. 16, in recess No. 9. After signing the book and paying your safe-rent, you went down to the basement; and, when you came up again, you no longer had your parcel with you. Is that correct?”
“Quite.”
“Then the box and the pocket-case are at the Crédit Lyonnais?”
“No.”
“Give me the key of your
