Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 44, No. 6, June 1999

There was a moment’s respite. The struggle between the adversaries had hardly begun before the husband and wife adopted the attitude of defeated persons whose only hope lay in the victor’s clemency. Staring motionless before her, Mme. Pancaldi began to cry. Rénine bent over her and said, “Do you mind if we go over the case from the beginning? We shall then see things more clearly, and I am sure that our interview will lead to a perfectly natural solution... This is how things happened: nine years ago, when you were lady’s maid to Mlle. Hortense in the country, you made the acquaintance of M. Pancaldi, who soon became your lover. You were both of you Corsicans; in other words, you came from a country where superstitions are very strong and where questions of good and bad luck, the evil eye, and spells and charms exert a profound influence over the lives of one and all. Now it was said that your young mistress’s clasp had always brought luck to its owners. That was why, in a weak moment prompted by M. Pancaldi, you stole the clasp. Six months afterwards, you became Mme. Pancaldi... That is your whole story, is it not, told in a few sentences? The whole story of two people who would have remained honest members of society if they had been able to resist that casual temptation?... I need not tell you how you both succeeded in life and how, possessing the talisman, believing its powers and trusting in yourselves, you rose to the first rank of antiquarians. Today, well-off, owning this shop, The Mercury, you attribute the success of your undertakings to that clasp. To lose it would to your eyes spell bankruptcy and poverty. Your whole life has been centered upon it. It is your fetish. It is the little household god who watches over you and guides your steps. It is there, somewhere, hidden in this jungle; and no one of course would ever have suspected anything — for I repeat, you are decent people but for this one lapse — if an accident had not led me to look into your affairs.”

Rénine paused and continued, “That was two months ago, two months of minute investigations, which presented no difficulty to me because, having discovered your trail, I hired the flat overhead and was able to use that staircase... but, all the same, two months wasted to a certain extent because I have not yet succeeded. And Heaven knows how I have ransacked this shop of yours! There is not a piece of furniture that I have left unsearched, not a plank in the floor that I have not inspected. All to no purpose. Yes, there was one thing, an incidental discovery. In a secret recess in your writing table, Pancaldi, I turned up a little account book in which you have set down your remorse, your uneasiness, your fear of punishment, and your dread of God’s wrath... It was highly imprudent of you, Pancaldi! People don’t write such confessions! And, above all, they don’t leave them lying about! Be this as it may, I read them and I noted one passage which struck me as particularly important and was of use to me in preparing my plan of campaign: ‘Should she come to me, the woman whom I robbed, should she come to me as I saw her in her garden while Lucienne was taking the clasp; should she appear to me wearing the blue gown and the toque of red leaves, with the jet necklace and the whip of three plaited rushes which she was carrying that day; should she appear to me thus and say, “I have come to claim my property,” then I shall understand that her conduct is inspired from on high and that I must obey the decree of Providence.’ That is what is written in your book, Pancaldi, and it explains the conduct of the lady whom you call Mlle. Hortense. Acting on my instructions and in accordance with the setting thought out by yourself, she came to you, from the back of beyond, to use your own expression. A little more self-possession on her part and you know that she would have won the day. Unfortunately, you are a wonderful actor; your sham suicide put her out; and you understood that this was not a decree of Providence but simply an offensive on the part of your former victim. I had no choice, therefore, but to intervene. Here I am... And now let’s finish the business. Pancaldi, that clasp!”

“No,” said the dealer, who seemed to recover all his energy at the very thought of restoring the clasp.

“And you, Mme. Pancaldi.”

“I don’t know where it is,” the wife declared.

“Very well. Then let us come to deeds. Mme. Pancaldi, you have a son of seven whom you love with all your heart. This is Thursday, and as on every Thursday your little boy is to come home alone from his aunt’s. Two of my friends are posted on the road by which he returns and in the absence of instructions to the contrary will kidnap him as he passes.”

Madame Pancaldi lost her head at once. “My son! Oh, please, please... not that!... I swear that I know nothing. My husband would never consent to confide in me.”