Strange Tales of French Crimes

Star (Christchurch), Volume XLIV, Issue 540, 24 August 1932, Page 11

Strange Tales of French Crimes

By . . .

DR. EDMOND LOCARD and H. ASHTON-WOLFE.

FOURTEENTH OF SERIES DOSSIER 777.

J This story, the classic instance in the \ j French police of the unreliability of 1 ! circumstantial evidence, concerns events ' ; that happened in lfi'dl. Vleiberg. i V • lovable, handsome lad, lived in Uoiieu. ! ifis preat friend was Ihivid Proust. ' Vleiberp, a painter, was paintinc a por- ; • trait of Proust's beautiful young wife • J as a surprise for the husband, who, ; | however, misconstrued her frequent j . visits to the studio. She was really in ! J love with de Voltenay. Vleiberg wants ; • money, and appeals to Proust, who sug- • ! gests that Vleiberg should go to Paris | • to see Proust's brother, a banker. I>e ; . Voltenay is taking a bag of gold to , ; Paris. Prousr and bis two henchmen, ; Martignae and Le Savoyard, plan to ■ • murder him and lay a trap so that ! ; Vleiberg shall be suspected. ; PART n. Long before dawn Proust roused his companions, and when they had partaken of bread and wine, all three mounted their horses, and, skirting the town, were soon posted at the spot they had selected. The smocks and masks gave them a truculent air. well calculated to frighten the men they had come to murder. It was past eight when de Voltenay and his servant at last appeared, chatting gaily and quite Tinsuspicious of the menace that lurk ad behind the trees; but the dog, which had been running with muzzle close to the ground, suddenly halted, pricked up its ears and growled fiercely. Instantly, Le Savoyard' sprang into the road and clutched at the bridles. At the same moment Proust levelled hfrs pistol and shot the servant through the head, and before the unfortunate, nobleman could draw a weapon, Martignae had plunged the blade of the long knife again and again into his body. But if the men had been helpless with surprise, not so the mastiff. With gleaming fangs bared, he gave voice to a frightful roar, aud sprang straight at Martignac’s throat. Fate was kind to the scoundrel, for as de Voltenay’s horse reared with fright, the dying man pitched from the saddle, and, in falling, >truek the leaping dog, knocking it sideways. Yet, even then the dog did not entirely miss its aim. The sharp teeth ripped through Martignac’s smock and slashed his arm; but the man had found time to regain his balance, ami as the faithful beast crouched and -prang again, he stabbed it in the breast. “Drop the knife in the road,” Proust commanded, as the dog, with a pitiful, helpless moan, dragged itself painfully under the trees. “Quickly, now, let the horses go—roll the bodies into the ditch. Wait! 1 almost forgot.” and. kneeling, he extracted a bulging sack from de Voltenay’s pocket. “Now, down the bank with them an 1 to horse; we must burn these smocks and masks, and that blood-stained rag.” A mile away the assassins halted and lit a fire, and when every trace of their guilt bad beeu destroyed, returned to. their place of concealment. Ten minutes later Joseph Vleiberg appeared at a bend in the road. The painter bad waited patiently for his treacherous friend until the hour agreed upon, and then had set out alone, as arranged. Abruptly, as lie neared the ecene of the crime, his mount shied violently, almost throwing him, and, with a spasm of horror, he saw a long, blood-stained knife lying on the ground. Dismounting in haste, the startled man followed the broad crimson trail that led to the ditch into which de Voltenay and diis servant had been flung. Heedless of the danger to himself, he stumbled down the bank, slippery with blood, and fell to his kneos beside the bodies. It was the moment for which Proust had waited. He at once emerged from the wood, followed by his two villains. “Joseph!” he cried shrilly, and, gazing with feigned dismay at the murdered men: “What evil dream is this? What have you done?” “I—l—David, you do not think I killed those men?” Vleiberg screumed, and in broken, incoherent sentences he explained how he came to be there. “But your hands and clothes are smeared with blood. You held the knife. I saw it—” Proust asserted. “Tlie wounds of those unfortunates are still bleeding.” “Nevertheless, I beseech you, David, to listen—l did not kill them. Surely you believe me?” Proust shook his head doubtfully. “Then if you did not—the scoundrels responsible for this foul deed cannot be far—let us ride on quickly.*’ Hardly knowing what he did, Vleiberg mounted—staining his saddle and bridle with blood—as Proust intended he should, and spurred his horse to a gallop. But almost immediately Proust drew rein, and, pointing to the soft ground, remarked grimly: “No one has passed this way, old friend, neither horse nor man,” and riding slowly forward, he beckoned to Le Savoyard and Martignae, with whom lie feigned to confer excitedly; then, as though they bad reached a decision, he rejoined Vleiberg, who still eat his horse like a man in a dream, and said: Jor years we have been a* brothers, Joseph. Friendship such as ours comes before aught else. Whatever the truth of this matter, I have bound my men to silence. I shall pay them well, and 1 intend to save you. That blood on your hands alone would convince a judge of your guilt. And the fact that you followed de Voltenay instead of waiting for me—” “But we had agreed that I should start alone if you did not return from Rouen in time—” Vleiberg broke in. Proust shrugged his shoulders. “We waste time! First, we must find a brook so that you can remove those dreadful stains, then we return at once to our homes. Let others find de ' oltenay and report his death.” > “But—the money in Jt’aris—” ith a doleful sigh Prouat drew a Ba ok from his breast. -Mv joy at obtaining the Bum von needed without appealing to others "has ehanged 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 pav me back when you will.” Thua, 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 horse dealer, ran after him and craven permission to speak to his sweetheart. Annette. Good natured as always, Vleiberg at once consented, and stopped a moment to discing the coming fair. Salto’s keen eyes at once noted the ’■igly brown eta ins on Vieiberg’s sleeves, and when he helDed 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, blit 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 hi* 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. V lei berg’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 jointer’s very evident fear, his vague, evasive answers, and the convulsive shudder that seized him when it was pointed out that the stains on bio clothes were still wet as from recent washing, decided the magistrate. Ha 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 eould 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 him 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 and confused explanations, while apparently intended to prove Vleiberg’s innocence, but made his guilt appear more evident. Ho vehemently asserted that he had given his friend the money, but when asked to name the amount, could not do so. Martignac and Le 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 roused the suspicions of the judge, whereas by feigning to shield him. albeit clumsily, as a man crazed with fear would do, lie eould 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 La Toise, and in his presence questioned each man closely again. La Toise watched Proust like a cat, and, finally, clutching the judge's arm, whispered in his ear, “Arrest them all; they are parties to the crime.” s Proust had foreseen this, and lie gloated. “If,” he said, “you think that fear for my self will cause me to accuse my unhappy friend of a foul deed, you liavo miscalculated.” Proust, Martignac and Le Savoyard were aVrested and put in separate cells. Late that night La Toise sought the magistrate and said, “There is a mystery behind all this. May I seek to discover the truth?” “You do not thibk, then, that Vleiberg is guilty?” “I cannot tell: it all depends on 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 niv ground. Meanwhile, may I ask that nothing be said about the dog? Only, if tlie prisoners change ( their clothes, those they take ofiF must be carefully kept in separate bundles and marked with their names.” For an-instant the judge felt inclined to laugh, but the shrewd eyes of La Toise, gazing- so steadfastly into hij, decided him. “Very well, I give you full powers. Old Van Vleiberg was my friend and a fine fellow. Ilis son shall have every cha nee.” Secretive and sly, La Toise was nevertheless a kindly soul. Apparently his queer mind was influenced by a species of instinct. He first went to Vleiberg’s house and found that the man s pistols were both loaded and had not been recently fired. Yet de Voltengy’s servant had been shot. La Toise then searched ceaselessly for the missing dog that had accompanied de Voltenay. Meanwhile, Vleiberg was questioned day after day. His story never varied; the days became weeks, and the weeks became months, and the unfortunate man lost strength and became resigned to the inevitable. The landlord of the inn at Pontoisc identified the knife that he had missed after Vleiberg had gone; had been struck by Vleiberg’s gloomy and irritable manner after Proust and bis two friends left, and had been surprised the following, evening when Vleiberg made merry with de Voltenay. This evidence definitely caused the police to abandon the theory that Proust and his men had committed the murders. Even the judge, de Clamart, believed that Proust had resolved, merely out of kindness, to save Joseph Vleiber, but that he was guiltless of complicity. Yet, law, either a confession or definite proof was needed, and he determined to the prisoners by ceaseless interrogation. live weary months dragged bv, and rhe 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 liis men should undergo the torture of the “simple question,” which i# limited to six quarts of water, to be poured down each victim’s throat through a leather funnel. Proust held out for a time, but at last seemed to break down under the torture, and cried out that he would confess he was afraid his friend had committed the murders. He then went on to make his pretended confession, and told how ho, Martignac and Le Savoyard had come upon Vleiberg just as he drove the knife into de Voltenay’* breast. The '•mining man said lie had hitherto kept silent out of friendship for Vleiberg, but the torment had been too much. ~ ,

This cunning talc had the desired efieet, and when in turn Proust’s two villains also feigned to bieak 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 do 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, fa 1-se friend.—false frieml! 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. 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 tliat 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 hastily ordered Vleiberg to be placed on a bed, and then ran to de Clamart’s house. At the door he met La Toiso —ragged, unkempt, but triumphant, and the moment they were ushered into the judge’s presence, the police agent exclaimed in thrilling tones: “My lord, you 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, wikleyod 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, rnadame, 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 really obtain the proof we need?” “Give me until to-morrow, my lord,” La Toise answered. “I have found the dog at last. Two days ago a peasant directed me to a farm 20 miles distant, where he said I should find the dog J sought. He remembered seeing a great yellow mastiff appear there one day, 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, 1m had kept it. “I started at once for Bouen, my lord, riding like a madman, and, as though the creature had guessed my purpose, it ran beside me, league upon league, untiring and remorseless as Fate. At the prison I obtained the clothes taken from Vleibeg 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. Snarlmg with fury, the mastiff sprang like a tiger at one of them; it was marked, and the name on the bundle was Mar* tignac.” T fail even now to understand how this will help the prisoner—we cannot accept the dumb testimony of a dog, unerring though it may be. You believe, of course, that Marlignae killed de Voltenay and that it was also he who stabbed the dog?” “Yes, my lord, to-morrow I shall bring you the fellow’s signed confession,” ami, without another word, La Toise ran from tho room, followed by the magistrate who had interceded with the judg<j for Joseph Vleiberg. When they reached the street he grasped La Toise by the arm and said: “Let me come with you—l have guessed your purpose.” “Good—a witness will be useful. Martignac lives all alone in a little house near the river. We will go thereafter 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, lie 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, tho 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 hie enemy, 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 jt would come.” La Toise dragged the raging dog away and chained it securely to a tree. The details of Proust’s fiendish plot wore thereupon put in writing and signed, and Martignac was taken immediately to the coll 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; Lc 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, lie had been unable to master his unholy joy, and taunted his wife with a recital of the scheme, which, by then, as lie thought, had culminated in the ignominious death of the man she loved.

The terrible tale had roused Antoinette to frenzy, she hail spat the name of de Voltenay at him, boasting of the way #he 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 best horse, and when Le Savoyard tried to interfere, had callously stabbed him and then galloped away. Although soldier# hunted Proust for weeks, no trace of him was ever found. The’ unhappy Vleiberg was released, and his innocence proclaimed by the town crier, but many years passed before lie recovered from tlie atrocious ordeal. Feries continued Next Saturday with “Th# Romance of Dr. Guillotin and the Guillotine.”