‘He has not then been gone long, I suppose?’
‘A fortnight to-day, monsieur. He said he would be away three weeks, so if you could call in about a week, you should see him.’
‘By the way, a friend of mine was to call on him here last week. I am afraid he must have missed him also. You did not see my friend?’ He showed her Boirac’s photograph.
‘No, monsieur, I did not see him.’
Lefarge thanked the woman and, having walked round to two or three of the other neighbouring houses and asked the same questions without result, he re-entered the car and was driven back to Malines. From there he took the first train to Brussels.
It was close on two o’clock when he entered the ornate portal of the Crédit Mazières, of which M. Boirac was a director. The building was finished with extraordinary richness, no expense having been spared in its decoration. The walls of the vast public office were entirely covered with choice marbles—panels of delicate green separated by pilasters and cornice of pure white. The roof rose with a lofty dome of glass which filled the building with a mellow and pleasant light. ‘No want of money here,’ Lefarge thought, as he approached the counter and, handing in his card, asked to see the manager.
He had to wait for some minutes, then, following a clerk along a corridor decorated in the same style as the office, he was ushered into the presence of a tall, elderly gentleman with clean-shaven features and raven black hair, who was seated at a large roll-top desk.
Having exchanged greetings, Lefarge began:—
‘I wonder, monsieur, if you would be so very kind as to tell me whether the M. Armande Boirac, who is a member of your board, is the brother of M. Raoul Boirac, the managing director of the Avrotte Pump Construction Company of Paris? I went to Malines this morning to see M. Armande, but he was from home, and I do not wish to spend time in finding out his address and communicating with him, unless he really is the man I seek.’
‘Our director, monsieur,’ replied the manager, ‘is a brother of M. Raoul. Though I don’t know the latter personally, I have heard our M. Boirac speak of him. I can also give you M. Armande’s present address, if you require it.’
‘I am exceedingly obliged, monsieur, and should be most grateful for the address.’
‘It is Hôtel Rydberg, Stockholm.’
Lefarge noted it in his book and, with further thanks, left the bank.
‘Now for the Théâtre de la Monnaie,’ he thought. ‘It is just around the corner.’
He crossed the Place de Brouckère, and turned into the Place de la Monnaie. The box office of the theatre was open, and he interviewed the clerk, learning that Berlioz’sLes Troyenswas given on the Wednesday night in question, as stated by M. Boirac. But a search for that gentleman’s name through the list of that evening’s bookings was unproductive, though, as the clerk pointed out, this did not mean that he was not present, but only that he had not reserved a seat.
Lefarge’s next visit was to be the Hôtel Maximilian. It was a large modern building occupying a complete block of the Boulevard Waterloo, not far from the Porte Louise. A polite clerk came to the bureau window to attend to him.
‘I am expecting to meet a M. Boirac here,’ Lefarge began. ‘Can you tell me if he is in the hotel?’
‘M. Boirac?’ repeated the clerk, doubtfully, ‘I do not think we have any one of that name here at present.’ He turned over a card index on the desk. ‘No, monsieur, he has not come yet.’
Lefarge took out a photograph.
‘That is he,’ he said, ‘a M. Raoul Boirac, of Paris.’
‘Oh, to be sure,’ returned the clerk, ‘I know that gentleman. He has frequently stayed with us, but he is not here at present.’
The detective began to turn over the leaves of his pocket-book as if looking for something.
‘I hope I haven’t made a mistake in the date,’ he said. ‘He wasn’t here recently by any chance, was he?’
‘He was here, monsieur, quite lately—last week in fact. He spent one night.’
Lefarge made a gesture of annoyance.
‘I’ve missed him!’ he exclaimed. ‘As sure as fate I’ve missed him. Can you tell me what night he was here?’
‘Certainly, monsieur.’ He turned up some papers. ‘He was here on Wednesday night, the 31st March.’
‘I’ve missed him. Now, isn’t that too bad? I must have mistaken the date.’ The detective stood apparently considering.
‘Did he mention my name—Pascal, Jules Pascal?’
The clerk shook his head.
‘Not to me, monsieur.’
Lefarge continued, as if to himself:—
‘He must have come through from Paris that night.’ And then to the clerk: ‘You don’t remember, I suppose, what time he arrived?’
‘Yes, I do. It was late in the evening, about eleven, I should think.’
‘Rather a chance coming at that hour, wasn’t it? He might easily have found you full?’
‘Oh, he had reserved his room. Earlier in the evening he telephoned up from a restaurant in the Boulevard Anspach that he was coming.’
‘Was that before five? I was to meet him about five.’
‘Not so early, I think. More like half-past seven or even eight, as well as I can remember.’
‘Well, I can’t understand it at all. But I mustn’t be wasting your time. I’ll write a note and, if he should turn up again, perhaps you would be kind enough to give it to him? I’m much obliged to you, I’m sure.’
Lefarge was an artist in his profession. He never made an impersonation without carrying through the details in the most thorough manner possible. He therefore wrote a note to M. Boirac in an assumed hand, regretting having missed him and carefully explaining some quite imaginary business. Having signed it ‘Jules Pascal’ with a flourish, and left it with the clerk, he took his leave.
As he passed out of the Boulevard Waterloo to return to the old town, the clocks were striking six. He had completed his errand and he was tired, though well satisfied with its result. He would rest in a picture house for an hour or two, then have a leisurely dinner and catch the midnight train for Paris.
Sitting over his coffee in a quiet corner of one of the large restaurants in the Boulevard du Nord, he reviewed once more M. Boirac’s statement, ticking off in his mind the various items he had been able to check. On Saturday night Madame had disappeared. On Sunday and Sunday night Boirac was at his home. Monday he spent at his office, and that night he was again at home. On that same Monday evening he had unpacked the statue from the cask. Tuesday morning saw him in his office at the usual hour, but he had left again between nine o’clock and half-past. About 1.30 that same day he had lunched at Charenton, and shortly after 2.30 had telephoned to François and to his office. François had taken his bag to the Gare du Nord about 3.30, and Boirac had got it from there, as he had brought it back with him from Belgium. He had telephoned to the Hôtel Maximilian about 7.30 or 8.00 on the Wednesday, and had slept there that night. Next day he had returned to Paris, reaching his house in the evening. Further, it was true that his brother lived at Malines and that his house had been shut up on the Wednesday in question, also that Berlioz’sLes Troyenswas given on the night he said.
So much was absolute bedrock fact, proved beyond any doubt or question. Lefarge then turned his mind to the portions of Boirac’s statement which he had not been able to verify.
He could not tell whether the manufacturer had walked in the Bois de Vincennes before lunching at Charenton, nor if he had gone up the Seine after it. He could not trace his having dined in any of the cafés of the Place de la Bastille. He had not proved that he went to Malines or called at his brother’s house, nor did he know if he had been present at the opera in Brussels.
As he considered the matter, he came to the conclusion that in the nature of things he could hardly have expected to confirm these points, and he also decided they were not essential to the statement. All the essentials—Boirac’s presence at Charenton and in Brussels—particularly in Brussels—he had proved up to the hilt. He therefore came to the deliberate conclusion that the pump manufacturer’s statement was true. And if it was true M. Boirac was innocent of the murder, and if he was innocent—Felix . . .
Next day he made his report to M. Chauvet at the Sûreté.
CHAPTER XX
When Burnleyleft Lefarge on the pier at Boulogne, he felt as if he was losing a well-tried friend. Not only had the Frenchman, by his kindliness and cheerful companionship, made Burnley’s stay in the French capital a pleasant one, but his skill and judgment had been a real asset in the inquiry.
And how rapidly the inquiry had progressed! Never before could Burnley recall having obtained so much information on any case in so short a time. And though his work was by no means complete, he was yet within reasonable distance of the end.
After an uneventful crossing he reached Folkestone and immediately went to the police station. There he saw the men who had been on duty when thePas de Calaishad berthed on the Sunday in question. But his inquiries were without result. No one resembling either Felix or Mme. Boirac had been observed.
He next tried the Customs officials, the porters who had taken the luggage from the boat, and the staff at the Pier Station. No information was forthcoming.
‘H’m. Means going to Glasgow, I suppose,’ he thought and, turning into the telegraph office on the platform he sent a wire:—
‘Henry Gordon, 327 Angus Lane, Sauchiehall Street, Glasgow. Could you see me if I called at ten to-morrow. Reply Burnley, Scotland Yard.’
Then he set off to walk to the Town Station to catch the next train for London.
At New Scotland Yard he had an interview with his Chief, to whom he recounted the results of the consultation in the Sûreté, and his movements during the past two days, explaining that he proposed to go on to Glasgow that night if Mr. Gordon could see him the next morning. Then he went home for an hour’s rest. Ten o’clock saw him back at the Yard, where a telegram from Mr. Gordon was awaiting him. ‘Can see you to-morrow at the hour named.’
‘So far, so good,’ he thought, as he called a taxi and was driven to Euston, where he caught the 11.50 express for the north. He usually slept well in trains, and on this occasion he surpassed himself, only waking when the attendant came round half an hour before they were due in Glasgow.
A bath and breakfast at the Central Hotel made him feel fresh and fit as he sallied forth to keep his appointment in Angus Lane, Sauchiehall Street. Ten o’clock was chiming from the city towers as he pushed open the office door of No. 327, which bore the legend, ‘Mr. Henry Gordon, Wholesale Tea Merchant.’ That gentleman was expecting him, and he was ushered into his private room without delay.
‘Good morning, sir,’ he began, as Mr. Gordon, a tall man with small, fair side whiskers, and two very keen blue eyes, rose to meet him. ‘I am an Inspector from Scotland Yard, and I have taken the liberty of making this appointment to ask your help in an inquiry in which I am engaged.’
Mr. Gordon bowed.
‘Well, sir, and what do you wish me to do?’
‘To answer a few questions, if you don’t mind.’
‘I shall be pleased if I am able.’
‘Thank you. You were in Paris recently, I believe?’
‘That is so.’
‘And you stayed at the Hotel Continental?’
‘I did.’
‘Can you tell me what day you left to return to England?’
‘Yes, it was Sunday, the 28th of March.’
‘You drove, if I am not mistaken, from the hotel to the Gare du Nord in the hotel bus?’
‘I did.’
‘Now, Mr. Gordon, can you recollect what, if any, other persons travelled with you in the bus?’
The tea merchant did not immediately reply.
‘I did not specially observe, Mr. Inspector. I am not sure that I can tell you.’
‘My information, sir, is that three gentlemen travelled by that bus. You were one, and the man I am interested in was another. I am told that he conversed with you, or made at least one remark as you were leaving the bus at the station. Does this bring the circumstance to your mind?’
Mr. Gordon made a gesture of assent.
‘You are correct. I recall the matter now, and the men too. One was small, stout, clean-shaven, and elderly, the other younger, with a black pointed beard and rather foppishly dressed. They were both French, I took it, but the black-bearded man spoke English excellently. He was talkative, but the other hadn’t much to say. Is it the bearded man you mean?’
For answer Burnley held out one of Felix’s photographs.
‘Is that he?’
‘Yes, that’s the man sure enough. I remember him perfectly now.’
‘Did he travel with you to London?’
‘He didn’t travel with me, but he got to London all right, for I saw him twice again, once on the boat and once as I was leaving the station at Charing Cross.’
Here was definite evidence anyway. Burnley congratulated himself and felt glad he had not delayed making this visit.
‘Did he travel alone?’
‘So far as I know. He certainly started alone from the hotel.’
‘And he didn’t meet any oneen routethat you saw?’
‘When I saw him on the boat he was talking to a lady, but whether they were travelling together or merely chance acquaintances I couldn’t say.’
‘Was this lady with him in London?’
‘Not that I saw. He was talking to a man on the platform as I drove out. A tall young fellow, dark and rather good-looking.’
‘Would you know this young man again if you saw him?’
‘Yes, I think so. I got a good look at his face.’
‘I should be obliged if you would describe him more fully.’
‘He was about five feet eleven or six feet in height, rather thin and athletic looking. He had a pale complexion, was clean-shaven except for a small black moustache, and was rather French looking. He was dressed in some dark clothes, a brown overcoat, I fancy, but of that I’m not sure. I imagined he was meeting your friend, but I had really no definite reason to think so.’
‘Now, the lady, Mr. Gordon. Can you describe her?’
‘No, I’m afraid I can’t. She was sitting beside him and I did not see her face.’
‘Can you tell how she was dressed?’
‘She wore a reddish brown fur coat, sable, I fancy, though I’m not certain.’
‘And her hat? You didn’t notice anything special about that.’
‘No, nothing.’
‘It hadn’t, for example, a wide brim?’
‘A wide brim? Not that I noticed. But it may have had.’
‘Was it windy where they were sitting?’
‘Every place was windy that day. It was an abominable crossing.’
‘So that if it had had a wide brim, the lady would have had difficulty in keeping it on?’
‘Possibly,’ replied Mr. Gordon a trifle dryly, ‘but you probably can form an opinion on that as well as I.’
Burnley smiled.
‘We Scotland Yard people like to know everything,’ he said. ‘And now, Mr. Gordon, I have to express my thanks for your courtesy and help.’
‘That’s all right. Would it be indiscreet to ask the reason of these queries?’
‘Not at all, sir, but I fear I am not at liberty to give you much information. The man with the pointed beard is suspected of having decoyed a French lady over to England and murdered her. But, you will understand, it is so far only a matter of suspicion.’
‘Well, I should be interested to hear how it turns out.’
‘I am afraid you will hear, sir. If this man is tried, I expect your evidence will be required.’
‘Then for both our sakes I hope your case will not go on. Good-day, Mr. Burnley. Glad to have met you.’
There being nothing to keep him in Glasgow, the Inspector returned to the Central and took the midday London express. As it thundered southwards across the smiling country, he thought over the interview he had just had. He could not help marvelling again at the luck that had pursued his efforts ever since the inquiry began. Nearly every one he had interviewed had known at least something, if not always exactly what he wanted. He thought how many thousands of persons crossed the Channel each week whose journey it would be absolutely impossible to trace, and here, in the one instance that mattered, he had found a man who had been able to give him the very information he needed. Had Felix not gone in the bus, had Mr. Gordon not been so observant, had the circumstances not fallen out precisely as they did, he might never have ascertained the knowledge of Felix’s movements that day. And the same applied all through. Truly, if he did not get a complete case it would be his own fault.
And yet the evidence was unsatisfactory. It was never conclusive. It had a kind of thus-far-and-no-farther quality which always pointed to a certain thing, but stopped short of certainty. Here there was a strong presumption that Mme. Boirac had crossed with Felix, but no proof. It might, however unlikely, have been some one else. Nearly all the evidence he had got was circumstantial, and he wanted certainty.
His mind switched over to the case itself. He felt the probability of Felix’s guilt had been somewhat strengthened. Mr. Gordon’s statement was entirely consistent with that hypothesis. One would naturally expect the journey to be carried out just as it had been. In Paris, the lovers would be careful not to be seen together. At a station like the Gare du Nord, where acquaintances of both might easily be present, they would doubtless ignore each other’s existence. On the boat they would probably risk a conversation, particularly as the deck was almost deserted owing to the weather, but in London, especially if Felix expected some one to meet him, they would follow their Paris plan and leave the station separately. Yes, it certainly worked in.
The Inspector lit one of his strong cigars and gazed with unseeing eyes at the flying landscape as he continued his ruminations. On arrival in London what would be their next step? Felix, he expected, would shake off his friend, meet Madame at some prearranged spot, and in all probability take her to St. Malo. Then he recalled that the housekeeper had been granted a holiday, and they would doubtless arrive to find a house without food or fire, empty and cheerless. Therefore would they not go to an hotel? He thought it likely, and he began to plan a possible future step, a visit to all the probable hotels. But while speculating on the best to begin with, it occurred to him that if Felix had really committed the murder, it must, almost certainly, have been done at St. Malo. He could not conceive it possible at a hotel. Therefore probably they did go to the villa after all.
He went a step further. If the murder had taken place at St. Malo, the cask must have been packed there. He recalled the traces this operation had left in Boirac’s study. Surely some similar indications must have been left at the villa? If the cask had stood on a carpet or even possibly a linoleum, he might expect marks of the ring. And if not, there was the sawdust. He did not believe every trace of sawdust could have been removed.
It had been his intention in any case to search the house, and he took a mental note when doing so to look with special care for any such traces. This search, he decided, should be his next business.
On the following morning, therefore, he set out for St. Malo with his assistant, Sergeant Kelvin. As they drove, he explained the theory about the unpacking of the cask, and pointed out what, if this had been done, they might expect to find.
The house was empty as, owing to Felix still being in the hospital, the housekeeper’s leave had been extended. Burnley opened the door with a key from Felix’s bunch and the two men entered.
Then took place a search of the most meticulous thoroughness. Burnley began in the yard and examined each of the out-houses in turn. These had concrete floors and marks of the cask itself were not to be expected, but they were carefully brushed and the sweepings examined with a powerful lens for traces of sawdust. All their contents were also inspected, Felix’s two-seater, which was standing in the coach-house, receiving its full share of attention. Then the searchers moved to the house, one room after another being gone over in the same painstaking way, but it was not till they were doing Felix’s dressing-room, that Burnley made his first discovery.
Several of Felix’s suits were hanging in a press, and in the right-hand side pocket of one of the coats—that of a blue lounge suit—there was a letter. It was crumpled and twisted, as if thrust carelessly into the pocket. Burnley did not at first notice anything interesting or important about it, till, reading it for the second time, it flashed across his mind that here, perhaps, was the very thing for which they had been searching—the link in that chain of evidence against Felix which up to then had been missing.
The letter was written on a sheet of rather poor quality notepaper in a woman’s hand, rather uneducated both as to caligraphy and diction—such a letter, thought Burnley, as might be written by a barmaid or waitress or shopgirl. There was no water or other distinctive mark on it. It bore no address, and ran as follows:—
‘Monday.
‘My Dearest Léon.—It is with a heavy heart I take up my pen to write these few lines. What has happened to you, dearest? Are you ill? If you are, I will come out to you, no matter what happens. I can’t go on without you. I waited in all yesterday hoping you would come, same as I waited in all the Sunday before, and every night of the week, but you didn’t come. And the money is nearly done, and Mrs. Hopkins says if I can’t pay next week I’ll have to go. I’ve sometimes thought you were tired of me and weren’t going to come back at all, and then I thought you weren’t that sort, and that you were maybe ill or away. But do write or come, for I can’t go on any longer without you.
‘Your heartbroken
‘Emmie.’
When Burnley glanced over this melancholy epistle it seemed at first merely to indicate that Felix was no better than he might be, and it was not till he had read it again that its immense significance struck him. What if this paper supplied the motive of the murder? What if it had opened to Mme. Boirac a chapter in Felix’s life which otherwise would have remained closed, and which he intended should remain closed? As Burnley thought over it he believed he could at least dimly reconstruct the scene. Felix and Madame had arrived at St. Malo, and then in some way, by some act of extraordinary carelessness on Felix’s part, she got hold of the letter. A quarrel would be inevitable. What would Felix do? Probably first snatch the letter from her and thrust it into his pocket out of sight. Then, perhaps, try to pacify the angry lady, and, finding this impossible, the quarrel would get worse and worse till finally in a paroxysm of passion he would seize her throat and choke out her life. The murder committed, he would be so upset that he would quite probably forget all about the letter. The oversights of criminals were notorious.
The more the Inspector considered the matter, the more likely his theory seemed. But here again he had to recognise it was entirely surmise. No proof that this had taken place was forthcoming. It was another case of the thus-far-and-no-farther evidence he had been deploring in the train. At all events it suggested another line of inquiry. This girl must be found and the relations between her and Felix gone into. Burnley foresaw much arduous work in front of him.
At length he put the letter away in his notebook, and the search continued. Finally, as it was beginning to get dusk, every room had been done except the study where Felix and the Inspector had had their midnight discussion.
‘I think we had better come back to-morrow,’ said Burnley. ‘There’s no use in searching by lamplight.’
Accordingly, the next morning saw them again at work. They crawled over the floor so as to get every part of the carpet between themselves and the light, but could find no impressions. They peered with their lenses in the pile of the carpet, they felt between the arms and seats of the padded leathern chairs, all to no purpose. And then Burnley made his second discovery.
Between the study and the dining-room adjoining there was a door, evidently unused, as it was locked and the key was gone. On the study side this door was covered by a heavy curtain of dark-green plush. In front of the curtain, and standing with its back to it, was a small chair whose low, leather-padded back formed a half-circle with the arms. In his anxiety to leave no part of the carpet unexamined, Burnley had moved this chair aside.
As he stooped at the place where the chair had been, a bright object sticking to the curtain caught his eye. He looked more closely. A small, slightly bent, gold safety-pin, bearing a tiny row of diamonds, was caught in the braid at the top of the hem. The point had not penetrated, and the pin fell to the floor when Burnley touched the plush.
He picked it up.
‘That’s rather a fine thing even for a natty boy like Felix,’ he said as he showed it to Kelvin. And then he stood quite still as it flashed across his mind that here, perhaps, was another link in the chain that was being forged about Felix—a link possibly even more important than any of the foregoing. What if it did not belong to Felix at all? It looked too dainty and delicate for a man’s use. What if it was a lady’s? And, most important question of all, what if that lady was Mme. Boirac? If this proved true, his case was complete.
Dropping into the arm-chair he had occupied on the occasion of his midnight interview with Felix, he considered the possibilities opened up by his new discovery, endeavouring to evolve some theory of how a pin or brooch belonging to the deceased lady could have been dropped where he found this one. As he did so, a picture of what might have happened gradually grew in his mind. First, he thought it likely that a lady in evening dress would wear such a pin, and it might easily be at her neck or shoulder. And if she had sat in that chair with her back to the curtain, and any one had caught her by the throat and forced her head backwards, what could be more likely than that the pin should be pulled out in the struggle? And if it were pulled out it almost certainly would drop where or whereabouts he found it.
The Inspector recognised again that this was all surmise, but it was strengthened by the fact that the pin was undoubtedly bent as if it had been pulled out of something without being unhooked. The more he thought over it the more likely his idea seemed. At all events it would be easy to test it. Two points suggested themselves to his mind which would settle it conclusively. First, if the pin were Madame’s, the maid Suzanne would recognise it. The arrangement of the diamonds made it quite distinctive. The girl would also know if Madame wore it on the night of the dinner-party. Secondly, if it were pulled out of Madame’s dress, the latter would probably be torn or at least marked. Both these points could easily be ascertained, and he decided he would write to Paris about them that night.
He put the brooch into a pocket case, and, getting up, resumed his search of the study. For a time he pursued his labours without result, and then he made another discovery which struck him as being of even greater importance than that of the pin. He had completed his examination of the furniture, and now, for over an hour, had been seated at Felix’s desk going through drawer after drawer, reading old letters and examining the watermarks of papers and the alignment of typewritten documents. Felix evidently had some of the defects of the artistic temperament, for his papers were jumbled together without any attempt at filing or classification—accounts, receipts, invitations, engagements, business letters—all were thrust higgledy-piggledy into the first drawer that came handy. But Burnley had methodically gone through every one without finding anything of interest. None of the papers had the watermark of that ordering the statue from Dupierre, none of the typewriting had the defective letters of that ostensibly from Le Gautier to Felix. The Inspector had just reflected that he had only to go through the half-dozen shelves of books and his work would be done, when he made his third find.
On the desk lay a number of sheets of blotting paper folded pamphlet-wise, it being evidently Felix’s custom to blot his wet papers between two of the leaves. Following his usual routine, the Inspector fetched a mirror from the bathroom, and with its aid examined the sheets from each edge in turn. At the fourth of these sheets he stopped suddenly with a little gesture of triumph, for there, clearly revealed in the mirror, were some words he had seen before:—
.s .. .s th. .... s.c. .. ... l... .. t.. ......
.le... fo.wa.. ..med....ly to ..e ..ove .dd.ess.
I do ..t kn.w th. e.a.t pric., but ..der.t..d .t is about 1500 francs. I therefore enclose notes for that
It was the bottom of the first page of the letter ordering the statue from Dupierre! Here was certainty: here, at last, proofs of the most complete kind! Felix had ordered the statue and like a fool had blotted his letter and omitted to destroy the blotsheet!
The Inspector chuckled with content at his find. Felix had ordered the statue. That was now certain. And if he had done so he was responsible for its first journey, and therefore undoubtedly for its second and third. In fact, it was now evident he had arranged all the movements of the cask, and, if so, he must unquestionably have put in the body, and if he put in the body he must be the murderer.
Then there was the further point about the paper. The paper on which this letter had been written was the same as that on which the letter about the lottery and the bet was typed. Felix had stated he had received this letter by post, but at the discussion in M. Chauvet’s office the probability that he himself was the author had been recognised. This probability was now strengthened by finding he had had in his possession the peculiar French paper which had been used.
Truly these three discoveries, the letter signed ‘Your heartbroken Emmie,’ the bent brooch on the curtain, and the tell-tale impression on the blotting paper seemed to the Inspector entirely to settle the question of Felix’s guilt.
On the other hand he had failed to find any trace of the unpacking of the cask, and his search had been so thorough that he almost felt impelled to the conclusion that it had not been there at all. And then a possible explanation struck him. Suppose Felix had got a cart and brought the cask to St. Malo, intending to remove it again the following morning. Where would he put it for the night? It was too heavy to move by himself, and he would want to have a helper. What then would he do? Why, leave it on the cart, of course! His obvious plan would be to stable the horse and open the cask where it stood—on the cart. And if he dropped some sawdust in the process, the wind would see to that. There would be none left now.
He felt sure he was on the right track, and then he had a further idea. If a horse were stabled at the villa all night, some traces should surely be visible. He went to the yard again and began a new quest. But this time he had no luck. He was forced to conclude no horse had been kept.
The possibility that the carter might have left his vehicle and taken the horse away with him for the night next occurred to him, but he thought that unlikely, and left the question undecided in the meantime.
On his return to Scotland Yard, the Chief heard his story with close attention, and was much impressed by his discoveries. He gave his views at some length, ending up:—
‘We shall send the pin over to Paris and see if that girl identifies it. Indeed, whether or not, I think we have a sufficient case against Felix to go into court. By the way, I don’t think I told you I sent a man to his firm, the poster people, and found that he was absent on holidays during the week the cask was travelling backwards and forwards to Paris. This, of course, is not evidence against him, but it works in with our theory.’
Two days later a wire came from M. Chauvet:—
‘Suzanne Daudet identifies pin as Madame’s property.’
‘That settles it,’ said the Chief, and a warrant was made out for Felix’s arrest, so soon as he should be well enough to leave the hospital.
PART III—LONDON AND PARIS
CHAPTER XXI
Of the millionswho unfolded their papers a few mornings after the events described in the last chapter, there were few but felt a thrill of excitement as their eyes fell on the headlines, ‘The Cask Mystery. Arrest of Léon Felix.’ Though by no means all the facts discovered by the police had become public, enough had leaked out to arouse a keen and general interest. The tragic circumstances of the case, no less than the baffling mystery in which it was shrouded, intrigued the popular imagination and, though the police were early credited with having the usual clue and the customary arrest was stated to be imminent, none outside the official ranks had any real idea in what direction suspicion was tending.
But to none of those millions did the news come with such a sense of personal shock and affront as to our old acquaintance, Dr. William Martin, of The Elms, near Brent village, on the Great North Road. Dr. Martin, it will be remembered, was the man who, on the night on which Constable Walker watched from behind his tree, called at St. Malo and insisted on Felix accompanying him home to play bridge. The two men were close friends. Many an afternoon they had spent together on the banks of a neighbouring trout stream, many an evening had slipped rapidly away round the doctor’s billiard table. And with Martin’s family also Felix was a favourite. No member of it but was pleased to welcome the Frenchman to the house, or but had some special confidence to share with him.
At first Dr. Martin could hardly believe his eyes as they rested on the fatal headlines. That Felix, his friend, his trusted companion, should be arrested! And for murder! The thought was so incredible, so utterly horrible, he could not take it in. But, unlike the nightmare to which he compared it, the idea had permanence. Though his thoughts might wander, it was always there, grim and terribly definite, for them to return to.
He began to think over his friend’s circumstances. Felix had always been reticent about his life, but to the doctor he had seemed a lonely man. He lived alone, and Martin had never known him to have visitors staying in the house. Nor could the doctor recall the Frenchman’s ever having spoken of relatives. ‘Who,’ he wondered, ‘will help him now?’
But with so kindly and warm-hearted a man as Dr. Martin, such a question could not long remain unanswered. ‘I must go and see him,’ he thought. ‘I must find out who is going to act for him. If he has no one, then I must do the best I can myself.’
But a practical difficulty arose. How were orders to visit prisoners obtained? The doctor did not know. For a man of his age and standing he was singularly ignorant of legal matters. But when such came his way he invariably adopted the same simple expedient. He ‘saw Clifford.’ This difficulty he would meet in the same way. He would ‘see Clifford.’
‘Clifford’—otherwise John Wakefield Clifford, senior partner of Messrs. Clifford and Lewisham, Solicitors, Grey’s Inn—was Martin’s man of business, friend, and crony. The chance that they took the same weekly half-holiday had thrown them together on the links, and they had followed up the acquaintanceship by occasional visits at each other’s houses. Mr. Clifford was an almost startling contrast to the breezy doctor. Small, elderly, and rather wizened, with white hair and moustache, and dressed always with meticulous care, he seemed the embodiment of conventional propriety. His manner was precise and dry, but the fortunate gift of a sense of humour saved him from becoming dull.
He was a fine lawyer. His admirers, who were many, held that an opinion from him was as good as Counsel’s any day, and knew that, beneath the keenness which made him so formidable an opponent, there lay a deep vein of very real human kindness.
A press of unavoidable business kept Martin at work till the afternoon, but three o’clock saw him ascending the stairs of Messrs Clifford and Lewisham’s office.
‘How are you, Martin?’ the senior partner greeted him. ‘I am glad to see you. This is an unexpected pleasure.’
‘Thanks, old chap,’ returned the doctor, accepting the cigarette the other offered, and sinking back into a deep, leather-lined arm-chair. ‘But I’m afraid there won’t be much pleasure about my visit. It’s business, and nasty business at that. Have you a few minutes to spare?’
The little man bowed gravely.
‘Certainly,’ he said, ‘I am at your service.’
‘It’s about that neighbour of mine, Léon Felix,’ went on the doctor, plunging without further preamble into his subject. ‘You saw he was arrested last night on a charge of murdering the woman whose body was found in the cask? You know about it?’
‘I read the account in this morning’s paper. And so Felix was a neighbour of yours?’
‘Yes, and a close friend. He was in and out of the house like one of the family.’
‘Indeed? I am sorry to hear that.’
‘Yes. I thought a good deal of him and I’m naturally upset. We all are, as a matter of fact. I wanted your advice as to what could be done for him.’
‘You mean with regard to his defence?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you seen him since his arrest?’
‘No. That’s one of the things I wanted to ask you about. I am not quite sure how you get an order.’
‘That can be obtained where a sufficient reason for its application can be shown. I understand, then, that you are unaware of his own plans for his defence?’
‘Yes. My idea was to see him and talk the thing over, and, unless he has made some other arrangement, to ask you to undertake it.’
The lawyer nodded slowly. Martin’s suggestion was eminently satisfactory to him. Apart from the mere money involved, this case, from its unusual and dramatic nature, promised to be at least one of the most famous of the year. He decided that if it came his way he would attend to it personally, and see that no stone was left unturned to secure an acquittal.
‘If you put the case in our hands,’ he replied at length, ‘quite apart from our personal friendship, you may depend on our doing our utmost for your friend. But I am afraid it will be an expensive business. We shall have to retain counsel, perhaps two or even three men, and their fees are not negligible. Then, as you can imagine’—Mr. Clifford gave a wintry little smile—‘we also have to live, or at all events we think so. There will unquestionably be expense in hunting up witnesses, a private detective may have to be employed, in short, the defence of a big case means heavy outlay. Now, can your friend meet this? What are his circumstances financially?’
‘I think he is all right,’ answered Martin, ‘but, in any case, the money will be my affair. Felix may pay what he can. I shall be responsible for the rest.’
Clifford looked at the speaker keenly.
‘Very handsome of you, Martin, I’m sure.’ He hesitated a moment as if about to continue the subject, then, with a change of manner, he went on:—
‘I think, in that case, you should see Felix and ascertain his plans. If you can spare the time now, I shall go with you to Bow Street and try and procure for you an immediate visiting order. If, after your conversation, you find you require our assistance, we shall be very pleased to take up the case; if not, you are perfectly free to go elsewhere. Is that agreed?’
‘Thank you, Clifford. That’s all right. Nothing could be better.’
After introducing his prospective client to the authorities at the famous police station, the lawyer excused himself on the ground of another engagement, while Martin sat down to await the order. The formalities took some time, and it was not till nearly five that the door of Felix’s cell opened to admit his friend.
‘Martin!’ cried the unhappy inmate, springing up and seizing his visitor’s hand in both his own. ‘But this is good of you! I hardly dared to expect you.’
‘Couldn’t see a pal in a hole without butting in,’ answered the doctor gruffly, somewhat affected by the warmth of the other’s welcome. ‘You’re a nice one, getting yourself into such a mess, eh? What have you been up to that’s raised this dust?’
Felix passed his hand wearily over his forehead.
‘My God, Martin,’ he groaned, ‘I don’t know. I’m absolutely at sea. I know no more about the wretched business than you do. The proceedings to-day were purely formal, so that the evidence against me—whatever it can be—did not come out. I can’t conceive what they have got hold of, that has made them suspect me.’
‘I’ve heard nothing about the case at all. I just came along to see you when I saw what had happened.’
‘Martin, I can never thank you! I can never repay you! I thought of writing to you to-day to ask your help, and I should probably have done it to-morrow. But you can’t think what it means to me, your coming without being asked. It means, for one thing, that you don’t believe this abominable charge? Doesn’t it?’
‘Well, naturally. You keep your heart up and don’t get flustered. You’ve got some friends left still. All the family are upset about the thing. The mater’s shocked, and so are the boys. They all say for you to cheer up, and that the mistake is sure to be put right soon.’
‘God bless them for that,’ cried Felix, rising and pacing the cell in evident emotion. ‘Tell them—how much I appreciate—what all their thought means to me.’
‘Rot!’ said the doctor shortly. ‘What would you expect? But now, I have only a minute or two here, and what I want to ask you is this, what plans have you made for your defence?’
‘Defence? None, I fear. I just haven’t been able to think about it. I haven’t an idea who to turn to, or what to do. What would you advise?’
‘Clifford.’
‘Eh? What? I don’t follow.’
‘Employ Clifford, of Clifford and Lewisham. He’s a dry stick, but as clever as they’re made, and a good sort. He’s your man.’
‘I don’t know him. Do you think he would take up the case?’
‘Sure. Fact is, I went around to ask him how I could get an order to see you—I know him pretty well—and I pumped him. The firm would take it on if they were asked, but that means himself, and you couldn’t have a better man.’
‘Martin, you put new life into me! God bless you for all you’re doing! Will you arrange it with him? But, wait a minute, can I afford it? Are his fees very high?’
‘What can you afford?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Say a thousand pounds.’
‘More than enough. I shall arrange it with him at once.’
The friends conversed for some minutes, and then a warder opened the door of the cell. Martin’s time was up. He left Felix cheered by the promise of a further visit, and with tears of thankfulness glistening in his eyes.
Determined to lose no time in completing his work, Martin returned direct to the offices of Messrs Clifford and Lewisham. But there the day’s work was over, and all but one or two junior clerks had already left. The doctor therefore made an appointment for the next day and, with a glow of righteous self-satisfaction, went home to tell his family what he had done.
On the following afternoon he again found himself in the solicitor’s office.
‘Now,’ said Mr. Clifford, when it had been definitely agreed that his firm was to take up the case, ‘I have to warn you that proceedings will be slow. First, the prosecution will make up their case—get depositions of the evidence, you know, and so on—and that will take time. We, of course, shall also immediately start work, but it is improbable we shall make much headway till we learn the full evidence against us. Additional time will therefore be required for the preparation of the defence. If Felix is returned for trial—and I fear from what I have heard, he will be—weeks and months will probably elapse before both sides are ready. You and I shall therefore require to exercise patience.’
‘I can believe it,’ muttered the doctor. ‘You lawyers take the devil of a time over everything.’
‘We can’t cover our mistakes like you, so we have to be careful,’ retorted the lawyer with his dry, wintry smile.
Martin smote his thigh.
‘Ha! ha!’ he laughed. ‘That’s good. You had me there. But I musn’t be wasting your time. There were some things you wanted to speak to me about?’
‘Yes,’ admitted Clifford, ‘a couple of points. Firstly, I propose to retain Heppenstall—you know, Lucius Heppenstall, the K.C. He may want one or two juniors. I suppose that is all right?’
‘Of course. You know what is best to be done.’
‘The other point is that I want you to tell me everything you possibly can about Felix.’
‘As a matter of fact,’ returned Martin, ‘I can’t tell you very much. I was just thinking over what I knew of him, and I was amazed it was so little. We became acquainted about four years ago. Felix had just taken St. Malo, an empty house a couple of hundred yards from my own, and the first thing he did was to go and get pneumonia. I was called in, but the attack was bad, and for a time it was touch and go with him. However, he pulled through, and, during his convalescence, we became very good friends. When he came out of the hospital I invited him to my house for a week or two—he had only a not very satisfactory housekeeper at St. Malo—and the family took to him, till he became quite like one of ourselves. Since then he has been in and out like a pet dog. He dines quite often, and, in return, insists on taking the boys to the theatre, and the mater when she’ll go.’
‘He lives quite alone, you say?’
‘Quite, except for the housekeeper.’
‘And you haven’t met any of his people?’
‘None. I’ve never even heard of his people. I don’t think he has any. If he has, he never speaks of them.’ Martin hesitated for a moment, then went on: ‘It may be my fancy, but it has struck me that he seems to avoid women, and the only cynical remarks I have heard him make have been at their expense. I have often wondered if he has had some love disappointment. But he has never hinted at such a thing.’
‘How does he live?’
‘He is an artist. He designs for some poster firm in the City, and he draws for the better-class magazines. I do not know if he has private means, but he seems to do well enough.’
‘Do you know anything about this extraordinary business of the cask?’
‘No, except this. On—let me see, what night was it? Monday, I think—yes, Monday, the 5th of April, a couple of friends turned in, and we wanted a rubber of bridge. I went round to St. Malo to see if Felix would make a fourth. That was about 8.30 o’clock. At first he hesitated, but afterwards he agreed to come. I went in and waited while he changed. The study fire had just been freshly lighted and the room, and indeed the whole house, was cold and cheerless. We played bridge till nearly one. The next thing we heard was that he was in St. Thomas’s Hospital, prostrated from a mental shock. Not professionally, but as a friend, I went to see him, and then he told me about the cask.’
‘And what did he tell you?’
‘He said he had had a letter saying a cask of money was being sent him—he will tell you the details himself—and that he had just got this cask from the steamer and brought it to St. Malo when I called on that Monday evening. The reason he hesitated about leaving home was that he was on tenterhooks to unpack the cask.’
‘Why did he not tell you about it?’
‘I asked him that, and he said he had had trouble with the steamer people about getting it away, and he did not want any one to know where the cask was, lest it should get round to these steamer folk. But I would rather he would tell you about that himself.’
‘I shall ask him, but I want to hear from you anything you know personally about it.’
‘Well, there is nothing more than that.’
‘Can you tell me anything of his friends?’
‘Nothing. I think only twice in all the years I have known him have I met acquaintances of his, in each case artists who were looking at the paintings in his studio, and who I know did not stay the night. Whom he met during the day I can’t tell.’
The lawyer sat silent for some minutes.
‘Well,’ he said at length, ‘I think that is all we can do to-day. I’ll let you know how things go on, but, as I warned you before, the business will be slow.’
With a hearty handshake and a word of thanks the doctor took his leave, while Clifford sat down to write to Heppenstall, K.C., to know if he would take up the case.
CHAPTER XXII
The next dayMr. Clifford was occupied with various technical formalities, and in obtaining from the authorities such information as was then available about the case, and it was not till the following morning he set out to make the acquaintance of his client. He found him seated in his cell, his head on his hands, and an expression of deep gloom upon his face. The two men talked generalities for some time, and then the lawyer came to business.
‘Now, Mr. Felix,’ he said, ‘I want you please to tell me everything you know of this unhappy affair—everything, no matter how seemingly minute or unimportant. Remember—I cannot impress it on you too strongly—for a man in your position it is suicidal to withhold information. Keep nothing back. Your confidence will be as safe as the confessional. If you have made mistakes, done foolish things, or criminal things, or even—forgive me—if you have committed the crime you are charged with, tell me the whole truth. Else I shall be a blind man leading the blind, and we shall both have our fall.’
Felix rose to his feet.
‘I will do so, Mr. Clifford. I will keep nothing back. And first, before we go on to the details, one point must be settled.’ He raised his hand. ‘I swear to you, in the presence of Almighty God, in whom I believe, that I am innocent of this crime.’ He sat down and then continued: ‘I don’t ask you if you believe me; I am willing to leave that till afterwards, but I want now, at the commencement of our intercourse, to put that fact as it were on record. I absolutely and categorically deny all knowledge of this hateful and ghastly crime. Now let us get on.’
‘I am glad you have made this statement and in this way, Mr. Felix,’ said the lawyer, who was impressed by his client’s manner and earnestness. ‘Now, please, begin at the beginning and tell me with all the detail you can, what you know of the matter.’
Felix had the gift of narration, and, apart from the appeal to Clifford’s professional instincts, he held the lawyer enthralled as he related the strange story of his experiences.
‘I hardly know where to begin,’ he said. ‘The first thing directly bearing on the affair was a meeting between myself and some friends at the Café Toisson d’Or in Paris, but before I come to that I think I ought to explain just who I am and how I, a Frenchman, come to be living in London. I think this is necessary, as the question of my previous knowledge of poor Annette Boirac is certain to come up. What do you say, Mr. Clifford?’
‘Necessary to tell this?’ thought the lawyer, to whom the fact that Felix had had knowledge of the dead woman came as an ugly discovery. ‘Why, my good fellow, no other point in the whole case is likely to be more important for you.’ But aloud he only said:—
‘Yes, I consider it most necessary.’
‘Very good, then. As I said, I am a Frenchman, and I was born in Avignon in 1884. I was always keen on drawing, and, as my teachers thought there was promise in my work, I early moved to Paris and entered theatelierof M. Dauphin. I studied there for several years, living in a small hotel off the Boule Miche. My parents were both dead, and I had inherited a little money—not much, but enough to live on.
‘Amongst those working at the art school was a young fellow called Pierre Bonchose. He was some four years my junior, and was an attractive and thoroughly decent chap. We became close friends, eventually sharing the same room. But he was not much good at his work. He lacked perseverance, and was too fond of supper parties and cards to settle down seriously to paint. I was not, therefore, surprised when one day he told me he was fed up with art, and was going into business. It seemed he had applied to an old friend of his father’s, the senior partner of Messrs. Rôget, the wine exporters of Narbonne, and had been offered a position in that firm, which he had decided to accept.
‘But a month or two before he left Paris he had introduced to theateliera new pupil, his cousin, Mlle. Annette Humbert. They seemed more like brother and sister than cousins, and Bonchose told me that they had been brought up together, and had always been what you English call “pals.” This, Mr. Clifford, was none other than the unfortunate young lady who afterwards became Mme. Boirac.
‘She was one of the loveliest girls that ever breathed. From the first moment I saw her I admired her as I had never before admired any one. As Fate would have it we were both making certain pastel studies and, being thus thrown together, we became interested in each other’s work. The inevitable happened, and I fell deeply in love with her. She did not discourage me, but, as she was kind and gracious to every one, I hardly dared to hope she could care for me. At last, to make a long story short, I took my courage in both hands and proposed, and I could hardly believe my good fortune when she accepted me.
‘It then became necessary for me to approach her father. M. Humbert came of an old and distinguished family, endowed with much pride of birth. He was well off, though not rich, and lived almost in state in his old château at Laroche, occupying a leading position in the local society. To broach such a subject to him would have been an ordeal for any one, but for me, who lacked so many of the social advantages he possessed, it was a veritable nightmare. And my forebodings were not disappointed. He received me courteously, but scouted my proposal. Mlle. Humbert was too young, she did not yet know the world nor her own mind, he had other plans for her future, and so on. Also, he delicately indicated that my social standing and means hardly fitted me to enter a family of such age and traditions as his own.
‘I need not try to describe the effect this decision had upon both of us, suffice it to say that Annette, after a stormy scene, submitted to her father’s authority, leaving the art school and going for an indefinite visit to an aunt in the southern provinces. I, finding life without her insupportable in my old haunts, also left Paris, and, coming to London, obtained a position as artist with Messrs. Greer and Hood, the advertisement poster printers of Fleet Street. What with their salary and my spare time drawings forPunchand other papers, I soon found myself in receipt of over a thousand a year, and then realised one of my ambitions and moved to a small villa in the suburbs, buying at the same time a two-seater to take me to and from my work. This villa, St. Malo, was situated near Brent, on the Great North Road. Here I settled down, alone except for an elderly housekeeper. I fitted up a large attic as a studio where I began studies for a picture I had in mind.
‘But before I had been a month in my new home, I developed a nasty attack of pneumonia. Martin, who was the nearest doctor, was called in, and so began the friendship from which your presence here to-day has resulted.
‘I lived a somewhat humdrum existence for some two years, and then one morning I had a pleasant surprise in the shape of a visit from my old friend, Pierre Bonchose. He explained that, having done pretty well in business, he had been sent to represent permanently his firm in London. He also told me that after a year of what he called “sulking,” his cousin Annette had, at her father’s desire, married a M. Boirac, a wealthy manufacturer, that he had seen her coming through Paris, and that she appeared to be quite happy.
‘Bonchose and I resumed our former intimacy, and, during the next summer, that is, two years ago, we had a walking tour through Cornwall. I mention this because of an incident which occurred near Penzance, and which profoundly modified our relations. While bathing in a deserted cove of that rocky coast, I was caught in an off-shore current and, in spite of all my efforts, found myself being carried out to sea. Bonchose, hearing my shouts, swam out after me and at the imminent risk of his own life assisted me back into still water. Though he made light of the matter, I could not forget the danger he had faced to save me, and I felt I had incurred a debt which I should be glad of an opportunity to pay.
‘But though, as I have said, I had settled down in London, I did not by any means entirely desert Paris. First at long intervals, but afterwards more frequently, I ran over to see my friends and to keep myself in touch with artistic circles in France. About eight months ago, on one of these visits, it happened that I dropped into an exhibition of the work of a famous sculptor, and there I incidentally came across a man whose conversation interested me extremely. His hobby was statuary, and he was clearly an expert in his subject. He told me he had amassed one of the largest private collections in the world, and as we became more intimate he invited me to dine that evening and see it. I went, and on arrival he introduced me to his wife. You can imagine my feelings, Mr. Clifford, when I found she was none other than Annette. Acting on the impulse of the moment, we met as strangers, though I am sure that, had M. Boirac not been so full of his collection, he must have noticed our embarrassment. But as we sat at dinner I found that, after the first shock of recognition, her presence left me cold. Though I still profoundly admired her, my infatuation had passed away, and I realised that whatever love I might have had for her was dead. And from her manner I felt sure her feelings towards myself had undergone a similar change.
‘M. Boirac and I became good friends over his collection, and, on his invitation, I several times repeated my call during subsequent visits to Paris.
‘That, Mr. Clifford, is all of what I may call my preliminary history. I am afraid it is rather involved, but I have tried to make it as clear as I could.’
The lawyer bowed gravely.
‘Your statement is perfectly clear. Pray proceed.’
‘I come now,’ went on Felix, ‘to the events connected with the cask and therefore apparently with the tragedy. I think it will be better to tell you these in their chronological order, even though this makes my story seem a little disconnected?’
Again Mr. Clifford inclined his head and the other resumed:—
‘On Saturday, 13th March, I crossed to Paris for the week-end, returning the following Monday morning. On the Sunday afternoon I happened to drop into the Café Toisson d’Or in the rue Royale and there found a group of men, with most of whom I was acquainted. They were talking about the French Government lotteries, and in the course of conversation one of them, a M. Alphonse Le Gautier, said to me, “Why not have a little flutter with me?” I ridiculed the idea at first, but afterwards agreed to enter a thousand francs jointly with him. He undertook to arrange the matter, the profits, if any, being halved between us. I paid him over my five hundred francs and, believing it was the last I should hear of the affair, dismissed it from my mind.
‘A week after my return to England I had a visit from Bonchose. I saw at once he was in trouble and after a while it all came out. It seemed he had been losing heavily at cards, and to meet his liabilities he had gone to moneylenders, who were now pressing him for repayment. In answer to my questions, he explained that he had paid off all his loans with the exception of one for £600. That sum he was utterly unable to raise, and if he failed to procure it before the 31st, that was, in about a week, he was a ruined man. I was much annoyed, for I had helped him out of similar scrapes twice before, on each of which occasions he had given me his word not to play again. I felt I could not go on throwing good money after bad, and yet because of our friendship and the debt I owed him for saving my life, I could not see him go to the wall. Divining what was in my mind, he assured me he had not come to beg, saying that he realised I had already done more for him than he deserved. Then he said he had written to Annette telling her the circumstances, and asking, not for a gift, but for a loan on which he would pay four per cent interest. I talked to him seriously, offering no help, but asking him to keep me advised of how things went on. But though I did not tell him, I decided I would pay the £600 rather than see him stuck.
‘“I am going to Paris on Friday,” I ended up, “and hope to dine at the Boirac’s on Saturday. If Annette speaks to me on the subject, I shall tell her you are making an unholy mess of things.”
‘“Don’t put her against helping me,” he pleaded. I said I would not influence her at all, and then he asked me when I was returning, so that he could meet me and hear what had been said. I told him I would cross by Boulogne on Sunday.
‘That week-end, a fortnight after the meeting in the Café Toisson d’Or, I was again in the French capital. On the Saturday morning as I sat in the Hotel Continental meditating a visit to M. Dauphin’satelier, a note was handed to me. It was from Annette, and in it she said she wanted to speak to me in private, asking if I could come at 7.30 that night, instead of the dinner hour of 7.45, and requiring a verbal reply. I gave the necessary assurance to the messenger, who proved to be Annette’s maid, Suzanne.
‘I reached the Boirac’s house at the appointed hour, but I did not see Annette. As I entered, M. Boirac was passing through the hall, and, seeing me, he invited me into his study to look at an engraving which had been sent him on approval. Naturally, I could not refuse. We went to the study and examined the picture. But there was another object in the study which I also saw and commented on. Standing on the carpet was a large cask, and, Mr. Clifford, you will hardly believe me when I tell you it was either the identical cask which was sent me containing poor Annette’s body, or else one so similar as to be indistinguishable!’
Felix paused to let this significant statement, as he evidently considered it, sink into the lawyer’s mind. But the latter only bowed and said:—
‘Pray proceed, Mr. Felix, with your statement.’
‘I was interested in the cask, as it seemed an unusual object to find in a study. I asked Boirac about it, and he explained that he had just purchased a piece of statuary, and that the cask was simply the special kind of packing case in which it had been sent home.’
‘Did he describe the statue?’ asked the lawyer, interrupting for the first time.
‘No, except to say it was a fine group. He promised to show it to me on my next visit.’
‘Did he tell you from whom he had purchased it, or what price he had paid?’
‘Neither; the matter was only referred to incidentally as we were leaving the room.’
‘Thank you. Pray continue.’
‘We then went to the salon, but, as several visitors had already arrived, I could not, at that time, get a private word with Annette.
‘The dinner was an important social affair, the Spanish Ambassador being the principal guest. Before it was over M. Boirac was called from the house, owing to an accident having taken place at his works. He apologised for leaving, promising to return speedily, but after a time a telephone message came to say the accident had been more serious than he had supposed, and he would be detained till very late or even all night. The guests began to leave about eleven, but, in obedience to a sign from Annette, I remained till all had gone. Then she told me she had received a letter from Bonchose which had much upset her. She did not mind his having got into difficulties—indeed, she thought a fright would do him good; but she was really troubled lest he might become a confirmed gambler. She wished for my candid opinion of him.
‘I told her exactly what I thought; that there wasn’t a bit of real harm in him, but that he had got into a bad set and that his only chance was to break with it. She agreed with me, saying he should not be helped until this breach had actually been made. We then discussed where the money was to come from. She, it appeared, could lay her hands on only £300, and, as she felt M. Boirac would disapprove, she did not wish to ask him for the remainder. She therefore proposed to sell a couple of her jewels—her own private property—and she asked me to undertake the matter for her. But I could not bring myself to agree to this, and I said that if she would advance the £300 she had, I would find the balance. At first she would not hear of it, and we had quite a heated argument. Finally I carried my point, and she went upstairs and brought down the money. I took my leave immediately afterwards, promising to let her know how the matter ended. She was much affected, for she was sincerely attached to him. The next day, Sunday, I returned to London.’
‘I think you said, Mr. Felix,’ interrupted Clifford, ‘that the last of the guests left at eleven?’
‘Yes, about then.’
‘And at what time did you yourself leave?’
‘About quarter to twelve.’
‘Then your conversation lasted about three-quarters of an hour. Now, did any one see you leave?’
‘No one except Annette. She came to the door with me.’
‘You returned to your hotel, I suppose?’
‘Yes.’
‘At what hour did you reach it?’
‘About half-past one, I should say.’
‘From Madame’s house to the Hotel Continental is about fifteen minutes’ walk. What, then, did you do in the interval?’
‘I felt wakeful, and thought a stroll would be pleasant. I walked across Paris; to the Place de la Bastille by the rue de Rivoli, and back to the hotel by the Grands Boulevards.’
‘Did you meet any one you knew?’
‘No, not that I can recall.’
‘I am afraid this is important, Mr. Felix. Think again. Is there no one that could testify to meeting you on this walk? No waiter or other official, for example?’