Part 6

“Oh, that’s an idea of the curé’s,” said Béchoux, looking a bit disgruntled. “There’s a minor point in the case on which we disagree.”

“Minor! That’s only in your opinion,” said the Abbé Dessole, whose handkerchief was by now wringing wet.

“What’s the trouble, father?” asked Barnett.

“Well,” the priest hesitated. “It’s about——”

“Yes?” encouraged Barnett.

“About those gold teeth. Monsieur Vernisson certainly has two gold teeth, only”—he faltered—“only, they’re on the right side of his mouth ... whereas those I saw were on the left!”

Jim Barnett could not restrain his hilarity. He burst into loud laughter. As the Abbé Dessole stared at him in blank amaze, he pulled himself together and exclaimed:

“On the right side! Too bad! But are you sure you weren’t mistaken?”

“Positive!”

“But you had met the man——”

“In the graveyard. Yes, that was Vernisson. But it couldn’t have been the same man who came in the night, since Vernisson’s gold teeth are on the right side, and the burglar’s were on the left.”

“Perhaps he had changed them over to make it more difficult,” Barnett suggested joyously. “Béchoux, do bring in the prisoner.”

Two minutes later Monsieur Vernisson was ushered in. He was forlorn and crushed looking, his melancholy aspect intensified by the depressed droop of his moustache. His escort, Baron de Gravières, was a well set-up specimen of the gentleman-farmer class, and carried a revolver. The prisoner, who looked dazed began moaning:

“I don’t understand ... a broken lock ... what does it all mean?”

“You’d better confess,” advised Béchoux, “instead of whining like that.”

“I’ll confess anything you like, if only you’ll promise not to tell my wife. That I can’t allow. I have to meet her next week at Arras. I must be there, and I can’t have her know anything of this.”

He was so frightened and upset that in his distress his mouth fell open and the gleam of the two gold teeth was apparent. Jim Barnett came up to him, inserted thumb and forefinger, and pronounced gravely:

“They’re not a bit loose. There’s no getting away from it, this chap’s teeth are on the right side. And here’s Père Dessole saying he saw them on the left.”

Inspector Béchoux was livid.

“That makes no difference! We’ve caught the thief. He’s been coming to the village for years preparing the ground for this robbery. The thing’s as clear as day. The curé must be wrong!”

The Abbé Dessole solemnly extended his arm.

“I call upon God to witness that I saw the teeth on the left!”

“On the right!”

“On the left!”

“Time!” cried Barnett. “Now then, you two, you won’t get anywhere with this ‘Katy Did’ business. What is it you’re after, father?”

“A satisfactory explanation.”

“And if you don’t get it?”

“Then I shall turn the case over to the police as I ought to have done in the beginning. If this man is not guilty, we have no right to detain him. I maintain that the burglar’s gold teeth were on the left side of his mouth.”

“Right!” bawled Béchoux.

“Left!” the abbé insisted.

“Neither right nor left,” was Barnett’s dictum. He was in his element. “Father, I promise you to produce the thief here, to-morrow morning at nine, and he will tell you himself where to find the treasure. You, Béchoux, shall spend the night in this armchair, the baron in that one and we will tie Monsieur Vernisson to this one. Béchoux, will you wake me at a quarter to nine? I drink chocolate with my breakfast. See that there’s toast—and I like my eggs lightly boiled.”

By the end of that day, Barnett had been seen all over the place. He was seen making a minute examination of each tombstone in the graveyard in turn. He was seen searching the curé’s bedroom. He was seen telephoning from the post-office. He was seen at the Hippolyte Inn, where he dined with the proprietor. He was seen striding along the highroad and strolling in the fields. But those who observed his actions could only guess at their purport.

He did not return until two o’clock next morning. The baron and the inspector were sitting very close to the man with the gold teeth, their snores reverberating in competitive crescendo. When he heard Barnett come in, Monsieur Vernisson groaned.

“Mustn’t let my wife get to know of this....”

Jim Barnett flung himself down on the floor and was fast asleep at once.

At a quarter to nine precisely Béchoux woke Barnett. Breakfast was ready. Barnett wolfed four bits of toast, three cups of chocolate, and a couple of eggs. Then he invited his audience to gather round and said:

“Father, behold me punctual to the appointed hour. Now, Béchoux, I’m going to demonstrate the extreme unimportance of all your professional sleuth stuff—footprints, and cigarette ends, and so forth—when confronted with the actual facts of the case as reconstructed by an alert intelligence, spurred by intuition and ballasted with experience.” He bowed modestly, seemingly unconscious that he was a trifle mixed in his metaphors. “We’ll begin with Monsieur Vernisson.”

“Anything—you can do anything—so long as you don’t tell my wife,” stammered the wretched commercial traveller, a wreck from anxiety and insomnia.

So Jim Barnett launched forth.

“Eighteen years ago Alexandre Vernisson, who was then already a traveller in pins, met here, in Vaneuil, a girl called Angélique, the little dressmaker of the village. It was a case of love at first sight on both sides. Monsieur Vernisson got several weeks’ leave from his employers. He courted Mademoiselle Angélique, and they eloped. She loved him dearly and was his devoted companion until her death, two years later. He was quite inconsolable, and although later on a forward young woman called Honorine got him to marry her, his memories of Mademoiselle glowed the brighter, since Honorine, a jealous shrew, never ceased nagging at him and reproaching him with his two years’ idyll, which had somehow come to her knowledge. Hence the pathetic pilgrimage in secret to Vaneuil which Alexandre Vernisson has made without fail each year. That’s so, isn’t it, Monsieur Vernisson?”

“Have it your own way,” muttered the latter, “only don’t tell....”

Jim Barnett went on:

“So, each year, Monsieur Vernisson plans his rounds so as to call at Vaneuil in his gig, unknown to Madame Honorine. He kneels beside the tomb of Angélique on each anniversary of her death, for it was here in this graveyard she was buried according to her dying wish. He revisits the places where they walked together on the day they first met, and returns to the inn at two in the morning, just as on that occasion. Not far from where we are sitting at this moment you can see the humble headstone with the inscription that gave me the explanation of Monsieur Vernisson’s movements: ‘Here lies Angélique who died on March the fourth.’ Alexandre loved her and mourns for her!”

The worthy abbé’s eyes filled with tears.

“You can see now why Monsieur Vernisson is so afraid lest Madame Honorine should learn of his present plight. What would her attitude be on hearing that her faithless husband is suspected of theft on account of his late beloved?”

Poor Monsieur Vernisson was mourning openly—partly no doubt for Angélique, and even more at the thought of his wife’s wrath. His concern was all with this aspect of the affair, and he seemed oblivious of the main issue. Béchoux, the baron and the Abbé Dessole all listened intently.

“This,” Barnett went on, “solves one of the problems confronting us—I mean Monsieur Vernisson’s exactly timed visits to Vaneuil. This solution leads us logically up to that of the second riddle—who stole the treasure? The two are interdependent. You will readily admit that the existence of such a valuable collection is likely to rouse the imagination and excite the cupidity of many people. The idea of stealing it must have occurred occasionally to both visitors and villagers. Though, thanks to your precautions, father, the theft was made pretty difficult, yet the obstacles are quite easily surmounted by anyone who happens to know the exact nature of those precautions, and who has for years enjoyed the advantage of being able to spy out the land, plan the burglary and avoid all danger of discovery. For the crux of this kind of case is—that the thief should go unsuspected. And to avoid suspicion, there is no better stratagem than to fix suspicion on someone else ... on this man, for instance, who pays furtive annual visits to the graveyard on a fixed date, who covers up his movements and invites suspicion by his very secrecy. Thus, slowly, laboriously, the plot takes shape. A grey hat, a brown overcoat, shoeprints, gold teeth—all these characteristics are the subject of minute observation by someone. This comparatively unknown commercial traveller is to be the culprit, while the real thief goes free. By the real thief I mean that mysterious someone who, secretly, perhaps in the friendly guise of a frequent visitor at the rectory, plots his ingenious manœuvre year after year.”

Barnett was silent for a moment. Bit by bit he was bringing the truth to light. Monsieur Vernisson began to assume an expression of martyrdom. Barnett’s hand went out to him.

“Madame Vernisson shall not know a thing about your pilgrimage, Monsieur Vernisson. Forgive the misunderstanding through which you have been made to suffer so grievously. And forgive me for having ransacked your gig last night and unearthed the rather amateurish hiding-place under the seat where you keep Mademoiselle Angélique’s letters along with your private papers. You are a free man, Monsieur Vernisson.” He loosed the other’s bonds.

The commercial traveller stood up.

“One moment, please!” protested Béchoux, roused to indignation by Barnett’s dénouement.

“Say on, Béchoux.”

“What about the gold teeth?” cried the inspector, “There’s no getting away from them. Père Dessole undoubtedly saw two gold teeth in the burglar’s mouth. And Monsieur Vernisson has two gold teeth—here, on the right side. What do you make of that?”

“Those I saw were on the left,” the abbé corrected him.

“On the right, father.”

“On the left, I swear.”

Jim Barnett laughed yet again.

“Shut up, both of you. You’re squabbling over a trifle. Good lord, Béchoux, here are you, a police inspector, stumped by a potty little problem. Why, it’s positively elementary, my poor friend. It’s the sort of thing they ask the Lower Third.... Father, this room is an exact replica of your bedchamber, isn’t it?”

“It is. My bedroom is directly overhead.”

“Well, father, would you be so kind as to close the shutters and draw the curtains. Monsieur Vernisson, lend me your hat and coat.”

Jim Barnett clapped the gray slouch hat on his head and donned the brown overcoat, turning up the collar. Then, when the room was quite dark, he produced a flashlight from his pocket and stood in front of the curé, projecting the beam of the torch into his own open mouth.

“The man! The man with the gold teeth!” faltered the Abbé Dessole, staring hard.

“On which side are my gold teeth, father?”

“On the right side. But—those I saw were on the left!”

Jim Barnett’s flashlight clicked out. He seized the abbé by the shoulders and spun him round quickly several times. Then he switched on the torch again suddenly and said in a tone of command:

“Look ahead of you,... straight ahead. You can see the gold teeth, can’t you? On which side are they?”

“On the left,” said the abbé, utterly dumbfounded.

Jim Barnett drew back the curtains and opened the shutters.

“On the right ... on the left ... you’re not quite sure, after all! Well, father, that explains what happened the other night. When you jumped out of bed, with a sleep-dazed brain, you never realized that you were facing away from the window and standing directly before the fireplace, so that the intruder, instead of being in front of you, was actually behind you. Therefore, when you switched on your flashlight, its beam fell not on him but on his reflection in the mirror! I’ve just brought about a repetition of the phenomenon by spinning you round and making you giddy. Do you see now? Or shall I dot the i’s of elucidation by reminding you that a mirror when it reflects an object shows you the right and left sides reversed? That is how you happened to see the gold teeth on the left side when they were really on the right.”

“Yes!” cried Inspector Béchoux, in triumph. “But that only proves that I was right, and yet Père Dessole was not wrong in maintaining his assertion. Therefore it’s up to you to produce a new man with gold teeth to take the place of Monsieur Vernisson.”

“Quite unnecessary, I assure you.”

“But you must admit that the burglar is a man with gold teeth?”

“Have I got gold teeth?” demanded Barnett, and took from his mouth a small piece of gold paper, which still bore the imprint of two of his teeth.

“Here’s your proof. I hope you find it properly convincing. With shoe-prints, a grey hat, a brown overcoat and two gold teeth, someone has fabricated an indisputable Monsieur Vernisson for your benefit. And how simple it is! One only has to get hold of a little bit of gilt paper—like this, which I got from the same shop in Vaneuil, where a whole sheet of it was purchased about three months ago, by the—Baron de Gravières.”

Barnett’s words, which he let fall quite casually, seemed to reëcho in the amazed silence which followed them. As a matter of fact, Béchoux, who had followed Barnett’s line of argument pretty closely, was not altogether surprised at the climax. But the Abbé Dessole looked as though he would choke at any moment. His eyes were fixed on his estimable parishioner, the Baron de Gravières, who sat with heightened color, but said not a word. Barnett gave Monsieur Vernisson back his hat and coat. The latter mumbled as he took his leave:

“You promise faithfully, don’t you, that Madame Vernisson shall never hear of this? It would be terrible if she got to know ... you can imagine....”

Barnett escorted him to the door and returned beaming. He rubbed his hands together gleefully.

“A good run and a quick kill. I feel thoroughly braced. You see how it’s done, Béchoux? Just the same method I applied to the other cases where we’ve worked together. Never begin by accusing the man you suspect. Don’t ask him to furnish an alibi. Don’t even take any notice of him. But, while he thinks himself perfectly safe, reconstruct the case step by step in his presence. This drives him to a mental reënaction of the part he played in it. He sees what he had thought buried in dark oblivion dragged to light. He feels himself cornered, hopelessly involved, quite unable to fight against the proofs of his guilt. The ordeal is such a strain on his nerves that it scarcely occurs to him to utter a word in self-defense or protest. Isn’t that so, baron? I take it we are all agreed. There’s no point in going over it all again, is there? You are satisfied that my deductions are correct?”

Baron de Gravières was evidently undergoing the exact ordeal described by Barnett, for he made no attempt to confront his adversary or to conceal his own distress. His attitude was that of a criminal caught red-handed.

Jim Barnett came over and tendered affable reassurance.

“You need have no fears, monsieur. Abbé Dessole, who is anxious at all costs to avoid a scandal, only asks you to return the treasure. Once that’s back in its place, the incident can be regarded as closed.”

The baron raised his head, stared a moment at the man who had compassed his downfall, and, under Barnett’s relentless gaze, murmured:

“There will be no prosecution? Nothing more will be said? I have your promise, father?”

“I shall say nothing, I promise,” said the Abbé Dessole. “I shall blot everything from my memory the minute the treasure is restored. But I can hardly believe, even now, that you stole it, monsieur le baron—that you, whom I trusted as I would myself, should turn criminal—it’s incredible!”

With the awed humility of a child confessing his sins and gaining relief by the recital, the baron whispered:

“It was too much for me, father. My thoughts kept coming back to that treasure lying there, so close ... so close ... I resisted the temptation ... I didn’t want to be a thief.... Then, the whole thing seemed to take shape in my brain of its own accord....”

“I can hardly believe it!” the abbé repeated sorrowfully. “Surely—surely——”

“It’s true enough. I had lost money in rash speculation. I had nothing left to live on. Two months ago, father, I stored all my valuable antique furniture, with several grandfather clocks and some fine tapestries in my garage. I meant to sell them ... that would have been my salvation. But I couldn’t bear to part with them ... and the fourth of March was so near. Temptation assailed me ... the idea of carrying out the plan that had come to me. I fell ... forgive me....”

“I forgive you,” said the Abbé Dessole, “and I shall pray the Lord to be merciful in His punishment to you.”

The baron stood up and said in a firm voice:

“Now, will you please come with me?”

They all walked along the highroad, like men out for a stroll. The Abbé Dessole mopped his brow. The baron’s tread was heavy and his bearing bowed. Béchoux felt acute anxiety. He had little doubt that Barnett, after deftly unravelling the threads of the case, had cheerfully helped himself to the treasure.

In high feather, Barnett held forth at his side:

“How on earth you came to miss the real thief, Béchoux, beats me. You must be blind. I saw at once that Monsieur Vernisson couldn’t have plotted the crime at the rate of one trip a year; that it was much more likely to be the work of a resident, and preferably of a neighbor. When I saw the neighbor!... Why, the baron’s house commands an unimpeded view of church and rectory. He was familiar with the curé’s various precautions. He knew all about Monsieur Vernisson’s annual pilgrimage on the fourth of March. Then....”

But Béchoux was not listening. He was too much taken up with his fears, which solemn meditation did nothing to mitigate.

Barnett went jestingly on:

“Then, when I was sure of my case, I denounced the criminal to his face. I had no actual proof at all—nothing that would stand in a court of law. But I observed my man’s face as I built up the story of what had happened and saw that he was almost beside himself. Ah, Béchoux, that’s a grand and glorious feeling! And you see where it has landed us?”

“Yes, I see ... or rather, I soon shall see ... you in clover and me in the soup, I expect,” said Béchoux, morbidly resigned to the ultimate doom.

Baron de Gravières had led them the length of several ditches on his estate, and they were now taking a narrow grass path across a field. He stopped short a few minutes later, near a clump of oaks.

“There,” he said in a staccato voice, “in that field on the right ... in the haystack.”

Béchoux’s mouth wore a twisted smile. Feeling he might as well get it over, he darted to the haystack, followed by the others.

The haystack was quite a small one. In a minute, Béchoux had tumbled the top layer to the ground. Then he rummaged in the hay, working like a ferret. Suddenly he gave a shout of triumph.

“Here they are! A monstrance!” his arm brandished it clear of the hay. “A candlestick! A sconce!” he burrowed fiercely. “Six things ... no, seven.”

“There should be nine!” cried the abbé.

“Nine there are! Why, they’re all here! Bully for you, Barnett. Bless you, old son.”

Overcome with joy, and gathering the beloved objects to his ample bosom, the abbé murmured:

“Mr. Barnett, you have my profound thanks. Heaven will reward you.”

Barnett’s inscrutable smile at this remark was perhaps indicative of his belief in the old saying: “Heaven helps those who help themselves.”

Inspector Béchoux had been right in expecting an unpleasant surprise, only it came a little later.

On their return, as the baron and his companions again skirted the farm, they heard cries coming from the orchard. The baron rushed to the garage, in front of which three of his employees stood gesticulating.

He guessed at once what had happened. The door of the small stable adjoining the garage had been forced open and all the valuable antique furniture, the grandfather clocks and the tapestries stored there—the baron’s last resources—had disappeared. He reeled back, stammering:

“This is ghastly! When did it happen?”

“Last night,” said a servant. “We heard the dogs barking about eleven o’clock.”

“But how could all the things have been spirited away?”

“In your car, sir.”

“In my car! They’ve stolen that too....”

The wretched baron sank into the arms of the priest, who comforted him as best he could.

“God’s punishment has not tarried, my poor friend. Accept it with a contrite heart....”

Béchoux advanced on Barnett with clenched fists, ready to spring and strike.

“You must notify the police, monsieur le baron,” he rasped, in a tone of fury. “I can assure you that your furniture is not lost.”

“Of course not,” agreed Barnett amicably. “But to prefer a charge would be most dangerous for the baron.”

Béchoux continued his measured advance. His eyes were steely, and his attitude one of threat. But Barnett drew him gently aside.

“Don’t you realize what would have happened without me? The curé would not have got his treasure back. The innocent Vernisson would be in jail and Madame Vernisson would know all about her unfortunate husband’s backsliding. The only thing left for you in the circumstances would have been to jump into the Seine.”

Béchoux sank limply down upon a tree stump. He was inarticulate with rage.

“Quick, quick!” cried Barnett. “Something to pull Béchoux round.... He’s not feeling well!”

Baron de Gravières gave an order. A bottle of old wine was opened. Béchoux drank down one glass, the curé another. The baron finished the bottle....

VI

TWELVE LITTLE NIGGER BOYS

Monsieur Gassire’s first waking thought that morning was for the safety of the bundle of securities which he had brought home the previous evening. He stretched out an exploring hand, and encountered the bundle still safely on the little table by his bed.

His mind set at rest, he proceeded to get out of bed and begin the business of dressing for the day.

Nicolas Gassire was a short, corpulent man with a shriveled hawk-face. He was an outside broker doing business in the Invalides quarter of Paris, with a sound clientele of worthy bourgeois. These latter entrusted their savings to him and were rewarded by the singularly attractive profits he netted for them, in part from lucky speculations and in part from his own little private business of money-lending.

He had a flat on the first floor of a narrow old house of which he was the owner. This flat comprised a hall, his bedroom, a dining-room which he used as his office, and another room in which his three clerks worked. Right at the back there was the kitchen.