CHAPTER VII

THE FAWN AND THE SERPENT

Lavenne, considering this matter in his mind, still remained behind the curtain standing in absolute darkness and waiting so as to give Camus time to remember anything that he might possibly have forgotten.

After the lapse of ten minutes, fairly assured that the Count would not return, he pushed the curtains aside and struck a light.

This time, he boldly lit the lamp on the table and with it in his hand approached the wall on the right and began to hunt for the spring of the secret opening. He was not long in finding it; a tiny disc, the same colour as the wall and only revealed by its thread-like edge, showed itself to the light of the lamp. He pressed on it, the door of the _cache_ flew open, and in a moment the dagger was in his hand. There was nothing else in the _cache_. Already he had formulated a plan in his mind, a plan which at first sight might seem diabolical, but which he considered, and with justice, the only means with which to meet the case.

Camus was no ordinary villain. This room was evidently his stronghold and the _cache_ was evidently his most secret hiding-place. Yet there were no incriminating papers to be found in the room, no papers whatever; nor in the _cache_. This gentleman evidently kept his secrets in his soul. He made no mistakes. Justice, Lavenne felt, might search for ever without finding a tittle of evidence against him, and indeed this fact, de Sartines, who had long known his proclivities, had proved to the hilt. But there is such a thing as Retribution, and in the name of Retribution Lavenne had declared in his own mind that the knife of Camus should be Camus’ undoing.

Lavenne, replacing the lamp on the table, examined the dagger minutely without drawing the blade. The design was different on the two sides of the sheath. On one side a fawn trod boldly on jewelled grapes, on the other a serpent of six curves extended itself from the blade-entrance to the point. The pommel on both its sides was of the same design.

Nothing could be more striking than the difference between the two sides of this dagger-sheath. One could have told them one from the other in the dark and just by the sense of touch.

Lavenne verified this fact with a grim pursing of his lips. The dagger and sheath had been constructed for a set purpose, so that the poisoner who had poisoned one side of the blade might know at once, and before drawing it from its sheath, which was the lethal side. A mistake on this point would have meant death to the poisoner instead of the intended victim. Now Lavenne did not know which side of the blade Camus had poisoned, for the sheath had been covered by the Count’s hand when he put the blade back in it.

Lavenne, however, did not in the least require to know which was the poisoned side, or whether it faced to the serpent or the fawn. Camus knew this and that was sufficient.

To destroy Camus, Lavenne had only to draw the double-edged blade from the sheath and insert it again, the other way about.

That being done, this presenter of fruit to ladies would, when he cut his apple or pear in two, present himself with the poisoned half.

Lavenne drew the blade from the sheath, noticed that the poison, which doubtless was only soluble in an acid solution, like, for instance, the juice of a fruit, showed no sign of its presence on the silver, inserted the blade again in the sheath the other way about, and returned the dagger to the _cache_, which he then closed. His work was now done, there was nothing left but to extinguish the lamp and leave the room. He looked about to see that everything was in perfect order, and then, taking the _crochet_ from his pocket, he approached the door.

The lock turned quite easily to the instrument, but the door did not open.

He withdrew the _crochet_, reinserted it, and made the turn with his wrist, and again with the same result.

The door was bolted now as well as locked. Lavenne drew the back of his hand across his forehead, which was covered with sweat. It was quite useless to try again. It was not the fault of the lock. He remembered now that Brujon, before he opened the door to show him the room, had placed one hand on the wall beside the door. Brujon was stout, and Lavenne had fancied that he leaned his hand on the wall to rest himself. He knew now that Brujon must have touched a spring withdrawing a secret bolt, without the release of which the door would not open.

When Brujon had closed the door, he must have forgotten to touch another spring which would have re-shot the bolt. Owing to this forgetfulness, Lavenne had been able to enter the room simply by picking the lock. But Camus, who seemed never to forget precaution, had not forgotten to touch the bolting spring, with the result that Lavenne was now a prisoner in a prison that threatened to be his tomb.

He knew that it was quite futile, with the means at his disposal, to make any further attempt upon the lock; even had he possessed a crow-bar and all the tools necessary, the noise of the breaking open of the door would arouse the house.

The doorway being impossible, he turned to the window, which he had not yet examined. The lamp held close to the window showed nothing of the dark world outside, but it showed very definitely strong iron bars almost touching the glass.

The window being impossible, he turned to the floor.

There was just a chance that the hollow-sounding portion of the parquet between the table and the window curtains might disclose a means of exit. There was, in fact, more than a chance, for a man like Camus, who forgot nothing, would be the least likely man to forget to provide a secret way of escape from this chamber of secrecy.

Lavenne was not wrong; the parquet on close examination showed the outline of a trap-door so well constructed as to be perfectly indistinguishable to the gaze of a person who was not searching for it.

In five minutes, or less, he had discovered the button of the opening spring. He pressed on it, and the flap, instead of rising, as in the ordinary trap-door, sank, disclosing a perpendicular ladder leading down into absolute darkness.