He looked round the room and then, as M. Chauvet rose to greet him, he bowed ceremoniously.
‘M. le Chef de la Sûreté?’ he asked, and, as M. Chauvet bowed him to a chair, continued,—
‘I have called to see you, monsieur, on a very painful matter. I had hoped to have been able to do so alone,’ he paused slightly, ‘but these gentlemen, I presume, are completely in your confidence?’ He spoke slowly with a deliberate pronunciation of each word, as if he had thought out whether that was the best possible he could use and had come to the conclusion that it was.
‘If, monsieur,’ returned M. Chauvet, ‘your business is in connection with the recent unfortunate disappearance of your wife, these gentlemen are the officers who are in charge of the case, and their presence would be, I think, to the advantage of all of us.’
M. Boirac sprang from his chair, deep emotion showing under his iron control.
‘Then it is she?’ he asked, in a suppressed voice. ‘You know? It seemed possible from the advertisement, but I wasn’t sure. I hoped—that perhaps—— There is no doubt, I suppose?’
‘I shall tell you all we know, M. Boirac, and you can form your own conclusions. First, here is a photograph of the body found.’
M. Boirac took the slip of card and looked at it earnestly.
‘It is she,’ he murmured hoarsely, ‘it is she without a doubt.’
He paused, overcome, and, the others respecting his feelings, there was silence for some moments. Then with a strenuous effort he continued, speaking hardly above a whisper,—
‘Tell me,’ his voice shook as he pronounced the words with difficulty, ‘what makes her look so terrible? And those awful marks at her throat? What are they?’
‘It is with the utmost regret I have to tell you, M. Boirac, that your wife was undoubtedly murdered by strangulation. Further, you must know that she had been dead several days when that photograph was taken.’
M. Boirac dropped into his chair, and sunk his head in his hands.
‘My God!’ he panted. ‘My poor Annette! Though I had no cause to love her, I did, God help me, in spite of everything, I did. I know it now when I have lost her. Tell me,’ he continued in a low tone after another pause, ‘tell me the details.’
‘I fear they are rather harrowing, monsieur,’ said the Chief, with sympathetic sorrow in his tone. ‘A certain cask was noticed by the London police, a detail, with which I need hardly trouble you, having aroused their suspicions. The cask was seized and opened, and the body was found inside.’
The visitor remained with his face buried in his hands. After a few seconds he raised himself and looked at M. Chauvet.
‘Any clue?’ he asked, in a choking tone. ‘Have you any clue to the villain who has done this?’
‘We have a number of clues,’ returned the Chief, ‘but have not yet had time to work them. I have no doubt that we will have our hands on the murderer shortly. In the meantime, M. Boirac, to make assurance doubly sure, I would be glad if you would see if you can identify these clothes.’
‘Her clothes? Oh, spare me that. But there, I understand it is necessary.’
M. Chauvet picked up his telephone and gave directions for the clothes to be sent in. The jewellery was not available, as Mlle. Blaise had taken it in her round of the shops.
‘Alas! Yes,’ cried M. Boirac sadly, when he saw the dress, ‘it is hers, it is hers. She wore it the evening she left. There can be no further doubt. My poor, mistaken Annette!’
‘I am afraid, M. Boirac, at the risk of giving you pain, I must ask you to be good enough to tell us all you can about the circumstances of your wife’s disappearance. These gentlemen are Mr. Burnley of the London police, and M. Lefarge of our own staff, and they are collaborating in the matter. You may speak before them with complete freedom.’
M. Boirac bowed.
‘I will tell you everything, monsieur, but you must pardon me if I seem a little incoherent. I am not myself.’
M. Chauvet stepped to a press and took from it a flask of brandy.
‘Monsieur,’ he said, ‘you have our fullest sympathy. Allow me to offer you a little of this.’ He poured out a stiff glass.
‘I thank you, monsieur,’ returned the visitor, as he drank the cordial. It pulled him together, and he became once more the unemotional man of business. He kept himself well in hand and did not, during the telling of his story, allow his emotion to overcome him, though at times it was clear all his powers of self-control were needed. In a stronger voice he began his statement, and his three companions settled themselves more comfortably in their chairs to listen.
CHAPTER XIV
‘My nameand address you know,’ began M. Boirac. ‘In business I am the managing director of the Avrotte Pump Construction Co., whose works are situated off the rue Championnet, not far from the Omnibus Co.’s depot. I am fairly well off, and we lived comfortably, my wife going a good deal into society.
‘On Saturday, the 27th ult., this day fortnight, we had a dinner party at the Avenue de l’Alma. Our principal guest was the Spanish ambassador, at whose house my wife had visited when in Madrid the previous year. Among the others was a M. Léon Felix, an old friend of my wife’s, who lived in London, and was in some business there. The guests arrived and we sat down to dinner, but unfortunately before the meal was concluded a telephone message came for me from the works to say that a serious accident had happened, and requiring my immediate presence. There was nothing for it but to apologise to my guests and go off at once, which I did, though I promised to return at the earliest possible moment.
‘When I reached the works I found that the main bed casting of a new 200-h.p. engine which was being put in during the week-end, had slipped and slewed sideways while being got into place, killing one man and seriously injuring two others. One of the cylinders was fractured, and the whole casting had jammed between the wall and the flywheel pit and could not be got out.
‘As soon as I saw how serious things were, I telephoned home to say I would be very late, and that there would be no chance of my returning in time to see my guests. However, we got on much better than I expected, and it was barely eleven when I turned out of the works. Not seeing a taxi, I walked to the Simplon station of the Metro. My route, as you will understand, involved a change of trains at Châtelet and I accordingly alighted there. I had hardly done so when I was clapped on the back by some one, and turning, found an American acquaintance called Myron H. Burton, with whom I had stayed in the same hotel in New York and with whom I had become friendly. We stood in talk for some time, and then I asked him where he was staying, inviting him to put up at my house instead of returning to his hotel. He declined, saying he was going to Orléans by the 12.35 from the Quai d’Orsay, and asked me to go and see him off and have a drink at the station. I hesitated, but remembering I was not expected at home, I agreed and we set off. This night being mild and pleasant we walked along the quais, but when we reached the Port Royal it was barely a quarter to twelve. Burton suggested continuing our stroll, which we did, going round the Place de la Concorde and the end of the Champs Élysées. Interested in our talk, we forgot the passage of time, and arrived at the Gare Quai d’Orsay with only a minute to spare for my friend to catch his train and, therefore, to his apparent great chagrin, missing the drinks to which he had wished to treat me. I felt wakeful, and began to walk home, but when I had gone about half-way, rain began to fall. I looked for a taxi, but could not see one, and therefore continued my journey on foot, arriving home about one o’clock.
‘François, the butler, met me in the hall. He seemed uneasy.
‘“I heard the front door bang not ten minutes ago, monsieur,” he said, as I took off my wet coat. “I got up to see if anything was wrong.”
‘“Got up?” I said. “How had you come to go to bed before I returned?”
‘“Madame told me to, monsieur, about half-past eleven. She said you would be very late and that she would be sitting up.”
‘“All right,” I said, “where is Madame?”
‘He hesitated.
‘“I don’t know, monsieur,” he said at length.
‘“Don’t know?” I said. I was growing angry. “Has she gone to bed?”
‘“She has not gone to bed, monsieur,” he answered.
‘I am not, M. de Chef, an imaginative man, but suddenly a feeling of foreboding swept over me. I hurried into the drawing-room and from that to my wife’s small sitting-room. They were both empty. I ran to her bedroom. There was no one there. Then I recollected she had frequently waited for me in my study. I went there to find it also untenanted, and I was just about to withdraw when I saw on my desk a letter which had not been there earlier in the evening. It was addressed to me in my wife’s handwriting, and, with a terrible sinking of the heart, I opened it. Here, M. le Chef, it is.’
It was a short note, written on a sheet of cream-laid notepaper and without date or address. It read:—
‘I do not ask you to forgive me for what I am doing to-night, Raoul, for I feel it would be quite too much to expect, but I do ask you to believe that the thought of the pain and annoyance it will be bound to give you cuts me to the heart. You have always been just and kind according to your lights, but you know, Raoul, as well as I do, that we have never loved each other. You have loved your business and your art collection, and I have loved—Léon Felix, and now I am going to him. I shall just disappear, and you will never hear of me again. You, I hope, will get your divorce, and be happy with some more worthy woman.
‘Good-bye, Raoul, and do not think worse of me than you can help.
‘Annette.’
M. Boirac bowed his head while the others read this unhappy note. He seemed overcome with emotion, and there was silence in the Chief’s room for a few seconds. The sun shone gaily in with never a hint of tragedy, lighting up that bent figure in the arm-chair, and bringing into pitiless prominence details that should have been cloaked decently in shadow, from the drops of moisture on the drawn brow to the hands clenched white beneath the edge of the desk. Then, as they waited, he pulled himself together with an effort and continued:—
‘I was almost beside myself from the blow, and yet I instinctively felt I must act as if nothing had happened. I steadied myself and called to François, who was still in the hall:—
‘“It’s all right, François. I’ve had a note from Madame. She was obliged to go out at a moment’s notice to catch the Swiss train. She had a message that her mother is dying.”
‘He replied in his ordinary tone, but I could see that he did not believe one word. The understanding and the pity in his eyes almost drove me frantic. I spoke again as carelessly as I could,—
‘“I wonder had she time to call Suzanne and get properly dressed. You might send her here and then you can get back to bed.”
‘Suzanne was my wife’s maid, and when she came into the study I saw from her startled and embarrassed air that she knew.
‘“Suzanne,” I said, “Madame has had to go to Switzerland suddenly and unexpectedly. She had to rush off to catch the train without proper time for packing, still, I hope she was able to take enough for the journey?”
‘The girl answered at once in a nervous, frightened tone. “I have just been to her room, monsieur. She has taken her fur coat and hat and a pair of walking shoes. The evening shoes she was wearing to-night are there where she changed them. She did not ring for me and I did not hear her go to her room.”
‘I had become somewhat calmer by this time, and I was thinking rapidly while she spoke.
‘“Ah, well,” I answered, “you had better pack some of her things to-morrow so that I can send them after her. She will be staying with her mother, and will no doubt be able to borrow what she wants till her own things arrive.”
‘François was still hanging about the corridor. I sent them both to bed and sat down to try and realise what had taken place.
‘I need hardly trouble you with my thoughts. For some days I was half crazed, then I pulled myself together. Suzanne I sent home, saying I had heard from Madame that she was employing one of her mother’s maids.’
M. Boirac paused.
‘That,’ he said at length, ‘I think is all I have to tell you, M. le Chef. From that awful evening until I saw your advertisement in theFigaroa couple of hours ago, I have not heard a syllable from either my wife or Felix.’
M. Boirac had told his story simply and directly, and his manner seemed to bear the impress of truth. The statement carried conviction to his hearers, who felt their sympathy going out to this man who had acted so loyally to the wife who had betrayed him. M. Chauvet spoke,—
‘Permit me to express to you, M. Boirac, our deep regret for what has happened and particularly for your having had to come here and make this painful statement. Still more we regret that the terribledénouementshould make it almost impossible to keep the matter hushed up. Our search for the murderer has, of course, begun. We shall not detain you any longer, except to ask you to repeat a few names and hours so that we may note them to make your statement complete.’
M. Boirac bowed.
‘I thank you for your courtesy, M. le Chef.’
The Chief continued,—
‘There is first of all your address. That we have on your card. Next—I shall put it in question form—What time was dinner?’
‘Quarter to eight.’
‘And what time did the message come for you from your works?’
‘About a quarter to nine.’
‘And you arrived there?’
‘About nine-fifteen, I should think, I did not look. I walked to the Champs Élysées and took a taxi.’
‘You said, I think, that you telephoned home then informing your wife that you could not return until very late?’
‘I believe I did say that, but it is not strictly correct. I went to see the damage immediately on arrival, and was occupied there for some time. I should say I telephoned about ten o’clock.’
‘But you unexpectedly got away about eleven?’
‘That is so.’
‘So that you must have met your friend at Châtelet about twenty past eleven?’
‘About that, I should think.’
‘Now your friend. I should like a note of his name and address.’
‘His name I have already given you, Myron H. Burton. His address I unfortunately cannot, as I do not know it.’
‘His home address, then?’
‘I don’t know that, either. I met him in an hotel in New York. We played billiards together a few times and became friendly enough, but not to the extent of exchanging our family histories.’
‘When was that, M. Boirac?’
‘In the summer of 1908, no, 1909, three years ago.’
‘And the hotel?’
‘The Hudson View, the one that was burnt out last Christmas.’
‘I remember, a terrible business, that. Your friend went by the 12.35 to Orléans. He was staying there I suppose?’
‘No, he was changing there and going on, though where he was going I do not know. He told me this because I remarked on his choosing such a train—it does not get in until about 4.30—instead of sleeping in Paris and going by an early express that would do the journey in two hours.’
‘Oh, well, it is not of much importance. The only other thing, I think, is the name and address of your wife’s maid.’
M. Boirac shook his head.
‘I’m sorry I can’t give you that either. I only know her as Suzanne. But I dare say François or some of the other servants would know it.’
‘I shall have, with your permission, to send a man to look over the house, and he can make inquiries. I am sure, M. Boirac, we are extremely obliged to you for your information. And now, what about the formal identification of the body? I have no doubt from what you say it is indeed that of your wife, but I fear the law will require a personal identification from you. Would it be convenient for you to run over to London and see it? Interment has not yet, I understand, taken place.’
M. Boirac moved uneasily. The suggestion was clearly most unwelcome to him.
‘I needn’t say I would infinitely prefer not to go. However, if you assure me it is necessary, I can have no choice in the matter.’
‘I am exceedingly sorry, but I fear it is quite necessary. A personal examination is required in evidence of identification. And if I might make a suggestion, I think that the visit should be made as soon as convenient to you.’
The visitor shrugged his shoulders.
‘If I have to go, I may as well do it at once. I will cross to-night and be at Scotland Yard at, say, 11.00 to-morrow. It is Scotland Yard, I suppose?’
‘It is, monsieur. Very good. I will telephone to the authorities there to expect you.’
The Chief rose and shook hands, and M. Boirac took his leave. When he had gone, M. Chauvet jumped up and went to the screen.
‘Get half a dozen copies of that statement and the questions and answers typed at once, mademoiselle. You can get a couple of the other girls to help you.’
He turned to the two detectives.
‘Well, gentlemen, we have heard an interesting story, and, whatever we may think of it, our first business will be to check it as far as we can. I think you had better get away immediately to the Avenue de l’Alma and see this François, if possible before Boirac gets back. Go through the house and get anything you can, especially a sample of the wife’s handwriting. Try also and trace the maid. In the meantime, I will set some other inquiries on foot. You might call in about nine to-night to report progress.’
CHAPTER XV
Burnley and Lefargetook the tram along the quais and, dismounting at the Pont Alma, proceeded up the Avenue on foot. The house was a corner one fronting on the Avenue, but with the entrance in the side street. It was set a few feet back from the footpath, and was a Renaissance building of gray rubble masonry, with moulded architraves and enrichments of red sandstone and the usual mansard roof.
The two men mounted the steps leading to the ornate porch. On their right were the windows of a large room which formed the angle between the two streets.
‘You can see into that room rather too clearly for my taste,’ said Burnley. ‘Why, if that’s the drawing-room, as it looks to be by the furniture, every caller can see just who’s visiting there as they come up to the door.’
‘And conversely, I expect,’ returned Lefarge, ‘the hostess can see her visitors coming and be prepared for them.’
The door was opened by an elderly butler of typical appearance, respectability and propriety oozing out of every pore of his sleek face. Lefarge showed his card.
‘I regret M. Boirac is not at home, monsieur,’ said the man politely, ‘but you will probably find him at the works in the rue Championnet.’
‘Thanks,’ returned Lefarge, ‘we have just had an interview with Mr. Boirac, and it is really you we wish to see.’
The butler ushered them into a small sitting-room at the back of the hall.
‘Yes, messieurs?’ he said.
‘Did you see an advertisement in this morning’s papers for the identification of a lady’s body?’
‘I saw it, monsieur.’
‘I am sorry to say it was that of your mistress.’
François shook his head sadly.
‘I feared as much, monsieur,’ he said in a low tone.
‘M. Boirac saw the advertisement also. He came just now to the Sûreté and identified the remains beyond any doubt. It is a painful case, for I regret to tell you she had been murdered in a rather brutal way, and now we are here with M. Boirac’s approval to make some inquiries.’
The old butler’s face paled.
‘Murdered!’ he repeated in a horrified whisper. ‘It couldn’t be. No one that knew her could do that. Every one, messieurs, loved Madame. She was just an angel of goodness.’
The man spoke with real feeling in his voice and seemed overcome with emotion.
‘Well, messieurs,’ he continued, after a pause, ‘any help I can give you to get your hands on the murderer I’ll give with real delight, and I only hope you’ll succeed soon.’
‘I hope so too, François. We’ll do our best anyway. Now, please, will you answer some questions. You remember M. Boirac being called to the works on Saturday the 27th of March, the evening of the dinner party, at about a quarter to nine. That was about the time, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, monsieur.’
‘He went out at once?’
‘He did, monsieur.’
‘Then he telephoned at about half-past ten that he could not return until later. Was that about the time?’
‘Rather earlier than that, I should think, monsieur. I don’t remember exactly, but I should think it was very little, if at all, past ten.’
‘About ten, you think? Can you tell me what words he used in that message?’
‘He said the accident was serious, and that he would be very late, and possibly might not get back before the morning.’
‘You told your mistress, I suppose? Did the guests hear you?’
‘No, monsieur, but Madame immediately repeated the message aloud.’
‘What happened then?’
‘Shortly after that, about 11.00 or 11.15, the guests began to leave.’
‘All of them?’
The butler hesitated.
‘There was one, a M. Felix, who waited after the others. He was differently situated to them, being a friend of the family. The others were merely acquaintances.’
‘And how long did he wait after the others?’
François looked confused and did not immediately reply.
‘Well, I don’t know, monsieur,’ he said slowly. ‘You see, it was this way. I happened to have a rather bad headache that evening, and Madame asked me if I was not well—it was just like her to notice such a thing—and she told me to go to bed and not to sit up for Monsieur. She said M. Felix was waiting to get some books and would let himself out.’
‘So you went to bed?’
‘Yes, monsieur. I thanked her, and went after a little time.’
‘About how long?’
‘Perhaps half an hour.’
‘And had M. Felix gone then?’
‘No, monsieur, not at that time.’
‘And what happened then?’
‘I fell asleep, but woke up suddenly again after about an hour. I felt better and I thought I would see if Monsieur was in and if everything was properly locked up. I got up and went towards the hall, but just as I came to the staircase I heard the front door close. I thought, ‘That’s Monsieur coming in,’ but there was no sound of any one moving in the hall and I went down to see.’
‘Yes?’
‘There was no one there, so I looked into the different rooms. They were all empty, though lighted up. I thought to myself, ‘This is strange,’ and I went to find Suzanne, Madame’s maid, who was sitting up for her. I asked her had Madame gone to bed, but she said not. “Well,” I said, “she’s not downstairs. Better go up and see if she’s in her room.” She went and came down in a moment looking frightened, and said the room was empty, but that Madame’s hat and fur coat and a pair of walking shoes were gone. Her evening shoes that she had been wearing were lying on the floor, where she had changed them. I went up myself and we searched around, and then I heard the latch of the front door again and went down. Monsieur was just coming in and, as I took his coat and hat, I told him about hearing the door close. He asked where Madame was, and I answered I did not know. He looked himself, and in the study he found a note which I suppose was from her, for after he had read it he asked no more questions, but told me she had had to go to Switzerland to her mother, who was ill. But I knew when he got rid of Suzanne two days later that she wasn’t coming back.’
‘What time did M. Boirac come in?’
‘About one o’clock, or a few minutes after.’
‘Were his hat and coat wet?’
‘Not very wet, monsieur, but he had been evidently walking through rain.’
‘You didn’t make any further search to see if anything else had been taken, I suppose?’
‘Yes, monsieur. Suzanne and I searched the entire house most thoroughly on Sunday.’
‘With no result?’
‘None, monsieur.’
‘I suppose the body could not have been concealed anywhere in the house?’
The butler started as this new idea struck him.
‘Why, no, monsieur,’ he said, ‘it would have been absolutely impossible. I myself looked in every spot and opened everything large enough to contain it.’
‘Thank you, I think that’s about all I want to know. Can you put me in touch with Suzanne?’
‘I believe I can get you her address, monsieur, from one of the parlourmaids with whom she was friends.’
‘Please do, and in the meantime we shall have a look through the house.’
‘You will not require me, monsieur?’
‘No, thanks.’
The plan of the downstairs rooms was simple. The hall, which was long and rather narrow, stretched back from the entrance door in the rue St. Jean to the staircase in a direction parallel to the Avenue de l’Alma. On the right was the drawing-room, a large apartment in the angle between the two streets, with windows looking out on both. Across the hall, with its door facing that of the drawing-room, was the study, another fine room facing on to the rue St. Jean. A small sitting-room, used chiefly by the late Madame Boirac, and the dining-room were situated behind the study and the drawing-room respectively. To the rear of the doors of these latter rooms were the staircase and servants’ quarters.
The detectives examined these respective rooms in detail. The furnishing was luxurious and artistic. The drawing-room furniture was Louis Quatorze, with an Aubusson carpet and some cabinets and tables of buhl. There was just enough of good Sèvres and Ormolu, the whole selection of arrangement reflecting the taste of the connoisseur. The dining-room and boudoir gave the same impression of wealth and culture, and the detectives as they passed from room to room were impressed by the excellent taste everywhere exhibited. Though their search was exhaustive it was unfortunately without result.
The study was a typical man’s room, except in one respect. There was the usual thick carpet on the floor, the customary book-lined walls, the elaborate desk in the window, and the huge leather arm-chairs. But there was also what almost amounted to a collection of statuary—figures, groups, friezes, plaques, and reliefs, in marble and bronze. A valuable lot, numerous enough and of sufficient excellence not to have disgraced the art galleries of a city. M. Boirac had clearly the knowledge, as well as the means, to indulge his hobby to a very full extent.
Burnley took his stand inside the door and looked slowly round the room, taking in its every detail in the rather despairing hope that he would see something helpful to his quest. Twice he looked at the various objects before him, observing in the slow, methodical way in which he had trained himself, making sure that he had a clear mental conception of each before going on to the next. And then his gaze became riveted on an object standing on one of the shelves.
It was a white marble group about two feet high of three garlanded women, two standing and one sitting.
‘I say,’ he said to Lefarge, in a voice of something approaching triumph, ‘have you heard of anything like that lately?’
There was no reply, and Burnley, who had not been observing his companion, looked around. Lefarge was on his knees examining with a lens something hidden among the thick pile of the carpet. He was entirely engrossed, and did not appear to have heard Burnley’s remark, but as the latter moved over he rose to his feet with a satisfied little laugh.
‘Look here!’ he cried. ‘Look at this!’
Stepping back to the cross wall adjoining the door, he crouched down with his head close to the floor and his eyes fixed on a point on the carpet in a line between himself and the window.
‘Do you see anything?’ he asked.
Burnley got into the same position, and looked at the carpet.
‘No,’ he answered slowly, ‘I do not.’
‘You’re not far enough this way. Come here. Now look.’
‘Jove!’ Burnley cried, with excitement in his tones. ‘The cask!’
On the carpet, showing up faintly where the light struck it, was a ring-shaped mark about two feet four inches diameter. The pile was slightly depressed below the general surface, as might have been caused by the rim of a heavy cask.
‘I thought so too,’ said Lefarge, ‘but this makes it quite certain.’
He held out his lens, and indicated the part of the floor he had been scrutinising.
Burnley knelt down and, using the lens, began to push open the interstices of the pile. They were full of a curious kind of dust. He picked out some and examined it on his hand.
‘Sawdust!’ he exclaimed.
‘Sawdust,’ returned the other, in a pleased and important tone. ‘See here,’—he traced a circle on the floor—‘sawdust has been spilled over all this, and there’s where the cask stood beside it. I tell you, Burnley, mark my words, we are on to it now. That’s where the cask stood while Felix, or Boirac, or both of them together, packed the body into it.’
‘By Jove!’ Burnley cried again, as he turned over this new idea in his mind. ‘I shouldn’t wonder if you are right!’
‘Of course I’m right. The thing’s as plain as a pike-staff. A woman disappears and her body is found packed in sawdust in a cask, and here, in the very house where she vanishes, is the mark of the same cask—a very unusual size, mind you—as well as traces of the sawdust.’
‘Ay, it’s likely enough. But I don’t see the way of it for all that. If Felix did it, how could he have got the cask here and away again?’
‘It was probably Boirac.’
‘But the alibi? Boirac’s alibi is complete.’
‘It’s complete enough, so far as that goes. But how do we know it’s true? We have had no real confirmation of it so far.’
‘Except from François. If either Boirac or Felix did it, François must have been in it, too, and that doesn’t strike me as likely.’
‘No, I admit the old chap seems all right. But if they didn’t do it, how do you account for the cask being here?’
‘Maybe that had something to do with it,’ answered Burnley, pointing to the marble group.
Lefarge started.
‘But that’s what was sent to Felix, surely?’ he cried, in surprise.
‘It looks like it, but don’t say anything. Here’s François. Let us ask him.’
The butler entered the room holding a slip of paper which he gave to Lefarge.
‘Suzanne’s address, messieurs.’ Lefarge read:—
‘Mlle. Suzanne Daudet,
rue Popeau, 14b,
Dijon.’
‘Look here, François,’ said the detective, pointing to the marble group. ‘When did that come here?’
‘Quite recently, monsieur. As you see, Monsieur is a collector of such things, and that is, I think, the latest addition.’
‘Can you remember the exact day it arrived?’
‘It was about the time of the dinner-party, in fact, I remember now distinctly. It was that very day.’
‘How was it packed?’
‘It was in a cask, monsieur. It was left in here that Saturday morning with the top boards loosened for Monsieur to unpack. He never would trust any one to do that for him.’
‘Was he, then, in the habit of getting these casks?’
‘Yes, monsieur, a good many of the statues came in casks.’
‘I see. And when was this one unpacked?’
‘Two days later, monsieur, on Monday evening.’
‘And what happened to the cask?’
‘It was returned to the shop. Their cart called for it two or three days later.’
‘You don’t remember exactly when?’
The butler paused in thought.
‘I do not, monsieur. It was on the Wednesday or Thursday following, I believe, but I’m not positive.’
‘Thank you, François. There is one other thing I should be greatly obliged if you could do for me. Get me a sample of Madame’s writing.’
François shook his head.
‘I haven’t such a thing, monsieur,’ he replied, ‘but I can show you her desk, if you would care to look over it.’
They went into the boudoir, and François pointed out a small davenport finished with some delicate carving and with inlaid panels, a beautiful example of the cabinetmaker’s art. Lefarge seated himself before it and began to go through the papers it contained.
‘Somebody’s been before us,’ he said. ‘There’s precious little here.’
He produced a number of old receipted bills and circulars, with some unimportant letters and printed papers, but not a scrap in Madame’s handwriting could he discover.
Suddenly François gave an exclamation.
‘I believe I can get you what you want, messieurs, if you will wait a moment.’
‘Yes,’ he said, as he returned a few seconds later, ‘this will perhaps do. It was framed in the servants’ hall.’
It was a short document giving the work of the different servants, their hours of duty, and other similar information, and was written in the hand, so far as the detectives could recollect, of the letter of farewell to M. Boirac. Lefarge put it away carefully in his notebook.
‘Now let us see Madame’s room.’
They examined the bedroom, looking particularly for old letters, but without success. Next they interviewed the other servants, also fruitlessly.
‘All we want now,’ said Lefarge to the old butler, ‘is a list of the guests at that dinner, or at least some of them.’
‘I can tell you, I think, all of them, monsieur,’ returned François, and Lefarge noted the names in his book.
‘What time is M. Boirac likely to return?’ asked Burnley, when they had finished.
‘He should have been here before this, monsieur. He generally gets back by half-past six.’
It was now nearly seven, and, as they waited, they heard his latchkey in the door.
‘Ah, messieurs,’ he greeted them, ‘so you are here already. Any luck?’
‘No luck so far, M. Boirac,’ replied Lefarge, continuing after a pause: ‘There is a point on which we should be obliged for some information, monsieur. It is about this marble group.’
‘Yes?’
‘Could you tell us the circumstances under which you got it, and of its arrival here?’
‘Certainly. I am a collector of such articles, as you must have noticed. Some time ago, in passing Dupierre’s in the Boulevard des Capucines, I saw that group and admired it greatly. After some hesitation I ordered it and it arrived—I believe it was the very day of—of the dinner-party, either that or the day before—I am not positive. I had the cask containing it brought into the study to unpack myself—I always enjoy unpacking a new purchase—but I was so upset by what had happened I hadn’t much heart in doing so. However, on the following Monday evening, to try and distract my thoughts, I did unpack it, and there you see the result.’
‘Can you tell me, monsieur,’ asked Burnley, ‘was M. Felix also interested in such things?’
‘He was. He is an artist and painting is therefore his specialty, but he had a good knowledge of sculpture also.’
‘He wasn’t interested in that particular group, I suppose?’
‘Well, I can hardly tell you that. I told him about it and described it to him, but, of course, so far as I am aware he had not seen it.’
‘Did you happen to mention the price?’
‘I did, fourteen hundred francs. That was the thing he specially asked. That, and the shop at which I had bought it. He said he could not afford it then, but that at some time he might try and get another.’
‘Well, I think that’s all we want to know. Our best thanks, M. Boirac.’
‘Good-evening, messieurs.’
They bowed themselves out, and, walking to the top of the Avenue, took the Metro to Concorde, from which they passed up the rue Castiglione to the Grands Boulevards to dine and spend the time until they were due back at the Sûreté.
CHAPTER XVI
At nine o’clockthat evening the usual meeting was held in the Chief’s room at the Sûreté.
‘I also have had some news,’ said M. Chauvet, when he had heard Burnley’s and Lefarge’s reports. ‘I sent a man up to that pump manufactory and he found out enough to substantiate entirely Boirac’s statement of the hours at which he arrived there and left on the night of the accident. There is also a despatch from Scotland Yard. On receipt of Mr. Burnley’s wire immediate inquiries were made about the cask sent by Havre and Southampton. It appears it arrived all right at Waterloo on the morning after it was despatched from here. It was booked through, as you know, to an address near Tottenham Court Road, and the railway people would in the ordinary course have delivered it by one of their lorries. But just as it was being removed from the van of the train, a man stepped forward and claimed it, saying he was the consignee, that he wished to take it to another address, and that he had a cart and man there for the purpose. He was a man of about medium height, with dark hair and beard, and the clerk thought he was a foreigner, probably French. He gave his name as Léon Felix and produced several envelopes addressed to himself at the Tottenham Court Road address as identification. He signed for, and was handed over the cask, and took it away. His movements after that were completely lost sight of, and no further traces of him have been discovered. A photo of Felix was shown to the Waterloo people, but while the clerk said it was like the man, neither he nor any of the others would swear to it.
‘Inquiries have also been made about Felix. It turns out he is an artist or designer in Messrs. Greer and Hood’s, the advertisement and poster people of Fleet Street. He is not married, but keeps an elderly servant-housekeeper. This woman was on a fortnight’s holiday from the 25th of March to the 8th of this month.
‘So much for London,’ continued M. Chauvet. ‘Now, let us see what we have still to do. First, that lady’s maid at Dijon must be interviewed. I think, Lefarge, you might do that. To-morrow is Sunday. Suppose you go to-morrow. You can sleep at Dijon, and get back as early as possible on Monday. Then, Mr. Burnley, that matter of the statue sent to M. Boirac must be gone into. Perhaps you would be good enough to make inquiries at Dupierre’s on Monday morning, and please keep in touch with me by phone. I will look into some other points, and we shall meet here at the same time that evening.’
The detective took the Metro at Châtelet, Burnley going west to his hotel in the rue Castiglione, and Lefarge east to the Gare de Lyons.
On Monday morning Burnley called to see M. Thomas at the showroom in the Boulevard des Capucines.
‘I’m back again, M. Thomas,’ he said, as they greeted one another. He explained what had been learned about the casks at the Gare St. Lazare, continuing, ‘So you see, two must have been sent out. Now, can you give me any information about the sending out of the second cask?’
‘Absolutely none, monsieur,’ returned Thomas, who was evidently amazed at this new development, ‘I am quite positive we only sent one.’
‘I suppose it’s impossible that Felix’s order could have been dealt with twice in error, once by you here, and once by the head office in the rue Provence?’
‘I should say quite, because they do not stock the good work there, it is all stored and dealt with here. But if you like I’ll phone the head office now, and make quite sure.’
In a few minutes there was a reply from M. Thévenet. No cask of any kind had been sent out from the rue Provence establishment on or about the date mentioned, and none at any time to Felix.
‘Well, M. Thomas, it’s certain, is it not? that one of your casks was sent by Rouen and long sea about the 1st instant. Do you think you could let me have a list of all the casks of that size that were out of your yard on that date? It must have been one of them.’
‘Yes, I suppose it must. I think I can give you that information, but it will take some time to get out.’
‘I’m sorry for giving you the trouble, but I see no other way. We shall have to follow up each of these casks until we find the right one.’
M. Thomas promised to put the work in hands without delay, and Burnley continued:—
‘There is another point. Could you tell me something about your dealings with M. Raoul Boirac, of the Avenue de l’Alma, and particularly of any recent sales you made him?’
‘M. Boirac? Certainly. He is a very good customer of ours and a really well-informed amateur. For the last six years, since I was appointed manager here, we must have sold him thirty or forty thousand francs worth of stuff. Every month or two he would drop in, take a look round, and select some really good piece. We always advised him of anything new we came across and as often as not he became a purchaser. Of recent sales,’ M. Thomas consulted some papers, ‘the last thing we sold him was, curiously enough, the companion piece of that ordered by Felix. It was a marble group of three female figures, two standing and one seated. It was ordered on the 25th of March, and sent out on the 27th.’
‘Was it sent in a cask?’
‘It was. We always use the same packing.’
‘And has the cask been returned?’
M. Thomas rang for a clerk and asked for some other papers.
‘Yes,’ he said, when he had looked over them, ‘the cask sent to M. Boirac on the 27th of last month was returned here on the 1st instant.’
‘One other point, M. Thomas. How can one distinguish between the two groups, that sent to M. Felix, and that to M. Boirac?’
‘Very easily. Both consist of three female figures, but in M. Felix’s two were seated and one standing, while in M. Boirac’s two were standing and one seated.’
‘Thank you very much. That’s all I want.’
‘Not at all. Where shall I send that list of casks?’
‘To the Sûreté, if you please,’ and with a further exchange of compliments the two men parted.
Burnley was both mystified and somewhat disappointed by the information M. Thomas had given him. He had been really impressed by Lefarge’s discovery that a cask containing sawdust had recently been opened in M. Boirac’s study, though he had not admitted it at the time. His friend’s strongly expressed opinion that either Felix or Boirac, or both, had at that time packed the body in the cask had seemed more and more likely, the longer he had thought it over. There were, however, difficulties in the theory. First, as he had pointed out to Lefarge, there was the personality of François. He felt he would stake his reputation on François’ innocence, and without the butler’s co-operation he did not see how the murder could have been carried through. Then, what possible motive could either of the men named have had for desiring the death of the lady? These and other difficulties he had foreseen, but he had not considered them insuperable. Possibly, in spite of them, they were on the right track. But now all hopes of that were dashed. The explanation of M. Boirac of the presence of the cask was complete, and it had been confirmed by François. This perhaps was not conclusive, but M. Thomas had confirmed it also, and Burnley felt the evidence of its truth was overwhelming. The body could not therefore have been packed in the cask, because it had been returned direct from M. Boirac’s to the showrooms. Reluctantly he felt Lefarge’s theory must be abandoned, and, what was much worse, he had no other to substitute.
Another point struck him. If he could find out the hour at which Felix had reached his hotel on the fatal evening, and his condition on arrival, it might confirm or disprove some of the statements they had heard. Therefore, having phoned to the Sûreté and finding he was not required there, he turned his steps again to the Hotel Continental and asked for the manager.
‘I’m afraid I am back to give more trouble, monsieur,’ he said, as they met, ‘but one point has arisen upon which we want some information.’
‘I shall be pleased to assist you as far as I can.’
‘We want to know at what hour M. Felix returned to the hotel on the night of Saturday fortnight, the 27th March, and his condition on arrival. Can you get us that?’
‘I’ll make inquiries. Excuse me a moment.’
The manager was gone a considerable time. When he returned after more than half an hour he shook his head.
‘I can’t find out,’ he said. ‘I’ve asked every one I can think of, but no one knows. One of the hall porters was on duty that evening up till midnight, and he is positive he did not come in before that hour. This is a very reliable man and I think you may take what he says as accurate. The man who relieved him is off duty at present, as is also the night lift boy, and the chamber-maid on late duty in M. Felix’s corridor, but I will interview them later and let you know the result. I presume that will be time enough?’
‘Certainly,’ and with thanks Burnley withdrew.
He lunched alone, greatly regretting M. Lefarge’s absence, and then called up the Sûreté again. M. Chauvet wanted to speak to him, he was told, and soon he was switched through to the great man’s private room.
‘There has been another wire from London,’ said the distant voice, ‘and it seems a cask was sent by passenger train from Charing Cross to Paris via Dover and Calais on Thursday week, the 1st of April, consigned to M. Jaques de Belleville, from Raymond Lemaître. I think you had better go to the Gare du Nord and find out something about it.’
‘How many more casks are we going to find?’ thought the puzzled Burnley, as he drove in the direction of the station. As the taxi slipped through the crowded streets he again took stock of his position, and had to admit himself completely at sea. The information they gained—and there was certainly plenty coming in—did not work into a connected whole, but each fresh piece of evidence seemed, if not actually to conflict with some other, at least to add to the tangle to be straightened out. When in England he had thought Felix innocent. Now he was beginning to doubt this conclusion.
He had not Lefarge’s card to show to the clerk in the parcels office, but fortunately the latter remembered him as having been with the French detective on their previous call.
‘Yes,’ he said, when Burnley had explained, in his somewhat halting French, what he wanted, ‘I can tell you about that cask.’ He turned up some papers.
‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘The cask came off the Calais boat train at 5.45 p.m. on Thursday week, the 1st instant. It was consigned from Charing Cross to M. Jaques de Belleville, to be kept here until called for. He claimed it personally almost immediately after, and removed it on a cart he had brought.’
‘Can you describe M. de Belleville?’
‘He was of medium height and dark, with a black beard. I did not take special notice of him.’
Burnley produced a photograph of Felix he had received from London.
‘Is that the man?’ he asked, handing it over.
The clerk scrutinised it carefully.
‘I could hardly say,’ he replied hesitatingly, ‘it’s certainly like my recollection of him, but I am not sure. Remember I only saw him once, and that about ten days ago.’
‘Of course, you could hardly be expected to remember. Can you tell me another thing? What time did he take the cask away?’
‘I can tell you that because I book off duty at 5.15, and I waited five minutes after that to finish the business. He left at 5.20 exactly.’
‘I suppose there was nothing that attracted your attention about the cask, nothing to differentiate it from other casks?’
‘As a matter of fact,’ returned the clerk, ‘there were two things. First, it was exceedingly well and strongly made and bound with thicker iron hoops than any I had previously seen, and secondly, it was very heavy. It took two men to get it from here to the cart that M. de Belleville had brought.’
‘You didn’t notice any lettering on it, other than the labels?’
‘I did,’ he answered, ‘there was “Return to” in French, English, and German, and the name of a Paris firm.’
‘Do you recollect the name?’
The young man paused in thought.
‘No, monsieur,’ he replied, after a few seconds, ‘I regret to say I have quite forgotten it.’
‘I suppose you wouldn’t recognise it if you heard it? It was not, for example, Messrs. Dupierre, the monumental sculptors, of Grenelle?’
The clerk hesitated again.
‘Possibly it was, monsieur, but I fear I could not say definitely.’
‘Well, I am greatly obliged for what you have told me, any way. Just one other question. What was in the cask?’
‘It was invoicedStatuary, but of course I did not see it opened, and don’t know if the description was correct.’
Burnley thanked the young man and turned out of the great station. Certainly it sounded as if this was a similar cask to that he had taken to Scotland Yard, if it was not the same one. Of course, he had to remember that even if it were one of Messrs. Dupierre’s, which was not proven, there were a large number of these casks in circulation, and it did not follow that this one was connected with his quest. But the whole circumstances gave him to think, and he felt that his bewilderment was not lessened by the new development. As he walked slowly down the rue de Lafayette towards his hotel, he racked his brains in the endeavour to piece together into a connected whole the various facts he had learnt. He strolled on into the Tuileries and, choosing a quiet spot under a tree, sat down to think the matter out.
And first, as to these mysterious journeyings of casks. He went over the three in his mind. First, there was the cask sent out by Messrs. Dupierre on the Tuesday evening after the dinner-party, which travelled via Havre and Southampton, and which was received at Waterloo on the following morning by a black-bearded man, believed to have been Felix. That cask was addressed to Felix and it contained a statue. Then there was the second cask, sent out from Paris two days later—on the Thursday evening—which went via Rouen and long sea, and which was undoubtedly received at St. Katherine’s Docks by Felix. This number two cask contained the body of Madame Annette Boirac. And finally, there was what he might call number three cask, which was sent from London to Paris on that same Thursday, and which was claimed on arrival at the Gare du Nord by a M. Jaques de Belleville. This cask, like both the others, was labelled ‘Statuary,’ but whether that was really its contents was not known.
The Inspector lit one of his strong cigars and puffed thoughtfully, as he turned these journeys over in his mind. He could not but think there was some connection between them, though at first he could not trace it. Then it occurred to him that if they were considered, not in the order of their discovery, but chronologically, some light might be gained. He went over them anew. The first journey was still that from Paris to London via Havre and Southampton, leaving Paris on Tuesday night and arriving at Waterloo on Wednesday morning. The second was now that leaving London on Thursday morning and reaching Paris that afternoon, via Dover and Calais, and the third that from Paris to London via Rouen, leaving on that same Thursday evening, and arriving at St. Katherine’s Docks on the following Monday. That is, from Paris to London, back from London to Paris, and back again from Paris to London. This seemed to show an element of design. And then a possible connection flashed across his mind. Instead of three casks might there not have been only one? Did the same cask not travel in each case?
The more Burnley thought over this, the more likely it seemed. This would explain M. Thomas’s statement that only one cask had been sent out. It would make clear how the cask containing the body had been obtained. It would account for the astonishing coincidence that three casks of this unusual kind had made three such journeys almost at the same time.
Yes, it seemed probable. But if so, at some point in that triple journey the cask must have been opened, the statue removed, and the body substituted. The evidence was overwhelming that the cask had contained a statue when it left the Boulevard des Capucines yard, and that it had not been tampered with till it reached the van of the 7.47 p.m. from the Gare St. Lazare to Havre. Further, it had contained the body on arrival at St. Katherine’s Docks, and here again there was evidence that it could not have been opened in the hold of theBullfinch. Therefore, at some point along the route, Gare St. Lazare, Havre, Southampton, Waterloo, Charing Cross, Dover, Calais, Gare du Nord, rue Cardinet goods station, Rouen, the change must have been made. Burnley made a mental note that every part of that journey must be the subject of the closest inquiry.
He went a step further. At the end of each of the three journeys it was met by a middle-sized, black-bearded, French-looking man. In the case of the third journey that man was Felix. In the two earlier, his identity was not definitely known, but he was like Felix. Suppose it was Felix in each case, would not this also tend to prove there was only one cask, and that Felix was sending it backwards and forwards with some design of his own? The Inspector felt sure that he was right so far.
But if Felix had acted in this way, it followed that either he was the murderer and wished to get the body to his house to dispose of it there, or else he was an innocent man upon whom the real criminal wished to plant the corpse. This latter idea had been growing in the Inspector’s mind for some time. It seemed to hinge very much on the question, Did Felix know what was in the cask when he met it at St. Katherine’s Docks? Burnley recalled the scene at Scotland Yard when it was opened. Either Felix was an incomparable actor, or else he did not know. Burnley doubted even whether any acting could have been so realistic. He remembered also that Felix’s illness from the shock was genuine. No, he rather believed Felix knew nothing of the corpse and, if so, he must be innocent. The point was one Burnley felt he could not settle alone. They must have medical evidence.
But if Felix was innocent, who was likely to be guilty? Who else could have had any motive to kill this lady? What could that motive have been, in any case? He could not tell. No evidence had yet come to light to suggest the motive.
His thoughts turned from the motive to the manner of the crime. Strangulation was an unusual method. It was, moreover, a horrible method, ghastly to witness and comparatively slow in accomplishment. Burnley could not imagine any one, no matter how brutal, deliberately adopting it and carrying it out in cold blood. No, this was a crime of passion. Some of the elemental forces of love and hate were involved. Jealousy, most probably. He considered it in his careful, methodical way. Yes, jealousy certainly seemed the most likely motive.
And then another point struck him. Surely strangulation would only be adopted, even in the heat of passion, if no other method was available. If a man about to commit a murder had a weapon in his hand, he would use it. Therefore, thought Burnley, in this case the murderer could have had no weapon. And if he had no weapon, what followed from that? Why, that the crime was unpremeditated. If the affair had been planned, a weapon would have been provided.
It seemed, therefore, probably that the crime was not deliberate and cold-blooded. Some one, when alone with Madame, had been suddenly and unexpectedly roused to a pitch of furious, overmastering passion. And here again, what more likely to cause this passion than acute jealousy?
The Inspector lit another cigar, as he continued his train of thought. If the motive was what he suspected, who would be a likely person to feel jealousy in reference to Madame? A former lover, he thought. So far they knew of none, and Burnley took a mental note that inquiries must be made to ascertain if such existed. Failing a former lover, the husband immediately came into his mind, and here he seemed on firmer ground. If Madame had had an understanding with Felix, and Boirac had come to know of it, there was the motive at once. Jealousy was what one would naturally expect Boirac to feel under such circumstances. There was no doubt that, so far as the facts had as yet come to light, Boirac’s guilt was a possibility they must not overlook.
The Inspector then turned his thoughts to a general review of the whole case. He was a great believer in getting things on paper. Taking out his notebook, he proceeded to make a list of the facts so far as they were known, in the order of their occurrence, irrespective of when they were discovered.
First of all was the dinner party at M. Boirac’s, which took place on Saturday evening, the 27th of March. At this Felix was present, and, when Boirac was called away to his works, he remained behind, alone with Madame Boirac, after the other guests had left. He was alone with her from 11.00 p.m. till at least 11.30, on the evidence of François. About one in the morning, François heard the front door close, and, coming down, found that both Felix and Madame had disappeared. Madame had changed her shoes and taken a coat and hat. On Boirac’s return, a few minutes later, he found a note from his wife stating that she had eloped with Felix. Felix was believed to have gone to London next day, this having been stated by the manager of the Hotel Continental, as well as by Felix to his friend Martin outside the house when Constable Walker was listening in the lane. On that Sunday or the Monday following, a letter, apparently written by Felix, was posted in London. It contained an order on Messrs. Dupierre to send a certain group of statuary to that city. This letter was received by the firm on Tuesday. On the same day, Tuesday, the statue was packed in a cask and despatched to London via Havre and Southampton. It reached Waterloo on the following morning, and was removed from there by a man who claimed to be Felix, and probably was. The next morning, Thursday, a similar cask was despatched from Charing Cross to the Gare du Nord in Paris, being met by a man giving his name as Jaques de Belleville, but who was probably Felix. The same evening, some fifty minutes later, a similar cask was delivered at the goods station of the State Railway in the rue Cardinet, for despatch to London via Rouen and long sea. Next day, Friday, Felix stated he received a typewritten letter purporting to be from Le Gautier, telling about the lottery and the bet, stating the cask was being sent by long sea, and asking him to get it to his house. On the following morning, Saturday, he had a card from the same source, saying the cask had left, and on Monday, the 5th of April, he got the cask from theBullfinchat St. Katherine’s Docks, and took it home.
Burnley’s list then read as follows:—
Saturday, March 27.—Dinner at M. Boirac’s. Madame disappears.
Sunday, March 28.—Felix believed to cross to London.
Monday, March 29.—Felix writes to Dupierre, ordering statue.
Tuesday, March 30.—Order received by Dupierre. Statue despatched via Havre and Southampton.
Wednesday, March 31.—Cask claimed at Waterloo, apparently by Felix.
Thursday, April 1.—Cask sent from Charing Cross. Cask met at Gare du Nord. Cask delivered at rue Cardinet goods station for despatch to London.
Friday, April 2.—Felix receives Le Gautier’s letter.
Saturday, April 3.—Felix receives Le Gautier’s card.
Monday, April 5.—Felix meets cask at docks.
Some other points he added below, which did not fall into the chronological scheme.
1. The typescript letter produced by Felix purporting to be from Le Gautier about the lottery, the bet, and the test with the cask, and the typescript slip in the cask about the return of a £50 loan, were done by the same machine, on the same paper.
2. The letter from Felix to Dupierre, ordering the statue was written on the same paper as the above, pointing to a common origin for the three.
Pleased with the progress he had made, Burnley left his seat under the tree and strolled back to his hotel in the rue Castiglione to write his daily report to Scotland Yard.
CHAPTER XVII