The Firefly of France

  CHAPTER XVI

  "I MUST GO ON"

  Kneeling by the young man's side, I felt for his pulse; but the momentthat my fingers touched his cold wrist I knew the truth. There flashedinto my mind queerly, as things do at grim moments, an often-heardexpression about rigor mortis setting in. With this poor fellow it hadnot started, but he was dead for all that. The most skilful surgeon inEurope could not have helped him now.

  I never doubted that it was murder. The confusion of the garage wasproof of it; and the instrument, once I looked about me, was not farto seek. Divided between rage, horror, and pity, I saw a sort of sharpstiletto suitable for use as a penknife or letter opener, which, afterdoing its work, had been cast upon the floor.

  I remained on my knees beside the lad, smitten with a keen remorse.I knew no good of him; I had even suspected him; but he had an honestface. Why had I not kept watch all night? The instructions I had given,the plan I had thought so clever, might be responsible for the killing;it must have been some echo of the struggle that had roused me when Ihad wakened and glanced out and gone placidly back to sleep.

  Had Van Blarcom caught our whispered colloquy, or surmised it? Helpedby his precious colleagues, he must have taken Georges unprepared,throttled him to prevent his shouting, and ended his frantic struggleswith one swift, ruthless blow. But why? What sort of soldiers couldthese be who wore the uniform of a brave, chivalrous country and yet didmurder? What sort of mission were they bound upon that for no visiblegain or motive they risked desperate work like this?

  And the girl upstairs? The thought was like a knife thrust; it broughtme to my feet, my heart pounding, my forehead cold and wet. I toldmyself that she must be safe, that wholesale killing could not bethe aim of these wretches, that the gray automobile was not what ourone-cent sheets in their tales of gunmen like to call a "murder car."But what did I know about it? I was in a funk, a funk of the bluestvariety. In that one age-long moment I learned what sheer fright meant.

  Without knowing how I got there, I found myself in the gallery. Thedoors that lined it were rickety and worm-eaten; I stared weakly atthem. A mere twist of practised fingers, and they could be forced openby any one who cared to try. I thought I heard a faint breathing insidethe girl's room, but I was not sure; I was too rattled. Very guardedlyI knocked and got no answer. Then, in utter panic, I knocked louder, atrisk of disturbing the whole house.

  "Georges, _c'est vous_?" It was the drowsiest of murmurs, but few thingshave been so welcome to me in all my life.

  "Yes, Mademoiselle." Though my knees were wobbling under me I summonedpresence of mind to impersonate the poor huddled mass of flesh in thegarage.

  "_Attendez donc!_"

  I could hear her stirring; she believed I had come with some summons,with some news. Well, it was imperative that I should see her. I waitedobediently until the door swung open and revealed her in a loose robeof blue, with her hair in a ruddy mass about her shoulders and the sleepstill lingering in her eyes.

  "Mr. Bayne!"

  Such was my relief at finding my fears uncalled for that I couldhave danced a breakdown on that crazy gallery, snapping my fingers incastanet fashion above my head. I had forgotten entirely the strainedterms of our parting; but she remembered. A bright wave of scarlet ranover her face, her neck, her forehead. She gasped, clutched her robeabout her, would have shut the door if I had not foreseen the strategicmovement and inserted a foot in the diminishing crack, just in time.

  "I beg your pardon," I began hastily. "I am really extremely sorry. Butsomething has occurred that forces me to speak to you."

  "There can be nothing that forces you to come here--nothing!" Her lipswere trembling; her voice wavered; the apparent shamelessness of mybehavior was driving her to the verge of tears. "Is there no place whereI am safe from you? Mr. Bayne, how can you? I shan't listen to a singleword while you keep your foot in the door!"

  "And I can't take it away until you listen," I protested. "It isperfectly obvious that if I did, you would shut me out. But you can seefor yourself that I'm not trying to force an entrance--and I wish thatyou would speak lower; if we waken anybody, there will be the mischiefto pay."

  My voice, I suppose, had an impatient note that was reassuring, orperhaps I looked encouragingly respectable, viewed at closer range.At any rate, she spoke less angrily, though she still stood erect andhaughty.

  "Well, what is it?" she asked, barring the opening with one slender arm.

  "May I ask if you have had a message from me, Miss Falconer?"

  "A message? Certainly not!" There was renewed suspicion in her voice.

  "H'm." Then they had intercepted the man before he reached her. "I'mgoing to ask you to dress as quickly and quietly as possible and comedownstairs. Don't stop in the court, and don't go near the garage, I begof you. Just walk on past the _salle a manger_ to the garden, and waitfor me."

  I expected exclamations, questions, indignant protests, anything but thesudden white calm that fell on her at my request.

  "You mean," she whispered, "that something dreadful has happened. Is itabout the--the men who came last night?"

  "Yes. But please don't worry," I urged with false heartiness. "I'llexplain when you come down." To cut the discussion short, I turned togo.

  Once her door had closed, however, I halted at the staircase, retracedmy steps, and, without hesitation, circled the gallery to the rooms ofMr. John Van Blarcom and his friends. I had had enough of uncertainties;henceforth I meant to deal with facts. It was barely possible that Iwas unjustly anathematizing these gentlemen, that, while they werepeacefully sleeping, thieves had broken in below.

  Two knocks, the first rather tentative, the second brisker, netting noresponse, I deliberately tried the knob and felt the door promptly yieldto me; then, with equal deliberation, I dropped my hand into my pocketwhere my revolver lay. If some one sprang at me and tried to crack myhead or stab me,--stabbing was popular hereabouts,--I was in a state ofarmed preparedness. But when I stepped inside I found an empty room, abed in which no one had slept.

  Grown brazen, I strode across to the inner door and opened it. Moreemptiness greeted me; the four men had plainly taken French leave intheir gray car. It was strange that the hum of their departure hadnot roused me; they must, before starting the motor, have pushed theirautomobile from the courtyard and out of ear-shot down the street.

  For a moment I stood in the deserted room, reflecting swiftly. Thesituation was desperate; in another hour the inn would be stirring, andMiss Falconer, I felt sure, could not afford to be found here when thatcame to pass. Murder investigations are searching things. All strangersbeneath this roof would be interrogated narrowly. If any one had asecret,--and she certainly had several,--the chances were heavy that itwould be dragged to light.

  For some reason this prospect was unspeakably frightful to me. Under itsspur I hatched the craziest scheme that man ever thought of, and tooksteps which, as I look back at them, seem almost beyond belief. I mustget Miss Falconer off for Paris, I determined. And since it was possiblethat the villagers would see us leaving, she must appear to go, as shehad come, with her chauffeur.

  I descended, forthwith, to the garage where the murdered man was lying,shook out and folded the rugs that had been scattered in the struggle,picked up the cushions, and replaced them in the car. Then, borrowing aruse from the enemy, I set the door wide open, and, puffing and panting,pushed the blue automobile into the courtyard, through the passage, anda considerable distance down the street.

  What comes next, I ask no one to credit. Retrospectively, I myself havedoubted it. It lives in my memory as a grisly nightmare rather than asa fact. To be brief, I returned to the scene of the crime, shut outany possible audience by closing the door, and disrobed hastily. ThenI removed the leather costume of the victim, donned it, laced on hisboots, which by good fortune were loose instead of tight, and, pickingup his visored cap from the floor where it had fallen, stood forth toall seeming as genuine a member of the proletariate as ever wore g
ogglesand held a wheel.

  By this time my teeth were clenched as if in the throes of lockjaw. HadI paused to think for a single instant, all my nerve would have oozedaway. But I had no time to spend on thought; I had to work on, to saveMiss Falconer. The whole ghoulish business would be futile if theinn servants found the body. The mere flight of all the guests wouldcertainly stir suspicion; let the murder transpire as well, and at oncewe should be pursued.

  The garage, from the looks of it, was not often put to service. A dustyspot, festooned with cobwebs, it cried to the skies for brooms and mops.In the background, apparently undisturbed since the days of the FirstEmpire, a great pile of straw mixed with junk of various kinds layagainst the wall; and most reluctantly, my every fiber shriekingprotest, I saw what use I might make of this debris--if I could.

  "Go for it!" I told myself inexorably, but miserably. "It's not aquestion of liking it, you know. You've got to do it." Grimly I wrappedmy discarded clothes about the poor chap's body, dragged it to thestraw, and covered it from head to foot. By this action, I surmised, Iwas rendering myself a probable accessory and a certain suspect; but theone thing I really cared about was my last glimpse of that patient face.

  "Sorry, old man," was all the apology I could muster. "And if I ever geta chance at the people who did it, you can count on me!"

  With a sigh of complete exhaustion, I rose and looked about. All signsof the crime had been obliterated from the garage. "I must be crazy!" Ithought, as the enormity of the thing rushed on me. "I wonder why I didit? And I wonder whether I can forget it some day--maybe after twentyyears?"

  As I opened the door to the garden the dim light was growing clearer. Iwas late; the girl, coated and hatted, ready for flitting, was alreadyat the rendezvous. At sight of me in my leather togs she startedbackward; then, resolutely controlled, she drew herself up and faced mesilently, her hands clutching at her furs, her lips a little apart.

  "Won't you sit down?" I began lamely, indicating an iron bench. It wasall so different from the interview I had planned last night! "I want tospeak to you about your chauffeur, Miss Falconer. This morning I foundhim hurt--very badly hurt--"

  She drove straight through my pretense.

  "Not dead? Oh, Mr. Bayne, not dead?"

  "Yes," I said gently. "He had been dead some time. I would have likedto take my chances with him; but I came too late. No, please!" She hadmoved forward, and I was barring her passage. "You mustn't go. You can'thelp him, and you wouldn't like the sight."

  How black her eyes were in her white face!

  "I don't understand," she faltered. "You mean that he was murdered? Butwho would have killed Georges?"

  "The men who came last night--if you can call them men. At least,appearances point that way," I said.

  "The men in the gray car?" She swayed a little. "But why?"

  "I'm afraid I can't tell you that." My tone was grim; there were so manythings about this matter that I couldn't tell.

  Her eyes flashed for an instant.

  "But how cowardly, how cruel! He never hurt anyone; he was just like agood watchdog, the truest, most faithful soul! If they killed him theydid it for some deliberate purpose. And when I think that I brought himhere--oh, oh, Mr. Bayne--"

  "Yes," I broke in hastily; "I should like to see them boil in oil or fryon gridirons or something of the sort, myself. But this is very serious;we must keep calm, Miss Falconer. And I know you are going to help me.You have such splendid self-control."

  Though there were sobs in her throat, she pressed her hands to her lipsand stifled them. Only her pallor and her wet lashes showed the horrorand grief she felt. I wanted desperately to comfort her, but therewas no time for it; and besides, who ever heard of a leather-coatedcomforter in a kitchen garden at 5 A.M.?

  "What I wanted to speak about," I went on rapidly, "was our plans. Thismay prove a rather nasty mess, I'm sorry to say. The French police, youknow, are--well, they're capable and very thorough; and since you arehere at the scene of a murder in an _infirmiere's_ costume, they willnever rest till they have seen your papers, learned your errand, askedyou a hundred things. Unless your replies are absolutely satisfactory,the whole business will be--er--awkward for you. That is why I put onthese togs. Yes, I know it is ghastly," I owned as she shuddered. "Andthat is why I want to beg you, very seriously indeed, to let me driveyou back to Paris and put you under your friends' protection. Afterthat, of course, I'll return here to see the thing through and give mytestimony about it all."

  It was not going to be so simple, the course I had outlined airily. WhenI visioned myself explaining to a French _commissaire_ why I had come toBleau at all; why I had set up a false claim to be an artist,--for thatcircumstance was sure to leak out and look darkly incriminating,--andwhat had inspired me to take a murdered man's clothes and conceal hisbody, I can't pretend that I felt much zest. Still, if the police andthe girl came together, worse would follow, I was certain; and it seemedlike a real catastrophe when she slowly shook her head.

  "I can't," she murmured. "Oh, it's kind of you, and I'm sorry; but Ican't go back to Paris--not yet, Mr. Bayne. You won't understand, ofcourse, but I left there to--to accomplish something. And since poorGeorges can't help me now, I must go on--alone."