Father and son exchanged looks of mute horror.
Through both minds rushed the same thought.
“Read what it says. There’s not much.”
Riveting his attention upon the page before him, Geoffrey forced
himself to digest the scant particulars the journal had to offer. In
emotionless brevity it stated the following:
“Mme. Henry Belmont Bender, of Numero 44 Avenue Henri Martin, met
death in the early hours of this morning as the result of a fire in
her apartment. No facts are yet known as to how the conflagration
started, or whether the victim’s decease was due to heart failure or
to suffocation from the fumes. The maid and butler made a valiant
attempt to effect a rescue, themselves sustaining injuries. The fire
department was speedily summoned and contrived to save the major
portion of the building.”
For a second the words swam before his eyes. Then he made a seemingly
trivial observation.
“This explains why I couldn’t get through on the telephone.…”
The clerks looked at him. No one could know that his thoughts had
flown in a rush to Catherine, wondering why it was he had had no word
from her. The clock was striking twelve. Had anything happened to her?
Thank God, her room was on the opposite side of the flat.…
“I must go up there at once,” he muttered.
His father nodded grimly. For all his outward composure he was badly
shaken. With a brusque gesture he drew the young man apart from the
group, saying in a low voice:
“Find out everything you can and keep your eyes well open. I needn’t
remind you how difficult it is going to be, that as far as we know the
only persons to give evidence are the suspects themselves. If we could
bring to light any suspicions of a motive----”
“Motive?” repeated Geoffrey, suddenly coming to from his brief stupor.
“But there is a motive! Something stupendous!”
In a rapid undertone he made known his discovery. His father listened,
struck dumb. Several seconds elapsed before he found his voice to
gasp.
“An heir… marrying the heir! Good God, how blind we’ve been!”
He seemed paralysed, all at once ten years older. The effort with
which he pulled himself together was painfully apparent.
“We’ve been fools, Geoffrey--utter, hopeless fools! We’ve stood by and
allowed that wretched woman to be done to death, and even now there
may not be a chance of bringing the scoundrels to justice! Do you
realize that fact?”
“We can at least order a post-mortem.”
“And what will that prove if, as is probable, she died of heart
failure? No, I am afraid even now they may slip through our fingers.…
But do your best; get back as quickly as you can and let me know the
result.”
Within a few minutes Geoffrey was speeding towards the Étoile, his
consciousness harassed by two dominant emotions--futile
self-accusation for his failure to avert a dreadful calamity, and a
growing apprehension in regard to Catherine. Nothing serious could
have happened to her, or there would have been some mention in the
newspaper, yet it struck him again as strange that in all these hours
he had received no message. In vain he told himself that it was only
natural in the shock and confusion of the terrible happening, with the
telephone out of commission into the bargain, for her not to have
communicated with her friends. His solace lay in the knowledge that
soon he would see her and, if she were willing, take her back again to
Elspeth’s home.
A knot of curious spectators clustered round the entrance to the
apartment building, and as he hastened through the archway several
pairs of eyes followed him with morbid interest. At the doorway of the
_loge_ the concierge’s wife was discoursing with an air of ghoulish
enjoyment to a handful of cronies, for the main part servants,
hatless, and laden with string-bags of marketing. Seeing Geoffrey, she
darted forward and seized his arm with a horny talon.
“_Vous désirez_, monsieur?” she demanded sharply, every line of her
witch-like face avid with the righteous opportunity of showing her
authority.
Impatiently he gave his name, the woman cringing away with a servile
shrug to stand looking after him curiously.
Although from the avenue there was no sign of destruction, the damage
was now only too apparent. The windows of the _entresol_ and several
on the floor immediately above were blackened and smashed to atoms,
all visible woodwork charred to a crisp, while the three interior
walls ran with rivulets of water, still dripping into pools on the
stones below. The lift, however, was unharmed, and the larger part of
the building appeared to be little injured.
Above, the broad mahogany doors gaped wide. The pale grey carpet was
soaked through and plastered with muddy footprints, the walls on both
sides sodden with moisture which had seeped through in streaks of
discoloration. No actual indication of the fire showed, but the entire
atmosphere was permeated with the acrid odour of burnt and drenched
wood.
Geoffrey entered and glanced about. Not a soul was in sight, but from
the salon came subdued voices, speaking with that curious deadness and
restraint usual on such occasions. Reaching the open door, he
perceived a small gathering composed entirely of men, some of them
with an official aspect, the rest nondescripts whom he took to be
representatives of the press. The first excitement had died away, the
prevailing atmosphere now being that of tension and hesitancy.
Rapidly his eyes explored the rooms in search of Catherine, but she
was not in sight. He was still staring about with a frown of
perplexity when a police sergeant, trim and efficient-looking in his
tight uniform, stepped forward with an interrogatory gesture:
“Monsieur?”
Briefly Geoffrey stated his business.
“There is a relative of the dead lady staying here, a young American.
Can you tell me where she is?”
“An American lady, monsieur? I have not seen her. You think she had
been here?”
“There is no doubt about it. I am anxious to find her.”
The sergeant, a small man with sharp features and black, observant
eyes, shook his head, his attention straying back towards the salon.
“You must be misinformed, monsieur. I understand there was no one in
the apartment last night except the two servants. You had better
inquire of them. There is the butler now,”--and he motioned towards
the squat figure of Eduardo.
The Portuguese, his left arm in a sling and his shiny face daubed with
smut, was speaking jerkily to one of the reporters, a grubby Frenchman
who was busily engaged in taking notes. As he talked his bloodshot
eyes glanced in Geoffrey’s direction, then away without a sign of
recognition. The young man took a step towards him, then halted as a
choking voice from behind uttered his name:
“Monsieur Macadam!”
Wheeling round, he beheld Hermione Cushing tottering towards him,
officiously escorted by the concierge. The huge singer, garbed in
voluminous black, surged forward and grasped his hands to steady
herself. Her large moon-face was drained of colour, her lips quivered
pathetically, while every inch of her immense body vibrated with
emotion. Whatever his secret thoughts had been Geoffrey could feel
nothing but pity for a grief so evidently sincere.
“You have just learned of the accident?” he whispered.
She nodded, closing her red-rimmed eyes. Then with a stupendous effort
at control she opened them, fixing her watery gaze upon him.
“Twenty minutes ago.… Yvonne heard it in the fishmonger’s. I cannot
yet take it in. I was with her till seven last night.…”
For a second he feared she was going to swoon, and braced himself in
anticipation. However, drawing a tremulous breath she drew herself up
with commendable resolution and laid a shaking arm on his arm.
“Catherine--?” she murmured interrogatively. “She knows nothing of
this, I suppose? Poor child, poor child! What a shock for her,
too!”--and before he could disabuse her mind of error she moved away
into the salon.
At her approach the group disintegrated, and for the first time
Geoffrey caught sight of a still figure at the far end near the
windows, huddled in a _bergère_ covered with violet brocade. From a
drab countenance, deeply lined, two dull eyes stared up,
expressionless, apathetic.
They were the eyes of Jeanne.
The maid was wrapped in a dark dressing-gown buttoned to the chin. Her
disordered hair clung in dank wisps to her forehead, her lips were set
in a straight line. Immobile as an effigy, she sat with her feet in
black _pantoufles_, and her arms, swathed in bandages, resting stiffly
upon the wings of the chair. If she was aware of Geoffrey’s presence
she gave no sign, her opaque gaze passing him by and coming to rest
upon the singer’s face.
Moving quickly towards her, he bent over and spoke in an undertone.
“Jeanne, where is Mademoiselle West?”
She seemed not to hear him, and only when he had repeated the question
insistently did she turn her head slowly in his direction.
“Mademoiselle West? But how should I know, monsieur?” she muttered in
a lifeless voice. “I have been through too much to think of
mademoiselle.”
“But you must know where she is,” he urged impatiently, trying to fix
her attention. “Has she gone out?”
Her gaze wandered away. She appeared utterly absorbed in herself, with
the indifference of nervous exhaustion. Again he was forced to repeat
his words, this time with noticeable impatience.
“But I do not understand,” she replied at last. “Surely monsieur is
aware that I have not seen mademoiselle for a full week.”
“Not seen her?”
The words leaped out. Had the woman turned silly? Irritation laid hold
of him so that he longed to catch her by the shoulders and shake her.
Several of the men behind him had drawn closer, listening with marked
curiosity.
“But you must have seen her! How could you help it? She was here last
night.”
One of the bandaged hands made a slight gesture of protest, as much as
to say that this was scarcely the moment for idle questions.
“You are mistaken, monsieur. It is this evening she is supposed to
return. I should have thought you knew that.”
His face reddened with anger. Leaning nearer, he spoke slowly and
emphatically, as if to a stupid child.
“Listen to me, Jeanne! You know as well as I do that mademoiselle came
home last night. The point is, where has she got to?”
For answer he received an uncomprehending shrug and a blank shake of
the head. Either the maid could not or would not grasp his meaning.
Alarm began to creep into his mind. Was it possible she had not seen
Catherine? He felt utterly at sea. Then as he rallied himself for a
fresh attack, Hermione addressed him in astonishment, her black-gloved
hand upon his sleeve.
“What is this you are saying? Catherine here last night?”
He opened his lips to explain, but before he could speak Eduardo, who
had been listening, moving quietly to his side.
“Some mistake, Mr. Macadam,” he mumbled. “Miss West did not come home.
If you care to look, you’ll see for yourself that her room has not
been occupied.”
Speechless with rage, Geoffrey returned the man’s unflinching stare.
In spite of the usual covert insolence in the butler’s manner, his
statement somehow carried conviction.
“Is this true what you are telling me?” demanded Geoffrey rudely.
“Quite, monsieur; if she had been here, we could not have failed to
know it, could we?” came the supercilious retort.
Catherine not here!
The room reeled before his eyes.