His nerves still vibrating in response to the look he had just
received, Geoffrey turned back for a moment to speak to his father. He
found the old man running through some papers with an abstracted air,
suggesting that his attention was already given to other matters.
“These Amalgamated Iron shares,” he remarked, “I think I’ve found the
reason for their depreciation. It’s due to----”
“Never mind that now, father. I want to know your real opinion of this
Bender affair.”
“Oh, that!”--Macadam removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his
nose exasperatedly. “When you’ve lived as long as I have and listened
to as many stories of this kind, you won’t attach too great importance
to them.”
“What do you mean by that?” demanded Geoffrey hotly.
“Oh, only that this girl has worked herself into a state where she is
ready to believe anything. It’s a mistake her being there at all. She
ought to go home.”
His son reddened with fury.
“I suppose you grasped why she was staying,” he retorted with sarcasm.
“She is unselfishly trying to protect her cousin from----”
“From what?” inquired the other calmly. “You don’t know. Neither does
she. Well, it’s my opinion she’s assuming far too much. Possibly the
servants are stealing; how many would remain honest in the
circumstances? If it’s true, we’ll put a stop to it. But I don’t see
any reason to believe anything more against them, beyond the fact that
they’ve antagonized her. They are not mistreating or neglecting their
mistress in any way. On Miss West’s own statement, Mme. Bender is
perfectly content with things as they are.”
He returned to his desk, impervious to the indignant gaze fixed upon
him. The strained silence was still continuing when Henri, the old
Frenchman employed to receive clients, tapped on the door and entered.
“A woman to see you, monsieur. She gives her name as Laborie.”
“Laborie!” repeated Macadam in surprise. “That, I believe, is the
person who is causing all this fuss,”--and he exchanged glances with
his son.
“Shall I stay?” inquired the latter, irritation giving way to
curiosity.
“No, leave me to deal with her.” He jerked his head towards the door.
“Show her in.”
Denied the satisfaction of hearing what the maid had come about,
Geoffrey departed through the inner door. Left alone, the senior
partner leaned back in his seat and was polishing his glasses with a
grey silk handkerchief when Henri ushered Jeanne into the room.
“_Bonjour, monsieur!_ I crave a thousand pardons for disturbing you.
It is extremely kind of you to see me.”
Macadam nodded curtly and made a gesture towards a chair.
“Sit down. What is it this time?” he demanded briefly.
“Oh, thank you, monsieur!”
With a manner respectful but not cringing, Jeanne Laborie brought
forward one of the straight mahogany chairs and placed it a couple of
yards away from the solicitor, then sitting down stiffly on the edge
of it she fingered her bag with nervous hesitation. She was decently
dressed in black, well-brushed and neatly put on. She might have been
the wife of some superior tradesman. From beneath the brim of her hard
felt hat her brown eyes looked out of her sallow face, direct,
unflinching, yet with something of appeal in them.
“Monsieur, I have come on a rather delicate matter. The truth is, I
desire to ask your help, though I am well aware you will think it
extraordinary. I should not have troubled you if there had been anyone
else who could possibly be of assistance.”
She moistened her lips. Her entire manner, reasonable, restrained,
conveyed the impression that she was embarking upon a painful
undertaking solely because of a sense of duty.
“Go on. I am listening.”
“Monsieur, I think you know something of the state of Mme. Bender’s
health. You are aware, perhaps, that she is subject to fits of
depression, during which she has made attempts on her life.”
“Suicide!” exclaimed Macadam, raising his brows. “I didn’t know it was
as bad as that.”
“Unfortunately it is, monsieur. I may venture to say that if she had
been in the care of any person less understanding than myself she
would not be alive to-day. You may remember that I have looked after
madame for fifteen years?”
The old man nodded. What was the woman getting at? He could not even
faintly guess, but her manner of addressing him, making no obvious bid
for favour, commanded his grudging respect.
She continued in a low voice:
“Monsieur, a little more than a month ago, just after the second of
these suicidal attacks, and at a time when the household was in great
confusion, a young lady, an American, suddenly arrived upon the scene.
I believe she is some distant connection of Monsieur Bender’s. I
really do not know who she is. I had seen her before in Boston. She
called repeatedly at the hospital and, if you will not misunderstand
me, sought to ingratiate herself with madame when the poor lady was in
a state even weaker than at present. Madame is soft-hearted. When this
almost unknown young relative begged to be permitted to visit her in
Paris she had not the power to refuse--or at least that is how I
interpret it. Possibly I am wrong; but surely to invite a guest at
such a time was not the act of a responsible person.”
The old lawyer knit his brows non-committally, and the speaker
proceeded with still greater hesitation.
“I was afraid it was a mistake for this young lady to remain in the
apartment with madame in so precarious a condition. I did my best to
dissuade her from staying, but without success. She overrode all my
objections, and there she has been ever since.… Monsieur, I wish to
tell you that her presence has had a most distressing effect upon
madame. Really at times I have not known what to do. She upsets the
strict discipline it is necessary to maintain, excites the patient,
and has even set herself to weaken madame’s confidence in me. In that
respect she has happily failed; but all the same she has caused
several severe crises. Last week, following a distressing scene, I was
obliged to sit up the entire night with madame, and only this morning
another terrible time occurred. I found my lady in violent hysterics,
so uncontrolled that I had great difficulty in calming her. I have
left her now in charge of the cook, for if she were unguarded I could
not answer for the consequences. There was the look in her eye which
warned me she was planning some fresh attempt to kill herself, only
waiting for the opportunity. I must not be absent long, but I was so
frightened I felt I must come at once and speak to you on the matter.”
She cast a glance at the clock fixed in the panel opposite, then
continued more rapidly:
“Monsieur, I appeal to you. This young lady, Mademoiselle West, is
known to your son. Cannot you or he induce her to go away and leave
madame in peace before anything irrevocable happens? I assure you it
is of the gravest importance.”
Macadam levelled a stern regard at her and swung his glasses to and
fro by their slender chain.
“Why,” he demanded, “do you think Mademoiselle West has this
disturbing effect upon your mistress?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“I would rather monsieur did not ask me that question. You see, I may
be prejudiced, and do not want to make unjust accusations. However, it
has been clear to me from the outset that mademoiselle has designs of
her own. She is hoping that madame will make a will in her favour, in
which respect she is not alone. She is close friends with another lady
who cherishes similar expectations. There has been correspondence
between these two before Mademoiselle West left America, and I am
convinced in my own mind that they have arranged things together, to
become joint heirs to madame’s estate.”
Her declaration met with a stern frown.
“Are you aware of what you are saying?” the solicitor shot at her
brusquely.
Jeanne bowed her head.
“I realize I do wrong to hint at such a thing. But,” she went on,
speaking in measured, distinct tones, “right or wrong, madame herself
suspects their intentions. She has told me so. It is for that reason
that she is so distressed in their company. She does not wish to
offend either of them by asking them to keep away, but she has at last
implored me to forbid them to see her!”
The old man’s eyes were like steel.
“Is that true?”
Here Jeanne betrayed her first hint of emotion. She clasped her hands
rigidly together, raised her chin and looked him squarely in the eyes.
Her voice, when she spoke, shook with a vibrant tremor.
“As God is my witness, monsieur, that is the absolute truth!” she
said.
The words had a ring of sincerity. Macadam deliberated, looking away
from her.
“Who is this other friend you mention?” he asked presently.
“There is no reason why I should not tell you, monsieur. It is
Mademoiselle Cushing, the singer.”
Macadam rose.
“I will look into the matter,” he said laconically. “I’ll see what can
be done. Mind, I do not promise anything.”
With this she had to be content, but that she was not disappointed was
shown by a sudden gleam in her intent eyes.
“Thank you, monsieur! I am glad you have not mistaken my meaning.
Naturally, since I have laboured so long, organizing madame’s whole
establishment with the sole idea of nursing her back to health, I do
not like to see my efforts go for nothing. If this Mademoiselle West
persists in going against the doctor’s orders and causing trouble, I
cannot hold myself responsible for what may happen.”
He watched her go out with her dependable and unobtrusive air, then
stood fingering his chin reflectively.
“By George,” he muttered to himself, “I’ve always known if one waited
a bit one would hear the other side.”
He considered himself an excellent judge of character, not easily
fooled. This woman had struck him as decent and straightforward,
strongly biased, perhaps, but that was only natural. Of course he had
purposely avoided sounding her on the missing articles, the mention of
which matter could only serve to rouse her antipathy still further
against Miss West, or, if she were indeed guilty, put her on her
guard. No, he was too old a hand to commit that indiscretion.… Last
night’s affair looked queer, but there were various possible
explanations. On her own admission Miss West had understood little of
what had been said. Her accusations were decidedly vague.
“Jealousy on both sides, I’d be willing to take my oath,” he concluded
with a contemptuous snort. “There’s usually jealousy where women are
concerned.”
After careful cogitation he drew a sheet of paper towards him and
composed a letter in his own stiff angular hand. This he sealed and
addressed, then turned it face downward on the blotter, just as his
son appeared in the doorway.
“Well?” inquired Geoffrey shortly, “what did she want?”
Briefly the old man gave an account of the interview. The listener
swore irritably.
“What unmitigated brass! You saw she was lying, of course?”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. There may be truth on both
sides.”
“On both----! You can’t mean to tell me that after one look at Miss
West you could believe this abominable story?”
The old man raised a restraining hand.
“You mean about her having designs on Mme. Bender’s money? I didn’t
say I believed it. But have you ever known a business of this kind
cropping up where the person involved was penniless? I thought not.
There would be no point in it.”
His son regarded him in cold fury.
“What exactly are you getting at?” he demanded.
“Nothing whatever, except that I’m fairly well convinced we are
wasting valuable time. Take my advice: put your energies into
persuading this girl to leave and find another place to live. I
presume she’s not without means?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t asked her,” returned the younger man with
contempt.
“Anyhow, she’s only complicating matters by staying where she isn’t
wanted. That will do, now. Send Parkin to me. I shall get him to look
through Harry Bender’s papers in case there is any record of a
picture-transaction. No use starting an inquiry till that point is
cleared up.”
Curbing his wrath, Geoffrey did his father’s bidding, then called the
French clerk, Ballou, to his own office.
“Guy,” he said, “yesterday you mentioned a young girl who had a
connection with that _notaire_ you were inquiring about. Do you know
where she worked, and if one can get hold of her?”
“The young person in the _usine_?” replied Guy promptly, “Oh, yes,
sir. The concierge told me she was employed in a manufactory for
artificial flowers, near the Place Clichy. I daresay I could find the
place and the girl, too, if you want me to try.”
“Thank you, Guy, it will be wiser to put someone else on the job. I’m
glad you remembered about it, though.”
As soon as he was alone he searched in the telephone directory for a
number, rang it up himself, and a few minutes later took a taxi to an
address in the rue Blanche. Here he entered the dingy bureau of a
private agent already known to him in connection with one or two
affairs, a man he had found both trustworthy and acute.
A solemn, thin Frenchman rose at his approach. He had round, pensive
black eyes, a lantern-jawed countenance, and a scrawny neck enclosed
in a wide standing collar, the gold stud of which protruded above a
rusty black cravat.
“Monsieur Macadam? I am happy to see you, monsieur. Be seated, please.
What can I do for you?”
As concisely as possible Geoffrey made his business known, and while
he spoke the Frenchman’s melancholy gaze ran this way and that,
exploring the corners of the little room where dusty files were heaped
upon the floor. Once or twice he coughed behind his bony hand, but
beyond an occasional question in a lugubrious tone he remained silent.
“You see, although this man I refer to may be perfectly honest, I am
not satisfied that he’s all he appears to be. If he’s mixed up in any
nefarious proceedings, no matter what their nature, I must find it
out.”
“You desire me to look into his record, monsieur?”
“Yes, and follow him if necessary. Here is the information I have
obtained, addresses and so on. Do what you can.”
“You say this young woman is a discarded mistress?” remarked the agent
sadly. “That would seem to provide our best mode of attack. Artificial
flowers… I know the place--Achille Benet is the name. I will arrange
to get in touch with the person and see what can be learned from her.
No doubt I can persuade her to accompany me to a cinema or a Palais de
Danse.”
He uttered the suggestion in much the same tone he would have employed
in proposing a tour of the Montmartre Cemetery. However, knowing his
man, Geoffrey did not despair, and departed with an easier feeling
than he had had for some hours. He still felt indignant towards his
father for his insensitive attitude, yet was forced to admit that if
he himself had had less knowledge of Catherine he might have adopted
the same view.
All at once he recalled that his father was ignorant of Blom’s visit
to the office under an assumed name.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed, in annoyance. “What a fool I was not to have
told him that! If only poor Howard hadn’t chosen this precise moment
to be laid up! I wonder how he is, by the way?”
Reproaching himself for not having inquired since yesterday, he
hurried to the nearest public telephone and rang up the old clerk’s
home, only to learn that Mr. Howard was still very ill. His lungs were
badly congested, though he was putting up a brave fight.
“Nothing to be hoped for in that quarter for days,” reflected Geoffrey
with exasperation.
Mixed with his genuine concern over the news was the thought that if
the old man should die the knowledge he sought would pass beyond his
reach.