Eleven o’clock sounded.
The watchers at the Commandant’s study window sat in almost unbroken
silence, their eyes glued to the building across the way. In the
window opposite a glow still showed, suggesting that at least one of
the occupants of the flat was yet awake. The street noises had
partially subsided in the lull between the dinner hour and midnight
when the theatres close, and the real night life of the city begins.
Suddenly a peal from the telephone ripped the stillness in two.
Geoffrey jumped, while the inspector reached his hand towards the
instrument. Almost his first words showed that the call was for him.
“You have lost him? Where? How long ago?” Then a pause, followed by an
exclamation of mingled annoyance and resignation. “_Zut!_ Well, he is
gone, now. No telling where he has got to by now.”
He replaced the receiver, and in reply to his companion’s glance
whispered: “It is one of my men who has been covering the entrance to
the _notaire’s_ bureau. Half an hour ago Blom went out, got into the
Métro at the Place Clichy, took a train and made two or three
changes. At the Concorde he disappeared in the crowd, so all our
vigilance is gone for nothing.”
“Do you think he is up to anything in connection with this business?”
Bazin shrugged. “Who knows? The repeated _correspondance_ looks as
though he suspected he was being followed. If our conclusions are
right, he is in a very nasty position. However, we can be very sure of
one thing--he did not take any part in getting the young lady away
last night. I have proved that he spent the entire evening up till
two, at the apartment of Mme. Baron, who was giving a party;
consequently, if anything was done, it was those people over there who
managed it. That is why I am concentrating on the house itself, for in
the extremely short time at their disposal they could not possibly
have removed her any distance. If the butler left the apartment at
all, it must have been while the _locataire_ from the third floor was
out giving the alarm, for he was there when the man returned five or
at most ten minutes later.”
Geoffrey grasped his meaning. Alive or dead Catherine must at this
moment be somewhere in the immediate vicinity. His harassed eyes
explored the façade opposite, vainly striving to fathom the secret of
her hiding-place.
“Ah, that is the question,” remarked the inspector in answer to his
unuttered query. “There is not an inch of those premises which has
been overlooked. We have searched all the apartments and the servants’
quarters above. There is no sign of her or of the bags she brought
home.”
“Yet she must be there!” muttered Geoffrey. “What about the space
between the flooring? There is a gap where the fire burned through.”
“I examined it myself.”
“And the roof itself? Is it easy to get out on to it?”
“Simple enough, by means of the usual trap-door, but it, too, has been
inspected.”
Leaning forward, Geoffrey studied the parapet. It extended along a
group of five houses, the line varying in height and shape, but
continuous. After the fifth house came a break before a second group
began.
“I wonder,” he said suddenly, “if there are any vacant apartments in
that row?”
“Not one. I am informed there has not been an apartment to let in any
of those houses for three years.”
A groan escaped Geoffrey. In spite of himself, it began to look as
though they were on the wrong tack after all. Perhaps it was true
that, distracted by grief and shock, Catherine had wandered off and
found some means of leaving the city. Then the telegram recurred to
him and he rejected the idea. Much as he longed to believe that it had
come from her, the evidence against the supposition was overpowering.
No, the message was patently false, and as obviously contrived to
serve a definite purpose. Bazin must be right. The words “_but will
telephone to-morrow_” surely meant that something was planned to take
place before that time. Seven hours at most remained. Meanwhile the
minutes were slipping away.…
His reflections were broken by a touch on his arm.
“Look!”
Following the direction of the pointing finger, he saw that the light
opposite had been extinguished. What did it mean? Were the two over
there going harmlessly to bed, or did they merely wish the outside
world to believe they were doing so?
“They can’t do anything without getting out first,” muttered Geoffrey
to himself.
“Exactly--and the house is well guarded. There are two others watching
as well as ourselves.”
Ten minutes passed, then Geoffrey knew that he could no longer support
the maddening inaction.
“I am going out,” he said abruptly. “Not far. If you want me, tie your
handkerchief to the knob of the casement. I shall be able to see it.”
“Very well, monsieur,” assented his companion. “But use the back exit,
and if you cross the street let it be farther along, out of range of
those windows. For all we know they are watching to see if the coast
is clear.”
It took but a few seconds to descend the dimly lighted stairs and
emerge into the side-street. With his hat low over his eyes and the
collar of his Burberry well up, Geoffrey set out at a brisk pace to
make a tour of the neighbourhood. Without stopping he inspected the
darkened windows along the turning, then after a brief détour came
back again, recrossed the avenue lower down and, pursuing an idea that
had come to him during the recent conversation, walked boldly into the
loge of the house adjoining the corner one.
He was met by a yawning concierge who, by the look of him, was at that
moment revolving in his mind the suitability of closing up for the
night. Apologizing for the lateness of his call, Geoffrey inquired if
any of the _locataires_ wished to sublet his flat. He was answered by
a supercilious negative. No, these apartments were seldom sublet; all
the _locataires_ were in residence now, and not one of them had any
intention of leaving. Yes, he would take the gentleman’s address, but
there was nothing to be gained by it. Monsieur would do better to go
to an agent.
“You say they are all here now?” persisted Geoffrey, undaunted by the
man’s arrogant manner.
“Certainly, monsieur--but it would be the same if they were not.”
Geoffrey thanked him and departed, to repeat the questions in the
house next door, where the result, framed with less discourtesy, was
similar. Again in the fourth building he received a like response.
He was beginning to think there was nothing in his theory after all,
but he did not mean to give up without trying the last of the five. He
was in the act of entering the wide opening, through which issued
sounds of laughter and high-pitched voices, when a man’s figure
detached itself from the shadow of the chestnuts and took a step
towards him. To his amazement he heard his name called in an
undertone:
“Monsieur Macadam! A word with you, please!”
The subdued voice was charged with excitement. Turning, Geoffrey made
out the lugubrious features of Bernard, whom since midday he had
entirely forgotten.
“You! What are you doing here?”
Instead of replying the agent stalked away under the shelter of the
trees, where, after a glance round, Geoffrey followed him. In the
darkness the man’s cavernous eyes appeared mere sockets of gloom
beneath the hard rim of his bowler hat.
“Monsieur! It is fortunate you have come! Who do you suppose at this
moment is with the concierge in that loge you were about to enter?”
Geoffrey shook his head, his eyes fixed on the other’s face.
“It is Adolph Blom. I have been watching this house, because it is the
one to which the butler went this morning, and I have had an idea that
that fact might mean something to us. A quarter of an hour ago I saw
the _notaire_ go in. He is with the concierge now, chatting as though
he were an old friend.”
Blom--here, in this neighbourhood!
“What do you think it indicates?” demanded Geoffrey quickly.
“I do not know. I glanced in the window and saw them tinkering with
the _sans fils_, but I cannot believe it is merely a social call. It
is my opinion he is waiting for someone, that the loge there is a
rendezvous--but for what I cannot say. Perhaps…” He stopped and let
his gaze wander slowly over the lighted doorway, but though the
listener waited eagerly he did not complete the sentence.
Meanwhile the young man was cursing his stupidity for allowing this
particular house to escape his calculations. Surely he ought to have
guessed that Eduardo’s visit here to-day must have had some
significance, yet because he could see nothing in it he had all but
dismissed it from his mind. Hurriedly taking stock of the situation,
he explained his own presence, pointing out the window a hundred yards
along the street where till recently he had been stationed.
“The police inspector is there now. Stay here while I tell him what
has happened. Only a little while ago Blom gave one of his men the
slip, so that may lead us to some clue. We have been assuming that
Mademoiselle West is hidden in the corner building, but now----” He
hesitated, looking round.
“I understand, monsieur. I am asking myself the same question. I will
remain on guard while Blom is here.”
Three minutes later, panting from his dash up the stairs, Geoffrey
opened the study door. A few yards away the red tip of a cigarette
told him the inspector was still at his post.
“Well, monsieur?” came the expectant whisper.
“Blom!” burst out Geoffrey. “He’s turned up in this street, in the
loge of that last house there. It’s the house the butler visited this
morning. What do you make of it?”
Accustomed now to the gloom, he could see the inspector’s glaring at
him with incredulity. Then he caught a smothered expletive as the man
leaped to his feet and fixed his gaze on the long line of the opposite
roofs.
“_Sacré!_ What fools we are! That house below there is the one we
should be watching--not this! How did you find this out? You have seen
the fellow?”
Geoffrey related briefly what had happened. As he listened intently,
Bazin consulted the luminous dial of his watch, the glimmering hands
of which pointed to twenty-five minutes past eleven.
“It is getting late, but that concierge yonder will not close up till
his visitor has gone. If they have got mademoiselle hidden somewhere
in that building----”
Even as he spoke they saw the fat old porter over the way amble forth
and begin swinging the heavy doors together.
“You think she may be there--that they have carried her across
the----”
The sentence died in his throat as he leaned suddenly out the window,
staring intently at a man who came running toward them between the
lines of chestnuts. The swiftly padding steps reached the pavement
beneath, and at the same instant a hoarse voice called Geoffrey’s
name.
“Monsieur, come down again--not a moment to lose! I have just seen the
Portuguese together with two women cross to the Square Lamartine and
get into a car. I do not know, but I believe one of the woman may be
your friend!”
The warning acted on the listeners like a galvanic shock. With a
single impetus the two men sprang for the door, made a plunge down the
broad stairway and breathlessly confronted the excited agent.
“A car? What sort of car? When?”
“It is a large black Rolls-Royce, standing in the Square. I watched
the three of them come out of the house--a man and a woman leading an
invalid lady between them, her face covered in bandages, so I could
not see who she was. As they reached the car I thought I recognized
the butler.”
Geoffrey’s blazing eyes met the inspector’s.
“It is they! I’m sure of it! Quick--we’ll follow them! Like
hell!”--and not pausing for a reply he led the way at top speed round
the corner into the turning where showed the lights of the inspector’s
car.
No time to consider how the pair whom they had believed safely
confined in the flat opposite had emerged from another building two
hundred yards farther along the street. Besides, there was but one way
in which such a trick could have been managed--a passage over the
roofs. The invalid lady must be Catherine, and at the thought
Geoffrey’s heart gave a great leap. She was alive still, but in
imminent peril. At this moment she was being conveyed to her death, of
that he felt horribly certain.
Within less than a minute Bazin was at the wheel with Geoffrey beside
him and Bernard on the seat behind. Swiftly the car moved forward into
the avenue, now empty as far as the eye could see. The Square
Lamartine lay ahead of them on the right-hand side.
“It has not been more than a few minutes,” the agent assured them. “If
we are lucky we can catch them up. Here we are! Look sharp!”
They had entered the Square Lamartine, a secluded spot comprising a
group of detached houses, each surrounded with its own patch of walled
garden. Geoffrey leaned out, scanning the darkened roadway in every
direction, then struck his knee with his clenched fist and swore
aloud.
The entire place was deserted.
“My God, they’ve given us the slip!”
It was true. Short as the interval had been, the trio, car and all,
had completely vanished.