M. BOIRAC MAKES A STATEMENT
‘My name and address you know,’ began M. Boirac. ‘In business I am
the managing director of the Avrotte Pump Construction Co., whose
works are situated off the rue Championnet, not far from the Omnibus
Co.’s depot. I am fairly well off, and we lived comfortably, my wife
going a good deal into society.
‘On Saturday, the 27th ult., this day fortnight, we had a dinner
party at the Avenue de l’Alma. Our principal guest was the Spanish
ambassador, at whose house my wife had visited when in Madrid the
previous year. Among the others was a M. Léon Felix, an old friend of
my wife’s, who lived in London, and was in some business there. The
guests arrived and we sat down to dinner, but unfortunately before
the meal was concluded a telephone message came for me from the works
to say that a serious accident had happened, and requiring my
immediate presence. There was nothing for it but to apologise to my
guests and go off at once, which I did, though I promised to return
at the earliest possible moment.
‘When I reached the works I found that the main bed casting of a new
200-h.p. engine which was being put in during the week-end, had
slipped and slewed sideways while being got into place, killing one
man and seriously injuring two others. One of the cylinders was
fractured, and the whole casting had jammed between the wall and the
flywheel pit and could not be got out.
‘As soon as I saw how serious things were, I telephoned home to say I
would be very late, and that there would be no chance of my returning
in time to see my guests. However, we got on much better than I
expected, and it was barely eleven when I turned out of the works.
Not seeing a taxi, I walked to the Simplon station of the Metro. My
route, as you will understand, involved a change of trains at
Châtelet and I accordingly alighted there. I had hardly done so when
I was clapped on the back by some one, and turning, found an American
acquaintance called Myron H. Burton, with whom I had stayed in the
same hotel in New York and with whom I had become friendly. We stood
in talk for some time, and then I asked him where he was staying,
inviting him to put up at my house instead of returning to his hotel.
He declined, saying he was going to Orléans by the 12.35 from the
Quai d’Orsay, and asked me to go and see him off and have a drink at
the station. I hesitated, but remembering I was not expected at home,
I agreed and we set off. This night being mild and pleasant we walked
along the quais, but when we reached the Port Royal it was barely a
quarter to twelve. Burton suggested continuing our stroll, which we
did, going round the Place de la Concorde and the end of the Champs
Élysées. Interested in our talk, we forgot the passage of time, and
arrived at the Gare Quai d’Orsay with only a minute to spare for my
friend to catch his train and, therefore, to his apparent great
chagrin, missing the drinks to which he had wished to treat me. I
felt wakeful, and began to walk home, but when I had gone about
half-way, rain began to fall. I looked for a taxi, but could not see
one, and therefore continued my journey on foot, arriving home about
one o’clock.
‘François, the butler, met me in the hall. He seemed uneasy.
‘“I heard the front door bang not ten minutes ago, monsieur,” he
said, as I took off my wet coat. “I got up to see if anything was
wrong.”
‘“Got up?” I said. “How had you come to go to bed before I returned?”
‘“Madame told me to, monsieur, about half-past eleven. She said you
would be very late and that she would be sitting up.”
‘“All right,” I said, “where is Madame?”
‘He hesitated.
‘“I don’t know, monsieur,” he said at length.
‘“Don’t know?” I said. I was growing angry. “Has she gone to bed?”
‘“She has not gone to bed, monsieur,” he answered.
‘I am not, M. de Chef, an imaginative man, but suddenly a feeling of
foreboding swept over me. I hurried into the drawing-room and from
that to my wife’s small sitting-room. They were both empty. I ran to
her bedroom. There was no one there. Then I recollected she had
frequently waited for me in my study. I went there to find it also
untenanted, and I was just about to withdraw when I saw on my desk a
letter which had not been there earlier in the evening. It was
addressed to me in my wife’s handwriting, and, with a terrible
sinking of the heart, I opened it. Here, M. le Chef, it is.’
It was a short note, written on a sheet of cream-laid notepaper and
without date or address. It read:--
‘I do not ask you to forgive me for what I am doing to-night, Raoul,
for I feel it would be quite too much to expect, but I do ask you to
believe that the thought of the pain and annoyance it will be bound
to give you cuts me to the heart. You have always been just and kind
according to your lights, but you know, Raoul, as well as I do, that
we have never loved each other. You have loved your business and your
art collection, and I have loved--Léon Felix, and now I am going to
him. I shall just disappear, and you will never hear of me again.
You, I hope, will get your divorce, and be happy with some more
worthy woman.
‘Good-bye, Raoul, and do not think worse of me than you can help.
ANNETTE.’
M. Boirac bowed his head while the others read this unhappy note. He
seemed overcome with emotion, and there was silence in the Chief’s
room for a few seconds. The sun shone gaily in with never a hint of
tragedy, lighting up that bent figure in the arm-chair, and bringing
into pitiless prominence details that should have been cloaked
decently in shadow, from the drops of moisture on the drawn brow to
the hands clenched white beneath the edge of the desk. Then, as they
waited, he pulled himself together with an effort and continued:--
‘I was almost beside myself from the blow, and yet I instinctively
felt I must act as if nothing had happened. I steadied myself and
called to François, who was still in the hall:--
‘“It’s all right, François. I’ve had a note from Madame. She was
obliged to go out at a moment’s notice to catch the Swiss train. She
had a message that her mother is dying.”
‘He replied in his ordinary tone, but I could see that he did not
believe one word. The understanding and the pity in his eyes almost
drove me frantic. I spoke again as carelessly as I could,--
‘“I wonder had she time to call Suzanne and get properly dressed. You
might send her here and then you can get back to bed.”
‘Suzanne was my wife’s maid, and when she came into the study I saw
from her startled and embarrassed air that she knew.
‘“Suzanne,” I said, “Madame has had to go to Switzerland suddenly and
unexpectedly. She had to rush off to catch the train without proper
time for packing, still, I hope she was able to take enough for the
journey?”
‘The girl answered at once in a nervous, frightened tone. “I have
just been to her room, monsieur. She has taken her fur coat and hat
and a pair of walking shoes. The evening shoes she was wearing
to-night are there where she changed them. She did not ring for me
and I did not hear her go to her room.”
‘I had become somewhat calmer by this time, and I was thinking
rapidly while she spoke.
‘“Ah, well,” I answered, “you had better pack some of her things
to-morrow so that I can send them after her. She will be staying with
her mother, and will no doubt be able to borrow what she wants till
her own things arrive.”
‘François was still hanging about the corridor. I sent them both to
bed and sat down to try and realise what had taken place.
‘I need hardly trouble you with my thoughts. For some days I was half
crazed, then I pulled myself together. Suzanne I sent home, saying I
had heard from Madame that she was employing one of her mother’s
maids.’
M. Boirac paused.
‘That,’ he said at length, ‘I think is all I have to tell you, M. le
Chef. From that awful evening until I saw your advertisement in the
_Figaro_ a couple of hours ago, I have not heard a syllable from
either my wife or Felix.’
M. Boirac had told his story simply and directly, and his manner
seemed to bear the impress of truth. The statement carried conviction
to his hearers, who felt their sympathy going out to this man who had
acted so loyally to the wife who had betrayed him. M. Chauvet spoke,--
‘Permit me to express to you, M. Boirac, our deep regret for what has
happened and particularly for your having had to come here and make
this painful statement. Still more we regret that the terrible
_dénouement_ should make it almost impossible to keep the matter
hushed up. Our search for the murderer has, of course, begun. We
shall not detain you any longer, except to ask you to repeat a few
names and hours so that we may note them to make your statement
complete.’
M. Boirac bowed.
‘I thank you for your courtesy, M. le Chef.’
The Chief continued,--
‘There is first of all your address. That we have on your card.
Next--I shall put it in question form--What time was dinner?’
‘Quarter to eight.’
‘And what time did the message come for you from your works?’
‘About a quarter to nine.’
‘And you arrived there?’
‘About nine-fifteen, I should think, I did not look. I walked to the
Champs Élysées and took a taxi.’
‘You said, I think, that you telephoned home then informing your wife
that you could not return until very late?’
‘I believe I did say that, but it is not strictly correct. I went to
see the damage immediately on arrival, and was occupied there for
some time. I should say I telephoned about ten o’clock.’
‘But you unexpectedly got away about eleven?’
‘That is so.’
‘So that you must have met your friend at Châtelet about twenty past
eleven?’
‘About that, I should think.’
‘Now your friend. I should like a note of his name and address.’
‘His name I have already given you, Myron H. Burton. His address I
unfortunately cannot, as I do not know it.’
‘His home address, then?’
‘I don’t know that, either. I met him in an hotel in New York. We
played billiards together a few times and became friendly enough, but
not to the extent of exchanging our family histories.’
‘When was that, M. Boirac?’
‘In the summer of 1908, no, 1909, three years ago.’
‘And the hotel?’
‘The Hudson View, the one that was burnt out last Christmas.’
‘I remember, a terrible business, that. Your friend went by the 12.35
to Orléans. He was staying there I suppose?’
‘No, he was changing there and going on, though where he was going I
do not know. He told me this because I remarked on his choosing such
a train--it does not get in until about 4.30--instead of sleeping in
Paris and going by an early express that would do the journey in two
hours.’
‘Oh, well, it is not of much importance. The only other thing, I
think, is the name and address of your wife’s maid.’
M. Boirac shook his head.
‘I’m sorry I can’t give you that either. I only know her as Suzanne.
But I dare say François or some of the other servants would know it.’
‘I shall have, with your permission, to send a man to look over the
house, and he can make inquiries. I am sure, M. Boirac, we are
extremely obliged to you for your information. And now, what about
the formal identification of the body? I have no doubt from what you
say it is indeed that of your wife, but I fear the law will require a
personal identification from you. Would it be convenient for you to
run over to London and see it? Interment has not yet, I understand,
taken place.’
M. Boirac moved uneasily. The suggestion was clearly most unwelcome
to him.
‘I needn’t say I would infinitely prefer not to go. However, if you
assure me it is necessary, I can have no choice in the matter.’
‘I am exceedingly sorry, but I fear it is quite necessary. A personal
examination is required in evidence of identification. And if I might
make a suggestion, I think that the visit should be made as soon as
convenient to you.’
The visitor shrugged his shoulders.
‘If I have to go, I may as well do it at once. I will cross to-night
and be at Scotland Yard at, say, 11.00 to-morrow. It is Scotland
Yard, I suppose?’
‘It is, monsieur. Very good. I will telephone to the authorities
there to expect you.’
The Chief rose and shook hands, and M. Boirac took his leave. When he
had gone, M. Chauvet jumped up and went to the screen.
‘Get half a dozen copies of that statement and the questions and
answers typed at once, mademoiselle. You can get a couple of the
other girls to help you.’
He turned to the two detectives.
‘Well, gentlemen, we have heard an interesting story, and, whatever
we may think of it, our first business will be to check it as far as
we can. I think you had better get away immediately to the Avenue de
l’Alma and see this François, if possible before Boirac gets back. Go
through the house and get anything you can, especially a sample of
the wife’s handwriting. Try also and trace the maid. In the meantime,
I will set some other inquiries on foot. You might call in about nine
to-night to report progress.’