813

Mr. Kesselbach stopped short on the threshold of the sitting-room, took his secretary’s arm and, in an anxious voice, whispered:

“Chapman, someone has been here again.”

“Surely not, sir,” protested the secretary. “You have just opened the hall-door yourself; and the key never left your pocket while we were lunching in the restaurant.”

“Chapman, someone has been here again,” Mr. Kesselbach repeated. He pointed to a traveling-bag on the mantelpiece. “Look, I can prove it. That bag was shut. It is now open.”

Chapman protested.

“Are you quite sure that you shut it, sir? Besides, the bag contains nothing but odds and ends of no value, articles of dress.⁠ ⁠…”

“It contains nothing else, because I took my pocketbook out before we went down, by way of precaution.⁠ ⁠… But for that.⁠ ⁠… No, Chapman, I tell you, someone has been here while we were at lunch.”

There was a telephone on the wall. He took down the receiver:

“Hallo!⁠ ⁠… I’m Mr. Kesselbach.⁠ ⁠… Suite 415⁠ ⁠… That’s right.⁠ ⁠… Mademoiselle, would you please put me on to the Prefecture of Police⁠ ⁠… the detective department.⁠ ⁠… I know the number⁠ ⁠… one second⁠ ⁠… Ah, here it is! Number 822.48.⁠ ⁠… I’ll hold the line.”

A moment later he continued:

“Are you 822.48? I should like a word with M. Lenormand, the chief of the detective-service. My name’s Kesselbach.⁠ ⁠… Hullo!⁠ ⁠… Yes, the chief detective knows what it’s about. He has given me leave to ring him up.⁠ ⁠…

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 ⁠…”

“Listen to me⁠ ⁠… listen to me carefully and understand what I say. You are alive. Your matter and your mind are as they were and live. But Gérard Baupré is dead. You understand me, do you not? That member of society who was known as Gérard Baupré has ceased to exist. You have done away with that one. Tomorrow, the registrar will write in his books, opposite the name you bore, the word ‘Dead,’ with the date of your decease.”

“It’s a lie!” stammered the terrified lad. “It’s a lie! Considering that I, Gérard Baupré, am here!”

“You are not Gérard Baupré,” declared Sernine. And, pointing to the open door, “Gérard Baupré is there, in the next room. Do you wish to see him? He is hanging from the nail to which you hooked him. On the table is a letter in which you certify his death with your signature. It is all quite regular, it is all final. There is no getting away from the irrevocable, brutal fact: Gérard Baupré has ceased to exist!”

The young man listened in despair. Growing calmer, now that facts were assuming a less tragic significance, he began to understand:

“And then⁠ ⁠…” he muttered.

“And then⁠ ⁠… let us talk.”

“Yes, yes⁠ ⁠… let us talk.⁠ ⁠…”

“A cigarette?” asked the prince. “Will you have one? Ah, I see that you are becoming reconciled to life! So much the better: we shall understand each other; and that quickly.”

He lit the young man’s cigarette and his own and, at once, in a few words uttered in a hard voice, explained himself:

“You, the late Gérard Baupré, were weary of life, ill, penniless, hopeless.⁠ ⁠… Would you like to be well, rich, and powerful?”

“Not the old man, chief, but another, who was walking up and down the passage while Steinweg was with you and who followed us as though he were going out, too.⁠ ⁠… When we got as far as this, he asked me for a light.⁠ ⁠… I looked for my matches⁠ ⁠… Then he caught me a punch in the stomach.⁠ ⁠… I fell down, and, as I fell, I thought I saw him open that door and drag the old man with him.⁠ ⁠…”

“Would you know him again?”

“Oh yes, chief⁠ ⁠… a powerful fellow, very dark-skinned⁠ ⁠… a southerner of sorts, that’s certain.⁠ ⁠…”

“Ribeira,” snarled M. Lenormand. “Always Ribeira!⁠ ⁠… Ribeira, alias Parbury.⁠ ⁠… Oh, the impudence of the scoundrel! He was afraid of what old Steinweg might say⁠ ⁠… and came to fetch him away under my very nose!” And, stamping his foot with anger, “But, dash it, how did he know that Steinweg was here, the blackguard! It’s only four hours since I was chasing him in the Saint-Cucufa woods⁠ ⁠… and now he’s here!⁠ ⁠… How did he know?⁠ ⁠… One would think he lived inside my skin!⁠ ⁠…”

He was seized with one of those fits of dreaming in which he seemed to hear nothing and see nothing. Mrs. Kesselbach, who passed at that moment, bowed without his replying.

But a sound of footsteps in the corridor roused him from his lethargy.

“At last, is that you, Gourel?”

“I’ve found out how it was, chief,” said Gourel, panting for breath. “There were two of them. They went this way and out of the Place Dauphine.

“A glass of Chambertin, prince?”

“With pleasure, baron.”

“I can recommend it. It comes from King Leopold’s cellar.”

“A present?”

“Yes, a present I made myself.”

“It’s delicious.⁠ ⁠… What a bouquet!⁠ ⁠… With this pâté de foie gras, it’s simply wonderful!⁠ ⁠… I must congratulate you, baron; you have a first-rate chef.”

“My chef is a woman-cook, prince. I bribed her with untold gold to leave Levraud, the socialist deputy. I say, try this hot chocolate-ice; and let me call your special attention to the little dry cakes that go with it. They’re an invention of genius, those cakes.”

“The shape is charming, in any case,” said Sernine, helping himself. “If they taste as good as they look.⁠ ⁠… Here, Sirius, you’re sure to like this. Locusta herself could not have done better.”

He took one of the cakes and gave it to the dog. Sirius swallowed it at a gulp, stood motionless for two or three seconds, as though dazed, then turned in a circle and fell to the floor dead.