Meantime in the rue Auber investigations were going on with
commendable thoroughness. Macadam himself telephoned to various
well-known picture dealers to inquire first the approximate price a
still-life of Manet was likely to fetch in the market, and second,
whether at any recent time a Manet belonging to Harry Belmont Bender
had passed through their hands. To the former question he received
definite figures, quoted from sales, while the answer to the latter
was an unequivocal negative. One of the dealers expressed surprise to
learn that the painting had changed hands.
“Monsieur Bender made a number of deals through me,” he said. “In 1924
I sold a Renoir for him and got an excellent price for it. At the time
he asked me to value his collection, including the Manet you speak of,
and it was my impression that nothing was further from his thoughts
than to part with it. As a matter of fact I made him an offer, which
he refused.”
The dealer went on to say that if M. Bender’s widow had disposed of
the picture she must have done so with extraordinary secrecy, for when
a work of so great importance changed owners all the world of art
connoisseurs got to know about it. As to the possibility of its having
left the country, it was rare nowadays that such a thing could happen
without being found out. The port authorities were exceedingly strict.
Occasionally some canvas slipped through, but each year it became
increasingly difficult.
Macadam hung up the receiver and scratched his ear thoughtfully. It
began to look as though there were something in the American girl’s
story after all, though he must not jump at conclusions. He had yet to
hear the junior clerk’s report following his perusal of certain files,
and there remained the study of his late client’s pass-book, about
which he had written to the bank. If any sum sufficiently large had
been deposited during the weeks preceding Bender’s death, it would
tell a different tale. However, for the present there was nothing more
to be done.
He had no suspicion of the fact that his son was pursuing another line
of inquiry, and if he had been aware of it would have censured him
severely for quixotic conduct. However, the mysterious Blom was not
altogether absent from his thoughts was proved by a remark he made to
Geoffrey the following day.
“This notary fellow,” he observed ruminatingly. “Thinking things over,
it occurs to me there may be a fairly plausible explanation for his
behaviour the other night.”
“What’s that?” inquired the young man sharply.
“Why, blackmail. He may have something on those servants which he’s
using to force them to pay up. Have you thought of that?”
Geoffrey’s eyes gleamed.
“Then you admit they are thieves,” he replied shrewdly.
“I’m admitting nothing yet. I only say it’s a possible solution.”
Whereupon he detailed for his son’s benefit the result of his
conversations with the dealers.
Geoffrey listened with interest.
“Good!” he exclaimed. “I confess that’s what I expected. If you knew
Cath--Miss West as well as I do, you’d know she’s not a girl to be
easily deceived.”
“Be that as it may, we are still a long way from proving our case, and
till we do so we can’t make any arrests. It’s a ticklish business
prosecuting servants when their own employer regards them as perfect.
We may not be thanked for our pains.”
Alone Geoffrey rejected the blackmail suggestion, holding firmly to
his belief that Blom, engineering the thefts, had called his
confederates to account for exceeding instructions. He had little
doubt that the crafty Alsatian was under cover of his profession a
secret _receleur_, and that the visit to Bordeaux was for the purpose
of getting the stolen canvasses out of France.
Not till Saturday, however, did he hear from the inquiry agent, and
meanwhile, though he was in frequent communication with Catherine,
there was nothing to tell her. As soon as Bernard’s message reached
him he hurried to the rue Blanche, hoping for news.
“I have made the young person’s acquaintance, monsieur,” his funereal
friend informed him. “At first she was inclined to be off-hand and
suspicious, but I have persuaded her to come out with me to a café
to-morrow evening, and if things go well I may obtain some information
from her.”
“How does she appear to regard Blom?” Geoffrey asked.
“Ah, that is difficult to say. But while she does not strike one as a
young woman of deep feelings, I fancy she is a little vindictive. If
so, she may lead us to the truth.”
On a sudden inspiration Geoffrey made a suggestion, to which the agent
agreed.
“If you like, monsieur. There can be no harm in it. But mind, I do not
promise anything startling.”
“Ten-thirty, then,” replied Geoffrey, and departed, tingling with
anticipation.
Sunday broke warm and cloudless, a dazzling April day. The Bender
salon, after the brilliance of outdoors, struck Geoffrey as more than
ever depressing, but the girl who rose to greet him appeared the very
incarnation of spring. She had put on a frock of _crêpe de Chine_ the
colour of young leaves, while her oval face was framed by a small felt
hat also delicate green. Round her throat lay the necklace of plaited
gold which suited her so well, and her suede gloves matched in tone
her slender lizard-skin pumps. The faint fragrance of her garments
went to Geoffrey’s head like champagne as he took her hand and gazed
in unrestrained admiration.
“How ripping you look!” he exclaimed.
It was the first open compliment he had paid her. The blood swept in a
wave to her cheeks.
For a second she caught something in his eyes which unsettled her
previous conception of him. There was a self-conscious pause, during
which they eyed one another awkwardly.
“I thought we’d lunch in town at Ledoyen, then drive out into the
country.”
“Splendid! I was hoping you’d say that. I am longing to get out of
Paris.”
In taking her coat to put it over his arm his hand brushed hers. The
momentary contact sent an electric shock through him.
“I say,” he remarked, conscious of inner perturbation, “must you get
back early? Because I’m going to suggest making a day of it and dining
out as well.”
Her eyes shone.
“Oh! you don’t know how I should love it! I only meant to come back
and write letters, a most dull proceeding. Let me run and tell Berthe
not to expect me in,”--and she vanished on her errand.
She returned directly to say that the cook was enchanted, for now she
could have the entire evening off.
“And Mme. Bender? Have you seen anything of her?”
Her face clouded.
“Not for days. There is no good forcing myself on her while she feels
towards me as she does. Jeanne has advised me to keep away from her,
but I shouldn’t try to go into her room in any case now. I’m afraid
there’s nothing I can do.”
He preserved a significant silence, but once they were seated in the
car he spoke to her with quiet decision.
“Listen to me, Catherine. I am not at all happy about you. I wish you
could be persuaded to leave that place.”
She turned reproachful eyes on him.
“_Et tu, Brute!_” she murmured lightly, though with a catch in her
voice.
“Why me, too?”
“Wait. I have something to show you.”
He was a little curious, but said nothing as the car slid into the
Avenue Kléber and headed for the Étoile. In the Champs Élysées he
halted before a flower-shop and, leaving his companion for a moment,
returned with a large cluster of lilies of the valley, crisply fresh
in their frame of satiny green leaves.
“They go with your frock,” he remarked shortly, laying the offering in
her lap.
Something had happened to Geoffrey. It was like the preliminary
melting of ice after a long winter.
He was aware of it when they entered the restaurant half-hidden by
flowering chestnuts and made their way to the corner table he had
reserved. The sun pouring into the glass-lined room shone no warmer
than the glow within him, while the whole festive scene with its
popping of corks, subdued chatter and tables garnished with spring
blossoms formed a fitting background for his mood.
On a day like this every goose was a swan. The very waiters looked the
best fellows in the world, to whom you might confide your heart’s
secrets with perfect safety. Every woman present was a miracle of
exquisite smartness, every paste brooch flashed like diamonds of the
purest water. Best of all not a male eye failed to note Catherine as
she passed serene in her little green frock and with that look of
fresh naturalness doubly dear to an Englishman’s heart. A moment worth
living for, to be recalled long afterwards with a thrill of pride.
“Now, what were you about to tell me?” Geoffrey asked as soon as they
had ordered lunch.
He watched her fingers busy themselves, unfastening the glittering
brooch on her shoulder in order to transfer the lilies of the valley
to its keeping. Then when she had enshrined the nosegay in the V of
her frock and surveyed the result with satisfaction, she opened her
lizard-skin bag and took out an envelope.
“What do you think of this?” she asked. “Read it.”
She saw his eyebrows go up in astonishment as he recognized the
crabbed writing, and an expression of annoyance settle over his face
when he had run through the letter’s contents.
“The old devil!” he exclaimed softly. “What’s the meaning of this? He
never told me he’d written to you.”
“It was sent off almost immediately,” she said with composure. “Soon
after he had talked with Jeanne, I think.”
He looked quickly towards her.
“How did you know she came to see him?”
“I passed her in the street outside. She didn’t see me.”
She could tell that he was not only ruffled but embarrassed. For a
moment he avoided her eye.
“Please don’t pay the least attention to this,” he said constrainedly.
“I hardly know what to say.”
“I’m not angry,” she answered, “though I was a bit at first. He makes
me feel he doesn’t believe a word I said. Not only does he imply that
I’m a fool for meddling in what doesn’t concern me, but that I may be
doing my cousin actual harm.”
“Rubbish!” he muttered, impatiently.
“It’s not rubbish. There’s a certain amount of truth in what he
says--at the moment. She would be upset if I insisted on seeing her,
only I am convinced that’s only temporary. Things can’t go on like
this. I’m only biding my time.”
“God knows I hope we shall soon know something definite about these
thefts,” he remarked after a pause.
“Do you believe we shall?”
“I don’t know. We’ve established the fact that the Manet hasn’t passed
through any dealer’s hands, which is something.”
“That’s good!” she cried eagerly. “Oh! I hope we are not trying to
hound down innocent people.”
“Don’t bother your head about that. I’m as sure as you are they have a
good deal on their consciences.”
She took back the letter and glanced at it.
“Another thing--you see what he says about finding some older, more
experienced woman to look after Mme. Bender. Surely he must know that
she has no relations?”
He frowned over this information.
“You are certain there is no one?”
“Hermione declares that Germaine has absolutely no family, and she
ought to know. Since I have been at the apartment I have not seen or
heard of anyone connected with her. I have never known anyone so
completely isolated.”
“That does make things extremely difficult,” he observed thoughtfully.
“Do you know, I don’t believe I’d grasped that fact before. By the
way, what was Mme. Bender’s maiden name?”
She told him, and he repeated it with a curious inflection.
“Dieulefit? Never heard it before. Most uncommon.”
“Very. Hermione says the line is extinct.”
He pondered the matter for a little, then drawing a note-book from his
pocket scribbled the single word “_Dieulefit_” on an empty page. She
watched him with interest but said nothing, though she noticed that
his forehead was still knit with speculation.
The _sole Mornay_ arriving, they attacked it with relish, nor until it
was a thing of the past did they recur to any serious topic. Then
Geoffrey asked if the doctor had yet settled the matter of Jeanne’s
holiday.
“He came yesterday, but so far Jeanne has said nothing. Still, one is
bound to know before long.”
It was nearly three o’clock when they again sought the out-of-doors to
spin through the Bois, across the gardens of St. Cloud, and penetrate
into the open reaches beyond. Larks sang high in the heavens where
vague cloudlets drifted like puffs of smoke across an expanse of
aquamarine. The whole warm sweet air breathed the fragrance of
flowering trees, whose pink, white and yellow bouquets dotted the
landscape.
Catherine sighed in utter contentment. April at its loveliest, a
well-run car, a companion who all at once had become something rather
more interesting than a brother--what more could one ask? Hard to
believe that the past week had been spent in a turgid tangle of doubts
and fears. At the moment all life was bathed in the same soft sunshine
which spread its radiance over the low-lying hills.
At five o’clock they stopped at a place unknown to her, but familiar
to Paris pleasure-seekers. An ancient farmhouse nestled beside a
narrow stream spanned by an enclosed bridge where in bad weather one
might eat under cover. Now a score of motorists in gay attire sat
under orange umbrellas at tables with orange cloths, along the side of
the brook, whose edges glowed with thickly planted spring flowers,
vivid blue and yellow. Gardens like those in a picture-book spread on
each side, and a little distance away an outlet from the stream
chattered over a rockery to fall into a pool.
Tea in an orange tea-pot, crisp toast, home-made _confiture_, and
butter smoothly-moulded into little brown crocks! It was good that the
air had given them fresh appetites to do justice to the feast.
When they had lit cigarettes, Catherine suddenly remembered a matter
she wished to discuss.
“Geoffrey,” she said. “About this agent you are employing. You
understand, of course, that I must insist on paying for him. I can,
you know. I don’t want you to think----”
He reddened a little.
“Must we speak of that? I wish you wouldn’t.”
“Well then, I won’t. But before we go any further, you must promise to
let me know how much it comes to, otherwise I shall make it unpleasant
for you!”
Seeing her determination, he nodded briefly.
“Well then, I promise. Now let’s talk about something else.”
But for a moment both were silent, while the look which passed between
them left Catherine a little breathless. Why was Geoffrey so different
to-day? She began to wonder if she knew him so well, after all.
They dined late at a small restaurant in the rue Jacob where the food
was good, and although Catherine protested that she could not possibly
be hungry again, the sight of the oysters Geoffrey ordered and the
young duck with delicate _petits pois_ made her change her mind.
“Oh dear!” she sighed, “when I’m with you I do nothing but eat!”
“You need to,” he assured her lightly. “I’m sure that when you are at
home you are half-starved!”
It was true that, lovely as she looked to-day, she had grown a bit
thinner since their first meeting, while he noticed a faint shadow
beneath her eyes which disturbed him, suggesting as it did a constant
state of apprehension. Not blind to the absurdity of his action, he
heaped her plate high with _fraises de bois_ and piled thick cream
upon them till she was obliged to stay his hand.
“I’m not a Strasbourg goose, you know!” she reminded him, laughing.
When with her coffee before her she leaned back in her corner and
lazily took out her powder-puff, he studied her carefully.
“Tired?”
She shook her head.
“No--only blissfully content. I can’t bear to think that to-day is
over.”
“It isn’t,” he returned, glancing at his watch. “There is something
else I want you to do this evening.”
“What is it?” she inquired languidly.
She fancied there was a slight air of secrecy about him as he paid the
bill and left a ten-franc note on the saucer. Then with his
characteristic caution he answered her question.
“Nothing much. Wait and see. But I hope it may prove worth while.”