Geoffrey earnestly hoped his stupidity about Miss Cushing had passed
unnoticed. Seriously concerned over Catherine, his one idea was to get
her quickly and safely into his sister’s care, a project easily
jeopardized if one introduced her to fresh worries.
Besides, the information recently obtained might prove of no
importance, though he had to admit it had given him a jar.
Two hours ago he had had his first talk with the senior clerk since
the latter’s illness, and questioning him about Blom’s visit to the
office had received a somewhat startling reply.
“I recall the fellow,” the old man had said at once. “Rénier was the
name he gave, and he came on a rather delicate mission, respecting one
of our clients--in fact Mme. Belmont Bender. He wanted to know if this
lady had executed a will.”
“Why should he wish to know that?” Geoffrey had demanded,
suspiciously.
“He was acting on behalf of another lady, who, as she is a personal
friend of Mme. Bender’s, felt a natural hesitancy in approaching us on
the matter. It seems this individual has hopes of inheriting something
substantial in the event of Madame’s decease, and was anxious to learn
if the bequest had been put into legal form. Rénier also inquired the
terms of Mr. Bender’s own will, and as the request appeared a harmless
one I informed him that Mr. Bender had left the whole of his property
unconditionally to his widow. That was all.”
Geoffrey’s mind had leaped to the conclusion that Jeanne, fearing her
mistress had stolen a march on her, had taken this roundabout means of
learning the truth.
“I suppose you don’t know who the client was?” he asked.
“Oh, but I do. It seems she is an American lady by the name of
Cushing.”
Hermione! Geoffrey had sprung from his chair, all his previous ideas
in confusion.
“Yes, Miss Cushing, the singer. I heard her once, at the Salle
Erard--a large woman, with a wreath of rosebuds on her hair. No kind
of voice, but I believe she has an influential connection.…”
Feeling as though he had doubled on his own tracks, Geoffrey had
departed, chagrined and mortified. The revelation that the mysterious
Blom was acting for Hermione shocked him curiously. Was it possible
that under cover of pretended hatred the singer was in collusion with
Mme. Bender’s servants? For a wild moment he asked himself if Miss
Cushing herself was concerned in the thefts, using Blom as a
go-between. It was a monstrous thought.
Going over the circumstances he felt it could not be true. The singer
bore a blameless character, and moreover had herself asked him frankly
about this will some time ago. In any case as a _femme de monde_ she
would not be likely to employ a common _notaire_. Then, too, it was
she who had first dropped hints of the servants’ possible dishonesty,
a proceeding manifestly absurd if she was in league with them towards
a mercenary end.
The only other explanation was that Blom was representing Jeanne, and
had substituted Miss Cushing’s name to hide his client’s identity.
Ah, that must be it! The maid was plotting to establish herself as her
mistress’s legatee!
Ambitious, yes--but it was not the first time such a thing had been
done. Possibly Jeanne’s protestations were so much dust in the eyes of
onlookers, while she played a devious game to obtain her object. To
alienate the poor woman from her friends by doubts cast upon their
disinterestedness, to work upon her affections by subtle degrees--did
it not all point in one certain direction?
This was what he had feared in the beginning, only Catherine’s
statement had put him off the track. Now he was filled with a new
uneasiness, which was relieved only when he recalled the fact that
Jeanne was undoubtedly profiting by her mistress’s present condition.
Yes, he had overlooked that point. There was as yet no talk of a will,
and whatever the maid’s secret intentions might be she was pocketing
all she could lay hands on. He breathed again.
Still--Miss Cushing! Her name stuck in his mind like a burr. Perhaps
she did have an obscure connection with Blom, who, innocent of
thieving, might be acting in a quite different capacity from the one
first suspected.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed in annoyance. “If that is so the man may be
trying to protect Mme. Bender instead of defrauding her, in which case
I have sent Bernard off on a goose-chase!”
For, although he had not mentioned it to Catherine, he had just
instructed the agent to go to Bordeaux, with the idea of making
inquiries into the _notaire’s_ visit in that city three months ago. It
now began to look as though the mission might lead to nothing.
However, in the main, events were shaping towards the desired end.
With Jeanne away, there would be an opportunity for searching the
apartment and ascertaining the exact state of affairs. Meanwhile, they
would probably be able to frame a definite charge against the two
servants and remove them from their posts. Altogether things looked
promising.
When he opened the door of his own flat, his father called out to him
from the library.
“Come in for a moment, Geoffrey. I’ve something which may interest
you.”
Sunlight gilded the book-lined walls, a wood fire burned on the
hearth, and a pot of blue hyacinths bore witness to a visit from
Elspeth. Macadam Senior, seated in a worn leather chair, was turning
over a sheaf of papers, his glasses perched on the tip of his nose.
“It’s this Bender business again. I’ve got hold of Harry Bender’s
pass-book and all the details I can assemble regarding his movements
prior to his death. There’s no record of a picture-sale, nor any
unidentified deposit large enough to correspond with one. If he did
dispose of those paintings, he must have received cash, which he
failed to pay in to his account.”
“He never sold them,” declared Geoffrey shortly.
“Not so fast. You may be right, but one mustn’t jump to conclusions.
Suppose, for example, Bender wanted to make a payment in some quarter
in such a way that it could not be traced? In the event, let us say,
of such a thing as an entanglement with a woman?”
“Did you ever hear of any entanglement?” demanded his son bluntly.
“I admit not, but my ignorance proves nothing. Mind, I only state a
possibility.”
Geoffrey lit a cigarette and threw the match into the fire.
“I don’t believe he would have parted with the Manet. He would have
found the money in some other way.”
His father made no comment.
“Well, then, I’ve had a talk with Ellsworth, the manager of Mme.
Bender’s bank, to find out if any use has been made of that duplicate
key. It was used, only a few days later, by the maid herself.”
“The devil it was!” exclaimed the young man sharply.
“Yes--but everything was quite in order. It seems Ellsworth received a
note from Mme Bender saying she wished to exchange her string of
pearls, which she felt nervous about keeping in the apartment, for the
copy then in the bank, and proposed sending her maid to attend to the
matter.”
“Stop a moment--you say the _copy_ was kept at the bank? Surely that’s
a bit absurd?”
“She explained that. Apparently no one but herself was aware that the
pearls in her possession were the genuine ones, as for safety’s sake
she had always pretended they were the copy. She had given up wearing
them, because their lustre was suffering from her low state of health,
but she wanted the imitations to keep up the deception.”
“I see,” replied Geoffrey rather blankly.
“Foreseeing the chance of a hoax, Ellsworth himself telephoned to Mme.
Bender and was assured by her that the maid was completely to be
trusted. The next day Laborie appeared, was conducted by one of the
clerks into the vaults, made the exchange and went away. The clerk
watched her closely and saw nothing amiss. The two strings were
identical, the copy having a clasp of real diamonds set in platinum.”
Geoffrey frowned incredulously.
“You say the manager spoke to Mme. Bender herself? He recognized her
voice?”
“Certainly--he’s known her for years.”
“I suppose I ought to be satisfied, but it seems odd for all that,”
declared Geoffrey, moving about restlessly. For the life of him he
could not reconcile Mme. Bender’s action on this occasion with her
recent helplessness. His eyes narrowed in thought. “See here,” he said
suddenly. “When Miss West asked about that key only last week, her
cousin disclaimed all knowledge of it. At least she appeared not to
recollect until the maid reminded her. Doesn’t that strike you as
queer?”
“And nothing was said about changing the necklace?”
“Not a word.”
The elder man wiped his glasses upon a silk handkerchief, then rubbed
the bridge of his nose exasperatedly.
“I give it up,” he said briefly, adding after a moment: “Either her
memory is subject to lapses, or she was displaying a sort of cunning
in keeping the matter dark. There’s no accounting for the vagaries of
neurasthenics.”
Geoffrey was silent. A voice whispered to him that these were the
pearls Hermione Cushing considered as hers by right, at least when her
friend should die. She had assured him they were safe in the bank.
“Where that woman can’t be tempted by them,” had been her exact words.
For the second time misgivings assailed him. Was the story about the
copy a true one? Suppose there was some fraud, with Miss Cushing at
the back of it?
“Still, Ellsworth recognized Mme. Bender’s voice, so she evidently
approved of the transaction. That much is fairly certain, so why
bother?”
At the same time he added to himself that it was a blessing Catherine
knew nothing about it.