Murder Abroad (14 page)

Bobby stayed till late, pleased to find he had now won for himself an amused tolerance and a firm footing as beyond all doubt a genuine artist. He won even greater popularity by making a sketch of the patron that every one said was so good you could almost see him overcharging a client, but all through his sketching, all through the general chatter and laughter in which he joined, his mind was busy with the interpretation of the new facts and new questions that every moment seemed to thrust themselves upon his attention.

Camion was evidently so fiercely in love with Lucille that in his jealousy he was ready to believe any story told him and to suspect any one going near the girl of being a possible rival. But was Lucille inclined to accept these attentions or did she share in the general attitude of, as it were, awe-stricken dread which his fellow villagers seemed inclined to adopt towards the young man and that must surely imply some knowledge of, or at least a strong belief in, his guilt. There was Henri Volny, too, said to be a suitor for Lucille's favour, and jealous of Camion both on that account and because of what had seemed Camion's good luck in winning the favour of a rich and elderly spinster. Another detail came to Bobby's knowledge during the idle café chatter. Once or twice he turned the conversation towards the Pépin Mill, speaking of its picturesqueness and his wish to sketch it. He made a reference to the owner's good luck in letting it again so soon after it had been the scene of such a tragedy, and this produced a casual comment by some one sitting near, to the effect that the other's good luck had been bad luck for their schoolmaster, Monsieur Eudes, who had had the idea of taking over the mill garden to grow vegetables for the Dijon market.

“He is always passionate to make money, that one,” somebody else remarked, and there was some laughter about the schoolmaster's schemes and his various attempts to get hold of enough money, by hook or by crook, to enable him to start his famous ‘journal of enlightenment'.

It was a piece of information Bobby tucked away in his mind for possible future reference. Not till nearly midnight did the café begin to empty, and when Bobby returned to his hotel, he was not much surprised to find that his room showed signs of having been very thoroughly and efficiently searched. To a casual glance there was little to show, but Bobby had had his expectations, and he could see at once that everything in the room had been examined, his clothing, the drawers, even the bed had not escaped, for an exploring hand had certainly been thrust under the mattress and the pillows. Fortunately he kept both his money and his papers on his person and he soon assured himself that nothing was missing except that bottle and glass he had so carefully secured from the back regions of the hotel.

“Oh, well, one mustn't grudge them that,” he said to himself. “My loss and their gain, only not quite the gain they think: I wonder who did the job?”

On that point though he thought he could make a good guess, since he had seen hurrying away from the hotel a form of which he had caught only a glimpse but which he was much inclined to believe was that of Mrs. Williams, a lady whose soft and silent step and secret manner of approach he had already had occasion to admire. Contentedly he retired to rest, and was soon in a deep slumber wherefrom he was aroused, just as daylight was beginning to appear, by the faint rattle of earth and gravel tossed from below against his window pane.

Bobby was a sound sleeper, as is befitting in the young and healthy, but also he slept lightly, and that sound of earth and gravel on his window pane brought him instantly to his feet, as alert as at the ringing of his 'phone by his bedside at home. He crossed quickly to the wide open window. Beneath was Père Trouché, his face upturned. The moment Bobby was at the window he knew it and called softly:

“Come down quickly. Disturb no one. Lose no time.”

Bobby asked no questions. Hurriedly he dressed, and carrying his shoes in his hand, slipped out of his room and along the passage to the stairs and down them to the entrance lobby. He had expected to have some difficulty in opening the front door, but it was unlocked and unbolted. Did they leave it so all night, he wondered. Not likely, he decided, so some one had been before him. He opened it cautiously and went out. At a little distance he saw the blind beggar waiting for him. Stopping only to put on his shoes, Bobby joined him.

“What is it? what's happened?” Bobby asked as, impatiently beckoning him to follow, the blind man began to hurry away.

“There's been one murder in the village this year,” Père Trouché answered over his shoulder. “We do not want another—it is through you, so it is for you to stop it. Hurry. There is no time to lose.”

“Through me?” repeated Bobby. “Why? How? What have I done?”

“Hurry, hurry,” the old man insisted. “It was you who quarrelled with the young Volny, was it not? His face gives proof of what happened. But all the village believes it was Camion, for all the village knows they hate each other on account of the Demoiselle Simone, and more bitterly still in recent days, since at first Camion was favoured, but now it is different, and Camion believes it is because Volny has drawn an advantage from his misfortune.”

“What misfortune?” Bobby asked, but the other did not answer.

“It seems,” he continued, “that something you said has made people think Volny's bruises were given him by Camion. Volny would not explain for he did not wish it to be known that it was you with whom he had fought. That would have made more talk still. But Camion has a reputation among us. There is a fear of him. It is believed that once already he has killed. Children peep and run when he passes, the mothers cross themselves. From other parts people come to look at him. It is a wonder that he endures it so patiently. But always one knows that inside he is on the boil and that at any moment he may bubble over. Is it then a fresh beginning, one asks, this quarrel with Volny, of which Volny shows the marks? It is hinted to him then that while for an old English spinster, of ill-conduct—”

“What ill-conduct?” Bobby interrupted sharply.

“Eh, monsieur,” Père Trouché answered, “we have our ideas—we do not approve the elderly rich woman who tempts a boy with money to be her gigolo. Well, that is one thing, but another lad of the village—there we draw the line. That must not be. But when this is said to Camion, not plainly, for one dare not, but for him to understand, then he is furious. He seeks out Volny and demands that Volny should say who it was with whom he fought. Volny is sulky and angry. Eh, Mr. Englishman, you can guess what happens when there meet two young men, sulky, resentful, with no amiable feelings for each other. It is all quite natural. In the end, it seems they agree to meet each other out by the Nozière road early this morning, there to fight it out.”

“Well, let 'em,” said Bobby. “Is that all you've knocked me out of bed for at this unearthly hour? Perhaps, after they've finished with each other, they'll have a bit more sense. Though I don't think Camion will stand much chance. Volny is taller, got a longer reach, and I should think he is twenty or thirty pounds heavier. Besides, he knows a bit about boxing. Any one can see that. Does Camion?”

“Monsieur,” said the old beggar gravely, “he has never boxed in his life. He has laughed at Volny because of his boxing. He has said that only savages fight so. Men of honour have different ideas. In his idea, they use the pistol or the sword.”

“Eh?” said Bobby, startled. “Oh, lord, you don't mean—?”

“Charles Camion is proud—proud as Lucifer. It almost consoles him, when people hold him for an assassin, that then they fear him. His mind has become a tumult. Anger that people should dread him for an assassin, pride that they should start and tremble when he passes by. To be thrashed by Volny would make him ridiculous. It is a risk he would never run. Therefore he has made another choice.”

“You think they've got weapons?”

“He and the young Volny, too. Revolvers. It is not a boxing match we are concerned with but a veritable duel.”

“The blighted young fools,” said Bobby uneasily. “You don't really think that?”

By now they had left the village some considerable distance behind. Père Trouché was walking with as much speed and firmness as if in full possession of his sight. He held his staff a little in advance but apparently he made small use of it. It was as though every inch of the road they followed was pictured in his mind as intimately and as clearly as it showed itself to Bobby's physical sight. No doubt the old man had been up and down it many hundreds of times, and Bobby noticed, too, how he turned his face from side to side, listening intensely to all the sounds that reached them and seeming to know instinctively their correct interpretation. Now, before he had time to speak again, they heard the report of a shot, clear and distinct in the calm morning air. They stood still. They heard no more. Yet the peaceful, gentle morning, still drowsy in the quiet air, seemed all at once to have become charged with a dark and dreadful meaning; and warm as was the sunshine now encompassing all the earth as in a universal mantle, Bobby felt a coldness at his heart. He heard Père Trouché mutter:

“Are we then too late?”

“There was only one shot,” Bobby said.

“One, it is sometimes enough,” answered the old man.

“Well, come along,” Bobby said irritably. “Most likely it's all right. Why did you come to me? Why didn't you go to the maire, or the police or some one?”

“The maire,” answered the blind man, “is an old fool, and when a man is old and yet has remained a fool, he is altogether beyond hope. The maire would have believed nothing, done nothing, chattered like a wet hen, that is all. As for the garde-champêtre, monsieur,” said the old man, so far forgetting their errand in his indignation that he stood still to give greater emphasis to his speech, “monsieur, it is inconceivable but once he arrested me, me. It is a thing that never before happened in our family, though for three generations, my grandfather, my father, myself, we have earned our living honestly, begging day by day in the sight of all men. Apparently some chickens, some hens, what know I? were missing, and the fool chose to suspect me. Am I also a fool that I should steal where I collect my gifts?” He paused and then added: “Also, it is not necessary that all the village, all the country for miles, should know about these two foolish boys. There has been enough talk as it is and it is better that none should know, if it can be prevented.”

His voice had grown uneasy and Bobby knew he was thinking of that solitary shot which a moment or two before had broken upon the freshness of the summer dawn.

“Duels are allowed in France, aren't they?” Bobby asked.

“On occasion, under regulation,” answered the other, “but a duel such as this, that would be considered murder. Is there anything you can see? To hear, that tells, I think, more than to see, for often I understand better what is happening than those who because they see, think there is no need also to hear. But the eyes have in some ways no doubt an advantage.” The old man's voice sounded reluctant as if he made this admission unwillingly. “It is that they have a longer range. You others, you can see a man before I can hear him, even though my hearing tells me more than all your seeing. Is there any one visible beyond the reach of sound?”

“No,” answered Bobby. “It is early. I suppose few are up yet.”

“Foolish of them,” Père Trouché muttered. “It is natural to sleep at noon, but the morning is the time to get about. If people slept more in the afternoons, they would be brisker in the mornings. Yet it is perhaps better as it is. In the evening when you others, you, are tired out—too tired to refuse an honest beggar and happy and content because work is over, then is the time to collect one's gifts. If ever, monsieur, you wish to beg”—he used the French expression, ‘faire la route' which was new to Bobby but of which he guessed the significance—“beg in the evening when work is over, not in the morning when work is before one and therefore one is depressed and ill-tempered.”

“I'll remember,” said Bobby gravely, “and now I think I saw some one move by a grove of trees on our left, a few hundred yards away.”

“Chestnut trees, chiefly? and to the south a dead oak the lightning has struck?”

“Yes,” agreed Bobby. “You know the spot?”

“I might have guessed it is where they would arrange to meet,” the old man muttered. “Let us go there, but keep well to the north. To the south the ground is rough and broken, and there is one spot where it is marshy.”

Leaving the road they had been following, they reached soon the chestnut grove where Bobby thought he had seen a movement. It seemed deserted but Père Trouché listened intently and then stood for a moment, sniffing the air with distended nostrils. As though these senses of sound and scent told him more than Bobby's eyes conveyed to him, he called Camion's name several times. When no answer came, he frowned and said crossly:

“He is sulking, he will not show himself. Very well, we go to him.”

Therewith he moved forward among the trees, feeling his way with his staff but all the same moving fully as quickly and confidently as did Bobby, following behind and picking his way through the undergrowth.

“Ah, there you are, my little Camion,” the blind man exclaimed suddenly. To Bobby, who saw nothing, he explained: “A cigarette, you smell it?” He sniffed. “On the left. Not far. Behind that big tree in front of us, the papa of the grove, it is so big.”

“How can you tell that?” Bobby asked.

“Eh, one feels it. When one is near anything, one can always feel the change in the air; there is a difference at once,” answered Père Trouché, and Bobby remembered having read of modern theories which teach that there is necessarily a modification of space in the vicinity of matter.