The Eight Strokes of the Clock (5 page)

As Rénine was paying for the refreshments, the young man with the long moustache stifled a cry and, in a choking voice, called one of the waiters:

“What do I owe you? … No change? Oh, good Lord, hurry up!”

Rénine, without a moment’s hesitation, had picked up the paper. After casting a swift glance down the page, he read, under his breath:

“Maître Dourdens, the counsel for the defence in the trial of Jacques Aubrieux, has been received at the Élysée. We are informed that the President of the Republic has refused to reprieve the condemned man and that the execution will take place tomorrow morning.”

After crossing the terrace, the young man found himself faced, at the entrance to the garden, by a lady and gentleman who blocked his way, and the latter said:

“Excuse me, sir, but I noticed your agitation. It’s about Jacques Aubrieux, isn’t it?”

“Yes, yes, Jacques Aubrieux,” the young man stammered. “Jacques, the friend of my childhood. I’m hurrying to see his wife. She must be beside herself with grief.”

“Can I offer you my assistance? I am Prince Rénine. This lady and I would be happy to call on Madame Aubrieux and to place our services at her disposal.”

The young man, upset by the news which he had read, seemed not to understand. He introduced himself awkwardly:

“My name is Dutreuil, Gaston Dutreuil.”

Rénine beckoned to his chauffeur, who was waiting at some little distance, and pushed Gaston Dutreuil into the car, asking:

“What address? Where does Madame Aubrieux live?”

“23
bis
, Avenue du Roule.”

After helping Hortense in, Rénine repeated the address to the chauffeur and, as soon as they drove off, tried to question Gaston Dutreuil:

“I know very little of the case,” he said. “Tell it to me as briefly as you can. Jacques Aubrieux killed one of his near relations, didn’t he?”

“He is innocent, sir,” replied the young man, who seemed incapable of giving the least explanation. “Innocent, I swear it. I’ve been Jacques’ friend for twenty years … He is innocent … and it would be monstrous …”

There was nothing to be got out of him. Besides, it was only a short drive. They entered Neuilly through the Porte des Sablons and, two minutes later, stopped before a long, narrow passage between high walls, which led them to a small, one-storeyed house.

Gaston Dutreuil rang.

“Madame is in the drawing room, with her mother,” said the maid who opened the door.

“I’ll go in to the ladies,” he said, taking Rénine and Hortense with him.

It was a fair-sized, prettily furnished room, which, in ordinary times, must have been used also as a study. Two women sat weeping, one of whom, elderly and grey-haired, came up to Gaston Dutreuil. He explained the reason for Rénine’s presence and she at once cried, amid her sobs:

“My daughter’s husband is innocent, sir. Jacques? A better man never lived. He was so good-hearted! Murder his cousin? But he worshipped his cousin! I swear that he’s not guilty, sir! And they are going to commit the infamy of putting him to death? Oh, sir, it will kill my daughter!”

Rénine realized that all these people had been living for months under the obsession of that innocence and in the certainty that an innocent man could never be executed. The news of the execution, which was now inevitable, was driving them mad.

He went up to a poor creature bent in two, whose face, a quite young face, framed in pretty, flaxen hair, was convulsed with desperate grief. Hortense, who had already taken a seat beside her, gently drew her head against her shoulder. Rénine said to her:

“Madame, I do not know what I can do for you. But I give you my word of honour that, if anyone in this world can be of use to you, it is myself. I therefore implore you to answer my questions as though the clear and definite wording of your replies were able to alter the aspect of things and as though you wished to make me share your opinion of Jacques Aubrieux. For he is innocent, is he not?”

“Oh, sir, indeed he is!” she exclaimed, and the woman’s whole soul was in the words.

“You are certain of it. But you were unable to communicate your certainty to the court. Well, you must now compel me to share it. I am not asking you to go into details and to live again through the hideous torment which you have suffered, but merely to answer certain questions. Will you do this?”

“I will.”

Rénine’s influence over her was complete. With a few sentences, Rénine had succeeded in subduing her and inspiring her with the will to obey. And once more Hortense realized all the man’s power, authority and persuasion.

“What was your husband?” he asked, after begging the mother and Gaston Dutreuil to preserve absolute silence.

“An insurance broker.”

“Lucky in business?”

“Until last year, yes.”

“So there have been financial difficulties during the past few months?”

“Yes.”

“And the murder was committed when?”

“Last March, on a Sunday.”

“Who was the victim?”

“A distant cousin, M. Guillaume, who lived at Suresnes.”

“What was the sum stolen?”

“Sixty thousand-franc notes, which this cousin had received the day before, in payment of a long-outstanding debt.”

“Did your husband know that?”

“Yes. His cousin told him of it on the Sunday, in the course of a conversation on the telephone, and Jacques insisted that his cousin ought not to keep so large a sum in the house and that he ought to pay it into a bank next day.”

“Was this in the morning?”

“At one o’clock in the afternoon. Jacques was to have gone to M. Guillaume on his motorcycle. But he felt tired and told him that he would not go out. So he remained here all day.”

“Alone?”

“Yes. The two servants were out. I went to the Cinéma des Ternes with my mother and our friend Dutreuil. In the evening, we learned that M. Guillaume had been murdered. Next morning, Jacques was arrested.”

“On what evidence?”

The poor creature hesitated to reply: the evidence of guilt had evidently been overwhelming. Then, obeying a sign from Rénine, she answered without a pause:

“The murderer went to Suresnes on a motorcycle and the tracks discovered were those of my husband’s machine. They found a handkerchief with my husband’s initials, and the revolver which was used belonged to him. Lastly, one of our neighbours maintains that he saw my husband go out on his bicycle at three o’clock and another that he saw him come in at half-past four. The murder was committed at four o’clock.”

“And what does Jacques Aubrieux say in his defence?”

“He declares that he slept all the afternoon. During that time, someone came who managed to unlock the cycle shed and take the motorcycle to go to Suresnes. As for the handkerchief and the revolver, they were in the tool bag. There would be nothing surprising in the murderer’s using them.”

“It seems a plausible explanation.”

“Yes, but the prosecution raised two objections. In the first place, nobody, absolutely nobody, knew that my husband was going to stay at home all day because, on the contrary, it was his habit to go out on his motorcycle every Sunday afternoon.”

“And the second objection?”

She flushed and murmured:

“The murderer went to the pantry at M. Guillaume’s and drank half a bottle of wine straight out of the bottle, which shows my husband’s fingerprints.”

It seemed as though her strength was exhausted and as though, at the same time, the unconscious hope which Rénine’s intervention had awakened in her had suddenly vanished before the accumulation of adverse facts. Again she collapsed, withdrawn into a sort of silent meditation from which Hortense’s affectionate attentions were unable to distract her.

The mother stammered:

“He’s not guilty, is he, sir? And they can’t punish an innocent man. They haven’t the right to kill my daughter. Oh dear, oh dear, what have we done to be tortured like this? My poor little Madeleine!”

“She will kill herself,” said Dutreuil, in a scared voice. “She will never be able to endure the idea that they are guillotining Jacques. She will kill herself presently … this very night …”

Rénine was striding up and down the room.

“You can do nothing for her, can you?” asked Hortense.

“It’s half-past eleven now,” he replied, in an anxious tone, “and it’s to happen tomorrow morning.”

“Do you think he’s guilty?”

“I don’t know … I don’t know … The poor woman’s conviction is too impressive to be neglected. When two people have lived together for years, they can hardly be mistaken about each other to that degree. And yet …”

He stretched himself out on a sofa and lit a cigarette. He smoked three in succession, without a word from anyone to interrupt his train of thought. From time to time he looked at his watch. Every minute was of such importance!

At last he went back to Madeleine Aubrieux, took her hands and said, very gently:

“You must not kill yourself. There is hope left until the last minute has come, and I promise you that, for my part, I will not be disheartened until that last minute. But I need your calmness and your confidence.”

“I will be calm,” she said, with a pitiable air.

“And confident?”

“And confident.”

“Well, wait for me. I shall be back in two hours from now. Will you come with us, M. Dutreuil?”

As they were stepping into his car, he asked the young man:

“Do you know any small, unfrequented restaurant, not too far inside Paris?”

“There’s the Brasserie Lutetia, on the ground floor of the house in which I live, on the Place des Ternes.”

“Capital. That will be very handy.”

They scarcely spoke on the way. Rénine, however, said to Gaston Dutreuil:

“So far as I remember, the numbers of the notes are known, aren’t they?”

“Yes. M. Guillaume had entered the sixty numbers in his pocketbook.”

Rénine muttered, a moment later:

“That’s where the whole problem lies. Where are the notes? If we could lay our hands on them, we should know everything.”

At the Brasserie Lutetia there was a telephone in the private room, where he asked to have lunch served. When the waiter had left him alone with Hortense and Dutreuil, he took down the receiver with a resolute air:

“Hullo! … Prefecture of police, please … Hullo! Hullo! … Is that the Prefecture of police? Please put me on to the criminal investigation department. I have a very important communication to make. You can say it’s Prince Rénine.”

Holding the receiver in his hand, he turned to Gaston Dutreuil:

“I can ask someone to come here, I suppose? We shall be quite undisturbed?”

“Quite.”

He listened again:

“The secretary to the head of the criminal investigation department? Oh, excellent! Mr. Secretary, I have on several occasions been in communication with M. Dudouis and have given him information which has been of great use to him. He is sure to remember Prince Rénine. I may be able today to show him where the sixty thousand-franc notes are hidden, which Aubrieux the murderer stole from his cousin. If he’s interested in the proposal, beg him to send an inspector to the Brasserie Lutetia, Place des Ternes. I shall be there with a lady and M. Dutreuil, Aubrieux’s friend. Good day, Mr. Secretary.”

When Rénine hung up the instrument, he saw the amazed faces of Hortense and of Gaston Dutreuil confronting him.

Hortense whispered:

“Then you know? You’ve discovered …?”

“Nothing,” he said, laughing.

“Well?”

“Well, I’m acting as though I know. It’s not a bad method. Let’s have some lunch, shall we?”

The clock marked a quarter to one.

“The man from the prefecture will be here,” he said, “in twenty minutes at latest.”

“And if no one comes?” Hortense objected.

“That would surprise me. Of course, if I had sent a message to M. Dudouis saying, ‘Aubrieux is innocent,’ I should have failed to make any impression. It’s not the least use, on the eve of an execution, to attempt to convince the gentry of the police or of the law that a man condemned to death is innocent. No. From henceforth Jacques Aubrieux belongs to the executioner. But the prospect of securing the sixty banknotes is a windfall worth taking a little trouble over. Just think: that was the weak point in the indictment, those sixty notes which they were unable to trace.”

“But, as you know nothing of their whereabouts …”

“My dear girl—I hope you don’t mind my calling you so?—my dear girl, when a man can’t explain this or that physical phenomenon, he adopts some sort of theory which explains the various manifestations of the phenomenon and says that everything happened as though the theory were correct. That’s what I am doing.”

“That amounts to saying that you are going upon a supposition?”

Rénine did not reply. Not until sometime later, when lunch was over, did he say:

“Obviously I am going upon a supposition. If I had several days before me, I should take the trouble of first verifying my theory, which is based upon intuition quite as much as upon a few scattered facts. But I have only two hours, and I am embarking on the unknown path as though I were certain that it would lead me to the truth.”

“And suppose you are wrong?”

“I have no choice. Besides, it is too late. There’s a knock. Oh, one word more! Whatever I may say, don’t contradict me. Nor you, M. Dutreuil.”

He opened the door. A thin man, with a red imperial, entered:

“Prince Rénine?”

“Yes, sir. You, of course, are from M. Dudouis?”

“Yes.”

And the newcomer gave his name: “Chief Inspector Morisseau.”

“I am obliged to you for coming so promptly, Mr. Chief Inspector,” said Prince Rénine, “and I hope that M. Dudouis will not regret having placed you at my disposal.”

“At your entire disposal, in addition to two inspectors whom I have left in the square outside and who have been in the case, with me, from the first.”

“I shall not detain you for any length of time,” said Rénine, “and I will not even ask you to sit down. We have only a few minutes in which to settle everything. You know what it’s all about?”

“The sixty thousand-franc notes stolen from M. Guillaume. I have the numbers here.”