Читать книгу 30 Suspense and Thriller Masterpieces - Гилберт Кит Честертон, Eleanor Bron, Томас Харди (Гарди) - Страница 20

"The Bureau of Public Highways, if you please?"

"What is it you wish to inquire about?"

"I want some information as to the probable duration of certain repair works."

"Ah, then go to the fourth floor, number 54, door to the right at the end of the passage."

"Thanks."

With a slight nod, the visitor entered the huge building on the Boulevard Saint-Germain, which houses the offices of Public Works. He was a young man, dressed in a long black overcoat, a derby hat, which he wore well down over his eyes, and a wide bandage that covered one eye and part of the cheek.

After climbing the four flights indicated, he discovered that he had evidently taken the wrong staircase. There was nothing to do then but to go back to the porter's lodge and get more explicit instructions. But after taking a few steps, he hesitated.

"Fandor, old chap," he soliloquized, "what's the use of showing yourself and taking the risk of being recognized as the erstwhile King of Hesse-Weimar?"

For the individual who was in search of the Bureau of Public Works was no other than the journalist. An hour previously he had succeeded by clever strategy in getting rid of the excellent Wulf, who was at all times very loath to let the King out of his sight. Then, rushing to his own apartment, he had changed his clothes and partly covered his face with the bandage to conceal his features.

After several futile attempts, aided by innumerable directions from passing employés, he at length reached the office of which he was in search. There he encountered a clerk who viewed him with a suspicious eye.

"What do you want, Monsieur?"

"I want some information."

"We don't give information here."

"Really!… Why not?"

"Are you a contractor?"

"No."

"You wish to lodge a complaint?"

"No."

"Then what is your business?"

"Just to get some information as to the probable duration of certain works."

"You are not a reporter?"

"I am not a reporter. I am an advertising agent."

"Ah, that's different. The office you are looking for is number 43, the door opposite … but there's nobody in now. However, you can wait."

Fandor crossed and entered room 43, where, after a moment, he discovered an occupant tucked away behind an enormous pile of books and manuscripts. This clerk was absorbed in a yellow-covered novel and greeted Fandor with evident ill-humor.

"What d'you want?"

"I would like to know, Monsieur, the probable duration of the repair work in operation at the Place de la Concorde."

"And why do you want to know that?"

"I am an advertising agent, and I may have a proposition to offer to the city."

"And at what point is this work in operation?"

"At the corner of the wall of the Orangery and the Quay."

After consulting a large register, the clerk turned to Fandor, shutting the book with a bang.

"Nothing is being done there. You are mistaken."

"But I've just come from there. There is a ditch and a palisade."

"No, no, no such thing. In every quarter of Paris the police are obliged to notify me of any public works in operation, and an entry is made in my register to that effect. Now, I have no record of the repairs you speak of, consequently they don't exist."

Fandor left the office, hailed a cab and ordered the driver to take him to the National Library.

"Hang it," he muttered, "I saw the ditch and the palisade myself! Now, if they are not the work of the city, it will be interesting to find out what is going on there… . Ah! suppose this idiot Wulf was not deceived! Suppose he really heard the Singing Fountains the other evening giving the last bars of the national hymn of Hesse-Weimar!"

Arrived at the National Library, Fandor began a long and minute search through volumes on architecture, on statuary and a multitude of guide books to Paris! He was so engrossed in his work that when four o'clock struck he sprang up suddenly.

"Good heavens! I've scarcely time to get back to my apartment, change into my kingly clothes and meet Wulf, to become once more His Majesty Frederick-Christian!"

In his apartment in his own house, the extraordinary Marquis de Sérac, who was also the common Mme. Ceiron, was whispering to a person hidden behind the curtains.

"You understand, don't move and listen with all your ears, and promise me not to interfere until I give you permission!"

"I promise. Monsieur le Marquis," replied the individual in a low tone.

"All right, then I'll have her in."

The Marquis crossed the room and opened a door.

"Come in, Mademoiselle, and forgive me for keeping you waiting. I had visitors."

"Oh, Monsieur," replied Marie Pascal, for it was the young seamstress, "don't mention it … and let me thank you for your recommendation to the King. I got two big orders from it."

"Oh, I was very glad to be of service to you with Frederick-Christian… . I regret only one thing, Mademoiselle, and that is the unhappy events which have clouded His Majesty's visit to Paris."

"Yes, indeed," replied Marie Pascal, "and in such a tragic way, too!"

"A tragic way, Mademoiselle? I imagine this has quite upset you."

"Yes."

The Marquis emphasized his words.

"So I thought, so I thought … especially you."

The young girl lifted her pure blue eyes in surprise.

"The King spoke to me of you at great length," the Marquis added.

A quick blush overspread her face.

"Really… . The King spoke of me?"

"His Majesty told me you were charming. He noticed you the very first time you went to see him."

"At the Royal Palace?… But he only got a glimpse of me through the open door."

The Marquis smiled.

"Oh, it doesn't take long for a King … or a young man to sometimes dream of the impossible."

"Impossible … yes, you are right."

Marie Pascal pronounced the last words in a serious voice. She was making an evident effort to keep calm. The Marquis, on the other hand, seemed inclined to joke.

"Impossible, why?… One never knows … the will of the King knows no obstacle." Then brusquely turning, he asked:

"You like the King, Mademoiselle?"

"Why … why … "

"Therefore, I'm wondering if the death of this unfortunate Susy is not really a benefit."

"Oh, Monsieur!"

"Well, you know, Mademoiselle Marie, the happiness of one person is made of the tears of another. You would have suffered. You would have been jealous."

As though against her will, Marie Pascal repeated in a low voice:

"Yes, I should have been jealous."

"Terribly jealous, for Susy d'Orsel was pretty. Besides, a liaison with her wasn't taken seriously by the King … while with you it would have been quite different … why, I believe you would have reached the point of wishing her death."

"No! no!" protested Marie feebly, "the King would have made his choice … frankly and loyally… ."

"And suppose he hadn't chosen? Suppose he had hesitated before the possible scandal of a rupture? Don't you care enough for him to realize that the very idea of sharing him with another would have been intolerable?… What I am saying sounds brutal, I know, but I am frank with you… . Believe me, you would have been driven to hate the unfortunate Susy."

"To hate her? Yes, … perhaps … for I should have been jealous!"

And then suddenly Marie realized what her words meant: that she had betrayed her cherished secret … her love. In a moment she burst into sobs and collapsed on the sofa.

The Marquis de Sérac very gently tried to reassure her.

"Don't cry, my poor child. After all, you are lamenting imaginary misfortunes which I have so imprudently imagined… . They don't exist, and never could exist, for it is a fact that Susy d'Orsel is no longer a rival to be feared. Think rather of the future which smiles upon you. You love and you have some reason to hope that you are loved in return, so dry your eyes … fate has withdrawn the one obstacle which existed between you and the King."

Tremblingly, Marie Pascal rose.

"Forgive me, Monsieur, for this stupid scene. I lost my self … control… . I confessed a feeling which I should have kept a secret… . I'm so confused I no longer know what I'm saying … so please let me go."

The Marquis, with exquisite politeness, opened the door for her.

"Promise to come and see me again, Mademoiselle; before long I shall probably have something further of interest to say to you."

When the door had closed upon Marie Pascal, the Marquis drew aside the portières.

"Come out, my dear fellow… . We shall be alone now!"

Wulf appeared. A Wulf literally armed to the teeth, and ready for any emergency.

"Put up your arsenal, we are in no danger," exclaimed the Marquis, "and tell me what you think of the visit."

"I think there is not a moment to lose," replied Wulf, agitated. "She loves the King and she hated Susy d'Orsel, therefore she is the assassin. She is the cause of all the troubles that have fallen upon the head of our beloved sovereign. Ah! I want to arrest her! Condemn her to death! Come, Marquis, let us go to her room and seize her!"

"Not yet a while, Wulf; sit down and talk it over. To begin with, we can arrest nobody without proof … presumption is not sufficient."

"I'll force her to confess!"

"You wouldn't succeed, Wulf, and besides, you have no power to arrest her yourself. That is work for the French authorities. Your duty is simply to go and warn Juve."

"Right away! At once!"

"Hold on … remember, you are to do nothing without my permission. Now, I repeat, we have no proof yet to offer … but listen carefully, for I have a plan … this is it… ."

Two hours later, Wulf rejoined Fandor in a boulevard café. The excellent man had such an air of elation that the journalist wondered:

"What fool thing is this idiot getting ready to do now!"