Murder Abroad by E.R. Punshon Read Free Book Online

depths must yet be heard. For a sudden conviction had come into his mind that here cruel murder on an old and defenceless woman had been done and that the call had come to him to see that it did not pass unavenged.
    â€œPlease God,” he said aloud and walked away.
    He found himself trembling a little. That long look he had taken down the dark descent of the well to the sullen gleam of the water so far below, had moved him more profoundly than he knew. He came to the stream, he found the little rickety bridge that crossed it, he walked quickly to shake off the impression still sharp in his mind. He turned from the track he had been following into the main road and from the roadside came a low chuckle and a voice that said:
    â€œThis time it seems one is not in such a hurry.”
    â€œWhat’s that? What? Who’s there? What do you mean?” Bobby asked sharply.
    He moved to the spot by the roadside whence the voice had seemed to come. He made out there was some one sitting there, huddled up so as to make form and feature indistinguishable. The voice had been that of a man, though, and it went on now:
    â€œNot one of us others, I think, not of the Auvergne, not of France elsewhere. No, not German either. Russian perhaps? No, English, isn’t it? A voice of a soldier, too, of one who knows how to command. An officer without doubt?”
    â€œI am English but not a soldier,” Bobby answered. “Do you mean some one went by just now?”
    â€œSome one who ran,” the voice answered, “who fled indeed, as if pursued, yet none followed after.”
    â€œDid you see who it was?” Bobby asked eagerly.
    â€œI saw nothing,” came the reply. “Who ever it was, he passed so close I could have touched him. But I saw nothing.”
    â€œYou must have,” Bobby said sternly. “It’s dark, but if he passed as close as that, you must have seen something.”
    From the huddled form by the roadside came another weird chuckle but no other response.
    â€œYou must have seen something,” Bobby insisted.
    â€œBut no, monsieur, no,” the other replied. “No, for I am blind, I who speak, I, the Père Trouché, the blind beggar of Citry-sur-l’eau.” Changing his tone to a professional whine, he added: “Of your charity, sir, of your charity, and God will reward you.”

CHAPTER IV
THE BLACK VIRGIN
    Bobby gave the old man a small coin and passed on. He had noticed before a café that stood nearly in the centre of the village, not far from his hotel. Late as was the hour, it seemed to have plenty of customers still, and in pursuance of his plan to make himself as friendly and familiar with the local inhabitants as possible, Bobby went in and took a seat at a vacant table.
    His entry was followed by a kind of general pause and break in all the busy noise and chatter that had been going on. A game of dominoes over which excited shouting had been till now continuous came to a standstill. A furious discussion on market prices ceased abruptly. A roaring argument on something that M. le Maire had either done or not done, sank into whispers. All eyes were turned in Bobby’s direction as a stout man in an apron, apparently the ‘patron’, proprietor of the café, came bustling up.
    Bobby began to ask him about the merits of the local ‘cru’. He was aware that almost everywhere in France there is a local wine of distinctive nature, not always of the best quality, perhaps, but often well worth getting acquainted with and at any rate always moderate in price. As it happened the proprietor had an interest in the vineyard from which that of Citry-sur-l’eau came, and he waxed enthusiastic in its praise. Bobby listened gravely, pleased to have found a subject on which he guessed it would always be easy to start a conversation, and yet still acutely conscious of the fact that he remained the centre of attention, to a degree far