Chantecoq and the Aviator's Crime by Arthur Bernède

Author:Arthur Bernède [Bernède, Arthur]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-11-20T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine - Monsieur Chantecoq

When, one hour later, Captain de Monthermé entered Monsieur Florent Avrillé’s office, he noticed, sitting opposite the industrialist, who was behind his desk, a man of around forty to fifty years in age, dressed with sober elegance, completely clean-shaven, with a classical profile, eyes that were sharp, piercing, and a face that was essentially honest and sympathetic.

On seeing him, Martine’s fiancé said, “Monsieur Avrillé, forgive me, I didn’t know you were busy, and I wasn’t told that you were not alone.”

“My dear friend,” replied Florent, without introducing his visitor to the newcomer, “you can speak freely in front of this gentleman. He is aware of the business.”

Monthermé threw a quick glance towards the mysterious character, who contented himself with a faint smile, accompanied with an approving nod of his head.

Monthermé who was still emotional from the meeting he had just had with Jacques Moret continued.

“Monsieur Avrillé, I must tell you first that I’m now convinced that Jacques Moret is innocent.”

The visitor’s smile grew wider, while he remained silent.

The industrialist replied, “That’s exactly what this gentleman was just telling me.”

And, addressing the visitor, he added, “Will you allow me now to reveal your identity to my future son-in-law?”

“Certainly,” declared the stranger.

Martine’s father continued. “This is Monsieur Chantecoq, the illustrious detective who, having learned that I had telephoned several times during his absence, wanted to pay me a visit as soon as he returned.

“I have just told him the whole truth, and I must tell you that without the slightest hesitation, Monsieur Chantecoq, after having listened to me religiously, I think that’s right, began by telling me very clearly that Captain Jacques Moret must be put above any suspicion.

“I don’t need to tell you that I felt great joy at that, because nothing was more painful to me than thinking that a man who had just brought such glory to his country, could have dishonoured himself to that extent! There’s one point clearly won, then.”

“So,” asked Captain de Montermé, “Martine must therefore be, as we first thought, the victim of some auto-suggestion phenomenon?”

“It seems highly likely,” declared Chantecoq, “so long as… but I ask that this remains between ourselves!”

“You can count on our discretion,” the industrialist assured him.

“Very well. I meant to say,” continued the detective, “that it could very well be that the true author of this attack made himself up to look like Lieutenant Moret. You wouldn’t have his photograph, by any chance?”

“Indeed,” replied Monsieur Avrillé. He opened one of the drawers in his large desk, and put his hand inside.

“Oh, that’s strange,” he said, “I though I put that portrait in here. How could it have disappeared?”

Chantecoq’s nostrils flared slightly. He looked like a bloodhound already prepared to set off on a trail.

Avrillé, who seemed very surprised to no longer find the photo in question, was about to open another drawer. Chantecoq stopped him, saying, “Don’t trouble yourself, Monsieur. I clearly remember seeing this young aviator’s portrait in the papers. He has quite a characteristic

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