Chapter XII: The Second Victim

The urgent summons from Fouchard left no doubt in Wallace’s mind that the mystery had yielded a new feature. He and Yolande hurried back to the house and found Fouchard in earnest conversation with some of the servants. Yolande’s face fell when she saw this, for the news looked anything but good.

“What is it, Fouchard?” she asked.

“Severin is missing.”

“Missing?”

“It was brought to my notice that Severin’s room had not been slept in last night, nor is he to be found about the château.”

“But we saw him at ten o’clock last night,” said Wallace.

“Some of the servants saw him at eleven, just before he locked up. When he did not put in an appearance this morning they presumed he was unwell. The chambermaid ultimately made the discovery.”

The servants whom Fouchard had been questioning were dismissed, and the quartette looked at each other--Yolande with fear and apprehension, Wallace and Conrad in speechless surprise, and Fouchard with ill-concealed rage.

“You don’t think Severin is in this conspiracy?” asked Conrad.

“No--no,” said Yolande. “I fear--I fear----”

It was obvious what she feared, and Fouchard inclined his head grimly.

“But this is appalling!” said Conrad. “It was Severin who was so sure that nothing would happen until the moon----”

“Superstitious rot!” snapped Fouchard. “I never paid the slightest heed to it. There is only one thing to be done, and that is to search the whole place. I am deeply sorry, mademoiselle--I scarcely expected this.”

“There is no sign of any struggle in Severin’s bedroom?”

“None--nor in any other room. I have already been through most of the occupied rooms.”

“Let us make a start,” pleaded Wallace, whose impatience was manifest in his twitching limbs.

Fouchard nodded, and soon the three men were probing in every dark corner. Wallace had persuaded Yolande to await them on the terrace, for he anticipated another ghastly discovery. The vaults were tackled last of all, and there their worst expectations were realised. The body of Severin was found lying flat on the floor at the far end of the vault, with his throat cut. He was quite dead, and his limbs were stone cold.

“Ghastly!” exclaimed Conrad.

“No attempt to hide the corpse this time,” mused Fouchard. “It must have happened last night.”

“But what was Severin doing down here? He dreaded the place, and certainly would not have come down here close to midnight.”

“Don’t ask me any questions,” snapped Fouchard. “I have already asked myself every conceivable question that has any bearing on these horrible crimes. Now I’ll have the idiots from Arveyes down here--wasting time.”

Yolande was apprised of the discovery. She made a brave attempt to control her emotions, but Severin had been a beloved and faithful servant and the blow was heavy. Wallace’s heart ached as he gazed upon that beautiful, troubled face.

“This is hell, Connie,” he said. “Where is it going to end? If Fallières and Severin, why not you and me--or Yolande? God, it is maddening to feel so helpless.”

Fouchard got into touch with Arveyes, and again the local police and the doctor arrived. The servants now were completely terrified. Three maids packed their bags as soon as the police had done with them, and others talked of going. But Bertha, though pale of face, displayed no desire to go.

“What do you know of this?” snapped Fouchard, banishing discretion in his ignominy.

“I?”

“Yes--you. You were not on the best of terms with Severin--I happen to know that.”

Bertha started, but her eyes did not waver. She glared back at Fouchard until that worthy winced.

“Do you dare accuse me?” she asked hoarsely.

“I’ve the best of reasons for making that remark.”

Here the magistrate from Arveyes interrupted. He was a pompous little man, and objected to Fouchard stealing his thunder.

“I am examining the witnesses, Monsieur Fouchard,” he said haughtily. “I should like to know what these two gentlemen know of this affair. I understand they have been staying in the château for a considerable period--in fact, the exact period covering the two crimes.”

“Monsieur, they are my guests and friends,” objected Yolande.

Notwithstanding, Wallace and Conrad were compelled to answer a multitude of questions, mostly to satisfy the vanity of the little magistrate. Fouchard was so disgusted he strode out of the room.

“This is the limit!” said Wallace later. “We seem to be getting dragged into it. The idiot!”

“I am so--so sorry,” said Yolande. “I fear I have been the means of submitting you to great indignity.”

“It isn’t your fault, Yolande,” replied Wallace with a smile. “I suppose he only did what he thought was his duty. After all, we are strangers to him. Poor old Severin!”

The remains of Severin were removed later, and Fouchard put in an appearance at dinner, for he missed as few meals as possible at the château.

“Baffled!” he said. “Who is going to be the next, I wonder?”

“S-sh!” ejaculated Wallace angrily.

“I am sorry. But these are grim facts, monsieur. I can find no motive for either crime, and one is led to the conclusion that no one in this place is immune. Mademoiselle, you must leave at once. I insist!”

But Yolande shook her head. The second tragedy, following so close upon the first, only served to harden her resolution. Wallace flinched, but flashed a look of admiration across the table.

“But it is madness--” said Fouchard.

“I stay, monsieur. Let us not waste words.”

“_Zut!_” he grunted. “It is not for me to give orders.”

He got on with the meal, and for some time no conversation passed. Fouchard’s disgruntlement vanished at about the same rate as the courses, so that when coffee was served he was almost normal again.

“Of course Bertha had no hand in Severin’s death,” he said suddenly.

“But you practically accused her!”

“Only to see how she would take it. She is in league with the Monster in some way, but cold-blooded murder is not in her line. I am not so certain about Niels. I don’t think he would fight shy of anything that would gain him his ends.”

“And what are his ends?”

“Ah! There you have me.”

“Something in this château?”

“It would appear so.”

“You think that the objects of Niels’s party and of the Monster are identical?”

“They must be. If we only knew what that object was half our work would be done. I am wondering whether it would be of any use to endeavour to come to terms with Bertha.”

“Come to terms!”

“Why not? I presume that all of us want justice done for these two cold-blooded murders. If Bertha can help us to get our man she deserves what wealth or treasure lies hidden here.”

“If any,” put in Conrad.

“We could at least promise her a free hand.”

“Yolande would never consent to any parley with that party,” said Wallace. “It would be like hoisting the white flag. Besides, it is absolutely certain that Bertha will not give anything away. Whatever the secret is, they would die rather than reveal it.”

“Yes,” mused Fouchard. “But the woman might speak if I could put her two confederates in jail with long sentences to serve. While she hopes to achieve her end she is fearless. I’d have no difficulty in convicting Heinrich and Niels if only I could land them, but they are elusive fish.”

“Yet they must be living somewhere in the neighbourhood.”

“I have tried everything, and the people at Arveyes have been busy in that direction. They seem to have dug themselves in very securely.”

On the following day Fouchard made another small discovery. He was engaged in perambulating his favourite corner of the garden when he noticed a man loitering outside. He promptly secreted himself behind a bush, and ultimately saw the loiterer climb over the low wall and slip a letter between two loose bricks in one of the supporting columns of the terrace.

Two minutes later the letter was in his possession. He came into the house looking more perplexed than ever, and helped himself to a drink before he divulged what it was that was troubling him.

“Another!” he said.

“Another what?” enquired Conrad.

“Can you read German?”

“Fairly well.”

“Then have a look at that.”

Conrad took the roughly-opened envelope and extracted a single sheet of paper. He translated the contents for Wallace’s edification:

“Dear Bertha--_Am joining Niels to-night. Come if you can to the usual place--to-morrow at seven o’clock._

“Walther.”

“Who the devil--” gasped Conrad. “Has Bertha seen this message?”

“No. But she is going to. I shall put it back where I found it, and trust to our little Bertha to lead us to the lair.”

“Whew!” said Wallace, mopping his brow. “This is an invasion. Did you see the man who brought the note?”

“Yes. He couldn’t have helped us. He was a peasant, and there is no doubt the note was given him with instructions what to do, and a reward. Had I apprehended him it would have placed our cunning friends on the _qui vive_. I must get a fresh envelope and replace this message without delay.”

He went off, and Conrad sat shaking his head, while Wallace chewed the end of a cigarette. The gathering forces of the other side made it abundantly clear that they had not the slightest intention of abandoning their quest.

“Niels, Heinrich, Bertha, now Walther,” chanted Wallace. “What a collection!”

“And the Monster.”

“Five sets of clever brains--against three. I wonder what Fouchard will do if he successfully runs them to earth? Personally I don’t believe it will help at all. They will all keep their mouths shut, and we shall be exactly where we are, without even the chance of getting wise to their motives.”

“You heard what he said. He will jail the men and try to coerce Bertha.”

“What a hope! If Bertha could have spoken she would have done so before. I am afraid Fouchard is at his wits’ end, and is likely to bungle things.”

Fouchard made all his plans that evening. Hopeful of a round-up, he had brought the local police into his scheme. Bertha was to be trailed from the moment she left the house, and the whole party arrested _en bloc_.

“For the time being you and I are to have a holiday,” said Conrad.

He did not seem very disappointed, and Wallace could not help feeling that he was relieved not to have to assist in arresting the woman in the case. Yolande was duly informed of what was pending.

“Do you think it will lead to any good?” she asked Wallace.

“I have doubts about it. It is obvious that Fouchard is still smarting from injured pride. He is dying to lay hands on Niels, who collared him so cleverly.”

“Bertha is the greatest mystery,” she replied reflectively. “I do not know what to think about her. While I have every reason to believe that she is conspiring to rob me--of something, I have got to like her. She is gentle, sympathetic, and altogether the most efficient of maids. I wonder what her relations are with those men?”

“She may be in their power--compelled to do their bidding. We must wait and see what to-morrow will bring.”

A bitter disappointment was in store for Fouchard, for on the following evening Bertha did not leave the château at all. Fouchard crept back after hours of impatient waiting, having missed his dinner in the bargain.

“Baulked again,” he said savagely.

“She hasn’t been there?”

“No--the minx! That letter was genuine enough, but she must have seen me take it. Confound the woman!”

“And what now?” asked Conrad sweetly.

“I don’t know--I wish I did. These are hard nuts to crack. They are all eyes, and ears, and brains.”

“They are indeed,” sighed Yolande. “One feels all the time that one is being watched. I would give almost everything I possess to have justice done, and to live in peace again.”