TALES OF MYSTERY AND ADVENTURE.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 19075, 21 May 1930, Page 4

TALES OF MYSTERY AND ADVENTURE .

A Friend's Fiendish Betrayal.

A True Story from the French

Police Archives

(Written for the "Star' by

H. ASHTON-WOLFE).

■Joseph van V lei her g. a Dutch painter, living in Normandy, is painting the faithless wife of his best friend, David Proust, a wealthy man, whose calm exterior masks a jealous nature.

Antoinette Proust, his beautiful wife, welcomes the sittings for van Vleiberg as they enable her to meet The Chevalier Joseph de Voltenay, a heartless profligate. Proust suspects his wife’s infidelity and believes van Vleiberg is the man to blame. He plans a fiendish revenge. Discovering that van Vleiberg is in financial trouble, he offers aid if van Vleiberg will ride to Paris with him. With two hirelings he murders and robs de Voltenay, who is also journeying to Paris. He so stages the crime that van Vleiberg arrives on the scene and he accuses him of the murder. So as to sheet home the crime Proust persuades van Vleiberg to take the bag of money he had stolen from the murdered man. Now read on.

“ Mv joy at obtaining the sum you needed without appealing to others has changed to grief. That was why I came late. Joseph, and took the short cut through the fields. No need to journey to Paris now. Take it and pay me back when you will.” Thus, torn between fear and relief, Vleiberg returned to Rouen after a hasty wash at a spring. As he entered the forecourt of his home, Pierre Salto, a gipsy horse-dealer, ran after him and craved permission to speak to his sweetheart, Annette. Good-natured as always, Vleiberg at once consented, and stopped a moment to discuss the coming fair. Salto's keen eyes at once noted the ugly brown stains on Vleiberg’s sleeves, and when he helped him to loosen the saddle girths, he saw that although the leather had been recently washed, faint traces of blood were still visible on the edges. Salto was a noted poacher and hated the police, but since the terrible edict of Louis XIV'., which commanded that all gipsies guilty of the least misdemeanour should be sent to the chain gang without trial, he and his tribe had lived in constant fear of arrest. Salto said nothing to Annette, but when, the following day. news of the murders leaked out. he became frightened and discussed the matter with his friends, and on their advice related what he had seen to a magistrate. Vleiberg's mysterious journey and his sudden and unexpected return, although he had made preparations for a lengthy absence, roused the Official s suspicion. He immediately went to the painter's house, accompanied by soldiers. and demanded to see the clothes he had worn on the previous day. The painter’s very evident fear, his vague, evasive answers, and the convulsive shudder that seized him when it was pointed out that the stains on his

clothes were still wet as from recent washing, decided the magistrate. He commanded the soldiers to arrest Vleiberg and take him to prison; The next day, when he appeared before the famous criminal judge, Monsieur de Clamart, Vleiberg related the terrible adventure that Had befallen him exactly as it occurred. Thereupon Proust's bag of gold was examined. It could not, of course, be proven that the money had been stolen from de Voltenay, but when it was seen that the bag was smeared with blood, even the judge, who had known Vleiberg for years, recoiled from hiixi with horror. He consented, however, to send for Proust, who had naturally counted on this, and played his evil part to perfection. His eagerness to help his friend was obvious, and his contradictory ana confused explanations, while apparently intended to prove Vleiberg's innocence, but made his guilt appear more evident. He vehemently asserted that he had given his friend the money, but when asked to name the amount, could not do so. Martignac and he Savoyard were then questioned in turn, and each purposely gave a slightly different version of the meeting with Vleiberg. Proust knew well that had he openly accused his best friend, it would have the judge's suspicion, whereas by feigning to shield hrm, albeit clumsilv, as a man crazed with feat* would do, he could cleverly ruin the man he secretly hated, without risk to himself. Before dismissing Proust and his cronies, the magistrate sent for one of his agents, a queer, wizened creature named ha Toise, and in his presence again questioned each man closely. During this second interrogation ha Toise watched Proust intently, circling round him with quivering nostrils like some uncouth animal, and giving vent

to shrill, meaningless exclamations, un- j til Proust became frightened, although i he dared not object, even when the un- j canny creature came quite close and \ scrutinised his clothes. Stiddenlv, La Toise clutched at the ; judge’s arm and with his lip close to j his ear, whispered: “ Arrest them all, monsieur. They f are parties to the crime.” That was what Proust had foreseen would happen, and his heart beat fiercely with joy. Nevertheless, he turned a resigned face to the little police agent and said: If you think that fear for myself will cause me to accuse my unhappy friend of a foul deed he did not commit, you have miscalculated.” But this chivalrous attitude failed to impress the judge, and Proust, Martignac and Le Savoyard were each placed in a separate cell. Late that same night La Toise sought M. de Clamart again and said: “ My lord, there is some mystery behind the murder of the nobleman and his servant. May I seek to discover the truth? ” “ You do not think that Vleiberg is guilty, then ? ” “ I cannot tell yet. It all depends on the dog.” “The dog, what do you mean? ” “ There was a dog! I observed that a tear in Martignac's sleeve had been clumsily mended, but the skin underneath has not mended. - The wound on his arm was made by a dog. There are other trifles, too, but I must crave the right to say nothing until I am sure of my ground. Meanwhile, may I ask that nothing be said about the dog? Only, it the prisoners change their clothes, those they take off must be carefully kept in separate bundles and marked with tlieir names." For an instant the judge felt inclined to laugh, but the shrewd eyes of La Toise, gazing so steadfastly into his, decided him. “ Very well, I give you full powers. Old Van Vleiberg was my friend and a fine fellow. Ilis son shall have every chance.” Secretive and sly, La Toise was nevertheless a kindly soul. Apparently his queer mind was influenced by a species of instinct. He felt that the crime was abnormal, and his first move was to go to Vleiberg’s house and examine the prisoner’s pistols. They were both loaded and had not been recently fired. Yet de Voltenay’s servant had been shot, and in his report La Toise emphasised this fact; but, as though he-wished to evade the logical consequence of his discovery, he added hastily; “ Of course, Vleiberg may have had another pistol which he threw away. Yet-, even so, it seems incredible that he should have been able to shoot anri stab two armed men. And if, as I believe, there was also a dog, which was probably wounded and ran away, either Vleiberg is telling the truth and did not commit the crime at all, or else he had one or several accomplices.” So for a time La Toise, unconsciously leaning to the theory that several men were concerned in the. crime, searched ceaselessly for the dog which had accompanied de Voltenay. Meanwhile, day after da}-, the unfortunate painter was questioned, bullied and threatened by the official in charge of the case, iiis story never varied, although as the weeks became months, and the bad food and foul air of the prison sapped his strength, he became resigned to the inevitable. The.landlord of the inn at Pontoise

was brought to Rouen. lie at once declared that the bloodstained knife found near the bodies was his property, and that he had missed it soon after Vleiberg had gone. He related that Martignac arrived and inquired for Proust just as supper was served, and recalled that they had ridden away together. He had been struck by Vleiberg’s gloomy and irritable mariner after his friends left, and had been surprised the following evening to see him making merry with de Voltenav, who had invited him to crack a bottle of wine. This evidence definitely caused the police to abandon the theory that Proust and his men had committed the murders. Even the jtidge. de Clamart, believed that Proust had resolved, merely out of kindness, to save Joseph i Vleiberg, but that he was guiltless of complicity. Yet according to law, i either a confession or definite proof was needed, and he determined to wear down the prisoners by ceaseless interrogation. Five weary months dragged by, and the bulky reports grew, until Joseph Vleiberg had been questioned more than a hundred times, without tangible result. And at last de Clamart and two judges from Paris decreed that Proust and his men should undergo the torture of the “ simple question,” which is limited to six quarts of water, to be poured down each victim's throat through a leather funnel, and, if they still persisted in denying their friend’s guilt, the painter should be stretched on the rack. This was the opportunity for which his cruel enemy had waited so long. When Proust was led into the torture chamber, he started back, terrified apparently, at sight of the gruesome instruments, and suddenly, with a moan of despair, sank to his knees and begged for mercy. “God forgive me my weakness!” he wailed. “ I have endured long, dreadful months of solitude without complaint. You have questioned me incessantly, and I have not betrayed my friend; but torture—m - nerves creep within me and my brain reels at the thought. Untie me; I consent to tell

the truth, although that truth will scorch my tongue. I fear my poor, misguided friend did indeed murder those two unfortunate men. But he was mad —ruin stared him in the lace, and he had no faith in my ability to obtain the monej r he needed in Paris. “llardl3 r had we arrived at Pontoise when I received an urgent summons compelling me to return home. Vleiberg had been so strange of late that J begged him to wait until I rejoined him. and to this he agreed. But instead of waiting, he continued his journey alone. They told me at the inn that my friend had taken the main road, and, in order to overtake him the sooner, I rode across country through fields and forests, thus shortening the distance b\- many leagues. With me were Le Savoyard and Martignac. “We emerged from a belt of trees bordering the highway at the very' instant Vleiberg drove his knife into Monsieur de Yoltenay’s breast, and before we could interfere he_ dragged the still quivering body into a ; ditch, where the servant already la\* dead. Horrified at the sight, I leapt from my horse and seized the murderer by the shoulders. I was frantic and Could only cr\-, ‘Joseph, unhappy friend, what have 3-ou done?’ “ ‘I have long hated this man,’ he replied, wiping his bloodstained hands on some leaves. ‘lie besmirched my sister’s honour, and when I perceived him in front of me on the road, I spurred my horse and joined him, intending to order him never to enter my house again. But instead of giving me time to speak, he kinged at me with his sword and called on his man to attack from behind. Thereupon a madness seized me. It was their lives or mine, and in self-defence I killed them both.’ “When Vleiberg* begged of me, with tears in his eyes, to ride back with him to Rouen and to say nothing of what I had seen, I thought only of out long friendship, and consented. I advised him to cleanse the blood from his clothes, prevailed upon my men to keep silent, and returned with him. “The next day, Martignac came to me and said, ‘Master, I fear Monsieui Vleiberg lied to us. I sjiw him thrust

a bag of gold into) his pocket as we came up. and it was no dagger that la3 r on the road, but a carving-knife from the inn at Pontoise. Why should a gentleman carry such a thing with him unless he intended to commit a crime and feared the report of his pis-1 tols would attract other travellers.' I j realised then that Vleiberg had de-' c.eived me, and my duty was to inform the authorities at once, but alas, monsieur, I had not the heart to do it.” This cunning tale had the desired effect, and when in turn Proust’s two villains also feigned to break down in the torture chamber, and related the same tale, word for word, although they had' not seen each other since their arrest, the Judge was convinced that they spoke the truth, and the cowardly assassins were released. The next day Vleiberg was brought before de Clamart, who read out Proust’s confession. The shock of this revelation was so terrible that, instead of a fierce denial, the unhappy man could only cry despairingly: “Oh, false friend—false friend! God have pity on my soul.” That cry sealed his doom. The trial, which took place a week later, was a mere formality. Joseph Vleiberg was sentenced to the rack, so that he might yet have a chance to confess and thus save his soul, and to be drawn and quartered the same day. A Magistrate and scribe were commanded to sit near the doomed wretch while he was on the rack in order to take down the avowal that it was hoped would burst from him in his agony. But as the wheel began to turn and the greasy ropes tautened, a last fierce revolt against destiny dispelled the apathy that so long had clogged his brain. In. tones that carried conviction even to the prejudiced mind of ; the Magistrate, he swore a solemn, dreadful oath, calling upon the Almighty to witness his innocence, and outlined the plot of which he was a victim. The official hastil>* ordered Vleiberg to be placed on a bed, and then ran to de Clamart’s house. At the door he met La Toise—ragged, unkempt, but triumphant, and the moment they were

Van Vleiberg Saved from Racl

Little Detective Wrings Confession from Real Murderer.

ushered into the Judge’s presence, the j police agent exclaimed in thrilling tones: “My lord, 3-ou must stay the execution. Joseph Vleiberg is innocent, although appearances are against him. By to-morrow I shall bring you absolute proof.” This encouraged the Magistrate, and he also voiced his conviction that a grievous mistake had been made, and related the scene in the torture chamber. Hardly had he ceased when with dramatic suddenness a haggard, wildeyed woman burst into the room and fell upon her knees, babbling and laughing like one demented. La Toise recognised her, despite disfiguring bruises. “It is Antoinette Proust,” he cried “Speak, madame, speak, or Joseph Vleiberg must die!” “No, no,” the woman wailed, wringing her hands. “It was my husband ” and fell forward in a swoon. When the servants. had carried her to a bed, de Clamart turned to La Toise. “A wife cannot testify against her husband,” he said. “Can you reall> r obtain the proof we need?” “Give me until to-morrow, my lord,” La Toise answered. “I have found the dog at last. Two da\-s ago a peasant directed me to a farm twenty miles distant, where he said I should find the dog I sought. He remembered seeing a great yellow mastiff appear there one da3* t covered with blood and sorely wounded. The farmer admitted that a dog such as I described had crawled into his barn six months previously-. The poor beast had a deep stab in its breast. Thanks to careful nursing, it had recovered, however, and since no one had come to claim the dog, he had kept it. “I started at once for Rouen, my lord, riding like a madman, and as though the creature had guessed mv purpose, it ran beside me, league upon league, untiring and remorseless as Fate. At the prison I obtained the clothes taken from Vleiberg and those other three, and threw the coat the condemned man had worn before it. The dog smelt it, sat back on its haunches, and howled. It knew! Then —although I trembled with fear—l cast a garment from each of the other bundles on the ground. Snarling with fur\', the mastiff sprang like a tiger at one of them; it was marked, and the name oil the bundle was Martignac.” “I fail even now to understand how this will help the prisoner—we cannot accept the dumb testimon3 r of a dog, unerring though it may be. You believe, of course, that Martignac killed .de Voltenay and that it was also he who stabbed the dog? i “Yes, my lord, to-morrow I shall bring you the fellow’s signed confession,” and without another woid, La Toise ran from the room, followed by the Magistrate who had interceded with the judge for Joseph Vleiberg. When they reached the street he grasped La Toise b>- the arm and said;

“Let me come with you—l have gxiessed your purpose.” “Good—a witness will be useful. Martignac lives all alone in a little house near the river. We will go there after dark. I intend to soak the dog’s fur with blood; superstitious fear will do the rest.” When, just before midnight, La Toise halted before Martignac’s cottage, holding the animal by a strong chain, he saw, with relief, that a light still shone from a window. A crack in the shutter gave him a view of the room, and he espied the man he sought sprawling on a bench, a bottle of brandy beside him. Whispering endearments to the dog. La Toise unfastened the chain, and making sure that the blood on its fur was still wet, rapped at the door. A coarse voice answered the summons, the bolts were drawn, and for an instant he caught a glimpse of a. white, startled face; then with a roar of fury, the dog leapt at his enemv, while the helpless wretch shrieked with terror. “Will you confess the truth, my friend.” La Toise cried harshly, ‘‘or shall I watch while this creature from another world tears you to pieces? “I’ll confess,” Martignac gasped* “Sooner or later I knew it would come.” La Toise dragged the raging dog away and chained it securely to a tret*. The details of Proust’s fiendish plot were thereupon put in writing and signed, and Martignac was taken immediately to the cell where he had already spent half a year. Wasting no time, La Toise then rushed to Proust’s house and forced his way in. But he had come too late; Le Savoyard sprawled on the stairs, a knife in his breast, and it needed not Martignac’s confession to obtain the truth from him also. But the arch plotter had vanished. It would seem that when Proust heard Vleiberg had been sentenced, he had been unable to master his unholy joy, and taunted his wife with a recital of the scheme, which, -by then, as he thought, had culminated in the ignominious death of the man she loved. The terrible tale had roused Antoinette to frenzy, she had spat the name of de Voltenay at him, boasting of the way she had deceived everyone, and, despite his brutal onslaught, had then escaped from the house. Too late Proust realised his folly. He had rushed to the stables and saddled his be.>t. horse, and when Le Savoyard tried to interfere, had callously stabbed him and then galloped away. Although soldiers hunted Proust for weeks, no trace of him was ever fourd. The unhappy Vleiberg was released, and his innocence proclaimed by the town crier, but many years passed before he recovered from the atrocious ordeal.

Next Saturday: The Romance of Dr Guillotin.