The Eight Strokes of the Clock (18 page)

“Have you found the answer?”

Rénine paused and replied:

“Yes, your excellency, I have. And I could have found it at the very outset, since all that I had to do was to make a careful examination of the list of victims. But these flashes of truth are never kindled save in a brain overstimulated by effort and reflection. I stared at the list twenty times over, before that little detail took a definite shape.”

“I don’t follow you,” said M. de Lourtier-Vaneau.

“M. de Lourtier, it may be noted that, if a number of persons are brought together in any transaction, or crime, or public scandal or whatnot, they are almost invariably described in the same way. On this occasion, the newspapers never mentioned anything more than their surnames in speaking of Madame Ladoue, Mlle. Ardent or Mlle. Covereau. On the other hand, Mlle. Vernisset and Miss Williamson were always described by their Christian names as well: Honorine and Hermione. If the same thing had been done in the case of all the six victims, there would have been no mystery.”

“Why not?”

“Because we should at once have realized the relation existing between the six unfortunate women, as I myself suddenly realized it on comparing those two Christian names with that of Hortense Daniel. You understand now, don’t you? You see the three Christian names before your eyes …”

M. de Lourtier-Vaneau seemed to be perturbed. Turning a little pale, he said:

“What do you mean? What do you mean?”

“I mean,” continued Rénine, in a clear voice, sounding each syllable separately, “I mean that you see before your eyes three Christian names which all three begin with the same initial and which all three, by a remarkable coincidence, consist of the same number of letters, as you may prove. If you enquire at the Courbevoie laundry, where Mlle. Covereau used to work, you will find that her name was Hilairie. Here again we have the same initial and the same number of letters. There is no need to seek any farther. We are sure, are we not, that the Christian names of all the victims offer the same peculiarities? And this gives us, with absolute certainty, the key to the problem which was set us. It explains the madwoman’s choice. We now know the connection between the unfortunate victims. There can be no mistake about it. It’s that and nothing else. And how this method of choosing confirms my theory! What proof of madness! Why kill these women rather than any others? Because their names begin with an H and consist of eight letters! You understand me, M. de Lourtier, do you not? The number of letters is eight. The initial letter is the eighth letter of the alphabet; and the word
huit
, eight, begins with an H. Always the letter H.
And the implement used to commit the crime was a hatchet
. Is your excellency prepared to tell me that the lady with the hatchet is not a madwoman?”

Rénine interrupted himself and went up to M. de Lourtier-Vaneau:

“What’s the matter, your excellency? Are you unwell?”

“No, no,” said M. de Lourtier, with the perspiration streaming down his forehead. “No … but all this story is so upsetting! Only think, I knew one of the victims! And then …”

Rénine took a water bottle and tumbler from a small table, filled the glass and handed it to M. de Lourtier, who sipped a few mouthfuls from it and then, pulling himself together, continued, in a voice which he strove to make firmer than it had been:

“Very well. We’ll admit your supposition. Even so, it is necessary that it should lead to tangible results. What have you done?”

“This morning I published in all the newspapers an advertisement worded as follows: ‘Excellent cook seeks situation. Write before 5 P.M. to Herminie, Boulevard Haussmann, etc.’ You continue to follow me, don’t you, M. de Lourtier? Christian names beginning with an H and consisting of eight letters are extremely rare and are all rather out of date: Herminie, Hilairie, Hermione. Well, these Christian names, for reasons which I do not understand, are essential to the madwoman. She cannot do without them. To find women bearing one of these Christian names and for this purpose only she summons up all her remaining powers of reason, discernment, reflection and intelligence. She hunts about. She asks questions. She lies in wait. She reads newspapers which she hardly understands, but in which certain details, certain capital letters catch her eye. And consequently I did not doubt for a second that this name of Herminie, printed in large type, would attract her attention and that she would be caught today in the trap of my advertisement.”

“Did she write?” asked M. de Lourtier-Vaneau, anxiously.

“Several ladies,” Rénine continued, “wrote the letters which are usual in such cases, to offer a home to the so-called Herminie. But I received an express letter which struck me as interesting.”

“From whom?”

“Read it, M. de Lourtier.”

M. de Lourtier-Vaneau snatched the sheet from Rénine’s hands and cast a glance at the signature. His first movement was one of surprise, as though he had expected something different. Then he gave a long, loud laugh of something like joy and relief.

“Why do you laugh, M. de Lourtier? You seem pleased.”

“Pleased, no. But this letter is signed by my wife.”

“And you were afraid of finding something else?”

“Oh no! But since it’s my wife …”

He did not finish his sentence and said to Rénine:

“Come this way.”

He led him through a passage to a little drawing room where a fair-haired lady, with a happy and tender expression on her comely face, was sitting in the midst of three children and helping them with their lessons.

She rose. M. de Lourtier briefly presented his visitor and asked his wife:

“Suzanne, is this express message from you?”

“To Mlle. Herminie, Boulevard Haussmann? Yes,” she said, “I sent it. As you know, our parlourmaid’s leaving and I’m looking out for a new one.”

Rénine interrupted her:

“Excuse me, madame. Just one question: where did you get the woman’s address?”

She flushed. Her husband insisted:

“Tell us, Suzanne. Who gave you the address?”

“I was rung up.”

“By whom?”

She hesitated and then said:

“Your old nurse.”

“Félicienne?”

“Yes.”

M. de Lourtier cut short the conversation and, without permitting Rénine to ask any more questions, took him back to the study:

“You see, monsieur, that pneumatic letter came from a quite natural source. Félicienne, my old nurse, who lives not far from Paris on an allowance which I make her, read your advertisement and told Madame de Lourtier of it. For, after all,” he added laughing, “I don’t suppose that you suspect my wife of being the lady with the hatchet.”

“No.”

“Then the incident is closed … at least on my side. I have done what I could, I have listened to your arguments and I am very sorry that I can be of no more use to you …”

He drank another glass of water and sat down. His face was distorted. Rénine looked at him for a few seconds, as a man will look at a failing adversary who has only to receive the knockout blow, and, sitting down beside him, suddenly gripped his arm:

“Your excellency, if you do not speak, Hortense Daniel will be the seventh victim.”

“I have nothing to say, monsieur! What do you think I know?”

“The truth! My explanations have made it plain to you. Your distress, your terror are positive proofs.”

“But, after all, monsieur, if I knew, why should I be silent?”

“For fear of scandal. There is in your life, so a profound intuition assures me, something that you are constrained to hide. The truth about this monstrous tragedy, which suddenly flashed upon you, this truth, if it were known, would spell dishonour to you, disgrace … and you are shrinking from your duty.”

M. de Lourtier did not reply. Rénine leaned over him and, looking him in the eyes, whispered:

“There will be no scandal. I shall be the only person in the world to know what has happened. And I am as much interested as yourself in not attracting attention, because I love Hortense Daniel and do not wish her name to be mixed up in your horrible story.”

They remained face to face during a long interval. Rénine’s expression was harsh and unyielding. M. de Lourtier felt that nothing would bend him if the necessary words remained unspoken, but he could not bring himself to utter them:

“You are mistaken,” he said. “You think you have seen things that don’t exist.”

Rénine received a sudden and terrifying conviction that, if this man took refuge in a stolid silence, there was no hope for Hortense Daniel, and he was so much infuriated by the thought that the key to the riddle lay there, within reach of his hand, that he clutched M. de Lourtier by the throat and forced him backwards:

“I’ll have no more lies! A woman’s life is at stake! Speak … and speak at once! If not … !”

M. de Lourtier had no strength left in him. All resistance was impossible. It was not that Rénine’s attack alarmed him, or that he was yielding to this act of violence, but he felt crushed by that indomitable will, which seemed to admit no obstacle, and he stammered:

“You are right. It is my duty to tell everything, whatever comes of it.”

“Nothing will come of it, I pledge my word, on condition that you save Hortense Daniel. A moment’s hesitation may undo us all. Speak. No details, but the actual facts.”

“Madame de Lourtier is not my wife. The only woman who has the right to bear my name is one whom I married when I was a young colonial official. She was a rather eccentric woman, of feeble mentality and incredibly subject to impulses that amounted to monomania. We had two children, twins, whom she worshipped and in whose company she would no doubt have recovered her mental balance and moral health, when, by a stupid accident—a passing carriage—they were killed before her eyes. The poor thing went mad … with the silent, secretive madness which you imagined. Sometime afterwards, when I was appointed to an Algerian station, I brought her to France and put her in the charge of a worthy creature who had nursed me and brought me up. Two years later, I made the acquaintance of the woman who was to become the joy of my life. You saw her just now. She is the mother of my children and she passes as my wife. Are we to sacrifice her? Is our whole existence to be shipwrecked in horror and must our name be coupled with this tragedy of madness and blood?”

Rénine thought for a moment and asked:

“What is the other one’s name?”

“Hermance.”

“Hermance! Still that initial … still those eight letters!”

“That was what made me realize everything just now,” said M. de Lourtier. “When you compared the different names, I at once reflected that my unhappy wife was called Hermance and that she was mad … and all the proofs leapt to my mind.”

“But, though we understand the selection of the victims, how are we to explain the murders? What are the symptoms of her madness? Does she suffer at all?”

“She does not suffer very much at present. But she has suffered in the past, the most terrible suffering that you can imagine: since the moment when her two children were run over before her eyes, night and day she had the horrible spectacle of their death before her eyes, without a moment’s interruption, for she never slept for a single second. Think of the torture of it! To see her children dying through all the hours of the long day and all the hours of the interminable night!”

“Nevertheless,” Rénine objected, “it is not to drive away that picture that she commits murder?”

“Yes, possibly,” said M. de Lourtier, thoughtfully, “to drive it away by sleep.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t understand, because we are talking of a madwoman … and because all that happens in that disordered brain is necessarily incoherent and abnormal?”

“Obviously. But, all the same, is your supposition based on facts that justify it?”

“Yes, on facts which I had, in a way, overlooked but which today assume their true significance. The first of these facts dates a few years back, to a morning when my old nurse for the first time found Hermance fast asleep. Now she was holding her hands clutched around a puppy which she had strangled. And the same thing was repeated on three other occasions.”

“And she slept?”

“Yes, each time she slept a sleep which lasted for several nights.”

“And what conclusion did you draw?”

“I concluded that the relaxation of the nerves provoked by taking life exhausted her and predisposed her for sleep.”

Rénine shuddered:

“That’s it! There’s not a doubt of it! The taking life, the effort of killing makes her sleep. And she began with women what had served her so well with animals. All her madness has become concentrated on that one point: she kills them to rob them of their sleep! She wanted sleep, and she steals the sleep of others! That’s it, isn’t it? For the past two years, she has been sleeping?”

“For the past two years, she has been sleeping,” stammered M. de Lourtier.

Rénine gripped him by the shoulder:

“And it never occurred to you that her madness might go farther, that she would stop at nothing to win the blessing of sleep! Let us make haste, monsieur! All this is horrible!”

They were both making for the door, when M. de Lourtier hesitated. The telephone bell was ringing.

“It’s from there,” he said.

“From there?”

“Yes, my old nurse gives me the news at the same time every day.”

He unhooked the receivers and handed one to Rénine, who whispered in his ear the questions which he was to put.

“Is that you, Félicienne? How is she?”

“Not so bad, sir.”

“Is she sleeping well?”

“Not very well, lately. Last night, indeed, she never closed her eyes. So she’s very gloomy just now.”

“What is she doing at the moment?”

“She is in her room.”

“Go to her, Félicienne, and don’t leave her.”

“I can’t. She’s locked herself in.”

“You must, Félicienne. Break open the door. I’m coming straight on … Hullo! Hullo! … Oh, damnation, they’ve cut us off!”

Without a word, the two men left the flat and ran down to the avenue. Rénine hustled M. de Lourtier into the car: