Geoffrey was still trying to master his outraged feelings when his
companion turned his head towards the passage and lifted a warning
hand.
“Let us not speak of this here, monsieur. We can discuss it all better
at the Commissariat, if you will accompany me there.” Whereupon he led
the way briskly towards the front entrance, leaving the Englishman no
choice but to bottle up his indignation as best he could and follow
submissively.
As they passed the ruined passage one of the two subordinates came
forward from his inspection of the debris and spoke a few words to his
superior. The latter, in turn, addressed Geoffrey in an undertone,
first glancing round to see that they were not overheard.
“It seems there are certain personal effects of the young lady in her
bedroom. Our problem is to decide whether any of them were taken by
her to Fontainebleau on her visit. Can you help us?”
Geoffrey considered, and shook his head.
“The best person to know about them is my sister, who I believe is in
town this afternoon. Shall I try to get in touch with her and ask her
to come here?”
“If you please, monsieur. You can telephone from the rue Mesnil.”
Outside, a low-built grey car, strong and efficient-looking, was drawn
up close to the kerb. Into it the inspector climbed, taking his place
at the wheel, and motioning to Geoffrey to take the seat beside him.
As they drove away the young man cast a backward glance at the
building and touched his companion on the sleeve. In the window of the
room occupied by the maid stood Eduardo, staring into the street
below, his gaze directed, not upon the car, but at the blue-clad
figure of the workman busy on one of the chestnut-trees.
“Is that one of your men?”
Bazin nodded.
“If you had taken the trouble to look out of the kitchen windows you
would have seen a brick-mason, tinkering with the rear wall. Our
friend seems interested. If he has anything on his conscience, he will
not venture out while the daylight lasts.… You know, of course, that
the deceased’s body has been removed to the Palais de Justice?
However, I took care not to allow the servants to guess our intention.
They believe the body has been taken to a mortuary to await the usual
inquest.”
“I wonder if the post-mortem will reveal anything?”
The inspector gave a disparaging shrug.
“Who knows? I warn you, monsieur, that they may find nothing worse
than veronal. To employ actual poison would be running a serious
risk.”
“Unless the criminals reckoned on the body being too badly burned to
discover anything,” retorted Geoffrey. “I have an idea the
intervention of that _locataire_ came at an inopportune moment, and
that the intention was to let the fire go on for another quarter of an
hour before the alarm was given.”
“Possibly. In any case we shall soon know what the Médecin Légiste
has to say.”
Geoffrey said nothing. His concern as to Mme. Bender’s mode of death
was completely overshadowed by anxiety regarding the missing girl, his
feelings at the moment chaotic and contradictory. That the man beside
him could have read in the maid’s cool assertion anything other than a
fabrication of lies so astounded him that his brain still recoiled
from the shock. Catherine--Catherine, to have perpetrated so appalling
a stupidity and, having done so, to flee from the consequences of her
act without a word of warning to the occupants of the burning flat!
The suggestion was so monstrous that his ire rose afresh against any
being capable of according it serious consideration.
Still, the Inspector knew nothing of Catherine’s character, nor for
that matter of Jeanne’s, and the theory in the abstract was plausible.
No stranger could be expected to see in it a quick-witted schemer’s
ruse to cast her own weight of guilt on innocent shoulders. At the
same time the very fact that the woman had dared to put forward this
dastardly explanation argued an inner knowledge of her own safety in
so doing. In other words she must know that the person she accused
would not be able to contradict her.
At the door of the Commissariat the Inspector left Geoffrey to do his
telephoning and went to inquire if any report had come in from the
taxi-driver who presumably picked up the missing girl at the Gare
Fontainebleau-Avron. Ten minutes later he returned to find the
Englishman pacing the floor.
“No news has come in,” he announced. “But it is a little early to look
for any. However, I have started a new line of inquiry which I hope
may lead to results.” He hesitated, glancing at the young man’s
haggard features. “In short, I want to find out if anyone answering to
Mademoiselle’s description quitted Paris by a morning train.”
Geoffrey’s eyes flashed.
“If that is what you have in mind, I can assure you your efforts are
wasted. Mademoiselle West is not trying to hide from us.”
There was the ghost of a smile in the Frenchman’s practical blue eyes.
“In any case, there is no harm in making sure,” he replied amicably,
and dropped the subject. “You have located your sister?”
“She is on her way to meet us at the apartment,” Geoffrey informed him
shortly.
The other’s manner made him uncomfortable. It hinted at a secret
belief that Catherine’s disappearance was not only voluntary but had
something of duplicity in it; that, indeed, the poor girl had some
reason of her own for keeping out of the way. Nothing he could say
would refute the unspoken charge, he could only chafe inwardly.
“Now, monsieur, I have another little matter to attend to on our way
back. The deceased had a car. I obtained the address of the garage
from the concierge, and I propose to give instructions that on no
account is the car to be taken out.”
Geoffrey looked at him quickly.
“You think the butler may want to use it?”
“Either he or the _notaire_, Blom--although I cannot say if the latter
has a driving-licence. It is only a chance, but we may as well be on
our guard.”
As they drove rapidly round the Place Victor Hugo and into the Avenue
Malakoff, Geoffrey acquainted his companion with the facts concerning
the Portuguese’s sortie that morning.
“It is certain that he held some sort of conference with Blom, though
his subsequent movements appeared harmless enough. All he did was to
pay a call on one of the concierges lower down the avenue.”
Bazin listened attentively.
“The fact that he took the first opportunity to see his friend is
certainly suggestive. I congratulate you, monsieur, on having had him
watched. Ah, here we are!”
Turning into a narrow mews, he sounded his horn in front of a large
garage. A youngish man with tousled hair and a face streaked with oil
came out to meet them, wiping his hands on a piece of cotton-waste. To
him the inspector stated his business.
“You understand? This car--a Rolls, is it not?--is in no circumstances
to be allowed out of the garage. If anyone calls for it, you are to
give a point-blank refusal and communicate at once with the
Commissariat.”
The proprietor nodded, but looked slightly surprised.
“Certainly, monsieur, I will carry out your instructions--when the car
is returned.”
“Returned! Do you mean it is not here?”
“No, monsieur. It was taken out two days ago. I understood it was
going into the country for the week-end.”
The occupants of the grey car exchanged startled glances, and Geoffrey
swore under his breath.
“You are sure of this?”
“But yes, monsieur. I know the car you speak of well. For the past few
months there has been no regular chauffeur, but it is sometimes used
by a manservant--a Spaniard, I think he is. It was he who called for
it on Thursday.”
There was nothing to be done. As they backed out of the mews the
inspector’s blond face was contracted with annoyance.
“This looks as though they had stolen a march on us,” he muttered. “I
don’t like the look of it. I daresay I could find the car, but it
might mean searching half the garages of Paris. On the whole I am
afraid we must let it go.”
This development deepened Geoffrey’s conviction of a pre-arranged
plan. It looked as though Eduardo, foreseeing the chance of things
going wrong, had removed the Rolls to some locality where he was
unknown, in order to facilitate a quick get-away.
Well, things had gone wrong, although perhaps the servants were as yet
unaware of that fact. In the circumstances they would probably sit
tight, knowing that any false move would jeopardize the stake for
which they had played.
Catherine’s absence was another matter, the most maddening feature of
which was the complete uncertainty surrounding it. What if the
servants were not involved? As Bazin had pointed out, there were other
explanations. But for the tell-tale shadow on the blind Geoffrey would
have been ready to picture the poor girl as the victim of robbery and
murder, perpetrated either in the train, or in the taxi later on.
Perhaps before the day was over her body would be found.
Elspeth came out of the loge to meet them, her fresh colour faded, her
whole manner betraying anxiety.
“Have you heard from her?” she demanded, grasping her brother’s arm.
He shook his head. She drew in a dismayed breath.
“If only I could make some suggestion! I have racked my brain. Could
something have frightened her so that she was afraid to come here? She
disliked the servants, you know.”
“We are absolutely in the dark. All we know is that both the maid and
butler deny having seen her. Come along, the police are waiting.”
They overtook the Inspector at the lift, and a few seconds later the
three were admitted to the apartment by the little sergeant, who was
preparing to depart. The pair who had conducted the search came
forward, the taller of the pair, a finely built Auvergnais, acting as
spokesman.
“We have gone over the whole building from top to bottom, monsieur,”
he announced in a confidential tone, “not omitting the _cave_ and the
roof. Nothing has come to light barring a cabin-trunk in the box-room,
marked with the lady’s initials. We broke it open, but it is quite
empty. There are only those few personal belongings we should like to
get an opinion on.”
The party made their way to the distant bedroom Catherine had occupied
and, taking a key from his pocket, the Auvergnais unlocked the door.
The afternoon sun flooded the disordered room, revealing a heap of
clothing on the bed, empty drawers pulled out to their farthest
extent, and cupboard doors gaping wide. Motes danced in the bars of
brilliant light which the yellow, _toile_-covered walls rendered the
more dazzling.
“If madame will take a look at these?” suggested Bazin, motioning to
the confused mass of apparel.
One by one Elspeth picked up and examined a frock of beige kasha, a
tweed skirt and jumper to match, an old cardigan, an afternoon gown of
parchment-coloured velvet and two evening-dresses. The onlookers
watching tensely, saw her reject the lot, then turn to a smaller
collection of underclothing, delicate garments of _crêpe de Chine_,
some primrose yellow, some pale apricot.
“No,” she said decidedly, “she had none of these with her. I am
certain, because I helped her pack.”
“And the toilet articles?”
There were not many of these, merely a few bottles, an almost empty
powder-box, and a small pot of cream for chapped hands. Again Elspeth
shook her head, instinct telling her that here was the unimportant
flotsam one leaves behind. Then she turned towards the open cupboard,
where the squirrel coat hung lonely from the rod, let her eye wander
over the shoes at the bottom and the two last winter’s hats on the
shelf.
“Do you recognize this, madame?”
It was the tall Auvergnais who addressed her, extending his broad
palm, in the centre of which lay a tiny red cylinder.
“_Une tube à rouge_, madame--we found it lying against the wall under
the bed.”
Elspeth gave a sharp exclamation.
“Catherine’s lipstick!” she cried, her eyes meeting Geoffrey’s. “I saw
her use it when she was changing her dress to go.”
Geoffrey’s hand shook as he reached for the lipstick and examined it.
Crimson morocco, outlined in gold.
“I know it, too,” he muttered. “I was with her the day she bought it,
in the Trois Quartiers.…”
The three men were eyeing him eagerly. He repeated his remark in
French, his manner betraying excitement.
“But are you sure it is the same?” inquired Bazin. “Sometimes ladies
possess more than one of these things.”
Elspeth took it again and removed the cap. The dark red composition
within appeared scarcely used.
“I can’t be absolutely positive,” she faltered. “She may have had two
alike.…”
Brother and sister continued to gaze as though fascinated. The little
object seemed to both a silent witness of its owner’s presence in the
room: yet, as the inspector had suggested, it was not conclusive
proof, since it was possible Catherine had owned an extra one of the
same make. There was a moment of tantalizing suspense.
Once more exploring the room, Elspeth’s eyes came to rest on the
despoiled cupboard.
“What is in that?” she asked suddenly, indicating the flowered
hat-box.
“_Encore un chapeau, madame. Je vous le montrerai----_” and the
Auvergnais removed the carton, setting it upon the bed.
The next instant Elspeth uttered a cry.
“Geoff! Look, look!”
Inside the box, resting upon smooth layers of tissue-paper, was a
small green felt hat. She snatched it forth tremblingly, turned it
round on her hand.
“Don’t you see? It’s hers, the one she was wearing. Oh, there’s not
the least doubt of it! I can prove it to you. See here,”--and
displaying the lining, she pointed to a black silk tag sewn inside, on
which were embroidered the words “Jane-Mary, Boston.”
Geoffrey stared transfixed. He, too, knew this hat, had noticed it on
many occasions. The memory of its narrow brim hugging the oval cheek
on one side and upturned on the other, brought a choking sensation to
his throat. Instantly he turned to the inspector, his entire manner
charged with electricity.
“Monsieur, we need look no longer, here is the proof! This is the hat
mademoiselle wore when she left Fontainebleau!”
For a second there was no sound in the room save the quickened
breathing of the startled hearers.