Geoffrey lost no time in getting hold of Mme. Bender’s notes,
neither of which had been destroyed. The bank manager expressed some
astonishment at being asked for the one in his possession, but
produced it readily, remarking as he did so:
“Your father has already mentioned this matter to me, Mr. Macadam. Is
it possible you think there’s some hanky-panky about it?”
“I trust not. I will let you know what we find out.”
“I observed the usual formalities. It’s hard to see how there could be
any fraud.”
“It’s no fault of yours if there was. But knowing something of Mme.
Bender’s state of health, it seems to us unlikely for her to have
spoken on the telephone at any recent time.”
The manager started slightly.
“I could swear it was her voice. You believe it may have been someone
impersonating her?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Ellsworth, a confident man with a smooth round face and pince-nez,
looked decidedly perturbed. He fidgeted with a waistcoat button,
letting his gaze stray round the room, then as though struck by a
bright idea brought his plump hand down on the desk with a bang.
“Surely, my dear fellow, the simplest course to pursue is to ask Mme.
Bender straight out whether she did or did not sanction the
transaction.”
“It’s less easy than you think. First, we do not want to agitate her,
and second, she happens to be in a state where, to put it crudely, one
cannot rely upon her word as conclusive evidence.”
The manager’s pale eyebrows shot up.
“Dear me! You mean she is----” He stopped, touching his forehead
significantly.
“At least her condition is such that we have to act without her
knowledge or consent.” Geoffrey spoke cautiously, as he examined the
sheet of grey note-paper. “Typewritten.” He murmured with
disappointment. “Still, the signature is distinctive.”
The sloping, spidery hand had the typical character of most French
caligraphy. As soon as he was alone he compared it with the letter
received from Catherine, only to find his unpractised eye unable to
detect any differences. Enclosing the three specimens in an envelope,
he despatched them in Henri’s care to the expert, with a request for a
speedy opinion.
On Wednesday he motored again to Fontainebleau, where he found
Catherine much improved in strength and spirits. However, he had only
a few minutes alone with her, and his ardour was damped by the feeling
that she was far more interested in what he had to tell her than in
himself. An evasive manner and a touch of unexpected shyness depressed
him, causing him to wonder if she were trying to prepare him for a
definite refusal. Had she thought things over and come to the
conclusion that she could not love him? He was ready to swear at
himself for fatuously expecting too much.
When he took his departure, it was Elspeth who followed him out to his
car.
“Poor old boy,” she murmured as he put his hand on the starter.
“Aren’t things going too well for you?”
“What in heaven’s name do you mean?” he demanded, reddening savagely
and brushing off her caressing touch.
She laughed with a touch of feminine malice.
“Never mind--it will do you good,” she replied enigmatically. “You’ve
had it all your own way far too long. She’s worth a struggle, and I
wish you luck. I can’t say more, can I?”
So they all knew he had been captured at last! No wonder, the truth
must be written all over him. Desire had laid hold of him so
powerfully that he could scarcely eat or sleep, much less take an
interest in anything which did not concern the object of his hopes.
Life without Catherine--! It was a prospect of slow starvation.
So entirely engrossed was he by his personal problem that the letter
received the following day from Bordeaux came as a distinct surprise.
He had for the time being forgotten Bernard’s mission, from which, in
the light of his recent conclusions, he expected little result.
As he read his face altered. The agent had traced Blom to the Hôtel
des Negociants, where he had apparently spent a few days early in
February, afterwards moving on successively to several small towns in
the district. The quest had been difficult owing to the fact that the
_notaire_ had in each case left no address, so that it was only by
dint of many inquiries that his movements became known. In each of the
towns visited he had passed several days, but it had been impossible
to find out how he had filled in his time, except that he appeared to
have examined into various local records of births, deaths and
marriages--a pursuit legitimately compatible with his profession. So
far Bernard had discovered nothing to connect the man with any
nefarious dealings, or anything other than a rather aimless pottering
about.
“Yet I am not satisfied,” concluded the writer. “I am inclined to
think that all this activity among the archives was intended to cover
up his real business. If he carried any unframed canvases, he could
easily have concealed them in his normal luggage, and my idea is that
somewhere in this neighbourhood he has hidden them in a secret
_cache_. I have one or two lines of inquiry to follow up, and will let
you know if anything develops.”
Geoffrey lit a cigarette and pondered the matter, reflecting that it
seemed impossible to catch the _notaire_ at anything shady. What could
be farther removed from picture-thieving than this harmless poking
into provincial archives? But for the two known facts testifying
against him, one would be tempted to declare him a wholly spotless
character. However, those facts stood out like black question marks,
demanding an answer. The man had undoubtedly held a violent dispute
over the contents of Mme. Bender’s picture-gallery, and he had paid a
visit to the Macadam office under an assumed name, inquiring into Mme.
Bender’s affairs. Plainly he was up to something he wished to keep
secret.
“Decidedly a dark horse,” concluded Geoffrey, with annoyance. “Indeed,
we should never have known of his existence at all if Catherine had
not seen him that first evening and later recognized him as the
milliner’s fiancé. Just accident--that’s all. On the surface he seems
nothing more than a money-grubbing notary, with a taste for records,”
and he recalled what Ballou had said about running across the Alsatian
at the Bureau des Archives. How was it Guy had described him? “_I used
to think he looked like a white rat nosing about among the files._”
Yes, this record-hunting was probably a blind, at least at Bordeaux.
Moreover, for the second time Geoffrey was struck by the man’s pursuit
of the widow, Mme. Baron, immediately after his return. Honorine’s
reputed savings would furnish the wherewithal for his start in a new
field.
“By Jove, I shouldn’t wonder if we’d hit the trail at last. The
servants are selling him those pictures, and he is planning to set
himself up as a dealer. The thing to do now is to notify the police of
Bordeaux, give them a description of Blom, and have all out-going
boats carefully watched. I’ll telegraph to Bernard at once.”
It occurred to him that it might be wise to keep both Blom and the
milliner under strict surveillance, but that matter could rest until
Bernard’s return.
Late Friday afternoon he was hard at work when the office factotum
announced M. Bernard. Leaping up in astonishment, Geoffrey beheld the
agent, adorned with a bowler hat green with age and a black muffler
wrapped round his cavernous neck.
“So you’ve come back! Did you get my telegram?”
“Yes, monsieur. I informed the Bordeaux police, and will forward them
a description of our friend, with a photograph, if obtainable. But I
regret to state I have not been able to discover anything definite
regarding the paintings. He has covered his tracks too well. All I
could do was to warn the port authorities.”
Geoffrey was conscious of disappointment.
“Yet you still hold the opinion that he means to take them out of the
country?”
“I assume so, monsieur, but I confess there is little to support the
theory. All my inquiries led me to was a series of records offices,
one after the other. I have spent the past two days interviewing the
archives officials in three small towns, trying to ascertain what
object Blom had in mind. At last I found it, but I am afraid it will
tell you little. It seems that the man was seeking particulars about a
family apparently extinct in the district--people by the name of
Dieulefit.”
“Dieulefit!”
The young man jumped as though shot.
“You know the name, then?”
“Do I know it!” cried the other excitedly. “Why, it’s the family name
of Mme. Bender herself! My God, Bernard, don’t you see what it means?
The fellow is searching for an heir to our client’s estate!”
The solemn eyes regarded him with interest.
“Then you think he has not stolen the pictures at all?”
Geoffrey frowned in confusion.
“I can’t say. No--yes.… At any rate, this business has nothing to do
with theft. He’s got something quite different up his sleeve.… I’ve
got to think this out. I’ll let you know if I shall need you further.”
Indeed, it seemed doubtful whether the agent could supply the missing
link in the chain, namely, Blom’s reason for his investigations. There
must be some strong motive to take a canny _bourgeois_ on an extensive
journey. The _notaire_ was not likely to spend money without hope of
an ample return. But in what way could he hope to profit?
Over a solitary meal at a restaurant Geoffrey argued the question out
to a tentative conclusion, his legal knowledge providing him with a
clue. He knew that when a person of property died intestate it was the
custom to look about at once for the next of kin. If the search proved
difficult, anyone furnishing information as to the missing heirs
invariably received remuneration for his services, based on a
percentage system. Where the fortune was a large one, the commission
might run to a considerable sum, well worth scheming to obtain.
Undoubtedly, Blom, in his capacity of legal adviser to the Bender
servants, was in a position to know certain useful facts. He could
easily be aware of Mme. Bender’s former name, of the probability of
her dying intestate, and of the precarious state of her health. Armed
with his knowledge, he might very naturally wish to locate some remote
connections of the ill woman, in order to be first in the field to
claim the said commission.
Now at last he began to see daylight. He understood Blom’s anxiety to
make sure whether a will had been executed, since if that were the
case his hopes vanished automatically. Probably also he suspected
Jeanne’s private machinations, and had tried to put a stop to them by
the threats Catherine had overheard, knowing they would foil his own
scheme. It all fitted in with surprising ease.
Only one point remained obscure. Was Blom acting purely on
speculation, or had some rumour of a possible heir reached his ears?
Suddenly Hermione Cushing flashed across his mind. As Mme. Bender’s
oldest friend, it was likely that no one better than she would be
acquainted with the invalid’s antecedents. Perhaps she had supplied
Blom with the necessary facts, meaning to split the commission with
him. Or else--and here was a totally new idea--she herself might have
French blood in her veins, and unknown to anyone possess some shadowy
claim she wished to substantiate. Was she by any remote chance
connected with the family of Dieulefit? If so it would explain
everything.
Determination seized him. Quitting the restaurant he jumped into a
taxi, and in ten minutes was climbing the stairs to the singer’s
apartment, bent upon taking the owner unawares and subjecting her to a
few blunt questions.
Decidedly brutal, that! His face burned at the thought. Yet he felt he
must know once and for all what part Miss Cushing played in the
affair, and he was shamelessly taking this course because he believed
the lady could not withstand a frontal attack.
The door opening to his ring, he found himself confronting a
spectacled grenadier who regarded him severely, a steel thimble on her
roughened finger, and a chemise, of dimensions suitable for a baby
elephant, draped over one arm.
“_Mademoiselle est sortie_,” he was informed.
He did not know whether he was disappointed or relieved. Under the
_bonne’s_ righteous gaze he reluctantly gave his name, realizing that
any hope of catching Miss Cushing unawares was now extinguished. The
singer, hearing he had called, would be on her guard.
“Monsieur Macadam?” repeated the domestic, her visage softening.
Clearly she knew who he was. Indeed, there was probably little of her
mistress’s affairs she did not know. She warmed, becoming
communicative. Mademoiselle was dining in the Faubourg St. Germain,
after calling on her friend, Mme. Bender. If Monsieur cared to leave a
message.… But Geoffrey was already half-way down the stairs.
He felt curiously at a loose end, his brain revolving the new
information and burning to impart it to the person most likely to be
interested. A glance at his watch told him it was barely nine o’clock.
Why not drive to Fontainebleau and talk the thing over with Catherine?
He could be there in little more than an hour.
His waiting taxi bore him swiftly to the garage where his car was
kept, and presently he was speeding towards the Porte d’Italie, the
wind whistling in his wake. In record time he alighted in the broad,
quiet street outside his sister’s dwelling, and a second later burst
unceremoniously into a somnolent family group lounging before the wood
fire.
Elspeth looked up with surprise.
“Geoff! You did give me a start. What’s up?”
He cast a rapid look round the room.
“Where’s Catherine?” he inquired shortly.
“Gone,” she replied composedly.
His jaw dropped.
“Gone? Where? Why?”
“That’s all. She left us, this evening. On the 10.45, to be exact.
What’s the excitement about?”
His eyes blazed at her.
“I don’t understand you. She knew I was coming to fetch her to-morrow
afternoon. Why this sudden change of plan?”
“Don’t be silly. It was quite unexpected, of course. On the evening’s
post she had a letter from some friends of hers who are crossing to
Dieppe to-night and arriving in Paris early to-morrow morning. They
are only stopping over a couple of hours, and want to see her. She
would go.”
Still he stared at her, visibly annoyed.
“I can’t make it out,” he muttered, frowning. “You mean to say you let
her go back there--alone?”
“Yes. Why not? We couldn’t stop her, and she refused to let us ring
you up.”
“Do the servants expect her?”
“No; but it doesn’t matter, does it?”
Then he realized that both listeners were eyeing him oddly and with a
glint of amusement at his concern.