Читать книгу The Man in Grey - Baroness Orczy - Страница 7

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M. de Saint-Tropèze paused after his peroration. With an almost imperceptible nod of his handsome head he indicated both to his visitor and to his subordinate that the audience was at an end. But M. le préfet, though he knew himself to be dismissed, appeared reluctant to go. There was something which M. le Procureur had forgotten, and the worthy préfet was trying to gather up courage to jog his memory. He had a mightily wholesome respect for his chief, had M. Vimars, for the Procureur was not only a man of vast erudition and of the bluest blood, but one who was held in high consideration by His Majesty’s government in Paris, ay, and, so ’twas said, by His Majesty himself.

So M. Vimars hummed and hawed and gave one or two discreet little coughs, whilst M. le Procureur with obvious impatience was drumming his well-manicured nails against the arm of his chair. At last he said testily:

“You have something you wish to say to me, my good Monsieur Vimars?”

“Yes, Monsieur le Procureur,” hazarded the préfet in reply, “that is—there is the matter of the burglary—and—and the murder last night—that is—”

M. le Procureur frowned: “Those are local matters,” he said loftily, “which concern the commissary of police, my good Vimars, and are beneath the notice of Monsieur le Ministre’s secret agent.”

The préfet, conscious of a reprimand, blushed to the very roots of his scanty hair. He rose with some haste and the obvious desire to conceal his discomfiture in a precipitate retreat, when the Man in Grey interposed in his quiet, even monotone:

“Nothing is beneath the notice of a secret agent, Monsieur le Procureur,” he said; “and everything which is within the province of the commissary of police concerns the representative of the Minister.”

M. Vimars literally gasped at this presumption. How anyone dared thus to run counter to M. le Procureur’s orders simply passed his comprehension. He looked with positive horror on the meagre, insignificant personage who even now was meeting M. le Procureur’s haughty, supercilious glance without any sign of contrition or of shame.

M. de Saint-Tropèze had raised his aristocratic eyebrows, and tried to wither the audacious malapert with his scornful glance, but the little Man in Grey appeared quite unconscious of the enormity of his offence; he stood by—as was his wont—quietly and silently, his eyes fixed inquiringly on the préfet, who was indeed hoping that the floor would open conveniently and swallow him up ere he was called upon to decide whether he should obey the orders of his official chief, or pay heed to the commands of the accredited agent of M. the Minister of Police.

But M. le Procureur decided the question himself and in the only way possible. The Minister’s letter with its peremptory commands lay there before him—the secret agent of His Majesty’s Police was to be aided and obeyed implicitly in all matters relating to his work; there was nothing to be done save to comply with those orders as graciously as he could, and without further loss of dignity.

“You have heard the wishes of Monsieur le Ministre’s agent, my good Vimars,” he said coldly; “so I pray you speak to him of the matter which exercises your mind, for of a truth I am not well acquainted with all the details!”

Whereupon he fell to contemplating the exquisite polish on his almond-shaped nails. Though the overbearing little upstart in the grey coat could command the obsequiousness of such men as that fool Vimars, he must be shown at the outset that his insolence would find no weak spot in the armour of M. de Saint-Tropèze’s lofty self-respect.

“Oh! it is very obvious,” quoth the préfet, whose only desire was to conciliate both parties, “that the matter is not one which affects the graver question of those satané Chouans. At the same time both the affairs of last night are certainly mysterious and present some unusual features which have greatly puzzled our exceedingly able commissary of police. It seems that in the early hours of this morning the library of Monseigneur the Constitutional Bishop of Alençon was broken into by thieves. Fortunately nothing of any value was stolen, and this part of the affair appeared simple enough, until an hour or two later a couple of peasants, who were walking from Lonrai towards the city, came across the body of a man lying face upwards by the roadside. The man was quite dead—had been dead some time apparently. The two louts hurried at once to the commissariat of police and made their depositions. Monsieur Lefèvre, our chief commissary, proceeded to the scene of the crime; he has now the affair in hand.”

The préfet had perforce to pause in his narrative for lack of breath. He had been talking volubly and uninterruptedly, and indeed he had no cause to complain of lack of attention on the part of his hearer. M. le Ministre’s secret agent sat absolutely still, his deep-set eyes fixed intently upon the narrator. Alone M. le Procureur Impérial maintained his attitude of calm disdain. He still appeared deeply absorbed in the contemplation of his finger-nails.

“At first,” resumed the préfet after his dramatic pause, “these two crimes, the greater and the less, seemed in no way connected, and personally I am not sure even now that they are. A certain air of similarity and mystery, however, clings to them both, for in both cases the crimes appear at the outset so very purposeless. In the case of the burglary in Monseigneur’s palace the thieves were obviously scared before they could lay hands on any valuables, but even so there were some small pieces of silver lying about which they might have snatched up, even if they were in a vast hurry to get away; whilst in the case of the murder, though the victim’s silver watch was stolen and his pockets ransacked, the man was obviously poor and not worth knocking down.”

“And is the identity of the victim known to the police?” here asked the Man in Grey in his dull, colourless voice.

“Indeed it is,” replied the préfet; “the man was well known throughout the neighbourhood. He was valet to Madame la Marquise de Phélan.”

M. le Procureur looked up suddenly from his engrossing occupation.

“Ah!” he said, “I did not know that. Lefèvre did not tell me that he had established the identity of the victim.”

He sighed and once more gazed meditatively upon his finger-nails.

“Poor Maxence! I have often seen him at Plélan. There never was a more inoffensive creature. What motive could the brute have for such a villainous murder?”

The préfet shrugged his shoulders.

“Some private quarrel, I imagine,” he said.

“A love affair?” queried the Man in Grey.

“Oh no, Monsieur. Maxence was the wrong side of fifty.”

“A smart man?”

“Anything but smart—a curious, shock-headed, slouchy-looking person with hair as red as a fox’s.”

Just for the space of one second the colourless eyes of the Man in Grey lit up with a quick and intense light; it seemed for the moment as if an exclamation difficult to suppress would escape his thin, bloodless lips, and his whole insignificant figure appeared to be quivering with a sudden, uncontrollable eagerness. But this departure from his usual quietude was so momentary that M. le préfet failed to notice it, whilst M. le Procureur remained as usual uninterested and detached.

“Poor Maxence!” resumed M. Vimars after awhile. “He had, as far as is known, not a single enemy in the world. He was devoted to Madame la Marquise and enjoyed her complete confidence; he was not possessed of any savings, nor was he of a quarrelsome disposition. He can’t have had more than a few francs about his person when he was so foully waylaid and murdered. Indeed, it is because the crime is ostensibly so wanton that the police at once dismissed the idea that those abominable Chouans had anything to do with it!”

“Is the road where the body was found very lonely of nights?” asked the Man in Grey.

“It is a lonely road,” replied the préfet, “and never considered very safe, as it is a favourite haunt of the Chouans—but it is the direct road between Alençon and Mayenne, through Lonrai and Plélan.”

“Is it known what business took the confidential valet of Madame la Marquise de Plélan on that lonely road in the middle of the night?”

“It has not been definitely established,” here broke in M. le Procureur curtly, “that the murder was committed in the middle of the night.”

“I thought—”

“The body was found in the early morning,” continued M. de Saint-Tropèze with an air of cold condescension; “the man had been dead some hours—the leech has not pronounced how many. Maxence had no doubt many friends or relations in Alençon: it is presumed that he spent the afternoon in the city and was on his way back to Plélan in the evening when he was waylaid and murdered.”

“That presumption is wrong,” said the Man in Grey quietly.

“Wrong?” retorted M. le Procureur frigidly.

“What do you mean?”

“I was walking home from Plélan towards Alençon in the small hours of the morning. There was no dead body lying in the road then.”

“The body lay by the roadside, half in the ditch,” said M. le Procureur dryly, “you may have missed seeing it.”

“Possibly,” rejoined the Man in Grey equally dryly, “but unlikely.”

“Were you looking out for it then?” riposted the Procureur. But no sooner were the words out of his mouth than he realised his mistake. The Man in Grey made no reply; he literally appeared to withdraw himself into an invisible shell, to efface himself yet further within a colourless atmosphere, out of which it was obviously unwise to try to drag him.

M. le Procureur pressed his thin lips together, impatient with himself at an unnecessary loss of dignity. As usual M. le préfet was ready to throw himself into the breach.

“I am sure,” he said with his usual volubility, “that we are wasting Monsieur le Procureur’s valuable time now. I can assure you, Monsieur—er—Fernand, that our chief commissary of police can give you all the details of the crime—if, indeed, they interest you. Shall we go now?—that is,” he added, with that same feeling of hesitation which overcame him every time he encountered the secret agent’s calm, inquiring look, “that is—er—unless there’s anything else you wish to ask of Monsieur le Procureur.”

“I wish to know with regard to the murder, what was the cause of death,” said the Man in Grey quietly.

“A pistol shot, sir,” replied M. de Saint-Tropèze coldly, “right between the shoulder blades, delivered at short range apparently, seeing that the man’s coat was charred and blackened with powder. The leech avers that he must have fallen instantly.”

“Shot between the shoulders, and yet found lying on his back,” murmured the Man in Grey. “And was nothing at all found upon the body that would give a clue to the motive of the crime?”

“Nothing, my dear sir,” broke in the préfet glibly, “nothing at all. In his breeches’ pocket there was a greasy and crumpled sheet of letter-paper, which on examination was found to be covered with a row of numerals all at random—like a child’s exercise-book.”

“Could I see the paper?”

“It is at the commissariat of police,” explained the Procureur curtly.

“Where I can easily find it, of course,” concluded the Man in Grey with calm decision. “In the meanwhile perhaps Monsieur le préfet will be kind enough to tell me something more about the burglary at the Archbishop’s Palace.”

“There’s very little to tell, my good Monsieur Fernand,” said M. Vimars, who, far more conscious than was the stranger of the Procureur’s growing impatience, would have given a month’s salary for the privilege of making himself scarce.

“With what booty did the burglars make off?”

“With nothing of any value; and what they did get they dropped in their flight. The police found a small silver candlestick, and a brass paper weight in the street close to the gate of Monseigneur’s Palace, also one or two books which no doubt the burglars had seized in the hope that they were valuable editions.”

“Nothing, then, has actually been stolen?”

“Nothing. I believe that Monseigneur told the chief commissary that one or two of his books are still missing, but none of any value. So you see, my good Monsieur—er—Fernand,” concluded M. Vimars blandly, “that the whole matter is quite beneath your consideration. It is a case of a vulgar murder with only a private grudge by way of motive—and an equally vulgar attempt at burglary, fortunately with no evil results. Our local police—though none too efficient, alas! in these strenuous days, when His Majesty’s army claims the flower of our manhood—is well able to cope with these simple matters, which, of course, must occur in every district from time to time. You may take it from me—and I have plenty of experience, remember—that the matter has no concern whatever with the Chouans and with your mission here. You can, quite conscientiously, devote the whole of your time to the case of the highway robbery the other night, and the recovery of the sixty-two hundred francs which were stolen from the coach, as well as the tracking of that daring rascal with the wooden leg.”

Satisfied with his peroration, M. Vimars at last felt justified in moving towards the door.

“I don’t think,” he concluded with suave obsequiousness, “that we need take up any more of Monsieur le Procureur’s valuable time, and with his gracious permission—”

To his intense relief, M. Vimars perceived that the Man in Grey was at last prepared to take his leave.

M. de Saint-Tropèze, plainly at the end of his patience, delighted to be rid of his tiresome visitors, at once became pleasantly condescending. To the secret agent of His Majesty’s Police he gave a quite gracious nod, and made the worthy préfet proud and happy by whispering in his ear:

“Do not allow that little busybody to interfere with you too much, my dear Monsieur Vimars. I am prepared to back your skill and experience in such matters against any young shrimp from Paris.”

The nod of understanding which accompanied this affable speech sent M. Vimars into an empyrean of delight. After which M. le Procureur finally bowed his visitors out of the room.

The little Man in Grey walked in silence beside M. Vimars along the narrow network of streets which lead to the Hôtel de Ville. The préfet had a suite of apartments assigned to him in the building, and once he was installed in his own well-furnished library, untrammelled by the presence of his chief, and with the accredited agent of His Majesty’s Minister sitting opposite to him, he gave full rein to his own desire for perfect amity with so important a personage.

He began by a lengthy disquisition on the merits of M. le Procureur Impérial. Never had there been a man of such consideration and of such high culture in the city. M. de Saint-Tropèze was respected alike by the municipal officials, by the townspeople and by the landed aristocracy of the neighbourhood—and he was a veritable terror to the light-fingered gentry, as well as to the gangs of Chouans that infested the district.

The Man in Grey listened to the fulsome panegyric with his accustomed deep attention. He asked a few questions as to M. de Saint-Tropèze’s domestic circumstances. “Was he married?” “Was he wealthy?” “Did he keep up a luxurious mode of life?”

To all these questions M. Vimars was only too ready to give reply. No, Monsieur le Procureur was not married. He was presumably wealthy, for he kept up a very elegant bachelor establishment in the Rue St. Blaise with just a few old and confidential servants. The sources of his income were not known, as Monsieur de Saint-Tropèze was very proud and reserved, and would not condescend to speak of his affairs with anyone.

Next the worthy préfet harked back, with wonted volubility, to the double outrage of the previous night, and rehearsed at copious length every circumstance connected with it. Strangely enough, the secret agent who had been sent by the Minister all the way from Paris in order to track down that particular band of Chouans, appeared far more interested in the murder of Mme. de Plélan’s valet and the theft of a few books out of Monseigneur the Bishop’s library than he was in the daring robbery of the mail-coach.

“You knew the unfortunate Maxence, did you not, Monsieur le Préfet?” he asked.

“Why, yes,” replied M. Vimars, “for I have often paid my respects to Madame la Marquise de Plélan.”

“What was he like?”

“You can go over to the commissariat of police and see what’s left of the poor man,” rejoined the préfet, with a feeble attempt at grim humour. “The most remarkable feature about him was his red hair—an unusual colour among our Normandy peasantry.”

Later M. Vimars put the finishing touch to his amiability by placing his services unreservedly at the disposal of M. le Ministre’s agent.

“Is there anything that I can do for you, my good Monsieur Fernand?” he asked urbanely.

“Not for the moment, I thank you,” replied Fernand. “I will send to you if I require any assistance from the police. But in the meanwhile,” he added, “I see that you are something of a scholar. I should be greatly obliged if you could lend me a book to while away some of my idle hours.”

“A book? With pleasure!” quoth M. Vimars, not a little puzzled. “But how did you know?”

“That you were a scholar?” rejoined the other with a vague smile. “It was a fairly simple guess, seeing your well-stocked cases of books around me, and that a well-fingered volume protrudes even now from your coat-pocket.”

“Ah! Ah!” retorted the préfet ingenuously, “I see that truly you are a great deal sharper, Monsieur Fernand, than you appear to be. But in any case,” he added, “I shall be charmed to be of service to you in the matter of my small library. I flatter myself that it is both comprehensive and select—so if there is anything you especially desire to read—”

“I thank you, Sir,” said the Man in Grey; “as a matter of fact I have never had the opportunity of reading Madame de Staël’s latest work, Corinne, and if you happen to possess a copy—”

“With the greatest of pleasure, my dear sir,” exclaimed the préfet. He went at once to one of his well-filled bookcases, and after a brief search found the volume and handed it with a smile to his visitor.

“It seems a grave pity,” he added, “that no new edition of this remarkable work has ever been printed. But Madame de Staël is not in favour with His Majesty, which no doubt accounts for the publisher’s lack of enterprise.”

A few more words of polite farewell: after which M. Vimars took final leave of the Minister’s agent.

The little Man in Grey glided out of the stately apartment like a ghost, even his footsteps failing to resound along the polished floor.