The apache continued. “Monsieur Nash intended dispatching you, of course, who is the chief thorn in his side. He was afraid, however, that a more complete examination be made of Sheppard, with the consequent working back of your death to him. We were instructed to get the body. It was absurdly simple. We drew the gendarmes to the front of the prefecture by a false alarm. The mortuary faces on an alley, where we had a covered wagon. You see, it was so easy that even you might have done it.”
Bailey lay very still, hoping that the Frenchman, in his streak of garrulous boasting, might say still more. But the fellow had apparently fulfilled his instructions. He drew his revolver, and looked curiously down at the agent.
“They say Americans know how to die,” he observed casually. “We will see.”
Bill stiffened, but he kept his eyes fixed on the other’s yellow orbs. It was hard to die there, with so much of life before him, but the least he could do was to keep up a bold front. They wanted to see him wince, and he did not intend giving them that satisfaction.
The thug lifted his weapon, and his comrades crowded up, their rat faces glistening. Bailey’s fingers tightened, and his lips drew down in a hard line as he tensed himself for the shock—
A revolver exploded; another followed. Two of the Parisians fell. Their leader plunged for the open, and a huge, gray-haired gendarme deliberately shot him in the back. The apache spun around, and rocketed down the steps, to lie, an unkempt heap, at the bottom.
When Bailey was liberated he dashed downstairs and propped the dying man on his knee. There was much that the fellow could tell him if he would.
“Nom d’un nom!” the apache groaned. “I’m going... To think that a rotten gendarme should get me at last...”
“Who killed Sheppard?” Bailey demanded.
“He paid us... five hundred francs... Zut! Five hundred fraiics, and I haven’t spent a damned sou...”
“Who killed Sheppard?”
The Parisian rolled his pale eyes upward. “Parbleau! I’ll tell. Why not? I got five hundred francs to finish you, and I haven’t spent a centime...” He sat up suddenly. “Be watchful of Bertal,” he gasped; “they are going to kill him.” Then his head sagged back, and he died very Quietly in Bailey’s arms.
“They are going to kill Bertal!” The dead man’s warning rang in Bailey’s ears. What had the man Bertal, whose card had been found in the corpse’s pocket, to do with this affair? Just where did he fit into the distorted mosaic? The agent had known that the presence of Bertal’s card in Sheppard’s pocket could hardly have been due to chance. But he had had no time to investigate any of the little clues he had caught out of the tangled skein. Now his time would be further occupied in preventing some one from exterminating the unhappy Monsieur Bertal.
Bailey rose from his knees to find the gray mustached gendarme regarding him quizzically.
“I have under arrest,” said Sergeant Meaux, “a woman named Denise Girard. We found her on the third floor.”
Bailey’s voice was normal when he asked, “On what charge are you holding her?”
“She has confessed to the murder of the man who was found on the Paris-Marseilles express.”
“Nonsense!” said Bailey violently.
“Perhaps not, monsieur. She is quite positive in expressing herself. And, after all, it would not be the first woman who resorted to murder. It was a wise man who first said, “Cherchez la femme.”
Bailey stood silent, eyes on the ground. It was absurd to believe that his sweet girl had committed so shocking a crime. She had confessed. Bah! What the devil was a confession? Many an innocent person had confessed before this. But ugly doubt reared its head. Why was she so apparently friendly with Beau Nash? Why—
Bailey believed it would be better not to see Denise just then. He wanted time to get a clearer vision of the affair; to make a few investigations. So in company with a gendarme, he hurried into the street, and caught a tram-car in the direction of the Cours Belsunce.
A fog had settled down in earnest, wiping out the tops of the buildings, and making the street lights mere gray smudges in the darkness. He found Monsieur Bertal’s house with difficulty, posted his gendarme outside, and rang the bell.
The Bertal apartment was on the ground floor, as the neat brass plate under the window testified. Monsieur himself opened the door a crack, and looked rather suspiciously at his visitor. Then he bowed, and said:
“Come in, Monsieur Bailey.”
Bailey had not the faintest idea of how Eugene Bertal knew him, but he kept his wonder hidden and he and the gendarme walked in.
Old Bertal might just have stepped from a painting, with his high collar, white shirt front and neck cloth with its pleats and counterpleats. He made Bailey think of English inns, with roaring fire-places and guests thumping in from the lumbering coaches—of fat turkeys, egg nogg, toddy and the rest. In appearance he was a man after Dickens’ own heart—not the pursy French chemical engineer he was supposed to be. The room itself furthered that impression.
There was a huge four-poster bed, with chintz curtains; there was an ancient mahogany bureau, quaint brass candelabra, fine old engravings on the walls, rows of leather bound books. There were also big, helpless looking wadded chairs. The host waved his guest toward one of them.
Bailey sat down. “You know me apparently, monsieur, or else you are an extraordinarily good guesser. If that is the case, possibly you can guess why I am here.”
A bleak look came into the old man’s face. He nodded.
Bailey heard the creak of cautious footsteps in the next room. He knew that old Bertal lived alone, and that in all probability the newcomer was the messenger of death.
It was pitch dark beyond the portieres, but Bill seemed to sense a blacker shape flattened against the opposite wall. Without an instant’s hesitation, he flung himself, muscular hands outstretched at the intruder, while he shouted to Monsieur Bertal to turn on the light.
He crashed against an athletic body, and received a vicious blow in the face. They clenched, and in the struggle tore a handkerchief from his opponent’s face, but it was too dark for recognition. Bertal was taking an exasperatingly long time in reaching the electric switch.
Then someone struck Bailey from behind. He reeled back, loosening his hold. The intruder tore himself free, flung open the door, and clattered out through the hallway. Bertal turned on the lights. There was no one in the room save these two.
In the street the gendarme raised an enormous pother as he ran after the fellow, but Bailey did not aid him. He simply stood and looked at Bertal.
“An explanation would not be. out of place,” he said coldly. “I risked my neck for you, and then you try to break it.”
“That is my affair,” said Bertal sullenly. “And now, we will get the principal business of your visit over and done with. I know why you—a detective—are here, and I confess freely. I killed John Sheppard on the Paris-Marseilles express!”
He opened a drawer in the table, and took out a knife, with a clotted blade.
“This is what I did it with,” he said.
When the gendarme returned, panting, and with nothing to show for his chase, Bailey left him in charge of the apartment, and took Bertal to the prefecture of police. He had not commented on Denise’s confession. He said, nothing concerning this one.
Captain Goulet smiled grimly when the American explained that Bertal had shouldered responsibility for the murder. He shook his finger reprovingly, as though the old chemical engineer were a bad, bad boy.
“It is strange, very strange, Monsieur Bailey,” he said, “and, as you Yankees say, brisk business, eh. First Mademoiselle Girard confesses, then Monsieur Bertal, and just five minutes ago Monsieur Robert, the blind man, sent for us, and said that he alone was responsible for Sheppard’s death. Now, who is really telling the truth?”