menu_book Chapter 8

Chapter 8 of It Walks by Night by John Dixon Carr. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 8. We Talked of Poe. It was a relief to get out of that house and smell the warm rain-tinged air, and over everything a scent of opening green made more haunting by the dark. The three of us drove along the river in a wide swing to the Place de Lama,

where the white flowing lights all converged. The yellow glitter shining from Chez Francie on the sidewalk tables drew us in for a drink. Inside it was buzzing with the after-theatre crowd of dignitaries from the stages where they do not dance the charleston, and with the longer-quilled members of the press. There was an abrupt silence when Ben Cullen entered.

The news must have got round, of course. But though we nodded to several of the newspaper men, I was glad to see that they did not swoop down and besiege us with questions. They merely smiled politely and returned to their vermouth and their poker dice. That was for business hours. We went into one of the leather-seated booths and discussed the case until three o'clock.

Rather, Grafenstein and I discussed it, for Ben Cullen remained silent and shadowy, with a dead cigar in his fingers, and moving his hand only to order more brandy. At last we left our curtain of tobacco smoke for the spring night. And as we stood among the forlorn tables, Grafenstein was talking about beer and I was talking about swenburn.

But why we dwelt on these things was such heat I am not sure. When they had been driven home, Ben Collin, to his apartments on the avenue George V, just around the corner, and Grafenstein to his hotel on the Champs-Élysées, I came back in a kind of detached fuddle, circling the wrong point to my own apartments in the Avenue Montagne.

It was impossible to think. I stood a long time by a tall window in my drawing-room, smoking many pipes in the dark, but the weird piecing of images that rose from the night only served to make me queerly and inexplicably unhappy.

I woke in the warmth of clear blue sunlight, one of those mornings that flood you with a swashbuckling joyousness, so that you want to sing and hit somebody for sheer exuberance. The high windows were all swimming in a dazzle of sun, and up in their corners lay a trace of white clouds like angels washing hung out on a line over the grey roofs of Paris. The trees had crept into green overnight.

They filled the whole apartment with slow rustling. and they caught and sifted the light. In short, it was a springtime to make you laugh at the cynical paragraph you had written the night before. I roused and stretched in energetic laziness.

I could hear the sound of water running from my bath and smell the coffee bubbling in the percolator. Thomas, have I mentioned that invaluable servitor? Was fussing about the room in his daily agony of spirit over what clothing to select,

and smiling in the depths of his staid old British soul as he inspected the weather. I was having breakfast by the window when Thomas announced a visitor. It was Ben Cullen. He entered in the effulgence of topper and morning coat, looking almost too much like a Frenchman to be one.

His beard was freshly barbered, his expression gay and quizzical, but I knew by the deep hollows under his eyes that there had been no sleep for him the night before. Sitting down on the other side of the breakfast table, he folded his hands over his stick and looked thoughtful. Coffee, says I. Brandy, says he absently.

It was some very choice apricot, and a most disapproving Thomas brought in the decanter. Its color glowed against the sun as he held up the little aventurine glass and studied it. But his eyes seemed to be looking deep into a fathomless crystal. I wondered if the man had been drinking all night. He drained the glass and pushed it thoughtfully away.

I do not like the tone of the morning papers. He said, I think I shall finish up this case to-morrow. I once promised your father, he continued after a pause, that I would see to your welfare when you came inevitably to Paris. I suppose that now includes your participation in the present events.

And yet, I think you are rather too much like him to be of use. "'There is too much of the Irish in you both. "'Still, for that very reason, you may be of service.' "'He studied me as though I were being cast for a role, "'or, say, rather, that he resembled a general

"'thinking in numbers and geography "'without regard to the little men "'who are only battalion units to GHQ. "'In his beard was a thin Borgian smile. "'The reports from the laboratory,

"'and my check-up on certain people, "'will be in this afternoon. "'Until then we have work. Finish your breakfast. We are going to interview Monsieur Killard.' "'Good. Where is the doctor?' "'We are to pick him up at his hotel. I have brought my own car, but I want you to drive yours.

The doctor will be very valuable. I shall be interested in hearing the doctor explain the thought processes of the murderer after I have caught him.' "'Ben Cullen,' I said slowly, "'I'm wondering whether you believe that nobody notices things except yourself.' "'Ah, now we are getting down to it.

Let us have your opinions on the matter. "'I don't claim to be able to understand much of it. But don't underestimate Grafenstein. That man is no ass. He noticed something last night that so shook him up that he was hardly able to think at all.

He was almost too stupid to be true.' true. What do you think did he notice? I don't know, but I have a suspicion it's something that wasn't brought out at all. He thought it was too incredible to mention, and there were lots of other things that weren't brought out either. Such as what? Two people, namely our obstreperous friend Golton and the English lady upstairs, told about holding conversations in English with

Saligny. Then, whatever was in the back of your mind, you questioned Vautrell about that very thing. Saligny, according to him, spoke no English. Somebody is a most engaging liar. Ben Collin chuckled. Distinctly you are improving, my friend. You are now quite able to see the obvious. Now, can you suggest a reason why somebody lied? No, it doesn't seem to be of any importance at all. In fact, it's a ridiculous point to lie about, anyhow. I was only trying to

apply the doctrine of falsus in uno. Applying it to whom? To Votrell, it would seem. Then about that copy of Alice. Ben Collin dropped his bantering manner. He struck the head of his stick with gay approval. Good. You commence to be interesting. Go on. I have a theory. That smoking room last night was practically deserted, so much so that the bar steward noticed when Saligny went out.

There couldn't have been many people who could have left a copy of Alice in Wonderland there, and furthermore nobody admitted having left it. On the other hand, Vautrell and Saligny were very much there. They occupied their booth for something over half an hour, and then Vautrell stayed on himself for another half hour.

I suggested that the book was left there by Saligny accidentally. I suggest that he was taking that book up to the lady on the third floor, with whom he seems to have shared his literary tastes. I had unconsciously put a good deal of acid into that last remark, but I continued. In any case, why didn't Votrel tell us that Saligny left the book there? You are stating an excellent objection to your theory, my friend.

You imply, then, that Votrel has an excellent reason for making us believe Saligny spoke no English. If Saligny left the book there, Votrel must have known of it. But he didn't tell us. The alternative is that he left it there himself. Yes, if one grants your original premise that nobody else did.

Well, Votrel may have said what he did, because he didn't notice Saligny had left the book in the booth. That is entirely possible, you know? It seems to me, I remarked with some asperity, that Saligny is having entirely too damn many appointments for one evening, one with the woman upstairs and one with his murderer.

He seems to have planned for an exceptionally busy wedding night, which in no way concerned his bride. Then, what possible connection is there between Laurent and Saligny's paramour, Miss Gray? This mysterious man, Laurent, pays a visit to Miss Grey, smears her hand with blood,

and informs her that Saligny will not keep his appointment with her. Is Laurent taking a paternal interest in all the women in this case? Softly, said Ben Collin, laughing, in your efforts to elucidate the matter, you are almost contriving to give me a headache.

You might also inquire whether Saligny was taking a personal interest interest in all the women in this case. Ah, dear, he was a cool one, Salony. Our big athlete's character becomes more muddled as we continue. In his simple, frank, straightforward manner he arranges for a meeting on the night of

his wedding with the mistress of his best friend. According to you he is even so thoughtful as to bring along a copy of Alice in Wonderland, in order that no moment shall be wasted. Ah, Diablo! He has efficiency, that one. He is what you call in America a Rotarian.

While Thomas was phoning for the car, Ben Collin strolled into the drawing-room. I heard him strumming at the piano, picking out a careless bar or two with the dalliance of one who knows himself to be a master. And I was not at all pleased with his debonair patronizing of one's ideas. But when I came into the room, he looked up from the piano with a wry grin and observed, Listen, old man, it may interest you to know that I am afraid you are right.

He shrugged and plinked out a ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta at the end of the keyboard. Then he rose to go. Out in the street the garage man had brought round my car. Ben Collins' voisin led the way down the avenue. We circled, and he picked up Grafenstein at the hotel,

after which I trailed him down the Champs-Élysées, across the Plas de la Concorde, and over the river, then round the curve into the Boulevard Saint-Germain. We stop before a grey embattered building not far from that famous restaurant which has annexed the Boulevard as a secondary attraction. An archway with massive doors like a prison led into a tunnel,

where a troll-faced concierge poked his neck out suspiciously as we passed through the tunnel into a weedy quadrangle shadowed by grey gloomy walls. When we found Monsieur Killard's offices, a morose clerk lined us up in a long waiting room with barred windows, and decorated tastefully by a picture of the eminent Dr. Guillotine.

Presently we were led into the lawyer's office. He had been either rehearsing a speech or bawling out a clerk, for he exhibited signs of a passionate and jovian calm. He was a gaunt man whose body looked collapsible. He possessed a high-balled skull with a beaked nose and cold eyes under carven lids.

The whites of those eyes gleamed with startling purity out of his dusty face. Standing behind a broad desk in a room lined with books, he wore an advocate's black robe and bowed loftily as we entered. Ah, he said, you've come about the Salenier affair. It was very sad, that.

Have chairs, please. His manner was that of a dentist reaching for his forceps. We sat down in chairs which squeaked in chorus, the loudest creak emanating from that of Monsieur Killard. The lawyer glanced at us and turned questioningly.

I am sure, Monsieur Killard, said Ben Cullen, that you will be violating the professional confidences if you answer us a few questions. You knew Monsieur de Saligny well, of course? The lawyer considered, cocking his head on one side. No, Monsieur, I can't say that I did. I handled his affairs, but it was his father I knew well.

I met his father in the spring of 92. No, it was 93, April 7, 1893, to be exact. That being the day, a cloudy day with occasional showers, on which I defended Jules Lefeur for burglary. He cleared his throat and looked hard at us, as though to say,

Will you please tell the jury where you were on April 7, 1893? Technically, I have been Raoul's advisor since his birth, but I seldom saw him. He was not a young man who interested himself in financial affairs. So long as he could draw a check, he was incurious. But you entertained for him yesterday, I understand.

Yes, yes, as you understand, it was only fitting that I should add my blessing and cooperation to this union. Besides, it was Madame Killard's idea, and I must say, he had lost interest and the carven lids were blinking at a corner of the ceiling, that, having had several talks with him as his marriage day approached, I formed a much higher opinion of the young man than I had originally possessed.

"'Yes, that's it.' "'He consulted you, then?' "'Naturally, monsieur. He was worried, and I do not blame him. He wished to provide for the future.'

Suddenly the whitish eyes were fixed on us. Killard's shoulders hunched under the black robe. "'He made a will, then?' "'Yes. He also arranged for me to get him the sum of one million francs.'

There was a silence, Ben Collin murmured. Pierre! So, wasn't that a bit unusual? If I never deal with the unusual, monsieur, I should not be practicing this profession. When Monsieur de Saligny wanted a million francs in cash, his securities and my connections were such that the bank at least did not think it unusual.

Abruptly, Killard added, Perhaps I had better tell you. Monsieur de Saligny explained it to me. His quiet honeymoon at home was obliged. He wished that published in the papers to deceive. any, let us say, malevolent force watching him. He planned to start today with Madame,

whereabouts unknown, and with cash enough to keep them supplied without communicating with anybody until the police should apprehend this malefactor. Of course, I do not use the word in its accepted legal sense, and I am wondering whether a million francs was enough to cover such a time. All antagonistic, everybody we met seemed guardedly to bear claws, to skirt and avoid the open. But there was another element and a vague doubt that even harassed this dry old vulture in the black robe.

He told us what he did, you sense, not out of any desire to be frank, rather to test its effect on us. The bare skull was leaning forward against the light from a window, his elbow crooked on the desk, and long fingers playing with a steel paper knife. During the long stillness, I could hear a wind through the open window rustling papers, and a hopping twitter of birds in the courtyard.

A cloud stirred across the face of the sun, and slow shadow was drawn over Killard's tense figure. Ben Collin asked, Tell me, Monsieur Killard, do you know if by any chance your wife found a trowel

in the medicine chest of her bathroom? The effect of the question in this place was rather ludicrous. Killard stiffened and put down the paper knife. I fell to follow Monsieur's humour. A trowel?

A trowel? As he repeated the word, his eyes flashed open, and his body snapped with the sudden rustling dart of a rattlesnake. What should a trowel be doing there? You place the reference, then?

Yes, it's not the first time I have heard mention of a trowel. I should not have thought it possible for last night's terror to come back. But, insensibly, as the long shadow crept across the dusty room of books, It was as though Laurent's shadow were on us again. Killard continued slowly.

I'm going to tell you about it. It has preyed on my mind. Well, he made a gesture in his flowing sleeve. On the night before last, Thursday, April 22nd, Monsieur de Saligny gave a bachelor dinner at his home.

It was not a sporting affair such as he used to give. Madame Killard tells me that at one time his dinners were highly undignified. even roistering, I may say, and included as guest professional men from the racetrack, swordsmen, boxers, and others whom we come to look on in this day and age. He said bitterly, as the equal of a nobleman of France.

The skinny figure straightened up. I caught my breath. In his eyes was now a look curiously proud and poignant, as at the sight of torn battle flags going by. As once upon a time a guardsman would have said,

the emperor with his hands at salute, even when the crushed and beaten eagles fluttered down. We are of the old school that dies. I remember that grey house in the bois, within sight of the arch, when his father owned it and stately people walked in its halls. He was a great man, that one. Killard brooded. Suddenly he went on. You will not know, you will not understand, what it means to some of us when the last of the aristocrats pass one by one from the world.

It is like the blowing out of candles in a chateau, one by one, until all the house is dark. God in heaven, it strikes home. It leaves us lost. I saw Raoul's father die in that house, and ever afterward all those big rooms seemed to smell of medicine and death. He was spasmodically opening and shutting the fingers of his hand, and his words were like falling timbers of a house knocked down in dust and clatter to show long-imprisoned things to

the light. The dry precision had left him. The man was trying to tell us something. Hesitant, peering at us, urged to convey some nameless doubt. But that night it was like the old days, no sporting dinner but guests from the Almanac, people whose fathers Raoul knew but who scarcely knew him. It was astonishing in this day to find a dinner so perfectly prepared, and to eat it with people with intelligence enough to realize that Brillat-Savary was one of France's greatest men.

Nowadays they cannot tell Chambertin from Sartrene. They will drink champagne from a bottle with a soft cork, and decant port as you would pour out water, without attention to the sediment. Ah, Zuth, it is blasphemy. They will serve Chablis with anything but the oysters, and I say to you, messieurs, that a host who would not offer Medoc instead of a Burgundy with the game should be shut without mere—I ask your pardon, monsieur, as I digress. Yes, it was an excellent dinner at a

long table with flowers, but it was a very cold and gloomy one. I like, I must confess, to see a certain mellow expansion with the wine. Nothing undignified, you understand? But here were just a number of people with faces as expressionless as their shirt-fronts, sitting at a long table with candles burning like the candles round a coffin. It should have been merry, but no merriment was there.

Finally the guests left, all with their precise bows and congratulations, but not with the fine real courtesy we used to know. At any rate, there remained only two of us, a certain Monsieur Vortrel, possibly you know him, and myself. We sat at that long table in the gloom of the tall house

which smelled of medicine and death, with our elbows among the roses. There were many windows with little diamond panes slanted open to catch the low sheen of the candles, and outside the windows was a plum blue sky lighted by a single star. There came a sweep of wind rustling through the long grasses, stirring a froth of blossom to the tops of dark trees in a tremulous whispering. The flames of the tall candles

undulated slightly above the white table, over the faded upholstery of the chairs, until everything seemed to move except the faces of my companions, and their clenched fingers hooked round the stem of a wine-glass. But a cold presence had come like another shadow across the light, and as we waited for its approach we talked.

We talked of famous murders. Here was Killard emerging from his dry shell, the man who brooded so long on the past that he had become fae with a kind of dim poetry. Famous murders! The table, piled with roses, put the idea into Vautrell's mind of Langeroo decorating the room for his sweetheart.

We talked of Trotman, of Basson, Vacher, Crippen, and Spring-Heeled Jack, of Major Armstrong with his hypodermic needle, and Smith with his tin baths, of Durand, Harmon, and La Pomeray, of Cream, of Thurtel, and Hunt, of Hosh and Wainwright, the Poisoners, and the demure Constance Kint, There we sat with that insane repulsion which makes men go into the thing, and Vortrell talked

of the artistry of crimes planned like a plane, laughed. So Raoul's hand shook when he drank his red wine among the candle flames in the shadows. Now into Killard's dusty countenance had come a pale shine like marble, and the blue veins stood out at his temples. His black robe rustled, and the eyes under the carven lids fixed us with a hypnotic stare. We went into history and fiction. It was a nightmare. Votrell was more than half drunk, but we all preserved that low tone of voice,

and Raoul was sitting back with the glass dangling from his hand hunched up against his breast, and a kind of fierce glare in his eyes. So Votrell, in his silky tone, said, To my mind, the most artistic scene in all literature comes from Poe. You know Poe, don't you, Raul? And he smiled. It is the story about the Amontillado, where Montressor takes Fortunato down into the catacombs to bury him in the wall forever, walled up with blocks of stone

and bones. You're very familiar with that story, aren't you, Raul? Fortunato, not knowing of his impending doom, asks his companion if he is a member of the Brotherhood of Masons. Montressor says yes. A sign, cries Fortunato, whereat Montressor, with his own grisly humour, takes from under his robe, a trowel. I said, you're very familiar with that story, eh, Raoul? And he laughed in an arrogant drunkenness. Name of God, the expression on Raoul's face. Partly of fear, partly of amazement,

as he looked at Votral, as though he suspected something he could not believe. He staggered up against the table, and his glass rolled over among the roses. His elbow knocked down a candle, and I cried, Watch out, man, you'll set the place on fire. I leaned over to thump it out with my hand, and called for the butler, and felt the hot wax under my hand. But there were those two looking at each other, Raul with his hair hanging down in his face, and Vortrell with a cork of his eyelid,

like a diabolical wink. Collard caught himself up. The picture vanished. He was once again dry and businesslike, in a businesslike room that smelt of books and mice. That is all, monsieur, "'It was,' he said. "'There was no fire, of course. "'The candle merely damaged a very valuable tablecloth.'"

End of chapter 8