The Woman of Mystery Part 24

Paul went down. The cellar was a fairly large one. Half-a-dozen bodies lay spread over the floor, all lifeless and cold. Acting on Bernard's advice, he turned out the pockets and casually inspected the note-books.

There was nothing interesting to attract his attention. But in the tunic of the sixth soldier whom he examined, a short, thin man, shot right through the head, he found a pocket-book bearing the name of Rosenthal and containing French and Belgian bank-notes and a packet of letters with Spanish, Dutch and Swiss postage stamps. The letters, all of which were in German, had been addressed to a German agent residing in France, whose name did not appear, and sent by him to Private Rosenthal, on whose body Paul discovered them. This private was to pa.s.s them on, together with a photograph, to a third person, referred to as his excellency.

"Secret Service," said Paul, looking through them. "Confidential information. . . . Statistics. . . . What a pack of scoundrels!"

But, on glancing at the pocket-book again, he saw an envelope which he tore open. Inside was a photograph; and Paul's surprise at the sight of it was so great that he uttered an exclamation. It represented the woman whose portrait he had seen in the locked room at Ornequin, the same woman, with the same lace scarf arranged in the identical way and with the same expression, whose hardness was not masked by its smile. And was this woman not the Comtesse Hermine d'Andeville, the mother of elisabeth and Bernard?

The print bore the name of a Berlin photographer. On turning it over, Paul saw something that increased his stupefaction. There were a few words of writing:

"_To Stephane d'Andeville. 1902._"

Stephane was the Comte d'Andeville's Christian name!

The photograph, therefore, had been sent from Berlin to the father of elisabeth and Bernard in 1902, that is to say, four years after the Comtesse Hermine's death, so that Paul was faced with one of two solutions: either the photograph, taken before the Comtesse Hermine's death, was inscribed with the date of the year in which the count had received it; or else the Comtesse Hermine was still alive.

And, in spite of himself, Paul thought of Major Hermann, whose memory was suggested to his troubled mind by this portrait, as it had been by the picture in the locked room. Hermann! Hermine! And here was Hermine's image discovered by him on the corpse of a German spy, by the banks of the Yser, where the chief spy, who was certainly Major Hermann, must even now be prowling.

"Paul! Paul!"

It was his brother-in-law calling him. Paul rose quickly, hid the photograph, being fully resolved not to speak of it to Bernard, and climbed the ladder.

"Well, Bernard, what is it?"

"A little troop of Boches. . . . I thought at first that they were a patrol, relieving the sentries, and that they would keep on the other side. But they've unmoored a couple of boats and are pulling across the ca.n.a.l."

"Yes, I can hear them."

"Shall we fire at them?" Bernard suggested.

"No, it would mean giving the alarm. It's better to watch them. Besides, that's what we're here for."

But at this moment there was a faint whistle from the tow-path. A similar whistle answered from the boat. Two other signals were exchanged at regular intervals.

A church clock struck midnight.

"It's an appointment," Paul conjectured. "This is becoming interesting.

Follow me. I noticed a place below where I think we shall be safe against any surprise."

It was a back-cellar separated from the first by a brick wall containing a breach through which they easily made their way. They rapidly filled up the breach with bricks that had fallen from the ceiling and the walls.

They had hardly finished when a sound of steps was heard overhead and some words in German reached their ears. The troop of soldiers seemed to be fairly numerous. Bernard fixed the barrel of his rifle in one of the loop-holes in their barricade.

"What are you doing?" asked Paul.

"Making ready for them if they come. We can sustain a regular siege here."

"Don't be a fool, Bernard. Listen. Perhaps we shall be able to catch a few words."

"You may, perhaps. I don't know a syllable of German. . . ."

A dazzling light suddenly filled the cellar. A soldier came down the ladder and hung a large electric lamp to a hook in the wall. He was joined by a dozen men; and the two brothers-in-law at once perceived that they had come to remove the dead.

It did not take long. In a quarter of an hour's time, there was nothing left in the cellar but one body, that of Rosenthal, the spy.

And an imperious voice above commanded:

"Stay there, you others, and wait for us. And you, Karl, go down first."

Some one appeared on the top rungs of the ladder. Paul and Bernard were astounded at seeing a pair of red trousers, followed by a blue tunic and the full uniform of a French private. The man jumped to the ground and cried:

"I'm here, _Excellenz_. You can come now."

And they saw Laschen, the Belgian, or rather the self-styled Belgian who had given his name as Laschen and who belonged to Paul's section. They now knew where the three shots that had been fired at them came from.

The traitor was there. Under the light they clearly distinguished his face, the face of a man of forty, with fat, heavy features and red-rimmed eyes. He seized the uprights of the ladder so as to hold it steady. An officer climbed down cautiously, wrapped in a wide gray cloak with upturned collar.

They recognized Major Hermann.

CHAPTER XII

MAJOR HERMANN

Resisting the surge of hatred that might have driven him to perform an immediate act of vengeance, Paul at once laid his hand on Bernard's arm to compel him to prudence. But he himself was filled with rage at the sight of that demon. The man who represented in his eyes every one of the crimes committed against his father and his wife, that man was there, in front of his revolver, and Paul must not budge! Nay more, circ.u.mstances had taken such a shape that, to a certainty, the man would go away in a few minutes, to commit other crimes, and there was no possibility of calling him to account.

"Good, Karl," said the major, in German, addressing the so-called Belgian. "Good. You have been punctual. Well, what news is there?"

"First of all, _Excellenz_," replied Karl, who seemed to treat the major with that deference mingled with familiarity which men show to a superior who is also their accomplice, "by your leave."

He took off his blue tunic and put on that of one of the dead Germans.

Then, giving the military salute:

"That's better. You see, I'm a good German, _Excellenz_. I don't stick at any job. But this uniform chokes me.

"Well, _Excellenz_, it's too dangerous a trade, plied in this way. A peasant's smock is all very well; but a soldier's tunic won't do. Those beggars know no fear; I am obliged to follow them; and I run the risk of being killed by a German bullet."

"What about the two brothers-in-law?"

"I fired at them three times from behind and three times I missed them.

Couldn't be helped: they've got the devil's luck; and I should only end by getting caught. So, as you say, I'm deserting; and I sent the youngster who runs between me and Rosenthal to make an appointment with you."

"Rosenthal sent your note on to me at headquarters."

"But there was also a photograph, the one you know of, and a bundle of letters from your agents in France. I didn't want to have those proofs found on me if I was discovered."

"Rosenthal was to have brought them to me himself. Unfortunately, he made a blunder."

"What was that, _Excellenz_?"