"I suppose we ought to start in about half an hour," said the Senator
genially. They were sitting, he and Gerald, at breakfast.
Madame Poulain, with the adaptability of her kind--the adaptability which
makes the French innkeeper the best in the world, always served a real
"American breakfast" in the Burtons' salon.
As his son made no answer to his remark, he went on, "I should like to be
at the station a few minutes before the Hamworths' train is due."
Senator Burton was sorry, very, very sorry indeed, that there was still no
news of the missing man, on this third morning of Dampier's disappearance.
But he could not help feeling glad that poor little Mrs. Dampier had stayed
in bed; thanks to that fact he and his children were having breakfast
together, in the old, comfortable way.
The Senator felt happier than he had felt for some time. What a comfort it
would be, even to Gerald and to Daisy, to forget for a moment this strange,
painful affair, and to spend three or four hours with old friends!
Gerald looked up. "I'm not coming, father. You will have to make my
apologies to the Hamworths. Of course I should have liked to see them. But
Mrs. Dampier has asked me to be present at the search. Someone ought, of
course, to be there to represent her." He jerked the words out with a touch
of defiance in his voice.
"I'm sorry she did that," said the Senator coldly. "And I think, Gerald,
you should have consulted me before consenting to do so. You see, our
position with regard to the Poulains is a delicate one--"
"Delicate?" repeated Gerald quickly. "How do you mean, father?"
"We have known these people a long while. It is fifteen years, Gerald,
since I first came to this hotel with your dear mother. I have received
nothing but kindness from Madame Poulain, and I am very, very sorry that
she now associates us in her mind with this painful business."
"All I can say is, sir, that I do not share your sorrow."
The Senator looked up quickly. This was the first time--yes, the very first
time that Gerald had ever spoken to him with that touch of sarcasm--some
would have said impertinence--which sits so ill on the young, at any rate
in the view of the old. Perhaps Gerald repented of his rude, hasty words,
for it was in a very different tone that he went on:--
"You see, father, I believe the whole of Mrs. Dampier's story, and you only
believe a part. If I shared your view I should think very ill of her
indeed. But you, father (I don't quite know how you do it) manage to like
and respect her, and to believe the Poulains as well!"
"Yes," said the Senator slowly, "that is so, Gerald. I believe that the
Poulains are telling the truth, and that this poor young woman thinks she
is telling the truth--two very different things, my boy, as you will find
out by the time you know as much of human nature as I now do. When you have
lived as long as I have lived in the world, you will know that many people
have an extraordinary power of persuading themselves of that which
is not--"
"But why--" asked Gerald eagerly,--"why should Mrs. Dampier wish to prove
that her husband accompanied her here if he did nothing of the kind?"
And then just as he asked the question which the Senator would not have
found it very easy to answer, Daisy came into the room.
"I have persuaded Mrs. Dampier to stay in bed till the search is over.
She's just worn out, poor little dear: I shall be glad when this Mr.
Stephens has arrived--she evidently has the greatest faith in him."
"I shall be glad too," said the Senator slowly: how glad he would be
neither of his children knew or guessed. "And now, Daisy, I hope you won't
be long in getting ready to start for the station. I should be sorry indeed
if the Hamworths' train came in before we reached there."
"Father! Surely you don't want me to leave Nancy this morning of all
mornings? She ought not to be alone while the search is going on. She
wanted to be actually present at it, didn't she, Gerald?"
The young man nodded. "Yes, but Daisy and I persuaded her that that was not
necessary, that I would be there for her. It seems that Mr. Dampier had a
very large portmanteau with him. She is sure that the Poulains have got it
hidden away."
"She has told Gerald exactly what it is like," chimed in Daisy.
The Senator looked from one to the other: he felt both helpless and
indignant. "The Hamworths are among the oldest friends we have in the
world," he exclaimed. "Surely one of you will come with me? I'm not asking
you to leave Mrs. Dampier for long, Daisy."
But Daisy shook her head decidedly. "I'd rather not, father--I don't feel
as if I wanted to see the Hamworths at all just now. I'm sure that when you
explain everything to them, they will understand."
Utterly discomfited and disappointed, and feeling for the first time really
angry with poor Nancy Dampier, Senator Burton took his departure for the
station, alone.
Perquisition?
To the French imagination there is something terrifying in the very word.
And this justifiable terror is a national tradition. To thousands of honest
folk a Perquisition was an ever present fear through the old Régime, and
this fear became acute terror in the Revolution. Then a search warrant
meant almost certainly subsequent arrest, imprisonment, and death.
Even nowadays every Frenchman is aware that at any moment, and sometimes on
the most frivolous pretext, his house may be searched, his most private
papers ransacked, and every member of his household submitted to a sharp,
informal interrogation, while he stands helpless by, bearing the outrage
with what grace he may.
Gerald Burton, much as he now disliked and suspected Monsieur and Madame
Poulain, could not but feel sorry for them when he saw the manner in which
those hitherto respectable and self-respecting folk were treated by the
Police Agent who, with two subordinates, had been entrusted with the task
of searching the Hôtel Saint Ange.
The American was also surprised to see the eagerness with which the
Poulains had welcomed his presence at their unpleasant ordeal.
"Thank you for coming, Monsieur Gerald; but where is Monsieur le Sénateur?"
asked Madame Poulain feverishly. "He promised--he absolutely promised us
that he would be here this morning!"
"My father has had to go out," said Gerald courteously, "but I am here to
represent both him and Mrs. Dampier."
A heavy frown gathered over the landlady's face. "Ah!" she muttered, "it
was a dark day for us when we allowed that lady to enter our hotel!"
Gerald, putting a strong restraint on his tongue, remained silent, but a
moment later, as if in answer to his feeling of exasperation and anger, he
heard the Police Agent's voice raised in sarcastic wrath. "I must ask you
to produce the plan before I begin my Perquisition."
"But, monsieur," exclaimed the hotel-keeper piteously, "I cannot give you a
plan of our hotel! How should we have such a thing? The house is said to be
three hundred years old. We have even been told it should be classed as an
Historical Monument!"
"Every hotel-keeper is bound to have a plan of his hotel," said the Agent
roughly. "And I shall report you for not complying with the law. If a plan
of the Hôtel Saint Ange did not exist, it was your duty to have one made at
your own expense."
"Bien, bien, monsieur! It shall be done," said Poulain resignedly.
"To have a Perquisition without a plan is a farce!" said the man, this time
addressing Gerald Burton. "An absolute farce! In such an old house as this
there may be many secret hiding-places."
"There are no secret hiding-places in our hotel," screamed Madame Poulain
angrily. "We have no objection at all to being inspected in the greatest
detail. But I must warn you, gentlemen, that your job will take some time
to carry through."
The Police Agent shrugged his shoulders disagreeably. "Come along," he said
sharply. "Let us begin at once! We would like to start by seeing your own
rooms, madame."
Gerald Burton began to feel very uncomfortable. Under pleasanter, more
normal circumstances he would have thoroughly enjoyed a long exhaustive
inspection of a house which had probably been remodelled, early in the
eighteenth century, on the site of a mediaeval building.
For the first time since he had begun to study with a view to excelling in
the profession he had himself chosen, he had forgotten his work--the work
he so much enjoyed--for three whole days. This Perquisition brought some of
the old interest back. As an architect he could not but be interested and
stimulated by this intimate inspection of what had been a magnificent
specimen of a French town mansion.
When the search party reached the bed-chamber of the hotel-keeper and his
wife Gerald Burton drew back, but Madame Poulain gave him a smart tap on
the arm. "Go in, go in!" she said tartly, but he saw there were tears in
her eyes. "We have nothing to hide, Monsieur Gerald! This is my room of
memories; the room where our beloved Virginie was born. Little did I think
it would ever be dishonoured by the presence of the police!"
Gerald, thus objurgated, walked through into a large room, low-ceilinged as
are all rooms situated on the entresol floor of a Paris house.
Over the bed hung Madame Poulain's wedding wreath of artificial orange
blossoms in a round glass case. Photographs of the beloved Virginie taken
at various stages of her life, from infancy to girlhood, were the sole
other adornment of the room, and formed an odd contrast to the delicately
carved frames of the old dim mirrors let into grey panelled walls.
"What have we here?" cried the Police Agent tapping one of the panels which
formed the wall opposite the door and the fireplace.
"It is a way through into our daughter's room," said Poulain sullenly, and
opening what appeared to be a cupboard door.
The American took an eager step forward.
This must be the place in which, according to Nancy's account, John Dampier
had stood concealed during that eventful moment when he, Gerald, and his
sister Daisy, had stood looking into the tiny room.
Yes, two or three people might well stand hidden in this deep recess, for
the cupboard was almost as large as the smaller of the two apartments of
which it formed the connecting link.
The Police Agent, following young Burton, stepped down into Virginie's
room:--his voice softened:--"A very charming room," he said, "this little
nest of mademoiselle your daughter!"
"We had to cut a window out of the wall," observed Madame Poulain, "When we
first came here this was a blind closet where the aristocrats, it seems,
used to powder their hair--silly creatures that they were! As if anyone
would like to be white before their time!"
"We had better go up this staircase," said the Police Agent, passing out of
Mademoiselle Poulain's room.
And the six of them all filed up the narrow staircase, glancing into many a
curious, strange little apartment on the way.
Every inch of space had been utilised in view of the business the
Exhibition rush had brought the Poulains. Still, even on the upper floors,
Gerald Burton noticed that there remained intact many beautiful suites of
apartments now divided and let out as single rooms.
Not a word had been said of the coming Perquisition to those staying in the
hotel. But Madame Poulain, by some means best known to herself, had managed
to get rid of them all for the morning. And it was well that she had done
so, for in more than one case the Police Agent and his men lifted the lid
of travelling trunks, unhesitatingly pulled out drawers, and flung open the
doors of hanging cupboards.
Gerald Burton was in turn amused, interested, and disgusted. The glimpses
which this search revealed into other people's lives seemed dishonourable,
and instinctively he withdrew his gaze and strove to see as little
as possible.
Having thoroughly examined all the street side of the Hôtel Saint Ange, the
three police emissaries started their investigations on the other side of
the quadrangle, that which gave on the courtyard and on the garden.
When the party came round to the rooms occupied by Senator Burton and his
family, Madame Poulain came forward, and touched the Police Agent on the
arm:--"The lady who imagines that we have made away with her husband is
here," she whispered. "You had better knock at the door, and then walk
straight in. She will not be pleased--perhaps she will scream--English
people are so prudish when they are in bed! But never mind what she says or
does: there is no reason why her room should not be searched as well as
that of everybody else."
But the woman's vengeful wish was to remain ungratified.
Nancy Dampier had dressed, and with Daisy's help she had even made her bed.
The Police Agent--Gerald Burton was deeply grateful to him for it--treated
her with consideration and respect.
"C'est bien! C'est bien! madame," he said, just glancing round the room,
and making a quick sign to his men that their presence was not
required there.
At last the weary party, for by that time they were all very weary, reached
the top floor of the Hôtel Saint Ange.
Here were rough garrets, oppressively hot on a day like this, but each and
all obviously serving some absent client of the hotel as temporary
dwelling-place.
Madame Poulain looked quite exhausted. "I think," she said plaintively, "I
will remain here, monsieur, at the end of the passage. You will find every
door unlocked. Perhaps we ought to tell you that these rooms are not as a
rule inhabited, or indeed used by us in any way. That must excuse their
present condition. But in a season like this--well, dame! we could fill
every cranny twice over!"
Gerald and the three Frenchmen walked along the corridor, the latter
flinging open door after door of the curious cell-like little bedrooms
furnished for the most part with only an iron bed, a couple of chairs, and
the usual walnut-wood wardrobe.
"What's this?" asked one of the men sharply. "We find a door plastered up
here, Monsieur Poulain."
But it was Madame Poulain who came languidly forward from the end of the
passage. "Yes," she said. "If you wish to see that room you will have to
get a ladder and climb up from the outside. A young Breton priest died here
last January from scarlet fever, monsieur--" she lowered her voice
instinctively--"and the sanitary authorities forced us to block up the room
in this way--most unfortunately for us."
"It is strange," said the man, "that the seal of the sanitary authorities
is not affixed to the door."
"To tell you the truth," said Madame Poulain uncomfortably, "the seal was
there, but I removed it. You see, monsieur, it would not have been
pleasant, even when all danger of infection was gone, to say anything to
our other clients about so sad an event."
The man nodded his head, and went on.
But the incident made a disagreeable impression on Gerald Burton. And when
they all finally came down to the courtyard, the Police Agents being by
this time on far better terms with Monsieur and Madame Poulain than they
had been at the beginning--on such good terms indeed that they were more
than willing to attack the refreshments the hotel-keeper had made ready for
them--he drew the head Agent aside.
"There was one thing," he said, "which rather troubled me--"
The man looked at him attentively. "Yes, monsieur?" He realised that this
young man, whom he took for an Englishman, had been present on behalf of
the people at whose request the Perquisition had been ordered. He was
therefore inclined to treat him with civility.
"I mean that closed room on the top floor," said Gerald hesitatingly. "Is
there no way of ascertaining whether Madame Poulain's story is
true--whether, that is, the room was ever condemned by the sanitary
authorities?"
"Yes," said the Agent, "nothing is easier, monsieur, than to find that
out."
He took a note-book out of his pocket, tore out a sheet, and wrote a few
lines on it. Then he called one of his subordinates to him and said a few
words of which Gerald caught the sense. It was an order to go to the office
of the sanitary inspector of the district and bring back an answer at once.
In a quarter of an hour the man was back.
"The answer is 'Yes,'" he said a little breathlessly, and he handed his
chief a large sheet of paper, headed:
VILLE DE PARIS,
Sanitary Inspector's Department.
In answer to your question, I have to report that we did condemn a room
in the Hôtel Saint Ange for cause of infectious disease.
The Police Agent handed it to Gerald Burton. "I felt sure that in that
matter," he observed, "Madame Poulain was telling the truth. But, of
course, a Perquisition in a house of this kind is a mere farce, without a
plan to guide us. Think of the strange winding passages along which we were
led, of the blind rooms, of the deep cupboards into which we peeped! For
all we can tell, several apartments may have entirely escaped our
knowledge."
"Do you make many of these Perquisitions?" asked Gerald curiously.
"No, monsieur. We are very seldom asked to search a whole house. Almost
always we have some indication as to the special room or rooms which are to
be investigated. In fact since I became attached to the police, six years
ago, this is the first time I have ever had to carry out a thorough
Perquisition," he laughed a little ruefully, "and it makes one dry!"
Gerald Burton took the hint. He put a twenty-franc piece into the man's
hand. "For you and your men," he said. "Go and get a good lunch: I am sure
you need it."
The Police Agent thanked him cordially. "One word, monsieur? Perhaps I
ought to tell you that we of the police are quite sure that the gentleman
about whom you are anxious left this hotel--if indeed he was ever in it.
The Poulains bear a very good character--better than that of many
hotel-keepers of whom I could tell you--better than that of certain
hotel-keepers who own grand international hotels the other side of the
river. Of course I had to be rough with them at first--one has to keep up
one's character, you know. But, monsieur? I was told confidentially that
this Perquisition would probably lead to nothing, and, as you see, it has
led to nothing."
Gerald sighed, rather wearily, for he too was tired, he too would be glad
of his luncheon. Yes, this search had been, as the Police Agent hinted,
something of a farce after all, and he had led not only himself, but, what
he regretted far more, poor Nancy Dampier down a blind alley.
He found her waiting, feverishly eager and anxious to hear the result of
the Perquisition. When the door of the salon opened, she got up and turned
to him, a strained look on her face.
"Well?" she said. "Well, Mr. Burton?"
He shook his head despondently. "We found nothing, absolutely nothing which
could connect your husband with any one of the rooms which we searched,
Mrs. Dampier. If, after leaving you, he did spend the night in the Hôtel
Saint Ange, the Poulains have obliterated every trace of his presence."
She gave a low cry of pain, of bitter disappointment, and suddenly sinking
down into a chair, buried her head in her hands--"I can't bear it," she
wailed. "I only want to know the truth, whatever the truth may be! Anything
would be better than what I am going through now."
Gerald Burton came and stood by the bowed figure. He became curiously pale
with that clear, not unhealthy, pallor which is induced by exceptional
intensity of feeling.
"Mrs. Dampier?" he said, in a very low voice.
She lifted her head and looked at him fixedly.
"Everything that a man can do I will do to find your husband. If I fail to
find him living I will find him dead."