‘No,’ said Felix, after a pause, ‘I don’t think I spoke to a soul, and I certainly did not enter a café.’
‘You say you returned to London next day. Did you meet any one on the journey you knew?’
‘Yes, but it will be no help to me. I met Miss Gladys Devine on the Folkestone boat. But she cannot confirm this. As you must know, she died suddenly a week later.’
‘Miss Gladys Devine? Not the celebrated Miss Devine, the actress?’
‘The same. I have met her at supper parties in Paris.’
‘But you must be able to get confirmation of that? So well known a lady would be recognised wherever she went. But perhaps you visited her private cabin?’
‘No, I saw her on the boat deck. She was sitting in the shelter of one of the funnels. I joined her for about half an hour.’
‘But somebody must have seen you?’
‘Possibly, but possibly not. You see, it was horribly rough. Almost every one was sick. People, anyway, weren’t walking about.’
‘What about her maids?’
‘I did not see them.’
‘Now, Mr. Felix, what you must think over when I leave you is, first, what evidence can we get confirming your statement of how you spent your time between 11.00 and 1.30 on the Saturday night? and second, who saw you with Miss Devine on the Folkestone boat? In the meantime, please continue your statement.’
‘Bonchose met me at Charing Cross. He was keen to know how I had fared. We drove to his rooms, where I told him the whole thing. I said I would hand him the £600 on condition he broke finally with his gambling friends. He assured me the breach had already been effected, and I therefore gave him the money. We then drove to the Savoy and, after a rather early dinner, I left him and went home.’
‘At what hour?’
‘About 8.30.’
‘How did you go?’
‘I took a taxi.’
‘From where?’
‘The Savoy commissionaire called it.’
‘Yes?’
‘The next thing was I received an astonishing letter,’ and Felix went on to tell the lawyer about the typewritten letter signed ‘Le Gautier,’ his preparations to obtain the cask, his visit to St. Katherine’s Docks, his interviews with the clerk, Broughton, and the manager of the dock office, his ruse to get the I. and C.’s notepaper, the forging of the letter to Harkness, the removal of the cask to St. Malo, his dining at Dr. Martin’s, the midnight interview with Burnley, the disappearance of the cask, its final recovery, its unpacking, and the discovery of its terrible contents. ‘That, Mr. Clifford,’ he ended up, ‘is every single thing I know about the affair, good, bad, or indifferent.’
‘I congratulate you on the clear way you have made your statement,’ returned the solicitor. ‘Now, excuse me while I think if there is anything further I want to ask you.’
He slowly turned over the rather voluminous notes he had taken.
‘The first point,’ he went on at length, ‘is the question of your intimacy with Madame Boirac. Can you tell me how many times you saw her since her marriage?’
Felix considered.
‘About half a dozen, I should say, or perhaps eight or even nine. Not more than nine certainly.’
‘Excepting on the night of the dinner, was her husband present on all these occasions?’
‘Not all. At least twice I called in the afternoon and saw her alone.’
‘I think I need hardly ask you, but answer me fully all the same. Were there at any time any tender or confidential passages between you and Madame?’
‘Absolutely none. I state most positively that nothing passed between us which Boirac might not have seen or heard.’
Again Clifford paused in thought.
‘I want you now to tell me, and with the utmost detail, exactly how you spent the time between your leaving Bonchose after dinner on the Sunday night of your return from Paris, and your meeting the cask at St. Katherine’s Docks on the following Monday week.’
‘I can do so easily. After leaving Bonchose I drove out to St. Malo, as I told you, arriving about 9.30. My housekeeper was on holidays, so I went straight over to Brent village and arranged with a charwoman to come in the mornings and make my breakfast. This woman had acted in a similar capacity before. I myself was taking a week’s holidays, and each day I passed in the same manner. I got up about half-past seven, had breakfast, and went to my studio to paint. The charwoman went home after breakfast, and I got my own lunch. Then I painted again in the afternoon, and in the evening went into town for dinner and usually, but not always, a theatre. I generally got back between eleven and twelve. On Saturday, instead of painting all day, I went into town and arranged about meeting the cask.’
‘Then at ten o’clock on Wednesday you were painting in your studio?’
‘That is so, but why that day and hour?’
‘I will tell you later. Now, can you prove that? Did any one call in the studio, or see you there?’
‘No one, I’m afraid.’
‘What about the charwoman? What is her name, by the way?’
‘Mrs. Bridget Murphy. No, I don’t think she could tell where I was. You see, I practically did not see her at all. My breakfast was ready when I came down, and when I had finished I went direct to the studio. I don’t know when she went home, but I should think it was fairly early.’
‘What time did you breakfast?’
‘Eight nominally, but I wasn’t always very punctual.’
‘Do you remember, and have you any way of proving, what time you had breakfast on this particular Wednesday?’
Felix thought over the question.
‘No,’ he answered, ‘I don’t think so. There was nothing to distinguish that morning from the others.’
‘The point is important. Perhaps Mrs. Murphy would remember?’
‘Possibly, but I hardly think so.’
‘No one else could prove it? Were there no callers? No tradesmen’s messengers?’
‘None. One or two people rang, but I didn’t bother. I was expecting no one, and I just let them ring.’
‘An unfortunate omission. Now, tell me, where did you dine in town and spend the evenings?’
‘I’m afraid a different restaurant each night, and naturally a different theatre.’
By dint of further questions Clifford obtained a list of all the places his client had visited during the week, his intention being to go round them in turn in search of material to build up an alibi. He was very disappointed with all he had heard, and the difficulties of his task seemed to be growing. He continued this examination.
‘Now, this typewritten letter, signed Le Gautier. Did you believe it was genuine?’
‘I did. I thought the whole thing absurd and annoying, but I did not doubt it. You see, I had actually entered for the lottery with Le Gautier, and fifty thousand francs was the sum we would have made, had we been lucky. I did think at first it was a practical joke on Le Gautier’s part, but he is not that kind of man, and I at last concluded it was genuine.’
‘Did you write or wire to Le Gautier?’
‘No. I got the letter late one evening on my return home. It was too late to do anything then, but I intended to wire next morning that I would go over, and not to send the cask. But next morning’s post brought a card, also typewritten, and signed “Le Gautier,” saying the cask had actually been despatched. I forgot to mention that in my statement.’
Clifford nodded and again referred to his notes.
‘Did you write a letter to Messrs. Dupierre of Paris, ordering a statue to be sent to you, to the West Jubb Street address?’
‘No.’
‘Do you recollect the blotter on your study desk at St. Malo?’
‘Why, yes,’ returned Felix, with a look of surprise.
‘Did you ever let that blotter out of your possession?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘Did you ever take it to France?’
‘Never.’
‘Then how, Mr. Felix,’ asked the lawyer slowly, ‘how do you account for the fact that the blotted impression of such a letter, in your handwriting, was found on the blotter?’
Felix sprang to his feet.
‘What?’ he cried. ‘What’s that you say? A letter in my handwriting? I don’t believe it! It’s impossible!’
‘I have seen it.’
‘You have seen it?’ The speaker moved excitedly about the cell, gesticulating freely. ‘Really, Mr. Clifford, this is too much. I tell you I wrote no such letter. You are making a mistake.’
‘I assure you, Mr. Felix, I am making no mistake. I saw not only the impression on your pad, but also the original letter itself, which had been received by Messrs. Dupierre.’
Felix sat down and passed his hand across his brow, as if dazed.
‘I cannot understand it. You can’t have seen a letter from me, because no such exists. What you saw must have been a forgery.’
‘But the impression on the blotter?’
‘Good Heavens, how do I know? I tell you I know nothing about it. See here,’ he added, with a change of tone, ‘there’s some trick in it. When you say you’ve seen these things I’m bound to believe you. But there’s a trick. There must be.’
‘Then,’ said Clifford, ‘if so, and I’m inclined to agree with you, who carried out the trick? Some one must have had access to your study, either to write the letter there, or to abstract your blotter or a page of it which could afterwards be replaced. Who could that have been?’
‘I don’t know. Nobody—or anybody. I can think of no one who would do such a thing. When was the letter written?’
‘It was received by Dupierre on Tuesday morning, 30th March. It bore a London postmark, therefore it must have been posted on Sunday night or Monday. That would be either the day or the day after you returned to London, after the dinner.’
‘Any one could have got into the house while I was away. If what you say is true, some one must have, but I saw no traces.’
‘Now, Mr. Felix, who is Emmie?’
Felix stared.
‘Emmie?’ he said. ‘I don’t understand. Emmie what?’
Clifford watched the other keenly as he replied,—
‘Your heartbroken Emmie.’
‘My dear Mr. Clifford, I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about. ‘Your heartbroken Emmie?’ What under the sun do you mean?’
‘It should be clear enough, Mr. Felix. Who was the girl that wrote to you recently imploring you not to desert her, and who signed herself, “Your heartbroken Emmie”?’
Felix gazed at his visitor in amazement.
‘Either you’re mad or I’m mad,’ he said slowly. ‘I have had no letter from any girl asking me not to desert her, and I have had no letter on any subject from any one signing herself Emmie. Really, I think you might explain yourself.’
‘Now tell me something else, Mr. Felix. You possess, I understand, two navy-blue suits?’
The astonishment on the artist’s face did not lessen as he assented.
‘I want to know now when you last wore each of those suits.’
‘As it happens, I can tell you. One of them I wore on my Paris trip and again on the following Saturday when I went to town to arrange about the cask, as well as on the Monday and following days till I went to hospital. I am wearing it to-day. The other blue suit is an old one, and I have not had it on for months.’
‘I’ll tell you now why I ask. In the coat pocket of one of your blue suits, evidently, from what you tell me, the old one, was found a letter beginning, “My dearest Léon,” and ending, “Your heartbroken Emmie,” and in it the writer said—but here I have a copy of it, and you may read it.’
The artist looked over the paper as if in a dream. Then he turned to the other.
‘I can assure you, Mr. Clifford,’ he said earnestly, ‘that I am as much in the dark as you about this. It is not my letter. I never saw it before. I never heard of Emmie. The whole thing is an invention. How it got into my pocket I cannot explain, but I tell you positively I am absolutely ignorant of the whole thing.’
Clifford nodded.
‘Very good. Now there is only one other thing I want to ask you. Do you know the round-backed, leather-covered arm-chair which stood before the plush curtain in your study?’
‘Yes.’
‘Think carefully, and tell me who was the last lady to occupy it.’
‘That doesn’t require much thought. No lady has ever sat in it since I bought it. Very few ladies have been in St. Malo since I took it, and these without exception were interested in art and were in the studio only.’
‘Now, don’t be annoyed, Mr. Felix, when I ask you once more, did Madame Boirac ever sit in that chair?’
‘I give you my solemn word of honour she never did. She was never in the house, and I believe I am right in saying she was never in London.’
The lawyer nodded.
‘Now I have another unpleasant thing to tell you. Caught in the hem of that curtain and hidden by the chair, a pin was found—a diamond safety pin. That pin, Mr. Felix, was attached to the shoulder of Madame Boirac’s dress on the night of the dinner party.’
Felix, unable to speak, sat staring helplessly at the lawyer. His face had gone white, and an expression of horror dawned in his eyes. There was silence in the dull, cheerless cell, whose walls had heard so many tales of misery and suffering. Clifford, watching his client keenly, felt the doubts which had been partly lulled to rest, again rising. Was the man acting? If so, he was doing it extraordinarily well, but. . . . At last Felix moved.
‘My God!’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘It’s a nightmare! I feel helpless. I am in a net, and it is drawing close round me. What does it mean, Mr. Clifford? Who has done this thing? I didn’t know any one hated me, but some one must.’ He made a gesture of despair. ‘I’m done for. What can help me after that? Can you see any hope, Mr. Clifford? Tell me.’
But whatever doubts the lawyer felt he kept to himself.
‘It is too soon to come to any conclusion,’ he answered in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘In cases of difficulty such as this, I have frequently known some small fact to come out, perhaps accidentally, which has cleared up the whole affair. You must not despair. We are only at the beginning. Wait for a week or two, and then I’ll tell you what I think.’
‘Bless you, Mr. Clifford. You put heart into me. But this matter of the pin. What can it mean? There is some terrible conspiracy against me. Can it ever be unravelled?’
The lawyer arose.
‘That’s what we have to try and do, Mr. Felix. I’m afraid I must be off now. Do as I say, keep up your heart, and if you can think of any evidence supporting your statements, let me know.’
Having shaken hands, Mr. Clifford withdrew.
CHAPTER XXIII
When Cliffordhad finished dinner that evening, he went to his study, and drawing a large arm-chair up to the fire, for the evenings were still cold, he lit a cigar and composed himself to master the details of his new case. To say that he was disappointed with Felix’s statement would not be to give a true indication of his state of mind. He was woefully chagrined. He had hoped and expected that his client would tell him something that would instantly indicate the line the defence should take, and instead of that he was puzzled to know where any defence at all was to come from.
And the more he thought over it, the worse the outlook seemed. He went over the facts in order, marshalling them in his mind and weighing the bearing of each on the question of Felix’s innocence or guilt.
There was first of all the fundamental question of what had taken place in the house in the Avenue de l’Alma between 11.00 p.m. and 1.15 a.m. on the night of the dinner party. At 11.00 Annette Boirac was alive and well; at 1.15 she had disappeared. Felix was the last person, so far as was known, to see her alive, and it was not unreasonable to have expected him to have thrown some light on her fate. But he hadn’t.
It was true he had explained the motive for his interview with Madame. Confirmation of the truth of this, Clifford thought, should be obtainable from an investigation of the affairs of Bonchose. But even if it was established, he did not see how it would help his client. It would not prove him innocent. Indeed, it might be argued that this very discussion had been the indirect cause of the elopement, if such took place. It had given Felix an opportunity to see Madame alone which otherwise he might not have had. And who could tell what dormant passions that private interview might not have aroused? No. There was no help here.
And the remainder of Felix’s statement was equally unfruitful. He had said that after conversing with the lady till 11.45 p.m., he had walked about Paris till half-past one. But by a singular coincidence he had not been seen leaving the house, he had not met any one he knew, and he had not been anywhere he was known. Was this, Clifford wondered, so singular a coincidence? Might it not simply mean that Felix’s story was untrue?
Then he remembered the closing of the front door. François had heard it shut at 1.00 a.m. If Felix left at 11.45, who shut it? As far as he could see, either Felix must be lying when he said he left at 11.45, or else Madame must have gone out by herself at the later hour. But the lawyer did not know which of these had happened, and the worst of it was there seemed no way of finding out.
Equally useless for the defence was Felix’s identification of the fur-coated lady on the Folkestone boat. Even had this been Miss Devine, it did not prove Madame Boirac was not a traveller. Might not Felix, travelling with Madame, have seen the actress on board, her subsequent death suggesting his story? No, even if he could prove all that the artist had said about the crossing, it would not help matters.
But Felix’s failure to find an alibi for himself was much more serious. Clifford had confidently expected a defence along these lines, and he was more than disappointed. He ran over the facts. The location of the man or men who had arranged the journeys of the cask was known at two periods; on the Wednesday at 10.00 a.m. at Waterloo, and on the Thursday at 5.15 p.m. at the Gare du Nord. Clifford got out his Continental Bradshaw. To have been in Paris at the time named, a Londoner must have left by the 9.00 a.m. from Charing Cross on Thursday, and he could not have arrived back before 5.35 on Friday morning. Therefore Felix had only to prove an alibi at 10.00 on Wednesday morning, or between 9.00 on Thursday morning and 5.35 on Friday morning, and the greatest part of the case against him would be met. But this was just what he could not do.
Clifford turned to his notes of the artist’s statement. According to it, at 10.00 a.m. on Wednesday, Felix had been painting in his studio. But the chance of the housekeeper’s absence and the peculiar arrangement under which the charwoman got breakfast prevented this being proved. And like an idiot, Felix had heard people ringing at the door, and, because he did not wish to be disturbed, had not opened it. One of those callers might have saved him now.
And then, with regard to Thursday and Thursday night. To have caught the 9.00 a.m. from Charing Cross, Felix must have left St. Malo at not later than 8.50. According to his statement, his breakfast was left ready for him at 8.00, and there certainly would not have been time for him to eat it. But there was nothing to prevent him having in two or three minutes dirtied the plates and carried away some food, to give the impression he had had his meal. Here there was hope of help from the charwoman. Clifford could not decide the point till he had interviewed her.
He turned back to his notes. After breakfast, Felix, according to his statement, had painted without ceasing, except for a cup of cocoa at lunch time, until half-past six. He had then changed and gone to town, dining alone at the Gresham. Though he had seen no one he knew at the famous restaurant, there was a chance that a waiter or commissionaire or other official might have recognised him. He had left about nine and, feeling tired, he had returned straight home. There, no one could know of his presence till 7.30 the next morning, when Mrs. Murphy would expect to hear him answer her knock.
But if he had been to Paris, meeting the cask at the Gare du Nord, he could have been home equally at 7.30 a.m. Therefore the evidence of his answering the knock would be immaterial. Certainly if Felix were telling the truth, the manner in which confirmation was eluding him was most unfortunate. But was Felix telling the truth? . . .
Then there were those three discoveries of Burnley at St. Malo, the ‘Emmie’ letter, the impression on the blotsheet, and the pin. Any one of these alone would have been highly damaging to Felix’s case; the three together seemed overwhelming. And yet Felix had not attempted a word of explanation. He had simply denied knowledge of all three. If the accused man could not explain these damaging facts, how was Clifford to set about it?
But nothing in the whole affair depressed the lawyer so much as the admissions Felix had made about his previous relations with Madame Boirac. It was, of course, true that Felix, a stranger introduced into the Boirac household, might have fallen in love with Madame and persuaded her to elope with him. But if Felix, instead of being a stranger, could be shown to have been not only desperately in love with, but actually formerly engaged to the mistress of the house, how tremendously the probabilities of such an elopement would be strengthened. What a picture a clever counsel could draw of this lady, tied to a man whom perhaps she detested, and with whom life in such case must have been an endless misery, brought unexpectedly in touch with the man of her real choice. . . . And her lover, his crushed-down feelings swelling up at the unlooked-for meeting, seeing her languishing in this bondage. . . . Why, the elopement would be amply accounted for. To Clifford it seemed that if the Crown got hold of the facts he had learnt, Felix was a doomed man. Indeed, the more he himself thought of the affair, the more doubtful of the artist’s innocence he became. As far as he could see, Felix had only one uncontrovertible point in his favour—his surprise on seeing the cask opened. And this would prove a matter of medical testimony, and no doubt there would be contradictory evidence. . . . The lawyer could see very little light even here.
And then he reminded himself it was not his business to try Felix. Innocent or guilty, he, Clifford, was there to do the best he could for him. But what form was that best to take?
Till the morrow had dawned he sat smoking in his chair, turning the case over in his mind, looking at the problem from every point of view, still without much result. But though he could not yet see the line his defence should follow, he was clear enough about his immediate next step. Obviously he must first see Bonchose, Mrs. Murphy, and the other persons of whom Felix had spoken, not only to test the latter’s story, but also in the hope of learning some new facts.
Accordingly, next morning saw the lawyer ascending the steps of the house in Kensington in which the apartments of Mr. Pierre Bonchose was situated. But here he met with a disappointment. Mr. Bonchose had gone to the south of France on business and would not be home for three or four days.
‘That explains why he has made no attempt to see Felix since his arrest,’ said the lawyer to himself, as he turned away and hailed a taxi with the idea of a call on the charwoman.
An hour later he reached the small village of Brent, on the Great North Road, and was directed to Mrs. Murphy’s cottage. The door was opened by a woman who had been tall, but was now shrunken, her sharp, careworn features and gray hair indicating that her life had been a struggle against odds.
‘Good morning,’ began the lawyer, courteously raising his hat. ‘You are Mrs. Murphy?’
‘I am sir,’ returned the woman, ‘and would you come in?’
‘Thank you.’ He followed her into the small, poorly-furnished living room, and sat cautiously down on the somewhat dilapidated chair she pulled forward.
‘You know, I suppose,’ he went on, ‘that your neighbour, Mr. Felix of St. Malo, has been arrested on a very serious charge?’
‘’Deed then, I do, sir. And sorry I was to hear of it. A fine, decent man he was, too.’
‘Well, Mrs. Murphy, my name is Clifford, and I am the lawyer who is going to defend Mr. Felix. I wondered if you would be good enough to answer some questions, to help me in his defence?’
‘I would, sir, be glad to do it.’
‘You managed the house for him recently, while his housekeeper was away?’
‘I did, sir.’
‘And when did Mr. Felix ask you to do that?’
‘On Sunday evening, sir. I was just thinking of going to bed when he came to the door.’
‘Now tell me, please, exactly what you did each day at St. Malo.’
‘I went in the mornings, sir, and lit the fire and got his breakfast. Then I did out his room and washed up and left his lunch ready. He got his own lunch himself in the middle of the day, and went into London for dinner at night.’
‘I see. At what hour did you reach the house in the mornings?’
‘About seven o’clock. I called him at half-past seven and he had breakfast at eight.’
‘And about what hour did you leave?’
‘I could hardly be sure, sir. About half-past ten or eleven, or maybe later.’
‘Can you remember the Wednesday of that week? I suppose you were at St. Malo at ten o’clock?’
‘I was, sir. I was never left by ten any morning.’
‘Quite so. Now what I want to know is this: on that Wednesday morning was Mr. Felix in the house at ten o’clock?’
‘So far as I know, he was, sir.’
‘Ah, but I want to be sure. Can you say positively he was there?’
‘Well, not to be certain, sir, I couldn’t.’
‘Now Thursday, Mrs. Murphy. Did you see Mr. Felix on Thursday?’
The woman hesitated.
‘I saw him two or three mornings,’ she said at last, ‘but I couldn’t be sure whether it was on Thursday. It might have been, though.’
‘You couldn’t tell me at what hour he took his breakfast that morning?’
‘Well, I could not, sir.’
It was evident to Clifford that Mrs. Murphy, though an intelligent woman, would be no use to him as a witness. He remained at her house for a considerable time, and was very probing and painstaking in his questions. But all to no purpose. While she corroborated what Felix had stated about his household arrangements, she dashed any hope the lawyer might have had of establishing an alibi.
By the time he again reached the city it was one o’clock. He decided he would lunch at the Gresham, and pursue his investigations among the staff.
The head waiter, with whom he began, could not himself give any information, but he took Felix’s photo round among his men, and at last found one who had seen the artist. Felix, it appeared from this man’s statement, had dined there one evening some five or six weeks previously. The man, an Italian, remembered him because he had first supposed him to be a compatriot. But, unfortunately, he could not fix the date, and no one else, so far as Clifford could learn, had seen the artist at all. Clifford had regretfully to admit that this evidence, like Mrs. Murphy’s, was useless. In the lawyer’s private judgment it undoubtedly tended to confirm Felix’s statement, and he found himself more and more inclined to believe the Frenchman. But a personal impression was one thing, and evidence in a court of law another.
On reaching his office, he wrote to Bonchose, asking him to call on urgent business immediately on his return to London.
The next day saw him again at Brent village. Felix had stated he had gone by train to town each evening of the fateful week, and it had occurred to the lawyer that possibly some of the railway officials might have noticed him travelling. He made exhaustive inquiries and at last found a ticket-collector who volunteered some information. Felix, said this man, was a regular traveller. He went to town each morning by the 8.57 and returned at 6.50 each evening. But the collector had noticed that for some days he had not travelled by these trains, but had instead gone up by the evening trains leaving Brent at either 6.20 or 6.47. The collector went off duty at seven o’clock, so he could not tell anything about Felix’s return. Nor could any one else, so far as Clifford could ascertain. But unfortunately the collector could not state how long it was since the artist had changed his habits, still less could he say if he travelled up to town on the Thursday evening in question.
Clifford then strolled to St. Malo in the hope of finding it was overlooked by some other house, the occupants of which might have seen the artist on the fateful Thursday. But here again he was disappointed. There was no house in the immediate vicinity.
Puzzled as to his next step, the lawyer returned to his office. He found pressing business of another kind awaiting him, and for the remainder of that day, as well as the next two, he was too fully occupied to turn his attention seriously to the murder case.
On the morning of the fourth day there was a letter from Mr. Lucius Heppenstall, K. C. It was written from Copenhagen, and the barrister explained that he was in Denmark on business and hoped to be back in about a week, when he and Clifford could meet and go into the case together.
Hardly had Clifford finished reading the letter when a young man was announced. He was tall and slight, with dark hair and eyes, a small black moustache and a short, hooked nose, which gave him something of the appearance of a hawk.
‘Bonchose,’ said Clifford to himself, and he was not mistaken.
‘You have not heard of Mr. Felix’s arrest?’ he asked, as he waved his visitor to an arm-chair and held out his cigarette case.
‘Not a word,’ replied Bonchose, speaking good English, but with a foreign accent. He had a quick, vivacious manner, and moved sharply, as if on wires. ‘I cannot tell you how utterly surprised and shocked I was to get your note. But the thing is perfectly absurd—outrageous! Any one that knew Felix would know he could not commit such a crime. It is surely a misunderstanding that a very short time will clear up?’
‘I fear not, Mr. Bonchose; I very much fear not. Unfortunately, the case against your friend is strong. The evidence is admittedly circumstantial, but it is strong for all that. Indeed, to be perfectly candid with you, I do not for the moment see any good line of defence.’
The young man made a gesture of amazement.
‘You horrify me, sir,’ he cried; ‘absolutely horrify me. You surely do not mean to suggest there is any chance of a conviction?’
‘I am sorry to say that I do. There is a very great chance—unless a good deal more comes to light than we know at present.’
‘But this is awful!’ He wrung his hands. ‘Awful! First it was poor Annette and now Felix! But you don’t mean that nothing can be done?’ There was real concern and anxiety in the young man’s tone.
Mr. Clifford was satisfied. This man’s affection for and belief in his friend were genuine. Felix could not be altogether a villain to inspire such friendship. The lawyer changed his tone.
‘No, Mr. Bonchose,’ he answered. ‘I do not mean that. All I mean is that the fight will not be easy. Mr. Felix’s friends will have to put their backs into it. And it is to begin that fight I asked you to call here as soon as you returned.’
‘I got back early this morning, and I was here before your office opened. Take that as the measure of my willingness to help.’
‘I do not doubt it, Mr. Bonchose. And now I want you please to tell me everything you can about Mr. Felix, and your own life, where it has touched his. Also about your unhappy cousin, the late Madame Boirac.’
‘I shall do so, and if at any point I am not clear, please ask me questions.’
Beginning by explaining who he and Annette really were—children of a younger daughter and the eldest son respectively of the late M. André Humbert of Laroche—he gave an account of their childhood, their early love of art, their moving to M. Dauphin’s school in Paris, the meeting with Felix, and the latter’s love for Annette. Then he told of his move to the wine merchant’s firm at Narbonne, his being sent to London, his joy at again meeting Felix, his weakness for cards, the help Felix had given him, and the recent serious money difficulties into which he had fallen. He recounted his having written on the matter to Annette, the hope expressed to Felix that he would see her on the subject, his meeting the artist at Charing Cross on the Sunday evening of his return to London, their dinner together, the receipt of the £600, and finally Felix’s departure in a taxi for St. Malo.
His whole statement, thought Clifford, was singularly like those of Mrs. Murphy, the Gresham waiter, and the ticket-collector at Brent Station, in that, while it confirmed what Felix had said and strengthened the lawyer’s growing belief in the artist’s innocence, it was of very little use for the trial. It was true that he, Clifford, was now in a position to prove most of Felix’s statement, but the worst of it was that most of Felix’s statement might be proved without proving Felix’s innocence. So much so, indeed, that Clifford could not yet quite banish the suspicion that the whole thing was pre-arranged.
He questioned Mr. Bonchose exhaustively, but without learning anything fresh. His visitor had not seen the artist on the Wednesday or Thursday, and could not help towards the alibi. Finding that nothing was to be gained by further conversation, Clifford bowed the young man out, having promised to let him know how things progressed.
CHAPTER XXIV
Some days laterMr. Clifford and Mr. Lucius Heppenstall, K.C.—who were close personal friends—dined together at the former’s residence, intending afterwards to have a long chat over the case. Mr. Heppenstall had returned from Denmark rather earlier than was expected, and had already studied the documents received from the prosecution, as well as Clifford’s notes of what he had learnt. The two men had together interviewed Felix and Bonchose and some other small inquiries had been made, the only point of importance discovered being that the late Miss Devine had crossed from Calais to Folkestone on the Sunday in question and had been alone on deck, both her maids having been helplessly ill. The meeting on this evening was to formulate a policy, to decide on the exact line which the defence should take.
The difficulty of this decision was felt by both men to be considerable. In their previous cases there had nearly always been an obvious defence. Frequently two distinct lines, or even three, had been possible, the problem then being the selection of the best. But here their difficulty was to find any defence at all.
‘The first thing we must settle,’ said Heppenstall, throwing himself into an easy-chair, ‘is whether we are going to assume this fellow Felix innocent or guilty. What is your own private opinion?’
‘I hardly know what to think,’ he answered finally. ‘I must admit that Felix’s manner and personality impress me favourably. He certainly told his story in a convincing way. Then these people that we have recently seen confirm a great deal of what he said. Further, they evidently like and believe in him. Look at Martin, for example. He is a noisy, blustering fellow, but he is no fool. He knows Felix well, and he believes in him to the extent of offering to guarantee our fees to get him off. All that must count for something. Then there is nothing inherently impossible in his story. It all might have happened just as he says. And lastly, his admitted shock when the cask was opened seems strongly in his favour.’
‘But?’
‘But? Well, there is all the rest of the case.’
‘Then you have no private opinion?’
‘Not definitely. My opinion inclines towards innocence, but I am by no means sure.’
‘I rather agree with you,’ remarked the K.C. Then, after a pause, ‘I have been thinking this thing over and I don’t for the life of me see a chance of clearing him on the evidence. It is too strong. Why, if it is true, it is overpowering. It seems to me our only hope is to deny the evidence.’
‘To deny it?’
‘To deny it. You must admit that Felix is either guilty or the victim of a plot.’
‘Of course.’
‘Very well. Let us stick to that. The evidence is not genuine because Felix is the victim of a plot. How does that strike you?’
‘Well, you know, I shouldn’t be at all surprised if that was the actual fact. I’ve thought over it a good deal, and the more I think the more I begin to doubt those things that were found at St. Malo. That letter from Emmie, the marks on the blotting paper, and the diamond pin, they all strike me as being a little too conclusive to be natural. Their very comprehensiveness suggests selection. Then typewritten letters any one can produce. No, I shouldn’t wonder if you’re on the right track.’
‘I think it’s our best defence, anyway.’
‘I think it’s our only defence. But, mind you, it’s an easy theory to suggest, but a mighty hard one to establish.’
‘There’s only one way,’ Heppenstall declared, pouring himself out some whisky from the jar at his elbow, ‘we must suggest the real murderer.’
‘If we must find the real murderer we may as well let the case alone. If Scotland Yard and the Sûreté couldn’t get him, we are not likely to.’
‘You haven’t quite got me. I don’t say we must find him. It will be enough to suggest him. All we have to do is to show that some other person had a motive for Madame’s death, and could have murdered her and carried out the plot against Felix. A doubt would then arise as to which of the two was guilty, and, if that doubt was strong enough, Felix would get the benefit of it.’
‘But that makes our problem no easier. The difficulty still lies in the finding of this other person.’
‘We can only try; it may lead to something. Our first question then is: If Felix is innocent, who might be guilty?’
There was silence for several seconds, then Heppenstall spoke again.
‘Who, perhaps I should say, is least unlikely to be guilty?’
‘I think there can be only one answer to that,’ returned Clifford. ‘In the very nature of the case a certain suspicion must attach to Boirac. But the police were fully alive to that. From all we hear, they went into it thoroughly and came to the conclusion he was innocent.’
‘It depended on an alibi. But you know as well as I do alibis can be faked.’
‘Undoubtedly, but they concluded this one wasn’t. We don’t know the exact details, but it seems to have been fully tested.’
‘At all events, from the information available, I think we may assume that if Felix is innocent, Boirac is guilty. There is no suggestion of any third party being involved. If, then, we can show that Boirac had a motive for the crime, and that he could have committed it and made the plant, that’s all we want. We have not to prove him guilty.’
‘I suppose that is so. Then our next point is: What might have been Boirac’s motive?’
‘That’s not hard to find. If Boirac found his wife was carrying on with Felix, it might explain his desire to kill her.’
‘Yes, and it would give a two-fold reason for his working for Felix’s conviction; first, self-defence by shifting over the suspicion, and, second, revenge on the man who had spoilt his home.’
‘Quite. I think a plausible motive might be built up. Next let us ask, When was the body put in the cask?’
‘The police say in London, because there was no opportunity elsewhere.’
‘Yes, and to me it seems a quite sound deduction. Now, if that is true, it follows that if Boirac killed his wife, he must have travelled here to do it.’
‘But the alibi?’
‘Leave the alibi for a moment. Our defence must be that Boirac followed his wife to London and murdered her there. Now can we suggest possible details? He would arrive at his house on that Sunday morning and find his wife gone, and a letter from her saying she had eloped with Felix. What, then, would he do?’
Clifford leaned forward to stir the fire.
‘I have thought over that,’ he said somewhat hesitatingly, ‘and I have worked out a possible theory. It is, of course, pure guesswork, but it fits a number of the facts.’
‘Let’s hear it. Naturally our theories at present can only be guesswork.’
‘I imagined Boirac, then, mad with his discovery on the Sunday morning, sitting down and working out a plan for vengeance. He perhaps goes on that morning to the Gare du Nord, and possibly sees them start. He follows them to London. Or, at least, he sees and follows Felix. Madame may have gone by another route. By the time he finds they have reached St. Malo his plan is worked out. He learns they are alone in the house, and he watches till he sees them go out. Then he enters by, say, an open window, and, sitting down at Felix’s desk, he forges a letter to Dupierre, ordering the companion statue to that he has already purchased. He does this in order to obtain a cask in which to pack Madame’s body, as he intends to murder her. To throw suspicion on Felix, he copies the artist’s handwriting and dries it on his blotting paper. For the same reason he signs it with Felix’s name. But he does not give Felix’s address, as he wants to get the cask himself.’
‘Good!’ interjected Heppenstall.
‘He then comes away with his letter, posts it, telephones to Paris to know when and by what route the cask is being sent, and arranges a carter to meet it and bring it near, but not to St. Malo, instructing the carter to await him. Meantime, in some letter or telegram or other trick, he gets Felix out of the way, leaving Madame alone in the house. He rings, she opens the door, he forces his way in, and, in that little round-backed chair in the study, he throttles her. The pin falls out of the neck of the dress and lies unnoticed. Then he goes back to the carter and brings the cask into the yard. He sends the carter to the nearest inn for his dinner, unpacks and destroys the statue, and packs the body. By this time the carter has returned, and Boirac has him remove the cask, giving him instructions to send it to Paris next morning. To compromise Felix still further he has prepared the Emmie note, and he shoves this into the pocket of Felix’s clothes.’
‘Good,’ said Heppenstall again.
‘He goes himself to Paris, gets hold of the cask at the Gare du Nord and sends it to Felix from the rue Cardinet Goods Station. He works out a tricky letter which will have the effect of making Felix claim the cask. Felix does so and the police get on his track.’
‘By George, Clifford, you haven’t been idle. I shouldn’t wonder if you are pretty near the thing. But if all that had taken place at St. Malo, do you think Felix wouldn’t have said something about it?’
‘I think he would have. On the other hand, he may have wanted to save Madame’s memory, and if so, he obviously couldn’t mention it?’
‘What about the charwoman?’
‘Well, that is another difficulty. But I think a clever woman could have hidden her traces.’
‘The theory accounts for a great many things, and I think we must adopt it as a basis for investigation. Let us now see what it involves.’
‘It involves Boirac having been in London on the Sunday night or Monday after the dinner party to learn what had taken place and to write his letter, and again on the Wednesday to commit the murder and arrange about the cask.’
‘Quite. It seems to me, then, our first business is definitely to find out where Boirac was on these dates.’
‘He satisfied the police he was in Paris and Belgium.’
‘I know, but we agreed alibis could be faked. We’d better have the thing gone into again.’
‘It will mean a detective.’
‘Yes, and what about La Touche?’
‘La Touche is the best man we could have, of course, but he’s fairly expensive.’
Heppenstall shrugged his shoulders.
‘Can’t help that,’ he said. ‘We must have him.’
‘Very well. I’ll ask him to meet us—shall I say at three to-morrow?’
‘That will suit me.’
The two men continued discussing the affair until a clock struck twelve, when Heppenstall made a move to return to town.
Mr. Georges La Touche was commonly regarded as the smartest private detective in London. Brought up in that city, where his father kept a small foreign book store, he learned till he was twelve the English language and ideas. Then, on the death of his English mother, the family moved to Paris, and Georges had to adjust himself to a new environment. At twenty, he entered Cook’s office as a courier, and, learning successively Italian, German, and Spanish, he gradually acquired a first-hand acquaintanceship with Middle and South-Western Europe. After some ten years of this work he grew tired of the constant travelling, and, coming to London, he offered his services to a firm of well-known private detectives. Here he did so well that, on the death of the founder some fifteen years later, he stepped into his place. He soon began to specialise in foreign or international cases, for which his early training peculiarly fitted him.
But he was not much in appearance. Small, sallow, and slightly stooped, he would have looked insignificant only for the strength of the clear-cut features and the intelligence of the dark, flashing eyes. Years of training had enabled him to alter his expression and veil these tell-tale signs of power, and he had frequently found the weak and insipid impression thus produced, an asset in allaying the suspicions of his adversaries.
His delight in the uncommon and bizarre had caused him to read attentively the details of the cask mystery. When, therefore, he received Clifford’s telephone asking him to act on behalf of the suspected man, he eagerly agreed, and cancelled some minor engagements in order to meet the lawyers at the time appointed.
The important question of fees having been settled, Clifford explained to the detective all that was known of the case, as well as the ideas he and Heppenstall had evolved with regard to the defence.
‘What we want you to do for us, Mr. La Touche,’ he wound up, ‘is to go into the case on the assumption that Boirac is the guilty man. Settle definitely whether this is a possible theory. I think you will agree that this depends on the truth of his alibi. Therefore, test that first. If it cannot be broken down, Boirac cannot be guilty, and our line of defence won’t work. And I need hardly say, the sooner you can give us some information the better.’
‘You have given me a congenial task, gentlemen, and if I don’t succeed it won’t be for want of trying. I suppose that is all to-day? I’ll go over these papers and make the case up. Then I fancy I had best go to Paris. But I’ll call in to see you, Mr. Clifford, before I start.’
La Touche was as good as his word. In three days he was again in Clifford’s room.
‘I’ve been into this case as far as is possible this side of the Channel, Mr. Clifford,’ he announced. ‘I was thinking of crossing to Paris to-night.’
‘Good. And what do you think of it all?’
‘Well, sir, it’s rather soon to give an opinion, but I’m afraid we’re up against a tough proposition.’
‘In what way?’
‘The case against Felix, sir. It’s pretty strong. Of course, I expect we’ll meet it all right, but it’ll take some doing. There’s not much in his favour, if you think of it.’
‘What about the shock he got when the cask was opened? Have you seen the doctor about it?’
‘Yes. He says the thing was genuine enough, but, sir, I’m afraid that won’t carry us so far as you seem to think.’
‘To me it seems very strong. Look at it this way: the essence of a shock is surprise; the surprise could only have been at the contents of the cask; therefore Felix did not know the contents; therefore he could not have put the body in; therefore surely he must be innocent?’
‘That sounds all right, sir, I admit. But I’m afraid a clever counsel could upset it. You see, there’s more than surprise in a shock. There’s horror. And it could be argued that Felix got both surprise and horror when the cask was opened.’
‘How, if he knew what was in it?’
‘This way, sir. What was in it was hardly what he was expecting. It might be said that he put in the body as he had seen the lady alive. But she had been dead for a good many days when the cask was opened. She would look a very different object. He would be filled with horror when he saw her. That horror, together with the fact that he would be all keyed up to act surprise in any case, would produce the effect.’
Clifford had not thought of this somewhat gruesome explanation, and the possibility of its truth made him uncomfortable. If the strongest point in Felix’s favour could be met as easily as this, it was indeed a black look-out for his client. But he did not voice his doubts to his visitor.
‘If you can’t get enough to support the defence we suggest,’ he said, ‘we must just try some other line.’
‘I may get what you want all right, sir. I’m only pointing out that the thing is not all plain sailing. I’ll cross, then, to-night, and I hope I may soon have some good news to send you.’
‘Thank you. I hope so.’
The two men shook hands, and La Touche took his leave. That night he left Charing Cross for Paris.
CHAPTER XXV
La Touchewas a good traveller, and usually slept well on a night journey. But not always. It sometimes happened that the rhythmic rush and roar through the darkness stimulated rather than lulled his brain, and on such occasions, lying in the wagon-lits of some long-distance express, more than one illuminating idea had had its birth. To-night, as he sat in the corner of a first-class compartment in the Calais-Paris train, though outwardly a lounging and indolent figure, his mind was keenly alert, and he therefore took the opportunity to consider the business which lay before him.
His first duty obviously was to re-test Boirac’s alibi. He had learnt what the authorities had done in the matter, and he would begin his work by checking Lefarge’s investigation. For the moment he did not see how to improve on hisconfrère’smethods, and he could only hope that some clue would present itself during his researches, which his predecessor had missed.
So far he was in no doubt as to his proceedings, for this inquiry into Boirac’s alibi had been directly asked for by his employers. But, after that, he had been given a free hand to do as he thought best.
He turned to what he considered the central feature of the case—the finding of the body in the cask—and began to separate in his mind the facts actually known about it from those assumed. Firstly, the body was in the cask when the latter reached St. Katherine’s Docks. Secondly, it could not have been put in during the journey from the rue Cardinet Goods Station. So much was certain. But the previous step in the cask’s journey was surmise. It was assumed that it had been taken from the Gare du Nord to the rue Cardinet on a horse-cart. On what was this assumption founded? Three facts. First, that it left the Gare du Nord on a horse-cart; second, that it reached the rue Cardinet in the same manner; and third, that such a vehicle would have occupied about the time the trip had actually taken. The assumption seemed reasonable, and yet. . . . He had to remember that they were up against a man of no ordinary ability, whoever he might be. Might not the cask have been taken by the first horse-cart to some adjoining house or shed where the body could have been put in, then sent by motor-lorry to some other shed near the Goods Station and there transferred to a horse-cart again? This undoubtedly seemed far-fetched and unlikely, nevertheless, the facts were not known, and, he thought, they should be. He must find the carter who brought the cask to the Goods Station. Then he would be certain where the body was put in, and therefore whether the murder was committed in London or Paris.
He noted a third point. The various letters in the case—and there were several—might or might not be forgeries, and if the former, it was obviously impossible for him to say off-hand who had written them. But there was one letter which could not be a forgery—at least in a certain sense. The Le Gautier letter which Felix said he had received was done on a typewriter which could be identified. It was hardly too much to assume that the man who typed that letter was the murderer. Find the typewriter, thought La Touche, and the chances are it will lead to the guilty man.
A further point struck him. If Boirac were guilty, might he not even yet give himself away? The detective recalled case after case in his own experience in which a criminal had, after the crime, done something or gone somewhere that had led to his arrest. Would it be worth while having Boirac shadowed? He considered the question carefully and finally decided to bring over two of his men for this purpose.
Here, then, were four directions in which inquiries might be made, of which the first three at least promised a certain and definite result. As the train slackened speed for the capital, he felt his work was cut out for him.
And then began a period of tedious and unprofitable work. He was very efficient, very thorough and very pertinacious, but the only result of all his painstaking labours was to establish more firmly than ever the truth of Boirac’s statements.
He began with the waiter at Charenton. Very skilfully he approached the subject, and, painting a moving picture of an innocent man falsely accused of murder, he gradually enlisted the man’s sympathy. Then he appealed to his cupidity, promising him a liberal reward for information that would save his client, and finally he soothed his fears by promising that in no case should any statement he might make get him into trouble. The waiter, who seemed a quiet, honest man, was perfectly open, and readily replied to all La Touche’s questions, but except on one point he stoutly adhered to his previous statement to Lefarge. M. Boirac—whom he identified unhesitatingly from a photograph—had lunched in the café about 1.30, and had then telephoned to two separate places—he had heard the two numbers asked for. As before, he made the reservation that he was not certain of the day of the week, his impression having been that it was Monday and not Tuesday, but he stated that in this he might easily be mistaken. There was no shaking his evidence, and La Touche was strongly of the opinion that the man was speaking the truth.
But as well as repeating his statement to Lefarge, the waiter added one item of information that seemed important. Asked if he could not recall either of the numbers demanded, he now said he recollected the last two figures of one of them. They were 45. They caught his attention because they were the café’s own telephone number—Charenton 45. He could not recall either the previous figures of the number nor yet the division. He had intended to tell this to Lefarge, but being somewhat upset by the detective’s call, the point had slipped his memory, and it was only when thinking the matter over afterwards it had occurred to him.
For La Touche to look up the telephone directory was the work of a few seconds. The number of Boirac’s house in the Avenue de l’Alma did not suit, but when he looked up the Pump Construction Office he found it was Nord 745.
Here was fresh confirmation. It was obvious the waiter could not have invented his tale, and La Touche left utterly convinced that Boirac had indeed lunched at the café and sent the messages.
As he was returning to the city it occurred to him that perhaps the waiter’s impression was really correct and that Boirac had been in the café on Monday afternoon instead of Tuesday. How was this point to be ascertained?
He recollected how Lefarge had settled it. He had interviewed the persons to whom Boirac had spoken, the butler and the head clerk, and both were certain of that date. La Touche decided he must follow Lefarge’s example.
Accordingly he called at the house in the Avenue de l’Alma and saw François. He was surprised to find the old man genuinely grieved at the news of Felix’s arrest. Few though the occasions had been in which the two had met, something in the personality of the former had in this case, as in so many others, inspired attachment and respect. La Touche therefore adopted the same tactics as with the waiter, and, on his explaining that he was acting for the suspected man, he found François anxious to give all the help in his power.
But here again all that La Touche gained was confirmation of Boirac’s statement. François recollected the telephone message, and he was sure Boirac had spoken. He positively recognised the voice and equally positively he remembered the day. It was Tuesday. He was able to connect it with a number of other small events which definitely fixed it.
‘Lefarge was right,’ thought the detective, as he strolled up the Avenue de l’Alma. ‘Boirac telephoned from Charenton at 2.30 on Tuesday. However, I may as well go through with the business.’
He turned his steps therefore towards the head office of the Avrotte Pump Construction Company. Repeating Lefarge’s tactics, he watched till he observed Boirac leave. Then he entered the office and asked if he could see M. Dufresne.
‘I am afraid not, monsieur. I believe he has gone out,’ answered the clerk who had come over to attend to him. ‘But if you will take a seat for a moment I shall ascertain.’
La Touche did as he was asked, looking admiringly round the large office with its polished teak furniture, its rows of vertical file cabinets, its telephones, its clicking typewriters, and its industrious and efficient-looking clerks. Now La Touche was not merely a thinking machine. He had his human side, and, except when on a hot scent, he had a remarkably quick eye for a pretty girl. Thus it was that as this eye roamed inquisitively over the room, it speedily halted at and became focused on the second row of typists, a girl of perhaps two or three-and-twenty. She looked, it must be admitted, wholly charming. Small, dark, and evidently vivacious; she had a tiny, pouting mouth and an adorable dimple. Plainly dressed as became her businesslike surroundings, there was, nevertheless, a daintiness and chicness about her whole appearance that would have delighted an even more critical observer than the detective. She flashed an instantaneous glance at him from her dark, sparkling eyes, and then, slightly elevating her pert little nose, became engrossed in her work.
‘I am sorry, monsieur, but M. Dufresne has gone home slightly indisposed. He expects to be back in a couple of days, if you could conveniently call again.’
La Touche hardly felt a proper appreciation of the clerk’s promptness, but he thanked him politely and said he would return later. Then, with a final glance at an averted head of dark, luxuriant hair, he left the office.
The chief clerk’s absence was a vexatious delay. But, though it would hold up his work on the alibi for a day or two, he might begin on one of the other points which had occurred to him during the journey to Paris. There was, for example, the tracing of the carter who brought the cask from the Gare du Nord to the rue Cardinet. He would see what could be done on that.
Accordingly he went out to the great Goods Station and, introducing himself to the agent in charge, explained his errand. The official was exceedingly polite, and, after some delay, the two porters whom Burnley and Lefarge had interviewed some weeks before were ushered into the room. La Touche questioned them minutely, but without gaining any fresh information. They repeated their statement that they would recognise the carter who had brought the cask were they to see him again, but were unable to describe him more particularly than before.
La Touche then went to the Gare du Nord. He was fortunate in finding the clerk who had handed over the cask to the black-bearded Jacques de Belleville. But again he was disappointed. Neither the clerk nor any of the other officials he interviewed recollected the carter who had taken the cask, and none therefore could say if he was like the man who delivered it at the Goods Station.
Baffled on this point, La Touche turned into a café, and, ordering a bock, sat down to consider his next step. Apparently Lefarge had been right to advertise. He recollected from the report he had had from the authorities that all the advertisements had appeared in, among other papers,Le Journal. He determined he would see those advertisements in the hope of discovering why they had failed.
He accordingly drove to the office of the paper and asked leave to look over the files. A slight research convinced him that the advertising had been thoroughly and skilfully done. He took copies of each fresh announcement—there were nearly a dozen. Then, returning to his hotel, he lay down on his bed and looked them over again.
The paragraphs varied in wording, type, and position in the columns, but necessarily they were similar in effect. All asked for information as to the identity of a carter who, about six o’clock on Thursday, the 1st of April, had delivered a cask at the rue Cardinet Goods Station. All offered a reward varying from 1000 to 5000 francs, and all undertook that the carter would not suffer from the information being divulged.
After a couple of hours hard thinking La Touche came to the conclusion that the advertising had been complete. He saw no way in which he could improve on what Lefarge had done, nor could he think of anything in the announcements themselves which might have militated against their success.
To clear his brain he determined to banish all thoughts of the case for the remainder of the day. He therefore went for a stroll along the boulevards, and, after a leisurely dinner, turned his steps towards the Folies Bergères, and there passed the evening.
On his way home it occurred to him that while waiting to interview M. Dufresne at the office of the Pump Construction Company he might run over to Brussels and satisfy himself as to that part of Boirac’s alibi. Accordingly, next morning saw him entrained for the Belgian capital, where he arrived about midday. He drove to the Hôtel Maximilian, lunched, and afterward made exhaustive inquiries at the office. Here he saw copies of the visitors’ returns which every Belgian hotel must furnish to the police, and satisfied himself absolutely that Boirac had been there on the date in question. As a result of Lefarge’s inquiries the clerk recollected the circumstances of the pump manufacturer’s telephone, and adhered to his previous statement in every particular. La Touche took the afternoon train for Paris considerably disappointed with the results of his journey.
On the chance that the chief clerk might be back at work, he returned next day to the pump works. Again he watched till Boirac had left and again entered and asked for M. Dufresne. The same prompt clerk came forward to speak to him, and, saying that M. Dufresne had returned that morning, once more asked him to be seated while he took in his card. La Touche then suddenly remembered the girl he had so much admired, but whose existence he had forgotten since his last visit. He glanced across the room. She was there, but he could not see her face. Something had evidently gone wrong with the splendid-looking machine which she—La Touche whimsically wondered why you did not say ‘played’ or ‘drove’—and she was bending over it, apparently adjusting some screw. But he had no time to pursue his studies of female beauty. The prompt clerk was back at his side almost immediately to say that M. Dufresne could see him. He accordingly followed his guide to the chief clerk’s room.
M. Dufresne was quite as ready to assist him as had been his other informants, but he could tell him nothing the detective did not already know. He repeated his statement to Lefarge almost word for word. He was sure M. Boirac had telephoned about 2.30 on the Tuesday—he unmistakably recognised his voice, and he was equally certain of the date.
La Touche regained the street and walked slowly back to his hotel. It was beginning to look very much as if the alibi could not be broken, and he was unable for the moment to see his next step in the matter. Nor had any information resulted from the labours of Mallet and Farol, the two men he had brought over to shadow Boirac. Up to the present the latter had been most circumspect, not having been anywhere or done anything in the slightest degree suspicious. As La Touche wrote a detailed report of his proceedings to Clifford, he felt for the first time a distinct doubt as to the outcome of his investigations.
CHAPTER XXVI