The Eight Strokes of the Clock (14 page)

“Here it is,” said the wife. “Are you going to read your papers?”

“Yes. Unless we go for a stroll? …”

“I would rather wait till the afternoon: do you mind? I have a lot of letters to write this morning.”

“Very well. We’ll go on the cliff.”

Hortense and Rénine exchanged a glance of surprise. Was this suggestion accidental? Or had they before them, contrary to their expectations, the very couple of whom they were in search?

Hortense tried to laugh:

“My heart is thumping,” she said. “Nevertheless, I absolutely refuse to believe in anything so improbable. ‘My husband and I have never had the slightest quarrel,’ she said to me. No, it’s quite clear that those two get on admirably.”

“We shall see presently, at the Trois Mathildes, if one of them comes to meet the brother and sister.”

M. d’Ormeval had gone down the stairs, while his wife stood leaning on the balustrade of the terrace. She had a beautiful, slender, supple figure. Her clear-cut profile was emphasized by a rather too prominent chin when at rest; and, when it was not smiling, the face gave an expression of sadness and suffering.

“Have you lost something, Jacques?” she called out to her husband, who was stooping over the shingle.

“Yes, the key,” he said. “It slipped out of my hand.”

She went down to him and began to look also. For two or three minutes, as they sheared off to the right and remained close to the bottom of the under-cliff, they were invisible to Hortense and Rénine. Their voices were covered by the noise of a dispute which had arisen among the bridge players.

They reappeared almost simultaneously. Madame d’Ormeval slowly climbed a few steps of the stairs and then stopped and turned her face towards the sea. Her husband had thrown his blazer over his shoulders and was making for the isolated cabin. As he passed the bridge players, they asked him for a decision, pointing to their cards spread out upon the table. But, with a wave of the hand, he refused to give an opinion and walked on, covered the thirty yards which divided them from the cabin, opened the door and went in.

Thérèse d’Ormeval came back to the terrace and remained for ten minutes sitting on a bench. Then she came out through the casino. Hortense, on leaning forward, saw her entering one of the chalets annexed to the Hôtel Hauville and, a moment later, caught sight of her again on the balcony.

“Eleven o’clock,” said Rénine. “Whoever it is, he or she, or one of the card players, or one of their wives, it won’t be long before someone goes to the appointed place.”

Nevertheless, twenty minutes passed and twenty-five, and no one stirred.

“Perhaps Madame d’Ormeval has gone.” Hortense suggested, anxiously. “She is no longer on her balcony.”

“If she is at the Trois Mathildes,” said Rénine, “we will go and catch her there.”

He was rising to his feet, when a fresh discussion broke out among the bridge players and one of them exclaimed:

“Let’s put it to d’Ormeval.”

“Very well,” said his adversary. “I’ll accept his decision … if he consents to act as umpire. He was rather huffy just now.”

They called out:

“D’Ormeval! D’Ormeval!”

They then saw that d’Ormeval must have shut the door behind him, which kept him in the half dark, the cabin being one of the sort that has no window.

“He’s asleep,” cried one. “Let’s wake him up.”

All four went to the cabin, began by calling to him and, on receiving no answer, thumped on the door:

“Hi! D’Ormeval! Are you asleep?”

On the terrace Serge Rénine suddenly leapt to his feet with so uneasy an air that Hortense was astonished. He muttered:

“If only it’s not too late!”

And, when Hortense asked him what he meant, he tore down the steps and started running to the cabin. He reached it just as the bridge players were trying to break in the door:

“Stop!” he ordered. “Things must be done in the regular fashion.”

“What things?” they asked.

He examined the Venetian shutters at the top of each of the folding doors and, on finding that one of the upper slats was partly broken, hung on as best he could to the roof of the cabin and cast a glance inside. Then he said to the four men:

“I was right in thinking that, if M. d’Ormeval did not reply, he must have been prevented by some serious cause. There is every reason to believe that M. d’Ormeval is wounded … or dead.”

“Dead!” they cried. “What do you mean? He has only just left us.”

Rénine took out his knife, prized open the lock and pulled back the two doors.

There were shouts of dismay. M. d’Ormeval was lying flat on his face, clutching his jacket and his newspaper in his hands. Blood was flowing from his back and staining his shirt.

“Oh!” said someone. “He has killed himself!”

“How can he have killed himself?” said Rénine. “The wound is right in the middle of the back, at a place which the hand can’t reach. And, besides, there’s not a knife in the cabin.”

The others protested:

“If so, he has been murdered. But that’s impossible! There has been nobody here. We should have seen, if there had been. Nobody could have passed us without our seeing …”

The other men, all the ladies and the children paddling in the sea had come running up. Rénine allowed no one to enter the cabin, except a doctor who was present. But the doctor could only say that M. d’Ormeval was dead, stabbed with a dagger.

At that moment, the mayor and the policeman arrived, together with some people of the village. After the usual enquiries, they carried away the body.

A few persons went on ahead to break the news to Thérèse d’Ormeval, who was once more to be seen on her balcony.

And so the tragedy had taken place without any clue to explain how a man, protected by a closed door with an uninjured lock, could have been murdered in the space of a few minutes and in front of twenty witnesses, one might almost say, twenty spectators. No one had entered the cabin. No one had come out of it. As for the dagger with which M. d’Ormeval had been stabbed between the shoulders, it could not be traced. And all this would have suggested the idea of a trick of sleight of hand performed by a clever conjuror, had it not concerned a terrible murder, committed under the most mysterious conditions.

Hortense was unable to follow, as Rénine would have liked, the small party who were making for Madame d’Ormeval; she was paralysed with excitement and incapable of moving. It was the first time that her adventures with Rénine had taken her into the very heart of the action and that, instead of noting the consequences of a murder, or assisting in the pursuit of the criminals, she found herself confronted with the murder itself.

It left her trembling all over; and she stammered: “How horrible! … The poor fellow! … Ah, Rénine, you couldn’t save him this time! … And that’s what upsets me more than anything, that we could and should have saved him, since we knew of the plot …”

Rénine made her sniff at a bottle of salts, and when she had quite recovered her composure, he said, while observing her attentively:

“So you think that there is some connection between the murder and the plot which we were trying to frustrate?”

“Certainly,” said she, astonished at the question.

“Then, as that plot was hatched by a husband against his wife or by a wife against her husband, you admit that Madame d’Ormeval …?”

“Oh, no, impossible!” she said. “To begin with, Madame d’Ormeval did not leave her rooms … and then I shall never believe that pretty woman capable … No, no, of course there was something else …”

“What else?”

“I don’t know … You may have misunderstood what the brother and sister were saying to each other … You see, the murder has been committed under quite different conditions … at another hour and another place …”

“And therefore,” concluded Rénine, “the two cases are not in any way related?”

“Oh,” she said, “there’s no making it out! It’s all so strange!”

Rénine became a little satirical:

“My pupil is doing me no credit today,” he said. “Why, here is a perfectly simple story, unfolded before your eyes. You have seen it reeled off like a scene in the cinema, and it all remains as obscure to you as though you were hearing of an affair that happened in a cave a hundred miles away!”

Hortense was confounded:

“What are you saying? Do you mean that you have understood it? What clues have you to go by?”

Rénine looked at his watch:

“I have not understood everything,” he said. “The murder itself, the mere brutal murder, yes. But the essential thing, that is to say, the psychology of the crime: I’ve no clue to that. Only, it is twelve o’clock. The brother and sister, seeing no one come to the appointment at the Trois Mathildes, will go down to the beach. Don’t you think that we shall learn something then of the accomplice whom I accuse them of having and of the connection between the two cases?”

They reached the esplanade in front of the Hauville chalets, with the capstans by which the fishermen haul up their boats to the beach. A number of inquisitive persons were standing outside the door of one of the chalets. Two coastguards, posted at the door, prevented them from entering.

The mayor shouldered his way eagerly through the crowd. He was back from the post office, where he had been telephoning to Le Havre, to the office of the procurator general, and had been told that the public prosecutor and an examining magistrate would come on to Étretat in the course of the afternoon.

“That leaves us plenty of time for lunch,” said Rénine. “The tragedy will not be enacted before two or three o’clock. And I have an idea that it will be sensational.”

They hurried nevertheless. Hortense, overwrought by fatigue and her desire to know what was happening, continually questioned Rénine, who replied evasively, with his eyes turned to the esplanade, which they could see through the windows of the coffee room.

“Are you watching for those two?” asked Hortense.

“Yes, the brother and sister.”

“Are you sure that they will venture? …”

“Look out! Here they come!”

He went out quickly.

Where the main street opened on the seafront, a lady and gentleman were advancing with hesitating steps, as though unfamiliar with the place. The brother was a puny little man, with a sallow complexion. He was wearing a motoring cap. The sister too was short, but rather stout, and was wrapped in a large cloak. She struck them as a woman of a certain age, but still good-looking under the thin veil that covered her face.

They saw the groups of bystanders and drew nearer. Their gait betrayed uneasiness and hesitation.

The sister asked a question of a seaman. At the first words of his answer, which no doubt conveyed the news of d’Ormeval’s death, she uttered a cry and tried to force her way through the crowd. The brother, learning in his turn what had happened, made great play with his elbows and shouted to the coast guards:

“I’m a friend of d’Ormeval’s! … Here’s my card! Frédéric Astaing … My sister, Germaine Astaing, knows Madame d’Ormeval intimately! … They were expecting us … We had an appointment! …”

They were allowed to pass. Rénine, who had slipped behind them, followed them in without a word, accompanied by Hortense.

The d’Ormevals had four bedrooms and a sitting room on the second floor. The sister rushed into one of the rooms and threw herself on her knees beside the bed on which the corpse lay stretched. Thérèse d’Ormeval was in the sitting room and was sobbing in the midst of a small company of silent persons. The brother sat down beside her, eagerly seized her hands and said, in a trembling voice:

“My poor friend! … My poor friend! …”

Rénine and Hortense gazed at the pair of them: and Hortense whispered:

“And she’s supposed to have killed him for that? Impossible!”

“Nevertheless,” observed Rénine, “they are acquaintances; and we know that Astaing and his sister were also acquainted with a third person who was their accomplice. So that …”

“It’s impossible!” Hortense repeated.

And, in spite of all presumption, she felt so much attracted by Thérèse that, when Frédéric Astaing stood up, she proceeded straightway to sit down beside her and consoled her in a gentle voice. The unhappy woman’s tears distressed her profoundly.

Rénine, on the other hand, applied himself from the outset to watching the brother and sister, as though this were the only thing that mattered, and did not take his eyes off Frédéric Astaing, who, with an air of indifference, began to make a minute inspection of the premises, examining the sitting room, going into all the bedrooms, mingling with the various groups of persons present and asking questions about the manner in which the murder had been committed. Twice his sister came up and spoke to him. Then he went back to Madame d’Ormeval and again sat down beside her, full of earnest sympathy. Lastly, in the lobby, he had a long conversation with his sister, after which they parted, like people who have come to a perfect understanding. Frédéric then left. These manoeuvers had lasted quite thirty or forty minutes.

It was at this moment that the motorcar containing the examining magistrate and the public prosecutor pulled up outside the chalets. Rénine, who did not expect them until later, said to Hortense:

“We must be quick. On no account leave Madame d’Ormeval.”

Word was sent up to the persons whose evidence might be of any service that they were to go to the beach, where the magistrate was beginning a preliminary investigation. He would call on Madame d’Ormeval afterwards. Accordingly, all who were present left the chalet. No one remained behind except the two guards and Germaine Astaing.

Germaine knelt down for the last time beside the dead man and, bending low, with her face in her hands, prayed for a long time. Then she rose and was opening the door on the landing, when Rénine came forward:

“I should like a few words with you, madame.”

She seemed surprised and replied:

“What is it, monsieur? I am listening.”

“Not here.”

“Where then, monsieur?”

“Next door, in the sitting room.”

“No,” she said, sharply.