LEFARGE HUNTS ALONE
At nine o’clock next morning the two colleagues met at the hotel in
the rue Castiglione. They had discussed their plan of campaign before
separating the previous evening, and did not waste time getting to
work. Calling a taxi, they drove once more to the Hotel Continental
and asked for their old friend the manager. In a few minutes they
were ushered into the presence of that urbane and smiling, but
somewhat bored official.
‘We are exceedingly sorry to trouble you again, monsieur,’ apologised
Lefarge, ‘but the fact is we find we require some more information
about your recent visitor, M. Felix. If you can help us to obtain it,
you will greatly add to our already large debt of gratitude.’
The manager bowed.
‘I shall be delighted to tell you anything I can. What is the point
in question?’
‘We want to trace M. Felix’s movements after he left here. You have
already told us he went to catch the 8.20 English boat train at the
Gare du Nord. We wondered if he really did travel by it. Can you help
us to find out?’
‘Our bus meets all the incoming boat trains, but attends only those
outward bound by which visitors are travelling. If you will pardon me
a moment, I will ascertain if it ran that day. It was Sunday, I
think?’
‘Sunday, the 28th March.’
The manager was absent for a few moments, returning with a tall young
man in the uniform of a porter.
‘I find the bus did run on the day in question, and Karl, here, went
with it. He may be able to answer your questions.’
‘Thank you, monsieur.’ Lefarge turned to the porter. ‘You went to the
Gare du Nord on Sunday, the 28th March, with some passengers for the
8.20 English boat train?’
‘Yes, monsieur.’
‘How many passengers had you?’
The porter considered.
‘Three, monsieur,’ he replied at length.
‘Did you know who they were?’
‘Two of them I knew, monsieur. One was M. Leblanc, a gentleman who
had stayed in the hotel for over a month. The second was M. Felix,
who has been a constant visitor for years. The third was an English
gentleman, but I do not know his name.’
‘Did these gentlemen converse together while in the bus?’
‘I saw M. Felix speaking to the Englishman as they were leaving the
bus, otherwise I cannot say.’
‘Did they go by the 8.20?’
‘Yes, monsieur. I put their luggage into the carriages, and I saw all
three in the train as it was starting.’
‘Was M. Felix alone?’
‘He was, monsieur.’
‘Did he meet or speak with a lady at the station?’
‘I do not think so, monsieur. Certainly I did not see a lady.’
‘Did he seem anxious or perturbed?’
‘Not at all, monsieur. He was just as usual.’
‘Thank you, I am exceedingly obliged.’
Some silver changed hands, and Karl withdrew.
‘That is very satisfactory information, M. le Directeur. The only
other point I want is the names and addresses of the two other
occupants of the bus.’
These were ascertained with some slight difficulty--M. Guillaume
Leblanc, rue Verte, Marseilles, and Mr. Henry Gordon, 327 Angus Lane,
Sauchiehall Street, Glasgow--and the detectives bowed themselves out
with compliments and thanks.
‘That’s a piece of luck,’ remarked Lefarge, as they drove towards the
Gare du Nord. ‘Those men may have seen Felix at other stages of the
journey, and we may be able to trace him the whole way.’
They spent the morning in the great station, interviewing ticket
examiners and other officials, but without success. No one had seen
either of the travellers.
‘The boat is more likely,’ observed Burnley. ‘If he is a constant
traveller, some of the stewards will certainly know him.’
Taking the 4.00 p.m. train, they reached Bolougne as dusk was
falling, and began their inquiries at the pier. Finding the _Pas de
Calais_, which had made the run in which they were interested, would
not leave till noon next day, they turned their steps to the local
police station. There they saw the men who had been on duty when the
boat left on the Sunday in question, but here again without getting
any information. Then they went on board the steamer and sought the
chief steward.
‘I know that gentleman, yes,’ he said when, after introducing
themselves, Lefarge showed him Felix’s photograph. ‘He crosses
frequently, once or twice a month, I should say. He is a M. Felix,
but I cannot say where he lives, nor do I know anything else about
him.’
‘What we want to find out, monsieur, is when he last crossed. If you
can tell us that, we shall be extremely obliged.’
The official considered.
‘I am afraid I could hardly be sure of that. He crossed both ways
fairly lately. I should say about ten days or a fortnight ago, but
I’m not sure of the exact date.’
‘We think he crossed on Sunday, the 28th March. Can you think of
anything that would confirm whether it was this date?’
‘No, I cannot. You see there would be nothing to record it. We could
not now trace the ticket he held, and there is no way in which the
identity of our passengers is ascertained and noted. Speaking from
memory, I should say that the date you mention is about correct, but
I could not be sure.’
‘Is there any one on board who might be able to help us?’
‘I’m really very sorry, monsieur, but I don’t think there is. The
captain, or one of the officers, might know him; I could not say.’
‘Well, just one other question, monsieur. Was he travelling alone?’
‘I think so. No, wait a minute, was he? I believe, now that you
mention it, there was a lady with him. You will understand I was not
noticing particularly, as my mind was occupied with my work, but it’s
like a dream to me, I saw him talking to a lady on the promenade
deck.’
‘You could not describe her?’
‘I could not, monsieur. I cannot be even positive she was there at
all.’
Seeing there was nothing further to be learnt, they thanked the chief
steward courteously. Then, remaining on board, they interviewed every
one they could find, whom they thought might be able to give them
information. Of all they spoke to, only one, a waiter, knew Felix,
and he had not seen him on the occasion in question.
‘That’s no good, I’m afraid,’ said Burnley, as they walked to an
hotel. ‘I believe that steward did see a woman, but he would be
useless as a witness.’
‘Quite. I don’t fancy you’ll get much at Folkestone either.’
‘Most unlikely, I should say, but I can but try. I think I’ll
probably run up to Glasgow and see that man that travelled in the bus
with him. He might know something.
‘If not, I’ll see the other--the one who lives in Marseilles.’
A few minutes before twelve next day saw the detectives strolling
along the wharf beside the English boat.
‘Well,’ said Lefarge, ‘our ways part here. There is no use in my
going to Folkestone, and I’ll take the 2.12 back to Paris. We have
had a pleasant inquiry, and I’m only sorry we have not had a more
definite result.’
‘We’re not done with it yet,’ returned the Englishman. ‘I expect
we’ll get it pretty square before we stop. But I’m really sorry to
say ‘Good-bye,’ and I hope we may be working together again before
long.’
They parted with mutual assurances of goodwill, Burnley expressing
his appreciation of the kindly treatment he had received in Paris,
and Lefarge inviting him back to spend his next holidays in the gay
capital.
We may accompany Lefarge on his return journey to Paris, and follow
him as he endeavours to trace the movements of M. Boirac from the
Saturday night of the dinner-party to the following Thursday evening,
when the cask containing the body was despatched to London from the
State Railway goods station in the rue Cardinet.
He reached the Gare du Nord at 5.45 p.m., and immediately drove to
the Sûreté. M. Chauvet was in his office, and Lefarge reported his
movements since they parted.
‘I had a telephone call from Scotland Yard yesterday,’ said the
Chief. ‘It seems Boirac turned up at eleven as arranged. He
definitely identified the body as that of his wife, so that point is
settled.’
‘Has he returned yet, do you know, monsieur?’
‘I have not heard. Why do you ask?’
‘I thought if he was still away I might take the opportunity of
pumping François about his movements since the murder.’
‘A good idea. We can find out at once.’
M. Chauvet turned over the pages of his telephone directory and,
having found what he wanted, gave a call.
‘Hallo? Is that M. Boirac’s?--Is M. Boirac at home?--About seven
o’clock? Ah, thank you. I’ll ring up again later.--No, don’t mind.
It’s of no consequence.’
He replaced the receiver.
‘He’s crossing by the 11.00 from Charing Cross, and will be home
about seven. If you were to call about half-past six, which is the
hour at which he usually returns, your visit would not be suspicious,
and you could have a chat with François.’
‘I shall do that, monsieur,’ and with a bow the detective withdrew.
The clocks had just finished chiming the half-hour after six when
Lefarge presented himself at the house in the Avenue de l’Alma.
François opened the door.
‘Good-evening, M. François. Is M. Boirac at home?’
‘Not yet, monsieur. We expect him in about half an hour. Will you
come in and wait?’
Lefarge seemed to consider, and then,--
‘Thanks. I think I will.’
The butler preceded him to the small sitting-room into which he had
shown the two detectives on their first call.
‘I heard at the Sûreté that M. Boirac had gone to London to identify
the body. You don’t know, I suppose, if he was able to do so?’
‘No, monsieur. I knew he had gone to London, but I did not know for
what purpose.’
The detective settled himself in a comfortable chair and took out a
cigarette case.
‘Try one of these. They’re special Brazilian cigarettes. I suppose we
may smoke here?’
‘Certainly, monsieur. I thank you.’
‘It’s a long way over from London. I don’t envy Monsieur his journey.
You’ve been, I suppose, monsieur?’
‘Twice, monsieur.’
‘Once is all right to see the place, but after that--no, thank you.
But I suppose M. Boirac is used to it? They say you can get used to
anything.’
‘I should think he must be. He travels a lot. London, Brussels,
Berlin, Vienna--he had been at them all to my knowledge in the last
two years.’
‘I’m glad it’s he and not I. But I should think this unhappy event
would take away his love for travelling. I should imagine he would
want to stay quiet in his own home and see no one. What do you think,
M. François?’
‘Well, he hasn’t anyway, or else he can’t help himself. This is the
second journey he’s made since then.’
‘You surprise me. Or rather, no, you don’t. I suppose we shouldn’t be
talking about what doesn’t concern us, but I would be willing to lay
a napoleon I could tell you where the first journey was to and what
it was for. It was to see the Wilson Test. Am I not right?’
‘The Wilson Test, monsieur? What is that?’
‘Have you never heard of the Wilson Test? Wilson is the head of a
great firm of English pump manufacturers, and each year a reward of
over 10,000 francs is offered by them for any pump that can throw
more water than theirs. A test is held every year, and the last one
took place on Wednesday. M. Boirac would naturally be interested,
being head of a pump manufactory himself. He would go to the Test.’
‘I’m afraid you would have lost your money, then, monsieur. He was
away on Wednesday right enough, but I happen to know he went to
Belgium.’
‘Well,’ said Lefarge, with a laugh, ‘I’m glad we didn’t bet, anyway.
But,’ he added, in a changed tone, ‘maybe I’m right after all. Maybe
he went from Belgium to London, or vice versa. Was he long away?’
‘He could not have done that, monsieur. He was only away two days,
Wednesday and Thursday.’
‘It ought to be a lesson to me. I’m always too ready to bet on an
unsupported opinion,’ and Lefarge led the conversation on to bets he
had won and lost, till François excused himself to prepare for his
master’s arrival.
Shortly after seven M. Boirac came in. He saw Lefarge at once.
‘I don’t wish to trouble you after your journey, monsieur,’ said the
latter, ‘but some further points have arisen in this unhappy
business, and I would be obliged if you could kindly give me an
appointment at whatever time would suit you.’
‘No time like the present. If you will excuse me for an hour till I
change and get some dinner, I shall be at your service. You have
dined, I suppose?’
‘Yes, thank you. If, then, I may wait here for you, I would be glad
to do so.’
‘Then come into the study. You’ll perhaps find something to read in
these book-cases.’
‘I thank you, monsieur.’
The hands of the clock on the study chimney-piece were pointing to
half-past eight when M. Boirac re-entered. Sinking into an
easy-chair, he said:--
‘Now, monsieur, I am at your service.’
‘The matter is a somewhat difficult one for me to approach,
monsieur,’ began Lefarge, ‘in case it might seem to you that we had
suspicions which we do not really entertain. But, as a man of the
world, you will recognise that the position of the husband in unhappy
affairs such as this must inevitably be made clear. It is a matter of
necessary routine. My chief, M. Chauvet, has therefore placed on me
the purely formal, but extremely unpleasant duty of asking you some
questions about your own movements since the unhappy event.’
‘That’s rather roundabout. Do you mean that you suspect me of
murdering my wife?’
‘Certainly not, monsieur. It is simply that the movements of _every
one_ in a case like this must be gone into. It is our ordinary
routine, and we cannot consult our inclination in carrying it out.’
‘Oh, well, go ahead. You must, of course, do your duty.’
‘The information my Chief requires is a statement from you of how you
passed your time from the night of the dinner-party until the evening
of the following Thursday.’
M. Boirac looked distressed. He paused before replying, and then said
in an altered tone:--
‘I don’t like to think of that time. I passed through a rather
terrible experience. I think I was temporarily insane.’
‘I still more regret that I must persevere in my question.’
‘Oh, I will tell you. The seizure, or whatever it was, is over and I
am myself again. What happened to me was this.
‘From the Saturday night, or rather Sunday morning, when I learnt
that my wife had left me, I was in a kind of dream. My brain felt
numb, and I had the curious feeling of existing in some way outside
of and apart from myself. I went as usual to my office on Monday,
returning home at my ordinary time in the evening. After dinner, in
the hope of rousing myself, I unpacked the cask, but even that failed
to excite my interest or lighten my depression. On the following
morning, Tuesday, I again went to the office at my customary time,
but after an hour of effort I found I could no longer concentrate my
mind on my work. I felt that at all costs I must be alone so as to
relax the strain of pretending nothing had happened. Still like a man
in a dream, I left the office and, going down into the street,
entered a Metro station. On the wall my eye caught sight of the
notice, “Direction Vincennes,” and it occurred to me that the Bois de
Vincennes would be the very place for me to go. There I could walk
without fear of meeting any of my acquaintances. I accordingly took
the train there, and spent the morning pacing the more sequestered
paths. The physical exercise helped me, but as I grew tired my mood
changed. A great longing for human sympathy took possession of me,
and I felt I must confide in some one, or go mad. I thought of my
brother Armande, and felt sure I would get the sympathy I wanted from
him. He lived not far from Malines, in Belgium, and I determined to
go and see him at once. I lunched at a little café at Charenton, and
from there telephoned to the office and to my house that I was going
to Belgium for a couple of days. I instructed François to pack a
handbag of necessaries and leave it immediately at the cloak-room at
the Gare du Nord, where I should call for it. While sitting at lunch
it occurred to me that if I went by the 4.05 p.m. train--the first I
could get--I would not arrive at my destination till the middle of
the night, so I decided I would wait till the evening train and see
my brother the following day. Accordingly, I went for a long walk up
the Seine, returning by a local train to the Gare du Lyon. I dined at
a café in the Place de la Bastille, and finally went to the Gare du
Nord, got my bag, and left by the 11.20 for Brussels. I slept well in
the train and breakfasted in one of the cafés off the Place du Nord.
About eleven I left for Malines, walking the four miles to my
brother’s house for the sake of the exercise. But when I reached it I
found it empty, and then I recollected, what had entirely slipped my
memory, that my brother had spoken of a business trip to Stockholm,
on which he was going to take his wife. I cursed my forgetfulness,
but my mind was in such a state I hardly realised my loss of time and
money. Walking slowly back to Malines, I considered returning to
Paris that evening. Then I thought I had had enough travelling for
one day. It was pleasant in the afternoon sun, and I let the time
slip away, returning to Brussels about six. I dined at a café in the
Boulevard Anspach, and then, thinking I would try and distract my
thoughts, decided I would turn in for a couple of hours to a theatre.
I telephoned to the Hôtel Maximilian, where I usually stayed, to
reserve a room, and then I went to Berlioz’s _Les Troyens_ at the
Théâtre de la Monnaie, getting to my hotel about eleven. That night I
slept well and next day my brain seemed saner and better. I left
Brussels by the 12.50 from the Gare du Midi, arriving at Paris about
five. Looking back on that abortive journey is like remembering a
nightmare, but I think the solitude and the exercise really helped
me.’
When M. Boirac ceased speaking, there was silence for a few moments,
while Lefarge, in just the same painstaking way that Burnley would
have adopted, went over in his mind what he had heard. He did not
wish to question M. Boirac too closely lest, in the unlikely event of
that gentleman proving guilty, he should put him on his guard; but he
was anxious to miss no detail of the statement, so that he might as
far as possible check it by independent testimony. On the whole, he
thought the story reasonable, and, so far, he could see no internal
reason for doubting it. He would, therefore, get a few details made
clearer and take his leave.
‘Thank you, M. Boirac. Might I ask a few supplementary questions? At
what time did you leave your office on Tuesday?’
‘About nine-thirty.’
‘What café did you lunch at in Charenton?’
‘I don’t remember. It was in a street about half-way between the
station and the steamboat wharf, a rather poor place with an
overhanging, half-timbered front.’
‘And what time was that?’
‘About one-thirty, I think. I am not sure.’
‘And from where did you telephone to your house and office?’
‘From the same café.’
‘About what time?’
‘About an hour later, say half-past two.’
‘Now, the café in the Place de la Bastille. Which one was it?’
‘I am not very certain. I think it was at the corner of the rue St.
Antoine. At all events it faced up the rue de Lyon.’
‘And you were there about what time?’
‘Eight-thirty, I should say.’
‘Did you get your bag at the Gare du Nord?’
‘Yes, it was waiting for me at the left luggage office.’
‘Did you have a sleeping berth on the train?’
‘No, I travelled in an ordinary first-class compartment.’
‘Was there any one else in it?’
‘Three other men. I did not know any of them.’
‘Now, all that day, Tuesday, did you meet any one who knew you, or
who could confirm your statement?’
‘Not that I can remember, unless the waiters at the cafés could do
so.’
‘On the next day, Wednesday, from where did you telephone to the
Hôtel Maximilian?’
‘From the café where I dined. It was in the Boulevard Anspach, just
before it opens into the Place Brouckère. I don’t recall the name.’
‘What time was the message sent?’
‘Just before dinner, about seven, I should say.’
The detective stood up and bowed.
‘Well, M. Boirac, accept my thanks for your courtesy. That is all I
want to know. Good-night, monsieur.’
The night being fine, Lefarge walked slowly to his home near the
Place de la Bastille. As he paced along he thought over the statement
he had just listened to. If it was true, it appeared at first sight
entirely to clear M. Boirac from suspicion. If he was in Paris on
Monday he could not have sent the letter to Dupierre ordering the
statue. That was received on Tuesday morning, and must therefore have
been posted in London the previous day. If he was at Brussels and
Malines, he obviously could not have met the cask in London. The
first thing would therefore be to test the statement by independent
inquiries. He reviewed it again in detail, taking a mental note of
all the points on which confirmation should be obtainable.
First of all, it should be easy to find out whether he really was in
Paris up till Tuesday evening. François and the other servants could
tell him this with regard to Sunday, Sunday night, and Monday night,
and the office staff at the pump manufactory could testify to Monday
and Tuesday morning. The servants could also tell whether he unpacked
the statue on Monday evening. There was then the question of the time
he left his office on Tuesday; that could easily be ascertained. With
regard to the restaurant at Charenton, M. Boirac would be a
well-dressed and striking luncher at a place in such a locality, and
would therefore undoubtedly have been specially noticed. If he really
did lunch there, confirmation should be easily obtainable,
particularly as the episode of the telephone would further call
attention to the visit. The receipt of these telephone messages
should also be easy to substantiate, as well as the leaving of the
luggage at the Gare du Nord. Confirmation from the Gare du Nord
cloak-room attendant, as well as from the waiters in the restaurant
in the Place de la Bastille, could hardly be expected, owing to the
larger number of strangers these men served, but both places would be
worth trying. Inquiries at Malines might prove Boirac’s visit, and
certainly would show whether he had a brother there, as well as
whether the house was locked up on the day in question. The staff in
the Hôtel Maximilian in Brussels would know whether or not he was
there on the Wednesday night, and could tell about the receipt of the
telephone message booking the room. Finally, it would be worth
finding out if Berlioz’s _Les Troyens_ was really given on that
evening at the Théâtre de la Monnaie.
As Lefarge thought over the matter, he saw that the statement was one
which admitted of a good many tests, and he felt that, if it stood
those he had enumerated, it might be fully accepted.