La Touche,having finished his report, put on his hat and sallied forth into the rue de la Fayette. He intended after posting his letter to cross to the south side and spend the evening with some friends. He was not in an agreeable frame of mind. The conclusion to which he was apparently being forced would be a disappointment to Clifford, and, if the theory of Boirac’s guilt broke down, he saw no better than the solicitor what defence remained.
He sauntered slowly along the pavement, his mind brooding almost subconsciously on the case. Then, noticing a letter-box on the opposite side of the street, he turned to cross over. But as he stepped off the sidewalk an idea flashed into his mind and he stopped as if shot. That typewriter the pretty girl in Boirac’s office had been using wasa new machine. La Touche was an observant man, and he had noted the fact, as he habitually noted small details about the objects he saw. But not until this moment did he realise the tremendously suggestive deduction which might be made from the fact. Lefarge, in his search for the machine on which the Le Gautier letter had been typed, had obtained samples from all the typewriters to which Boirac, so far as he could ascertain, had access. But what if that new machine replaced an old? What if that old machine had typed the Le Gautier letter and had been then got rid of so that samples taken by suspicious detective might be supplied from some other typewriter? Here was food for thought. If he could prove anything of this kind he need have no fear of disappointing his employer. He put the report back in his pocket till he could adjust himself to this new point of view.
And then he had a revulsion of feeling. After all, offices must necessarily procure new typewriters, and there was no reason in this case to suppose a machine had been purchased otherwise than in the ordinary course of business. And yet—the idea was attractive.
He decided he might as well make some inquiries before forwarding his report. It would be a simple matter to find out when the new machine was purchased, and, if the date was not suspicious, the matter could be dropped.
He considered the best way of ascertaining his information. His first idea was to meet the typist and ask her the direct question. Then he saw that if her answer supported his theory, not only would further inquiries be necessary, but no hint that these were being made must reach Boirac. It might therefore be better to try diplomacy.
To La Touche diplomatic dealing was second nature, and he was not long in devising a plan. He looked at his watch. It was 5.15. If he hurried he might reach the pump works before the pretty typist left.
From the window of the café which had so often served in a similar capacity, he watched the office staff take their departure. For a long time his victim did not appear, and he had almost come to the conclusion she must have gone, when he saw her. She was with two other girls, and the three, after glancing round the street, tripped off daintily citywards.
When they had gone a fair distance La Touche followed. The girls stood for a moment at the Simplon Station of the Metro, then the pretty typist vanished down the steps, while the others moved on along the pavement. La Touche sprinted to the entrance and was in time to see the gray dress of the quarry disappearing down the passage labelled Porte d’Orléans. He got his ticket and followed to the platform. There was a fairly dense crowd, and, after locating mademoiselle he mingled with it, keeping well back out of sight.
A train soon drew up and the girl got in. La Touche entered the next carriage. Standing at the end of his vehicle he could see her through the glass between the coaches without, he felt sure, being himself visible. One, two, five stations passed, and then she got up and moved towards the door ready to alight. La Touche did the same, observing from the map in the carriage that the next station was not a junction. As the train jerked and groaned to a standstill he leaped out and hurried to the street. Crossing rapidly, he stopped at a kiosk and asked for an evening paper. Bending over the counter of the stall, he saw her emerge up the steps and start off down the street. He remained on the opposite side, cautiously following until, after about two blocks, she entered a small, unpretentious restaurant.
‘If she is going to dine alone,’ thought La Touche, ‘I am in luck.’
He waited till she would have probably reached her second or third course and then entered the building.
The room was narrow, corresponding to the frontage, but stretched a long way back, the far end being lighted with electric lamps. A row of marble-topped tables stretched down each side, with six cane chairs at each. Mirrors framed in dingy white and gold lined the walls. At the extreme back was a tiny stage on which an orchestra of three girls was performing.
The place was about half full. As La Touche’s quick eye took in the scene, he noticed the typist seated alone at a table three or four from the stage. He walked forward.
‘If mademoiselle permits?’ he murmured, bowing, but hardly looking at her, as he pulled out a chair nearly opposite her and sat down.
He gave his order and then, business being as it were off his mind, he relaxed so far as to look around. He glanced at the girl, seemed suddenly to recognise her, gave a mild start of surprise and leant forward with another bow.
‘Mademoiselle will perhaps pardon if I presume,’ he said, in his best manner, ‘but I think we have met before or, if not quite, almost.’
The girl raised her eyebrows but did not speak.
‘In the office of M. Boirac,’ went on the detective. ‘You would not, of course, notice, but I saw you there busy with a fine typewriter.’
Mademoiselle was not encouraging. She shrugged her shoulders, but made no reply. La Touche had another shot.
‘I am perhaps impertinent in addressing mademoiselle, but I assure her no impertinence is meant. I am the inventor of a new device for typewriters, and I try to get opinion of every expert operator I can find on its utility. Perhaps mademoiselle would permit me to describe it and ask hers?’
‘Why don’t you take it to some of the agents?’ She spoke frigidly.
‘Because, mademoiselle,’ answered La Touche, warming to his subject, ‘I am not quite certain if the device would be sufficiently valuable. It would be costly to attach and no firm would buy unless it could be shown that operators wanted it. That is what I am so anxious to learn.’
She was listening, though not very graciously. La Touche did not wait for a reply, but began sketching on the back of the menu.
‘Here,’ he said, ‘is my idea,’ and he proceeded to draw and describe the latest form of tabulator with which he was acquainted. The girl look at him with scorn and suspicion.
‘You’re describing the Remington tabulator,’ she said coldly.
‘Oh, but, pardon me, mademoiselle. You surely don’t mean that? I have been told this is quite new.’
‘You have been told wrongly. I ought to know, for I have been using one the very same, as what you say is yours, for several weeks.’
‘You don’t say so, mademoiselle? That means that I have been forestalled and all my work has been wasted.’
La Touche’s disappointment was so obvious that the girl thawed slightly.
‘You’d better call at the Remington depot and ask to see one of their new machines. Then you can compare their tabulator with yours.’
‘Thank you, mademoiselle, I’ll do so to-morrow. Then you use a Remington?’
‘Yes, a No. 10.’
‘Is that an old machine? Pardon my questions, but have you had it long?’
‘I can’t tell you how long it has been at the office. I am only there myself six or seven weeks.’
Six or seven weeks! And the murder took place just over six weeks before! Could there be a connection, or was this mere coincidence?
‘It must be a satisfaction to a man of business,’ La Touche went on conversationally, as he helped himself to wine, ‘when his business grows to the extent of requiring an additional typist. I envy M. Boirac his feelings when he inserted his advertisement nearly as much as I envy him when you applied.’
‘You have wasted your envy then,’ returned the girl in chilly and contemptuous tones, ‘for you are wrong on both points. M. Boirac’s business has not extended, for I replaced a girl who had just left, and no advertisement was inserted as I went to M. Boirac from the Michelin School in the rue Scribe.’
La Touche had got his information; at least, all he had expected from this girl. He continued the somewhat one-sided conversation for some minutes, and then with a courteous bow left the restaurant. He reached his hotel determined to follow the matter up.
Accordingly, next morning saw him repeating his tactics of the previous evening. Taking up his position in the restaurant near the Pump Works shortly before midday, he watched the staff go fordéjeuner. First came M. Boirac, then M. Dufresne, and then a crowd of lesser lights—clerks and typists. He saw his friend of the night before with the same two companions, closely followed by the prompt clerk. At last the stream ceased, and in about ten minutes the detective crossed the road and once more entered the office. It was empty except for a junior clerk.
‘Good-morning,’ said La Touche affably. ‘I called to ask whether you would be so good as to do me a favour. I want a piece of information for which, as it may give you some trouble to procure, I will pay twenty francs. Will you help me?’
‘What is the information, monsieur?’ asked the boy—he was little more than a boy.
‘I am manager of a paper works and I am looking for a typist for my office. I am told that a young lady typist left here about six weeks ago?’
‘That is true, monsieur; Mlle. Lambert.’
‘Yes, that is the lady’s name,’ returned La Touche, making a mental note of it.
‘Now,’ he continued confidentially, ‘can you tell me why she left?’
‘I think she was dismissed, monsieur, but I never really understood why.’
‘Dismissed?’
‘Yes, monsieur. She had some row with M. Boirac, our managing director. I don’t know—none of us know—what it was about.’
‘I had heard she was dismissed, and that is why I was interested in her. Unfortunately my business is not for the moment as flourishing as I should wish. It occurred to me that if I could find a typist who had some blot on her record, she might be willing to come to me for a smaller salary than she would otherwise expect. It would benefit her as well as me, as it would enable her to regain her position.’
The clerk bowed without comment, and La Touche continued:—
‘The information I want is this. Can you put me in touch with this young lady? Do you know her address?’
The other shook his head.
‘I fear not, monsieur. I don’t know where she lives.’
La Touche affected to consider.
‘Now, how am I to get hold of her?’ he said. The clerk making no suggestion, he went on after a pause:—
‘I think if you could tell me just when she left it might help me. Could you do that?’
‘About six weeks ago. I can tell you the exact day by looking up the old wages sheets if you don’t mind waiting. Will you take a seat?’
La Touche thanked him and sat down, trusting the search would be concluded before any of the other clerks returned. But he was not delayed long. In three or four minutes the boy returned.
‘She left on Monday, the 5th of April, monsieur.’
‘And was she long with you?’
‘About two years, monsieur.’
‘I am greatly obliged. And her Christian name was?’
‘Éloise, monsieur. Éloise Lambert.’
‘A thousand thanks. And now I have just to beg of you not to mention my visit, as it would injure me if it got out that my business was not too flourishing. Here is my debt to you.’ He handed over the twenty francs.
‘It is too much, monsieur. I am glad to oblige you without payment.’
‘A bargain is a bargain,’ insisted the detective, and, followed by the profuse thanks of the young clerk, he left the office.
‘This grows interesting,’ thought La Touche, as he once more emerged into the street. ‘Boirac dismisses a typist on the very day the cask reaches St. Katherine’s Docks. Now, I wonder if the new typewriter made its appearance at the same time. I must get hold of that girl Lambert.’
But how was this to be done? No doubt there would be a record of her address somewhere in the office, but he was anxious that no idea of his suspicions should leak out, and he preferred to leave that source untapped. What, then, was left to him? He could see nothing for it but an advertisement.
Accordingly, he turned into a café and, calling for a bock, drafted out the following:—
‘If Mlle. Éloise Lambert, stenographer and typist, will apply to M. Georges La Touche, Hôtel Suisse, rue de La Fayette, she will hear something to her advantage.’
He read over the words and then a thought struck him, and he took another sheet of paper and wrote:—
‘If Mlle. Éloise Lambert, stenographer and typist, will apply to M. Guillaume Faneuil, Hôtel St. Antoine, she will hear something to her advantage.’
‘If Boirac should see the thing, there’s no use in my shoving into the limelight,’ he said to himself. ‘I’ll drop Georges La Touche for a day or two and try the St. Antoine.’
He sent his advertisement to several papers, then, going to the Hôtel St. Antoine, engaged a room in the name of M. Guillaume Faneuil.
‘I shall not require it till to-morrow,’ he said to the clerk, and next day he moved in.
During the morning there was a knock at the door of his private sitting-room, and a tall, graceful girl of about five-and-twenty entered. She was not exactly pretty, but exceedingly pleasant and good-humoured looking. Her tasteful, though quiet, dress showed she was not in need as a result of losing her situation.
La Touche rose and bowed.
‘Mlle. Lambert?’ he said with a smile. ‘I am M. Faneuil. Won’t you sit down?’
‘I saw your advertisement inLe Soir, monsieur, and—here I am.’
‘I am much indebted to you for coming so promptly, mademoiselle,’ said La Touche, reseating himself, ‘and I shall not trespass long on your time. But before explaining the matter may I ask if you are the Mlle. Lambert who recently acted as typist at the Avrotte Works?’
‘Yes, monsieur. I was there for nearly two years.’
‘Forgive me, but can you give any proof of that? A mere matter of form, of course, but in justice to my employers I am bound to ask the question.’
An expression of surprise passed over the girl’s face.
‘I really don’t know that I can,’ she answered. ‘You see, I was not expecting to be asked such a question.’
It had occurred to La Touche that in spite of his precautions Boirac might have somehow discovered what he was engaged on, and sent this girl with a made up story. But her answer satisfied him. If she had been an impostor she would have come provided with proofs of her identity.
‘Ah, well,’ he rejoined with a smile, ‘I think I may safely take the risk. May I ask you another question? Was a new typewriter purchased while you were at the office?’
The surprise on the pleasant face deepened.
‘Why, yes, monsieur, a No. 10 Remington.’
‘And can you tell me just when?’
‘Easily. I left the office on Monday, 5th April, and the new machine was sent three days earlier—on Friday, the 2nd.’
Here was news indeed! La Touche was now in no doubt about following up the matter. He must get all the information possible out of this girl. And the need for secrecy would make him stick to diplomacy.
He smiled and bowed.
‘You will forgive me, mademoiselle, but I had to satisfy myself you were the lady I wished to meet. I asked you these questions only to ensure that you knew the answers. And now I shall tell you who I am and what is the business at issue. But first, may I ask you to keep all I may tell you secret?’
His visitor looked more and more mystified as she replied:—
‘I promise, monsieur.’
‘Then I may say that I am a private detective, employed on behalf of the typewriter company to investigate some very extraordinary—I can only call them frauds, which have recently been taking place. In some way, which up to the present we have been unable to fathom, several of our machines have developed faults which, you understand, do not prevent them working, but which prevent them being quite satisfactory. The altering of tensions and the slight twisting of type to put them out of alignment are the kind of things I mean. We hardly like to suspect rival firms of practising these frauds to get our machines into disfavour, and yet it is hard to account for it otherwise. Now, we think that you can possibly give us some information, and I am authorised by my company to hand you one hundred francs if you will be kind enough to do so.’
The surprise had not left the girl’s face as she answered:—
‘I should have been very pleased, monsieur, to tell you all I knew without any payment, had I known anything to tell. But I am afraid I don’t.’
‘I think, mademoiselle, you can help us if you will. May I ask you a few questions?’
‘Certainly.’
‘The first is, can you describe the machine you used prior to the purchase of the new one?’
‘Yes, it was a No. 7 Remington.’
‘I did not mean that,’ answered La Touche, eagerly noting this information, ‘I knew that, of course, as it is this No. 7 machine I am inquiring about. What I meant to ask was, had it any special marks or peculiarities by which it could be distinguished from other No. 7’s?’
‘Why, no, I don’t think so,’ the girl answered thoughtfully. ‘And yet there were. The letter S on the S-key had got twisted round to the right and there were three scratches here’—she indicated the side plate of an imaginary typewriter.
‘You would then be able to identify the machine if you saw it again?’
‘Yes, I certainly should.’
‘Now, mademoiselle, had it any other peculiarities—defective letters or alignment or anything of that kind?’
‘No, nothing really bad. It was old and out of date, but quite good enough. M. Boirac, of course, thought otherwise, but I maintain my opinion.’
‘What did M. Boirac say exactly?’
‘He blamed me for it. But there wasn’t anything wrong, and if there had been it wasn’t my fault.’
‘I am sure of that, mademoiselle. But perhaps you would tell me about it from the beginning?’
‘There’s not much to tell. I had a big job to do—typing a long specification of a pumping plant for the Argentine, and when I had finished I left it as usual on M. Boirac’s desk. A few minutes later he sent for me and asked how I came to put such an untidy document before him. I didn’t see anything wrong with it and I asked him what he complained of. He pointed out some very small defects—principally uneven alignment, and one or two letters just a trifle blurred. You really would hardly have seen it. I said that wasn’t my fault, and that the machine wanted adjustment. He said I had been striking while the shift key was partly moved, but, M. Faneuil, I had been doing nothing of the kind. I told M. Boirac so, and he then apologised and said I must have a new machine. He telephoned there and then to the Remington people, and a No. 10 came that afternoon.’
‘And what happened to the old No. 7?’
‘The man that brought the new one took the old away.’
‘And was that all that was said?’
‘That was all, monsieur.’
‘But, pardon me, I understood you left owing to some misunderstanding with M. Boirac?’
The girl shook her head.
‘Oh, no,’ she said, ‘nothing of the sort. M. Boirac told me the following Monday, that is, two days after the typewriter business, that he was reorganising his office and would do with a typist less. As I was the last arrival, I had to go. He said he wished to carry out the alterations immediately so that I might leave at once. He gave me a month’s salary instead of notice, and a good testimonial which I have here. We parted quite friends.’
The document read:—
‘I have pleasure in certifying that Mlle. Éloise Lambert was engaged as a stenographer and typist in the head office of this company from August, 1910, till 5th April, 1912, during which time she gave every satisfaction to me and my chief clerk. She proved herself diligent and painstaking, thoroughly competent in her work, and of excellent manners and conduct. She leaves the firm through no fault of her own, but because we are reducing staff. I regret her loss and have every confidence in recommending her to those needing her services.
‘(Signed)Raoul Boirac,Managing Director.’
‘An excellent testimonial, mademoiselle,’ La Touche commented. ‘Pray excuse me for just a moment.’
He stepped into the adjoining bedroom and closed the door. Then taking a sample of Boirac’s writing from his pocket-book, he compared the signature with that of the testimonial. After a careful scrutiny he was satisfied the latter was genuine. He returned to the girl and handed her the document.
‘Thank you, mademoiselle. Now, can you recall one other point? Did you, within the last three or four weeks, type a letter about some rather unusual matters—about some one winning a lot of money in the State Lottery and about sending this packed in a cask to England?’
‘Never, monsieur,’ asserted the typist, evidently completely puzzled by the questions she was being asked. La Touche watched her keenly and was satisfied she had no suspicion that his business was other than he had said. But he was nothing if not thorough, and his thoroughness drove him to make provision for suspicions which might arise later. He therefore went on to question her about the No. 7 machine, asking whether she had ever noticed it had been tampered with, and finally saying that he believed there must have been a mistake and that the machine they had discussed was not that in which he was interested. Then, after obtaining her address, he handed her the hundred francs, which, after a protest, she finally accepted.
‘Now, not a word to any one, if you please, mademoiselle,’ he concluded, as they parted.
His discoveries, to say the least of it, were becoming interesting. If Mlle. Lambert’s story was true—and he was strongly disposed to believe her—M. Boirac had acted in a way that required some explanation. His finding fault with the typist did not seem genuine. In fact, to La Touche it looked as if the whole episode had been arranged to provide an excuse for getting rid of the typewriter. Again, the manufacturer’s dismissal of his typist at a day’s notice was not explained by his statement that he was about to reorganise his office. Had that been true he would have allowed her to work her month’s notice, and, even more obviously, he would not have immediately engaged her successor. As La Touche paid his bill at the hotel he decided that though there might be nothing in his suspicions, the matter was well worth further investigation. He therefore called a taxi and was driven to the Remington typewriter depot.
‘I want,’ he said to the salesman who came forward, ‘to buy a second-hand machine. Can you let me see some?’
‘Certainly, monsieur. Will you step this way?’
They went to a room at the back of the building where were stored a vast assemblage of typewriters of all sizes and in all states of repair. La Touche, inquiring as to prices and models, moved slowly about, running his quick eye over the machines, looking always for one with a twisted S-key. But, search as he would, he could not find what he wanted. Nor could he find any No. 7’s. These machines were all more modern.
He turned at last to the shopman.
‘These are all rather expensive for me. I should explain that I am the principal of a commercial school, and I merely want a machine on which beginners could learn the keys. Any old thing would do, if I could get it cheap. Have you any older machines?’
‘Certainly, monsieur, we have several quite good No. 7’s and a few No. 5’s. Come this way, please.’
They went to a room devoted to more antiquated specimens. Here La Touche continued his investigations, searching always for the twisted S.
At last he saw it. Not only was the letter turned to the right, but on the side plate were the three scratches mentioned by Mlle. Lambert.
‘I think that one would suit,’ he said. ‘Could you get it down and let me have a look at it?’
He went through the pretence of examining it with care.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘this will do if it works all right. I should like to try it.’
He put in a sheet of paper and typed a few words. Then, drawing out his work, he examined the letters and alignment.
As he looked at it even his long experience scarcely prevented him giving a cry of triumph. For, to the best of his belief, this was the machine on which the Le Gautier letter had been typed!
He turned again to the shopman.
‘That seems all right,’ he said. ‘I’ll take the machine, please.’
He paid for it and obtained a receipt. Then he asked to see the manager.
‘I’m going to ask you, monsieur,’ he said, when he had drawn that gentleman aside, ‘to do me a rather unusual favour. I have just bought this machine, and I want you to see it before I take it away, and, if you will be so kind, to give me some information about it. I shall tell you in confidence why I ask. I am a detective, employed on behalf of a man charged with a serious crime, but who I believe is innocent. A certain letter, on the authorship of which his guilt largely depends, was written, if I am not mistaken, on this machine. You will forgive me if I do not go into all the particulars. An adequate identification of the typewriter is obviously essential. I would therefore ask you if you would be kind enough to put a private mark on it. Also, if you would tell me how it came into your possession, I should be more than obliged.’
‘I shall do what you ask with pleasure, monsieur,’ returned the manager, ‘but I trust I shall not be required to give evidence.’
‘I do not think so, monsieur. I feel sure the identity of the machine will not be questioned. I make my request simply as a matter of precaution.’
The manager, with a small centre punch, put a few ‘spots’ on the main frame, noting the machine’s number at the same time.
‘Now you want to know where we got it,’ he went on to La Touche. ‘Excuse me a moment.’
He disappeared to his office, returning in a few minutes with a slip of paper in his hand.
‘The machine was received from the Avrotte Pump Construction office’—he referred to the paper—‘on 2nd April last. It was supplied to the firm several years earlier, and on the date mentioned they exchanged it for a more up-to-date machine, a No. 10.’
‘I am extremely obliged, monsieur. You may trust me to keep you out of the business if at all possible.’
Calling a taxi, La Touche took the machine to his hotel in the rue de La Fayette. There he typed another sample, and, using a powerful lens, compared the letters with the photographic enlargements he had obtained of the Le Gautier type. He was satisfied. The machine before him was that for which he had been in search.
He was delighted at his success. The more he thought of it, the more certain he felt that Boirac’s fault-finding was merely an excuse to get rid of the typewriter. And the manufacturer had dismissed Mlle. Lambert simply because she knew too much. If inquiries were made in the office, he would be safer with her out of the way.
And as to Boirac’s deeper object. So far as the detective could see, there could be only one explanation. Boirac knew the Le Gautier letter was done on that machine. And if he knew, did it not follow that he had sent the letter to Felix? And if he had sent the letter, must he not be guilty? To La Touche it began to look like it.
Then a further point struck him. If Boirac were guilty, what about the alibi? The alibi seemed so conclusive. And yet, if he were innocent, what about the typewriter? There seemed to be no escape from the dilemma, and La Touche was horribly puzzled.
But as he thought over the matter he began to see that the discovery of the typewriter did not so greatly help his client after all. Though at first sight it had seemed to indicate Boirac’s guilt, second thoughts showed him that the manufacturer could make a very good case for himself. He could stick to the story told by Mlle. Lambert—that the type was in point of fact not good enough for his work. He could say plausibly enough that for some time he had wanted a machine with a tabulator, and that the bad alignment had only brought the matter to a head. Then, with regard to the typist. Though the girl seemed quiet and truthful, goodness only knew what she might not be holding back. On her own showing she had had exchanges of opinion with her employer, and she might have been very impertinent. At all events, Boirac could give his own version of what took place and no one would know the truth. Further, he could account for his testimonial by saying that while he disliked the girl and wished to be rid of her, he did not want to injure her permanently. He might even admit falsely telling the girl he was going to reorganise his office in order to smooth over her leaving.
With regard to the Le Gautier letter, Boirac could simply deny knowledge, and La Touche did not see how he could be contradicted. It could even be argued that Felix might have bribed a clerk to copy the letter for him on that machine so as to throw suspicion on Boirac. If Felix were guilty, it would be a likely enough move.
At last La Touche came to the definite conclusion that he had not enough evidence either to convict Boirac or clear Felix. Hemustdo better. Hemustbreak the alibi and find the carter.
CHAPTER XXVII
That nightLa Touche could not sleep. The atmosphere was sultry and tense. Great masses of blue-black clouds climbing the south-western sky seemed to promise a storm. The detective tossed from side to side, his body restless, his mind intently awake and active. And then an idea suddenly occurred to him.
He had been mentally reviewing the wording of the various advertisements Lefarge had inserted for the carter. These, he recollected, were all to the effect that a reward would be paid for information as to the identity of the carter who had delivered the cask at the rue Cardinet goods station. Who, he thought, in the nature of things could answer that? Only, so far as he could see, two people—the carter himself and the man who engaged him. No one else would know anything about the matter. Of these, obviously the latter was not going to give the affair away. Nor would the carter if the other paid him well or had some hold over him. This, thought La Touche, may be why these advertisements have all failed.
So far he had got when his illuminating idea struck him. The fault of these advertisements was that they had appealed to the wrong people. Instead of appealing to the carter, could his associates not be approached? Or rather his employer, for it was obvious that neither Boirac nor Felix could be his employer, except in the case of this one job. He jumped out of bed, turned on the light, and began to draft a circular letter.
‘Dear Sir,’ he wrote, ‘An innocent man is in danger of conviction on a murder charge for want of certain evidence. This could be supplied by a carter—a clean-shaven, sharp-featured man with white hair. If you have (or had last March) such a man in your employment, or know of such, I most earnestly beg you to advise me. I am a private detective, working on behalf of the accused man. I guarantee no harm to the carter. On the contrary, I am willing to pay all men who answer the description five francs if they will call on me here any evening between 8.00 and 10.00, as well as 500 francs to the man who can give me the information I require.’
Repeating the manœuvre he had employed in the case of the advertisement for Mlle. Lambert, La Touche did not add his own name and address. He signed the note Charles Epée, and headed it Hôtel d’Arles, rue de Lyon.
Next morning he took his draft to a manufactory of office supplies and arranged for copies to be made and posted to the managers of all the carting establishments in Paris, the envelopes being marked ‘confidential.’ Then he went on to the rue de Lyon, and, in the name of Charles Epée, engaged a room at the Hôtel d’Arles.
Taking the Metro at the Place de la Bastille, he returned to the goods station in the rue Cardinet. There, after a considerable delay, he found his two friends, the porters who had unloaded the cask on that Thursday nearly two months before. Explaining that he expected the carter he was in search of to call at his hotel on some evening in the early future, he offered them five francs a day to sit in his room between 8.00 and 10.00 p.m. to identify the man, should he arrive. To this the porters willingly agreed. That evening they had their first meeting, but without success. No clean-shaven, white-haired, sharp-featured carters turned up.
When La Touche returned to his rue de La Fayette hotel he found a letter from Clifford. The police had made two discoveries. The first La Touche had realised they were bound to make sooner or later. They had learnt of Felix’s identity with the art school student who had been in love with the late Mme. Boirac, and of the short-lived engagement between the two. All the assistance which these facts gave the prosecution was therefore now at the disposal of the authorities.
The second piece of information was that Inspector Burnley had found the carter who had taken the cask from Waterloo on the Wednesday morning of the fateful week and delivered it at Charing Cross next morning, for, it seemed, both these jobs had been done by the same man.
It appeared that about 7.30 on the Tuesday evening of that week a dark, foreign-looking man with a pointed black beard had called at the office of Messrs. Johnson, the large carting agents in Waterloo Road, and had hired a dray and man for the two following days, as well as the use of an empty shed for the same period. He had instructed the carter to meet him at Waterloo Station at 10.00 next morning, Wednesday. There, on the arrival of the Southampton boat train, he had claimed the cask and had it loaded up on the dray, as was already known. The vehicle had been taken to the shed, where it had been left, the horse having been sent back to the stable. The black-bearded man had told the driver he might take the remainder of the day as a holiday, but that he wanted him to return on the following morning, Thursday, take the cask to Charing Cross, and there book it to Paris. He had handed him the amount of the freight as well as ten shillings for himself. Upon the man asking where in Paris the cask was to be sent, the other had told him he would leave it properly addressed. This he had done, for next morning the cask had a new label, bearing the name of Jaques de Belleville, Cloakroom, Gare du Nord. The carter had then left the black-bearded man in the shed with the cart and cask. Next morning he had booked the latter to Paris.
Asked if he could identify the black-bearded man, the carter said he believed he could. But he failed to do so. On being taken to see Felix, he stated the artist was like the dark foreigner, but he would not swear he was the same man.
This news interested La Touche greatly, and he sat smoking into the small hours seeing how far he could work these new facts into the theories of the crime which he and Clifford had discussed. If the prosecution were correct, Felix must have been the man who called at the cartage establishment at 7.30 on Tuesday evening. He would therefore have had undisputed possession of the cask from about 11.00 a.m. on the Wednesday until, say 7.00 on the following morning, and there were two obvious ways in which he could have put in the body. Either he could have procured another horse and taken the cask to St. Malo, where, in the privacy of the walled yard, he could have removed the statue and substituted the body, returning the cask to the shed by the same means, or he could have hidden the body in his two-seater and run it to the shed, making the exchange there. Unfortunately, La Touche saw, the facts he had just learnt would fit in only too well with the theory of Felix’s guilt.
On the other hand they supplied another period for which an alibi might be found for the artist—7.30 on the Tuesday night. But, remembering his own and Clifford’s researches into the manner in which Felix spent that week, La Touche was not hopeful of help here.
The detective then turned his thoughts to Clifford’s theory of Boirac’s guilt. And immediately he saw how the news crystallised the issue of the alibi. Up to the present the alibi had been considered as a whole, the portions which had been tested and those which had not, alike included. Generally speaking, it had been argued that if Boirac were in Paris and in Belgium during the fateful days, he could not have been in London. But now here was a direct issue between definite hours. At 7.30 on the Tuesday evening the bearded man was at Johnson’s in the Waterloo Road. At 2.30 that same day Boirac was at Charenton. La Touche looked up his Continental Bradshaw. A train arrived at Victoria at 7.10, which would just enable a traveller from Paris to reach the carting contractor’s at the hour named. But that train left Paris at 12.00 noon. Therefore it was utterly and absolutely out of the question that Boirac could be the man. But then there was the typewriter. . . .
La Touche was back on the horns of the old dilemma. If Boirac was guilty, how did he work the alibi? if innocent, why did he get rid of the typewriter? He almost writhed in his exasperation. But it only made him more determined than ever to reach a solution, cost him what it might of labour and trouble.
The next evening he set off to the Hôtel d’Arles in the rue de Lyon, to await with the goods yard porters the coming of sharp-featured carters with white hair.
A number of replies to his circular had come in. Some were merely negative, the recipients having written to say that no carter answering to the description was known to them. Others stated they knew men of the type required, mentioning names and addresses. La Touche made lists of these, determining to call on any who did not come to see him at the hotel.
While he was engaged in this work his first visitor was announced. This man was clean-shaven and white-haired, but the sharpness of his features was not much in evidence. The porters immediately gave the prearranged sign that this was not the man, and La Touche, handing him his five francs, bowed him out, at the same time noting him ‘Seen’ on his list.
After he left came another and another, till before ten o’clock they had interviewed no less than fourteen men. All these more or less completely answered the description, but all the porters instantly negatived. The following evening eleven men called and the next four, with the same result.
On the third day there was another letter from Clifford. The lawyer wrote that he had been greatly struck by the intelligence of the carter who had carried about the cask in London. Surprised at so superior a man holding such a position, he had brought him to his house in the hope of learning his history. And there he had made a discovery of the highest importance, and which, he thought, would lead them direct to the end of their quest. The carter, John Hill, had been quite ready to tell his story, which was as follows: Until four years previously Hill had been a constable in the Metropolitan police. He had a good record, and, he had believed, a future. Then he had had an unfortunate difference with his superior officer. Hill did not give the particulars, but Clifford understood it was a private matter and concerned a girl. But it led to a row during hours of duty, in which Hill admitted having entirely forgotten himself. He had been dismissed, and, after a long and weary search, could find no better job than he now held.
‘But,’ wrote Clifford, ‘it’s an ill wind, etc. This curious history of Hill’s is the thing that will settle our case. He has been trained in observation, and he observed something about the man with the cask that will definitely settle his identity. When he was paying him he noticed on the back of the first joint of his right forefinger, a small scar as if from a burn. He says he is sure of this mark and could swear to it. I asked him had he told the police. He said not, that he didn’t love the police, and that he had answered what he had been asked and nothing more. When he understood I was acting against the police he volunteered the information, and I could see that he would be glad to give evidence that would upset their conclusions.’
Clifford had then done the obvious thing. He had gone to inspect Felix’s finger, and he had found there was no mark on it.
At first to La Touche this seemed the end of the case. This man’s evidence definitely proved Felix innocent. His next business would be to examine Boirac’s hand, and, if the mark was there, the matter was at an end.
But as he thought over it he saw that this was indeed far from being the fact. There was still the alibi. As long as that stood, a clever counsel would insist on Boirac’s innocence. To a jury the thing would be conclusive. And this ex-policeman’s evidence could be discredited. In fact, the very thing that had enabled them to get hold of it—the man’s dislike of the official force—would minimise its value. It would be argued that Hill had invented the scar to upset the police case. By itself, a jury might not accept this suggestion, but the alibi would give it weight, in fact, would make it the only acceptable theory.
However, the next step was clear. La Touche must see Boirac’s hand, and, if there was a scar, Hill must see it, too.
About eleven o’clock therefore, the detective hailed a taxi with an intelligent looking driver. Having reached the end of the rue Championnet he dismounted, explaining to the man what he wanted him to do. A few moments later found him once more seated in the window of the café, his eyes fixed on the Pump Construction office across the street. The taxi in accordance with orders, drove slowly about, ready to pick him up if required.
About quarter to twelve, Boirac came out and began walking slowly citywards. La Touche quietly followed, keeping at the other side of the street, the taxi hovering close behind. Then the detective congratulated himself on his foresight, for, on Boirac’s reaching the end of the street, he hailed another taxi, and, getting in, was driven rapidly off.
It was the work of a couple of seconds for La Touche to leap into his car and to instruct his driver to follow the other vehicle.
The chase led down to the Grands Boulevards to Bellini’s in the Avenue de l’Opera. Here Boirac entered, followed by his shadower.
The great restaurant was about three parts full, and La Touche from the door was able to see Boirac taking his seat in one of the windows. The detective dropped into a place close to the cash desk, and, ordering table-d’hôte lunch, insisted on getting the bill at once, on the grounds that his time was limited and that he might have to leave before finishing. Then he ate a leisurely lunch, keeping an eye on the manufacturer.
That gentleman was in no hurry, and La Touche had spent a long time over his coffee before the other made a move. A number of people were leaving the restaurant and there was a very short queue at the cash desk. La Touche so arranged his departure that he was immediately behind Boirac in this queue. As the manufacturer put down his money La Touche saw his finger. The scar was there!
‘Here at last is certainty,’ thought the detective, as he drew back out of the other’s sight. ‘So Boirac is the man after all! My work is done!’
And then the annoying afterthought arose. Was his work done? Was the proof he had got of Boirac’s guilt sufficient? There was still the alibi. Always that alibi loomed in the background, menacing his success.
Though La Touche had now no doubt Boirac was the man the carter saw, he felt it would be more satisfactory if the two could be brought together in the hope of getting direct evidence of identity. As time was of value he called up Clifford and rapidly discussed the point. It was agreed that, if possible, Hill should be sent to Paris by that evening’s train. A couple of hours later there was a telegram from the solicitor that this had been arranged.
Accordingly, next morning La Touche met the English boat train at the Gare du Nord and welcomed a tall, dark man with a small, close-cut moustache. As they breakfasted, the detective explained what he wished done.
‘The difficulty is that you must see Boirac without his seeing you,’ he ended up, ‘we do not want him to know we are on his trail.’
‘I understand that, sir,’ returned Hill. ‘Have you any plan arranged for me?’
‘Not exactly, but I thought if you were to make up with a false beard and wear glasses he wouldn’t spot you. You could dress differently also. Then I think you might lunch in the same restaurant and come out behind him and see his hand when he’s paying same as I did.’
‘That would do, sir, but the worst of it is I don’t know my way about either in Paris or in a restaurant of that class.’
‘You can’t speak any French?’
‘Not a word, sir.’
‘Then I think I had better ask my man, Mallet, to go with you. He could keep you straight, and you needn’t talk at all.’
Hill nodded his head.
‘A good idea, sir.’
‘Come, then, and let me get you a rig-out.’
They drove to shop after shop till the ex-policeman was supplied with new clothes from head to foot. Then they went to a theatrical property maker, where a flowing black beard and long moustache were fitted on. A pair of clear glass pince-nez completed the purchases. When, an hour later, Hill stood in La Touche’s room dressed up in his new disguise, no one who had known him before would have recognised the ex-policeman, still less the London carter.
‘Capital, Hill,’ said La Touche. ‘Your own mother wouldn’t know you.’
The detective had sent a wire for his assistant, and Mallet was waiting for them. La Touche introduced the two men and explained his plans.
‘We haven’t much more than time,’ said Mallet, ‘so if you’re ready, we’ll go on.’
In something under three hours they returned. The expedition had been a complete success. They had gone direct to Bellini’s, preferring to take the risk that the manufacturer did not lunch at the same place each day, rather than that of following him again. And they were not disappointed. Towards twelve, Boirac had entered and taken his seat at what was probably the same table in the window. On his rising to leave, they had repeated La Touche’s manœuvre and Hill, just behind him when he was paying, had seen his finger. Instantly he had identified the scar. Indeed, before seeing it he had been sure from Boirac’s build and way of moving he was the man they sought.
In the evening, La Touche gave Hill a good dinner, paid him well, and saw him off by the night train to London. Then he returned to his hotel, lit a cigar, and lay down on his bed to wrestle again with the problem of the alibi.
He now knew that the alibi was faked. Boirac, beyond question, had been in London at 7.30 on the Tuesday evening. Therefore he could not have been at Charenton at 2.00. That was the ever-recurring difficulty, and he could see no way out.
He took a piece of paper and wrote down the hours at which they definitely knew the manufacturer’s whereabouts. At 7.30 on Tuesday evening he was in London at Johnson’s carting establishment in Waterloo Road. From 10.00 till 11.00 next morning, Wednesday, he was with Hill, getting the cask from Waterloo to the shed. He could not have left London in the interval, so this meant that he must have been in the English capital from 7.30 o’clock on Tuesday evening till 11.00 on Wednesday morning. Then he was at the Hôtel Maximilian in Brussels at 11.00 on that same Wednesday evening. So much was certain beyond doubt or question.
Did these hours work in? On Tuesday, frankly, they did not. What about Wednesday? Could a man who was in London at 11.00 in the morning be in Brussels at 11.00 the same evening? La Touche got his Continental Bradshaw. Here it was. London depart 2.20 p.m.; Brussels arrive 10.25 p.m. That seemed all right. A traveller arriving by that train would reach the Hôtel Maximilian ‘about 11.00.’ Then La Touche remembered that Boirac’s account of how he spent this day had not been substantiated. He had told Lefarge he had gone to his brother’s house at Malines, having forgotten that the latter was in Sweden. No confirmation of that statement was forthcoming. Neither the caretaker nor any one else had seen the manufacturer. La Touche was not long in coming to the conclusion he had never been there at all. No, he had crossed from London by the 2.20.
Then the detective recalled the telephone. A message had been sent by Boirac from one of the cafés in the old town, asking the hotel clerk to reserve a room. That call had been received about eight o’clock. But at eight o’clock Boirac was not in the old town. He was on his journey from London.
La Touche took up his Bradshaw again. Where would a traveller by the 2.20 p.m. from Charing Cross be at eight o’clock? And then like a flash he understood. The boat arrived at Ostend at 7.30 p.m. and the Brussels train did not leave until 8.40. He had telephoned from Ostend!
So that was it! A simple plan, but how ingenious! And then La Touche remembered that Lefarge had been quite unable to confirm the statement that Boirac had dined at the café in the Boulevard Anspach, or had been present atLes Troyensin the Théâtre de la Monnaie. No. He was on the right track at last.
The Wednesday was now accounted for, but there still remained the terrible difficulty of the Tuesday. What about the café at Charenton?
And then La Touche got another of his inspirations. He had solved the Wednesday telephone trick. Could that on Tuesday be explained in the same way?
He had already noted that a traveller by the train leaving Paris at 12.00 noon and arriving at Victoria at 7.10 could just reach Waterloo Road by 7.30. Thinking again over the point, he suddenly saw the significance of the hour of the call at the carting establishment. It was late. A man wishing to do business there would have gone earlier, had he been able. But this man was not able. He had only reached the city at 7.10.
He turned back to the telephone calls. Where, he asked himself with growing excitement, would a passenger by the 12.00 noon from Paris be at 2.30? And then he was dashed with disappointment. That train did not reach Calais till 3.31 p.m., and at 2.30 it must have been running at full speed somewhere between Abbeville and Boulogne. Boirac could not have telephoned from the train. Therefore he could not have travelled by it.
La Touche had hoped to find that, adopting the same manœuvre on each day, the manufacturer had telephoned from some stationen route, presumably Calais. But that apparently was not so. At the same time, the detective could not but feel he was getting near the truth.
He looked at the time table again. The train in question reached Calais at 3.31 and the boat left at 3.45. That was a delay of 14 minutes. Would there be time, he wondered, to make two long-distance calls in 14 minutes? Hardly, he thought. He considered what he himself would do if confronted with Boirac’s problem.
And then suddenly he saw it. What could be more obvious than to go by an earlier train and to break the journey at Calais? How would this time table work?
If Boirac had done that he would have had over two and a half hours in Calais, which would have given him the opportunity he required. La Touche believed he had reached the solution at last.
But Boirac had been actually seen telephoning from Charenton. For a moment the detective’s spirits fell. But he felt he must be right so far. Some explanation of the difficulty would occur to him.
And it did. The waiter had believed Boirac was there onMonday. And he must have been! In some way he must have faked the telephoning. There could be nothing else for it.
Another point occurred to him. Surely, he thought, the telephone operator always mentions the name of the calling town in inter-urban calls? If Boirac had called up his office from Calais, would not the operator have said, ‘Calais wants you’? If so, how had the manufacturer been able to deceive his butler and chief clerk?
This was undoubtedly a difficulty. But he put it on one side as he began to think how this new theory could be tested.
First he would go again to the Charenton waiter and explain the importance of settling the day on which Boirac lunched. Perhaps the man would now be able to recall some circumstance which would make this clear. Next he would find out from François and Dufresne whether any phrase such as ‘Calais wants you’ had been used by the telephone operator. This inquiry, he noted, must be made with great skill, so as to avoid rousing Boirac’s suspicions should either man repeat the conversation. From the telephone central at Calais, if not at Paris, he could doubtless find if calls were made from the former town to the latter at the hour in question, and he might also find that some one answering to the description of Boirac had made those calls. Finally, it might be possible at Ostend to get information about the Brussels call.
Inquiries on these points should reveal enough to either confirm or disprove his theory.
The next morning therefore saw La Touche again in the café at Charenton in conversation with the waiter.
‘The point as to which day the gentleman was here has become important,’ he explained, ‘and I shall hand you another twenty francs if you can settle it.’
The man was evidently anxious to earn the money. He thought earnestly for some time, but at last had to confess he could recall nothing fixing the date.
‘Do you remember what he had to eat? Would that help you?’ asked the detective.
The waiter shook his head after consideration.
‘Or any little matter of a clean cloth or napkin or anything of that kind? No? Or any other person who was in at the same time, or to whom you may have spoken on the subject?’
Again the man shook his head. Then suddenly a look of satisfaction passed over his face.
‘But yes, monsieur,’ he said eagerly, ‘I remember now. What you have just asked me brings it to my mind. M. Pascot lunched also when the gentleman was here, and he noticed him and asked me if I knew who he was. M. Pascot may be able to tell us.’
‘Who is M. Pascot?’
‘The apothecary, monsieur. From a dozen doors up the street. He comes here sometimes when Madame goes shopping to Paris. If you like, monsieur, I will go with you to him and we can inquire.’
‘I should be greatly obliged.’
A walk of a few yards brought them to the chemist’s shop. M. Pascot was a large, bald-headed man, with a high colour and a consequential manner.
‘Good-day, M. Pascot,’ the waiter greeted him deferentially. ‘This gentleman is a friend of mine, a detective, and he is engaged on an inquiry of much importance. You remember the man with the black beard who was lunching in the café the last day you were in? He was sitting at the little table in the alcove and then he began telephoning. You remember? You asked me who he was.’
‘I remember,’ rumbled the apothecary in a deep bass voice, ‘and what of him?’
‘My friend here wants to find out what day he was at the café, and I thought perhaps you would be able to tell him?’
‘And how should I be able to tell him?’
‘Well, M. Pascot, you see it was on the same day that you were with us, and I thought maybe you would be able to fix that date, the day Madame was in Paris—you told me that.’
The pompous man seemed slightly annoyed, as if the waiter was taking a liberty in mentioning his personal concerns before a stranger. La Touche broke in with his smooth suavity.
‘If, M. Pascot, you could do anything to help me, I should be more than grateful. I should explain to you that I am acting on behalf of an innocent man,’ and he drew a pathetic picture of the evil case in which Felix found himself, ending up by delicately insinuating that a reward for suitable information was not out of the reckoning.
M. Pascot thawed.
‘Permit me to consult Madame, monsieur,’ he said, and with a bow he withdrew. In a few moments he reappeared.
‘I can recollect the date now, monsieur. Madame had occasion to go to Paris to see her solicitor on business, and a note of the date was kept. It was Monday, the 29th of March last.’
‘I cannot say, monsieur, how obliged I am to you,’ said La Touche in heartfelt tones, and by a sort of legerdemain, of which both participants remained profoundly unconscious, a twenty-franc bill passed from hand to hand. La Touche was extraordinarily pleased. He had broken the alibi.
Leaving the apothecary and waiter bowing and smiling as a result of theirdouceurs, La Touche turned his steps to the pier and took a river steamer to the Pont de l’Alma. Walking up the Avenue, he rang at Boirac’s and was soon closeted with François in his little room.
‘About that telephone message we were talking of the other day, M. François,’ he remarked casually, when they had conversed on general subjects for some minutes, ‘I wasn’t quite certain where you said M. Boirac was speaking from. My first recollection was that you said Calais; then I wondered if it was not Charenton. I have to make a report on my proceedings and I would like to get it as correct as possible.’
The butler looked surprised and interested.
‘It is curious, monsieur, that you should ask me that, for I don’t remember mentioning anything about it. I also thought at first it was Calais. I thought the operator said ‘Calais wants you,’ and I was surprised, for I did not know M. Boirac intended to leave Paris. But I was wrong, for when M. Boirac began to speak I asked him the direct question. ‘You are speaking from Calais?’ I said. ‘No,’ he answered, ‘from Charenton.’ I am sure now it was my mistake and that what I thought was Calais was really Charenton. I am not very quick and on the telephone these names sound very much alike. Strange your making the same mistake.’
‘It is curious,’ admitted La Touche, ‘almost like one of those extraordinary cases of thought transference you read of. However, I am obliged for your confirmation that it was Charenton,’ and he diverted the conversation into other channels.
His next visit was to the Telephone Central. Here at first they were not keen to give him any information, but on producing his card and confidentially explaining his business to the head of the department, he obtained what he wanted. Inquiries were made from Calais by wire, and after a considerable delay he was informed that at 2.32 and 2.44 on the Tuesday in question calls were made on Paris. The demand came from the public call office and were for the following numbers: Passy 386 and Nord 745. When La Touche found from the directory that these numbers were those of M. Boirac’s house and office respectively, he could hardly refrain from laughing aloud.
‘How, I wonder,’ he thought, ‘did Lefarge neglect so obvious a check on the Charenton messages?’ Then it occurred to him that probably only inter-urban calls were so noted.
The proof of his theory seemed so complete he did not think it necessary to make inquiries at Ostend. Indeed, he believed his task was at last accomplished, and he began to consider an immediate return to London.
CHAPTER XXVIII