Chapter 2

Your name?”

“Isidore Beautrelet.”

“Your occupation?”

“Sixth-form pupil at the Lycée Janson-de-Sailly.”

M. Filleul opened a pair of startled eyes.

“What are you talking about? Sixth-form pupil—”

“At the Lycée Janson, Rue de la Pompe, number—”

“Oh, look here,” exclaimed M. Filleul, “you’re trying to take me in!
This won’t do, you know; a joke can go too far!”

“I must say, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, that your astonishment
surprises me. What is there to prevent my being a sixth-form pupil at
the Lycée Janson? My beard, perhaps? Set your mind at ease: my beard is
false!”

Isidore Beautrelet pulled off the few curls that adorned his chin, and
his beardless face appeared still younger and pinker, a genuine
schoolboy’s face. And, with a laugh like a child’s, revealing his white
teeth:

“Are you convinced now?” he asked. “Do you want more proofs? Here, you
can read the address on these letters from my father: ‘_To Monsieur
Isidore Beautrelet, Indoor Pupil, Lycée Janson-de-Sailly_.’”

Convinced or not, M. Filleul did not look as if he liked the story. He
asked, gruffly:

“What are you doing here?”

“Why—I’m—I’m improving my mind.”

“There are schools for that: yours, for instance.”

“You forget, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, that this is the
twenty-third of April and that we are in the middle of the Easter
holidays.”

“Well?”

“Well, I have every right to spend my holidays as I please.”

“Your father—”

“My father lives at the other end of the country, in Savoy, and he
himself advised me to take a little trip on the North Coast.”

“With a false beard?”

“Oh, no! That’s my own idea. At school, we talk a great deal about
mysterious adventures; we read detective stories, in which people
disguise themselves; we imagine any amount of terrible and intricate
cases. So I thought I would amuse myself; and I put on this false
beard. Besides, I enjoyed the advantage of being taken seriously and I
pretended to be a Paris reporter. That is how, last night, after an
uneventful period of more than a week, I had the pleasure of making the
acquaintance of my Rouen colleague; and, this morning, when he heard of
the Ambrumésy murder, he very kindly suggested that I should come with
him and that we should share the cost of a fly.”

Isidore Beautrelet said all this with a frank and artless simplicity of
which it was impossible not to feel the charm. M. Filleul himself,
though maintaining a distrustful reserve, took a certain pleasure in
listening to him. He asked him, in a less peevish tone:

“And are you satisfied with your expedition?”

“Delighted! All the more as I had never been present at a case of the
sort and I find that this one is not lacking in interest.”

“Nor in that mysterious intricacy which you prize so highly—”

“And which is so stimulating, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction! I know
nothing more exciting than to see all the facts coming up out of the
shadow, clustering together, so to speak, and gradually forming the
probable truth.”

“The probable truth! You go pretty fast, young man! Do you suggest that
you have your little solution of the riddle ready?”

“Oh, no!” replied Beautrelet, with a laugh.

“Only—it seems to me that there are certain points on which it is not
impossible to form an opinion; and others, even, are so precise as to
warrant—a conclusion.”

“Oh, but this is becoming very curious and I shall get to know
something at last! For I confess, to my great confusion, that I know
nothing.”

“That is because you have not had time to reflect, Monsieur le Juge
d’Instruction. The great thing is to reflect. Facts very seldom fail to
carry their own explanation!”

“And, according to you, the facts which we have just ascertained carry
their own explanation?”

“Don’t you think so yourself? In any case, I have ascertained none
besides those which are set down in the official report.”

“Good! So that, if I were to ask you which were the objects stolen from
this room—”

“I should answer that I know.”

“Bravo! My gentleman knows more about it than the owner himself. M. de
Gesvres has everything accounted for: M. Isidore Beautrelet has not. He
misses a bookcase in three sections and a life-size statue which nobody
ever noticed. And, if I asked you the name of the murderer?”

“I should again answer that I know it.”

All present gave a start. The deputy and the journalist drew nearer. M.
de Gesvres and the two girls, impressed by Beautrelet’s tranquil
assurance, listened attentively.

“You know the murderer’s name?”

“Yes.”

“And the place where he is concealed, perhaps?”

“Yes.”

M. Filleul rubbed his hands.

“What a piece of luck! This capture will do honor to my career. And can
you make me these startling revelations now?”

“Yes, now—or rather, if you do not mind, in an hour or two, when I
shall have assisted at your inquiry to the end.”

“No, no, young man, here and now, please.” At that moment Raymonde de
Saint-Véran, who had not taken her eyes from Isidore Beautrelet since
the beginning of this scene, came up to M. Filleul:

“Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction—”

“Yes, mademoiselle?”

She hesitated for two or three seconds, with her eyes fixed on
Beautrelet, and then, addressing M. Filleul:

“I should like you to ask monsieur the reason why he was walking
yesterday in the sunk road which leads up to the little door.”

It was an unexpected and dramatic stroke. Isidore Beautrelet appeared
nonplussed:

“I, mademoiselle? I? You saw me yesterday?”

Raymonde remained thoughtful, with her eyes upon Beautrelet, as though
she were trying to settle her own conviction, and then said, in a
steady voice:

“At four o’clock in the afternoon, as I was crossing the wood, I met in
the sunk road a young man of monsieur’s height, dressed like him and
wearing a beard cut in the same way—and I received a very clear
impression that he was trying to hide.”

“And it was I?”

“I could not say that as an absolute certainty, for my recollection is
a little vague. Still—still, I think so—if not, it would be an unusual
resemblance—”

M. Filleul was perplexed. Already taken in by one of the confederates,
was he now going to let himself be tricked by this self-styled
schoolboy? Certainly, the young man’s manner spoke in his favor; but
one can never tell!

“What have you to say, sir?”

“That mademoiselle is mistaken, as I can easily show you with one word.
Yesterday, at the time stated, I was at Veules.”

“You will have to prove it, you will have to. In any case, the position
is not what it was. Sergeant, one of your men will keep monsieur
company.”

Isidore Beautrelet’s face denoted a keen vexation.

“Will it be for long?”

“Long enough to collect the necessary information.”

“Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, I beseech you to collect it with all
possible speed and discretion.”

“Why?”

“My father is an old man. We are very much attached to each other—and I
would not have him suffer on my account.”

The more or less pathetic note in his voice made a bad impression on M.
Filleul. It suggested a scene in a melodrama. Nevertheless, he
promised:

“This evening—or to-morrow at latest, I shall know what to think.”

The afternoon was wearing on. The examining magistrate returned to the
ruins of the cloisters, after giving orders that no unauthorized
persons were to be admitted, and patiently, methodically, dividing the
ground into lots which were successively explored, himself directed the
search. But at the end of the day he was no farther than at the start;
and he declared, before an army of reporters who, during that time, had
invaded the château:

“Gentlemen, everything leads us to suppose that the wounded man is
here, within our reach; everything, that is, except the reality, the
fact. Therefore, in our humble opinion, he must have escaped and we
shall find him outside.”

By way of precaution, however, he arranged, with the sergeant of
gendarmes, for a complete watch to be kept over the park and, after
making a fresh examination of the two drawing rooms, visiting the whole
of the château and surrounding himself with all the necessary
information, he took the road back to Dieppe, accompanied by the deputy
prosecutor.

Night fell. As the boudoir was to remain locked, Jean Daval’s body had
been moved to another room. Two women from the neighborhood sat up with
it, assisted by Suzanne and Raymonde. Downstairs, young Isidore
Beautrelet slept on the bench in the old oratory, under the watchful
eye of the village policeman, who had been attached to his person.
Outside, the gendarmes, the farmer and a dozen peasants had taken up
their position among the ruins and along the walls.

All was still until eleven o’clock; but, at ten minutes past eleven, a
shot echoed from the other side of the house.

“Attention!” roared the sergeant. “Two men remain here: you,
Fossier—and you, Lecanu—The others at the double!”

They all rushed forward and ran round the house on the left. A figure
was seen to make away in the dark. Then, suddenly, a second shot drew
them farther on, almost to the borders of the farm. And, all at once,
as they arrived, in a band, at the hedge which lines the orchard, a
flame burst out, to the right of the farmhouse, and other flames also
rose in a thick column. It was a barn burning, stuffed to the ridge
with straw.

“The scoundrels!” shouted the sergeant. “They’ve set fire to it. Have
at them, lads! They can’t be far away!”

But the wind was turning the flames toward the main building; and it
became necessary, before all things, to ward off the danger. They all
exerted themselves with the greater ardor inasmuch as M. de Gesvres,
hurrying to the scene of the disaster, encouraged them with the promise
of a reward. By the time that they had mastered the flames, it was two
o’clock in the morning. All pursuit would have been vain.

“We’ll look into it by daylight,” said the sergeant. “They are sure to
have left traces: we shall find them.”

“And I shall not be sorry,” added M. de Gesvres, “to learn the reason
of this attack. To set fire to trusses of straw strikes me as a very
useless proceeding.”

“Come with me, Monsieur le Comte: I may be able to tell you the
reason.”

Together they reached the ruins of the cloisters. The sergeant called
out:

“Lecanu!—Fossier!”

The other gendarmes were already hunting for their comrades whom they
had left standing sentry. They ended by finding them at a few paces
from the little door. The two men were lying full length on the ground,
bound and gagged, with bandages over their eyes.

“Monsieur le Comte,” muttered the sergeant, while his men were being
released; “Monsieur le Comte, we have been tricked like children.”

“How so?”

“The shots—the attack on the barn—the fire—all so much humbug to get us
down there—a diversion. During that time they were tying up our two men
and the business was done.”

“What business?”

“Carrying off the wounded man, of course!”

“You don’t mean to say you think—?”

“Think? Why, it’s as plain as a pikestaff! The idea came to me ten
minutes ago—but I’m a fool not to have thought of it earlier. We should
have nabbed them all.” Quevillon stamped his foot on the ground, with a
sudden attack of rage. “But where, confound it, where did they go
through? Which way did they carry him off? For, dash it all, we beat
the ground all day; and a man can’t hide in a tuft of grass, especially
when he’s wounded! It’s witchcraft, that’s what it is!—”

Nor was this the last surprise awaiting Sergeant Quevillon. At dawn,
when they entered the oratory which had been used as a cell for young
Isidore Beautrelet, they realized that young Isidore Beautrelet had
vanished.

On a chair slept the village policeman, bent in two. By his side stood
a water-bottle and two tumblers. At the bottom of one of those tumblers
a few grains of white powder.

On examination, it was proved, first, that young Isidore Beautrelet had
administered a sleeping draught to the village policeman; secondly,
that he could only have escaped by a window situated at a height of
seven or eight feet in the wall; and lastly—a charming detail,
this—that he could only have reached this window by using the back of
his warder as a footstool.

CHAPTER TWO
ISIDORE BEAUTRELET, SIXTH-FORM SCHOOLBOY

From the _Grand Journal_.

LATEST NEWS

DOCTOR DELATTRE KIDNAPPED
A MAD PIECE OF CRIMINAL DARING

At the moment of going to press, we have received an item of news which
we dare not guarantee as authentic, because of its very improbable
character. We print it, therefore, with all reserve.

Yesterday evening, Dr. Delattre, the well-known surgeon, was present,
with his wife and daughter, at the performance of _Hernani_ at the
Comédie Française. At the commencement of the third act, that is to
say, at about ten o’clock, the door of his box opened and a gentleman,
accompanied by two others, leaned over to the doctor and said to him,
in a low voice, but loud enough for Mme. Delattre to hear:

“Doctor, I have a very painful task to fulfil and I shall be very
grateful to you if you will make it as easy for me as you can.”

“Who are you, sir?”

“M. Thézard, commissary of police of the first district; and my
instructions are to take you to M. Dudouis, at the prefecture.”

“But—”

“Not a word, doctor, I entreat you, not a movement—There is some
regrettable mistake; and that is why we must act in silence and not
attract anybody’s attention. You will be back, I have no doubt, before
the end of the performance.”

The doctor rose and went with the commissary. At the end of the
performance, he had not returned. Mme. Delattre, greatly alarmed, drove
to the office of the commissary of police. There she found the real M.
Thézard and discovered, to her great terror, that the individual who
had carried off her husband was an impostor.

Inquiries made so far have revealed the fact that the doctor stepped
into a motor car and that the car drove off in the direction of the
Concorde.

Readers will find further details of this incredible adventure in our
second edition.

Incredible though it might be, the adventure was perfectly true.
Besides, the issue was not long delayed and the _Grand Journal_, while
confirming the story in its midday edition, described in a few lines
the dramatic ending with which it concluded:

THE STORY ENDS
AND
GUESS-WORK BEGINS

Dr. Delattre was brought back to 78, Rue Duret, at nine o’clock this
morning, in a motor car which drove away immediately at full speed.

No. 78, Rue Duret, is the address of Dr. Delattre’s clinical surgery,
at which he arrives every morning at the same hour. When we sent in our
card, the doctor, though closeted with the chief of the detective
service, was good enough to consent to receive us.

“All that I can tell you,” he said, in reply to our questions, “is that
I was treated with the greatest consideration. My three companions were
the most charming people I have ever met, exquisitely well-mannered and
bright and witty talkers: a quality not to be despised, in view of the
length of the journey.”

“How long did it take?”

“About four hours and as long returning.”

“And what was the object of the journey?”

“I was taken to see a patient whose condition rendered an immediate
operation necessary.”

“And was the operation successful?”

“Yes, but the consequences may be dangerous. I would answer for the
patient here. Down there—under his present conditions—”

“Bad conditions?”

“Execrable!—A room in an inn—and the practically absolute impossibility
of being attended to.”

“Then what can save him?”

“A miracle—and his constitution, which is an exceptionally strong one.”

“And can you say nothing more about this strange patient?”

“No. In the first place, I have taken an oath; and, secondly, I have
received a present of ten thousand francs for my free surgery. If I do
not keep silence, this sum will be taken from me.”

“You are joking! Do you believe that?”

“Indeed I do. The men all struck me as being very much in earnest.”

This is the statement made to us by Dr. Delattre. And we know, on the
other hand, that the head of the detective service, in spite of all his
insisting, has not yet succeeded in extracting any more precise
particulars from him as to the operation which he performed, the
patient whom he attended or the district traversed by the car. It is
difficult, therefore, to arrive at the truth.

This truth, which the writer of the interview confessed himself unable
to discover, was guessed by the more or less clear-sighted minds that
perceived a connection with the facts which had occurred the day before
at the Château d’Ambrumésy, and which were reported, down to the
smallest detail, in all the newspapers of that day. There was evidently
a coincidence to be reckoned with in the disappearance of a wounded
burglar and the kidnapping of a famous surgeon.

The judicial inquiry, moreover, proved the correctness of the
hypothesis. By following the track of the sham flyman, who had fled on
a bicycle, they were able to show that he had reached the forest of
Arques, at some ten miles’ distance, and that from there, after
throwing his bicycle into a ditch, he had gone to the village of
Saint-Nicolas, whence he had dispatched the following telegram:

A. L. N., _Post-office_ 45, Paris.
Situation desperate. Operation urgently necessary. Send celebrity
by national road fourteen.

The evidence was undeniable. Once apprised the accomplices in Paris
hastened to make their arrangements. At ten o’clock in the evening they
sent their celebrity by National Road No. 14, which skirts the forest
of Arques and ends at Dieppe. During this time, under cover of the fire
which they themselves had caused, the gang of burglars carried off
their leader and moved him to an inn, where the operation took place on
the arrival of the surgeon, at two o’clock in the morning.

About that there was no doubt. At Pontoise, at Gournay, at Forges,
Chief-inspector Ganimard, who was sent specially from Paris, with
Inspector Folenfant, as his assistant, ascertained that a motor car had
passed in the course of the previous night. The same on the road from
Dieppe to Ambrumésy. And, though the traces of the car were lost at
about a mile and a half from the château, at least a number of
footmarks were seen between the little door in the park wall and the
abbey ruins. Besides, Ganimard remarked that the lock of the little
door had been forced.

So all was explained. It remained to decide which inn the doctor had
spoken of: an easy piece of work for a Ganimard, a professional ferret,
a patient old stager of the police. The number of inns is limited and
this one, given the condition of the wounded man, could only be one
quite close to Ambrumésy. Ganimard and Sergeant Quevillon set to work.
Within a circle of five hundred yards, of a thousand yards, of fifteen
hundred yards, they visited and ransacked everything that could pass
for an inn. But, against all expectation, the dying man persisted in
remaining invisible.

Ganimard became more resolved than ever. He came back to sleep at the
château, on the Saturday night, with the intention of making his
personal inquiry on the Sunday. On Sunday morning, he learned that,
during the night, a posse of gendarmes had seen a figure gliding along
the sunk road, outside the wall. Was it an accomplice who had come back
to investigate? Were they to suppose that the leader of the gang had
not left the cloisters or the neighborhood of the cloisters?

That night, Ganimard openly sent the squad of gendarmes to the farm and
posted himself and Folenfant outside the walls, near the little door.

A little before midnight, a person passed out of the wood, slipped
between them, went through the door and entered the park. For three
hours, they saw him wander from side to side across the ruins,
stooping, climbing up the old pillars, sometimes remaining for long
minutes without moving. Then he went back to the door and again passed
between the two inspectors.

Ganimard caught him by the collar, while Folenfant seized him round the
body. He made no resistance of any kind and, with the greatest
docility, allowed them to bind his wrists and take him to the house.
But, when they attempted to question him, he replied simply that he
owed them no account of his doings and that he would wait for the
arrival of the examining magistrate. Thereupon, they fastened him
firmly to the foot of a bed, in one of the two adjoining rooms which
they occupied.

At nine o’clock on Monday morning, as soon as M. Filleul had arrived,
Ganimard announced the capture which he had made. The prisoner was
brought downstairs. It was Isidore Beautrelet.

“M. Isidore Beautrelet!” exclaimed M. Filleul with an air of rapture,
holding out both his hands to the newcomer. “What a delightful
surprise! Our excellent amateur detective here! And at our disposal
too! Why, it’s a windfall!—M. Chief-inspector, allow me to introduce to
you M. Isidore Beautrelet, a sixth-form pupil at the Lycée
Janson-de-Sailly.”

Ganimard seemed a little nonplussed. Isidore made him a very low bow,
as though he were greeting a colleague whom he knew how to esteem at
his true value, and, turning to M. Filleul:

“It appears, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, that you have received a
satisfactory account of me?”

“Perfectly satisfactory! To begin with, you were really at
Veules-les-Roses at the time when Mlle. de Saint-Véran thought she saw
you in the sunk road. I dare say we shall discover the identity of your
double. In the second place, you are in very deed Isidore Beautrelet, a
sixth-form pupil and, what is more, an excellent pupil, industrious at
your work and of exemplary behavior. As your father lives in the
country, you go out once a month to his correspondent, M. Bernod, who
is lavish in his praises of you.”

“So that—”

“So that you are free, M. Isidore Beautrelet.”

“Absolutely free?”

“Absolutely. Oh, I must make just one little condition, all the same.
You can understand that I can’t release a gentleman who administers
sleeping-draughts, who escapes by the window and who is afterward
caught in the act of trespassing upon private property. I can’t release
him without a compensation of some kind.”

“I await your pleasure.”

“Well, we will resume our interrupted conversation and you shall tell
me how far you have advanced with your investigations. In two days of
liberty, you must have carried them pretty far?” And, as Ganimard was
preparing to go, with an affectation of contempt for that sort of
practice, the magistrate cried, “Not at all, M. Inspector, your place
is here—I assure you that M. Isidore Beautrelet is worth listening to.
M. Isidore Beautrelet, according to my information, has made a great
reputation at the Lycée Janson-de-Sailly as an observer whom nothing
escapes; and his schoolfellows, I hear, look upon him as your
competitor and a rival of Holmlock Shears!”

“Indeed!” said Ganimard, ironically.

“Just so. One of them wrote to me, ‘If Beautrelet declares that he
knows, you must believe him; and, whatever he says, you may be sure
that it is the exact expression of the truth.’ M. Isidore Beautrelet,
now or never is the time to vindicate the confidence of your friends. I
beseech you, give us the exact expression of the truth.”

Isidore listened with a smile and replied:

“Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, you are very cruel. You make fun of
poor schoolboys who amuse themselves as best they can. You are quite
right, however, and I will give you no further reason to laugh at me.”

“The fact is that you know nothing, M. Isidore Beautrelet.”

“Yes, I confess in all humility that I know nothing. For I do not call
it ‘knowing anything’ that I happen to have hit upon two or three more
precise points which, I am sure, cannot have escaped you.”

“For instance?”

“For instance, the object of the theft.”

“Ah, of course, you know the object of the theft?”

“As you do, I have no doubt. In fact, it was the first thing I studied,
because the task struck me as easier.”

“Easier, really?”

“Why, of course. At the most, it’s a question of reasoning.”

“Nothing more than that?”

“Nothing more.”

“And what is your reasoning?”

“It is just this, stripped of all extraneous comment: on the one hand,
_there has been a theft_, because the two young ladies are agreed and
because they really saw two men running away and carrying things with
them.”

“There has been a theft.”

“On the other hand, _nothing has disappeared_, because M. de Gesvres
says so and he is in a better position than anybody to know.”

“Nothing has disappeared.”

“From those two premises I arrive at this inevitable result: granted
that there has been a theft and that nothing has disappeared, it is
because the object carried off has been replaced by an exactly similar
object. Let me hasten to add that possibly my argument may not be
confirmed by the facts. But I maintain that it is the first argument
that ought to occur to us and that we are not entitled to waive it
until we have made a serious examination.”

“That’s true—that’s true,” muttered the magistrate, who was obviously
interested.

“Now,” continued Isidore, “what was there in this room that could
arouse the covetousness of the burglars? Two things. The tapestry
first. It can’t have been that. Old tapestry cannot be imitated: the
fraud would have been palpable at once. There remain the four Rubens
pictures.”

“What’s that you say?”

“I say that the four Rubenses on that wall are false.”

“Impossible!”

“They are false _a priori_, inevitably and without a doubt.”

“I tell you, it’s impossible.”

“It is very nearly a year ago, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, since a
young man, who gave his name as Charpenais, came to the Château
d’Ambrumésy and asked permission to copy the Rubens pictures. M. de
Gesvres gave him permission. Every day for five months Charpenais
worked in this room from morning till dusk. The copies which he made,
canvases and frames, have taken the place of the four original pictures
bequeathed to M. de Gesvres by his uncle, the Marqués de Bobadilla.”

“Prove it!”

“I have no proof to give. A picture is false because it is false; and I
consider that it is not even necessary to examine these four.”

M. Filleul and Ganimard exchanged glances of unconcealed astonishment.
The inspector no longer thought of withdrawing. At last, the magistrate
muttered:

“We must have M. de Gesvres’s opinion.”

And Ganimard agreed:

“Yes, we must have his opinion.”

And they sent to beg the count to come to the drawing room.

The young sixth-form pupil had won a real victory. To compel two
experts, two professionals like M. Filleul and Ganimard to take account
of his surmises implied a testimony of respect of which any other would
have been proud. But Beautrelet seemed not to feel those little
satisfactions of self-conceit and, still smiling without the least
trace of irony, he placidly waited.

M. de Gesvres entered the room.

“Monsieur le Comte,” said the magistrate, “the result of our inquiry
has brought us face to face with an utterly unexpected contingency,
which we submit to you with all reserve. It is possible—I say that it
is possible—that the burglars, when breaking into the house, had it as
their object to steal your four pictures by Rubens—or, at least, to
replace them by four copies—copies which are said to have been made
last year by a painter called Charpenais. Would you be so good as to
examine the pictures and to tell us if you recognize them as genuine?”

The count appeared to suppress a movement of annoyance, looked at
Isidore Beautrelet and at M. Filleul and replied, without even
troubling to go near the pictures:

“I hoped, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, that the truth might have
remained unknown. As this is not so, I have no hesitation in declaring
that the four pictures are false.”

“You knew it, then?”

“From the beginning.”

“Why didn’t you say so?”

“The owner of a work is never in a hurry to declare that that work is
not—or, rather, is no longer genuine.”

“Still, it was the only means of recovering them.”

“I consider that there was another and a better.”

“Which was that?”

“Not to make the secret known, not to frighten my burglars and to offer
to buy back the pictures, which they must find more or less difficult
to dispose of.”

“How would you communicate with them?”

As the count did not reply, Isidore answered for him:

“By means of an advertisement in the papers.