“Well, last night, at eleven o’clock, the three gendarmes whom Sergeant Quevillon had left on guard at the château received a note from the sergeant telling them to hasten with all speed to Ouville, where they are stationed. They at once rode off, and when they arrived at Ouville—”
“They discovered that they had been tricked, that the order was a forgery and that there was nothing for them to do but return to Ambrumésy.”
“This they did, accompanied by Sergeant Quevillon. But they were away for an hour and a half and, during this time, the crime was committed.”
“In what circumstances?”
“Very simple circumstances, indeed. A ladder was removed from the farm buildings and placed against the second story of the château. A pane of glass was cut out and a window opened. Two men, carrying a dark lantern, entered Mlle. de Gesvres’s room and gagged her before she could cry out. Then, after binding her with cords, they softly opened the door of the room in which Mlle. de Saint-Véran was sleeping. Mlle. de Gesvres heard a stifled moan, followed by the sound of a person struggling. A moment later, she saw two men carrying her cousin, who was also bound and gagged. They passed in front of her and went out through the window. Then Mlle. de Gesvres, terrified and exhausted, fainted.”
“But what about the dogs? I thought M. de Gesvres had bought two almost wild sheepdogs, which were let loose at night?”
“They were found dead, poisoned.”
“By whom? Nobody could get near them.”
“It’s a mystery. The fact remains that the two men crossed the ruins without let or hindrance and went out by the little door which we have heard so much about. They passed through the copsewood, following the line of the disused quarries. It was not until they were nearly half a mile from the château, at the foot of the tree known as the Great Oak, that they stopped—and executed their purpose.”
“If they came with the intention of killing Mlle. de Saint-Véran, why didn’t they murder her in her room?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps the incident that settled their determination only occurred after they had left the house. Perhaps the girl succeeded in releasing herself from her bonds. In my opinion, the scarf which was picked up was used to fasten her wrists. In any case, the blow was struck at the foot of the Great Oak. I have collected indisputable proofs—”
“But the body?”
“The body has not been found, but there is nothing excessively surprising in that. As a matter of fact, the trail which I followed brought me to the church at Varengeville and the old cemetery perched on the top of the cliff. From there it is a sheer precipice, a fall of over three hundred feet to the rocks and the sea below. In a day or two, a stronger tide than usual will cast up the body on the beach.”
“Obviously. This is all very simple.”
“Yes, it is all very simple and doesn’t trouble me in the least. Lupin is dead, his accomplices heard of it and, to revenge themselves, have killed Mlle. de Saint-Véran. These are facts which did not even require checking. But Lupin?”
“What about him?”
“What has become of him? In all probability, his confederates removed his corpse at the same time that they carried away the girl; but what proof have we? None at all. Any more than of his staying in the ruins, or of his death, or of his life. And that is the real mystery, M. Beautrelet. The murder of Mlle. Raymonde solves nothing. On the contrary, it only complicates matters. What has been happening during the past two months at the Château d’Ambrumésy? If we don’t clear up the riddle, young man, others will give us the go-by.”
“On what day are those others coming?”
“Wednesday—Tuesday perhaps—”
Beautrelet seemed to be making an inward calculation and then declared:
“Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, this is Saturday. I have to be back at school on Monday evening. Well, if you will have the goodness to be here at ten o’clock exactly on Monday morning, I will try to give you the key to the riddle.”
“Really, M. Beautrelet—do you think so? Are you sure?”
“I hope so, at any rate.”
“And where are you going now?”
“I am going to see if the facts consent to fit in with the general theory which I am beginning to perceive.”
“And if they don’t fit in?”
“Well, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction,” said Beautrelet, with a laugh, “then it will be their fault and I must look for others which, will prove more tractable. Till Monday, then?”
“Till Monday.”
A few minutes later, M. Filleul was driving toward Dieppe, while Isidore mounted a bicycle which he had borrowed from the Comte de Gesvres and rode off along the road to Yerville and Caudebec-en-Caux.
There was one point in particular on which the young man was anxious to form a clear opinion, because this just appeared to him to be the enemy’s weakest point. Objects of the size of the four Rubens pictures cannot be juggled away. They were bound to be somewhere. Granting that it was impossible to find them for the moment, might one not discover the road by which they had disappeared?
What Beautrelet surmised was that the four pictures had undoubtedly been carried off in the motor car, but that, before reaching Caudebec, they were transferred to another car, which had crossed the Seine either above Caudebec or below it. Now the first horse-boat down the stream was at Quillebeuf, a greatly frequented ferry and, consequently, dangerous. Up stream, there was the ferryboat at La Mailleraie, a large, but lonely market-town, lying well off the main road.
By midnight, Isidore had covered the thirty-five or forty miles to La Mailleraie and was knocking at the door of an inn by the waterside. He slept there and, in the morning, questioned the ferrymen.
They consulted the counterfoils in the traffic-book. No motorcar had crossed on Thursday the 23rd of April.
“A horse-drawn vehicle, then?” suggested Beautrelet.
