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A Terribly Strange Bed part 15

Written on 11/04/2019   By   in General

The
smothering canopy was then lowered, but not so noiselessly as I had seen it
lowered. When I mentioned this to the Sub-prefect, his answer, simple as it
was, had a terrible significance, “My men,” said he, “are working down the
bed-top for the first time —- the men whose money you won were in better
practise.”

We
left the house in the sole possession of two police agents—every one of the
inmates being removed to prison on the spot. The Sub-prefect, after taking down
my “proces verbal” in his office, returned with me to my hotel to get my
passport. “Do you think,” I asked, as I gave it to him, “that any men have
really been smothered in that bed, as they tried to smother me?”

“I
have seen dozens of drowned men laid out at the Morgue,” answered the
Sub-prefect, “in whose pocketbooks were found letters stating that they had
committed suicide in the Seine, because they had lost everything at the
gaming-table. Do I know how many of those men entered the same gambling-house
that you entered? won as you won? took that bed as jyow took it? slept in it?
were smothered in it? and were privately thrown into the river, with a letter
of explanation written by the murderers and placed in their pocketbooks?

No
man can say how many or how few have suffered the fate from which you have
escaped. The people of the gambling-house kept their bedstead machinery a
secret from us—even from the police! The dead kept the rest of the secret for
them. Good-night, or rather good-morning, Monsieur Faulkner! Be at my office
again at nine o’clock—in the meantime, au revoir!”

The
rest of my story is soon told. I was examined and reexamined; the
gambling-house was strictly searched all through from top to bottom; the
prisoners were separately interrogated; and two of the less guilty among them
made a confession. I discovered that the Old Soldier was the master of the
gambling-house—justice discovered that he had been drummed out of the army as a
vagabond years ago; that he had been guilty of all sorts of villainies since;
that he was in possession of stolen property, which the owners identified; and
that he, the croupier, another accomplice, and the woman who had made my cup of
coffee, were all in the secret of the bedstead.

Old Soldier

There
appeared some reason to doubt whether the inferior persons attached to the
house knew anything of the suffocating machinery; and they received the benefit
of that doubt, by being treated simply as thieves and vagabonds. As for the Old
Soldier and his two head myrmidons, they went to the galleys; the woman who had
drugged my coffee was imprisoned for I forget how many years; the regular
attendants at the gambling house were considered “suspicious,” and placed under
“surveillance”; and I became, for one whole week (which is a long time), the
head “lion” in Parisian society. My adventure was dramatized by three
illustrious play-makers, but never saw theatrical daylight; for the censorship
forbade the introduction on the stage of a correct copy of the gambling-house
bedstead.

One
good result was produced by my adventure, which any censorship must have
approved: it cured me of ever again trying “Rouge et Noir” as an amusement. The
sight of a green cloth, with packs of cards and heaps of money on it, will
henceforth be forever associated in my mind with the sight of a bed canopy
descending to suffocate me in the silence and darkness of the night.

 

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