A Nest of Spies. Marcel Allain

bled at all, so precise and clean has the wound been!"

      Juve again bent over the corpse.

      "It is plain to see that this officer's death has been caused by a ball in the heart, right in the centre of the heart."

      The superintendent now protested:

      "But what you are telling us, Juve, is terrible, it is inadmissible! How could this person have committed suicide without having been seen in the act by someone? Without anyone finding his revolver? And that at the very moment when he leaned out of the window of the vehicle to give the chauffeur his instructions?"

      Juve did not seem disposed to answer this. But, after remaining silent for a minute or two, he took the superintendent by the arm in familiar fashion, and drawing him away said: "Let us return to your office, I have a couple of words to say to you."

      When the superintendent and the detective had entered the room, when they were alone together, when the detective had made sure that the double door was shut tight, and that not a soul could hear them, Juve, his hands resting on the writing-table, looked the superintendent straight in the face. The latter, having seated himself in his chair, waited for the detective to speak.

      Juve spoke.

      "We are thoroughly agreed, Monsieur, are we not, regarding the conditions of the accident? … This officer has been shot through the heart, when he was crossing the Place de l'Étoile in a vehicle, and at the precise moment when he leaned over the door of that vehicle, and this, without anyone having seen or heard what happened?"

      "Yes, Juve, that is so. This suicide is incomprehensible!"

      "It is not a case of suicide, Monsieur." …

      "What is it, then?"

      "A crime!"

      "A crime!!!"

      "This man has been killed by a shot from a gun, a shot fired from a distance. No one saw the assassin do the deed: the Place de l'Étoile was crowded with people. It was a shot fired from a distance, because of an important point, Monsieur. The deceased was attached to the Second Bureau of the Ministry of War. At the time of his death he was the bearer of important documents: one of these important documents is missing! I assure you, Monsieur, this not only determines the fact of the crime, but furnishes us with the motive for that crime!"

      The superintendent of police stared at Juve, speechless. At last he said:

      "But it is impossible! Absolutely impossible, I tell you! What you are inventing now is impossible! … You forget that a shot from a gun, a shot from so powerful a weapon, makes a noise. Why, deuce take it, the detonation must be heard!"

      "No, Monsieur! There are now weapons which are perfectly silent. For example, there are guns in which liquefied carbonic acid is used, which fires a projectile at more than 800 yards, and all that can be heard is a sharp snap when the projectile speeds off." …

      "But, look here, Juve! Such a crime as this partakes of the nature of a romance! The criminal must have taken aim in the midst of a crowd! Who, do you suppose, would have been mad enough to attempt it? What scoundrel would ever have run such a risk?"

      Juve, very calm, very much master of himself, was standing in front of the superintendent. His arms were crossed: he seemed to defy him, as though he knew beforehand that in him he was to encounter the incredulity of the average person.

      "You ask me," replied he, "what criminal could be daring enough to do this? What criminal would have carried out such a murder successfully? Sir, that murderer's name is synonymous with all the maddest attempts, with every kind of atrocity, with every species of cruelty, with all the talents!" …

      "And, it is." …

      Juve suddenly stopped short, as if he were afraid of the word he was about to pronounce.

      "By jove!" he declared, "if I knew the name of the guilty person, I would go and arrest him!" …

      While the unfortunate Captain Brocq collapsed inside his carriage, mortally struck by the mysterious shot, pretty Bobinette, who could have had no idea of the accident to her lover, following hard in her wake, continued her drive. She ordered her chauffeur to stop at the riding-alley which passes behind the Chinese Pavilion.

      A lingering ray of sunshine still illuminated the thickets of the Bois, but already those out for an airing were hastening towards the city, when Bobinette, discharging her taxi, entered the little path which runs beside the equestrian's track.

      She seemed full of the joy of life, stepping smartly along, appreciating the pleasure of this quick, free, independent walk. Soon, however, her pace slackened. She spied an unoccupied seat, looked at her watch, and sat down. She cast a sharp glance towards the far end of the path.

      "We are both up to time," she murmured, recognising a figure still some distance away.

      Bobinette drew from her muff a small roll of papers.

      The advancing person was a seedy-looking individual, stooping, seemingly bent under the weight of a bulky accordion. He looked about sixty; his long white beard, untrimmed and badly neglected, disguised the lower half of his face, while his luxuriant moustache, and his long hair, arranged artist fashion, largely hid the upper part of his countenance.

      A beggar? Not at all! This personage would most certainly have spurned such an epithet with a gesture of offended disdain. Live by charity? Not he! Was not his accordion there to show that he possessed a regular means of livelihood? He claimed to be a musician.

      He was well known throughout one quarter of Paris, was this poor old man who chanced to be passing along that path in the Bois de Boulogne. He was a perfect specimen of the unsettled type of human being, savagely enamoured of liberty, going from court to court playing with wearied arms the ballads of the moment, indifferent to their melodies, to their rhythms, to their beauties, to their ugliness. … No one knew his real name. They called him Vagualame; for his plaintive notes inspired sad thoughts and an indefinable trouble of the nerves in those unlucky enough to listen to him for a time. This nickname stuck to him.

      He was quite a Parisian type, this Vagualame: one of those faces at once odd and classic, such as one comes across in numbers on the pavements, known to all the world, without anyone knowing exactly who they are, how they live, where they go, or whence they come. …

      The old man had, on his side, caught sight of Bobinette. He hastened towards her as fast as his legs permitted; and as soon as he was near enough to speak to her without raising his voice, he questioned her:

      "Well?" It was the interrogation of a master to a subordinate.

      "Well?" he repeated. His tone was anxious.

      Bobinette calmed the old man's apprehensions with a nod. "It's done," said she.

      Holding out to him the roll of paper, she added: "I could only get them at the last minute; but I've got them, and I don't fancy he suspects anything."

      As Bobinette uttered these last words, the old accordion player chuckled sneeringly:

      "So that's what you think? As a matter of fact, it is evident that he suspects nothing now!"

      The way in which the old man pronounced the word "now" puzzled the girl.

      "What do you mean?"

      "Captain Brocq is dead."

      "Dead!"

      Although she did not love her lover much, at this startling piece of news Bobinette had jumped up, wringing her hands in horror. She grew strangely pale.

      "Yes, dead!" replied Vagualame coldly. "Kindly sit down please! See to it that you play your part! You are a young woman speaking to an old beggar, and you are not to forget it."

      Bobinette sat down mechanically. She questioned him, and her voice was trembling.

      "Dead? What has happened, then?"

      "What has happened is