All that evening Geoffrey cudgelled his brain to recall how and
where he had come across the butler’s companion. There might be no
special point in remembering, yet, on the other hand, if Catherine’s
suggestion were correct any facts concerning the _notaire_ might prove
useful. However, try as he would, he could not bring back the
circumstances of the chance encounter, and went to bed thoroughly
exasperated.
Next morning at the very moment of setting foot in the outer office
the thing flashed on him. Why, it was here, in this room! The man had
been standing by the table, stolid and a little furtive, apparently
waiting for an appointment. He had looked up suddenly, and his
unwholesome pallor, together with his red-rimmed eyes, one of them
marked by a curious blemish, had photographed themselves on the
onlooker’s memory.
As soon as Geoffrey had run through his letters he called one of the
under-clerks, a youngster named Ballou, into his private office.
“Guy,” he said, “do you happen to know of a _notaire_ called A. Blom,
living at 359, rue d’Amsterdam?”
The clerk, a dapper French stripling justly proud of his good command
of English, gave the question careful consideration.
“Blom?” he repeated, his black eyes sharply alert. “No, sir, I think
not. A _notaire_, you say?”--and his tone expressed conscious
superiority. “I don’t often come across any of that lot, sir.”
“He was here on business about a couple of months ago--a small chap,
pasty-faced, with something queer about one of his eyes. I’d like to
find out what he wanted.”
Again the young man reflected, passing a long hand over his sleek,
brilliantined hair.
“I will inquire, sir. One of the others may know.”
“Do so, Guy, and let me hear the result.”
Ten minutes later the youth returned to report failure.
“No one has heard of the person, sir. Of course, there’s Mr. Howard,
who’s ill. Shall I get in touch with him?”
“You needn’t trouble to do that. Instead, I want you to go to the rue
d’Amsterdam--here’s the address--and see what you can find out from
the concierge. This much I will tell you: I have reason to believe
Blom to be mixed up in the disposal of some stolen works of art. But
don’t let any hint of this leak out.”
“Right, sir--you may depend on me,” and with an air of enjoyment
Ballou departed on his mission.
Geoffrey resumed his work, but between him and the dull routine of
deeds and titles floated a delicate, troubled face. He could not
forget the look in Catherine’s eyes yesterday, nor the conviction
forced upon him that she was living in the grip of constant if
indefinable dread. Something must be done to set her mind at rest, and
this move regarding Blom was the one immediate thing which occurred to
him.
As for Mme. Bender herself, frankly he was not greatly concerned.
“It’s a pretty rotten business,” he said as, lighting a cigarette, he
gave himself up to reflection. “She seems completely in that maid’s
power, and yet for the life of me I can’t see any reason for alarm.
The point is, there’s no motive.… To allow the poor creature to die
would be simply killing the goose that lays the golden egg--a folly
that precious pair of servants are much too clever to commit! No,
they’ll play the game for all it’s worth, knowing that once their
mistress is dead they’ll get nothing further, beyond a small legacy,
which in any case is bound to come to them.… I can see, though, why
they were furious when Catherine descended upon them. They don’t want
any watchful eye checking their movements. I’d give a good deal to
have a look at Mme. Bender’s pass-book, by the way. I’ll wager that
tells a story.”
If the poor lady got either better or worse the position would right
itself. In the former event she would be able to look after herself,
in the latter his firm could assume authority. It was in this
intermediate state that she presented such a problem and surely before
long she would tend definitely one way or the other.
No, it was Catherine herself whose situation troubled him. He chafed
at the thought of her living in proximity to a victim of mental
illness, subjected to annoyances she had no power to check. He would
have given much to put and end to it, but he could think of but one
possible solution the risk of which he was frightened to take.
No, although he now knew he meant with all his soul to marry her if
she would have him, he dared not put his chances to the test. Not till
he felt more sure of her. Up till now he was miserably certain she did
not care for him--at least not in the right way. Instinct warned him
she would take a lot of winning.…
It was just before lunch-time that young Ballou re-entered the office
with an important air, and laid his bowler hat and a pair of
particularly smart new gloves upon the desk. His black eyes glistened
with mystery.
“Well, Guy--any luck?”
“A little, sir.” The youngster cleared his throat nonchalantly. “Not
much, I admit. I’ve been gossiping with the concierge in the rue
d’Amsterdam, and I flatter myself there’s not much I can’t tell you
about this person, Adolph Blom. I posed as a _notaire_ myself, in
search of a bureau, and as such it was natural to want to know
something about my professional rival.”
“Excellent. What did you find out?”
“Well, sir, I’m sorry to say the concierge gives this fellow a most
unassailable character. Nothing shady about him. It seems he is an
Alsatian, who has lived for years at the same address, pays his rent
regularly, numbers several of the _locataires_ as his clients, and is
universally regarded as a shrewd man of affairs. A little mean,
perhaps, but that is not held against him. He is quiet, spends little
on pleasure, and once a year takes a holiday of two weeks, always in
Alsace, and invariably in August, like other people. A hard-working,
reliable chap.”
Geoffrey raised his brows in disappointment. Whatever questionable
there might be about the _notaire_, it evidently did not appear on the
surface.
“However,” continued Guy, referring to a _dossier_, “this year he
departed from his custom, and in February took an additional holiday,
this time going South. From something he dropped on his return the
concierge thinks he went to Bordeaux.”
“Bordeaux!”
The name suggested nothing except that the town was a port from which
many boats departed. It might offer a suitable point, well removed
from Paris, from which to conduct nefarious operations.
“I also inquired into his private life, but I don’t suppose that will
interest you. Blom, it seems, is a bachelor, something over forty.
Until quite recently he had a mistress, some young woman employed in a
_usine_, but soon after this visit to the South he broke with her, and
began paying serious attentions to a woman who lives across the
court--a milliner named Mme. Baron. Husband killed in the war. Runs a
business under the title of Honorine. She’s a client of Blom, who
probably knows all about her affairs. The concierge thinks she must
have saved considerable money, or else our friend would not find her
attractive, for she’s middle-aged and not much to look at.”
Geoffrey pondered this bit of information, then shook his head slowly.
“Thanks, Guy. You’ve done a thorough job of it, and if you didn’t come
across anything suspicious it’s not your fault. There was only a faint
chance.”
But the clerk was in no hurry to depart. He picked up his hat, flicked
an imaginary bit of dust from it, and coming a step closer, fixed his
eyes on his employer’s face.
“One thing more, sir,” he remarked confidentially. “While I was in the
loge the man we were discussing looked in to collect his letters, and
although I kept well behind the door I had a good view of him. And,
sir, I knew him at once.”
“You did?” exclaimed Geoffrey, startled. “Who is he, then?”
“Ah, that’s the question! You were right, he came to this office about
two to three months ago. I saw him myself, and handed him on to Mr.
Howard. I can’t recall what it was he wanted, but the name he gave
wasn’t Blom. I can swear to that. It was something altogether
different.”
Here was a new development. The thing had a definitely suspicious
look.…
“You are sure of this?”
“Oh, absolutely, sir. As a matter of fact, I noticed him at the time
rather particularly, because I had seen him once before.”
“Where?”
“At the archives bureau, sir. You remember that job I was doing in
January? Well, I ran across him then, searching through some records.
I thought he looked like a white rat nosing about among the files.”
Geoffrey pushed back his chair.
“Guy,” he said, “get on at once to Mr. Howard’s apartment, and see if
he’s well enough to come to the telephone. I must just question him
about this.”
While the call was put through he paced the room impatiently. In the
past few minutes the _notaire_ had suddenly assumed a definite
importance, although in what way it was impossible to tell. However,
it was quite likely he would soon know something from Howard, who was
their oldest clerk, a steady-going Essex man, and a walking repository
of stored information. Howard never forgot anything, nor for that
matter divulged anything without reasonable justification.
After a short delay Guy returned, his face regretful.
“No good, sir--that avenue’s blocked. Mr. Howard is very ill, in fact,
out of his head. It’s a bad case of pleurisy.”