M. LE CHEF DE LA SÛRETÉ
At 9.00 a.m. next morning the Continental express moved slowly out of
Charing Cross station, bearing in the corner of a first-class smoking
compartment, Inspector Burnley. The glorious weather of the past few
days had not held, and the sky was clouded over, giving a promise of
rain. The river showed dark and gloomy as they drew over it, and the
houses on the south side had resumed their normal dull and grimy
appearance. A gentle breeze blew from the south-west, and Burnley,
who was a bad sailor, hoped it would not be very much worse at Dover.
He lit one of his strong-smelling cigars and puffed at it
thoughtfully as the train ran with ever-increasing speed through the
extraordinary tangle of lines south of London Bridge.
He was glad to be taking this journey. He liked Paris and he had not
been there for four years, not indeed since the great Marcelle murder
case, which attracted so much attention in both countries. M.
Lefarge, the genial French detective with whom he had then
collaborated, had become a real friend and he hoped to run across him
again.
They had reached the outer suburbs and occasional fields began to
replace the lines of little villas which lie closer to the city. He
watched the flying objects idly for a few minutes, and then with a
little sigh turned his attention to his case, as a barrister makes up
his brief before going into court.
He considered first his object in making the journey. He had to find
out who the murdered woman was, if she was murdered, though there
appeared little doubt about that. He had to discover and get
convicting evidence against the murderer, and lastly, he had to learn
the explanation of the extraordinary business of the cask.
He then reviewed the data he already had, turning first to the
medical report which up till then he had not had an opportunity of
reading. There was first a note about Felix. That unhappy man was
entirely prostrated from the shock and his life was in serious danger.
The Inspector had already known this, for he had gone to the ward
before seven that morning in the hope of getting a statement from the
sick man, only to find him semi-conscious and delirious. The identity
of the dead woman could not, therefore, be ascertained from him. He,
Burnley, must rely on his own efforts.
The report then dealt with the woman. She was aged about
five-and-twenty, five feet seven in height and apparently gracefully
built, and weighing a little over eight stone. She had dark hair of
great length and luxuriance, and eyes with long lashes and delicately
pencilled brows. Her mouth was small and regular, her nose slightly
retroussé and her face a true oval. She had a broad, low forehead,
and her complexion appeared to have been very clear, though dark.
There was no distinguishing mark on the body.
‘Surely,’ thought Burnley, ‘with such a description it should be easy
to identify her.’
The report continued:--
‘There are ten marks about her neck, apparently finger marks. Of
these eight are together at the back of the neck and not strongly
marked. The remaining two are situated in front of the throat, close
together and one on each side of the windpipe. The skin at these
points is much bruised and blackened, and the pressure must therefore
have been very great.
‘It seemed clear the marks were caused by some individual standing in
front of her and squeezing her throat with both hands, the thumbs on
the windpipe and the fingers round the neck. From the strength
necessary to produce such bruises, it looks as if this individual
were a man.
‘An autopsy revealed the fact that all the organs were sound, and
there was no trace of poison or other cause of death. The conclusion
is therefore unavoidable that the woman was murdered by
strangulation. She appears to have been dead about a week or slightly
longer.’
‘That’s definite, anyway,’ mused Burnley. ‘Let’s see what else we
have.’
There was the woman’s rank in life. She was clearly well off if not
rich, and probably well born. Her fingers suggested culture; they
were those of the artist or musician. The wedding ring on her right
hand showed that she was married and living in France. ‘Surely,’
thought the Inspector again, ‘the Chief is right. It would be
impossible for a woman of this kind to disappear without the
knowledge of the French police. My job will be done when I have seen
them.’
But supposing they did not know. What then?
There was first of all the letter to Felix. The signatory, M. Le
Gautier, assuming such a man existed, should be able to give a clue.
The waiters in the Toisson d’Or Café might know something. The
typewriter with the defective letters was surely traceable.
The clothes in which the corpse was dressed suggested another line of
attack. Inquiry at the leading Paris shops could hardly fail to
produce information. And if not there were the rings and the diamond
comb. These would surely lead to something.
Then there was the cask. It was a specially made one, and must surely
have been used for a very special purpose. Inquiry from the firm
whose label it had borne could hardly be fruitless.
And lastly, if all these failed, there was left advertisement. A
judiciously worded notice with a reward for information of identity
would almost certainly draw. Burnley felt he was well supplied with
clues. Many and many a thorny problem he had solved with far less to
go on.
He continued turning the matter over in his mind in his slow,
painstaking way until a sudden plunge into a tunnel and a grinding of
brakes warned him they were coming into Dover.
The crossing was calm and uneventful. Before they passed between the
twin piers at Calais the sun had burst out, the clouds were thinning,
and blue sky showing in the distance.
They made a good run to Paris, stopping only at Amiens, and at 5.45
precisely drew slowly into the vast, echoing vault of the Gare du
Nord. Calling a taxi, the Inspector drove to a small private hotel he
usually patronised in the rue Castiglione. Having secured his room,
he re-entered the taxi and went to the Sûreté, the Scotland Yard of
Paris.
He inquired for M. Chauvet, sending in his letter of introduction.
The Chief was in and disengaged, and after a few minutes delay
Inspector Burnley was ushered into his presence.
M. Chauvet, Chef de la Sûreté, was a small, elderly man with a dark,
pointed beard, gold-rimmed glasses, and an exceedingly polite manner.
‘Sit down, Mr. Burnley,’ he said in excellent English, as they shook
hands. ‘I think we have had the pleasure of co-operating with you
before?’
Burnley reminded him of the Marcelle murder case.
‘Ah, of course, I remember. And now you are bringing us another of
the same kind. Is it not so?’
‘Yes, sir, and a rather puzzling one also. But I am in hopes we have
enough information to clear it up quickly.’
‘Good, I hope you have. Please let me have, in a word or two, the
briefest outline, then I shall ask you to go over it again in detail.’
Burnley complied, explaining in half a dozen sentences the gist of
the case.
‘The circumstances are certainly singular,’ said the Chief. ‘Let me
think whom I shall put in charge of it with you. Dupont is perhaps
the best man, but he is engaged on that burglary at Chartres.’ He
looked up a card index. ‘Of those disengaged, the best perhaps are
Cambon, Lefarge, and Bontemps. All good men.’
He stretched out his hand to the desk telephone.
‘Pardon me, sir,’ said Burnley. ‘I don’t want to make suggestions or
interfere in what is not my business, but I had the pleasure of
co-operating with M. Lefarge in the Marcelle case, and if it was
quite the same I should very much like to work with him again.’
‘But excellent, monsieur. I hear you say that with much pleasure.’
He lifted his desk telephone, pressing one of the many buttons on its
stand.
‘Ask M. Lefarge to come here at once.’
In a few seconds a tall, clean-shaven, rather English looking man
entered.
‘Ah, Lefarge,’ said the Chief. ‘Here is a friend of yours.’
The two detectives shook hands warmly.
‘He has brought us another murder mystery and very interesting it
sounds. Now, Mr. Burnley, perhaps you would let us hear your story in
detail.’
The Inspector nodded, and beginning at the sending of the clerk Tom
Broughton to check the consignment of wine at the Rouen steamer, he
related all the strange events that had taken place, the discovery of
the cask, and the suspicions aroused, the forged note, the removal of
the cask, the getting rid of Harkness, the tracing and second
disappearance of the cask, its ultimate recovery, its sinister
contents, and finally, a list of the points which might yield clues
if followed up. The two men listened intently, but without
interrupting. After he had finished they sat silently in thought.
‘In one point I do not quite follow you, Mr. Burnley,’ said the Chief
at last. ‘You appear to assume that this murdered woman was a
Parisienne. But what are your reasons for that?’
‘The cask came from Paris. That is certain, as you will see from the
steamship’s documents. Then the letter to Felix purports to be from a
Parisian, a M. Le Gautier, and both it and the note pinned to the
body were typed on French paper. Further, the label on the cask bore
the name of a Paris firm.’
‘It does not seem to me very conclusive. The cask admittedly came
from Paris, but might not Paris have been only the last stage of a
longer journey? How, for example, do we know that it was not from
London, or Brussels, or Berlin, in the first instance, and rebooked
at Paris with the object of laying a false scent? With regard to the
letter, I understand you did not see the envelope. Therefore it does
not seem to be evidence. As for the French paper, Felix had been
frequently in France, and he might be responsible for that. The
label, again, was a re-addressed old one. Might it not therefore have
been taken off some quite different package and put on the cask?’
‘I admit the evidence is far from conclusive, though it might be said
in answer to your first point about the re-addressing of the cask in
Paris, that such would involve a confederate here. In any case it
seemed to both our Chief and myself that Paris should be our first
point of inquiry.’
‘But yes, monsieur, in that I entirely agree. I only wished to make
the point that you have no real evidence that the solution of the
problem lies here.’
‘I’m afraid we have not.’
‘Well, to proceed. As you have suggested, the first point is to
ascertain if any one resembling the dead woman has disappeared
recently. Your doctor says that she has been dead for a week or
longer, but I do not think that we can confine our inquiries to that
period only. She might have been kidnapped and held a prisoner for a
considerable time previous to her death. I should say that it is not
likely, but it may have happened.’
He lifted his telephone, pressing another button.
‘Bring me the list of disappearances of persons in the Paris area
during the last four weeks, or rather’--he stopped and looked at the
others--‘the disappearances in all France for the same period.’
In a few seconds a clerk entered with some papers.
‘Here are all the disappearances reported during March, monsieur,’ he
said, ‘and here those for April up to the present date. I haven’t a
return for the last four weeks only, but can get one out at once if
you wish.’
‘No. These are all right.’
The Chief examined the documents.
‘Last month,’ he said, ‘seven persons disappeared of whom six were
women, four being in the Paris area. This month two people have
disappeared, both women and both in the Paris area. That is six women
in Paris in the last five weeks. Let’s see, now,’ he ran his fingers
down the column, ‘Suzanne Lemaître, aged seventeen, last seen--well,
it could not be she. Lucille Marquet, aged twenty--no good either.
All these are girls under twenty-one, except one. Here, what is this?
Marie Lachaise, aged thirty-four, height 172 centimetres--that is
about five feet eight in English measure--dark hair and eyes and
clear complexion, wife of M. Henri Lachaise, the avocat, of 41 rue
Tinques, Boulevarde Arago. Left home on the twenty-ninth ultimo, that
is about ten days ago, at three o’clock, ostensibly for shopping. Has
not been heard of since. Better take a note of that.’
M. Lefarge did so, and spoke for the first time.
‘We shall try it, of course, monsieur, but I don’t expect much
result. If that woman went out to shop she would hardly be wearing
evening dress, as was the corpse.’
‘Also,’ said Burnley, ‘I think we may take it the dead woman’s name
was Annette B.’
‘Probably you are both right. Still, you had better make sure.’
The Chief tossed away the papers and looked at Burnley.
‘No other disappearances have been reported, nor have we any further
information here that would seem to help. I am afraid we must fall
back on our other clues. Let us consider, therefore, where we should
start.’
He paused for a few moments and then resumed.
‘We may begin, I think, by checking the part of Felix’s statement
which you, Mr. Burnley, have not yet been able to inquire into, and
to do so we must interview M. Le Gautier and try to ascertain if he
wrote the letter. If he admits it we will be a step farther on, if
not, we must find out how far the story of the lottery and the bet is
true, and whether the conversation described by Felix actually took
place. In this case we must ascertain precisely who were present and
overheard that conversation, and would therefore have the knowledge
necessary to write that letter. If this does not give us what we
want, it may be necessary to follow up each of these persons and try
for our man by elimination. A part of that inquiry would be a search
for the typewriter used, which, as Mr. Burnley points out, is
identifiable. Simultaneously, I think we should endeavour to trace
the wearing apparel and the cask. What do you think of that,
gentlemen, for a rough programme?’
‘I don’t think we could do better, sir,’ returned Burnley as the
Chief looked at him, while Lefarge nodded his approval.
‘Very well, I would suggest that you and Lefarge go into the matter
of the letter to-morrow. Arrange your programme as you think best for
yourselves and keep me advised of how you get on. And now as to the
clothes. Let me see exactly what you have.’
Burnley spread out the dead woman’s clothes and jewellery on a table.
The Chief examined them for some minutes in silence.
‘Better separate them into three lots,’ he said at length, ‘the
dress, the underclothes, and the trinkets. It will take three to work
it properly.’ He consulted his card index and picked up the telephone.
‘Send Mme. Furnier and Mlles. Lecoq and Blaise here.’
In a few seconds three stylishly dressed women entered. The Chief
introduced Burnley and briefly explained the case.
‘I want you three ladies,’ he said, ‘to take one each of these three
lots of clothes and trinkets, and find the purchaser. Their quality
will give you an idea of the shops to try. Get at it first thing
to-morrow, and keep yourselves in constant touch with headquarters.’
When the women had withdrawn with the articles he turned to Burnley,--
‘In an inquiry of this sort I like a report in the evenings of
progress during the day. Perhaps you and Lefarge wouldn’t mind
calling about nine to-morrow evening, when we shall have a further
discussion. And now it is nearly eight o’clock, so you cannot do
anything to-night. You, Mr. Burnley, are doubtless tired from your
journey and will be glad to get to your hotel. So good-night,
gentlemen.’
The detectives bowed themselves out. After an exchange of further
greetings and compliments, Lefarge said:--
‘Are you really very tired? Are you game for a short inquiry
to-night?’
‘Why, certainly. What do you propose?’
‘This. Let us cross and get some dinner at Jules’ in the Boule Miche.
It’s on the way to that address the Chief gave us. Then we could go
on and see whether the body you found in the cask can be identified
as that of Madame Marie Lachaise.’
They strolled leisurely over the Pont St. Michel and crossed the Quai
into the Boulevard. When Burnley was in London he swore there was no
place like that city, but in Paris he never felt so sure. Jove! he
was glad to be back. And what luck to have met this good fellow
Lefarge again! He felt that in the intervals of business he was going
to enjoy himself.
They dined inexpensively but well, sitting over their cigars and
liqueur coffee until the clocks struck nine. Then Lefarge made a move.
‘I don’t like to go to this place too late,’ he said. ‘Do you mind
coming now?’
They took a taxi and, leaving the Luxembourg behind on the left,
quickly ran the mile or so to the Boulevard Arago. M. Lachaise
received them at once and they stated their melancholy business,
showing the photograph of the body. The avocat took it to the light
and examined it earnestly. Then he returned it with a gesture of
relief.
‘Thank God,’ he said at length, ‘it’s not she.’
‘The body was clothed in a light pink evening dress, with several
diamond rings on the fingers and a diamond comb in the hair.’
‘It is not she at all. My wife had no pink dress, nor did she wear a
diamond comb. Besides, she left here in an out-of-door walking dress
and all her evening things were in her wardrobe.’
‘It is conclusive,’ said M. Lefarge, and with thanks and compliments
they took their leave.
‘I thought that would be no good,’ said Lefarge, ‘but we must do what
the Chief says.’
‘Of course. Besides, you never know. Look here, old man,’ he added,
‘I am tired after all. I think, if you don’t mind, I’ll get away to
the hotel.’
‘But, of course. Whatever you feel like. Let’s stroll to the end of
the Boulevard. We can get the Metro across the street at the Avenue
d’Orléans.’
They changed at Châtelet and, having arranged to meet next morning,
the Inspector took the Maillot train for Concorde, while Lefarge went
in the opposite direction to his home near the Place de la Bastille.