Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 28, No. 3, November 12, 1927
- Автор: Alexander R. W., Ames John
- Год: 1927
- Язык: английский
- Год: The Red Star News Company
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 28, No. 3, November 12, 1927». Краткое содержание книги:
“I admit that experiences of a psychic nature, known as occult phenomena, are not well understood. Nevertheless it seems hardly believable to me that one man should exercise over seven people of different social situations and different mentalities the same, invariable influence, merely by his own strength.
“Besides — you’ll probably say that this is a mania with me — isn’t it worth pointing out that Brancion’s mysterious power dates from the day when the rascal got possession of that ‘object with a rectangular base’? Everything leads me to think that there is some close relation between that power, and the possession of that object.
“It’s perfectly true that the results may be similar to those obtained by simple hypnotism. But I am convinced that these results are obtained by different means than those employed in the past, and that the ‘object with a rectangular base,’ which was stolen from the Villa Cécile, is one of them.”
Brunnel had already opened his mouth to deliver his reply when Mainfroy cut in with a different suggestion:
“Suppose, instead of arguing in the air, we read Cécile Muret’s diary. We may find something definite there to base an argument on.”
“You are right,” agreed Henry, “but first I am going to take a necessary precaution.
“I hope you will allow us,” he continued, turning to Germaine, “to protect you against yourself by keeping you here for awhile. This studio has a small room opening off it, which we will fix up as comfortably as possible with this couch and a few cushions. For the time being that will be your home, and we shall be your very respectful guardians.
“I trust that your captivity here will not last long, but I am sure you will understand the feeling which leads us to keep you.”
Hector made a gesture as if to oppose this decision, but Germaine stopped him with a glance and said, in a tired voice:
“Do whatever you wish with me.”
She was quickly settled in the small room, and Henry asked if she would like any books to read. She shook her head, however.
“All I want,” she said, “is to rest. If I can only sleep. But please tell my sister, because if I stay away long, she will worry.”
When the three friends were once more alone in the studio, Henry apologized to Mainfroy.
“It is not only in our interest, but also — and especially — in her own that I am doing this,” he explained. “At any cost she must be rescued, even by force, from this hideous domination.
“But that is not all. We must fool our enemy now into thinking that the attack succeeded. It’s the only way of getting him to stop hunting me down — for I am always the one at whom he aims. It is also the only way of giving him a false security, which may perhaps make him careless. And if he is once careless, we will be ready to take advantage of it.”
He scribbled a few fines, and then read them aloud:
“A mysterious attack. Our colleague, Henri Henry, has just fallen victim to a mysterious attack. He was fired upon three times, in the public streets to-day at noon, by a woman whose identity is unknown and who escaped arrest. He is at present being cared, for at his home, where it is believed, unfortunately, that there is little hope for his life.
“That will start some rumors,” he added smiling. “I shall ask you, Mainfroy, to take written instructions to my house, so that the servants will know what to do in case of visits. Everybody must be deceived in this matter. And I trust to you, Brunnel, to arrange it at the prefecture of police, where I suppose you still have friends, so that they will pretend to believe the news.
“At the same time, will you send off a telegram in code for me? I’ll write it out now, to my wife, and put her mind at rest. When you come back, we’ll all read Cécile Muret’s diary together.”
Chapter XXXIV
The Diary of Cécile Muret
January 14, 19—. What’s the use of my writing in this diary? Probably no one will ever read it But I must prove to myself that I am still sane, and fight against this bewilderment which settles down over me at times. For three days and three nights I have been alone in this luxurious room, which is really a prison.
Alone! I never knew before what the word meant. The only human face I have seen is that of the horrible negro, with his tongue cut out, who is my jailer. No one has spoken a word to me. My sleep is broken with terrible nightmares.
But the worst torment is that I have no idea of the fate of those I love. Are they dead, or are they prisoners like myself? I may never know. Even if they are alive and free, they must be suffering anguish over my disappearance.
Who is taking care of papa? Who ties his tie for him in the morning and knows what he likes for his meals? The absence of his Cécile will be hard on him!
And poor André, who came to Paris in triumph, to receive “the reward for all his work,” as he wrote papa! The very first evening he lost the promised reward. Almost the eve of our marriage, and we were separated.
The more I study what has happened, the more Robert Brandon’s name sticks in my mind as that of the only person who could have kidnaped me in this brutal way. Only he, with his infernal genius and his unbelievable recklessness, could have planned and carried out such a scheme. As for his purpose? I know it only too well.
But if, by any chance, some one should read these lines, I must try to explain why I suspect this man. The story of my life will throw some light on the matter.
I was born at Saint-Julien-by-the-Sea in a house which belonged to my parents, and which they named in my honor: Villa Cécile.
My father was at that time professor of physics at the University of Caen. Although he was still comparatively a young man, he was considered a remarkable physicist. The studies he had published had made him almost famous in the scientific world.
My birth meant little to him, and he didn’t begin to be interested in me until I was old enough to ask endless questions about the strange instruments in his laboratory.
It was about that time that he became obsessed with his one idea; all his work was directed toward a single aim, and he struggled to realize a dream which had been haunting him for years.
Allowed to grow up almost without any supervision, with an invalid mother and an absent-minded father, my whims were the only laws I knew. My father was the only teacher I had. Sometimes he neglected my education, and at other times during spells of paternal care, he stuffed my young mind with science.
The result; was that at thirteen I had never heard of Corneille, Shakespeare, or Julius Caesar; but on the other hand Mariotte’s law and Archimedes’ principle were old stories to me.
Since then I have read a great deal, but I have always been more interested in science than in literature.
I was fourteen when my mother died, in the same Villa Cécile where I had been born. Papa, who adored her, without fully realizing while she was alive how deep his love was, became nearly mad for a time with grief. He began to detest Saint Julien and Caen, asked to be retired, and brought me to Paris, where it was our misfortune to meet Robert Brancion again.
The latter had been one of papa’s best pupils at the University of Caen. He had a prodigious aptitude for the physical sciences, and assimilated the most complicated theories without effort. His facility, his memory, his intelligence and his passion for science aroused a great enthusiasm in papa, who said that “if it hadn’t been for André Gilbert, Robert Brancion would be the most brilliant pupil he had ever had.”
André was the beloved disciple to whom papa confided all his secrets, even his mistakes and discouragements. André’s serious, handsome face frightened me a little when I was a child, and I used to wonder what he could possibly be doing when he would be shut up for hours in the laboratory.