Arsène Lupin intervenes
meal. I was very, very fond of Jean; he was several years younger than
myself, and I had practically brought him up from when he was quite a
little boy. We were always the best of friends, and happy in each
other’s company.”
“He went out during the night?”
“He left the house a little before dawn, towards half-past three in the
morning. Our old servant heard him go.”
“Did you know where he was going?”
“He had told me the day before that he was going to fish from the
terrace. Fishing was one of his favorite occupations.”
“Then there is nothing you can tell us about the time elapsing between
half-past three and the discovery of your brother’s body?”
“Yes, there is.” She paused. “At a quarter past six I heard a shot!”
“Oh, yes. Several people heard it. But it’s quite possible it was only
a poacher.”
“That was what I thought at the time. But somehow I felt anxious, so at
last I got out of bed and dressed. When I reached the terrace I saw men
from the village on the opposite bank of the river. They were carrying
my poor brother up to the grounds of the Château, because it was too
steep to get the body up the other side.”
“Then you are surely of opinion that the shot could not have been in
any way connected with what happened to your brother? Otherwise the
inquest would have revealed a bullet wound, which, of course, it did
not.”
Seeing Mademoiselle d’Alescar’s hesitation, Barnett pressed home his
question.
“Won’t you answer me?”
The girl’s hands clenched at her sides.
“Whatever actually happened, I only know that I am perfectly certain in
my own mind that there is some connection.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Well, to begin with, there is no other possible explanation.”
“An accident....”
She shook her head, smiling sadly.
“Oh, no. Jean was extraordinarily agile, and he had also plenty of good
sense and caution. He would never have trusted himself to that branch.
Why, it was obviously much too slender to bear his weight.”
“But you admit that it was broken.”
“There is nothing to prove that it was broken by him and on that
particular night.”
“Then, mademoiselle, it is your honest belief that a crime has been
committed?”
She nodded gravely.
“You have even gone so far as to accuse a certain person by name and in
the presence of witnesses?”
Again she nodded.
“What grounds have you for making this assertion? Is there any definite
proof pointing to someone’s guilt? That is what Inspector Béchoux is
anxious to know.”
For a few moments Elizabeth was lost in reflection. They could see that
it distressed her to recall such dreadful memories. But she made a
valiant effort and said:
“I will tell you everything. But to do so, I must go back to something
that happened twenty-four years ago. It was then that my father lost
all his money in a bank failure. He found himself ruined, but he told
no one. His creditors were paid. Of course, it was common knowledge
that he had lost a large part of his fortune, but no one guessed that
the whole of it had been engulfed. What actually happened was that my
father threw himself on the mercy of a rich manufacturer in Guéret.
This man lent him two hundred thousand francs on one condition
only—that the Château, the estate, and all the Mazurech acres should
become his property if the loan were not repaid within five years.”
“That manufacturer was Georges Cazévon’s father, wasn’t he?”
“Yes,” she said, a note of hatred in her voice.
“Was he anxious to own the Château?”
“Very anxious indeed. He had tried to buy it several times. Well,
exactly four years and eleven months later, my father died of cerebral
congestion. It came on rapidly, and towards the close of his life he
was obviously troubled and preoccupied with something of which we knew
nothing. Immediately after his death, Georges Cazévon told us about the
loan he had made my father, and warned my uncle, who was looking after
us, that we had just one month in which to discharge our debt. He had
absolute proof of his claim, such proof as no lawyer could dispute. My
father left nothing. Jean and I were driven out of our home and were
taken in by our uncle, who lived in this very house, and was himself
far from wealthy. He died very soon after, and so did old Monsieur
Cazévon.”
Béchoux and Barnett had listened to her attentively. Now Barnett spoke
on behalf of his friend:
“My friend the inspector doesn’t quite see how all this links up with
the events of the present day.”
Mademoiselle d’Alescar gave Béchoux a glance of slightly contemptuous
surprise and continued, without answering:
“So Jean and I lived alone here on this little manor, right in front of
the Dungeon and the Château that had always belonged to our family.
This caused Jean a sorrow which grew with the years, and intensified as
his intelligence developed and he grew towards manhood. It grieved and
hurt him to feel that he had lost his heritage and been driven from
what he considered his rightful domain. In all his work and play he
made time to devote whole days to delving in the family archives, and
reading up our history and genealogy. Then, one day, he found among
these books a ledger in which our father had kept his accounts during
the latter years of his life, showing the money he had saved by
exercising the strictest economy and by several successful real estate
deals. There were also bank receipts. I went to the bank that had
issued them and learned that our father, a week before his death, had
withdrawn his entire deposit—two hundred banknotes of a thousand francs
each!”
“The exact amount,” said Barnett, “which he was due to pay in a few
weeks’ time. Then why did he put off paying it?”
“I have no idea.”
“Therefore you think he must have put the money in a safe place
somewhere?” He paused, and twiddled his monocle thoughtfully.
“Somewhere—ah, but where?”
Elizabeth d’Alescar produced the ledger of which she had spoken and
showed it to Barnett and Béchoux.
“It is here that we must look for the answer to that question,” she
said, turning to the last page, on which was sketched a diagram
representing three-quarters of a circle, to which was added, at the
right side, a semicircle of shorter radius. This semicircle was barred
by four lines, between two of which was a small cross. All the lines in
the diagram had been drawn first in pencil and then gone over in ink.
“What’s all this mean?” asked Barnett.
“It took us a long time to understand it,” replied Elizabeth. “At last,
poor Jean guessed one day that the diagram represented an accurate plan
of the Old Dungeon, reduced to its outside lines. It is on that exact
plan, on the unequal parts of two circles connected with each other.
The four lines indicate four embrasures.”
“And the cross,” finished Barnett, “indicates the place where the Comte
d’Alescar hid his two hundred thousand francs to await the day of
repayment.”
“Yes,” said the girl, with conviction.
Barnett thought it over, took another look at the map and finally
remarked:
“It’s quite probable. The Comte d’Alescar would, of course, have been
sure to take the precaution of leaving some clue to the hiding-place,
and his sudden death prevented his passing on the secret. But surely,
all you had to do on finding this was to tell Monsieur Cazévon’s son
and ask his permission to——”
“To climb to the top of the tower! That is just what we immediately
did. Georges Cazévon, although we were not on the best of terms with
him, was quite pleasant about it. But how could any human being get to
the top of that tower? The stairs had fallen in fifteen years before.
All the stones are loose. The top is crumbling. No ladder—no ladders
even—could ever have reached high enough. The Dungeon battlements are
over ninety feet above the ground. And it was quite out of the question
to scale the wall. We discussed the whole problem and drew up plans for
several months, but it all ended in——”
She broke off, blushing hotly.
“A quarrel!” Barnett finished for her. “Georges Cazévon fell in love
with you and asked you to marry him. You refused him. He tried to force
you to his will. You broke off all intercourse with him, and Jean
d’Alescar was no longer allowed to set foot on Mazurech land.”
“That is exactly what did happen,” the girl said. “But my brother would
not give up. He simply had to have that money. He wanted it to buy back
part of our estate or to give me a dot which would set me free to marry
as I chose. Very soon the idea obsessed him. He spent his days in front
of the tower. He was always staring up at the inaccessible battlements.
He imagined a thousand schemes for getting up there. He practiced until
he was a skilled archer, and then, from daybreak, he would stand there
shooting arrows on long strings, hoping that one of them would fall in
such a way that a rope could be tied to the string and pulled up to the
top of the tower. He even had sixty yards of rope all ready for the
attempt. Everything he tried was hopeless, and his failure plunged him
into melancholy and despair. On the very day before he died he said to
me: ‘The only reason I go on trying is that I am certain to succeed in
the end. Fate will be in my favor. There will be a miracle—I am sure of
it—a miracle! That is what I pray for and what I confidently expect.’
Poor Jean, he never had his miracle!”
Barnett put another question.
“Then you believe that his death occurred while he was making yet
another attempt?”
Seeing that she assented, he continued:
“Is the rope no longer where he kept it?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Then what proof have you?”
“That shot! Georges Cazévon must have caught my brother in his attempt
and fired.”
“Good God!” cried Barnett. “You believe Georges Cazévon is capable of
doing such a thing?”
“I do. He is very impulsive. He controls himself as a rule, but he
might easily be led into violence—or even into crime.”
“But why should he have fired? To rob your brother of the money he had
recovered?”
“That I cannot say,” said Mademoiselle d’Alescar. “Nor do I know how
the murder could have been committed, since poor Jean’s dead body
showed no trace of a bullet wound. But I am absolutely firm in my
belief.”
“Quite so, but you must admit that your belief is based on intuition
rather than on the known facts,” observed Barnett. “And I think I ought
to tell you that in a court of law, intuition is not enough. I’m sure
Béchoux will agree with me, it’s quite on the cards that Georges
Cazévon will be so furious at your accusing him that he will sue you
for libel.”
Mademoiselle d’Alescar rose from her chair.
“That would matter very little to me,” she said. “I have not made this
accusation to avenge my brother, for to punish the criminal would not
restore Jean to life. I am merely stating what I believe to be the
truth. If Georges Cazévon likes to sue me, he is perfectly free to do
so and my defence will simply be what my conscience moves me to say.”
She was silent for a moment, and then added:
“But you can rely on his keeping quiet, gentlemen. I don’t think there
is much chance of his bringing any action against me!”
The interview was at an end. Jim Barnett did not attempt to engage the
girl in further conversation. Mademoiselle d’Alescar knew her own mind,
and no one would be able to intimidate her or upset her evidence in the
least.
“Mademoiselle,” said Barnett, “we apologize for this intrusion, but we
were obliged to trouble you in order to get at the truth of this tragic
affair. You may be sure Inspector Béchoux will make the right
deductions from all that you have said and act accordingly.”
He bowed and took his leave. Béchoux bowed likewise, and followed him
into the courtyard.
Once they were out of the house, the inspector, who had not spoken