Within the next three minutes Geoffrey had found a telephone-booth
and was in communication with his father, exasperated to find the old
man not greatly impressed by Catherine’s absence.
“Probably gone to stay with some friend,” he suggested. “In which case
it’s likely she hasn’t yet heard of this disaster.”
“What, descend on people at twelve o’clock at night?”
“It has been done.”
Geoffrey cast his mind over Catherine’s acquaintances. Only two
families did she know at all well, some Americans named Barton, in the
rue Freycinet, and a young married couple, artists both, in the rue
Léopold-Robert. He mentioned their names, giving the addresses.
“Get in touch with them at once and see if they have heard anything of
her,” he ordered briefly. “You’ll have to send a message up to the
O’Briens, as they are not on the telephone. I am going to see Bernard
and get his help, but I would like you to meet me at two o’clock at
the Commissariat. There are three divisions in the district--the one
we want is in the Rue Mesnil.”
“You think there’s been foul play?”
“I am sure of it--but the important matter now is to find Catherine.”
From the Place de Clichy to the rue Blanche is but a step. By great
good luck the agent was in his office, and listened attentively to the
story Geoffrey poured out. He ruminated a moment, then gave his
opinion.
“I agree, monsieur, that in the light of this man Blom’s approaching
marriage last night’s affair was deliberate murder. But your friend’s
failure to appear may be easily explained. I should think she would
probably turn up during the day.”
He coughed discreetly, as though he could if he wished disclose a vast
amount of information regarding feminine vagaries.
“But I tell you I saw the light in her room last night! The servants
may swear what they choose, I don’t believe them. Something tells me
they know where she is. My God, man, don’t you see what that means?”
“Certainly, if they do know. But I am inclined to believe there is
nothing in this beyond a change of plan on her part.”
“However that may be, the Portuguese I mentioned is at this moment
with Blom, at his office. I am sure of it. I want you to shadow him
and find out what he has up his sleeve. Come at once, before he has
time to get away.”
The agent reached for his rusty hat. Geoffrey arranged to meet him at
two-thirty in the foyer of the Hotel Claridge, and hailing a taxi
drove quickly to the Commissariat. It was now half past one.
The narrow rue Mesnil leads out of the Place Victor Hugo, the small
building of the Commissariat being situated at the farther end, its
unimposing façade marked with a faded tricolour. Passing the _agent_
on duty at the entrance, Geoffrey found his father waiting within, and
eagerly inquired news.
“There’s none, I’m afraid,” Macadam made reluctant answer. “Neither of
those families even knew she’d been out of Paris. But there may be
other possibilities.”
Geoffrey could see none. Badly shaken by the report, he motioned to
his father to precede him up the wooden staircase to a door on which
was written, “_Entrez Sans Frapper_.”
Entering they found a bare room divided by a desk behind which lounged
an employé diligently engaged in paring his nails with a
pocket-knife. This individual listened vacantly to Geoffrey’s urgent
request to see the Chief, and after clicking his knife-blade into its
warty case, blowing his nose thoroughly on a soiled handkerchief and
staring the two Englishmen up and down in a wooden manner announced
that it would be necessary for them to state their case first to the
_Secretaire du Commissaire_.
They were caught in the toils of officialdom. Geoffrey ground his
teeth as he watched the underling amble out and heard him in an
adjoining room exchanging feeble jests with an unseen company for
fully five minutes before there was any sign of activity. Eventually
there emerged from the doorway a pink-faced official, dapperly-built,
with hair freely plastered with pomade.
“_Vous desirez, messieurs?_”
Macadam made a concise statement in excellent French, while the
secretary’s eyes wandered dreamily this way and that, finally coming
to rest on the speaker’s waistcoat, which they appeared to find mildly
interesting. In the end without betraying the slightest degree of
concern or hurry, the man motioned languidly towards a couple of hard
chairs against the wall, and remarked that if the Commissaire was not
engaged he would perhaps hear the complaint himself.
Another maddening wait, and the two solicitors found themselves in a
second office, facing a dry-as-dust little person with a stubble of
grey beard and a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. This was the
Commissaire.
Bent over his desk steadily covering a sheet of foolscap with angular
writing, he did not look up when the secretary retailed to him a
garbled account of the visitors’ mission, continuing for endless
minutes to dip his fine pen into the ink-pot and pursue his labours
unmoved by rumours of murder and arson. Long after Geoffrey’s patience
was frayed to breaking-point he pushed aside his document and cleared
his throat.
“And now, messieurs, what is your business?” he calmly inquired.
No expression crossed his face till he caught the words, “double
affair, relating to the death last night of Mme. Belmont Bender,” when
a gleam came into his eyes.
“Ah, the victim of the fire in the Avenue Henri Martin. But--double
affair, you say? Kindly explain.”
This time it was Geoffrey who set forth the circumstances and his
suspicions of foul play. Several times the Commissaire indulged in a
meditative shrug, and now and then raised a hand for the benefit of
the secretary, who made a note in a little book.
At last the little chief removed his spectacles, rubbed his eyelids
with a reflective finger, and summed up the case with bloodless
precision.
“You wish to suggest, monsieur, first of all an affair of
sequestration supplemented by undue influence, object pecuniary gain.
As to the possibility of murder, from what you tell me there seems
little actual evidence. Failing witnesses, the charge may be difficult
to prove, unless, of course, the examination of the corpse reveals
some trace of poison. That, naturally, remains to be seen. Since you
have managed to hit upon a plausible motive for a crime, it will be my
duty to order a post-mortem, though I understand you are not certain
that this Mme.--what is the woman’s name?--Mme. Baron, is a blood
relation of the deceased. You only assume that she is. However, we
will waive that point. The aggregate of circumstances will provide us
sufficient excuse to go on.”
He wiped his lenses carefully and set the spectacles again upon his
nose.
“Now for the other matter, the supposed disappearance of
Mademoiselle--how does she call herself?--ah yes, Mademoiselle West.
It seems to me rather early, monsieur, to conclude that she is
actually missing. Several solutions suggest themselves. On your own
statement she was not on the best of terms with Mme. Bender’s
servants. Is it not possible that on her way home last night she felt
a sudden reluctance to descend upon them unawares, and in consequence
spent the night at an hotel? I am thinking also of your mention of the
fact that she intended an early start in the morning, to meet her
friends.”
Geoffrey admitted this might have happened, but declared it to be
unlikely. What, he demanded, was one to do about the light in
mademoiselle’s bedroom and the shadow on the blind?
The Commissaire shook his head disparagingly.
“One cannot rely upon that as proof that she was there. The shadow may
have been that of some other person.”
“But at a quarter past one, monsieur! The alarm was given in at
one-thirty. At the time I mention the servants must have been either
asleep or occupied with the fire--if one is to believe what they say.”
“True. You are sure it was a quarter past one?”
“Absolutely. I looked at my watch.”
“Ah, well, that fact may be of value to us, particularly if it shows
up any flaw in the servants’ evidence. We shall see.”
He rang a bell on the desk, the sluggish employé before mentioned
appeared.
“Send Inspector Bazin to me,” he commanded, and closing his eyes,
lapsed into silence.
Presently a stalwart officer appeared in the doorway. His fresh,
sun-burned colouring and small blond moustache suggested a Norman
heritage; his pale blue eyes, stolid and honest, gazed forth from
beneath a square forehead several shades lighter in tint than his
cheeks. But for his alert air and more nervous movements he might have
been a representative of the London Police Force. Geoffrey took an
instant liking to him.
“This, messieurs, is one of my men to whom I am going to entrust your
case. Kindly inform him of the details. He will look after you, I
trust satisfactorily. Inspector, conduct these gentlemen to the
waiting-room and hear what they have to say. I wish you good day,
messieurs,” and with a brief nod the Commissaire resumed his writing.
On the threshold the father and son separated, Macadam to return to
the office and Geoffrey to go through his story once again to the
inspector.
The past half-hour had been a nightmare. Not only had it consumed
valuable time during which anything, everything might be happening,
but the Commissaire’s refusal to treat Catherine’s disappearance as
serious had seemed to him densely lacking in imagination. Now another
ordeal faced him, one more official to try to impress.
However, Inspector Bazin proved human. He showed keen interest, asked
many questions, and having written down every salient detail read it
aloud briskly, beginning with the description of Catherine.
“American, United States. Age twenty-four. Slender, dark, height one
metre sixty-three centimetres. Well dressed, beige coat trimmed with
castor fur, small hat of pale green felt, gown to match. Luggage, one
fairly large pigskin case, initialed C.W., and one round patent
leather hatbox, black.… Is there anything else, monsieur? Jewellery,
for instance?”
Geoffrey thought for a moment.
“Only a ring, a ruby, oval-shaped, set in gold, and--but I am not sure
about this--a flat gold necklace worn close round the throat.”
“Should you say she had any large amount of money on her?”
“I don’t know. I imagine not.”
“Now, then, monsieur. At what time did she leave Fontainebleau?”
“Ten forty-five, which means she must have arrived at the Gare
Fontainebleau-Avron at about eleven-fifty.”
The inspector twisted the waxed ends of his moustache thoughtfully for
a second, then spoke with decision.
“As I see it, monsieur, we have three distinct possibilities to
consider. First, the young lady may have gone elsewhere of her own
accord--either because on reaching the apartment she found herself
bolted out, or for some other reason. In this event you will no doubt
soon hear from her.”
“We may as well rule that out,” cut in Geoffrey shortly.
“Permit me to say, monsieur, that that is merely your present opinion.
To be quite candid, you do not know that it is not the case. Well,
then! My second surmise is that some fate may have overtaken her on
the way, so that she never arrived home. I suppose I need not explain
my meaning?”
Geoffrey’s rigid face showed that he understood. Already his mind had
flown to accounts of persons robbed, murdered and thrown from moving
trains, as well as to those other familiar occurrences where the
victims are taken to the lonely reaches of the Bois, and left there
dead or in an unconscious state.
“Go on,” he said briefly.
“In consideration of this second theory, I shall try at once to get in
touch with the chauffeur who drove her from the Gare; also find out if
any unidentified bodies of young women have been discovered in the
vicinity of the city. _Bien!_ Let us look at our third possibility,
which I fear is not more pleasing than the last. You permit me,
monsieur?” and he looked at Geoffrey with grave hesitancy. “I know
what you are going to say. The servants themselves…”
“Exactly. If your assumption of their guilt is correct, and if the
young lady chanced to surprise them in the act, they would naturally
have to remove her for their own safety. In such a case it is as well
to be prepared for the worst.”
The listener’s eyes were bleak. This was the identical thought which
had tortured him since the moment he learned of the disappearance.
“I suppose we may obtain a warrant for their arrest on suspicion?” he
forced himself to say.
To his astonishment the inspector shook his head.
“That, monsieur, is exactly what I do not wish to do. Examine the
situation for a moment. Placed under restraint they will stick to
their prepared statement, and we shall be obliged to institute a
tedious investigation. Given a sufficient amount of rope, they are
certain to betray themselves in some way. My idea is this: granting
that it was mademoiselle’s shadow you saw on the blind, whatever
happened must have taken place between one-fifteen and one-thirty when
the fire engines were summoned--a bare quarter of an hour. In so short
a time they could not have taken her far. She must therefore be hidden
about the premises or somewhere close at hand. In either case they
dare not leave the body for long for fear of its being discovered, and
will take the first opportunity of removing it.”
A shudder passed over Geoffrey as he noticed the speaker used the word
“body.”
“What I propose to do is to surround the building with a cordon of
police in plain clothes, so that if the suspects attempt to go out
their movements will be watched. If our third surmise is the right
one, then before many hours--probably to-night--one or the other of
them will lead us to the missing lady.”
“Remember they have an accomplice--the _notaire_ in the rue
d’Amsterdam. The butler was with him at noon to-day.”
“That fact is suggestive. Give me the man’s address, and I will see
that he also is shadowed.”
Geoffrey complied, and the inspector wrote it down.
“Am I to understand that you and your father are Mme. Bender’s legal
executors?”
Geoffrey nodded.
“That is very useful, as in your position of authority you can issue
certain orders. My advice to you is to suggest that these servants
remain in the apartment till the inquest is over. In all events they
will be required to give evidence. On no account let them imagine that
you suspect anything. As soon as I have set my plans in operation I
shall question them and conduct a thorough search of the building, but
in such a way as not to arouse needless alarm.” He glanced at his
watch. “It is now three o’clock. I will meet you at the apartment at a
little before four. Meanwhile, monsieur, bear in mind that we have
been adopting an extreme view of things, and that at any moment we may
find our fears groundless.”
Five minutes after this Geoffrey entered Claridge’s Hotel and hastened
through to the central lounge. At his approach a figure in rusty
black, as conspicuous as a lone crow in a corn-field, rose from one of
the little tables and came to meet him.
“Well?” cried the young man eagerly.
“I am afraid, monsieur, I have not much to report. Twenty minutes
after I left you the Portuguese came out, then took a taxi back to his
own neighborhood. I trailed him all the way, but instead of returning
at once to the apartment, he paid a call on a concierge, apparently a
friend, several houses farther along the street. I made a point of
dropping into the loge on the pretext of inquiring for an imaginary
_locataire_, and found the two discussing the fire. I did not see
anything that looked wrong.”
Geoffrey considered the information, which meant nothing whatever to
him. Although disappointed at the result of the agent’s mission, he
comforted himself with the reflection that if the butler had any
designs he had not been able to carry them out.
“Did you do anything further?” he demanded.
“I hurried back to the _notaire’s_ office, hoping to hit on something
in that quarter. I saw him for a moment, representing myself as a
life-insurance agent, and tried to get him to talk, but it was no
good. He was preoccupied and, I think, a little suspicious--all but
shut the door in my face. However, I found out this much--his marriage
takes place at the Mairie on Tuesday next--just three days off.”
Well timed, was the listener’s inward comment. If Blom had married the
milliner while Mme. Bender was alive there would have been
considerable doubt as to whether the latter’s fortune would ever come
into his wife’s possession; while if he postponed the wedding until
Mme. Baron actually occupied the enviable position of heiress, she
might easily throw him over, being then independent and able to pick
and choose.…
“Is there anything more you wish me to do, monsieur?” queried Bernard
when the silence had lengthened to minutes.
The young man roused himself from his reverie.
“Not at the moment, but I want you to hold yourself in readiness for
the next day or so in case I need you,” and in a few words he outlined
the theories set forth by the police inspector.
The agent listened with solemn attention.
“Perhaps, monsieur, you will allow me to do a little investigation on
my own account. There is half an idea in my head… nothing may come of
it of course.… Nevertheless,” he added with an effort at cheerfulness
similar in effect to the passing of a hearse, “let us not look too
much on the dark side of things. Who knows but the young lady may have
had some reason of her own for spending the night away? You tell me
she was to meet some friends early this morning. In that case she
might easily remain ignorant of the news for a considerable time,
since few strangers read the _Paris Midi_. Even now she may be on her
way home.”
The same lingering hope was in Geoffrey’s mind, though he was afraid
to bank upon it. At any moment now the agony of the past few hours
might dissolve like a hideous dream. He could hardly wait to get back
to the Avenue Henri Martin to end his suspense.
He reached the scene of the fire, and the lift being above-floors,
started to mount the broad stairway, too keyed up with expectancy to
notice a dull shuffle of feet approaching from the _entresol_.
However, rounding the turn he pulled up abruptly, flattening himself
against the wall to avoid a descending cortège--nothing less than a
company of stretcher-bearers, engaged in removing the body of the
deceased.
So, he reflected, the Commissaire had lost no time in carrying out his
intention. The remains would now be taken over by the
Institut-Medico-Légiste, and the cause of death determined by
post-mortem. That much at all events had been accomplished.
From the top step the dapper sergeant superintended the operation.
Slowly the sheeted mass went on its way, the men manœuvring the turns
cautiously to avoid the balustrade. Geoffrey waited, hat in hand, till
the party had crossed the lobby, then cleared the remaining steps at a
bound. As he did so, Eduardo came out of the open doorway, started to
speak to the police sergeant, then noting Geoffrey, checked himself.
The young man accosted him directly:
“Have you seen anything yet of Mademoiselle West?” he demanded.
The Portuguese looked coolly amazed.
“Certainly not, monsieur. Unless you yourself have communicated with
her, I should doubt if she has heard the news.”
Geoffrey’s heart took a sickening plunge. Instinctively he put out a
hand towards the lintel of the door to steady himself under this fresh
blow. For a second his eyes and the hot brown ones of the butler met
in an unwavering stare.