footprint
Where this drain passed under the drive the newly filled ground had slightly sunk. The hollow had been made up in the middle with gravel, but it happened that a small space on the lane side which had not gone down much was almost uncovered, the clay showing through. On this space were two clearly defined footmarks, pointing in the direction of the house.
I have said two, but that is not strictly correct. One, that of a workman’s right boot with heavy hobnails, was complete in every detail, the clay holding the impression like plaster of Paris. The other, some distance in front and to the left and apparently the next step forward, was on the edge of the clay patch and showed the heel only, the sole having borne on the hard.
Inspector Burnley’s eyes brightened. Never had he seen better impressions. Here was something tangible at last. He bent down to examine them more closely, then suddenly sprang to his feet with a gesture of annoyance.
‘Fool that I am,’ he growled, ‘that’s only Watty bringing up the cask.’
All the same he made a careful sketch of the marks, showing the distance between them and the size of the clay patch. Watty, he felt sure, would be easy to find through the carting establishment, when he could ascertain if the footsteps were his. If it should chance they were not, he had probably found a useful clue to the thief. For the convenience of the reader I reproduce the sketch.
Burnley turned to go on, but his habit of thinking things out reasserted itself, and he stood gazing at the marks and slowly pondering. He was puzzled that the steps were so close together. He took out his rule and re-measured the distance between them. Nineteen inches from heel to heel. That was surely very close. A man of Watty’s size would normally take a step of at least thirty inches, and carters were generally long-stepping men. If he had put it at thirty-two or thirty-three inches he would probably be nearer the thing. Why, then, this short step?
He looked and pondered. Then suddenly a new excitement came into his eyes and he bent swiftly down again.
‘Jove!’ he murmured. ‘Jove! I nearly missed that! It makes it more like Watty, and, if so, it is conclusive! Absolutely conclusive!’ His cheek was flushed and his eyes shone.
‘That probably settles that hash,’ said the evidently delighted Inspector. He, nevertheless, continued his methodical search down the remainder of the drive and out on the road, but without further result.
He looked at his watch. It was seven o’clock.
‘Two more points and I’m through,’ he said to himself in a satisfied tone.
He turned into the lane and walked slowly down it, scrutinising the roadway as he had done the drive. Three separate times he stopped to examine and measure footmarks, the third occasion being close by the little gate in the hedge.
‘Number one point done. Now for number two,’ he muttered, and returning to the entrance gate stood for a moment looking up and down the road. Choosing the direction of London he walked for a quarter of a mile examining the gateways at either side, particularly those that led into fields. Apparently he did not find what he was in search of, for he retraced his steps to where a cross road led off to the left and continued his investigations along it. No better luck rewarding him, he tried a second cross road with the same result. There being no other cross roads, he returned to the lane and set out again, this time with his back to London. At the third gateway, one leading into a field on the left-hand side of the road, he stopped.
It was an ordinary iron farm gate set in the rather high and thick hedge that bounded the road. The field was in grass and bore the usual building ground notice. Immediately aside the gate was a patch of low and swampy looking ground, and it was a number of fresh wheel marks crossing this patch that had caught the Inspector’s attention.
The gate was not padlocked, and Burnley slipped the bolt back and entered the field. He examined the wheel marks with great care. They turned sharply at right angles on passing through the gate and led for a short distance along the side of the fence, stopping beside a tree which grew in the hedge. The hoof marks of a horse and the prints of a man’s hobnailed boots leading over the same ground also came in for a close scrutiny.
It was a contented looking Burnley that turned out of the field and walked back to St. Malo. He was well satisfied with his night’s work. He had firstly succeeded in getting a lot of information out of Felix, and had further turned the latter into a friend anxious to help in the clearing up of the mystery. And though an unexpected check had arisen in the disappearance of the cask, he felt that with the information he had gained in the last three hours it would not be long before he had his hands on it again.
As he approached the door Felix hailed him.
‘I saw you coming up,’ he said. ‘What luck?’
‘Oh, not so bad, not so bad,’ returned the other. ‘I’m just going back to the city.’
‘But the cask? What about it?’
‘I’ll start some inquiries that may lead to something.’
‘Oh, come now, Inspector, don’t be so infernally close. You might tell me what you’ve got in your mind, for I can see you have something.’
Burnley laughed.
‘Oh, well,’ he said, ‘I don’t mind. I’ll tell you what I found; you see what you make of it.
‘First, I found your coach-house padlock had been forced with a lever. There was nothing of the kind lying about, therefore whatever theory we adopt must account for this lever’s production and disposal. It may quite likely bear marks corresponding to those on the padlock, which evidence might be valuable.
‘I then found that your visitor had arrived at the yard gate with a vehicle and had climbed the wall with the aid of a very peculiar ladder. He had, presumably, opened the gate and, after loading up the cask and drawing his vehicle out on to the drive, had closed the gate, leaving by the same means. There is evidence to show that he lifted the ladder over after him, probably pulling it up by a cord.
‘I have said the ladder was a peculiar one. Here is a sketch of its shape so far as I could learn it. You will see that it is short and wide with the ends shaped differently.
‘I may remind you, in passing, how easy it would have been to load up the cask in spite of its weight. All that was necessary was to back the vehicle under it and lower out the differential pulley, a thing a man could do with one hand.
‘I examined the drive, but could find nothing except at one place where there was a most interesting pair of footmarks. You must really see these for yourself, and if you will stroll down now I will point them out. There is reason to believe they were made by Watty when he was approaching the house with the dray, but I cannot be positive as yet.
‘I then examined the lane and found in three places other footmarks by the same man. Finally, about 200 yards along the main road to the north, I found wheel marks leading into a grass field beside which he had walked.
‘Now, Mr. Felix, put all these things together. You will find them suggestive, but the footmarks on the drive are very nearly conclusive.’
They had by this time reached the marks.
‘Here we are,’ said Burnley. ‘What do you think of these?’
‘I don’t see anything very remarkable about them.’
‘Look again.’
Felix shook his head.
‘See here, Mr. Felix. Stand out here on the gravel and put your right foot in line with this first print. Right. Now take a step forward as if you were walking to the house. Right. Does anything occur to you now?’
‘I can’t say that it does, unless it is that I have taken a very much longer step.’
‘But your step was of normal length.’
‘Well then, conversely, the unknown must have taken a short one.’
‘But did he? Assume it was Watty, as I think it must have been. You were with him and you saw him walking.’
‘Oh, come now, Inspector. How could I tell that? He didn’t normally take very short steps or I should have noticed it, but I couldn’t possibly say that he never took one.’
‘The point is not essential except that it calls attention to a peculiarity in the steps. But you must admit that while possible, it is quite unlikely he would take a step of that length—nineteen inches as against a probable thirty-three—without stumbling or making a false step.’
‘But how do you know he didn’t stumble?’
‘The impression, my dear sir, the impression. A false step or a stumble would have made a blurred mark or shown heavier on one side than the other. This print shows no slip and is evenly marked all over. It was clearly made quite normally.’
‘That seems reasonable, but I don’t see how it matters.’
‘To me it seems exceedingly suggestive though, I agree, not conclusive. But there is a nearly conclusive point, Mr. Felix. Look at those prints again.’
‘They convey nothing to me.’
‘Compare them.’
‘Well, I can only compare the heels and there is not much difference between them, just as you would expect between the heels of a pair of boots.’ Felix hesitated. ‘By Jove! Inspector,’ he went on, ‘I’ve got you at last. They’re the same marks. They were both made by the same foot.’
‘I think so, Mr. Felix; you have it now. Look here.’ The Inspector stooped. ‘The fourth nail on the lefthand side is gone. That alone might be a coincidence, but if you compare the wear of the other nails and of the leather you will see they are the same beyond doubt.’
He pointed to several little inequalities and inaccuracies in the outline, each of which appeared in both the marks.
‘But even if they are the same, I don’t know that I see what you get from that.’
‘Don’t you? Well, look here. How could Watty, if it was he, have produced them? Surely only in one of two ways. Firstly, he could have hopped on one foot. But there are three reasons why it is unlikely he did that. One is that he could hardly have done it without your noticing it. Another, that he could never have left so clear an impression in that way. The third, why should he hop? He simply wouldn’t do it. Therefore they were made in the second way. What was that, Mr. Felix?’
Felix started.
‘I see what you’re after at last,’ he said. ‘He walked up the drive twice.’
‘Of course he did. He walked up first with you to leave the cask. He walked up the second time with the empty dray to get it. If the impressions were really made by Watty that seems quite certain.’
‘But what on earth would Watty want with the cask? He could not know there was money in it.’
‘Probably not, but he must have guessed it held something valuable.’
‘Inspector, you overwhelm me with delight. If he took the cask it will surely be easy to trace it.’
‘It may or it may not. Question is, Are we sure he was acting for himself.’
‘Who else?’
‘What about your French friend? You don’t know whom he may have written to. You don’t know that all your actions with the cask may not have been watched.’
‘Oh, don’t make things worse than they are. Trace this Watty, won’t you?’
‘Of course we will, but it may not be so easy as you seem to think. At the same time there are two other points, both of which seem to show he was at least alone.’
‘Yes?’
‘The first is the watcher in the lane. That was almost certainly the man who walked twice up your drive. I told you I found his footmarks at three points along it. One was near your little gate, close beside and pointing to the hedge, showing he was standing there. That was at the very point my man saw the watcher.
‘The second point concerns the horse and dray, and this is what leads me to believe the watcher was really Watty. If Watty was listening up the lane where were these? If he had a companion the latter would doubtless have walked them up and down the road. But if he was alone they must have been hidden somewhere while he made his investigations. I’ve been over most of the roads immediately surrounding, and on my fourth shot—towards the north, as I already told you—I found the place. It is fairly clear what took place. On leaving the cask he had evidently driven along the road until he found a gate that did not lead to a house. It was, as I said, that of a field. The marks there are unmistakable. He led the dray in behind the hedge and tied the horse to a tree. Then he came back to reconnoitre and heard you going out. He must have immediately returned and brought the dray, got the cask, and cleared out, and I imagine he was not many minutes gone before my man Walker returned. What do you think of that for a working theory?’
‘I think it’s conclusive. Absolutely conclusive. And that explains the queer-shaped ladder.’
‘Eh, what? What’s that you say?’
‘It must have been the gangway business for loading barrels on the dray. I saw one hooked on below the deck.’
Burnley smote his thigh a mighty slap.
‘One for you, Mr. Felix,’ he cried, ‘one for you, sir. I never thought of it. That points to Watty again.’
‘Inspector, let me congratulate you. You have got evidence that makes the thing a practical certainty.’
‘I think it’s a true bill. And now, sir, I must be getting back to the Yard.’ Burnley hesitated and then went on: ‘I am extremely sorry and I’m afraid you won’t like it, but I shall be straight with you and tell you I cannot—I simply dare not—leave you without some kind of police supervision until this cask business is cleared up. But I give you my word you shall not be annoyed.’
Felix smiled.
‘That’s all right. You do your duty. The only thing I ask you is to let me know how you get on.’
‘I hope we’ll have some news for you later in the day.’
It was now shortly after eight, and the car had arrived with the two men sent back the previous evening. Burnley gave them instructions about keeping a watch on Felix, then with Sergeant Hastings and Constable Walker he entered the car and was driven rapidly towards London.
CHAPTER VII
Inspector Burnleyreached Scotland Yard, after dropping Constable Walker at his station with remarks which made the heart of that observer glow with triumph and conjured up pictures of the day when he, Inspector Walker, would be one of the Yard’s most skilled and trusted officers. During the run citywards Burnley had thought out his plan of campaign, and he began operations by taking Sergeant Hastings to his office and getting down the large scale map.
‘Look here, Hastings,’ he said, when he had explained his theories and found what he wanted. ‘Here’s John Lyons and Son, the carriers where Watty is employed, and from where the dray was hired. You see it’s quite a small place. Here close by is Goole Street, and here is the Goole Street Post Office. Got the lay of those? Very well. I want you, when you’ve had your breakfast, to go out there and get on the track of Watty. Find out first his full name and address, and wire or phone it at once. Then shadow him. I expect he has the cask, either at his own house or hidden somewhere, and he’ll lead you to it if you’re there to follow. Probably he won’t be able to do anything till night, but of that we can’t be certain. Don’t interfere or let him see you if possible, but of course don’t let him open the cask if he has not already done so, and under no circumstances allow him to take anything out of it. I will follow you out and we can settle further details. The Goole Street Post Office will be our headquarters, and you can advise me there at, say, the even hours of your whereabouts. Make yourself up as you think best and get to work as quickly as you can.’
The sergeant saluted and withdrew.
‘That’s everything in the meantime, I think,’ said Burnley to himself, as with a yawn he went home to breakfast.
When some time later Inspector Burnley emerged from his house, a change had come over his appearance. He seemed to have dropped his individuality as an alert and efficient representative of Scotland Yard and taken on that of a small shop-keeper or contractor in a small way of business. He was dressed in a rather shabby suit of checks, with baggy knees and draggled coat. His tie was woefully behind the fashion, his hat required brushing, and his boots were soiled and down at heel. A slight stoop and a slouching walk added to his almost slovenly appearance.
He returned to the Yard and asked for messages. Already a telephone had come through from Sergeant Hastings: ‘Party’s name, Walter Palmer, 71 Fennell Street, Lower Beechwood Road.’ Having had a warrant made out for the ‘party’s’ arrest, he got a police motor with plain-clothes driver, and left for the scene of operations.
It was another glorious day. The sun shone out of a cloudless sky of clearest blue. The air had the delightful freshness of early spring. Even the Inspector, with his mind full of casks and corpses, could not remain insensible of its charm. With a half sigh he thought of that garden in the country which it was one of his dearest dreams some day to achieve. The daffodils would now be in fine show and the primroses would be on, and such a lot of fascinating work would be waiting to be done among the later plants. . . .
The car drew up as he had arranged at the end of Goole Street and the Inspector proceeded on foot. After a short walk he reached his objective, an archway at the end of a block of buildings, above which was a faded signboard bearing the legend, ‘John Lyons and Son, Carriers.’ Passing under the arch and following a short lane, he emerged in a yard with an open-fronted shed along one side and a stable big enough for eight or nine horses on the other. Four or five carts of different kinds were ranged under the shed roof. In the middle of the open space, with a horse yoked in, was a dray with brown sides, and Burnley, walking close to it, saw that under the paint the faint outline of white letters could be traced. A youngish man stood by the stable door and watched Burnley curiously, but without speaking.
‘Boss about?’ shouted Burnley.
The youngish man pointed to the entrance.
‘In the office,’ he replied.
The Inspector turned and entered a small wooden building immediately inside the gate. A stout, elderly man with a gray beard, who was posting entries in a ledger, got up and came forward as he did so.
‘Morning,’ said Burnley, ‘have you a dray for hire?’
‘Why, yes,’ answered the stout man. ‘When do you want it and for how long?’
‘It’s this way,’ returned Burnley. ‘I’m a painter, and I have always stuff to get to and from jobs. My own dray has broken down and I want one while it’s being repaired. I’ve asked a friend for the loan of his, but he may not be able to supply. It will take about four days to put it right.’
‘Then you wouldn’t want a horse and man?’
‘No, I should use my own.’
‘In that case, sir, I couldn’t agree, I fear. I never let my vehicles out without a man in charge.’
‘You’re right in that, of course, but I don’t want the man. I’ll tell you. If you let me have it I’ll make you a deposit of its full value. That will guarantee its safe return.’
The stout man rubbed his cheek.
‘I might do that,’ he said. ‘I’ve never done anything like it before, but I don’t see why I shouldn’t.’
‘Let’s have a look at it, anyway,’ said Burnley.
They went into the yard and approached the dray, Burnley going through the form of examining it thoroughly.
‘I have a lot of small kegs to handle,’ he said, ‘as well as drums of paint. I should like to have that barrel loader fixed till I see if it’s narrow enough to carry them.’
The stout man unhooked the loader and fixed it in position.
‘Too wide, I’m afraid,’ said the Inspector, producing his rule. ‘I’ll just measure it.’
It was fifteen inches wide and six feet six long. The sides were of six by two material, with iron-shod ends. One pair of ends, that resting on the ground, was chisel-pointed, the other carried the irons for hooking it on to the cart. The ends of these irons made rectangles about three inches by two. Burnley looked at the rectangles. Both were marked with soil. He was satisfied. The loader was what Watty had used to cross the wall.
‘That’ll do all right,’ he said. ‘Let’s see, do you carry a box for hay or tools?’ He opened it and rapidly scanned its contents. There was a halter, a nosebag, a small coil of rope, a cranked spanner, and some other small objects. He picked up the spanner.
‘This, I suppose, is for the axle caps?’ he said, bending down and trying it. ‘I see it fits the nuts.’ As he replaced it in the box he took a quick look at the handle. It bore two sets of scratches on opposite sides, and the Inspector felt positive these would fit the marks on the padlock and staple of the coach-house door, had he been able to try them.
The stout man was regarding him with some displeasure.
‘You weren’t thinking of buying it?’ he said.
‘No, thanks, but if you want a deposit before you let me take it, I want to be sure it won’t sit down with me.’
They returned to the office, discussing rates. Finally these were arranged, and it was settled that when Burnley had seen his friend he was to telephone the result.
The Inspector left the yard well pleased. He had now complete proof that his theories were correct and that Watty with that dray had really stolen the cask.
Returning to Goole Street he called at the Post Office. It was ten minutes to twelve, and there being no message for him he stood waiting at the door. Five minutes had not elapsed before a street arab appeared, looked him up and down several times, and then said:—
‘Name o’ Burnley?’
‘That’s me,’ returned the Inspector. ‘Got a note for me?’
‘The other cove said as ’ow you’ld give me a tanner.’
‘Here you are, sonny,’ said Burnley, and the sixpence and the note changed owners. The latter read:—
‘Party just about to go home for dinner. Am waiting on road south of carrier’s yard.’
Burnley walked to where he had left the motor and getting in, was driven to the place mentioned. At a sign from him the driver drew the car to the side of the road, stopping his engine at the same time. Jumping down, he opened the bonnet and bent over the engine. Any one looking on would have seen that a small breakdown had taken place.
A tall, untidy looking man, in threadbare clothes and smoking a short clay, lounged up to the car with his hands in his pockets. Burnley spoke softly without looking round,—
‘I want to arrest him, Hastings. Point him out when you see him.’
‘He’ll pass this way going for his dinner in less than five minutes.’
‘Right.’
The loafer moved forward and idly watched the repairs to the engine. Suddenly he stepped back.
‘That’s him,’ he whispered.
Burnley looked out through the back window of the car and saw a rather short, wiry man coming down the street, dressed in blue dungarees and wearing a gray woollen muffler. As he reached the car, the Inspector stepped quickly out and touched him on the shoulder, while the loafer and the driver closed round.
‘Walter Palmer, I am an inspector from Scotland Yard. I arrest you on a charge of stealing a cask. I warn you anything you say may be used against you. Better come quietly, you see there are three of us.’
Before the dumbfounded man could realise what was happening, a pair of handcuffs had snapped on his wrists and he was being pushed in the direction of the car.
‘All right, boss, I’ll come,’ he said as he got in, followed by Burnley and Hastings. The driver started his engine and the car slipped quietly down the road. The whole affair had not occupied twenty seconds and hardly one of the passers-by had realised what was taking place.
‘I’m afraid, Palmer, this is a serious matter,’ began Burnley. ‘Stealing the cask is one thing, but breaking into a man’s yard at night is another. That’s burglary and it will mean seven years at least.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking abaht, boss,’ answered the prisoner hoarsely, licking his dry lips, ‘I don’t know of no cask.’
‘Now, man, don’t make things worse by lying. We know the whole thing. Your only chance is to make a clean breast of it.’
Palmer’s face grew paler but he did not reply.
‘We know how you brought out the cask to Mr. Felix’s about eight o’clock last night, and how, when you had left it there, you thought you’d go back and see what chances there were of getting hold of it again. We know how you hid the dray in a field close by, and then went back down the lane and waited to see if anything would turn up. We know how you learnt the house was empty and that after Mr. Felix left you brought the dray back. We know all about your getting over the wall with the barrel loader, and forcing the coach-house door with the wheel-cap wrench. You see, we know the whole thing, so there’s not the slightest use in your pretending ignorance.’
During this recital the prisoner’s face had grown paler and paler until it was now ghastly. His jaw had dropped and great drops of sweat rolled down his forehead. Still he said nothing.
Burnley saw he had produced his impression and leant forward and tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Look here, Palmer,’ he said. ‘If you go into court nothing on earth can save you. It’ll be penal servitude for at least five, and probably seven, years. But I’m going to offer you a sporting chance if you like to take it.’ The man’s eyes fixed themselves with painful intentness on the speaker’s face. ‘The police can only act if Mr. Felix prosecutes. But what Mr. Felix wants is the cask. If you return the cask at once, unopened, Mr. Felix might—I don’t say he will—but he might be induced to let you off. What do you say?’
At last the prisoner’s self-control went. He threw up his manacled hands with a gesture of despair.
‘My Gawd!’ he cried hoarsely. ‘I can’t.’
The Inspector jumped.
‘Can’t?’ he cried sharply. ‘What’s that? Can’t? What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know where it is. I don’t, I swear. See ’ere, boss,’ the words now poured out of his mouth in a rapid stream, ‘I’ll tell you the truth, I will, swelp me Gawd. Listen to me.’
They had reached the City and were rapidly approaching Scotland Yard. The Inspector gave instructions for the car to be turned and run slowly through the quieter streets. Then he bent over to the now almost frantic man.
‘Pull yourself together and tell me your story. Let’s have the whole of it without keeping anything back, and remember the truth is your only chance.’
Palmer’s statement, divested of its cockney slang and picturesque embellishments was as follows:—
‘I suppose you know all about the way Mr. Felix hired the dray,’ began Palmer, ‘and painted it in the shed, and about my mate Jim Brown and me?’ The Inspector nodded, and he continued: ‘Then I don’t need to tell you all that part of it, only that Jim and I from the first were suspicious that there was something crooked about the whole business. Mr. Felix told us he had a bet on that he could get the cask away without being caught, but we didn’t believe that, we thought he was out to steal it. Then when he told us that stevedore fellow was to be fixed so he couldn’t follow us, we were both quite sure it was a do. Then you know how Felix and I left Jim and him in the bar and went back to the shed and repainted the dray? You know all that?’
‘I know,’ said Burnley.
‘We waited in the shed till it was getting on towards dusk, and then we got the cask out to Felix’s, and left it swinging in a set of chain blocks in an out-house. Well, sir, I asked more than twice the pay he’d promised, and when he gave it without a word I was certain he was afraid of me. I thought, “There’s some secret about that cask and he’ld be willing to pay to have it kept quiet.” And then it occurred to me that if I could get hold of it, I could charge him my own price for its return. I didn’t mean to steal it. I didn’t, sir, honest. I only meant to keep it for a day or two till he’d be willing to pay a reward.’
The man paused.
‘Well, you know, Palmer, blackmail is not much better than theft,’ said Burnley.
‘I’m only telling you the truth, sir; that’s the way it was. I thought I’d try and find out what part of the house Felix slept in and if there were others about, so as to see what chances there’d be of getting the dray up again without being heard, so I hid it in a field as you know, and went up the lane. I don’t think I would have done anything only for Felix going away and saying the house was empty. Then it came over me so strongly how easy everything would be with the coast clear and the cask swinging in the chain blocks. The temptation was too strong for me, and I went back and got in as you said. I suppose you must have been there all the time watching me?’
The Inspector did not reply, and Palmer went on:—
‘It happened that for some time I had been going to change my house. There was an empty one close by I thought would suit. I’d got the key on Saturday and looked over it on Sunday. The key was still in my pocket, for I hadn’t had time to return it.
‘I intended to drive the dray down the lane behind this house and get the cask off it, then run round and get in from the front, open the yard door, roll the cask in, lock up again and return the dray to the yard. I would make an excuse with the landlord to keep the key for a day or two till I could get the money out of Felix.
‘Well, sir, I drove down the lane to the back of the house, and then a thing happened that I’d never foreseen. I couldn’t get the cask down. It was too heavy. I put my shoulder to it, and tried my utmost to get it over on its side, but I couldn’t budge it.
‘I worked till the sweat was running down me, using anything I could find for a lever, but it was no good, it wouldn’t move. I went over all my friends in my mind to see if there was any one I could get to help, but there was no one close by that I thought would come in, and I was afraid to put myself in any one’s power that I wasn’t sure of. I believed Jim would be all right, but he lived two miles away and I did not want to go for him for I was late enough as it was.
‘In the end I could think of no other way, and I locked the house and drove the dray to Jim’s. Here I met with another disappointment. Jim had gone out about an hour before, and his wife didn’t know where he was or when he’d be in.
‘I cursed my luck. I was ten times more anxious now to get rid of the cask than I had been before to get hold of it. And then I thought I saw a way out. I would drive back to the yard, leave the cask there on the dray all night, get hold of Jim early in the morning, and with his help take the cask back to the empty house. If any questions were asked I would say Felix had given me instructions to leave it overnight in the yard and deliver it next morning to a certain address. I should hand over ten shillings and say he had sent this for the job.
‘I drove to the yard, and then everything went wrong. First, the boss was there himself, and in a vile temper. I didn’t know till afterwards, but one of our carts had been run into by a motor-lorry earlier in the evening and a lot of damage done and that had upset him.
‘“What’s this thing you’ve got?” he said, when he saw the cask.
‘I told him, and added that Felix had asked me to take it on in the morning, handing him the ten shillings.
‘“Where is it to go?” he asked.
‘Now this was a puzzler, for I hadn’t expected there’d be any one there to ask questions and I had no answer ready. So I made up an address. I chose a big street of shops and warehouses about four miles away—too far for the boss to know much about it, and I tacked on an imaginary number.
‘“133 Little George Street,” I answered.
‘The boss took a bit of chalk and wrote the address on the blackboard we have for such notes. Then he turned back to the broken cart, and I unyoked the horse from the dray and went home.
‘I was very annoyed by the turn things had taken, but I thought that after all it would not make much difference having given the address. I could go to the empty house in the morning as I had arranged.
‘I was early over at Jim’s next morning and told him the story. He was real mad at first and cursed me for all kinds of a fool. I kept on explaining how safe it was, for we were both sure Felix couldn’t call in the police or make a fuss. At last he agreed to stand in with me, and it was arranged that he would go direct to the empty house, while I followed with the cask. He would explain his not turning up at the yard by saying he was ill.
‘The boss was seldom in when we arrived, but he was there this morning, and his temper was no better.
‘“Here, you,” he called, when he saw me, “I thought you were never coming. Get the big gray yoked into the box cart and get away to this address”—he handed me a paper—“to shift a piano.”
‘“But the cask,” I stammered.
‘“You mind your own business and do what you’re told. I’ve settled about that.”
‘I looked round. The dray was gone, and whether he’d sent it back to Felix or to the address I’d given, I didn’t know.
‘I cursed the whole affair bitterly, particularly when I thought of Jim waiting at the house. But there was nothing I could do, and I yoked the box cart and left. I went round by the house and told Jim, and I never saw a madder man in all my life. I could make nothing of him, so I left him and did the piano job. I just got back to the yard and was going for dinner when you nabbed me.’
When the prisoner had mentioned the address in Little George Street, Burnley had given a rapid order to the driver, and the statement had only just been finished when the car turned into the street.
‘No. 133, you said?’
‘That’s it, sir.’
No. 133 was a large hardware shop. Burnley saw the proprietor.
‘Yes,’ the latter said, ‘we have the cask, and I may say I was very annoyed with my foreman for taking it in without an advice note or something in writing. You can have it at once on your satisfying me you really are from Scotland Yard.’
His doubts were quickly set at rest, and he led the party to his yard.
‘Is that it, Palmer?’ asked Burnley.
‘That’s it, sir, right enough.’
‘Good. Hastings, you remain here with it till I send a dray. Get it loaded up and see it yourself to the Yard. You can then go off duty. You, Palmer, come with me.’
Re-entering the car, Burnley and his prisoner were driven to the same destination, where the latter was handed over to another official.
‘If Mr. Felix will consent not to prosecute,’ said Burnley as the man was being led off, ‘you’ll get out at once.’
The Inspector waited about till the dray arrived, and, when he had seen with his own eyes that the cask was really there, he walked to his accustomed restaurant and sat down to enjoy a long deferred meal.
CHAPTER VIII
It wasgetting on towards five when Inspector Burnley, like a giant refreshed with wine, emerged once more upon the street. Calling a taxi, he gave the address of St. Malo, Great North Road.
‘Now for friend Felix,’ he thought, as he lit a cigar. He was tired and he lay back on the cushions, enjoying the relaxation as the car slipped dexterously through the traffic. Familiar as he was with every phase of London life, he never wearied of the panorama of the streets, the ceaseless movement, the kaleidoscopic colours. The sights of the pavement, the sound of pneus upon asphalt, the very smell of burnt petrol—each appealed to him as part of the alluring whole he loved.
They passed through the Haymarket and along Shaftesbury Avenue, turned up Tottenham Court Road, and through Kentish Town out on the Great North Road. Here the traffic was less dense and they made better speed. Burnley removed his hat and allowed the cool air to blow on his head. His case was going well. He was content.
Nearly an hour had passed before he rang the bell at St. Malo. Felix opened the door, the visage of Sergeant Kelvin, his watchdog, appearing in the gloom at the back of the hall.
‘What luck, Inspector?’ he cried, when he recognised his visitor.
‘We’ve got it, Mr. Felix. Found it a couple of hours ago. I’ve got a taxi here, and, if convenient for you, we’ll go right in and open the thing at once.’
‘Right. I’m sure I am ready.’
‘You come along too, Kelvin,’ said the Inspector to his subordinate, and when Felix had got his hat and coat the three men walked up to the taxi.
‘Scotland Yard,’ called Burnley, and the car swung round and started citywards.
As they sped swiftly along, the Inspector gave an account of his day to his companion. The latter was restless and excited, and admitted he would be glad to get the business over. He was anxious about the money, as it happened that a sum of £1000 would just enable him to meet a mortgage, which otherwise would press rather heavily upon him. Burnley looked up sharply when he heard this.
‘Did your French friend know that?’ he asked.
‘Le Gautier? No, I’m sure he did not.’
‘If you take my advice, Mr. Felix, you won’t count too much on the cask. Indeed, you should prepare yourself for something unpleasant.’
‘What do you mean?’ exclaimed Felix. ‘You hinted that you thought the cask contained something besides the money. What was it?’
‘I’m sorry I can’t answer you. The thing was only a suspicion, and we shall learn the truth in so short a time it’s not worth discussion.’
Burnley having to make a call on some other business, they returned by a different route, coming down to the river near London Bridge. Already the day was drawing in, and yellow spots of light began to gleam in the windows of the palace hotels, and from the murky buildings on the south side. On the comparatively deserted Embankment they made good speed, and Big Ben was chiming the quarter after seven as they swung into the Yard.
‘I’ll see if the Chief’s in,’ said Burnley, as they reached his office. ‘He wanted to see the cask opened.’
The great man was getting ready to go home, but decided to wait on seeing the Inspector. He greeted Felix politely.
‘Singular set of circumstances, Mr. Felix,’ he said, as they shook hands. ‘I trust they will remain only that.’
‘You’re all very mysterious about it,’ returned Felix. ‘I have been trying to get a hint of the Inspector’s suspicions but he won’t commit himself.’
‘We shall see now in a moment.’
Headed by Burnley, they passed along a corridor, down some steps and through other passages, until they emerged in a small open yard entirely surrounded by a high, window-pierced building. Apparently in the daytime it acted as a light well, but now in the growing dusk it was itself illuminated by a powerful arc lamp which threw an intense beam over every part of the granolithic floor. In the centre stood the cask, on end, with the damaged stave up.
The little group numbered five. There were the Chief, Felix, Burnley, Sergeant Kelvin, and another nondescript looking man. Burnley stepped forward.
‘This cask is so exceedingly strongly made,’ he said, ‘I’ve got a carpenter to open it. I suppose he may begin?’
The Chief nodded, and the nondescript man advancing set to work and soon lifted out the pieces of wood from the top. He held one up.
‘You see, gentlemen, it’s nearly two inches thick, more than twice as heavy as an ordinary wine cask.’
‘That’ll do, carpenter. I’ll call you if I want you again,’ said Burnley, and the man, touching his cap, promptly disappeared.
The four men drew closer. The cask was filled up to the top with sawdust. Burnley began removing it, sifting it carefully through his fingers.
‘Here’s the first,’ he said, as he laid a sovereign on the floor to one side. ‘And another! And another!’
The sovereigns began to grow into a tiny pile.
‘There’s some very uneven-shaped thing here,’ he said again. ‘About the centre the sawdust is not half an inch thick, but it goes down deep round the sides. Lend a hand, Kelvin, but be careful and don’t use force.’
The unpacking continued. Handful after handful of dust was taken out and, after being sifted, was placed in a heap beside the sovereigns. As they got deeper the operation became slower, the spaces from which the tightly packed dust was removed growing narrower and harder to get at. Fewer sovereigns were found, suggesting that these had been placed at the top of the cask after the remainder of the contents had been packed.
‘All the sawdust we can get at is out now,’ Burnley said presently, and then, in a lower tone, ‘I’m afraid it’s a body. I’ve come on a hand.’
‘A hand? A body?’ cried Felix, his face paling and an expression of fear growing in his eyes. The Chief moved closer to him as the others bent over the cask.
The two men worked silently for some moments and then Burnley spoke again,—
‘Lift now. Carefully does it.’
They stooped again over the cask and, with a sudden effort lifted out a paper-covered object and laid it reverently on the ground. A sharp ‘My God!’ burst from Felix, and even the case-hardened Chief drew in his breath quickly.
It was the body of a woman, the head and shoulders being wrapped round with sheets of brown paper. It lay all bunched together as it had done in the cask. One dainty hand, with slim, tapered fingers protruded from the paper, and stuck stiffly upwards beside the rounded shoulder.
The men stopped and stood motionless looking down at the still form. Felix was standing rigid, his face blanched, his eyes protruding, horror stamped on his features. The Chief spoke in a low tone,—
‘Take off the paper.’
Burnley caught the loose corner and gently removed it. As it came away the figure within became revealed to the onlookers.
The body was that of a youngish woman, elegantly clad in an evening gown of pale pink cut low round the throat and shoulders, and trimmed with old lace. Masses of dark hair were coiled round the small head. On the fingers the glint of precious stones caught the light. The feet were cased in silk stockings, but no shoes. Pinned to the dress was an envelope.
But it was on the face and neck the gaze of the men was riveted. Once she had clearly been beautiful, but now the face was terribly black and swollen. The dark eyes were open and protruding, and held an expression of deadly horror and fear. The lips were drawn back showing the white, even teeth. And below, on the throat were two discoloured bruises, side by side, round marks close to the windpipe, thumb-prints of the animal who had squeezed out that life with relentless and merciless hands.
When the paper was removed from the dead face, the eyes of Felix seemed to start literally out of his head.
‘God!’ he shrieked in a thin, shrill tone. ‘It’s Annette!’ He stood for a moment, waved his hands convulsively, and then, slowly turning, pitched forward insensible on the floor.
The chief caught him before his head touched the ground.
‘Lend a hand here,’ he called.
Burnley and the sergeant sprang forward and, lifting the inanimate form, bore it into an adjoining room and laid it gently on the floor.
‘Doctor,’ said the Chief shortly, and the sergeant hurried off.
‘Bad business, this,’ resumed the Chief. ‘He didn’t know what was coming?’
‘I don’t think so, sir. My impression has been all through that he was being fooled by this Frenchman, whoever he is.’
‘It’s murder now, anyway. You’ll have to go to Paris, Burnley, and look into it.’
‘Yes, sir, very good.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s eight o’clock. I shall hardly be able to go to-night. I shall have to take the cask and the clothing, and get some photos and measurements of the corpse and hear the result of the medical examination.’
‘To-morrow will be time enough, but I’d go by the nine o’clock train. I’ll give you a personal note to Chauvet, the chief of the Paris police. You speak French, I think?’
‘Enough to get on, sir.’
‘You shouldn’t have much difficulty, I think. The Paris men are bound to know if there are any recent disappearances, and if not you have the cask and the clothing to fall back on.’
‘Yes, sir, they should be a help.’
Footsteps in the corridor announced the arrival of the doctor. With a hasty greeting to the Chief, he turned to the unconscious man.
‘What happened to him?’ he asked.
‘He has had a shock,’ answered the Chief, explaining in a few words what had occurred.
‘He’ll have to be removed to hospital at once. Better get a stretcher.’
The sergeant disappeared again and in a few seconds returned with the apparatus and another man. Felix was lifted on to it and borne off.
‘Doctor,’ said the Chief, as the former was about to follow, ‘as soon as you are through with him I wish you’ld make an examination of the woman’s body. It seems fairly clear what happened to her, but it would be better to have a post-mortem. Poison may have been used also. Burnley, here, is going to Paris by the nine o’clock in the morning to make inquiries, and he will want a copy of your report with him.’
‘I shall have it ready,’ said the doctor as, with a bow, he hurried after his patient.
‘Now, let’s have a look at that letter.’
They returned to the courtyard and Burnley unpinned the envelope from the dead woman’s gown. It was unaddressed, but the Chief slit it open and drew out a sheet of folded paper. It bore a single line of typing:—
‘Your £50 loan returned herewith with £2 10s. 0d. interest.’
That was all. No date, address, salutation, or signature. Nothing to indicate who had sent it, or whose was the body that had accompanied it.
‘Allow me, sir,’ said Burnley.
He took the paper and scrutinised it carefully. Then he held it up to the light.
‘This is from Le Gautier also,’ he continued. ‘See the watermark. It is the same paper as Felix’s letter. Look also at the typing. Here are the crooked n’s and r’s, the defective l’s and the t’s and e’s below alignment. It was typed on the same machine.’
‘Looks like it certainly.’ Then, after a pause: ‘Come to my room for that letter to M. Chauvet.’
They traversed the corridors and the Inspector got his introduction to the Paris police. Then returning to the little yard, he began the preparations for his journey.
First he picked up and counted the money. There was £31 10s. in English gold and, having made a note of the amount, he slipped it into his pocket as a precaution against chance passers-by. With the £21 handed by Broughton to Mr. Avery, this made the £52 10s. referred to in the typewritten slip. Then he had the body moved to the dissecting-room and photographed from several points of view, after which it was stripped by a female assistant. The clothes he went through with great care, examining every inch of the material for maker’s names, initials, or other marks. Only on the delicate cambric handkerchief was his search rewarded, a small A. B. being embroidered amid the tracery of one corner. Having attached a label to each garment separately, as well as to the rings from the fingers and a diamond comb from the luxuriant hair, he packed them carefully in a small portmanteau, ready for transport to France.
Sending for the carpenter, he had the end boards of the cask replaced, and the whole thing wrapped in sacking and corded. Labelling it to himself at the Gare du Nord, he had it despatched to Charing Cross with instructions to get it away without delay.
It was past ten when his preparations were complete, and he was not sorry when he was free to go home to supper and bed.
PART II—PARIS
CHAPTER IX
At 9.00 a.m.next morning the Continental express moved slowly out of Charing Cross station, bearing in the corner of a first-class smoking compartment, Inspector Burnley. The glorious weather of the past few days had not held, and the sky was clouded over, giving a promise of rain. The river showed dark and gloomy as they drew over it, and the houses on the south side had resumed their normal dull and grimy appearance. A gentle breeze blew from the south-west, and Burnley, who was a bad sailor, hoped it would not be very much worse at Dover. He lit one of his strong-smelling cigars and puffed at it thoughtfully as the train ran with ever-increasing speed through the extraordinary tangle of lines south of London Bridge.
He was glad to be taking this journey. He liked Paris and he had not been there for four years, not indeed since the great Marcelle murder case, which attracted so much attention in both countries. M. Lefarge, the genial French detective with whom he had then collaborated, had become a real friend and he hoped to run across him again.
They had reached the outer suburbs and occasional fields began to replace the lines of little villas which lie closer to the city. He watched the flying objects idly for a few minutes, and then with a little sigh turned his attention to his case, as a barrister makes up his brief before going into court.
He considered first his object in making the journey. He had to find out who the murdered woman was, if she was murdered, though there appeared little doubt about that. He had to discover and get convicting evidence against the murderer, and lastly, he had to learn the explanation of the extraordinary business of the cask.
He then reviewed the data he already had, turning first to the medical report which up till then he had not had an opportunity of reading. There was first a note about Felix. That unhappy man was entirely prostrated from the shock and his life was in serious danger.
The Inspector had already known this, for he had gone to the ward before seven that morning in the hope of getting a statement from the sick man, only to find him semi-conscious and delirious. The identity of the dead woman could not, therefore, be ascertained from him. He, Burnley, must rely on his own efforts.
The report then dealt with the woman. She was aged about five-and-twenty, five feet seven in height and apparently gracefully built, and weighing a little over eight stone. She had dark hair of great length and luxuriance, and eyes with long lashes and delicately pencilled brows. Her mouth was small and regular, her nose slightly retroussé and her face a true oval. She had a broad, low forehead, and her complexion appeared to have been very clear, though dark. There was no distinguishing mark on the body.
‘Surely,’ thought Burnley, ‘with such a description it should be easy to identify her.’
The report continued:—
‘There are ten marks about her neck, apparently finger marks. Of these eight are together at the back of the neck and not strongly marked. The remaining two are situated in front of the throat, close together and one on each side of the windpipe. The skin at these points is much bruised and blackened, and the pressure must therefore have been very great.
‘It seemed clear the marks were caused by some individual standing in front of her and squeezing her throat with both hands, the thumbs on the windpipe and the fingers round the neck. From the strength necessary to produce such bruises, it looks as if this individual were a man.
‘An autopsy revealed the fact that all the organs were sound, and there was no trace of poison or other cause of death. The conclusion is therefore unavoidable that the woman was murdered by strangulation. She appears to have been dead about a week or slightly longer.’
‘That’s definite, anyway,’ mused Burnley. ‘Let’s see what else we have.’
There was the woman’s rank in life. She was clearly well off if not rich, and probably well born. Her fingers suggested culture; they were those of the artist or musician. The wedding ring on her right hand showed that she was married and living in France. ‘Surely,’ thought the Inspector again, ‘the Chief is right. It would be impossible for a woman of this kind to disappear without the knowledge of the French police. My job will be done when I have seen them.’
But supposing they did not know. What then?
There was first of all the letter to Felix. The signatory, M. Le Gautier, assuming such a man existed, should be able to give a clue. The waiters in the Toisson d’Or Café might know something. The typewriter with the defective letters was surely traceable.
The clothes in which the corpse was dressed suggested another line of attack. Inquiry at the leading Paris shops could hardly fail to produce information. And if not there were the rings and the diamond comb. These would surely lead to something.
Then there was the cask. It was a specially made one, and must surely have been used for a very special purpose. Inquiry from the firm whose label it had borne could hardly be fruitless.
And lastly, if all these failed, there was left advertisement. A judiciously worded notice with a reward for information of identity would almost certainly draw. Burnley felt he was well supplied with clues. Many and many a thorny problem he had solved with far less to go on.
He continued turning the matter over in his mind in his slow, painstaking way until a sudden plunge into a tunnel and a grinding of brakes warned him they were coming into Dover.
The crossing was calm and uneventful. Before they passed between the twin piers at Calais the sun had burst out, the clouds were thinning, and blue sky showing in the distance.
They made a good run to Paris, stopping only at Amiens, and at 5.45 precisely drew slowly into the vast, echoing vault of the Gare du Nord. Calling a taxi, the Inspector drove to a small private hotel he usually patronised in the rue Castiglione. Having secured his room, he re-entered the taxi and went to the Sûreté, the Scotland Yard of Paris.
He inquired for M. Chauvet, sending in his letter of introduction. The Chief was in and disengaged, and after a few minutes delay Inspector Burnley was ushered into his presence.
M. Chauvet, Chef de la Sûreté, was a small, elderly man with a dark, pointed beard, gold-rimmed glasses, and an exceedingly polite manner.
‘Sit down, Mr. Burnley,’ he said in excellent English, as they shook hands. ‘I think we have had the pleasure of co-operating with you before?’
Burnley reminded him of the Marcelle murder case.
‘Ah, of course, I remember. And now you are bringing us another of the same kind. Is it not so?’
‘Yes, sir, and a rather puzzling one also. But I am in hopes we have enough information to clear it up quickly.’
‘Good, I hope you have. Please let me have, in a word or two, the briefest outline, then I shall ask you to go over it again in detail.’
Burnley complied, explaining in half a dozen sentences the gist of the case.
‘The circumstances are certainly singular,’ said the Chief. ‘Let me think whom I shall put in charge of it with you. Dupont is perhaps the best man, but he is engaged on that burglary at Chartres.’ He looked up a card index. ‘Of those disengaged, the best perhaps are Cambon, Lefarge, and Bontemps. All good men.’
He stretched out his hand to the desk telephone.
‘Pardon me, sir,’ said Burnley. ‘I don’t want to make suggestions or interfere in what is not my business, but I had the pleasure of co-operating with M. Lefarge in the Marcelle case, and if it was quite the same I should very much like to work with him again.’
‘But excellent, monsieur. I hear you say that with much pleasure.’
He lifted his desk telephone, pressing one of the many buttons on its stand.
‘Ask M. Lefarge to come here at once.’
In a few seconds a tall, clean-shaven, rather English looking man entered.
‘Ah, Lefarge,’ said the Chief. ‘Here is a friend of yours.’
The two detectives shook hands warmly.
‘He has brought us another murder mystery and very interesting it sounds. Now, Mr. Burnley, perhaps you would let us hear your story in detail.’
The Inspector nodded, and beginning at the sending of the clerk Tom Broughton to check the consignment of wine at the Rouen steamer, he related all the strange events that had taken place, the discovery of the cask, and the suspicions aroused, the forged note, the removal of the cask, the getting rid of Harkness, the tracing and second disappearance of the cask, its ultimate recovery, its sinister contents, and finally, a list of the points which might yield clues if followed up. The two men listened intently, but without interrupting. After he had finished they sat silently in thought.
‘In one point I do not quite follow you, Mr. Burnley,’ said the Chief at last. ‘You appear to assume that this murdered woman was a Parisienne. But what are your reasons for that?’
‘The cask came from Paris. That is certain, as you will see from the steamship’s documents. Then the letter to Felix purports to be from a Parisian, a M. Le Gautier, and both it and the note pinned to the body were typed on French paper. Further, the label on the cask bore the name of a Paris firm.’
‘It does not seem to me very conclusive. The cask admittedly came from Paris, but might not Paris have been only the last stage of a longer journey? How, for example, do we know that it was not from London, or Brussels, or Berlin, in the first instance, and rebooked at Paris with the object of laying a false scent? With regard to the letter, I understand you did not see the envelope. Therefore it does not seem to be evidence. As for the French paper, Felix had been frequently in France, and he might be responsible for that. The label, again, was a re-addressed old one. Might it not therefore have been taken off some quite different package and put on the cask?’
‘I admit the evidence is far from conclusive, though it might be said in answer to your first point about the re-addressing of the cask in Paris, that such would involve a confederate here. In any case it seemed to both our Chief and myself that Paris should be our first point of inquiry.’
‘But yes, monsieur, in that I entirely agree. I only wished to make the point that you have no real evidence that the solution of the problem lies here.’
‘I’m afraid we have not.’
‘Well, to proceed. As you have suggested, the first point is to ascertain if any one resembling the dead woman has disappeared recently. Your doctor says that she has been dead for a week or longer, but I do not think that we can confine our inquiries to that period only. She might have been kidnapped and held a prisoner for a considerable time previous to her death. I should say that it is not likely, but it may have happened.’
He lifted his telephone, pressing another button.
‘Bring me the list of disappearances of persons in the Paris area during the last four weeks, or rather’—he stopped and looked at the others—‘the disappearances in all France for the same period.’
In a few seconds a clerk entered with some papers.
‘Here are all the disappearances reported during March, monsieur,’ he said, ‘and here those for April up to the present date. I haven’t a return for the last four weeks only, but can get one out at once if you wish.’
‘No. These are all right.’
The Chief examined the documents.
‘Last month,’ he said, ‘seven persons disappeared of whom six were women, four being in the Paris area. This month two people have disappeared, both women and both in the Paris area. That is six women in Paris in the last five weeks. Let’s see, now,’ he ran his fingers down the column, ‘Suzanne Lemaître, aged seventeen, last seen—well, it could not be she. Lucille Marquet, aged twenty—no good either. All these are girls under twenty-one, except one. Here, what is this? Marie Lachaise, aged thirty-four, height 172 centimetres—that is about five feet eight in English measure—dark hair and eyes and clear complexion, wife of M. Henri Lachaise, the avocat, of 41 rue Tinques, Boulevarde Arago. Left home on the twenty-ninth ultimo, that is about ten days ago, at three o’clock, ostensibly for shopping. Has not been heard of since. Better take a note of that.’
M. Lefarge did so, and spoke for the first time.
‘We shall try it, of course, monsieur, but I don’t expect much result. If that woman went out to shop she would hardly be wearing evening dress, as was the corpse.’
‘Also,’ said Burnley, ‘I think we may take it the dead woman’s name was Annette B.’
‘Probably you are both right. Still, you had better make sure.’
The Chief tossed away the papers and looked at Burnley.
‘No other disappearances have been reported, nor have we any further information here that would seem to help. I am afraid we must fall back on our other clues. Let us consider, therefore, where we should start.’
He paused for a few moments and then resumed.
‘We may begin, I think, by checking the part of Felix’s statement which you, Mr. Burnley, have not yet been able to inquire into, and to do so we must interview M. Le Gautier and try to ascertain if he wrote the letter. If he admits it we will be a step farther on, if not, we must find out how far the story of the lottery and the bet is true, and whether the conversation described by Felix actually took place. In this case we must ascertain precisely who were present and overheard that conversation, and would therefore have the knowledge necessary to write that letter. If this does not give us what we want, it may be necessary to follow up each of these persons and try for our man by elimination. A part of that inquiry would be a search for the typewriter used, which, as Mr. Burnley points out, is identifiable. Simultaneously, I think we should endeavour to trace the wearing apparel and the cask. What do you think of that, gentlemen, for a rough programme?’
‘I don’t think we could do better, sir,’ returned Burnley as the Chief looked at him, while Lefarge nodded his approval.
‘Very well, I would suggest that you and Lefarge go into the matter of the letter to-morrow. Arrange your programme as you think best for yourselves and keep me advised of how you get on. And now as to the clothes. Let me see exactly what you have.’
Burnley spread out the dead woman’s clothes and jewellery on a table. The Chief examined them for some minutes in silence.
‘Better separate them into three lots,’ he said at length, ‘the dress, the underclothes, and the trinkets. It will take three to work it properly.’ He consulted his card index and picked up the telephone.
‘Send Mme. Furnier and Mlles. Lecoq and Blaise here.’
In a few seconds three stylishly dressed women entered. The Chief introduced Burnley and briefly explained the case.
‘I want you three ladies,’ he said, ‘to take one each of these three lots of clothes and trinkets, and find the purchaser. Their quality will give you an idea of the shops to try. Get at it first thing to-morrow, and keep yourselves in constant touch with headquarters.’
When the women had withdrawn with the articles he turned to Burnley,—
‘In an inquiry of this sort I like a report in the evenings of progress during the day. Perhaps you and Lefarge wouldn’t mind calling about nine to-morrow evening, when we shall have a further discussion. And now it is nearly eight o’clock, so you cannot do anything to-night. You, Mr. Burnley, are doubtless tired from your journey and will be glad to get to your hotel. So good-night, gentlemen.’
The detectives bowed themselves out. After an exchange of further greetings and compliments, Lefarge said:—
‘Are you really very tired? Are you game for a short inquiry to-night?’
‘Why, certainly. What do you propose?’
‘This. Let us cross and get some dinner at Jules’ in the Boule Miche. It’s on the way to that address the Chief gave us. Then we could go on and see whether the body you found in the cask can be identified as that of Madame Marie Lachaise.’
They strolled leisurely over the Pont St. Michel and crossed the Quai into the Boulevard. When Burnley was in London he swore there was no place like that city, but in Paris he never felt so sure. Jove! he was glad to be back. And what luck to have met this good fellow Lefarge again! He felt that in the intervals of business he was going to enjoy himself.
They dined inexpensively but well, sitting over their cigars and liqueur coffee until the clocks struck nine. Then Lefarge made a move.
‘I don’t like to go to this place too late,’ he said. ‘Do you mind coming now?’
They took a taxi and, leaving the Luxembourg behind on the left, quickly ran the mile or so to the Boulevard Arago. M. Lachaise received them at once and they stated their melancholy business, showing the photograph of the body. The avocat took it to the light and examined it earnestly. Then he returned it with a gesture of relief.