The Holladay Case (Detective Story Magazine)/Chapter 16
CHAPTER XVI.
Etretat.
We were up at an hour which astonished the little fat keeper of the inn, and inquired the location of the office of the registrar of births. It was office of the registrar of births.
We set off along the Rue Alphonse Karr, lined on both sides by houses, each with its little shop on the ground floor. Three minutes' walk brought us to the bay, but we paused for only a glance at it, and turned toward the Casino at the other end. “Maître Fingret?” we inquired of the first passerby, and he pointed us to a little house, hidden in vines.
A knock brought the notary himself to the door, a little dried-up man, with keen face, and eyes incredibly bright. My companion explained our errand in laborious French, and the little Frenchman caught his meaning and bustled away to get his hat and coat.
The notary unlocked the door, showed us into his office, and set out chairs for us. Then he got down his register of births for 1896. It was not a large book, for the births at Etretat are not overwhelming in number.
“The name, I think you said, was Holladay?” he asked.
“Hiram W. Holladay,” nodded Mr. Royce.
“And the date June 10th?”
“Yes, June 10th.”
The little man ran his finger rapidly down the page, then went back again and read the entries one by one more slowly, with a pucker of perplexity about his lips. He turned the leaf, began farther back, and read through the list while we sat watching him. At last he shut the book with a little snap and looked up at us.
“Messieurs,” he said quietly, “no such birth is recorded here. I have examined the record for the months of May, June, and July.”
“But it must be there!” protested Mr. Royce.
“Nevertheless it is not here, monsieur.”
“Could the child have been born here and no record made of it?”
“Impossible, monsieur. No physician in France would take that responsibility.”
“For a large fee, perhaps,” suggested my companion.
“In Paris that may sometimes be possible. But in a small place like this I should have heard of it, and it would have been my duty to investigate.”
“You have been here for that length of time, then?”
“Oh, yes, monsieur,” smiled the little man. “For a much longer time than that.”
Mr. Royce leaned forward toward him.
“Monsieur Fingret,” he began impressively, “I am quite certain that Hiram W. Holladay and his wife were here during the months of May, June, and July, 1896, and that while they were here a daughter was born to them. Think again—have you no recollection of them or of the event?”
The little notary sat for some moments with knitted brows. At last he shook his head.
“That would be the height of the season, you see, monsieur,” he said apologetically. “There are a great many people here at that time, and I cannot know all of them. For a moment there was about the name a certain familiarity, as of an old tune, you know. Yet it must have been my fancy, for I have no recollection of the event you mention. I cannot believe that such a birth took place at Etretat.”
There was one other chance, and I gave Mr. Royce the clew.
“Monsieur Fingret,” he asked, “are you acquainted with a man by the name of Pierre Bethune?”
And again the notary shook his head.
“Or Jasper Martigny?”
“I never before heard either name, monsieur,” he answered,
We sat silent a moment, in despair. Was our trip to Etretat to be of no avail? Where was my premonition, now? If we had lost the trail thus early in the chase, what hope was there that we should ever run down the quarry? And how explain the fact that no record had been made of Frances Holladay's birth? Why should her parents have wished to conceal it? Would they not naturally have been anxious to see that it was properly recorded?
An hour had passed; the shops were opening, and a bustle of life reached us through the open door. People began to pass by twos and threes.
“The first train for three days is about to arrive,” said the little notary. “You see this is a very small town, messieurs. The arrival of a train is an event.”
Again we fell silent. Mr. Royce got out his purse and paid the fee. We could go no farther. The notary stepped to the door and looked up the street.
“Ah,” he said, “the train has arrived, but it seems there were not many passengers. But here is one who has finished a long journey.”
He nodded to some one who approached slowly. He was before the door—he passed on—it was Martigny!
“That is the man!” I cried to Mr. Royce. “That is Martigny! Ask who he really is.”
He understood on the instant, and caught the notary's arm.
“Monsieur Fingret, who is that man?”
The notary glanced at him surprised by his vehemence.
“That,” he said, “is Victor Fajolle. He is just home from America, and seems very ill, poor fellow.”
And he lives here?”
On the cliffs just above the town—the first house—you cannot miss it—buried in a grove of trees. He married the daughter of Madame Alix some years ago—he was from Paris.”
“And his wife is living?”
“Oh, surely, she is living; she herself returned from America but three weeks ago, together with her mother and sister. The sister, they say, is—well” and he finished with a significant gesture toward his head.
I saw my companion's face turn white—I steadied myself with an effort. I knew that the veil was to be lifted at last.
“And they are at home now?”
“I believe so,” said the notary, eying him with more and more astonishment. “They have been keeping close at home since their return—they will permit no one to see the—invalid. There has been much talk about it.”
“Come, we must go!” I said. “He must not get there before us!”
But a sudden light gleamed in the notary's eyes.
“Wait, messieurs!” he exclaimed. “A moment. But a moment. Ah, I remember it now—it was the link which was wanting, and you have supplied it—Holladay, a millionaire of America, his wife, Madame Alix—she did not live in the villa, then, messieurs. Oh, no; she was very poor, a nurse—anything to make a little money; her husband, who was a fisherman, was drowned, and left her to take care of the children as best she could. Ah, I remember—one a mere baby!”
He had got down another book and was running his finger rapidly down the page—his finger trembling with excitement. He stopped with a little cry of triumph.
“Here it is, messieurs! I knew I could not be mistaken! See!”
Under the date of June 10, 1896, was an entry of which this is the English:
Holladay, Hiram W., and Elizabeth, his wife, of the city of New York, United States of America; from Céleste Alix, widow of Auguste Alix, her daughter Céleste, aged five months. All claim surrendered in consideration of the payment of 25,000 francs.
Mr. Royce caught up the book and glanced at the back. It was the “Record of Adoptions.”