Chapter IV: Fouchard

Both Wallace and Conrad rang for their _petit déjeuner_ at a very early hour, for their minds were too full of the hideous tragedy of the preceding night to permit of comfortable repose. Severin, who looked as if he had not been to bed, informed them that his young mistress had passed a bad night, but refused to rest in her room. She was now dressing.

“What are we going to do now?” asked Conrad.

“That depends upon Yolande.”

“You think she will be glad of our company for a bit?”

“Don’t you think that is probable? This man from Paris will turn the place upside down, and ask a lot of painful questions. One thing is certain--Fallières is either seriously wounded or dead.”

“But where is he?”

“That is the crux of the whole mystery. Connie, do you think the old boy is to be trusted?”

“You mean Severin?”

“Yes. He acts very strangely at times. I had a feeling last night that he was deliberately avoiding certain parts of the château; and he was seen in the corridor immediately after we heard the shot fired.”

“You are not suggesting that Severin shot his master and then hid him somewhere?”

“It’s as good a solution as any we have struck.”

“Incredible. Fallières spoke most highly of Severin. No, Severin is only suffering from fright. You forget that Severin has seen this alleged monster, and we have not.”

“It is hard to believe in monsters in the full light of day. I wonder if we are all going mad.”

“Mad or not, Fallières is missing. We should have to be mad indeed to believe that he is perpetrating some practical joke. No, I fear we are up against grim fact.”

He turned as he heard a footstep behind him, and Yolande entered the room. Her face was deathly pale, and it was evident that she had not slept.

“_Bon jour!_” she said. “I suppose there is no news?”

“None. I ’phoned to the Préfecture of Police last night, and a good man was despatched immediately. He should be here at any moment.”

“Thank you.”

She sat down limply, and Conrad took her hand in fatherly fashion.

“You must not worry too much,” he murmured. “I admit the situation is baffling, but hope must not be abandoned.”

“I feel so powerless,” she replied. “Where is one to look--what is one to do?”

“Keep a stiff lip.”

“I am not going to break down,” she said. “Nor will I leave a stone unturned to solve this terrible mystery. For too long we have tolerated it. You have breakfasted?”

“Yes.”

“And you will soon be leaving?”

“That rests with you, mademoiselle. I am indebted to your father in many ways, and if I could be of the least assistance, you have only to command me. I know I can speak for my young friend here.”

“Rather!” put in Wallace.

“Then stay,” she pleaded. “If this strange thing is to be brought to bay, it will need the strength and wits of men. I need your help, God knows.”

Wallace breathed a sigh of relief. He had the adventurous spirit, and his blood was boiling at the atrocity that had been committed. Man-hunt or ghost-hunt, it was all the same to him. He was brimming over with vitality, and wanted nothing more than to get to grips with this alleged monster.

“We will consider that settled,” said Conrad calmly.

A few minutes later a servant entered with a card. It bore the name of Arnaud Fouchard, no more.

“Fouchard,” mused Conrad. “I have heard that name.”

“He is from the Préfecture of Police,” whispered Yolande. “It is the dreaded Fouchard. All France knows of him.”

“Good! He has certainly lost no time.”

The great Fouchard was shown in. He was in plain clothes and of most unprepossessing appearance. His face was like that of a Mongolian, and he wore a scrubby little beard and moustache. In size he was diminutive, but there was an alertness about him that reminded one of a galvanised wire. He bowed low to Yolande.

“You are Monsieur Fouchard?” she said.

“At your service. Of course you are Mademoiselle Fallières?”

She nodded, and introduced Wallace and Conrad as two friends of the family--and guests.

“Now we can go ahead,” he said. “I gathered that Monsieur Fallières is missing and that you suspect foul play.”

“That is so,” replied Conrad. “He disappeared from his room at about twelve-thirty last night.”

“Hm! Why do you suspect foul play?”

“His bed had been occupied, and there is blood on the pillow.”

“I will look at the room.”

Yolande stayed below while Wallace and Conrad went to the room with the officer. Nothing had been touched since the night before, except that Conrad had possessed himself of the pistol. Fouchard examined the pillow and the floor, and then walked to the window.

“Nasty drop!” he muttered. “Tell me exactly what occurred, so far as you are able.”

Conrad narrated the incident, while Fouchard made minute shorthand notes in a huge pocket-book. All the while he made queer facial contortions.

“Where is the pistol?” he snapped.

Conrad produced it from his pocket.

“Hm! One shot fired. I wish you had left it where you found it, monsieur,” he said irritably. “How can you expect me to sort things out if you play about with the evidence? Where did you find this?”

Conrad pointed out the spot a trifle huffily, for he objected to the tone of Fouchard.

“When did you arrive here?” asked Fouchard.

“Yesterday.”

“Hm! You know Monsieur Fallières intimately?”

“I don’t see what that has to do with the case. But if you insist, I do not know him intimately. It was an old friendship unexpectedly revived.”

“You were in your room when the shot was fired?”

“Yes--I have already said so.”

“Was Monsieur Fallières at all apprehensive last night--before he retired?”

“Well--yes, he was. You may as well know the truth about this place, monsieur. It is common gossip that it is haunted----”

“Haunted! Pah!”

“Yes, I guessed you would say that. I am only giving you the facts as we have heard them. Mademoiselle Fallières will corroborate. The story goes that a huge creature runs amok here, making horrid noises at nights, and breaking mirrors. This kind of thing has been going on for two years. Because of this, Monsieur Fallières was always armed. The theory is that this monster came through the window and attacked Monsieur Fallières----”

“And carried him away? I ask you, monsieur, could any living creature carry a burden down that wall?”

Wallace, who was looking out of the window, suddenly made an ejaculation. Fouchard swung round on him.

“Here is something I didn’t notice before,” he said. “Look, there is an iron spike driven between two blocks. If one could reach that, it would be easy to step on to the ivy and mount to the north tower. The roots are astonishingly thick.”

Fouchard gazed at the projecting iron and the ivy and shook his head.

“Quite impossible!”

“I don’t agree,” retorted Wallace. “Why, I could do it myself.”

“We are merely wasting time,” snapped Fouchard.

“_You_ are,” replied Wallace. “I’ll show you whether it is impossible.”

Before Conrad could stop him, he stepped through the window, and, clinging to the projecting iron, found a secure footing on the thick ivy that went trailing towards the tower.

“Take care!” warned Conrad.

“It’s as tough as old Harry,” he called back, and went on with the agility of an acrobat.

In ten minutes he was seated astride the wall some thirty feet above them, close to where the northern turret soared upwards. The acute angle formed by the roof of the château prevented him from using his feet, so he moved along the parapet leap-frog fashion until the round wall of the tower brought him to a halt.

“Come back!” yelled Conrad.

He laughed and waved his hand, then made his way back again, entering the window without much difficulty.

“I could have climbed the tower,” he said. “The ivy goes right up to the window. All the way along the ivy was worn, as if someone else had used it. In two places it was broken.”

“A splendid feat,” said Fouchard. “But it gets us no further. You forget that you had no burden to carry, and you appear to be exceptionally agile.”

“There are other people in the world equally agile.”

“Is there a man who could do that with another man on his back? No, it is impossible.”

“It’s the only solution that fits, anyway.”

“It doesn’t fit. Personally, I am convinced that Monsieur Fallières never made his exit through that window. Had he done so, we should expect to find his mangled body down below.”

Wallace shrugged his shoulders, and Fouchard intimated that he wished to interrogate some of the servants. They let him go his way.

“Is he an idiot, or is it only bluff?” asked Wallace.

“I’m not sure. He looks a capable kind of person, but it is possible that he has formed some other theory that he is not willing to divulge.”

“Well, if he had treated me with any kind of respect at all I would have told him something else. Conrad, I saw blood marks on that ivy in three different places. Incredible as it may sound, the person or thing that entered Fallières’s room climbed the ivy as I did, with Fallières on his back. By Jove, I can appreciate a feat of that size!”

“That is astounding.”

“I know.” His face grew serious. “Conrad, I’m wondering whether it is anything human we are up against.”

“But why should he--or it--want to do such a thing?”

“If he had killed Fallières he might want to dispose of the body. After all, you cannot bring a conviction without identifying the corpse.”

Conrad winced. The whole affair was so fantastic it was difficult to think logically. He thought he ought to have laughed at the theory of a monster, but what was it that had entered Fallières’s room and performed that astounding feat of acrobatics along the face of the château?

“A bit uncanny, this,” he confessed.

“Interesting if it wasn’t for the fact of Fallières’s disappearance. We’ve got to explore that tower--and without delay. Come, while friend Fouchard is interviewing the servants.”

They found the place with some difficulty. It was approached through a gallery on the second floor of the big building. That end of the château had not been occupied for a long period, and there was little in the way of furniture. The turret itself was reached by a spiral staircase, the space being so confined that one’s shoulders touched the walls on either side. The chamber at the top was circular, and a veritable masterpiece in architecture. The slabs of stone that comprised it were beautifully dressed, and there was no sign of decay. The chamber was bare save for a single oak seat near the leaded window.

“What a view!” exclaimed Conrad. Then, excitedly, “There is blood here too. Look!”

Wallace nodded as he gazed at the unmistakable stains on the window-sill. He slipped the bolt of the window and poked his head outside. A narrow gallery surrounded the turret, and over the low wall scrambled the invincible ivy.

“There used to be a door leading to the gallery,” said Conrad. “It was here. You can see where it has been filled in. Probably some member of the Grammont family committed suicide a century or two ago. But I can scarcely yet swallow the fact that our mysterious friend carried a man’s body up the tower and through this window.”

“I wouldn’t care to try it myself,” agreed Wallace.

“But isn’t the evidence conclusive?”

“Fairly. But where is Fallières?”

“The whole thing is sunk in mystery. It looks as if the corridor through which we came connects up with the four turrets. One thing is certain, the whole château will have to be searched if we are to hope for any success. There are vaults and heaven knows what underneath.”

“We must get Severin to pilot us round again. I can’t understand why Fouchard should waste time interrogating the servants while there is yet a chance of finding Fallières alive.”

“You think so?”

“Don’t you?”

“No. Fallières’s mysterious assailant would not have run off with the body except with the object of hiding it away. He would take good care life was extinct.”

“The whole business is most gruesome. Let us find Monsieur Fouchard and see what conclusion he has arrived at.”

“If any,” added Wallace.