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- Herausgeber: Blackmore Dennett
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
The Detective Fiction Collection brings together 28 of the greatest detective classics ever written, by the greatest authors to ever live.
Featuring:
IN A GROVE, by Ryūnosuke Akutagawa
FANTOMAS, by Marcel Allain
THE TRIUMPHS OF EUGENE VALMONT, by Robert Barr
THE WOMAN IN BLACK, by E.C. Bentley
THE ISLAND MYSTERY, by George Birmingham
FOUR MAX CARRADOS DETECTIVE STORIES, by Ernest Bramah Smith
THE WISDOM OF FATHER BROWN, by G.K. Chesterton
THE MYSTERIOUS AFFAIR AT STYLES, by Agatha Christie
THE SECRET ADVERSARY, by Agatha Christie
NO NAME, by Wilkie Collins
THE WOMAN IN WHITE, by Wilkie Collins
HUNTED DOWN, by Charles Dickens
THE TRIAL FOR MURDER, by Charles Dickens
THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES, by Arthur Conan Doyle
THE MYSTERY OF CLOOMBER, by Arthur Conan Doyle
DEAD MEN’S MONEY, by J.S. Fletcher
THE MIDDLE TEMPLE MURDER, by J.S. Fletcher
THE CAT’S EYE, by R. Austin Freeman
THE RED THUMB MARK, by R. Austin Freeman
THE HONOR OF THE NAME, by Émile Gaboriau
THE ROME EXPRESS, by Arthur Griffiths
ARSON PLUS, by Dashiell Hammett
DESPERATE REMEDIES, by Thomas Hardy
GREEN TEA, by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu
THE SEVEN SECRETS, by William Le Queux
EIGHT STROKED OF THE CLOCK, by Maurice Leblanc
THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA, by Gaston Leroux
and
THE LODGER, by Marie Lowndes
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
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THE DETECTIVE FICTION
COLLECTION
Volume #1
Published 2019 by Blackmore Dennett
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Thank you for your purchase. If you enjoyed this work, please leave us a comment.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
IN A GROVE, by Ryūnosuke Akutagawa
The Testimony of a Woodcutter Questioned by a High Police Commissioner
The Testimony of a Traveling Buddhist Priest Questioned by a High Police Commissioner
The Testimony of a Policeman Questioned by a High Police Commissioner
The Testimony of an Old Woman Questioned by a High Police Commissioner
Tajomaru’s Confession
The Repentance of a Woman Who Has Come to Kiyomizu Temple
The Story of the Murdered Man, as Told Through a Medium
FANTOMAS, by Marcel Allain
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
THE TRIUMPHS OF EUGENE VALMONT, by Robert Barr
The Mystery of the Five Hundred Diamonds
The Siamese Twin of a Bomb-Thrower
The Clue of the Silver Spoons
Lord Chizelrigg’s Missing Fortune
The Absent-Minded Coterie
The Ghost with the Club-Foot
The Liberation of Wyoming Ed
Lady Alicia’s Emeralds
The Adventures of Sherlaw Kombs
The Adventure of the Second Swag
THE WOMAN IN BLACK, by E.C. Bentley
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
THE ISLAND MYSTERY, by George Birmingham
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
FOUR MAX CARRADOS DETECTIVE STORIES, by Ernest Bramah Smith
The Coin of Dionysius
The Knight’s Cross Signal Problem
The Tragedy at Brookbend Cottage
The Last Exploit of Harry the Actor
THE INNOCENCE OF FATHER BROWN, by G.K. Chesterton
The Blue Cross
The Secret Garden
The Queer Feet
The Invisible Man
The Honour of Israel Gow
The Wrong Shape
The Sins of Prince Saradine
The Hammer of God
The Eye of Apollo
The Sign of the Broken Sword
The Three Tools of Death
THE WISDOM OF FATHER BROWN, by G.K. Chesterton
The Absence of Mr Glass
The Paradise of Thieves
The Duel of Dr Hirsch
The Man in the Passage
The Mistake of the Machine
The Head of Caesar
The Purple Wig
The Perishing of the Pendragons
The God of the Gongs
The Salad of Colonel Cray
The Strange Crime of John Boulnois
The Fairy Tale of Father Brown
THE MYSTERIOUS AFFAIR AT STYLES, by Agatha Christie
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
THE SECRET ADVERSARY, by Agatha Christie
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
NO NAME, by Wilkie Collins
Part 1: The First Scene. Combe-Raven, Somersetshire.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Between The Scenes. Progress Of The Story Through The Post.
Part 2: The Second Scene. Skeldergate, York.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Between The Scenes. Chronicle Of Events: Preserved In Captain Wragge’s Dispatch-Box.
Part 3: The Third Scene. Vauxhall Walk, Lambeth.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Between The Scenes. Progress Of The Story Through The Post.
Part 4: The Fourth Scene. Aldborough, Suffolk.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Between The Scenes. Progress Of The Story Through The Post.
Part : The Fifth Scene. Baliol Cottage, Dumfries.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Between The Scenes.Progress Of The Story Through The Post.
Part 6: The Sixth Scene. St. John’s Wood.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Between The Scenes. Progress Of The Story Through The Post.
Part 7: The Seventh Scene. St. Crux-In-The-Marsh.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Between The Scenes. Progress Of The Story Through The Post.
Part 8: The Last Scene. Aaron’s Buildings.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
THE WOMAN IN WHITE, by Wilkie Collins
Part 1: First Epoch
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Part 2: Second Epoch
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Part 3: Third Epoch
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
HUNTED DOWN, by Charles Dickens
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
THE TRIAL FOR MURDER, by Charles Dickens
THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES, by Arthur Conan Doyle
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Part 3: A Case Of Identity
Part 4: The Boscombe Valley Mystery
Part 5: The Five Orange Pips
Part 6: The Man With The Twisted Lip
Part 7: The Adventure Of The Blue Carbuncle
Part 8: The Adventure Of The Speckled Band
Part 9: The Adventure Of The Engineer’s Thumb
Part 10: The Adventure Of The Noble Bachelor
Part 11: The Adventure Of The Beryl Coronet
Part 12: The Adventure Of The Copper Beeches
THE MYSTERY OF CLOOMBER, by Arthur Conan Doyle
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
DEAD MEN’S MONEY, by J.S. Fletcher
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
THE MIDDLE TEMPLE MURDER, by J.S. Fletcher
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
THE CAT’S EYE, by R. Austin Freeman
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
THE RED THUMB MARK, by R. Austin Freeman
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
THE HONOR OF THE NAME, by Émile Gaboriau
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Epilogue: The First Success
THE ROME EXPRESS, by Arthur Griffiths
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
ARSON PLUS, by Dashiell Hammett
DESPERATE REMEDIES, by Thomas Hardy
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
GREEN TEA, by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu
Prologue: Martin Hesselius, the German Physician
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
THE SEVEN SECRETS, by William Le Queux
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
EIGHT STROKED OF THE CLOCK, by Maurice Leblanc
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA, by Gaston Leroux
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
The Paris Opera House
THE LODGER, by Marie Lowndes
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
IN A GROVE, by Ryūnosuke Akutagawa
The Testimony of a Woodcutter Questioned by a High Police Commissioner
Yes, sir. Certainly, it was I who found the body. This morning, as usual, I went to cut my daily quota of cedars, when I found the body in a grove in a hollow in the mountains. The exact location? About 150 meters off the Yamashina stage road. It’s an out-of-the-way grove of bamboo and cedars.
The body was lying flat on its back dressed in a bluish silk kimono and a wrinkled head-dress of the Kyoto style. A single sword-stroke had pierced the breast. The fallen bamboo-blades around it were stained with bloody blossoms. No, the blood was no longer running. The wound had dried up, I believe. And also, a gad-fly was stuck fast there, hardly noticing my footsteps.
You ask me if I saw a sword or any such thing?
No, nothing, sir. I found only a rope at the root of a cedar near by. And … well, in addition to a rope, I found a comb. That was all. Apparently he must have made a battle of it before he was murdered, because the grass and fallen bamboo-blades had been trampled down all around.
“A horse was near by?”
No, sir. It’s hard enough for a man to enter, let alone a horse.
The Testimony of a Traveling Buddhist Priest Questioned by a High Police Commissioner
The time? Certainly, it was about noon yesterday, sir. The unfortunate man was on the road from Sekiyama to Yamashina. He was walking toward Sekiyama with a woman accompanying him on horseback, who I have since learned was his wife. A scarf hanging from her head hid her face from view. All I saw was the color of her clothes, a lilac-colored suit. Her horse was a sorrel with a fine mane. The lady’s height? Oh, about four feet five inches. Since I am a Buddhist priest, I took little notice about her details. Well, the man was armed with a sword as well as a bow and arrows. And I remember that he carried some twenty odd arrows in his quiver.
Little did I expect that he would meet such a fate. Truly human life is as evanescent as the morning dew or a flash of lightning. My words are inadequate to express my sympathy for him.
The Testimony of a Policeman Questioned by a High Police Commissioner
The man that I arrested? He is a notorious brigand called Tajomaru. When I arrested him, he had fallen off his horse. He was groaning on the bridge at Awataguchi. The time? It was in the early hours of last night. For the record, I might say that the other day I tried to arrest him, but unfortunately he escaped. He was wearing a dark blue silk kimono and a large plain sword. And, as you see, he got a bow and arrows somewhere. You say that this bow and these arrows look like the ones owned by the dead man? Then Tajomaru must be the murderer. The bow wound with leather strips, the black lacquered quiver, the seventeen arrows with hawk feathers—these were all in his possession I believe. Yes, Sir, the horse is, as you say, a sorrel with a fine mane. A little beyond the stone bridge I found the horse grazing by the roadside, with his long rein dangling. Surely there is some providence in his having been thrown by the horse.
Of all the robbers prowling around Kyoto, this Tajomaru has given the most grief to the women in town. Last autumn a wife who came to the mountain back of the Pindora of the Toribe Temple, presumably to pay a visit, was murdered, along with a girl. It has been suspected that it was his doing. If this criminal murdered the man, you cannot tell what he may have done with the man’s wife. May it please your honor to look into this problem as well.
The Testimony of an Old Woman Questioned by a High Police Commissioner
Yes, sir, that corpse is the man who married my daughter. He does not come from Kyoto. He was a samurai in the town of Kokufu in the province of Wakasa. His name was Kanazawa no Takehiko, and his age was twenty-six. He was of a gentle disposition, so I am sure he did nothing to provoke the anger of others.
My daughter? Her name is Masago, and her age is nineteen. She is a spirited, fun-loving girl, but I am sure she has never known any man except Takehiko. She has a small, oval, dark-complected face with a mole at the corner of her left eye.
Yesterday Takehiko left for Wakasa with my daughter. What bad luck it is that things should have come to such a sad end! What has become of my daughter? I am resigned to giving up my son-in-law as lost, but the fate of my daughter worries me sick. For heaven’s sake leave no stone unturned to find her. I hate that robber Tajomaru, or whatever his name is. Not only my son-in-law, but my daughter … (Her later words were drowned in tears.)
Tajomaru’s Confession
I killed him, but not her. Where’s she gone? I can’t tell. Oh, wait a minute. No torture can make me confess what I don’t know. Now things have come to such a head, I won’t keep anything from you.
Yesterday a little past noon I met that couple. Just then a puff of wind blew, and raised her hanging scarf, so that I caught a glimpse of her face. Instantly it was again covered from my view. That may have been one reason; she looked like a Bodhisattva. At that moment I made up my mind to capture her even if I had to kill her man.
Why? To me killing isn’t a matter of such great consequence as you might think. When a woman is captured, her man has to be killed anyway. In killing, I use the sword I wear at my side. Am I the only one who kills people? You, you don’t use your swords. You kill people with your power, with your money. Sometimes you kill them on the pretext of working for their good. It’s true they don’t bleed. They are in the best of health, but all the same you’ve killed them. It’s hard to say who is a greater sinner, you or me. (An ironical smile.)
But it would be good if I could capture a woman without killing her man. So, I made up my mind to capture her, and do my best not to kill him. But it’s out of the question on the Yamashina stage road. So I managed to lure the couple into the mountains.
It was quite easy. I became their traveling companion, and I told them there was an old mound in the mountain over there, and that I had dug it open and found many mirrors and swords. I went on to tell them I’d buried the things in a grove behind the mountain, and that I’d like to sell them at a low price to anyone who would care to have them. Then … you see, isn’t greed terrible? He was beginning to be moved by my talk before he knew it. In less than half an hour they were driving their horse toward the mountain with me.
When he came in front of the grove, I told them that the treasures were buried in it, and I asked them to come and see. The man had no objection— he was blinded by greed. The woman said she would wait on horseback. It was natural for her to say so, at the sight of a thick grove. To tell you the truth, my plan worked just as I wished, so I went into the grove with him, leaving her behind alone.
The grove is only bamboo for some distance. About fifty yards ahead there’s a rather open clump of cedars. It was a convenient spot for my purpose. Pushing my way through the grove, I told him a plausible lie that the treasures were buried under the cedars. When I told him this, he pushed his laborious way toward the slender cedar visible through the grove. After a while the bamboo thinned out, and we came to where a number of cedars grew in a row. As soon as we got there, I seized him from behind. Because he was a trained, sword-bearing warrior, he was quite strong, but he was taken by surprise, so there was no help for him. I soon tied him up to the root of a cedar. Where did I get a rope? Thank heaven, being a robber, I had a rope with me, since I might have to scale a wall at any moment. Of course it was easy to stop him from calling out by gagging his mouth with fallen bamboo leaves.
When I disposed of him, I went to his woman and asked her to come and see him, because he seemed to have been suddenly taken sick. It’s needless to say that this plan also worked well. The woman, her sedge hat off, came into the depths of the grove, where I led her by the hand. The instant she caught sight of her husband, she drew a small sword. I’ve never seen a woman of such violent temper. If I’d been off guard, I’d have got a thrust in my side. I dodged, but she kept on slashing at me. She might have wounded me deeply or killed me. But I’m Tajomaru. I managed to strike down her small sword without drawing my own. The most spirited woman is defenseless without a weapon. At least I could satisfy my desire for her without taking her husband’s life.
Yes … without taking his life. I had no wish to kill him. I was about to run away from the grove, leaving the woman behind in tears, when she frantically clung to my arm. In broken fragments of words, she asked that either her husband or I die. She said it was more trying than death to have her shame known to two men. She gasped out that she wanted to be the wife of whichever survived. Then a furious desire to kill him seized me. (Gloomy excitement.)
Telling you in this way, no doubt I seem a crueler man than you. But that’s because you didn’t see her face. Especially her burning eyes at that moment. As I saw her eye to eye, I wanted to make her my wife even if I were to be struck by lightning. I wanted to make her my wife … this single desire filled my mind. This was not only lust, as you might think. At that time if I’d had no other desire than lust, I’d surely not have minded knocking her down and running away. Then I wouldn’t have stained my sword with his blood. But the moment I gazed at her face in the dark grove, I decided not to leave there without killing him.
But I didn’t like to resort to unfair means to kill him. I untied him and told him to cross swords with me. (The rope that was found at the root of the cedar is the rope I dropped at the time.) Furious with anger, he drew his thick sword. And quick as thought, he sprang at me ferociously, without speaking a word. I needn’t tell you how our fight turned out. The twenty-third stroke … please remember this. I’m impressed with this fact still. Nobody under the sun has ever clashed swords with me twenty strokes. (A cheerful smile.)
When he fell, I turned toward her, lowering my blood-stained sword. But to my great astonishment she was gone. I wondered to where she had run away. I looked for her in the clump of cedars. I listened, but heard only a groaning sound from the throat of the dying man.
As soon as we started to cross swords, she may have run away through the grove to call for help. When I thought of that, I decided it was a matter of life and death to me. So, robbing him of his sword, and bow and arrows, I ran out to the mountain road. There I found her horse still grazing quietly. It would be a mere waste of words to tell you the later details, but before I entered town I had already parted with the sword. That’s all my confession. I know that my head will be hung in chains anyway, so put me down for the maximum penalty. (A defiant attitude.)
The Repentance of a Woman Who Has Come to Kiyomizu Temple
That man in the blue silk kimono, after forcing me to yield to him, laughed mockingly as he looked at my bound husband. How horrified my husband must have been! But no matter how hard he struggled in agony, the rope cut into him all the more tightly. In spite of myself I ran stumblingly toward his side. Or rather I tried to run toward him, but the man instantly knocked me down. Just at that moment I saw an indescribable light in my husband’s eyes. Something beyond expression … his eyes make me shudder even now. That instantaneous look of my husband, who couldn’t speak a word, told me all his heart. The flash in his eyes was neither anger nor sorrow … only a cold light, a look of loathing. More struck by the look in his eyes than by the blow of the thief, I called out in spite of myself and fell unconscious.
In the course of time I came to, and found that the man in blue silk was gone. I saw only my husband still bound to the root of the cedar. I raised myself from the bamboo-blades with difficulty, and looked into his face; but the expression in his eyes was just the same as before.
Beneath the cold contempt in his eyes, there was hatred. Shame, grief, and anger … I don’t know how to express my heart at that time. Reeling to my feet, I went up to my husband.
“Takejiro,” I said to him, “since things have come to this pass, I cannot live with you. I’m determined to die … but you must die, too. You saw my shame. I can’t leave you alive as you are.”
This was all I could say. Still he went on gazing at me with loathing and contempt. My heart breaking, I looked for his sword. It must have been taken by the robber. Neither his sword nor his bow and arrows were to be seen in the grove. But fortunately my small sword was lying at my feet. Raising it over head, once more I said, “Now give me your life. I’ll follow you right away.”
When he heard these words, he moved his lips with difficulty. Since his mouth was stuffed with leaves, of course his voice could not be heard at all. But at a glance I understood his words. Despising me, his look said only, “Kill me.” Neither conscious nor unconscious, I stabbed the small sword through the lilac-colored kimono into his breast.
Again at this time I must have fainted. By the time I managed to look up, he had already breathed his last—still in bonds. A streak of sinking sunlight streamed through the clump of cedars and bamboos, and shone on his pale face. Gulping down my sobs, I untied the rope from his dead body. And … and what has become of me? Only that, since I have no more strength to tell you. Anyway, I hadn’t the strength to die. I stabbed my own throat with the small sword, I threw myself into a pond at the foot of the mountain, and I tried to kill myself in many ways. Unable to end my life, I am still living in dishonor. (A lonely smile.) Worthless as I am, I must have been forsaken even by the most merciful Kwannon. I killed my own husband. I was violated by the robber. Whatever can I do? Whatever can I … I … (Gradually, violent sobbing.)
The Story of the Murdered Man, as Told Through a Medium
After violating my wife, the robber, sitting there, began to speak comforting words to her. Of course I couldn’t speak. My whole body was tied fast to the root of a cedar. But meanwhile I winked at her many times, as much as to say “Don’t believe the robber.” I wanted to convey some such meaning to her. But my wife, sitting dejectedly on the bamboo leaves, was looking hard at her lap. To all appearance, she was listening to his words. I was agonized by jealousy. In the meantime the robber went on with his clever talk, from one subject to another. The robber finally made his bold brazen proposal. “Once your virtue is stained, you won’t get along well with your husband, so won’t you be my wife instead? It’s my love for you that made me be violent toward you.”
While the criminal talked, my wife raised her face as if in a trance. She had never looked so beautiful as at that moment. What did my beautiful wife say in answer to him while I was sitting bound there? I am lost in space, but I have never thought of her answer without burning with anger and jealousy. Truly she said, … “Then take me away with you wherever you go.”
This is not the whole of her sin. If that were all, I would not be tormented so much in the dark. When she was going out of the grove as if in a dream, her hand in the robber’s, she suddenly turned pale, and pointed at me tied to the root of the cedar, and said, “Kill him! I cannot marry you as long as he lives.” “Kill him!” she cried many times, as if she had gone crazy. Even now these words threaten to blow me headlong into the bottomless abyss of darkness. Has such a hateful thing come out of a human mouth ever before? Have such cursed words ever struck a human ear, even once? Even once such a … (A sudden cry of scorn.) At these words the robber himself turned pale. “Kill him,” she cried, clinging to his arms. Looking hard at her, he answered neither yes nor no … but hardly had I thought about his answer before she had been knocked down into the bamboo leaves. (Again a cry of scorn.) Quietly folding his arms, he looked at me and said, “What will you do with her? Kill her or save her? You have only to nod. Kill her?” For these words alone I would like to pardon his crime.
While I hesitated, she shrieked and ran into the depths of the grove. The robber instantly snatched at her, but he failed even to grasp her sleeve.
After she ran away, he took up my sword, and my bow and arrows. With a single stroke he cut one of my bonds. I remember his mumbling, “My fate is next.” Then he disappeared from the grove. All was silent after that. No, I heard someone crying. Untying the rest of my bonds, I listened carefully, and I noticed that it was my own crying. (Long silence.)
I raised my exhausted body from the foot of the cedar. In front of me there was shining the small sword which my wife had dropped. I took it up and stabbed it into my breast. A bloody lump rose to my mouth, but I didn’t feel any pain. When my breast grew cold, everything was as silent as the dead in their graves. What profound silence! Not a single bird-note was heard in the sky over this grave in the hollow of the mountains. Only a lonely light lingered on the cedars and mountains. By and by the light gradually grew fainter, till the cedars and bamboo were lost to view. Lying there, I was enveloped in deep silence.
Then someone crept up to me. I tried to see who it was. But darkness had already been gathering round me. Someone … that someone drew the small sword softly out of my breast in its invisible hand. At the same time once more blood flowed into my mouth. And once and for all I sank down into the darkness of space.
FANTOMAS, by Marcel Allain
Chapter 1
The Genius of Crime
“Fantômas.”
“What did you say?”
“I said: Fantômas.”
“And what does that mean?”
“Nothing… . Everything!”
“But what is it?”
“Nobody… . And yet, yes, it is somebody!”
“And what does the somebody do?”
“Spreads terror!”
Dinner was just over, and the company were moving into the drawing-room.
Hurrying to the fireplace, the Marquise de Langrune took a large log from a basket and flung it on to the glowing embers on the hearth; the log crackled and shed a brilliant light over the whole room; the guests of the Marquise instinctively drew near to the fire.
During the ten consecutive months she spent every year at her château of Beaulieu, on the outskirts of Corrèze, that picturesque district bounded by the Dordogne, it had been the immemorial custom of the Marquise de Langrune to entertain a few of her personal friends in the neighbourhood to dinner every Wednesday, thereby obtaining a little pleasant relief from her loneliness and keeping up some contact with the world.
On this particular winter evening the good lady’s guests included several habitués: President Bonnet, a retired magistrate who had withdrawn to his small property at Saint-Jaury, in the suburbs of Brives, and the Abbé Sicot, who was the parish priest. A more occasional friend was also there, the Baronne de Vibray, a young and wealthy widow, a typical woman of the world who spent the greater part of her life either in motoring, or in the most exclusive drawing-rooms of Paris, or at the most fashionable watering-places. But when the Baronne de Vibray put herself out to grass, as she racily phrased it, and spent a few weeks at Querelles, her estate close to the château of Beaulieu, nothing pleased her better than to take her place again in the delightful company of the Marquise de Langrune and her friends.
Finally, youth was represented by Charles Rambert, who had arrived at the château a couple of days before, a charming lad of about eighteen who was treated with warm affection by the Marquise and by Thérèse Auvernois, the granddaughter of the Marquise, with whom since her parents’ death she had lived as a daughter.
The odd and even mysterious words spoken by President Bonnet as they were leaving the table, and the personality of this Fantômas about which he had said nothing definite in spite of all the questions put to him, had excited the curiosity of the company, and while Thérèse Auvernois was gracefully dispensing the coffee to her grandmother’s guests the questions were renewed with greater insistence. Crowding round the fire, for the evening was very cold, Mme. de Langrune’s friends showered fresh questions upon the old magistrate, who secretly enjoyed the interest he had inspired. He cast a solemn eye upon the circle of his audience and prolonged his silence, the more to capture their attention. At length he began to speak.
“Statistics tell us, ladies, that of all the deaths that are registered every day quite a third are due to crime. You are no doubt aware that the police discover about half of the crimes that are committed, and that barely half meet with the penalty of justice. This explains how it is that so many mysteries are never cleared up, and why there are so many mistakes and inconsistencies in judicial investigations.”
“What is the conclusion you wish to draw?” the Marquise de Langrune enquired with interest.
“This,” the magistrate proceeded: “although many crimes pass unsuspected it is none the less obvious that they have been committed; now while some of them are due to ordinary criminals, others are the work of enigmatical beings who are difficult to trace and too clever or intelligent to let themselves be caught. History is full of stories of such mysterious characters, the Iron Mask, for instance, and Cagliostro. In every age there have been bands of dangerous creatures, led by such men as Cartouche and Vidocq and Rocambole. Now why should we suppose that in our time no one exists who emulates the deeds of those mighty criminals?”
The Abbé Sicot raised a gentle voice from the depths of a comfortable arm-chair wherein he was peacefully digesting his dinner.
“The police do their work better in our time than ever they did before.”
“That is perfectly true,” the president admitted, “but their work is also more difficult than ever it was before. Criminals who operate in the grand manner have all sorts of things at their disposal nowadays. Science has done much for modern progress, but unfortunately it can be of invaluable assistance to criminals at times; the hosts of evil have the telegraph and the motor-car at their disposal just as authority has, and some day they will make use of the aeroplane.”
Young Charles Rambert had been listening to the president’s dissertation with the utmost interest and now broke in, with a voice that quivered slightly.
“You were talking about Fantômas just now, sir——”
The president cast a cryptic look at the lad and did not reply directly to him.
“That is what I am coming to, for, of course, you have understood me, ladies. In these days we have been distressed by a steady access of criminality, and among the assets we shall henceforth have to count a mysterious and most dangerous creature, to whom the baffled authorities and public rumour generally have for some time now given the name of Fantômas. It is impossible to say exactly or to know precisely who Fantômas is. He often assumes the form and personality of some definite and even well-known individual; sometimes he assumes the forms of two human beings at one and the same time. Sometimes he works alone, sometimes with accomplices; sometimes he can be identified as such and such a person, but no one has ever yet arrived at knowing Fantômas himself. That he is a living person is certain and undeniable, yet he is impossible to catch or to identify. He is nowhere and everywhere at once, his shadow hovers above the strangest mysteries, and his traces are found near the most inexplicable crimes, and yet——”
“You are frightening us!” exclaimed the Baronne de Vibray with a little forced laugh that did not ring true, and the Marquise de Langrune, who for the past few minutes had been uneasy at the idea of the children listening to the conversation, cast about in her mind for an occupation more suited to their age. The interruption gave her an opportunity, and she turned to Charles Rambert and Thérèse.
“You must find it very dull here with all of us grown-up people, dears, so run away now. Thérèse,” she added with a smile to her granddaughter who had risen obediently, “there is a splendid new puzzle in the library; you ought to try it with Charles.”
The young fellow realised that he must comply with the desire of the Marquise, although the conversation interested him intensely; but he was too well bred to betray his thoughts, and the next moment he was in the adjoining room, sitting opposite the girl, and deep in the intricacies of the latest fashionable game.
The Baronne de Vibray brought the conversation back to the subject of Fantômas.
“What connection is there, President, between this uncanny creature and the disappearance of Lord Beltham, of which we were talking at dinner?”
“I should certainly have agreed with you and thought there was none,” the old magistrate replied, “if Lord Beltham’s disappearance had been unattended by any mysterious circumstance. But there is one point that deserves your attention: the newspaper from which I read an extract just now, La Capitale, draws attention to it and regards it as being important. It is said that when Lady Beltham began to be uneasy about her husband’s absence, on the morning of the day following his disappearance, she remembered noticing just as he was going out that he was reading a particular letter, the peculiar, square shape of which surprised her. She had also noticed that the handwriting of the letter was very heavy and black. Now, she found the letter in question upon her husband’s desk, but the whole of the writing had disappeared, and it was only the most minute examination that resulted in the discovery of a few almost imperceptible stains which proved that it really was the identical document that had been in her husband’s hands. Lady Beltham would not have thought very much about it, if it had not occurred to the editor of La Capitale to interview detective Juve about it, the famous Inspector of the Criminal Investigation Department, you know, who has brought so many notorious criminals to justice. Now M. Juve manifested the greatest excitement over the discovery and the nature of this document; and he did not attempt to hide from his interviewer his belief that the strange nature of this unusual epistle was proof of the intervention of Fantômas. You very likely know that Juve has made it his special business to follow up Fantômas; he has sworn that he will take him, and he is after him body and soul. Let us hope he will succeed! But it is no good pretending that Juve’s job is not as difficult a one as can be imagined.
“However, it is a fair inference that when Juve spoke as he did to the representative of La Capitale, he did not think he was going too far when he declared that a crime lay behind the disappearance of Lord Beltham, and that perhaps the crime must be laid at Fantômas’ door; and we can only hope that at some not distant date, justice will not only throw full light upon this mysterious affair, but also rid us for ever of this terrifying criminal!”
President Bonnet had convinced his audience completely, and his closing words cast a chill upon them all.
The Marquise de Langrune deemed it time to create a diversion.
“Who are these people, Lord and Lady Beltham?” she enquired.
“Oh, my dear!” the Baronne de Vibray answered, “it is perfectly obvious that you lead the life of a hermit in this remote country home of yours, and that echoes from the world of Paris do not reach you often! Lord and Lady Beltham are among the best known and most popular people in society. He was formerly attached to the English Embassy, but left Paris to fight in the Transvaal, and his wife went with him and showed magnificent courage and compassion in charge of the ambulance and hospital work. They then went back to London, and a couple of years ago they settled once more in Paris. They lived, and still live, in the boulevard Inkermann at Neuilly-sur-Seine, in a delightful house where they entertain a great deal. I have often been one of Lady Beltham’s guests; she is a most fascinating woman, distinguished, tall, fair, and endowed with the charm that is peculiar to the women of the North. I am very distressed at the trouble that is hanging over her.”
“Well,” said the Marquise de Langrune conclusively, “I mean to believe that the gloomy prognostications of our friend the president will not be justified by the event.”
“Amen!” murmured the Abbé mechanically, roused from his gentle slumber by the closing words of the Marquise.
The clock chimed ten, and her duties as hostess did not make the Marquise forgetful of her duties as grandmother.
“Thérèse,” she called, “it is your bed-time. It is very late, darling.”
The child obediently left her game, said good night to the Baronne de Vibray and President Bonnet, and last of all to the old priest, who gave her a paternal embrace.
“Shall I see you at the seven o’clock mass, Thérèse?” he asked.
The child turned to the Marquise.
“Will you let me accompany Charles to the station to-morrow morning? I will go to the eight o’clock mass on my way back.”
The Marquise looked at Charles Rambert.
“Your father really is coming by the train that reaches Verrières at 6.55?” and when he assented she hesitated a moment before replying to Thérèse. “I think, dear, it would be better to let our young friend go alone to meet his father.”
But Charles Rambert put in his plea.
“Oh, I am sure my father would be delighted to see Thérèse with me when he gets out of the train.”
“Very well, then,” the kind old lady said; “arrange it as you please. But, Thérèse, before you go upstairs, tell our good steward, Dollon, to give orders for the carriage to be ready by six o’clock. It is a long way to the station.”
Thérèse promised, and the two young people left the drawing-room.
“A pretty couple,” remarked the Baronne de Vibray, adding with a characteristic touch of malice, “you mean to make a match between them some day, Marquise?”
The old lady threw up her hands protesting.
“What an idea! Why, Thérèse is not fifteen yet.”
“Who is this Charles Rambert?” the Abbé asked. “I just caught sight of him the day before yesterday with Dollon, and I puzzled my brains wondering who he could be.”
“I am not surprised,” the Marquise laughed, “not surprised that you did not succeed in finding out, for you do not know him. But you may perhaps have heard me mention a M. Etienne Rambert, an old friend of mine, with whom I had many a dance in the long ago. I had lost sight of him completely until about two years ago, when I met him at a charity function in Paris. The poor man has had a rather chequered life; twenty years ago he married a woman who was perfectly charming, but who is, I believe, very ill with a distressing malady: I am not even sure that she is not insane. Quite lately Etienne Rambert has been compelled to send her to an asylum.”
“That does not tell us how his son comes to be your guest,” President Bonnet urged.
“It is very simple: Etienne Rambert is an energetic man who is always moving about. Although he is quite sixty he still occupies himself with some rubber plantations he possesses in Colombia, and he often goes to America: he thinks no more of the voyage than we do of a trip to Paris. Well, just recently young Charles Rambert was leaving the pension in Hamburg where he had been living in order to perfect his German; I knew from his father’s letters that Mme. Rambert was about to be put away, and that Etienne Rambert was obliged to be absent, so I offered to receive Charles here until his father should return to Paris. Charles came the day before yesterday, and that is the whole story.”
“And M. Etienne Rambert joins him here to-morrow?” said the Abbé.
“That is so——”
The Marquise de Langrune would have given other information about her young friend had he not come into the room just then. He was an attractive lad with refined and distinguished features, clear, intelligent eyes, and graceful figure. The other guests were silent, and Charles Rambert approached them with the slight awkwardness of youth. He went up to President Bonnet and plucked up sudden courage.
“And what then, sir?” he asked in a low tone.
“I don’t understand, my boy,” said the magistrate.
“Oh!” said Charles Rambert, “have you finished talking about Fantômas? It was so amusing!”
“For my part,” the president answered dryly, “I do not find these stories about criminals ‘amusing.’“
But the lad did not detect the shade of reproach in the words.
“But still it is very odd, very extraordinary that such mysterious characters as Fantômas can exist nowadays. Is it really possible that a single man can commit such a number of crimes, and that any human being can escape discovery, as they say Fantômas can, and be able to foil the cleverest devices of the police? I think it is——”
The president’s manner grew steadily more chilly as the boy’s curiosity waxed more enthusiastic, and he interrupted curtly.
“I fail to understand your attitude, young man. You appear to be hypnotised, fascinated. You speak of Fantômas as if he were something interesting. It is out of place, to put it mildly,” and he turned to the Abbé Sicot. “There, sir, that is the result of this modern education and the state of mind produced in the younger generation by the newspaper press and even by literature. Criminals are given haloes and proclaimed from the housetops. It is astounding!”
But Charles Rambert was not the least impressed.
“But it is life, sir; it is history, it is the real thing!” he insisted. “Why, you yourself, in just a few words, have thrown an atmosphere round this Fantômas which makes him absolutely fascinating! I would give anything to have known Vidocq and Cartouche and Rocambole, and to have seen them at close quarters. Those were men!”
President Bonnet contemplated the young man in astonishment; his eyes flashed lightning at him and he burst out:
“You are mad, boy, absolutely mad! Vidocq—Rocambole! You mix up legend and history, bracket murderers with detectives, and make no distinction between right and wrong! You would not hesitate to set the heroes of crime and the heroes of law and order on one and the same pedestal!”
“You have said the word, sir,” Charles Rambert exclaimed: “they all are heroes. But, better still, Fantômas——”
The lad’s outburst was so vehement and spontaneous and sincere, that it provoked unanimous indignation among his hearers. Even the indulgent Marquise de Langrune ceased to smile. Charles Rambert perceived that he had gone too far, and stopped abruptly.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he murmured. “I spoke without thinking; please forgive me.”
He raised his eyes and looked at President Bonnet, blushing to the tips of his ears and looking so abashed that the magistrate, who was a kind-hearted man at bottom, tried to reassure him.
“Your imagination is much too lively, young man, much too lively. But you will grow out of that. Come, come: that’s all right; lads of your age do talk without knowledge.”
It was very late now, and a few minutes after this incident the guests of the Marquise de Langrune took their departure.
Charles Rambert accompanied the Marquise to the door of her own private rooms, and was about to bid her a respectful good night before going on to his bedroom, which adjoined hers, when she asked him to follow her.
“Come in and get the book I promised you, Charles. It should be on my writing-table.” She glanced at that piece of furniture as she entered the room, and went on, “Or in it, perhaps; I may have locked it away.”
“I don’t want to give you any trouble,” he protested, but the Marquise insisted.
“Put your light down on that table,” she said. “Besides, I have got to open my desk, for I must look at the lottery tickets I gave to Thérèse a few weeks ago.” She pushed back the roll top of her Empire desk and looked up at the young fellow. “It would be a piece of good luck if my little Thérèse won the first prize, eh, Charles? A million francs! That would be worth winning?”
“Rather!” said Charles Rambert with a smile.
The Marquise found the book she was searching for and gave it to the lad with one hand while with the other she smoothed out several variegated papers.
“These are my tickets,” she said, and then broke off. “How stupid of me! I have not kept the number of the winning ticket that was advertised in La Capitale.”
Charles Rambert immediately offered to go downstairs again to fetch the newspaper, but the Marquise would not let him.
“It is no good, my dear boy; it is not there now. You know—or rather you don’t know—that the Abbé takes away all the week’s newspapers every Wednesday night in order to read all the political articles.” The old lady turned away from her writing-table, which she left wide open, conducted the young man to the door, and held out a friendly hand. “It is to-morrow morning already!” she said. “So now good night, dear Charles!”
In his own room, with the lights extinguished and the curtains closed, Charles Rambert lay wide awake, a prey to strange excitement. He turned and tossed in his bed nervously. In vain did he try to banish from his mind the words spoken during the evening by President Bonnet. In imagination Charles Rambert saw all manner of sinister and dramatic scenes, crimes and murders: hugely interested, intensely curious, craving for knowledge, he was ever trying to concoct plots and unravel mysteries. If for an instant he dozed off, the image of Fantômas took shape in his mind, but never twice the same: sometimes he saw a colossal figure with bestial face and muscular shoulders; sometimes a wan, thin creature, with strange and piercing eyes; sometimes a vague form, a phantom—Fantômas!
Charles Rambert slept, and woke, and dozed again. In the silence of the night he thought he heard creakings and heavy sounds. Then suddenly he felt a breath pass over his face—and again nothing! And suddenly again strange sounds were buzzing in his ears.
Bathed in cold sweat Charles Rambert started and sat upright in bed, every muscle tense, listening with all his ears. Was he dreaming, or had he really waked up? He did not know. And still, still he had a consciousness of Fantômas—of mystery—of Fantômas!
Charles Rambert heard the clock strike four.
Chapter 2
A Tragic Dawn
As his cab turned by the end of the Pont Royal towards the Gare d’Orsay, M. Etienne Rambert looked at his watch and found, as he had anticipated, that he had a good quarter of an hour before the train that he intended to take was due to start. He called a porter, and gave him the heavy valise and the bundle of rugs that formed the whole of his hand baggage.
“Where is the office for forwarding luggage, my man?” he enquired.
The porter led him through the famous panelled hall of the Gare d’Orsay, and M. Etienne Rambert satisfied himself that his trunks had been properly registered for Verrières, the station at which he had to alight for the château of Beaulieu.
Still attended by the porter, who had conceived a respectful admiration for him in consequence of the authoritative tone in which he demanded information from the various railway servants, and who scented a probable munificent tip, M. Etienne Rambert proceeded to the booking-office and took a first-class ticket. He spent a few minutes more at the book-stall where he selected an imposing collection of illustrated papers, and then, his final preparations completed, he turned once more to the porter.
“The Luchon train,” he said; “where is it?” and as the man only made a vague gesture and growled something wholly indistinct, he added: “Lead the way, and I will follow.”
It was now just half-past eight, and the station showed all the animation inseparable from the departure of main-line trains. M. Etienne Rambert hurried onwards, and reaching the platform from which all the lines begin, was stayed by the porter who was laden with his baggage.
“You want the express, sir?”
“No, the slow train, my man.”
The porter showed some surprise, but made no remark.
“Do you like the front or the back of the train?”
“The back by choice.”
“First-class, isn’t it?”
“Yes, first-class.”
The porter, who had stopped a moment, picked up the heavy valise again.
“Then there isn’t any choice. There are only two first-class carriages on the slow train, and they are both in the middle.”
“They are corridor carriages, I suppose?” said Etienne Rambert.
“Yes, sir; there are hardly any others on the main-line trains, especially first-class.”
In the ever-increasing crowd Etienne Rambert had some difficulty in following the porter. The Gare d’Orsay has little or none of the attractiveness of the other stations, which cannot fail to have a certain fascination for any imaginative person, who thinks of the mystery attaching to all those iron rails reaching out into the distance of countries unknown to him. It is less noisy than the others also, for between Austerlitz and Orsay the traction is entirely electric. And further, there is no clearly defined separation between the main and the suburban lines.
On the right of the platform was the train which was to take Etienne Rambert beyond Brives to Verrières, the slow train to Luchon; and on the left of the same platform was another train for Juvisy and all the small stations in the suburbs of Paris.
Very few people were making for the train to Luchon; but a large crowd was pressing into the suburban train.
The porter who was piloting M. Etienne Rambert, set the baggage he was carrying down on the footboard of a first-class carriage.
“There is no one for the slow train yet, sir; if you like to get in first you can choose your own compartment.”
M. Etienne Rambert acted on the suggestion, but he had hardly set foot in the corridor before the guard, also scenting a generous tip, came to offer his services.
“It really is the 8.50 you want, sir?” was his first enquiry. “You are sure you are not making a mistake?”
“No,” Etienne Rambert replied. “Why?”
“A great many first-class passengers do make a mistake,” the man explained, “and confuse the 8.50 with the 8.45 express.”
As he spoke the guard took the baggage from the porter who had remained on the platform, and the porter, after being generously remunerated for his trouble by M. Rambert, hurried away to look for other travellers.
“The 8.45 is the express, isn’t it?” M. Rambert enquired.
“Yes,” the guard answered; “it runs right through without stopping at all the small stations as this train does. It goes in front of this one and gets to Luchon three hours earlier. There it is on the side there,” and he pointed through the window in the door on the far side to another train on the next rails, in which a number of travellers were already taking their seats. “If you prefer to go by that one, sir,” he went on, “there is still time for you to change; you are entitled to take your choice since you have a first-class ticket.”
But Etienne Rambert, after a moment’s consideration, declined the suggestion.
“No: I would rather go by the slow train. If I take the express I should have to get out at Brives, and then I should be twelve or thirteen miles from Saint-Jaury, which is my destination; whereas the slow train stops at Verrières, where, by the way, I have already telegraphed to say I shall arrive to-morrow morning.”
He walked a little way along the corridor, assuring himself that the various compartments were still quite empty, and then turned to the guard.
“Look here, my man,” he said, “I am awfully tired, and I mean to get some sleep to-night; consequently I should like to be alone. Now where shall I be most quiet and undisturbed?”
The man understood. M. Etienne Rambert’s enquiry about the place where he would be most quiet, was an implicit promise of a handsome tip if nobody did disturb him.
“If you like to settle yourself here, sir,” the man answered, “you can draw down the blinds at once, and I dare say I shall be able to find room for any other passengers somewhere else.”
“Good,” said M. Rambert, moving towards the compartment indicated. “I will smoke a cigar until the train starts, and immediately afterwards I will settle down to sleep. By the way, my man, since you seem so obliging, I wish you would undertake to call me to-morrow morning in time for me to get out at Verrières. I am desperately sleepy and I am quite capable of not waking up.”
The guard touched his cap.
“You can be perfectly easy, sir, and sleep without the least anxiety. I won’t fail.”
“Very well.”
When his baggage had been stowed away, and his rugs spread out to make the seat more comfortable still, M. Etienne Rambert repeated his appeal, for he was an old traveller and knew that it does not do to rely too much upon the promises of chance attendants.
“I can rely upon you, can’t I? I may sleep as sound as I like, and you will wake me at Verrières?” And the more to assure himself that the guard would execute his orders he slipped a franc into his hand.
