After two or three hours of this unbroken, soundless stillness, the fire having died down in the fort, I felt perfectly certain there would be no attack until dawn.
All who were not on the duty of outposts-by-night slept, and I strolled silently round and round the oasis, waiting for the first hint of sunrise and thinking over the incredible events of that marvellous day--certainly unique in my fairly wide experience of hectic days.
I went over it all again from the moment when I first sighted the accursed fort with its flag flying over its unsealed walls and their dead defenders, to the moment when my eyes refused to believe that the place was on fire and blazing merrily.
At length, leaning against the trunk of a palm tree and longing for a cigarette and some hot coffee to help me keep awake, I faced the east and watched for the paling of the stars. As I did so, my mind grew clearer as my body grew weaker, and I decided to decide that all this was the work of a madman, concealed in the fort, and now burnt to death.
He had, for some reason, murdered the sous-officier with a bayonet (certainly he must be mad or he would have shot him); and he had, for some reason, silently killed the trumpeter and hidden his body--all in the few minutes that elapsed before I followed the trumpeter in. (Had the murderer used another bayonet for this silent job?) He had for some reason removed the sous-officier's, and the other man's, body and concealed those too, and, finally, he had set fire to the fort and perished in the flames.
But where was he while I searched the place, and why had he not killed me also when I entered the fort alone?
The lunacy theory must account for these hopelessly lunatic proceedings--but it hardly accounts for the murdered sous-officier having in his hand a confession signed, 'Michael Geste,' to the effect that he had stolen a jewel, does it, my old one?"
"It does not, my son, and that, to me, is the most interesting and remarkable fact in your most interesting and remarkable story," replied Lawrence.
"Well, I decided, as I say, to leave it at that--just the mad doings of a madman, garnished by the weird coincidence of the paper," continued de Beaujolais, "and soon afterwards the sky grew grey in the east.
Before a rosy streak could herald the dawn we silently stood to arms, and when the sun peeped over the horizon he beheld St. André's Senegalese skirmishing beautifully towards us!
There wasn't so much as the smell of an Arab for miles. . . . No, St. André had not seen a living thing--not even the two scouts I had sent out to meet him. Nor did anyone else ever see those two brave fellows. I have often wondered what their fate was--Arabs or thirst. . . .
I soon learnt that one of St. André's mule-scouts had ridden back to him, early in the night, to say that he had heard rifle-shots in the direction of Zinderneuf. St. André had increased his pace, alternating the quick march and the pas gymnastique until he knew he must be near his goal. All being then perfectly silent he decided to beware of an ambush, to halt for the rest of the night, and to feel his way forward, in attack formation, at dawn.
He had done well, and my one regret was that the Arabs who had caused the destruction of Zinderneuf were not between me and him as he closed upon the oasis.
While the weary troops rested, I told St. André all that had happened, and asked for a theory--reserving mine about the madman. He is a man with a brain, this St. André, ambitious and a real soldier. Although he has private means, he serves France where duty is hardest, and life least attractive. A little dark pocket-Hercules of energy and force.
'What about this, Major?' said he, when I had finished my account, and, having fed, we were sitting, leaning our weary backs against a fallen palm trunk, with coffee and cigarettes at hand.
'Suppose your trumpeter killed the sous-officier himself and deserted there and then?'
'Mon Dieu!' said I; 'that never occurred to me. But why should he, and why use his bayonet and leave it in the body?'
'Well--as to why he should,' replied St. André, 'it might have been revenge. This may have been the first time he had ever been alone with the sous-officier, whom he may have sworn to kill at the first opportunity. . . . Some fancied or real injustice, when he was under this man at Sidi-bel-Abbès or elsewhere. The sight of his enemy, the sole survivor, alone, rejoicing in his hour of victory and triumph, may have further maddened a brain already mad with cafard, brooding, lust of vengeance, I know not what of desperation.'
'Possible,' I said, and thought over this idea. 'But no, impossible, my friend. Why had not the sous-officier rushed to the wall, or up to the look-out platform when I approached? I fired my revolver six times to attract attention and let them know that relief had come, and two answering rifle-shots were fired! Why was he not waving his képi and shouting for joy? Why did he not rush down to the gates and throw them open?'
'Wounded and lying down,' suggested St. André.
'He was not wounded, my friend,' said I. 'He was killed. That bayonet, and nothing else, had done his business.'
'Asleep,' suggested the Lieutenant, 'absolutely worn out. Sleeping like the dead--and thus his enemy, the trumpeter, found him, and drove the bayonet through his heart as he slept. He was going to blow the sleeper's brains out, when he remembered that the shot would be heard and would have to be explained. Therefore he used the bayonet, drove it through the man, and then, and not till then, he realised that the bayonet would betray him. It would leap to the eye, instantly, that murder had been committed--and not by one of the garrison. So he fled.'
'And the revolver, with one chamber fired?' I asked.
'Oh--fired during the battle, at some daring Arab who rode round the fort, reconnoitring, and came suddenly into view.'
'And the paper in the left hand?'
'I do not know.'
'And who fired the two welcoming shots?'
'I do not know.'
'And how did the trumpeter vanish across the desert--as conspicuous as a negro's head on a pillow--before the eyes of my Company?'
'I do not know.'
'Nor do I,' I said.
And then St. André sat up suddenly.
'Mon Commandant,' said he, 'the trumpeter did not escape, of course. He murdered the sous-officier and then hid himself. It was he who removed the two bodies when he again found himself alone in the fort. He may have had some idea of removing the bayonet and turning the stab into a bullet-wound. He then meant to return to the Company with some tale of cock and bull. But remembering that you had already seen the body, and might have noticed the bayonet, he determined to set fire to the fort, burn all evidence, and rejoin in the confusion caused by the fire.
He could swear that he had been knocked on the head from behind, and only recovered consciousness in time to escape from the flames kindled by whoever it was who clubbed him. This is all feasible--and if improbable it is no more improbable than the actual facts of the case, is it?'
'Quite so, mon Lieutenant,' I agreed. 'And why did he not rejoin in the confusion, with his tale of cock and bull?'
'Well--here's a theory. Suppose the sous-officier did shoot at him with the revolver and wounded him so severely that by the time he had completed his little job of arson he was too weak to walk. He fainted from loss of blood and perished miserably in the flames that he himself had kindled. Truly a splendid example of poetic justice.'
'Magnificent,' I agreed. 'The Greek Irony, in effect. Hoist by his own petard. Victim of the mocking Fates, and so forth. The only flaw in the beautiful theory is that we should have heard the shot--just as we should have heard a rifle-shot had the trumpeter used his rifle for the murder. In that brooding heavy silence a revolver fired