The Mystery of the Boule Cabinet 4 – Stevenson · Verses Across
Literature · Detective Fiction
The Mystery of the Boule Cabinet 4The Thunderbolt
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Literature · Detective Fiction
The Mystery of the Boule Cabinet 4
The Thunderbolt
StevensonEnglish
It was about eight o'clock that evening that Godfrey tapped at my door, and when I let him in, I could tell by the way his eyes were shining that he had some news.
"I can't stay long," he said. "I've got to get down to the office and put the finishing touches on that story;" but nevertheless he took the cigar I proffered him and sank into the chair opposite my own.
I knew Godfrey, so I waited patiently until the cigar was going nicely, then--
"Well?" I asked.
"It's like old times, isn't it, Lester?" and he smiled across at me. "How many conferences have we had in this room? How many of your cigars have I made away with?"
"Not half enough recently," I said. "You haven't been here for months."
"I'm sure to drift back, sooner or later, because you seem to have a knack of getting in on the interesting cases. And I want to say this, Lester, that of all I ever had, not one has promised better than this one does. If it only keeps up--but one mustn't expect too much!"
"You've been working on it, of course?"
"I haven't been idle, and just now I'm feeling rather pleased with myself. The coroner's physician finished his post-mortem half an hour or so ago."
"Well?" I said again.
"The stomach was absolutely normal. It showed no trace of poison of any kind."
He stretched himself, lay back in his chair, sent a smoke-ring circling toward the ceiling, and watched it, smiling absently.
"Rather a facer for our friend Goldberger," he added, after a minute.
"What's the matter with Goldberger? He seemed rather peeved with you this afternoon."
"No wonder. He's Grady's man, and we're after Grady. Grady isn't fit to head the detective bureau--he got the job through his pull with Tammany--he's stupid, and I suspect he's crooked. The Record says he has got to go."
"So, of course, he will go," I commented, smiling.
"He certainly will," assented Godfrey seriously, "and that before long. But meanwhile it's a little difficult for me, because his people don't know which way to jump. Once he's out, everything will be serene again."
I wasn't interested in Grady, so I came back to the case in hand.
"Look here, Godfrey," I said, "if it wasn't poison, what was it?"
"But it was poison."
"Inserted at the hand?"
He nodded.
"Goldberger says there's no poison known which could be used that way and which would act so quickly."
"Goldberger is right in that," agreed Godfrey; "but there's a poison unknown that will--because it did."
"It wasn't a snake bite?"
"Oh, no; snake poison wouldn't kill a man that quickly--not even a fer-de-lance. That fellow practically dropped where he was struck."
"Then what was it?"
Godfrey was sitting erect again. He was not smiling now. His face was very stern.
"That is what I am going to find out, Lester," he said; "that is the problem I've set myself to solve--and it's a pretty one. There is one thing certain--that fellow was killed by some agency outside himself. In some way, a drop or two of poison was introduced into his blood by an instrument something like a hypodermic needle; and that poison was so powerful that almost instantly it caused paralysis of the heart. After all, that isn't so remarkable as it might seem. The blood in the veins of the hand would be carried back to the heart in four or five seconds."
"But you've already said there's no poison so powerful as all that."
"I said we didn't know of any. I wouldn't be so sure that Catherine de Medici didn't."
"What has Catherine de Medici to do with it?"
"Nothing--except that what has been done may always be done again. Those old stories are, no doubt, exaggerated; but it seems fairly certain that the Queen of Navarre was killed with a pair of poisoned gloves, the Duc d'Anjou with the scent of a poisoned rose, and the Prince de Porcian with the smoke of a poisoned lamp. This case isn't as extraordinary as those."
"No," I agreed, and fell silent, shivering a little, for there is something horrible and revolting about the poisoner.
"After all," went on Godfrey, at last, "there is one thing that neither you nor I nor any reasonable man can believe, and that is that this Frenchman came from heaven knows where--from Paris, perhaps--with Vantine's address in his pocket, and hunted up the house and made his way into it simply to kill himself there. He had some other object, and he met his death while trying to accomplish it."
"Have you found out who he is?"
"No; he's not registered at any of the hotels; the French consul never heard of him; he belongs to none of the French societies; he's not known in the French quarter. He seems to have dropped in from the clouds. We've cabled our Paris office to look him up; we may hear from there to-night. But even if we discover the identity of Théophile d'Aurelle, it won't help us any."
"Why not?" I demanded.
"Because it is evident that that isn't his name."
"Go ahead and tell me, Godfrey," I said, as he looked at me, smiling. "I don't see it."
"Why, it's plain enough. He had five cards in his pocket, no two alike. The sixth, selected probably at random, he had sent up to Vantine."
I saw it then, of course; and I felt a good deal as the Spanish savants must have felt when Columbus stood the egg on end. Godfrey smiled again at my expression.
"The real d'Aurelle, whoever he may turn out to be, may be able to help us," he added. "If he can't, we may learn something from the Paris police. The dead man's Bertillon measurements have been cabled over to them. Even that won't help, if he has never been arrested. And, of course, we can't get at motives until we find out something about him."
"But, Godfrey," I said, "suppose you knew who he was and what he wanted with Vantine--suppose you could make a guess at who killed him and why--how was it done? That is what stumps me. How was it done?"
"Ah!" agreed Godfrey. "That's it! How was it done? I told you it was a pretty case, Lester. But wait till we hear from Paris."
"That reminds me," I said, sitting up suddenly, "I've got to cable to Paris myself, on some business for Mr. Vantine."
"Not connected with this affair?"
"Oh, no; his shippers over there sent him a piece of furniture that doesn't belong to him. He asked me to straighten the matter out."
I rang for the hall-boy, asked for a cable-blank, and sent off a message to Armand & Son, telling them of the mistake and asking them to cable the name of the owner of the cabinet now in Mr. Vantine's possession. Godfrey sat smoking reflectively while I was thus engaged, staring straight before him with eyes that saw nothing; but as I sat down again and took up my pipe, ready to continue the conversation, he gave himself a sort of shake, put on his hat, and got to his feet.
"I must be moving along," he said. "There's no use sitting here theorising until we have some sort of foundation to build on."
"Goldberger was right in one thing," I remarked. "He pointed out, after you left, that most crimes are not romances, but mere brutalities. Perhaps this one--"
The ringing of my telephone stopped me.
"Hello," I said, taking down the receiver.
"Is that you, Mr. Lester?" asked a voice.
"Yes."
"This is Parks," and I suddenly realised that his voice was unfamiliar because it was hoarse and quivering with emotion. "Could you come down to the house right away, sir?"
"Why, yes," I said, wonderingly, "if it's important. Does Mr. Vantine need me?"
"We all need you!" said the voice, and broke into a dry sob. "For God's sake, come quick, Mr. Lester!"
"All right," I said without further parley, for evidently he had lost his self-control. "Something has happened down at Vantine's," I added to Godfrey, as I hung up the receiver. "Parks seems to be scared to death. He wants me to come down right away," and I reached for my hat and coat.
"Shall I come, too?" asked Godfrey.
Even under the stress of the moment, I could not but smile at the question and at the tone in which it was uttered.
"Perhaps you'd better," I agreed. "It sounded pretty serious."
We went down together in the elevator, and three minutes later we had hailed a taxi and were speeding eastward toward the Avenue. It had started to drizzle, and the asphalt shone like a black mirror, dancing with the lights along either side. The streets were almost empty, for the theatre-crowd had passed, and as we reached the Avenue and turned down-town, the driver pushed up his spark, and we hurtled along toward Fourteenth street at a speed which made me think of the traffic regulations. But no policeman interfered, and five minutes later we drew up before the Vantine place.
Parks must have been on the front steps looking for me, for he came running down them almost before the car had stopped. I caught a glimpse of his face under the street lights, as I thrust a bill into the driver's hand, and it fairly startled me.
"Is it you, Mr. Lester?" he gasped. "Good God, but I'm glad you're here--"
I caught him by the arm.
"Steady, man," I said. "Don't let yourself go to pieces. Now--what has happened?"
He seemed to take a sort of desperate grip of himself.
"I'll show you, sir," he said, and ran up the steps, along the hall, to the door of the ante-room where we had found the Frenchman's body. "In there, sir!" he sobbed. "In there!" and clung to the wall as I opened the door and stepped inside.
The room was ablaze with light, and for an instant my eyes were so dazzled that I could distinguish nothing. Dimly I saw Godfrey spring forward and drop to his knees.
Then my eyes cleared, and I saw, on the very spot where d'Aurelle had died, another body--or was it the same, brought back that the tragedy of the afternoon might, in some mysterious way, be re-enacted?
I remember bending over and peering into the face--
It was the face of Philip Vantine.
A minute must have passed as I stood there dazed and shaken. I was conscious, in a way, that Godfrey was examining him. Then I heard his voice.
Godfrey was kneeling there holding something toward me.
"Look here!" he cried again.
It was the dead man's hand he was holding; the right hand; a swollen and discoloured hand. And on the back of it, just above the knuckles, were two tiny wounds, from which a few drops of blood had trickled.
And as I stared at this ghastly sight, scarce able to believe my eyes, I heard a choking voice behind me, saying over and over again:
"It was that woman done it! It was that woman done it! Damn her! It was that woman done it!"
