“On such a day, I killed so-and-so; on such a day so-and-so!”
And the sum total was six dead bodies.
Against all expectation, the experts in handwriting had no difficulty in agreeing and unanimously declared that the writing was “that of a woman, an educated woman, possessing artistic tastes, imagination and an extremely sensitive nature.” The “lady with the hatchet,” as the journalists christened her, was decidedly no ordinary person; and scores of newspaper articles made a special study of her case, exposing her mental condition and losing themselves in far-fetched explanations.
Nevertheless it was the writer of one of these articles, a young journalist whose chance discovery made him the center of public attention, who supplied the one element of truth and shed upon the darkness the only ray of light that was to penetrate it. In casting about for the meaning of the figures which followed the six names, he had come to ask himself whether those figures did not simply represent the number of the days separating one crime from the next. All that he had to do was to check the dates. He at once found that his theory was correct. Mlle. Vernisset had been carried off one hundred and thirty-two days after Madame Ladoue; Mlle. Covereau, one hundred and eighteen days after Honorine Vernisset; and so on.
There was therefore no room for doubt; and the police had no choice but to accept a solution which so precisely fitted the circumstances: the figures corresponded with the intervals. There was no mistake in the records of the lady with the hatchet.
But then one deduction became inevitable. Miss Williamson, the latest victim, had been carried off on the 26th of June last, and her name was followed by the figures 114: was it not to be presumed that a fresh crime would be committed a hundred and fourteen days later, that is to say, on the 18th of October? Was it not probable that the horrible business would be repeated in accordance with the murderer’s secret intentions? Were they not bound to pursue to its logical conclusion the argument which ascribed to the figures — to all the figures, to the last as well as to the others — their value as eventual dates?
Now it was precisely this deduction which was drawn and was being weighed and discussed during the few days that preceded the 18th of October, when logic demanded the performance of yet another act of the abominable tragedy. And it was only natural that, on the morning of that day, Prince Rénine and Hortense, when making an appointment by telephone for the evening, should allude to the newspaper articles which they had both been reading:
“Look out!” said Rénine, laughing. “If you meet the lady with the hatchet, take the other side of the road!”
“And, if the good lady carries me off, what am I to do?”
“Strew your path with little white pebbles and say, until the very moment when the hatchet flashes in the air, ‘I have nothing to fear; he will save me.’ He is myself... and I kiss your hands. Till this evening, my dear.”
That afternoon, Rénine had an appointment with Rose Andrée and Dalbrèque to arrange for their departure for the States. Between four and seven o’clock, he bought the different editions of the evening papers. None of them reported any abduction.
At nine o’clock he went to the Gymnase, where he had taken a private box.
At half-past nine, as Hortense had not arrived, he rang her up, though without thought of anxiety. The maid replied that Madame Daniel had not come in yet.
Seized with a sudden fear, Rénine hurried to the furnished flat which Hortense was occupying for the time being, near the Parc Monceau, and questioned the maid, whom he had engaged for her and who was completely devoted to him. The woman said that her mistress had gone out at two o’clock, with a stamped letter in her hand, saying that she was going to the post and that she would come back to dress. This was the last that had been seen of her.
“To whom was the letter addressed?”
“To you, sir. I saw the writing on the envelope: Prince Serge Rénine.”
He waited until midnight, but in vain. Hortense did not return; nor did she return next day.
“Not a word to anyone,” said Rénine to the maid. “Say that your mistress is in the country and that you are going to join her.”
For his own part, he had not a doubt: Hortense’s disappearance was explained by the very fact of the date, the 18th of October. She was the seventh victim of the lady with the hatchet.
“The abduction,” said Rénine to himself, “precedes the blow of the hatchet by a week. I have, therefore, at the present moment, seven full days before me. Let us say six, to avoid any surprise. This is Saturday: Hortense must be set free by midday on Friday; and, to make sure of this, I must know her hiding place by nine o’clock on Thursday evening at latest.”
Rénine wrote, “THURSDAY EVENING, NINE O’CLOCK,” in big letters, on a card which he nailed above the mantelpiece in his study. Then at midday on Saturday, the day after the disappearance, he locked himself into the study, after telling his man not to disturb him except for meals and letters.
He spent four days there, almost without moving. He had immediately sent for a set of all the leading newspapers which had spoken in detail of the first six crimes. When he had read and reread them, he closed the shutters, drew the curtains and lay down on the sofa in the dark, with the door bolted, thinking.
By Tuesday evening he was no further advanced than on the Saturday. The darkness was as dense as ever. He had not discovered the smallest clue for his guidance, nor could he see the slightest reason to hope.
At times, notwithstanding his immense power of self-control and his unlimited confidence in the resources at his disposal, at times he would quake with anguish. Would he arrive in time? There was no reason why he should see more clearly during the last few days than during those which had already elapsed. And this meant that Hortense Daniel would inevitably be murdered.
The thought tortured him. He was attached to Hortense by a much stronger and deeper feeling than the appearance of the relations between them would have led an onlooker to believe. The curiosity at the beginning, the first desire, the impulse to protect Hortense, to distract her, to inspire her with a relish for existence: all this had simply turned to love. Neither of them was aware of it, because they barely saw each other save at critical times when they were occupied with the adventures of others and not with their own. But, at the first onslaught of danger, Rénine realized the place which Hortense had taken in his life and he was in despair at knowing her to be a prisoner and a martyr and at being unable to save her.
He spent a feverish, agitated night, turning the case over and over from every point of view. The Wednesday morning was also a terrible time for him. He was losing ground. Giving up his hermit-like seclusion, he threw open the windows and paced to and fro through his rooms, ran out into the street and came in again, as though fleeing before the thought that obsessed him:
“Hortense is suffering... Hortense is in the depths... She sees the hatchet... She is calling to me... She is entreating me... And I can do nothing...”
It was at five o’clock in the afternoon that, on examining the list of the six names, he received that little inward shock which is a sort of signal of the truth that is being sought for. A light shot through his mind. It was not, to be sure, that brilliant light in which every detail is made plain, but it was enough to tell him in which direction to move.
His plan of campaign was formed at once. He sent Adolphe, his chauffeur, to the principal newspapers, with a few lines which were to appear in large type among the next morning’s advertisements. Adolphe was also told to go to the laundry at Courbevoie, where Mlle. Covereau, the second of the six victims, had been employed.