The de Bercy Affair
_By_ GORDON HOLMES
A
MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE
THE ARNCLIFFE PUZZLE
THE LATE TENANT
BY FORCE OF CIRCUMSTANCES
THE DE BERCY AFFAIR
THE HOUSE OF SILENCE
[Illustration]
[Illustration: Osborne came whispering
_Frontispiece_]
The
de Bercy Affair
BY
GORDON HOLMES
AUTHOR OF
A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE,
BY FORCE OF CIRCUMSTANCES, ETC., ETC.
ILLUSTRATIONS BY
HOWARD CHANDLER CHRISTY
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1910
BY EDWARD J. CLODE
_Entered at Stationers' Hall_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. SOME PHASES OF THE PROBLEM 1
II. DARKNESS 16
III. A CHANGE OF ADDRESS 31
IV. THE NEW LIFE 51
V. THE MISSING BLADE 66
VI. TO TORMOUTH 88
VII. AT TORMOUTH 107
VIII. AT THE SUN-DIAL 126
IX. THE LETTER 148
X. THE DIARY, AND ROSALIND 169
XI. ENTRAPPED! 188
XII. THE SARACEN DAGGER 206
XIII. OSBORNE MAKES A VOW 224
XIV. THE ARRESTS 246
XV. CLEARING THE AIR 265
XVI. WHEREIN TWO WOMEN TAKE THE FIELD 285
XVII. THE CLOSING SCENE 304
THE DE BERCY AFFAIR
CHAPTER I
SOME PHASES OF THE PROBLEM
Chief Inspector Winter sat in his private office at New Scotland Yard,
while a constable in uniform, bare-headed, stood near the door in the
alert attitude of one who awaits the nod of a superior. Nevertheless,
Mr. Winter, half-turning from a desk littered with documents, eyed the
man as though he had just said something outrageous, something so
opposed to the tenets of the Police Manual that the Chief Commissioner
alone could deal with the offense.
"Have you been to Mr. Furneaux's residence?" he snapped, nibbling one
end of a mustache already clipped or chewed so short that his strong
white teeth could barely seize one refractory bristle.
"Yes, sir."
"Have you telephoned to any of the district stations?"
"Oh, yes, sir--to Vine Street, Marlborough Street, Cannon Row, Tottenham
Court Road, and half-a-dozen others."
"No news of Mr. Furneaux anywhere? The earth must have opened and
swallowed him!"
"The station-sergeant at Finchley Road thought he saw Mr. Furneaux jump
on to a 'bus at St. John's Wood about six o'clock yesterday evening,
sir; but he could not be sure."
"No, he wouldn't. I know that station-sergeant. He is a fat-head....
When did you telegraph to Kenterstone?"
"At 6.30, sir."
Mr. Winter whisked a pink telegraphic slip from off the blotting-pad,
and read:
Inspector Furneaux not here to my knowledge.
_Police Superintendent_, KENTERSTONE.
"Another legal quibbler--fat, too, I'll be bound," he growled. Then he
laughed a little in a vein of irritated perplexity, and said:
"Thank you, Johnson. You, at least, seem to have done everything
possible. Try again in the morning. I _must_ see Mr. Furneaux at the
earliest moment! Kindly bring me the latest editions of the evening
papers, and, by the way, help yourself to a cigar."
The gift of a cigar was a sign of the great man's favor, and it was
always an extraordinarily good one, of which none but himself knew the
exact brand. Left alone for a few minutes, he glanced through a written
telephone message which he had thrust under the blotting-pad when Police
Constable Johnson had entered. It was from Paris, and announced that two
notorious Anarchists were en route to England by the afternoon train,
due at Charing Cross at 9.15 p.m.
"Anarchists!" growled the Chief Inspector--"Pooh! Antoine Descartes and
Émile Janoc--Soho for them--absinthe and French cigarettes--green and
black poison. Poor devils! they will do themselves more harm than his
Imperial Majesty. Now, where the deuce _is_ Furneaux? This Feldisham
Mansions affair is just in his line--Clarke will ruin it."
Johnson came back with a batch of evening papers. Understanding his
duties--above all, understanding Mr. Winter--he placed them on the
table, saluted, and withdrew without a word. Soon the floor was littered
with discarded news-sheets, those quick-moving eyes ever seeking one
definite item--"The Murder in the West End--Latest"--or some such
headline, and once only was his attention held by a double-leaded
paragraph at the top of a column:
A correspondent writes:--"I saw the deceased lady in company
with a certain popular American millionaire at the International
Horse Show in June, and was struck by her remarkable resemblance
to a girl of great beauty resident in Jersey some eight years
ago. The then village maid was elected Rose Queen at a rural
fête, I photographed her, and comparison of the photograph with
the portrait of Mademoiselle de Bercy exhibited in this year's
Academy served to confirm me in my opinion that she and the
Jersey Rose Queen were one and the same person. I may add that
my accidental discovery was made long before the commission of
the shocking crime of yesterday."
Under present circumstances, of course, we withhold from
publication the name of the Jersey Rose Queen, but the line of
inquiry thus indicated may prove illuminative should there be
any doubt as to the earlier history of the hapless lady whose
lively wit and personal charm have brought London society to her
feet since she left the Paris stage last year.
Winter did not hurry. Tucking the cigar comfortably into a corner of his
mouth, he read each sentence with a quiet deliberation; then he sought a
telephone number among the editorial announcements, and soon was
speaking into a transmitter.
"Is that the _Daily Gazette_?... Put me on to the editorial department,
please.... That you, Arbuthnot? Well, I'm Winter, of Scotland Yard. Your
evening edition, referring to the Feldisham Mansions tragedy, contains
an item.... Oh, you expected to hear from me, did you? Well, what is the
lady's name, and who is your correspondent?... What? Spell it.
A-r-m-a-u-d. All right; if you feel you _must_ write to the man first,
save time by asking him to send me the photograph. I will pass it on to
you exclusively, of course. Thanks. Good-by."
Before the receiver was on its hook, the Chief Inspector was taking a
notebook from his breast pocket, and he made the following entry:
Mirabel Armaud, Rose Queen, village near St. Heliers,
summer of 1900.
A knock sounded on the door.
"Oh, if this could only be Furneaux!" groaned Winter. "Come in! Ah! Glad
to see you, Mr. Clarke. I was hoping you would turn up. Any news?"
"Nothing much, sir--that is to say, nothing really definite. The
maid-servant is still delirious, and keeps on screaming out that Mr.
Osborne killed her mistress. I am beginning to believe there is
something in it----"
Winter's prominent steel blue eyes dwelt on Clarke musingly.
"But haven't we the clearest testimony as to Osborne's movements?" he
asked. "He quitted Miss de Bercy's flat at 6.25, drove in his motor to
the Ritz, attended a committee meeting of the International Polo Club at
6.30, occupied the chair, dined with the committee, and they all went to
the Empire at nine o'clock. Unless a chauffeur, a hall-porter, a
head-waiter, two under-waiters, five polo celebrities, a box-office
clerk, and several other persons, are mixed up in an amazing conspiracy
to shield Mr. Rupert Osborne, he certainly could not have murdered a
woman who was alive in Feldisham Mansions at half-past seven."
Clarke pursed his lips sagely. As a study in opposites, no two men could
manifest more contrasts. Clarke might have had the words "Detective
Inspector" branded on his forehead: his features sharp, cadaverous, eyes
deep-set and suspicious, his nose and chin inquisitive, his lips fixed
as a rat-trap. Wide cheek-bones, low-placed ears, and narrow brows gave
him a sinister aspect. In his own special department, the hunting out of
"confidence men," card-sharpers, and similar hawklike pluckers of the
provincial pigeon fluttering through London's streets, he was unrivaled.
But Winter more resembled an intellectual prizefighter than the typical
detective of fiction. His round head, cropped hair, wide-open eyes,
joined to a powerful physique and singular alertness of glance and
movement, suggested that he varied the healthy monotony of a gentleman
farmer's life by attendance at the National Sporting Club and other
haunts of pugilism. A terror to wrongdoers, he was never disliked by
them, whereas Clarke was hated. In a word, Winter was a sharp brain,
Clarke a sharp nose, and that is why Winter groaned inwardly at being
compelled to intrust the Feldisham Mansions crime to Clarke.
"What is your theory of this affair?" he said, rather by way of making
conversation than from any hope of being enlightened.
"It is simple enough," said Clarke, his solemn glance resting for a
moment on the box of cigars. Winter nodded in the same direction. His
cigars were sometimes burnt offerings as well as rewards.
"Light up," he said, "and tell me what you think."
"Mademoiselle de Bercy was killed by either a disappointed lover or a
discarded husband. All these foreign actresses marry early, but grow
tired of matrimony within a year. If, then, there is no chance of
upsetting Mr. Osborne's alibi, we must get the Paris police to look into
Miss de Bercy's history. Her husband will probably turn out to be some
third-rate actor or broken-down manager. Let us find _him_, and see if
_he_ is as sure of his whereabouts last evening as Mr. Rupert Osborne
professes to be."
"You seem to harp on Osborne's connection with the affair?"
"And why not, sir? A man like him, with all his money, ought to know
better than to go gadding about with actresses."
"But he is interested in the theater--he is quite an authority on French
comedy."
"He can tackle French tragedy now--he is up to the neck in this one."
"You still cling to the shrieking housemaid--to her ravings, I mean?"
"Perhaps I should have mentioned it sooner, sir, but I have come across
a taxicab driver who picked up a gentleman uncommonly like Mr. Osborne
at 7.20 p.m. on Tuesday, and drove him from the corner of Berkeley
Street to Knightsbridge, waited there nearly fifteen minutes, and
brought him back again to Berkeley Street."
The Chief Inspector came as near being startled as is permissible in
Scotland Yard.
"That is a very serious statement," he said quietly, wheeling round in
his chair and scrutinizing his subordinate's lean face with eyes more
wide-open than ever, if that were possible. "It is tantamount to saying
that some person resembling Mr. Osborne hired a cab outside the Ritz
Hotel, was taken to Feldisham Mansions at the very hour Miss de Bercy
was murdered, and returned to the Ritz in the same vehicle."
"Exactly so," and Clarke pursed his thin lips meaningly.
"So, then, you _have_ discovered something?"
Mr. Winter's tone had suddenly become dryly official, and the other man,
fearing a reprimand, added:
"I admit, sir, I ought to have told you sooner, but I don't want to make
too much of the incident. The taxicab chauffeur does not know Mr. Rupert
Osborne by sight, and I took good care not to mention the name. The
unknown was dressed like Mr. Osborne, and looked like him--that is all."
"Who is the driver?"
"William Campbell--cab number X L 4001. I have hired him to-morrow
morning from ten o'clock, and then he will have an opportunity of seeing
Mr. Osborne----"
"Meet me here at 9.30, and I will keep the appointment for you.
Until--until I make other arrangements, I intend to take this Feldisham
Mansions affair into my own hands. Of course, I should have been
delighted to leave it in your charge, but during the past hour something
of vastly greater importance has turned up, and I want you to tackle it
immediately."
"Something more important than a society murder?" Clarke could not help
saying.
"Yes. You know that the Tsar comes to London from Windsor to-morrow?
Well, read this," and Winter, with the impressive air of one who
communicates a state secret, handed the Paris message.
"Ah!" muttered Clarke, gloating over the word "Anarchists."
"Now you understand," murmured Winter darkly. "Unfortunately these men
are far too well acquainted with me to render it advisable that I should
shadow them. So I shall accompany you to Charing Cross, point them out,
and leave them to you. A live monarch is of more account than a dead
actress, so you see now what confidence I have in you, Mr. Clarke."
Clarke's sallow cheeks flushed a little. Winter might be a genial chief,
but he seldom praised so openly.
"I quite recognize that, sir," he said. "Of course, I am sorry to drop
out of this murder case. It has points, first-rate points. I haven't
told you yet about the stone."
"Why--what stone?"
"The stone that did for Miss de Bercy. The flat was not thoroughly
searched last night, but this morning I examined every inch of it, and
under the piano I found--this."
He produced from a pocket something wrapped in a handkerchief. Unfolding
the linen, he rose and placed on the blotting-pad, under the strong
light of a shaded lamp, one of those flat stones which the archeologist
calls "celts," or "flint ax-heads." Indeed, no expert eye was needed to
determine its character. The cutting edge formed a perfect curve; two
deep indentations showed how it had been bound on to a handle of bone or
wood. At the broadest part it measured fully four inches, its length the
same, thickness about three-quarters of an inch. That it was a genuine
neolithic flint could not be questioned. A modern lapidary might
contrive to chip a flint into the same shape, but could not impart that
curious bloom which apparently exudes from the heart of the stone during
its thousands of centuries of rest in prehistoric cave or village mound.
This specimen showed the gloss of antiquity on each smooth facet.
But it showed more. When used in war or the chase by the fearsome being
who first fashioned it to serve his savage needs, it must often have
borne a grisly tint, and now _again_ each side of the strangely sharp
edge was smeared with grewsome daubs, while some black hairs clung to
the dried clots which clustered on the irregular surfaces.
Sentiment finds little room in the retreat of a Chief Inspector, so
Winter whistled softly when he set eyes on this weird token of a crime.
"By gad!" he cried, "in my time at the Yard I've seen many queer
instruments of butchery--ranging from a crusader's mace to the strings
of a bass fiddle--but this beats the lot."
"It must have come out of some museum," said the other.
"It suggests a tragedy of the British Association," mused Winter aloud.
"It ought to supply a first-rate clew, anyhow," said Clarke.
"Oh, it does; it must. If only----"
Winter checked himself on the very lip of indiscretion, for Clarke
detested Furneaux. He consulted his watch.
"We must be off now," he said briskly. "Leave the stone with me, and
while we are walking to Charing Cross I can give you a few pointers
about these Anarchist pests. Once they are comfortably boxed up in some
café in Old Compton Street you can come away safely for the night, and
pick them up again about midday to-morrow. They are absolutely harm--I
mean they cannot do any harm until the Tsar arrives. From that moment
you must stick to them like a limpet to a rock; I will arrange for a man
to relieve you in the evening, nor shall I forget to give your name to
the Embassy people when they begin to scatter diamond pins around."
When he meant to act a part, Winter was an excellent comedian, and soon
Clarke was prowling at the heels of those redoubtables, Antoine
Descartes and Émile Janoc.
Once Clarke was safely shelved, Winter called the first taxicab he met
and was driven to Feldisham Mansions. An unerring instinct had warned
him at once that the murder of the actress was no ordinary crime; but
Clarke had happened to be on duty when the report of it reached the Yard
a few minutes after eight o'clock the previous evening, and Winter had
bewailed the mischance which deprived him of the services of Furneaux,
the one man to whom he could have left the inquiry with confidence.
The very simplicity of the affair was baffling. Mademoiselle Rose de
Bercy was the leading lady in a company of artistes, largely recruited
from the Comédie Française, which had played a short season in London
during September of the past year. She did not accompany the others when
they returned to Paris, but remained, to become a popular figure in
London society, and was soon in great demand for her _contes drôles_ at
private parties. She was now often to be seen in the company of Mr.
Rupert Osborne, a young American millionaire, whose tastes ordinarily
followed a less frivolous bent than he showed in seeking the society of
an undeniably chic and sprightly Frenchwoman. It had been rumored that
the two would be married before the close of the summer, and color was
lent to the statement by the lady's withdrawal from professional
engagements.
So far as Winter's information went, this was the position of affairs
until a quarter to eight on the night of the first Tuesday in July. At
that hour, Mademoiselle de Bercy's housemaid either entered or peered
into her mistress's drawing-room, and saw her lifeless body stretched on
the floor. Shrieking, the girl fled out into the lobby and down a flight
of stairs to the hall-porter's little office, which adjoined the
elevator. By chance, the man had just collected the letters from the
boxes on each of the six floors of the block of flats, and had gone to
the post; Mademoiselle de Bercy's personal maid and her cook, having
obtained permission to visit an open-air exhibition, had, it seemed,
been absent since six o'clock; the opposite flat on the same story was
closed, the tenants being at the seaside; and the distraught housemaid,
pursued by phantoms, forthwith yielded to the strain, so that the
hall-porter, on his return, found her lying across the threshold of his
den.
He summoned his wife from the basement, and the frenzied girl soon
regained a partial consciousness. It was difficult to understand her
broken words, but, such as they were, they sent the man in hot haste to
the flat on the first floor. The outer and inner doors were wide open,
as was the door of the drawing-room, and sufficient daylight streamed in
through two lofty windows to reveal something of the horror that had
robbed the housemaid of her wits.
The unfortunate Frenchwoman was lying on her back in the center of the
room, and the hall-porter's hurried scrutiny found that she had been
done to death with a brutal ferocity, her face almost unrecognizable.
Not until the return of the French maid, Pauline, from the exhibition,
could it be determined beyond doubt that robbery was not the motive of
the crime, for she was able to assure the police that her mistress's
jewels were untouched. A gold purse was found on a table close to the
body, a bracelet sparkled on a wrist cruelly bruised, and a brooch
fastened at the neck the loose wrap worn as a preliminary to dressing
for the evening.
Owing to the breakdown of the only servant actually present in the flat
at the time of the murder, it was impossible to learn anything
intelligible beyond the girl's raving cry that "Mr. Osborne did it."
Still, there was apparently little difficulty in realizing what had
happened. The housemaid had been startled while at supper, either by a
shriek or some noise of moving furniture, had gone to the drawing-room,
given one glance at the terrifying spectacle that met her eyes, and was
straightway bereft of her wits.
The Chief Inspector was turning over in his mind the puzzling features
of the affair when his automobile swept swiftly out of the traffic and
glare of Knightsbridge into the quiet street in which stood Feldisham
Mansions. A policeman had just strolled along the pavement to disperse a
group of curious people gathered near the entrance, so Winter stopped
his cab at a little distance and alighted unobserved.
He walked rapidly inside and found the hall-porter at his post. When the
man learnt the visitor's identity he seemed surprised.
"Mr. Clarke has bin here all day, sir," he said, "and, as soon as he
left, another gentleman kem, though I must say he hasn't bothered _me_
much----" this with a touch of resentment, for the hall-porter's
self-importance was enhanced by his connection with the tragedy.
"Another gentleman!"--this was incomprehensible, since Clarke would
surely place a constable in charge of the flat. "What name did he give?"
"He's up there at this minnit, sir, an' here's his card."
Winter read: "Mr. Charles Furneaux, Criminal Investigation Department,
Scotland Yard."
"Well, I'm jiggered!" he muttered, and he added fuel to the fire of the
hall-porter's annoyance by disregarding the elevator and rushing up the
stairs, three steps at a time.