Geoffrey’s father had read Catherine’s message before sending it on,
consequently at dinner there was little to discuss. The meal passed in
strained silence, Geoffrey consuming food mechanically, while the
other scanned with a gloomy frown the evening papers’ accounts of the
fire.
Through the open windows a breath of sun-drenched air stole in from
across the Luxembourg Gardens; the tall candles flickering on the
table filled the young man’s mind with an uneasy suggestion, driving
home the fact that while his worst fears were allayed, he was still
restless and dissatisfied.
If only Catherine had told him where she was! For the life of him he
could not regard the omission as accidental. At one moment he imagined
sensitively that she shrank from seeing him for some personal reason,
at another attributed her motive to a desire for concealment. The
occasional probing glances directed at him by his father goaded him to
irritability, for it was not difficult to read their cause.
The coffee arriving, Macadam pushed back his chair and thrust a cigar
into his mouth at an irascible angle.
“Whatever Miss West’s reasons may be for her behaviour,” he pronounced
gratingly, “she has given us a deuced deal of trouble and made us look
a couple of fools as well. If you enjoy this sort of thing, it’s more
than I do.”
The sarcasm flicked Geoffrey on the raw.
“We may as well reserve comment till we know the facts,” he retorted
curtly.
With a shrug the old man wadded the newspapers into a ball and strode
from the room, reappearing for a moment to toss an envelope in his
son’s direction.
“There’s your report about the handwriting. The notes were forgeries
right enough--though much good it does to know it now! The next thing
will be the discovery that the pearls are missing, so we can arrest
that woman for theft, whether or not there’s any foundation for a more
serious charge.”
It was with feelings bordering on complete indifference that Geoffrey
read the enclosure. Indeed, so absorbed was he in his own
contradictory emotions, he did not realize to what extent his father’s
ill temper was occasioned by a sense of failure in averting a
calamity.
Much as he wished to ignore Jeanne’s detestable theory, he could not
deny that Catherine’s present conduct was strange. The idea that a
cloud of doubt might for ever hang over the past twenty-four hours was
loathsome to him. Then the thought of her fearless eyes and frank
honesty rushed before him as a reproach, and he tried resolutely to
postpone all conjecture till to-morrow.
To-morrow----!
All at once, with a pang, he understood why he was so disturbed. Was
he really going to see her? The vagueness of her message held
something elusive, a quality summed up in a repetition of the phrase,
“not like Catherine.” That was it--it was not like her. What was it
she had said?
Taking the telegram from his pocket, he studied it closely, once more
trying to discover some hidden meaning.
“_Overcome by frightful news unable to go out but will telephone you
to-morrow to explain my absence do not trouble yourself all goes well
with me…_”
Awkwardly put, that. He wondered now why she had employed the
expression, “do not trouble yourself.” Much more natural to have said
“Don’t worry.” The reflexive verb sounded oddly un-English. He
pondered it, then passed on to the following sentence.
Suddenly he frowned, staring hard. Here was a combination of words he
would not have expected an American to use. Surely the obvious thing
to say was, “Don’t worry, I’m all right.”
“All goes well with me.” He repeated the stilted form, annoyed and
exasperated. What did it suggest? At first the significance escaped
him, then in a flash he knew. Why--it was pure French construction! Of
course! Its equivalent was the phrase “_tout va bien_.”
For a few seconds he remained stupefied, his brain in confusion. Then
out of chaos emerged an awful, crashing truth. This telegram was not
composed by Catherine at all. It was the concoction of some
foreigner--someone with an imperfect knowledge of English idioms. It
bore two glaring marks of falsity.
The revelation stunned him. How had he been such an unmitigated ass?
Catherine would not, could not, construct sentences like those, the
thing was impossible.
His fatuous security tumbled about him like a house of cards.
Catherine might or might not be alive, but instinct warned him that
all hope of recovering her was lost unless immediate action were
taken. His chair clattered to the parquet behind him as, leaping to
his feet, he made a bolt for the door.
He was still cursing his blindness when, at the rue Mesnil, he met the
inspector just setting forth for his night’s vigil.
“So you are coming with me after all, monsieur? I promise you it may
prove a boring affair. Why--has anything new occurred?” he ended in
surprise as he took in the Englishman’s distraught bearing.
“Look at this again!” cried Geoffrey, thrusting the telegram under his
eyes. “It is worded in such a way that it could not possibly have been
written by Mademoiselle West. I don’t know how I was such a fool as
not to spot it at once,” and he hastily attempted to explain the two
paradoxes contained in the message.
Bazin listened with an altered face.
“You are sure of this? The English language is a sealed book to me.
Perhaps you had better compare that paper with the original, which I
obtained an hour ago from the Hôtel des Postes,” he added, producing
a pencil-written form. “None of the employés could recall who handed
it in, but you will probably know if it is in the young lady’s hand.”
Eagerly Geoffrey seized the form, only to see what at first glance
appeared to be Catherine’s writing. He stared nonplussed, then hunting
through his pockets, found the note sent him several days ago from
Fontainebleau. Examining the two specimens, he decided that one was a
creditable but faulty imitation of the other.
“They are not the same,” he pronounced positively. “See, all her own
o’s are separated from the other letters, while in the telegram they
are joined on. Besides, there is an angularity about this writing
which is distinctively Continental.”
Bazin’s blue eyes had a hard brightness.
“I agree. They were never written by the same person.” He fingered the
slip with manifest excitement. “You are right, monsieur. This telegram
is the work of someone anxious to put us off the scent, and for
to-night, mind--since the deception would surely have been revealed
when you failed to hear anything further.”
“Then you think that whatever is planned will take place before
morning?”
“I do. I was wiser than I knew when I arranged to have that house
watched.”
His face was grave as he got into the waiting car and motioned to
Geoffrey to take the seat beside him. In another second they were
circling the Place Victor Hugo.
“I have some more news for you, monsieur. I have now heard from the
taxi-driver who brought mademoiselle home from the Gare. He declares
that he set her down at the private entrance at about ten minutes past
twelve last night, and as he is able to furnish a satisfactory account
of himself for several hours afterwards, we can safely eliminate him
from the inquiry. So far no other driver has come forward, which leads
us to assume that while your friend arrived at the apartment, she did
not leave again in the way that has been suggested.”
As Geoffrey listened to this confirmation of his worst fears, dread
lay like a leaden weight at the pit of his stomach.
“Furthermore, I have instituted a search at some thirty hotels in the
rue de Rivoli district, and while there may still remain some small
place we have overlooked, it begins to appear a useless quest.”
“Who do you suppose sent the telegram? Was it Blom?”
“Not in person, certainly, for he has been under strict surveillance
all the afternoon, and I have my man’s word for the fact that he has
gone nowhere, except across the court to his fiancée’s apartment.”
“He may have sent it by one of Honorine’s work-girls.”
“A risk, in case of embarrassing inquiries. Your name is sufficiently
unusual to impress itself on a French person’s memory. I am inclined
to believe he employed a public messenger.”
Geoffrey considered this.
“He would be bound to take some risk in order to telegraph at all, but
from his point of view it would be a small one. Remember, he has not
the slightest reason up till now to think that any of us is aware of
his existence.”
“Ah, in that case he may well consider himself safe. Certainly, if you
had not had the good fortune to discover his connection with the
affair, last night’s happening would have been regarded as a tragic
accident, with blame attaching to no one, least of all to him. As
things stand, what with mademoiselle’s disappearance and this
deliberate attempt to make it appear a voluntary withdrawal, I now see
that the situation looks distinctly serious.”
Geoffrey forced himself to utter the question which was gnawing into
him like a canker.
“You believe, then, that mademoiselle may be dead?”
The inspector bit his lip.
“It may be as well to accustom oneself to the idea, monsieur,” he said
in a low voice. “It seems extremely probable that she has been
murdered because she is a dangerous witness, and that the criminals
are merely waiting till a suitable moment to dispose of her body.”
They had slowed down in turning off the Avenue Henri Martin. The rays
of an arc-light shone full on the young man’s face, revealing its
ghastly pallor.
“I suppose we can doing nothing but watch?” he suggested, his tone
deadened with repression.
“Not for to-night. If nothing occurs, then to-morrow we shall have to
take definite action, but so long as a bare hope remains of the young
lady’s being alive we must tread warily.”
Leading the way, he turned into a narrow passage squeezed between the
rows of buildings, passed through a doorway and began to ascend a
winding stair, lit by a dim wall-bracket.
“This is the rear entrance to the house we want, monsieur. It is
better not to use the front way, for fear of being seen.”
On the first floor he tapped upon a door, which was opened by a
middle-aged _femme de chambre_.
“Will you kindly inform M. le Commandant that Inspector Bazin is
here?”
The woman nodded.
“If you will come this way, messieurs, I will conduct you to the room
monsieur has placed at your disposal.”
Following her along a passage, they found themselves in a small study,
the walls of which, above compactly filled bookshelves, were
ornamented by a collection of arms arranged in a coruscating
pattern--spears, poniards and scimitars of an interesting variety.
Brown velvet curtains covered the window, while deep chairs and a sofa
were grouped about a low table bearing smoking materials, among which
were a narghileh and a Turkish chibouk.
When the servant withdrew, Bazin informed his companion that they were
the guests of M. le Commandant Jules Heller, well known as an
authority on modern warfare. Geoffrey recognized the name, one
frequently seen signed to articles in _le Gaulois_ and similar
journals. As he looked restlessly round at the weapon-hung walls a
clock somewhere in the flat struck a single metallic _ping_. A glance
at his watch told him it was half-past eight.
The door opened to admit their host, a small, bald-headed man,
one-armed and with a glass eye. His spare body was attired in a velvet
jacket, the lapel of which bore the tiny red ribbon of the _Légion
d’Honneur_.
“Good evening, messieurs!” The Commandant bowed with exquisite
courtesy, his lone eye beaming with welcome. “I trust this study is
suitable for your purpose? It is near the corner and commands a view
of both entrances opposite, although unfortunately the trees are in
full leaf and may obstruct the vision.”
The inspector declared the position excellent, adding that he trusted
they were not causing inconvenience.
“Not in the least! I confess I would like nothing better than to share
your watch, but alas, I am suffering from migraine, and my wife
insists on an early retirement. However, I have given orders for
refreshments to be brought you, and if you require anything further
you have only to ring.”
He seated himself, offered them liqueurs and cigars, and for a short
time discoursed with a charm and fluency which, at another time, would
have delighted both listeners. As matters were, it was a relief to
Geoffrey’s nerves when at the stroke of nine he rose to bid them good
night. In the doorway he paused, his manner suddenly altering.
“That maid across the way,” he remarked with serious thoughtfulness,
“I have watched her going about her duties for eleven
years--respectful, efficient, but, messieurs, hard--as hard as
those,”--and he pointed a finger at the polished blades on the wall.
“I know her accent; she is from the Vosges. The butler I cannot place,
he is probably of no nationality, but I know what I am saying when I
tell you that there is bad blood _chez lui_. If you wish to trap those
two, messieurs, you will need to be like our friend the fly--all eyes,
below, above and in the backs of your heads! _Bon soir, messieurs--et
bonne chance!_”
The door closed. The two men exchanged glances.
“He is right,” muttered the inspector shortly.
He turned off the lights, then cautiously drew aside the curtains. The
room was saved from complete darkness by the street lights and the
silver radiance of the moon, just risen above the house-tops.
“Too much illumination. We must be careful not to show ourselves.”
Yet it was a point in their favour that no one could possibly issue
from either of the entrances over the way without being plainly seen.
The avenue was quiet except for an occasional car whizzing past, but
from all around came the staccato honking of motor-horns pitched in
various keys. On a level with the eyes stretched the double row of
chestnuts, their waxen blossoms stiffly upright like candles on a
Christmas tree, while above the odour of warm asphalt and petrol rose
the fragrance of the spring night, fresh and thrilling. To Geoffrey it
was like a knife turned in a wound.
Opposite, the wide doors gaped open, with a thin blade of light from
the loge lying athwart the pavement. On the _entresol_ floor all was
gloom save for a slender thread of radiance round the edge of the
corner window.
A woman’s figure, flamboyantly dressed and with a scarlet hat perched
on her blond hair, emerged from the gates and stood looking up and
down the street. As she turned her rouged face towards the light
Geoffrey recognized Berthe. Presently she was joined by a coarse,
thickset man, and the two went off arm-in-arm, discoursing volubly.
“The cook, setting out with her friend,” whispered Bazin. “That is
good; the others will feel freer.”
Seating himself in the shadow of the curtains, he offered a packet of
Marylands to his companion, masking the lighted match with his hands.
During an interminable interval the two puffed in silence. Ever and
again Geoffrey’s cigarette went out and had to be re-lit. His muscles
twitched, his features in the tempered gloom showed blanched and
drawn. He chafed helplessly at the tediousness of the vigil, haunted
by the fear that while they sat here idle, elsewhere events might be
moving forward with fatal rapidity.
The unseen clock struck ten. A groan escaped him. The night had barely
begun!
A moment afterwards he stiffened and laid a hand on the inspector’s
arm.
On the narrow balcony of the corner room Eduardo had appeared, his
squat shoulders silhouetted against the glow within. He stood with his
right hand resting against the railing, and Geoffrey saw that the
sling had been abandoned. Slowly, indifferently, it seemed, his bullet
head turned, surveying the avenue in both directions, then, throwing
back his chin, he stared up at the night sky. A cloud of pale smoke
wafted out over the chestnuts from the cigarette between his lips.
For several minutes he remained thus, then withdrew, closing the
casement. All was quiet once more, though the light inside the room
was still visible.
Silence and another endless wait. Would nothing ever happen?
Then suddenly out of the soft night rose the thin notes of a violin.
The tune, charged with poignant associations, clutched at Geoffrey’s
heart. It was the Albeniz Tango.…
He shut his eyes. Across velvet blackness swayed two white figures
like glittering frost-flowers, accented here and there with spots that
were crimson as drops of blood.
Then the vision melted kaleidoscopically into another, and he sensed
around him a different darkness, with the odour of lilies of the
valley filling his nostrils. He could all but feel the pliant body
close against him and the pressure of those lips which for two weeks
had been a constant memory. Acute anguish shot through him. His nails
dug into his palms.