At ninethat evening, Inspector Burnley knocked at the door of the Chief’s room in the Sûreté. Lefarge was already there, and, as Burnley sat down, M. Chauvet said:—
‘Lefarge is just going to tell his adventures. Now, Lefarge, if you please.’
‘As arranged on Saturday,’ began the detective, ‘I went to Dijon yesterday and called on Mlle. Daudet in the rue Popeau. She seems a quiet, reliable girl, and, I think, truthful. She corroborated M. Boirac’s and the butler’s statements on every point, but added three details they omitted. The first was that Mme. Boirac took a wide-brimmed hat, but no hatpins. This seemed to strike the girl as very strange, and I asked why. She said because the hat was useless without the pins, as it would not stay on. I suggested the lady must have been so hurried she forgot them, but the girl did not think that possible. She said it would have taken no appreciable time to get the pins, as they were stuck in the cushion at Madame’s hand, and that a lady would put in hatpins quite automatically and as a matter of habit. In fact, had they been forgotten, the loose feel of the hat, even in the slight air caused by descending the stairs, would have at once called attention to the omission. She could offer no explanation of the circumstance. The second detail was that Madame took no luggage—not even a handbag with immediate necessaries for the night. The third seems more important still. On the morning of the dinner-party Madame sent Suzanne to the Hotel Continental with a note for Felix. Felix came out and instructed her to tell Madame he had her note and would come.’
‘A curious point, that about the pins,’ said the Chief, and, after a few moments’ silence, he turned to Burnley and asked for his report. When this had been delivered and discussed he went on:—
‘I also have some news. There has been a telephone call from the manager of the Hotel Continental. He says it can be established beyond doubt that Felix returned to the hotel at 1.30 on Sunday morning. He was seen by the hall porter, the lift boy, and the chamber-maid, all of whom are agreed on the time. All three also agree that he was in a quite normal condition, except that he was in a specially good humour and seemed pleased about something. The manager points out, however, that he was habitually good-humoured, so that there may be nothing remarkable about this.’
M. Chauvet took some cigars from a drawer and, having selected one, passed the box to the others.
‘Help yourselves, gentlemen. It seems to me that at this stage we should stop and see just where we stand, what we have learnt, if we have any tenable theory, and what still remains to be done. I am sure each of us has already done this, but three minds are better together than separate. What do you say, Mr. Burnley?’
‘An excellent idea, monsieur,’ returned the Inspector, congratulating himself on his cogitations earlier in the day.
‘Perhaps you would tell us how you approached the problem, and we shall add our ideas as you go on?’
‘I started, monsieur, with the assumption that the murder was the central factor of the whole affair, and the other incidents merely parts of a design to get rid of the body and divert suspicion.’
‘I fancy we are all agreed there, eh, Lefarge?’
The Frenchman bowed, and Burnley continued:—
‘I thought then of the method of the murder. Strangulation is such a brutal way of killing that it seemed the work either of a maniac, or a man virtually mad from passion. Even then it would hardly have been used if other means had been available. From that I argued the crime must have been unpremeditated. If it had been planned, a weapon would have been provided.’
‘A good point, Mr. Burnley. I also had come to the same conclusion. Please continue.’
‘If this was so, it followed that some person, when alone with Mme. Boirac, had suddenly been overcome with absolute, blind passion. What, I asked myself, could have aroused this?
‘A love affair, causing hate or jealousy, naturally suggested itself, but I could not fit it in. Who could have felt these passions?
‘Considering Felix first, I did not see how he could experience either hate or jealousy against a woman who had eloped with him. It is true, a lover’s quarrel might have taken place, resulting in something approaching temporary hatred, but it was inconceivable this would be bitter enough to lead to such a climax. Jealousy, I did not believe could be aroused at all. It seemed to me that Felix would be the last man in the world to commit the crime.
‘Then it occurred to me that hate and jealousy would be just what one might expect to find in Boirac’s case. If he were guilty, the motive would be obvious. And then, when M. Lefarge discovered yesterday that a cask similar to that in which the body was found had been unpacked in Boirac’s study, I felt sure this was the solution. However, since hearing the explanation of the presence of that cask, I admit I am again in doubt.’
‘I agree with all you say, Mr. Burnley, except that we should remember that the passions of hate and jealousy could only arise in Boirac’s mind in a certain circumstance, namely, that he was aware his wife had eloped, or was about to elope, with Felix. If he were in ignorance of that, it is obvious he could have had no such feelings.’
‘That is so, sir. Yes, it would only be if he knew.’
‘And then, again, it would only be if he really loved his wife. If not, he might be vastly annoyed and upset, but not enough to throttle her in the blind passion we have spoken of. If they were not on good terms, or if there was some other woman in Boirac’s life, he might even view her action with delight, as a welcome relief, particularly as there were no children to complicate the question of a divorce.’ The Chief looked inquiringly at his companions.
‘I agree with that too, sir,’ said Burnley, answering the look.
‘And I, monsieur,’ added Lefarge.
‘So then, we have reached this point. If Boirac was in love with his wife, and if he knew she had eloped or was about to do so, he would have had a motive for the crime. Otherwise, we can suggest no motive at all, either for him, or Felix, or anybody else.’
‘Your last words, monsieur, open up possibilities,’ observed Lefarge. ‘Might it not have been some other person altogether? I do not see that we are limited to Felix or Boirac. What about Le Gautier, for instance, or some one we have not yet heard of?’
‘Quite so, Lefarge. That is undoubtedly a possibility. There are others, François, the butler, for example, into whose actions we must inquire. The possibility of Madame’s having had some former lover must not be forgotten either. But I think we should make up our minds about these two men before we go farther afield.’
‘There is another point,’ resumed Burnley. ‘The medical evidence shows that only a short time can have elapsed between the time Madame left her house and the murder. We assume, on the hotel manager’s testimony, Felix went to London the morning after the dinner-party. If so, did Madame accompany him? If the former, it points to Felix, and if the latter, to Boirac.’
‘I think we can deduce that,’ said Lefarge.
‘And how?’
‘In this way, monsieur. Leave aside for a moment the question of the identity of the murderer, and consider how he got the body into the cask. This cask we have traced fairly well. It was packed in the showrooms in the Boulevard des Capucines, and in it was placed a statue. Then it travelled to Waterloo, and the evidence that it was not tampered withen routeis overwhelming. Therefore the body was not in it when it arrived at Waterloo. Then, for twenty-two hours, it disappeared. It reappeared at Charing Cross, for it is too much to suppose there are really two casks in question, and travelled back to Paris, and again it is quite impossible that it could have been interfered with on the journey. At Paris it left the Gare du Nord at 5.20, and disappeared again, but it turned up at the State Railway goods station at 6.10 p.m. the same evening, and returned to London by long sea. On arrival in London it contained the body. It is certain the change was not made during any of the three journeys, therefore it must have been done during these disappearances in London or Paris.
‘Of these disappearances, take that in Paris first. It lasted fifty minutes, and, during that time, the cask was conveyed between the Gare du Nord and the rue Cardinet goods station on a horse cart. How long, monsieur, should that journey have taken?’
‘About fifty minutes, I should think,’ returned the Chief.
‘I thought so too. That is to say, the whole time of the disappearance is accounted for. We may reckon, also, it would take some considerable time to open, unpack, repack, and close the cask, and it seems to me it would have been utterly impossible for it to havebothbeen opened and to have made that journey in the time. It made the journey, therefore it wasn’t opened. Therefore the body must have been put into it in London.’
‘Excellent, Lefarge. I believe you are right.’
‘There is a further point, monsieur. If my suggestion is correct, it definitely proves Madame Boirac went to London while alive, because her dead body obviously could not have been brought there. If we consider this in relation to the point about the medical evidence raised by Mr. Burnley, I think we shall be forced to conclude she crossed with Felix on Sunday.’
‘It certainly sounds probable.’
‘If she crossed with Felix, it seems almost certain that he is the guilty man. But there are a good many others things that point to Felix. Suppose for a moment he is guilty, and picture him faced with the question of how to dispose of the body. He wants a receptacle to remove it in. It suddenly occurs to him that only a few hours before he has seen the very thing. A cask for statuary. And, fortunately for him, he has not only seen it, but he has learned where to get a similar cask. What does he do? He proceeds to get that similar cask. He writes to the firm who use them, and he orders just such a piece of statuary as will ensure his getting the kind of cask he wants.’
‘What about the false address?’
‘Of that, monsieur, I cannot suggest the explanation, but I presume it was with some idea of covering his tracks.’
‘Please continue.’
‘I suggest then, that he got the cask on arrival in London, brought it to St. Malo, unpacked and probably destroyed the statue, packed the body, took the cask to Charing Cross and sent it to Paris, travelling over in the same train himself. In Paris he got a cart, and took it from the Gare du Nord to the rue Cardinet goods station, travelled back to London, and met the cask at St. Katherine’s Docks on the following Monday.’
‘But what was the object of all these journeys? If his purpose was to get rid of the body, why would he first get rid of it, and then arrange an elaborate scheme to bring it back again?’
‘I saw that difficulty, monsieur,’ admitted Lefarge, ‘and I cannot explain it, though I would suggest it was for the same purpose as the false address—in some way to divert suspicion. But more than that, monsieur. We have evidence that the black-bearded man who met the cask on its various journeys was like Felix. But we have so far found no other black-bearded man in the entire case. It seems to me, therefore, it must have been Felix.’
‘If M. Lefarge’s theory is correct,’ interposed Burnley, ‘the letter about the bet must have been written by Felix. In this case, could this letter and the journeys of the cask not have been devised with the object of throwing suspicion on Le Gautier?’
‘Or on Boirac?’ suggested the Chief.
‘Boirac!’ cried Lefarge, with a rapid gesture of satisfaction. ‘That was it, of course! I see it now. The whole of the business of the letter and the cask was a plant designed by Felix to throw suspicion on Boirac. What do you think, monsieur?’
‘It certainly presents a working theory.’
‘But why,’ queried the Englishman, ‘should Le Gautier’s name be brought in? Why did he not use Boirac’s?’
‘It would have been too obvious,’ returned Lefarge, delighted with the rapid strides his theory was making. ‘It would have been crude. Felix would argue that if Boirac had written that letter, he would never have signed it himself. It was a subtle idea introducing Le Gautier’s name.
‘If Felix did it,’ Burnley continued, ‘it would certainly clear up the difficulty of the authorship of the letter. He is the only man we have discovered so far that would have had the necessary knowledge to write it. He was present at the Café Toisson d’Or, and had joined with Le Gautier in the lottery, and therefore knew that part of it. The discussion about criminals evading the police and the bet between Le Gautier and Dumarchez, neither of which we believe took place, he could have invented to account for the receipt of the cask, and finally, he would naturally know the details about the last journey of the cask, since he himself arranged them.’
‘Quite so,’ cried Lefarge eagerly, ‘it all works in. I believe we are beginning to see light. And we must not forget Suzanne’s evidence about the note. It is clear Madame and Felix had an understanding for that night. At least, we know of messages passing between them and the reply of Felix points to an assignation.’
‘An important point, certainly. And yet,’ the Chief objected, ‘there are difficulties. That singular point about the hatpins, for example. What do you make of that, Lefarge?’
‘Agitation, monsieur. I would suggest that this lady was so excited at the action she was about to take that she hardly knew what she was doing.’
The Chief shook his head.
‘I don’t know that that is very satisfactory,’ he said. ‘Might it not, as also the fact that she took no luggage, mean that she never left the house at all? That she was murdered that same evening of the dinner-party, and the hat and coat removed to make a false scent? I suppose you have considered that?’
Burnley answered at once.
‘I thought of that first of all, monsieur, but I dismissed it as impossible for the following reasons. First, if she was murdered on Saturday night, what was done with the body? It could not have been put into the cask in the study, as I had thought at first, for that was full. The statue was not unpacked till two nights later, on Monday. We know, indeed, it was not put into the cask, for that was returned direct to Messrs. Dupierre’s and found to be empty. Secondly, it could not have been hidden anywhere else in the house, for François and Suzanne made a thorough search on the Sunday, and the corpse would have been too big a thing for them to have overlooked. Further, if she was murdered in the house, either Felix, Boirac, or some third person or persons must have done it. Felix could hardly be the man, as I do not see how he could have removed the body without a confederate, and we have not found such. Boirac would perhaps have had more chances of disposing of the body, though I do not see how, but he had a complete alibi. Lastly, I felt strongly that François, the butler, was to be believed. I could not imagine him party to the murder, and I did not see how it could have been done at the time you suggest without his knowledge.’
‘That certainly seems probable. In fact, when you add it to M. Lefarge’s point that the body must have been put into the cask in London, it seems to me almost conclusive.’
‘I also feel sure it could not have been done then,’ observed Lefarge, ‘though I don’t agree with Mr. Burnley that Boirac’s alibi is good.’
‘Well now, I was rather inclined to accept the alibi,’ said M. Chauvet. ‘What part of it do you consider doubtful, Lefarge?’
‘All of it from the time Boirac left the works. We don’t know whether that American exists at all. As far as I can see, the whole thing may be an invention.’
‘That is quite true,’ admitted the Chief, ‘but it didn’t seem to me so very important. The crucial point, to my mind, is the hour at which Boirac says he returned home—a few minutes past one. That is confirmed by François and by Suzanne, and I think we may accept their statement. But we have a further rather convincing incident. You may recollect Boirac stated that when he was halfway home from the Gare Quai d’Orsay it began to rain? You very properly tried to check even so small a point by asking François if his master’s coat was wet. He replied that it was. Now, I made inquiries, and I find that night was perfectly fine till almost one o’clock, when a thick, wetting rain began to fall. We know, therefore, quite definitely that Boirac was out until the time he said. Therefore he could not have done the deed before 1.15. Also, we know that he could not have done it after that hour, because the lady was gone, and also the butler and maid were about. Therefore, if Boirac did it at all, it must have been after that night.’
‘That seems unquestionable, monsieur,’ said Lefarge, ‘and when you add to that the fact that we have, so far at any rate, been quite unable to connect Boirac with the letter or the cask, and that we are practically certain Madame travelled to London, I think he may almost be eliminated from the inquiry. What do you say, Burnley?’
‘Well, I think it’s a little so soon to eliminate any one from inquiry. I confess that point of motive struck me as being very strong against Boirac.’
‘That also, by the way, seems to show the deed was not done by Boirac that night,’ the Chief went on. ‘Your point is that he killed his wife because she had run away with Felix. But if he came home and found her there, she obviouslyhadn’trun away. Hence the motive, for that night at least, falls to the ground.’
The three men laughed, and M. Chauvet resumed:—
‘Now, to sum up our present position. We know that Mme. Boirac was murdered between 11.30 p.m. on the Saturday of the dinner-party, and the following Monday evening, when the letter purporting to be from Felix and ordering the statue, was written. Obviously only Felix, Boirac, or some third person could be guilty. There is not, so far, a scintilla of evidence of any third person being involved, therefore it almost certainly was one of the other two. Taking Boirac first, we find that under certain circumstances he would have had a motive for the crime, but we have not yet been able to obtain any evidence that these circumstances existed. Apart from this, we can find nothing whatever against him. On the other hand, he has established a strong alibi for the only time during which, so far as we can now see, he could have committed the crime.
‘Against Felix there are several suspicious circumstances. Firstly, it is proved he received a note from Madame, presumably arranging a meeting. Then we know he took advantage of the husband’s absence on the night of the dinner to have a private interview with her. That went on from 11.00 till at least 11.30, and there is reason to believe, though not proof, till 1.00. Then we believe Madame went to London, either actually with Felix, or at the same time. We conclude that for three reasons. First, she wrote to her husband that she had done so. The value of this evidence will, of course, depend on the opinion of our handwriting experts, whose report on the genuineness of this letter we have not yet received. Second, she could not have remained in the house, either alive or dead, as it was thoroughly searched by the servants, who found no trace of her. Neither could her body have been put in the cask in the study, for that contained the statue, and was not unpacked till the following Monday evening. Third, it is certain from the journeyings of the cask that the body was put into it in London, for the simple reason that it could not have been done anywhere else. Therefore she must have travelled to that city.
‘Further, the letter presumed to be written to Felix by Le Gautier could be reasonably accounted for if Felix himself wrote it as a blind to cover his actions with the cask, should such be discovered. It is clear that it was written with some such purpose, as half of it—all about the bet and the test—is entirely untrue, and evidently invented to account for the arrival of the cask. Now, we may take it, Le Gautier did not write that letter. On the other hand, Felix is the only man we have yet found who had sufficient information to do so.
‘Again, we know that a black-bearded man like Felix arranged the journeys of the cask. So far, Felix himself is the only black-bearded man we have found. On the other hand we have two strong points in Felix’s favour. First, we have not been able to prove motive, and second, his surprise when the body was found in the cask appears to have been genuine. We have undoubtedly a good deal of evidence against Felix, but we must note that not only is this evidence circumstantial, but there is also evidence in his favour.
‘The truth is, in my opinion, that we have not yet sufficient information to come to a conclusion, and I fear it will take a lot of work to get it. Firstly, we must definitely prove the authorship of that letter about the lottery and the bet. And here, it seems to me, the tracing of that typewriter is essential. This should not be so difficult, as I think we may take it that the author used the typewriter himself. Therefore, only machines to which the possible writers could have had access need be examined. I will send a man to-morrow to get samples from all the machines Boirac could have used, and if that produces nothing, he can do the same in connection with Le Gautier, Dumarchez, and the other gentlemen whose names we have. I presume, Mr. Burnley, your people will take similar action with regard to Felix?’
‘I expect they have done so already, but I will write to-night and make sure.’
‘I consider that a vital point, and the next is almost equally important. We must trace Felix’s movements from the Saturday night till the Thursday evening when the cask containing the body was despatched from Paris. Further, we must ascertain by direct evidence, if Madame travelled with him to London.
‘We must similarly trace the movements of Boirac for the same period. If none of these inquiries help us, other points would be the confronting of Felix and Boirac with the various luggage clerks that did business with the black-bearded man with the cask, in the hope that some of them might possibly identify him. The tracing of the carters who brought the cask to and from the various stations might or might not lead us to the men from whom they got their instructions. An exhaustive inquiry into the past life of Mme. Boirac and all the suspected men is also likely to be necessary. There are several other directions in which we can prosecute inquiries, but I fancy the above should give us all we want.’
The discussion was carried on for some time longer, various points of detail being more fully gone into. Finally, it was arranged that on the following morning Burnley and Lefarge should begin the tracing of Felix’s movements from the night of the dinner-party until he left French soil, after which Burnley would continue the quest alone, while Lefarge turned his attention to ascertaining Boirac’s movements during the crucial period.
CHAPTER XVIII
At nine o’clocknext morning the two colleagues met at the hotel in the rue Castiglione. They had discussed their plan of campaign before separating the previous evening, and did not waste time getting to work. Calling a taxi, they drove once more to the Hotel Continental and asked for their old friend the manager. In a few minutes they were ushered into the presence of that urbane and smiling, but somewhat bored official.
‘We are exceedingly sorry to trouble you again, monsieur,’ apologised Lefarge, ‘but the fact is we find we require some more information about your recent visitor, M. Felix. If you can help us to obtain it, you will greatly add to our already large debt of gratitude.’
The manager bowed.
‘I shall be delighted to tell you anything I can. What is the point in question?’
‘We want to trace M. Felix’s movements after he left here. You have already told us he went to catch the 8.20 English boat train at the Gare du Nord. We wondered if he really did travel by it. Can you help us to find out?’
‘Our bus meets all the incoming boat trains, but attends only those outward bound by which visitors are travelling. If you will pardon me a moment, I will ascertain if it ran that day. It was Sunday, I think?’
‘Sunday, the 28th March.’
The manager was absent for a few moments, returning with a tall young man in the uniform of a porter.
‘I find the bus did run on the day in question, and Karl, here, went with it. He may be able to answer your questions.’
‘Thank you, monsieur.’ Lefarge turned to the porter. ‘You went to the Gare du Nord on Sunday, the 28th March, with some passengers for the 8.20 English boat train?’
‘Yes, monsieur.’
‘How many passengers had you?’
The porter considered.
‘Three, monsieur,’ he replied at length.
‘Did you know who they were?’
‘Two of them I knew, monsieur. One was M. Leblanc, a gentleman who had stayed in the hotel for over a month. The second was M. Felix, who has been a constant visitor for years. The third was an English gentleman, but I do not know his name.’
‘Did these gentlemen converse together while in the bus?’
‘I saw M. Felix speaking to the Englishman as they were leaving the bus, otherwise I cannot say.’
‘Did they go by the 8.20?’
‘Yes, monsieur. I put their luggage into the carriages, and I saw all three in the train as it was starting.’
‘Was M. Felix alone?’
‘He was, monsieur.’
‘Did he meet or speak with a lady at the station?’
‘I do not think so, monsieur. Certainly I did not see a lady.’
‘Did he seem anxious or perturbed?’
‘Not at all, monsieur. He was just as usual.’
‘Thank you, I am exceedingly obliged.’
Some silver changed hands, and Karl withdrew.
‘That is very satisfactory information, M. le Directeur. The only other point I want is the names and addresses of the two other occupants of the bus.’
These were ascertained with some slight difficulty—M. Guillaume Leblanc, rue Verte, Marseilles, and Mr. Henry Gordon, 327 Angus Lane, Sauchiehall Street, Glasgow—and the detectives bowed themselves out with compliments and thanks.
‘That’s a piece of luck,’ remarked Lefarge, as they drove towards the Gare du Nord. ‘Those men may have seen Felix at other stages of the journey, and we may be able to trace him the whole way.’
They spent the morning in the great station, interviewing ticket examiners and other officials, but without success. No one had seen either of the travellers.
‘The boat is more likely,’ observed Burnley. ‘If he is a constant traveller, some of the stewards will certainly know him.’
Taking the 4.00 p.m. train, they reached Bolougne as dusk was falling, and began their inquiries at the pier. Finding thePas de Calais, which had made the run in which they were interested, would not leave till noon next day, they turned their steps to the local police station. There they saw the men who had been on duty when the boat left on the Sunday in question, but here again without getting any information. Then they went on board the steamer and sought the chief steward.
‘I know that gentleman, yes,’ he said when, after introducing themselves, Lefarge showed him Felix’s photograph. ‘He crosses frequently, once or twice a month, I should say. He is a M. Felix, but I cannot say where he lives, nor do I know anything else about him.’
‘What we want to find out, monsieur, is when he last crossed. If you can tell us that, we shall be extremely obliged.’
The official considered.
‘I am afraid I could hardly be sure of that. He crossed both ways fairly lately. I should say about ten days or a fortnight ago, but I’m not sure of the exact date.’
‘We think he crossed on Sunday, the 28th March. Can you think of anything that would confirm whether it was this date?’
‘No, I cannot. You see there would be nothing to record it. We could not now trace the ticket he held, and there is no way in which the identity of our passengers is ascertained and noted. Speaking from memory, I should say that the date you mention is about correct, but I could not be sure.’
‘Is there any one on board who might be able to help us?’
‘I’m really very sorry, monsieur, but I don’t think there is. The captain, or one of the officers, might know him; I could not say.’
‘Well, just one other question, monsieur. Was he travelling alone?’
‘I think so. No, wait a minute, was he? I believe, now that you mention it, there was a lady with him. You will understand I was not noticing particularly, as my mind was occupied with my work, but it’s like a dream to me, I saw him talking to a lady on the promenade deck.’
‘You could not describe her?’
‘I could not, monsieur. I cannot be even positive she was there at all.’
Seeing there was nothing further to be learnt, they thanked the chief steward courteously. Then, remaining on board, they interviewed every one they could find, whom they thought might be able to give them information. Of all they spoke to, only one, a waiter, knew Felix, and he had not seen him on the occasion in question.
‘That’s no good, I’m afraid,’ said Burnley, as they walked to an hotel. ‘I believe that steward did see a woman, but he would be useless as a witness.’
‘Quite. I don’t fancy you’ll get much at Folkestone either.’
‘Most unlikely, I should say, but I can but try. I think I’ll probably run up to Glasgow and see that man that travelled in the bus with him. He might know something.
‘If not, I’ll see the other—the one who lives in Marseilles.’
A few minutes before twelve next day saw the detectives strolling along the wharf beside the English boat.
‘Well,’ said Lefarge, ‘our ways part here. There is no use in my going to Folkestone, and I’ll take the 2.12 back to Paris. We have had a pleasant inquiry, and I’m only sorry we have not had a more definite result.’
‘We’re not done with it yet,’ returned the Englishman. ‘I expect we’ll get it pretty square before we stop. But I’m really sorry to say ‘Good-bye,’ and I hope we may be working together again before long.’
They parted with mutual assurances of goodwill, Burnley expressing his appreciation of the kindly treatment he had received in Paris, and Lefarge inviting him back to spend his next holidays in the gay capital.
We may accompany Lefarge on his return journey to Paris, and follow him as he endeavours to trace the movements of M. Boirac from the Saturday night of the dinner-party to the following Thursday evening, when the cask containing the body was despatched to London from the State Railway goods station in the rue Cardinet.
He reached the Gare du Nord at 5.45 p.m., and immediately drove to the Sûreté. M. Chauvet was in his office, and Lefarge reported his movements since they parted.
‘I had a telephone call from Scotland Yard yesterday,’ said the Chief. ‘It seems Boirac turned up at eleven as arranged. He definitely identified the body as that of his wife, so that point is settled.’
‘Has he returned yet, do you know, monsieur?’
‘I have not heard. Why do you ask?’
‘I thought if he was still away I might take the opportunity of pumping François about his movements since the murder.’
‘A good idea. We can find out at once.’
M. Chauvet turned over the pages of his telephone directory and, having found what he wanted, gave a call.
‘Hallo? Is that M. Boirac’s?—Is M. Boirac at home?—About seven o’clock? Ah, thank you. I’ll ring up again later.—No, don’t mind. It’s of no consequence.’
He replaced the receiver.
‘He’s crossing by the 11.00 from Charing Cross, and will be home about seven. If you were to call about half-past six, which is the hour at which he usually returns, your visit would not be suspicious, and you could have a chat with François.’
‘I shall do that, monsieur,’ and with a bow the detective withdrew.
The clocks had just finished chiming the half-hour after six when Lefarge presented himself at the house in the Avenue de l’Alma. François opened the door.
‘Good-evening, M. François. Is M. Boirac at home?’
‘Not yet, monsieur. We expect him in about half an hour. Will you come in and wait?’
Lefarge seemed to consider, and then,—
‘Thanks. I think I will.’
The butler preceded him to the small sitting-room into which he had shown the two detectives on their first call.
‘I heard at the Sûreté that M. Boirac had gone to London to identify the body. You don’t know, I suppose, if he was able to do so?’
‘No, monsieur. I knew he had gone to London, but I did not know for what purpose.’
The detective settled himself in a comfortable chair and took out a cigarette case.
‘Try one of these. They’re special Brazilian cigarettes. I suppose we may smoke here?’
‘Certainly, monsieur. I thank you.’
‘It’s a long way over from London. I don’t envy Monsieur his journey. You’ve been, I suppose, monsieur?’
‘Twice, monsieur.’
‘Once is all right to see the place, but after that—no, thank you. But I suppose M. Boirac is used to it? They say you can get used to anything.’
‘I should think he must be. He travels a lot. London, Brussels, Berlin, Vienna—he had been at them all to my knowledge in the last two years.’
‘I’m glad it’s he and not I. But I should think this unhappy event would take away his love for travelling. I should imagine he would want to stay quiet in his own home and see no one. What do you think, M. François?’
‘Well, he hasn’t anyway, or else he can’t help himself. This is the second journey he’s made since then.’
‘You surprise me. Or rather, no, you don’t. I suppose we shouldn’t be talking about what doesn’t concern us, but I would be willing to lay a napoleon I could tell you where the first journey was to and what it was for. It was to see the Wilson Test. Am I not right?’
‘The Wilson Test, monsieur? What is that?’
‘Have you never heard of the Wilson Test? Wilson is the head of a great firm of English pump manufacturers, and each year a reward of over 10,000 francs is offered by them for any pump that can throw more water than theirs. A test is held every year, and the last one took place on Wednesday. M. Boirac would naturally be interested, being head of a pump manufactory himself. He would go to the Test.’
‘I’m afraid you would have lost your money, then, monsieur. He was away on Wednesday right enough, but I happen to know he went to Belgium.’
‘Well,’ said Lefarge, with a laugh, ‘I’m glad we didn’t bet, anyway. But,’ he added, in a changed tone, ‘maybe I’m right after all. Maybe he went from Belgium to London, or vice versa. Was he long away?’
‘He could not have done that, monsieur. He was only away two days, Wednesday and Thursday.’
‘It ought to be a lesson to me. I’m always too ready to bet on an unsupported opinion,’ and Lefarge led the conversation on to bets he had won and lost, till François excused himself to prepare for his master’s arrival.
Shortly after seven M. Boirac came in. He saw Lefarge at once.
‘I don’t wish to trouble you after your journey, monsieur,’ said the latter, ‘but some further points have arisen in this unhappy business, and I would be obliged if you could kindly give me an appointment at whatever time would suit you.’
‘No time like the present. If you will excuse me for an hour till I change and get some dinner, I shall be at your service. You have dined, I suppose?’
‘Yes, thank you. If, then, I may wait here for you, I would be glad to do so.’
‘Then come into the study. You’ll perhaps find something to read in these book-cases.’
‘I thank you, monsieur.’
The hands of the clock on the study chimney-piece were pointing to half-past eight when M. Boirac re-entered. Sinking into an easy-chair, he said:—
‘Now, monsieur, I am at your service.’
‘The matter is a somewhat difficult one for me to approach, monsieur,’ began Lefarge, ‘in case it might seem to you that we had suspicions which we do not really entertain. But, as a man of the world, you will recognise that the position of the husband in unhappy affairs such as this must inevitably be made clear. It is a matter of necessary routine. My chief, M. Chauvet, has therefore placed on me the purely formal, but extremely unpleasant duty of asking you some questions about your own movements since the unhappy event.’
‘That’s rather roundabout. Do you mean that you suspect me of murdering my wife?’
‘Certainly not, monsieur. It is simply that the movements ofevery onein a case like this must be gone into. It is our ordinary routine, and we cannot consult our inclination in carrying it out.’
‘Oh, well, go ahead. You must, of course, do your duty.’
‘The information my Chief requires is a statement from you of how you passed your time from the night of the dinner-party until the evening of the following Thursday.’
M. Boirac looked distressed. He paused before replying, and then said in an altered tone:—
‘I don’t like to think of that time. I passed through a rather terrible experience. I think I was temporarily insane.’
‘I still more regret that I must persevere in my question.’
‘Oh, I will tell you. The seizure, or whatever it was, is over and I am myself again. What happened to me was this.
‘From the Saturday night, or rather Sunday morning, when I learnt that my wife had left me, I was in a kind of dream. My brain felt numb, and I had the curious feeling of existing in some way outside of and apart from myself. I went as usual to my office on Monday, returning home at my ordinary time in the evening. After dinner, in the hope of rousing myself, I unpacked the cask, but even that failed to excite my interest or lighten my depression. On the following morning, Tuesday, I again went to the office at my customary time, but after an hour of effort I found I could no longer concentrate my mind on my work. I felt that at all costs I must be alone so as to relax the strain of pretending nothing had happened. Still like a man in a dream, I left the office and, going down into the street, entered a Metro station. On the wall my eye caught sight of the notice, “Direction Vincennes,” and it occurred to me that the Bois de Vincennes would be the very place for me to go. There I could walk without fear of meeting any of my acquaintances. I accordingly took the train there, and spent the morning pacing the more sequestered paths. The physical exercise helped me, but as I grew tired my mood changed. A great longing for human sympathy took possession of me, and I felt I must confide in some one, or go mad. I thought of my brother Armande, and felt sure I would get the sympathy I wanted from him. He lived not far from Malines, in Belgium, and I determined to go and see him at once. I lunched at a little café at Charenton, and from there telephoned to the office and to my house that I was going to Belgium for a couple of days. I instructed François to pack a handbag of necessaries and leave it immediately at the cloak-room at the Gare du Nord, where I should call for it. While sitting at lunch it occurred to me that if I went by the 4.05 p.m. train—the first I could get—I would not arrive at my destination till the middle of the night, so I decided I would wait till the evening train and see my brother the following day. Accordingly, I went for a long walk up the Seine, returning by a local train to the Gare du Lyon. I dined at a café in the Place de la Bastille, and finally went to the Gare du Nord, got my bag, and left by the 11.20 for Brussels. I slept well in the train and breakfasted in one of the cafés off the Place du Nord. About eleven I left for Malines, walking the four miles to my brother’s house for the sake of the exercise. But when I reached it I found it empty, and then I recollected, what had entirely slipped my memory, that my brother had spoken of a business trip to Stockholm, on which he was going to take his wife. I cursed my forgetfulness, but my mind was in such a state I hardly realised my loss of time and money. Walking slowly back to Malines, I considered returning to Paris that evening. Then I thought I had had enough travelling for one day. It was pleasant in the afternoon sun, and I let the time slip away, returning to Brussels about six. I dined at a café in the Boulevard Anspach, and then, thinking I would try and distract my thoughts, decided I would turn in for a couple of hours to a theatre. I telephoned to the Hôtel Maximilian, where I usually stayed, to reserve a room, and then I went to Berlioz’sLes Troyensat the Théâtre de la Monnaie, getting to my hotel about eleven. That night I slept well and next day my brain seemed saner and better. I left Brussels by the 12.50 from the Gare du Midi, arriving at Paris about five. Looking back on that abortive journey is like remembering a nightmare, but I think the solitude and the exercise really helped me.’
When M. Boirac ceased speaking, there was silence for a few moments, while Lefarge, in just the same painstaking way that Burnley would have adopted, went over in his mind what he had heard. He did not wish to question M. Boirac too closely lest, in the unlikely event of that gentleman proving guilty, he should put him on his guard; but he was anxious to miss no detail of the statement, so that he might as far as possible check it by independent testimony. On the whole, he thought the story reasonable, and, so far, he could see no internal reason for doubting it. He would, therefore, get a few details made clearer and take his leave.
‘Thank you, M. Boirac. Might I ask a few supplementary questions? At what time did you leave your office on Tuesday?’
‘About nine-thirty.’
‘What café did you lunch at in Charenton?’
‘I don’t remember. It was in a street about half-way between the station and the steamboat wharf, a rather poor place with an overhanging, half-timbered front.’
‘And what time was that?’
‘About one-thirty, I think. I am not sure.’
‘And from where did you telephone to your house and office?’
‘From the same café.’
‘About what time?’
‘About an hour later, say half-past two.’
‘Now, the café in the Place de la Bastille. Which one was it?’
‘I am not very certain. I think it was at the corner of the rue St. Antoine. At all events it faced up the rue de Lyon.’
‘And you were there about what time?’
‘Eight-thirty, I should say.’
‘Did you get your bag at the Gare du Nord?’
‘Yes, it was waiting for me at the left luggage office.’
‘Did you have a sleeping berth on the train?’
‘No, I travelled in an ordinary first-class compartment.’
‘Was there any one else in it?’
‘Three other men. I did not know any of them.’
‘Now, all that day, Tuesday, did you meet any one who knew you, or who could confirm your statement?’
‘Not that I can remember, unless the waiters at the cafés could do so.’
‘On the next day, Wednesday, from where did you telephone to the Hôtel Maximilian?’
‘From the café where I dined. It was in the Boulevard Anspach, just before it opens into the Place Brouckère. I don’t recall the name.’
‘What time was the message sent?’
‘Just before dinner, about seven, I should say.’
The detective stood up and bowed.
‘Well, M. Boirac, accept my thanks for your courtesy. That is all I want to know. Good-night, monsieur.’
The night being fine, Lefarge walked slowly to his home near the Place de la Bastille. As he paced along he thought over the statement he had just listened to. If it was true, it appeared at first sight entirely to clear M. Boirac from suspicion. If he was in Paris on Monday he could not have sent the letter to Dupierre ordering the statue. That was received on Tuesday morning, and must therefore have been posted in London the previous day. If he was at Brussels and Malines, he obviously could not have met the cask in London. The first thing would therefore be to test the statement by independent inquiries. He reviewed it again in detail, taking a mental note of all the points on which confirmation should be obtainable.
First of all, it should be easy to find out whether he really was in Paris up till Tuesday evening. François and the other servants could tell him this with regard to Sunday, Sunday night, and Monday night, and the office staff at the pump manufactory could testify to Monday and Tuesday morning. The servants could also tell whether he unpacked the statue on Monday evening. There was then the question of the time he left his office on Tuesday; that could easily be ascertained. With regard to the restaurant at Charenton, M. Boirac would be a well-dressed and striking luncher at a place in such a locality, and would therefore undoubtedly have been specially noticed. If he really did lunch there, confirmation should be easily obtainable, particularly as the episode of the telephone would further call attention to the visit. The receipt of these telephone messages should also be easy to substantiate, as well as the leaving of the luggage at the Gare du Nord. Confirmation from the Gare du Nord cloak-room attendant, as well as from the waiters in the restaurant in the Place de la Bastille, could hardly be expected, owing to the larger number of strangers these men served, but both places would be worth trying. Inquiries at Malines might prove Boirac’s visit, and certainly would show whether he had a brother there, as well as whether the house was locked up on the day in question. The staff in the Hôtel Maximilian in Brussels would know whether or not he was there on the Wednesday night, and could tell about the receipt of the telephone message booking the room. Finally, it would be worth finding out if Berlioz’sLes Troyenswas really given on that evening at the Théâtre de la Monnaie.
As Lefarge thought over the matter, he saw that the statement was one which admitted of a good many tests, and he felt that, if it stood those he had enumerated, it might be fully accepted.
CHAPTER XIX
The Seinewas looking its best on the following morning, as Lefarge boarded an east-bound steamer at the Pont des Artes, behind the Louvre. The day was charming, the air having some of the warmth and colouring of summer, without having lost the clear freshness of spring. As the boat swung out into the current, the detective recalled the last occasion on which he had embarked at this same pier—that on which he and Burnley had gone downstream to Grenelle to call on M. Thévenet at the statuary works. This time the same quest took him in the opposite direction, and they passed round the Ile de la Cité, along the quais, whose walls are topped by the stalls of the book-vendors of the Latin Quarter, past the stately twin towers of Notre Dame, and under the bridge of the Metropolitaine opposite the Gare d’Austerlitz. As they steamed up the broad river the buildings became less and less imposing, till before they had covered the four miles to the suburb of Charenton, where the Marne pours its waters into the Seine, trees and patches of green had begun to appear.
Landing at Charenton, which was as far as the steamer went, Lefarge strolled up the street in the direction of the station, looking for a restaurant with an overhanging, half-timbered front. He had not to make a long search. The largest and most pretentious café in the street answered the description and, when he saw telephone wires leading to it, he felt it was indeed the one he sought. Entering, he sat down at one of the small marble-topped tables and called for a bock.
The room was fair sized, with a bar at one corner, and a small dancing stage facing the door. But for the detective, it was untenanted. An elderly, white-moustached waiter passed back and forward from some room in the rear.
‘Pleasant day,’ said Lefarge, when this man came over with his bock. ‘I suppose you don’t get busy till later on?’
The man admitted it.
‘Well, I hear you give a very good lunch, anyway,’ continued the detective. ‘A friend of mine lunched here some days ago and was much pleased. And he’s not so easy to satisfy either.’
The waiter smiled and bowed.
‘We try to do our best, monsieur. It is very gratifying to learn that your friend was satisfied.’
‘Did he not tell you so? He generally says what he thinks.’
‘I am not sure that I know your friend, monsieur. When was he here?’
‘Oh, you’d remember him right enough if you saw him. There he is.’ Lefarge took a photograph of Boirac from his pocket and handed it over.
‘But yes, monsieur. Quite well I remember your friend. But,’ he hesitated slightly, ‘he did not strike me as being so much pleased with the lunch as you suggest. I thought indeed he considered the restaurant not quite——’ He shrugged his shoulders.
‘He was not very well, but he was pleased right enough. It was last Thursday he was here, wasn’t it?’
‘Last Thursday, monsieur? No, I think it was earlier. Let me see, I think it was Monday.’
‘I made a mistake. It was not Thursday. I remember now it was Tuesday he said. Was it not Tuesday?’
‘Perhaps it was, monsieur, I am not certain; though I rather think it was Monday.’
‘He telephoned to me that day from Charenton—I think he said from here. Did he telephone from here?’
‘Yes, monsieur, he made two calls. See, there is the telephone. We allow all our patrons to use it.’
‘An excellent idea. I am sure it is much appreciated. But there was an unfortunate mistake about the message he sent me. It was making an appointment, and he did not turn up. I am afraid I misunderstood what he said. Could you hear the message? Perhaps, if so, you would tell me if he spoke of an appointment on last Tuesday?’
The waiter, who up to then had been all smiles and amiability, flashed a suspicious little glance at the detective. He continued to smile politely, but Lefarge felt he had closed up like an oyster in his shell, and when he replied: ‘I could not hear, monsieur. I was engaged with the service,’ the other suspected he was lying.
He determined to try a bluff. Changing his manner and speaking authoritatively, though in a lower tone, he said:—
‘Now, look here,garçon. I am a detective officer. I want to find out about those telephone messages, and I don’t want to have the trouble of taking you to the Sûreté to interrogate you.’ He took out a five-franc piece. ‘If you can tell me what he said, this will be yours.’
A look of alarm came into the man’s eyes.
‘But, monsieur——’ he began.
‘Come now, I am certain you know, and you’ve got to tell. You may as well do it now and get your five francs, as later on at the Sûreté and for nothing. What do you say now? Which is it to be?’
The waiter remained silent, and it was obvious to Lefarge that he was weighing his course of action. His hesitation convinced the detective that he really did know the messages, and he determined to strike again.
‘Perhaps you are doubtful whether I really am from the Sûreté,’ he suggested. ‘Look at that.’
He displayed his detective’s credentials, and the sight seemed to bring the other to a decision.
‘I will tell you, monsieur. He first called up some one that I took to be his valet, and said he was going unexpectedly to Belgium, and that he wanted something left at the Gare du Nord for him—I did not catch what it was. Then he called up some other place and gave the same message, simply that he was going to Belgium for a couple of days. That was all, monsieur.’
‘That’s all right,garçon. Here’s your five francs.’
‘A good beginning,’ thought the detective, as he left the café and, turning his back on the river, passed on up the street. There could be no doubt that Boirac really had lunched at Charenton as he said. It was true the waiter thought he had been there on Monday, whereas Boirac had said Tuesday, but the waiter was not certain, and, in any case, the mistake would be a very easy one to make. Besides, the point could be checked. He could find out from M. Boirac’s chief clerk and butler on what day they received their messages.
He walked to Charenton Station, and took a train to the Gare du Lyon. Hailing a taxi, he was driven to the end of the rue Championnet, the street in which was situated the pump factory of which M. Boirac was managing director. As he left the motor and began strolling down the footpath, he heard the clocks chiming the half-hour after eleven.
The pump factory had not a very long frontage on the street, but, glancing in through an open gateway, Lefarge saw that it stretched a long way back. At one side of the gate was a four-story block of buildings, the door of which bore the legend, ‘Bureau au Deuxième Étage.’ The detective strolled past with his head averted, looking round only to make sure there was no other entrance to the works.
Some fifty yards or more beyond the factory, on the opposite side of the street, there stood a café. Entering in a leisurely way, Lefarge seated himself at a small marble-topped table in the window, from where he had a good view of the office door and yard gate of the works. Ordering another bock, he drew a newspaper from his pocket and, leaning back in his chair, began to read. He held it carefully at such a level that he could keep an eye over it on the works entrance, while at any moment raising it by a slight and natural movement would screen him from observation from without. So, for a considerable time he sipped his bock and waited.
Several persons entered and left the works, but it was not till the detective had sat there nearly an hour and had consumed two more bocks, that he saw what he had hoped for. M. Boirac stepped out of the office door and, turning in the opposite direction, walked down the street towards the city. Lefarge waited for five minutes longer, then, slowly folding up his paper and lighting a cigarette, he left the café.
He strolled a hundred yards farther from the works, then crossed and turning, retraced his steps and passed in through the door from which the managing director had emerged. Handing in his private card, he asked for M. Boirac.
‘I’m sorry, monsieur,’ replied the clerk who had come forward, ‘but he has just gone out. I wonder you didn’t meet him.’
‘No,’ said Lefarge, ‘I must have missed him. But if his confidential clerk is in, perhaps he could see me instead? Is he here at present?’
‘I believe so, monsieur. If you will take a seat, I’ll inquire.’
In a few moments the clerk returned to say that M. Dufresne was in, and he was shown into the presence of a small, elderly man, who was evidently just about to leave for lunch.
‘I rather wanted to see M. Boirac himself, monsieur,’ said Lefarge, when the customary greetings had passed. ‘It is on a private matter, but I think I need hardly wait for M. Boirac, as you can probably tell me what I want to know, if you will be so kind. I am, monsieur, a detective officer from the Sûreté’—here he produced his official card—‘and my visit is in connection with some business about which we are in communication with M. Boirac. You will readily understand I am not at liberty to discuss its details, but in connection with it he called recently at the Sûreté and made a statement. There were, unfortunately, two points which he omitted to tell us and which we, not then understanding they were relevant, omitted to ask. The matter is in connection with his recent visit to Belgium, and the two points I wanted to ask him are, first, the hour he left the office here on that Tuesday, and second, the hour at which he telephoned to you from Charenton that he was making the journey. Perhaps you can tell me, or would you prefer I should wait and see M. Boirac himself?’
The chief clerk did not immediately reply, and Lefarge could see he was uncertain what line he should take. The detective therefore continued:—
‘Pray do not answer me if you feel the slightest hesitation. I can easily wait, if you would rather.’
This had the desired effect and the clerk answered:—
‘Certainly not, monsieur, if you do not wish to do so yourself. I can answer your questions, or at least one of them. The other I am not so sure of. I received the telephone message from M. Boirac from Charenton at about quarter before three. That I am sure of as I particularly noted the time. As to when M. Boirac left here that morning, I cannot be so definite. He asked me at nine o’clock to draft a rather difficult reply to a letter and to take it in to him when ready. It took me half an hour to compose, as several figures had to be got out to make the matter clear. I took it in at 9.30 and he had then gone.’
‘That was on the Tuesday, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, on the Tuesday.’
‘And it was on the Friday morning M. Boirac returned?’
‘That is so, monsieur.’
Lefarge rose.
‘A thousand thanks, monsieur. I am very grateful to you for saving me a long wait.’
He left the office and, walking to the Simplon station of the Metropolitaine, took the train for the centre of the town. He was pleased with his progress. As in the earlier stages of the inquiry, information was coming in rapidly. At first he was inclined to think he had already got enough to confirm the first portion of Boirac’s statement, then his training re-asserted itself, and he decided to go back to the house in the Avenue de l’Alma, and if possible get François’ corroboration. He therefore alighted at Châtelet and took the Maillot train to Alma, walking down the Avenue.
‘Ah, M. François,’ he began, when the butler opened the door. ‘Here I am back to trouble you again. Can you spare me a couple of minutes?’
‘Certainly, monsieur. Come in.’
They went to the same small sitting-room and Lefarge produced his Brazilian cigarettes.
‘How do you like them?’ he asked, as the butler helped himself. ‘Some people think they’re too strong, but they suit me down to the ground. Like strong whiffs, only without the cigar flavour. I won’t keep you a moment. It’s just about that bag of M. Boirac’s you took to the Gare du Nord last Tuesday. Tell me, were you followed to the station?’
‘Followed, monsieur? I? Why no, certainly not. At least not that I know of.’
‘Well, did you observe at the left luggage office a rather tall man, dressed in gray and with a red beard?’
‘No,’ he answered, ‘I saw no one answering to the description.’
‘At what hour did you leave the bag in?’
‘About 3.30, monsieur.’
Lefarge affected to consider.
‘Perhaps it’s my mistake,’ he said at last. ‘It was on Tuesday, wasn’t it?’
‘On Tuesday. Yes, monsieur.’
‘And M. Boirac sent his telephone call about two, did he not? I think he said about two.’
‘It was later, monsieur. It was nearer three. But, monsieur, you fill me with curiosity. How, if I may ask, did you know I took Monsieur’s bag to the station?’
‘He told me last night. He happened to mention he had unexpectedly gone to Belgium, and that you had taken his bag to the left luggage office.’
‘And the man with the red beard?’
Lefarge, having got his information, was not much troubled to justify his little ruse.
‘One of our detectives. He has been on a case of theft of valuable luggage. I wondered if you had seen him. By the way, did M. Boirac bring back the bag with him?Itwasn’t stolen?’
Lefarge smiled, and the butler, politely presuming this was meant for a joke, smiled also.
‘It was not stolen, monsieur. He brought it back all right.’
So far so good. M. Boirac had then, beyond any doubt or question, telephoned about 2.45 on Tuesday and had instructed the butler to take his bag to the Gare du Nord, as he had said. Further, he had called there himself and got the bag. So much was certain. But the statement he made of his movements on Sunday and Monday, and the unpacking of the cask on Monday night still remained to be tested. Lefarge spoke again:—
‘While I’m here, M. François, I wonder would you mind checking one or two dates for my report?’ He pulled out his notebook. ‘I will read out and perhaps you would please say if the items are correct. Saturday, 27th March, the day of the dinner-party.’
‘Correct, monsieur.’
‘Sunday, 28th, nothing special occurred. M. Boirac unpacked the cask in the evening.’
‘That’s not right, monsieur. It was on Monday the cask was unpacked.’
‘Ah, Monday.’ Lefarge pretended to correct his notes. ‘Monday evening, of course. M. Boirac was at home on Sunday night, but he did not unpack it till Monday. That’s right, I think?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Then on Tuesday he went to Belgium, and returned home on Thursday evening?’
‘Correct, monsieur.’
‘Thanks very much. I’m glad you noticed that slip. I’ve got it right now, I think.’
He remained conversing for a few minutes, making himself agreeable to the old man and telling him some of the adventures he had met with during his career. The more he saw of François, the more he came to respect him, and he felt increasingly certain the old man’s statement was to be believed and that he would not lend himself to anything dishonourable.
As if to balance the successes of the morning, during the whole of the afternoon Lefarge drew blank. After leaving the house in the Avenue de l’Alma, he questioned the clerks in the left luggage office at the Gare du Nord. Here he could get no information at all. No one remembered François putting in the bag, nor Boirac claiming it, nor could any record of the bag itself be turned up. Again, in the Place de la Bastille, where he spent some hours interviewing the waiters in the various restaurants, both in the Place itself and close by in the diverging streets, no better luck attended his efforts. He could find no trace of Boirac’s having dined in any of them.
All the same, he was well satisfied with his day’s work. The information he had got was definite and valuable, in fact, he thought it conclusively established the truth of Boirac’s statement, at least in as far as Tuesday was concerned. If he could do as well in connection with the Wednesday and Thursday, he thought the manufacturer’s alibi would stand, and his innocence of the murder must then be admitted.
To carry on the inquiry, he would have to visit Brussels, and he accordingly telephoned to the Gare du Nord engaging a berth on the 11.20 p.m. sleeping car train that night. Then, after calling up the Sûreté, he turned his steps homewards to dine and have a rest till it was time to start.
He made a comfortable journey, and, having breakfasted in one of the cafés in the Place du Nord in Brussels, took an early train to Malines. He presented himself at the post office and asked if he could be directed to the residence of M. Armande Boirac. The clerk knew the name, though he was not certain of the address, but after inquiries at two or three of the principal shops, the detective found one at which M. Boirac dealt.
‘Yes, monsieur, it’s a good four miles out on the Louvain road. A large white house with a red roof, standing in trees on the right-hand side, immediately beyond a cross roads. But I think M. Boirac is from home, if you wanted to see him.’
‘I did wish to see him,’ returned Lefarge, ‘but I dare say Mme. Boirac would see me instead.’
‘I fear she is also away, monsieur. At least, I can only tell you what I know. She came in here about a fortnight ago, indeed, I remember now it was just this day fortnight, and said: “Oh, Laroche,” she said, “you need not send anything for two or three weeks, till you hear from me again. We are going away and are shutting up the house. So, monsieur, I don’t think you’ll see either of them if you go out.”
‘I am greatly obliged to you, monsieur. I wonder if you could still further add to your kindness by informing me of M. Boirac’s place of business, where I might get his address. He is in business, I suppose?’
‘He is a banker, monsieur, and goes frequently to Brussels, but I don’t know in which bank he is interested. But if you go across the street to M. Leblanc, the avocat, I expect he could tell you.’
Lefarge thanked the polite shopman and, following his advice, called on the avocat. Here he learned that M. Boirac was one of the directors of a large private bank, the Crédit Mazières, in the Boulevard de la Senne, in Brussels.
He was half tempted to return at once to the capital, but a long experience had convinced him of the folly of acceptinganystatement without investigation. To be on the safe side, he felt he should go out and see for himself if the house was indeed empty. He therefore hired a small car and drove out along the Louvain road.
The day was bright and sunny, though with a little sharpness in the air, and Lefarge enjoyed the run through the pleasant Belgian country. He hoped to get his work finished by the afternoon, and, in that case, he would go back to Paris by the night train.
About fifteen minutes brought them to the house, which Lefarge immediately recognised from the shopman’s description. A glance showed it was empty. The gates of the avenue were fastened with a padlock and chain, and, through the surrounding trees, the window shutters could be seen to be closed. The detective looked about him.
Alongside the road close to the gates were three cottages, occupied apparently by peasants or farm labourers. Lefarge stepped up to the first of these and knocked.
‘Good morning,’ he said, as a buxom, middle-aged woman came to the door. ‘I have just come from Brussels to see M. Boirac, and I find the house is locked up. Can you tell me if there is a caretaker, or any one who could tell me where M. Boirac is to be found?’
‘I am the caretaker, monsieur, but I do not know M. Boirac’s address. All he told me before he left was that any letters sent to the Crédit Mazières in Brussels would be forwarded.’