SOME DAMNING EVIDENCE
When Burnley left Lefarge on the pier at Boulogne, he felt as if he
was losing a well-tried friend. Not only had the Frenchman, by his
kindliness and cheerful companionship, made Burnley’s stay in the
French capital a pleasant one, but his skill and judgment had been a
real asset in the inquiry.
And how rapidly the inquiry had progressed! Never before could
Burnley recall having obtained so much information on any case in so
short a time. And though his work was by no means complete, he was
yet within reasonable distance of the end.
After an uneventful crossing he reached Folkestone and immediately
went to the police station. There he saw the men who had been on duty
when the _Pas de Calais_ had berthed on the Sunday in question. But
his inquiries were without result. No one resembling either Felix or
Mme. Boirac had been observed.
He next tried the Customs officials, the porters who had taken the
luggage from the boat, and the staff at the Pier Station. No
information was forthcoming.
‘H’m. Means going to Glasgow, I suppose,’ he thought and, turning
into the telegraph office on the platform he sent a wire:--
‘Henry Gordon, 327 Angus Lane, Sauchiehall Street, Glasgow. Could you
see me if I called at ten to-morrow. Reply Burnley, Scotland Yard.’
Then he set off to walk to the Town Station to catch the next train
for London.
At New Scotland Yard he had an interview with his Chief, to whom he
recounted the results of the consultation in the Sûreté, and his
movements during the past two days, explaining that he proposed to go
on to Glasgow that night if Mr. Gordon could see him the next
morning. Then he went home for an hour’s rest. Ten o’clock saw him
back at the Yard, where a telegram from Mr. Gordon was awaiting him.
‘Can see you to-morrow at the hour named.’
‘So far, so good,’ he thought, as he called a taxi and was driven to
Euston, where he caught the 11.50 express for the north. He usually
slept well in trains, and on this occasion he surpassed himself, only
waking when the attendant came round half an hour before they were
due in Glasgow.
A bath and breakfast at the Central Hotel made him feel fresh and fit
as he sallied forth to keep his appointment in Angus Lane,
Sauchiehall Street. Ten o’clock was chiming from the city towers as
he pushed open the office door of No. 327, which bore the legend,
‘Mr. Henry Gordon, Wholesale Tea Merchant.’ That gentleman was
expecting him, and he was ushered into his private room without delay.
‘Good morning, sir,’ he began, as Mr. Gordon, a tall man with small,
fair side whiskers, and two very keen blue eyes, rose to meet him. ‘I
am an Inspector from Scotland Yard, and I have taken the liberty of
making this appointment to ask your help in an inquiry in which I am
engaged.’
Mr. Gordon bowed.
‘Well, sir, and what do you wish me to do?’
‘To answer a few questions, if you don’t mind.’
‘I shall be pleased if I am able.’
‘Thank you. You were in Paris recently, I believe?’
‘That is so.’
‘And you stayed at the Hotel Continental?’
‘I did.’
‘Can you tell me what day you left to return to England?’
‘Yes, it was Sunday, the 28th of March.’
‘You drove, if I am not mistaken, from the hotel to the Gare du Nord
in the hotel bus?’
‘I did.’
‘Now, Mr. Gordon, can you recollect what, if any, other persons
travelled with you in the bus?’
The tea merchant did not immediately reply.
‘I did not specially observe, Mr. Inspector. I am not sure that I can
tell you.’
‘My information, sir, is that three gentlemen travelled by that bus.
You were one, and the man I am interested in was another. I am told
that he conversed with you, or made at least one remark as you were
leaving the bus at the station. Does this bring the circumstance to
your mind?’
Mr. Gordon made a gesture of assent.
‘You are correct. I recall the matter now, and the men too. One was
small, stout, clean-shaven, and elderly, the other younger, with a
black pointed beard and rather foppishly dressed. They were both
French, I took it, but the black-bearded man spoke English
excellently. He was talkative, but the other hadn’t much to say. Is
it the bearded man you mean?’
For answer Burnley held out one of Felix’s photographs.
‘Is that he?’
‘Yes, that’s the man sure enough. I remember him perfectly now.’
‘Did he travel with you to London?’
‘He didn’t travel with me, but he got to London all right, for I saw
him twice again, once on the boat and once as I was leaving the
station at Charing Cross.’
Here was definite evidence anyway. Burnley congratulated himself and
felt glad he had not delayed making this visit.
‘Did he travel alone?’
‘So far as I know. He certainly started alone from the hotel.’
‘And he didn’t meet any one _en route_ that you saw?’
‘When I saw him on the boat he was talking to a lady, but whether
they were travelling together or merely chance acquaintances I
couldn’t say.’
‘Was this lady with him in London?’
‘Not that I saw. He was talking to a man on the platform as I drove
out. A tall young fellow, dark and rather good-looking.’
‘Would you know this young man again if you saw him?’
‘Yes, I think so. I got a good look at his face.’
‘I should be obliged if you would describe him more fully.’
‘He was about five feet eleven or six feet in height, rather thin and
athletic looking. He had a pale complexion, was clean-shaven except
for a small black moustache, and was rather French looking. He was
dressed in some dark clothes, a brown overcoat, I fancy, but of that
I’m not sure. I imagined he was meeting your friend, but I had really
no definite reason to think so.’
‘Now, the lady, Mr. Gordon. Can you describe her?’
‘No, I’m afraid I can’t. She was sitting beside him and I did not see
her face.’
‘Can you tell how she was dressed?’
‘She wore a reddish brown fur coat, sable, I fancy, though I’m not
certain.’
‘And her hat? You didn’t notice anything special about that.’
‘No, nothing.’
‘It hadn’t, for example, a wide brim?’
‘A wide brim? Not that I noticed. But it may have had.’
‘Was it windy where they were sitting?’
‘Every place was windy that day. It was an abominable crossing.’
‘So that if it had had a wide brim, the lady would have had
difficulty in keeping it on?’
‘Possibly,’ replied Mr. Gordon a trifle dryly, ‘but you probably can
form an opinion on that as well as I.’
Burnley smiled.
‘We Scotland Yard people like to know everything,’ he said. ‘And now,
Mr. Gordon, I have to express my thanks for your courtesy and help.’
‘That’s all right. Would it be indiscreet to ask the reason of these
queries?’
‘Not at all, sir, but I fear I am not at liberty to give you much
information. The man with the pointed beard is suspected of having
decoyed a French lady over to England and murdered her. But, you will
understand, it is so far only a matter of suspicion.’
‘Well, I should be interested to hear how it turns out.’
‘I am afraid you will hear, sir. If this man is tried, I expect your
evidence will be required.’
‘Then for both our sakes I hope your case will not go on. Good-day,
Mr. Burnley. Glad to have met you.’
There being nothing to keep him in Glasgow, the Inspector returned to
the Central and took the midday London express. As it thundered
southwards across the smiling country, he thought over the interview
he had just had. He could not help marvelling again at the luck that
had pursued his efforts ever since the inquiry began. Nearly every
one he had interviewed had known at least something, if not always
exactly what he wanted. He thought how many thousands of persons
crossed the Channel each week whose journey it would be absolutely
impossible to trace, and here, in the one instance that mattered, he
had found a man who had been able to give him the very information he
needed. Had Felix not gone in the bus, had Mr. Gordon not been so
observant, had the circumstances not fallen out precisely as they
did, he might never have ascertained the knowledge of Felix’s
movements that day. And the same applied all through. Truly, if he
did not get a complete case it would be his own fault.
And yet the evidence was unsatisfactory. It was never conclusive. It
had a kind of thus-far-and-no-farther quality which always pointed to
a certain thing, but stopped short of certainty. Here there was a
strong presumption that Mme. Boirac had crossed with Felix, but no
proof. It might, however unlikely, have been some one else. Nearly
all the evidence he had got was circumstantial, and he wanted
certainty.
His mind switched over to the case itself. He felt the probability of
Felix’s guilt had been somewhat strengthened. Mr. Gordon’s statement
was entirely consistent with that hypothesis. One would naturally
expect the journey to be carried out just as it had been. In Paris,
the lovers would be careful not to be seen together. At a station
like the Gare du Nord, where acquaintances of both might easily be
present, they would doubtless ignore each other’s existence. On the
boat they would probably risk a conversation, particularly as the
deck was almost deserted owing to the weather, but in London,
especially if Felix expected some one to meet him, they would follow
their Paris plan and leave the station separately. Yes, it certainly
worked in.
The Inspector lit one of his strong cigars and gazed with unseeing
eyes at the flying landscape as he continued his ruminations. On
arrival in London what would be their next step? Felix, he expected,
would shake off his friend, meet Madame at some prearranged spot, and
in all probability take her to St. Malo. Then he recalled that the
housekeeper had been granted a holiday, and they would doubtless
arrive to find a house without food or fire, empty and cheerless.
Therefore would they not go to an hotel? He thought it likely, and he
began to plan a possible future step, a visit to all the probable
hotels. But while speculating on the best to begin with, it occurred
to him that if Felix had really committed the murder, it must, almost
certainly, have been done at St. Malo. He could not conceive it
possible at a hotel. Therefore probably they did go to the villa
after all.
He went a step further. If the murder had taken place at St. Malo,
the cask must have been packed there. He recalled the traces this
operation had left in Boirac’s study. Surely some similar indications
must have been left at the villa? If the cask had stood on a carpet
or even possibly a linoleum, he might expect marks of the ring. And
if not, there was the sawdust. He did not believe every trace of
sawdust could have been removed.
It had been his intention in any case to search the house, and he
took a mental note when doing so to look with special care for any
such traces. This search, he decided, should be his next business.
On the following morning, therefore, he set out for St. Malo with his
assistant, Sergeant Kelvin. As they drove, he explained the theory
about the unpacking of the cask, and pointed out what, if this had
been done, they might expect to find.
The house was empty as, owing to Felix still being in the hospital,
the housekeeper’s leave had been extended. Burnley opened the door
with a key from Felix’s bunch and the two men entered.
Then took place a search of the most meticulous thoroughness. Burnley
began in the yard and examined each of the out-houses in turn. These
had concrete floors and marks of the cask itself were not to be
expected, but they were carefully brushed and the sweepings examined
with a powerful lens for traces of sawdust. All their contents were
also inspected, Felix’s two-seater, which was standing in the
coach-house, receiving its full share of attention. Then the
searchers moved to the house, one room after another being gone over
in the same painstaking way, but it was not till they were doing
Felix’s dressing-room, that Burnley made his first discovery.
Several of Felix’s suits were hanging in a press, and in the
right-hand side pocket of one of the coats--that of a blue lounge
suit--there was a letter. It was crumpled and twisted, as if thrust
carelessly into the pocket. Burnley did not at first notice anything
interesting or important about it, till, reading it for the second
time, it flashed across his mind that here, perhaps, was the very
thing for which they had been searching--the link in that chain of
evidence against Felix which up to then had been missing.
The letter was written on a sheet of rather poor quality notepaper in
a woman’s hand, rather uneducated both as to caligraphy and
diction--such a letter, thought Burnley, as might be written by a
barmaid or waitress or shopgirl. There was no water or other
distinctive mark on it. It bore no address, and ran as follows:--
‘Monday.
‘MY DEAREST LÉON.--It is with a heavy heart I take up my pen to write
these few lines. What has happened to you, dearest? Are you ill? If
you are, I will come out to you, no matter what happens. I can’t go
on without you. I waited in all yesterday hoping you would come, same
as I waited in all the Sunday before, and every night of the week,
but you didn’t come. And the money is nearly done, and Mrs. Hopkins
says if I can’t pay next week I’ll have to go. I’ve sometimes thought
you were tired of me and weren’t going to come back at all, and then
I thought you weren’t that sort, and that you were maybe ill or away.
But do write or come, for I can’t go on any longer without you.
‘Your heartbroken
‘EMMIE.’
When Burnley glanced over this melancholy epistle it seemed at first
merely to indicate that Felix was no better than he might be, and it
was not till he had read it again that its immense significance
struck him. What if this paper supplied the motive of the murder?
What if it had opened to Mme. Boirac a chapter in Felix’s life which
otherwise would have remained closed, and which he intended should
remain closed? As Burnley thought over it he believed he could at
least dimly reconstruct the scene. Felix and Madame had arrived at
St. Malo, and then in some way, by some act of extraordinary
carelessness on Felix’s part, she got hold of the letter. A quarrel
would be inevitable. What would Felix do? Probably first snatch the
letter from her and thrust it into his pocket out of sight. Then,
perhaps, try to pacify the angry lady, and, finding this impossible,
the quarrel would get worse and worse till finally in a paroxysm of
passion he would seize her throat and choke out her life. The murder
committed, he would be so upset that he would quite probably forget
all about the letter. The oversights of criminals were notorious.
The more the Inspector considered the matter, the more likely his
theory seemed. But here again he had to recognise it was entirely
surmise. No proof that this had taken place was forthcoming. It was
another case of the thus-far-and-no-farther evidence he had been
deploring in the train. At all events it suggested another line of
inquiry. This girl must be found and the relations between her and
Felix gone into. Burnley foresaw much arduous work in front of him.
At length he put the letter away in his notebook, and the search
continued. Finally, as it was beginning to get dusk, every room had
been done except the study where Felix and the Inspector had had
their midnight discussion.
‘I think we had better come back to-morrow,’ said Burnley. ‘There’s
no use in searching by lamplight.’
Accordingly, the next morning saw them again at work. They crawled
over the floor so as to get every part of the carpet between
themselves and the light, but could find no impressions. They peered
with their lenses in the pile of the carpet, they felt between the
arms and seats of the padded leathern chairs, all to no purpose. And
then Burnley made his second discovery.
Between the study and the dining-room adjoining there was a door,
evidently unused, as it was locked and the key was gone. On the study
side this door was covered by a heavy curtain of dark-green plush. In
front of the curtain, and standing with its back to it, was a small
chair whose low, leather-padded back formed a half-circle with the
arms. In his anxiety to leave no part of the carpet unexamined,
Burnley had moved this chair aside.
As he stooped at the place where the chair had been, a bright object
sticking to the curtain caught his eye. He looked more closely. A
small, slightly bent, gold safety-pin, bearing a tiny row of
diamonds, was caught in the braid at the top of the hem. The point
had not penetrated, and the pin fell to the floor when Burnley
touched the plush.
He picked it up.
‘That’s rather a fine thing even for a natty boy like Felix,’ he said
as he showed it to Kelvin. And then he stood quite still as it
flashed across his mind that here, perhaps, was another link in the
chain that was being forged about Felix--a link possibly even more
important than any of the foregoing. What if it did not belong to
Felix at all? It looked too dainty and delicate for a man’s use. What
if it was a lady’s? And, most important question of all, what if that
lady was Mme. Boirac? If this proved true, his case was complete.
Dropping into the arm-chair he had occupied on the occasion of his
midnight interview with Felix, he considered the possibilities opened
up by his new discovery, endeavouring to evolve some theory of how a
pin or brooch belonging to the deceased lady could have been dropped
where he found this one. As he did so, a picture of what might have
happened gradually grew in his mind. First, he thought it likely that
a lady in evening dress would wear such a pin, and it might easily be
at her neck or shoulder. And if she had sat in that chair with her
back to the curtain, and any one had caught her by the throat and
forced her head backwards, what could be more likely than that the
pin should be pulled out in the struggle? And if it were pulled out
it almost certainly would drop where or whereabouts he found it.
The Inspector recognised again that this was all surmise, but it was
strengthened by the fact that the pin was undoubtedly bent as if it
had been pulled out of something without being unhooked. The more he
thought over it the more likely his idea seemed. At all events it
would be easy to test it. Two points suggested themselves to his mind
which would settle it conclusively. First, if the pin were Madame’s,
the maid Suzanne would recognise it. The arrangement of the diamonds
made it quite distinctive. The girl would also know if Madame wore it
on the night of the dinner-party. Secondly, if it were pulled out of
Madame’s dress, the latter would probably be torn or at least marked.
Both these points could easily be ascertained, and he decided he
would write to Paris about them that night.
He put the brooch into a pocket case, and, getting up, resumed his
search of the study. For a time he pursued his labours without
result, and then he made another discovery which struck him as being
of even greater importance than that of the pin. He had completed his
examination of the furniture, and now, for over an hour, had been
seated at Felix’s desk going through drawer after drawer, reading old
letters and examining the watermarks of papers and the alignment of
typewritten documents. Felix evidently had some of the defects of the
artistic temperament, for his papers were jumbled together without
any attempt at filing or classification--accounts, receipts,
invitations, engagements, business letters--all were thrust
higgledy-piggledy into the first drawer that came handy. But Burnley
had methodically gone through every one without finding anything of
interest. None of the papers had the watermark of that ordering the
statue from Dupierre, none of the typewriting had the defective
letters of that ostensibly from Le Gautier to Felix. The Inspector
had just reflected that he had only to go through the half-dozen
shelves of books and his work would be done, when he made his third
find.
On the desk lay a number of sheets of blotting paper folded
pamphlet-wise, it being evidently Felix’s custom to blot his wet
papers between two of the leaves. Following his usual routine, the
Inspector fetched a mirror from the bathroom, and with its aid
examined the sheets from each edge in turn. At the fourth of these
sheets he stopped suddenly with a little gesture of triumph, for
there, clearly revealed in the mirror, were some words he had seen
before:--
.s .. .s th. .... s.c. .. ... l... .. t.. ......
.le... fo.wa.. ..med....ly to ..e ..ove .dd.ess.
I do ..t kn.w th. e.a.t pric., but ..der.t..d .t is about 1500
francs. I therefore enclose notes for that
It was the bottom of the first page of the letter ordering the statue
from Dupierre! Here was certainty: here, at last, proofs of the most
complete kind! Felix had ordered the statue and like a fool had
blotted his letter and omitted to destroy the blotsheet!
The Inspector chuckled with content at his find. Felix had ordered
the statue. That was now certain. And if he had done so he was
responsible for its first journey, and therefore undoubtedly for its
second and third. In fact, it was now evident he had arranged all the
movements of the cask, and, if so, he must unquestionably have put in
the body, and if he put in the body he must be the murderer.
Then there was the further point about the paper. The paper on which
this letter had been written was the same as that on which the letter
about the lottery and the bet was typed. Felix had stated he had
received this letter by post, but at the discussion in M. Chauvet’s
office the probability that he himself was the author had been
recognised. This probability was now strengthened by finding he had
had in his possession the peculiar French paper which had been used.
Truly these three discoveries, the letter signed ‘Your heartbroken
Emmie,’ the bent brooch on the curtain, and the tell-tale impression
on the blotting paper seemed to the Inspector entirely to settle the
question of Felix’s guilt.
On the other hand he had failed to find any trace of the unpacking of
the cask, and his search had been so thorough that he almost felt
impelled to the conclusion that it had not been there at all. And
then a possible explanation struck him. Suppose Felix had got a cart
and brought the cask to St. Malo, intending to remove it again the
following morning. Where would he put it for the night? It was too
heavy to move by himself, and he would want to have a helper. What
then would he do? Why, leave it on the cart, of course! His obvious
plan would be to stable the horse and open the cask where it
stood--on the cart. And if he dropped some sawdust in the process,
the wind would see to that. There would be none left now.
He felt sure he was on the right track, and then he had a further
idea. If a horse were stabled at the villa all night, some traces
should surely be visible. He went to the yard again and began a new
quest. But this time he had no luck. He was forced to conclude no
horse had been kept.
The possibility that the carter might have left his vehicle and taken
the horse away with him for the night next occurred to him, but he
thought that unlikely, and left the question undecided in the
meantime.
On his return to Scotland Yard, the Chief heard his story with close
attention, and was much impressed by his discoveries. He gave his
views at some length, ending up:--
‘We shall send the pin over to Paris and see if that girl identifies
it. Indeed, whether or not, I think we have a sufficient case against
Felix to go into court. By the way, I don’t think I told you I sent a
man to his firm, the poster people, and found that he was absent on
holidays during the week the cask was travelling backwards and
forwards to Paris. This, of course, is not evidence against him, but
it works in with our theory.’
Two days later a wire came from M. Chauvet:--
‘Suzanne Daudet identifies pin as Madame’s property.’
‘That settles it,’ said the Chief, and a warrant was made out for
Felix’s arrest, so soon as he should be well enough to leave the
hospital.
PART III--LONDON AND PARIS
CHAPTER XXI
A NEW POINT OF VIEW
Of the millions who unfolded their papers a few mornings after the
events described in the last chapter, there were few but felt a
thrill of excitement as their eyes fell on the headlines, ‘The Cask
Mystery. Arrest of Léon Felix.’ Though by no means all the facts
discovered by the police had become public, enough had leaked out to
arouse a keen and general interest. The tragic circumstances of the
case, no less than the baffling mystery in which it was shrouded,
intrigued the popular imagination and, though the police were early
credited with having the usual clue and the customary arrest was
stated to be imminent, none outside the official ranks had any real
idea in what direction suspicion was tending.
But to none of those millions did the news come with such a sense of
personal shock and affront as to our old acquaintance, Dr. William
Martin, of The Elms, near Brent village, on the Great North Road. Dr.
Martin, it will be remembered, was the man who, on the night on which
Constable Walker watched from behind his tree, called at St. Malo and
insisted on Felix accompanying him home to play bridge. The two men
were close friends. Many an afternoon they had spent together on the
banks of a neighbouring trout stream, many an evening had slipped
rapidly away round the doctor’s billiard table. And with Martin’s
family also Felix was a favourite. No member of it but was pleased to
welcome the Frenchman to the house, or but had some special
confidence to share with him.
At first Dr. Martin could hardly believe his eyes as they rested on
the fatal headlines. That Felix, his friend, his trusted companion,
should be arrested! And for murder! The thought was so incredible, so
utterly horrible, he could not take it in. But, unlike the nightmare
to which he compared it, the idea had permanence. Though his thoughts
might wander, it was always there, grim and terribly definite, for
them to return to.
He began to think over his friend’s circumstances. Felix had always
been reticent about his life, but to the doctor he had seemed a
lonely man. He lived alone, and Martin had never known him to have
visitors staying in the house. Nor could the doctor recall the
Frenchman’s ever having spoken of relatives. ‘Who,’ he wondered,
‘will help him now?’
But with so kindly and warm-hearted a man as Dr. Martin, such a
question could not long remain unanswered. ‘I must go and see him,’
he thought. ‘I must find out who is going to act for him. If he has
no one, then I must do the best I can myself.’
But a practical difficulty arose. How were orders to visit prisoners
obtained? The doctor did not know. For a man of his age and standing
he was singularly ignorant of legal matters. But when such came his
way he invariably adopted the same simple expedient. He ‘saw
Clifford.’ This difficulty he would meet in the same way. He would
‘see Clifford.’
‘Clifford’--otherwise John Wakefield Clifford, senior partner of
Messrs. Clifford and Lewisham, Solicitors, Grey’s Inn--was Martin’s
man of business, friend, and crony. The chance that they took the
same weekly half-holiday had thrown them together on the links, and
they had followed up the acquaintanceship by occasional visits at
each other’s houses. Mr. Clifford was an almost startling contrast to
the breezy doctor. Small, elderly, and rather wizened, with white
hair and moustache, and dressed always with meticulous care, he
seemed the embodiment of conventional propriety. His manner was
precise and dry, but the fortunate gift of a sense of humour saved
him from becoming dull.
He was a fine lawyer. His admirers, who were many, held that an
opinion from him was as good as Counsel’s any day, and knew that,
beneath the keenness which made him so formidable an opponent, there
lay a deep vein of very real human kindness.
A press of unavoidable business kept Martin at work till the
afternoon, but three o’clock saw him ascending the stairs of Messrs
Clifford and Lewisham’s office.
‘How are you, Martin?’ the senior partner greeted him. ‘I am glad to
see you. This is an unexpected pleasure.’
‘Thanks, old chap,’ returned the doctor, accepting the cigarette the
other offered, and sinking back into a deep, leather-lined arm-chair.
‘But I’m afraid there won’t be much pleasure about my visit. It’s
business, and nasty business at that. Have you a few minutes to
spare?’
The little man bowed gravely.
‘Certainly,’ he said, ‘I am at your service.’
‘It’s about that neighbour of mine, Léon Felix,’ went on the doctor,
plunging without further preamble into his subject. ‘You saw he was
arrested last night on a charge of murdering the woman whose body was
found in the cask? You know about it?’
‘I read the account in this morning’s paper. And so Felix was a
neighbour of yours?’
‘Yes, and a close friend. He was in and out of the house like one of
the family.’
‘Indeed? I am sorry to hear that.’
‘Yes. I thought a good deal of him and I’m naturally upset. We all
are, as a matter of fact. I wanted your advice as to what could be
done for him.’
‘You mean with regard to his defence?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you seen him since his arrest?’
‘No. That’s one of the things I wanted to ask you about. I am not
quite sure how you get an order.’
‘That can be obtained where a sufficient reason for its application
can be shown. I understand, then, that you are unaware of his own
plans for his defence?’
‘Yes. My idea was to see him and talk the thing over, and, unless he
has made some other arrangement, to ask you to undertake it.’
The lawyer nodded slowly. Martin’s suggestion was eminently
satisfactory to him. Apart from the mere money involved, this case,
from its unusual and dramatic nature, promised to be at least one of
the most famous of the year. He decided that if it came his way he
would attend to it personally, and see that no stone was left
unturned to secure an acquittal.
‘If you put the case in our hands,’ he replied at length, ‘quite
apart from our personal friendship, you may depend on our doing our
utmost for your friend. But I am afraid it will be an expensive
business. We shall have to retain counsel, perhaps two or even three
men, and their fees are not negligible. Then, as you can
imagine’--Mr. Clifford gave a wintry little smile--‘we also have to
live, or at all events we think so. There will unquestionably be
expense in hunting up witnesses, a private detective may have to be
employed, in short, the defence of a big case means heavy outlay.
Now, can your friend meet this? What are his circumstances
financially?’
‘I think he is all right,’ answered Martin, ‘but, in any case, the
money will be my affair. Felix may pay what he can. I shall be
responsible for the rest.’
Clifford looked at the speaker keenly.
‘Very handsome of you, Martin, I’m sure.’ He hesitated a moment as if
about to continue the subject, then, with a change of manner, he went
on:--
‘I think, in that case, you should see Felix and ascertain his plans.
If you can spare the time now, I shall go with you to Bow Street and
try and procure for you an immediate visiting order. If, after your
conversation, you find you require our assistance, we shall be very
pleased to take up the case; if not, you are perfectly free to go
elsewhere. Is that agreed?’
‘Thank you, Clifford. That’s all right. Nothing could be better.’
After introducing his prospective client to the authorities at the
famous police station, the lawyer excused himself on the ground of
another engagement, while Martin sat down to await the order. The
formalities took some time, and it was not till nearly five that the
door of Felix’s cell opened to admit his friend.
‘Martin!’ cried the unhappy inmate, springing up and seizing his
visitor’s hand in both his own. ‘But this is good of you! I hardly
dared to expect you.’
‘Couldn’t see a pal in a hole without butting in,’ answered the
doctor gruffly, somewhat affected by the warmth of the other’s
welcome. ‘You’re a nice one, getting yourself into such a mess, eh?
What have you been up to that’s raised this dust?’
Felix passed his hand wearily over his forehead.
‘My God, Martin,’ he groaned, ‘I don’t know. I’m absolutely at sea. I
know no more about the wretched business than you do. The proceedings
to-day were purely formal, so that the evidence against me--whatever
it can be--did not come out. I can’t conceive what they have got hold
of, that has made them suspect me.’
‘I’ve heard nothing about the case at all. I just came along to see
you when I saw what had happened.’
‘Martin, I can never thank you! I can never repay you! I thought of
writing to you to-day to ask your help, and I should probably have
done it to-morrow. But you can’t think what it means to me, your
coming without being asked. It means, for one thing, that you don’t
believe this abominable charge? Doesn’t it?’
‘Well, naturally. You keep your heart up and don’t get flustered.
You’ve got some friends left still. All the family are upset about
the thing. The mater’s shocked, and so are the boys. They all say for
you to cheer up, and that the mistake is sure to be put right soon.’
‘God bless them for that,’ cried Felix, rising and pacing the cell in
evident emotion. ‘Tell them--how much I appreciate--what all their
thought means to me.’
‘Rot!’ said the doctor shortly. ‘What would you expect? But now, I
have only a minute or two here, and what I want to ask you is this,
what plans have you made for your defence?’
‘Defence? None, I fear. I just haven’t been able to think about it. I
haven’t an idea who to turn to, or what to do. What would you advise?’
‘Clifford.’
‘Eh? What? I don’t follow.’
‘Employ Clifford, of Clifford and Lewisham. He’s a dry stick, but as
clever as they’re made, and a good sort. He’s your man.’
‘I don’t know him. Do you think he would take up the case?’
‘Sure. Fact is, I went around to ask him how I could get an order to
see you--I know him pretty well--and I pumped him. The firm would
take it on if they were asked, but that means himself, and you
couldn’t have a better man.’
‘Martin, you put new life into me! God bless you for all you’re
doing! Will you arrange it with him? But, wait a minute, can I afford
it? Are his fees very high?’
‘What can you afford?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Say a thousand pounds.’
‘More than enough. I shall arrange it with him at once.’
The friends conversed for some minutes, and then a warder opened the
door of the cell. Martin’s time was up. He left Felix cheered by the
promise of a further visit, and with tears of thankfulness glistening
in his eyes.
Determined to lose no time in completing his work, Martin returned
direct to the offices of Messrs Clifford and Lewisham. But there the
day’s work was over, and all but one or two junior clerks had already
left. The doctor therefore made an appointment for the next day and,
with a glow of righteous self-satisfaction, went home to tell his
family what he had done.
On the following afternoon he again found himself in the solicitor’s
office.
‘Now,’ said Mr. Clifford, when it had been definitely agreed that his
firm was to take up the case, ‘I have to warn you that proceedings
will be slow. First, the prosecution will make up their case--get
depositions of the evidence, you know, and so on--and that will take
time. We, of course, shall also immediately start work, but it is
improbable we shall make much headway till we learn the full evidence
against us. Additional time will therefore be required for the
preparation of the defence. If Felix is returned for trial--and I
fear from what I have heard, he will be--weeks and months will
probably elapse before both sides are ready. You and I shall
therefore require to exercise patience.’
‘I can believe it,’ muttered the doctor. ‘You lawyers take the devil
of a time over everything.’
‘We can’t cover our mistakes like you, so we have to be careful,’
retorted the lawyer with his dry, wintry smile.
Martin smote his thigh.
‘Ha! ha!’ he laughed. ‘That’s good. You had me there. But I musn’t be
wasting your time. There were some things you wanted to speak to me
about?’
‘Yes,’ admitted Clifford, ‘a couple of points. Firstly, I propose to
retain Heppenstall--you know, Lucius Heppenstall, the K.C. He may
want one or two juniors. I suppose that is all right?’
‘Of course. You know what is best to be done.’
‘The other point is that I want you to tell me everything you
possibly can about Felix.’
‘As a matter of fact,’ returned Martin, ‘I can’t tell you very much.
I was just thinking over what I knew of him, and I was amazed it was
so little. We became acquainted about four years ago. Felix had just
taken St. Malo, an empty house a couple of hundred yards from my own,
and the first thing he did was to go and get pneumonia. I was called
in, but the attack was bad, and for a time it was touch and go with
him. However, he pulled through, and, during his convalescence, we
became very good friends. When he came out of the hospital I invited
him to my house for a week or two--he had only a not very
satisfactory housekeeper at St. Malo--and the family took to him,
till he became quite like one of ourselves. Since then he has been in
and out like a pet dog. He dines quite often, and, in return, insists
on taking the boys to the theatre, and the mater when she’ll go.’
‘He lives quite alone, you say?’
‘Quite, except for the housekeeper.’
‘And you haven’t met any of his people?’
‘None. I’ve never even heard of his people. I don’t think he has any.
If he has, he never speaks of them.’ Martin hesitated for a moment,
then went on: ‘It may be my fancy, but it has struck me that he seems
to avoid women, and the only cynical remarks I have heard him make
have been at their expense. I have often wondered if he has had some
love disappointment. But he has never hinted at such a thing.’
‘How does he live?’
‘He is an artist. He designs for some poster firm in the City, and he
draws for the better-class magazines. I do not know if he has private
means, but he seems to do well enough.’
‘Do you know anything about this extraordinary business of the cask?’
‘No, except this. On--let me see, what night was it? Monday, I
think--yes, Monday, the 5th of April, a couple of friends turned in,
and we wanted a rubber of bridge. I went round to St. Malo to see if
Felix would make a fourth. That was about 8.30 o’clock. At first he
hesitated, but afterwards he agreed to come. I went in and waited
while he changed. The study fire had just been freshly lighted and
the room, and indeed the whole house, was cold and cheerless. We
played bridge till nearly one. The next thing we heard was that he
was in St. Thomas’s Hospital, prostrated from a mental shock. Not
professionally, but as a friend, I went to see him, and then he told
me about the cask.’
‘And what did he tell you?’
‘He said he had had a letter saying a cask of money was being sent
him--he will tell you the details himself--and that he had just got
this cask from the steamer and brought it to St. Malo when I called
on that Monday evening. The reason he hesitated about leaving home
was that he was on tenterhooks to unpack the cask.’
‘Why did he not tell you about it?’
‘I asked him that, and he said he had had trouble with the steamer
people about getting it away, and he did not want any one to know
where the cask was, lest it should get round to these steamer folk.
But I would rather he would tell you about that himself.’
‘I shall ask him, but I want to hear from you anything you know
personally about it.’
‘Well, there is nothing more than that.’
‘Can you tell me anything of his friends?’
‘Nothing. I think only twice in all the years I have known him have I
met acquaintances of his, in each case artists who were looking at
the paintings in his studio, and who I know did not stay the night.
Whom he met during the day I can’t tell.’
The lawyer sat silent for some minutes.
‘Well,’ he said at length, ‘I think that is all we can do to-day.
I’ll let you know how things go on, but, as I warned you before, the
business will be slow.’
With a hearty handshake and a word of thanks the doctor took his
leave, while Clifford sat down to write to Heppenstall, K.C., to know
if he would take up the case.
CHAPTER XXII
FELIX TELLS A SECOND STORY
The next day Mr. Clifford was occupied with various technical
formalities, and in obtaining from the authorities such information
as was then available about the case, and it was not till the
following morning he set out to make the acquaintance of his client.
He found him seated in his cell, his head on his hands, and an
expression of deep gloom upon his face. The two men talked
generalities for some time, and then the lawyer came to business.
‘Now, Mr. Felix,’ he said, ‘I want you please to tell me everything
you know of this unhappy affair--everything, no matter how seemingly
minute or unimportant. Remember--I cannot impress it on you too
strongly--for a man in your position it is suicidal to withhold
information. Keep nothing back. Your confidence will be as safe as
the confessional. If you have made mistakes, done foolish things, or
criminal things, or even--forgive me--if you have committed the crime
you are charged with, tell me the whole truth. Else I shall be a
blind man leading the blind, and we shall both have our fall.’
Felix rose to his feet.
‘I will do so, Mr. Clifford. I will keep nothing back. And first,
before we go on to the details, one point must be settled.’ He raised
his hand. ‘I swear to you, in the presence of Almighty God, in whom I
believe, that I am innocent of this crime.’ He sat down and then
continued: ‘I don’t ask you if you believe me; I am willing to leave
that till afterwards, but I want now, at the commencement of our
intercourse, to put that fact as it were on record. I absolutely and
categorically deny all knowledge of this hateful and ghastly crime.
Now let us get on.’
‘I am glad you have made this statement and in this way, Mr. Felix,’
said the lawyer, who was impressed by his client’s manner and
earnestness. ‘Now, please, begin at the beginning and tell me with
all the detail you can, what you know of the matter.’
Felix had the gift of narration, and, apart from the appeal to
Clifford’s professional instincts, he held the lawyer enthralled as
he related the strange story of his experiences.
‘I hardly know where to begin,’ he said. ‘The first thing directly
bearing on the affair was a meeting between myself and some friends
at the Café Toisson d’Or in Paris, but before I come to that I think
I ought to explain just who I am and how I, a Frenchman, come to be
living in London. I think this is necessary, as the question of my
previous knowledge of poor Annette Boirac is certain to come up. What
do you say, Mr. Clifford?’
‘Necessary to tell this?’ thought the lawyer, to whom the fact that
Felix had had knowledge of the dead woman came as an ugly discovery.
‘Why, my good fellow, no other point in the whole case is likely to
be more important for you.’ But aloud he only said:--
‘Yes, I consider it most necessary.’
‘Very good, then. As I said, I am a Frenchman, and I was born in
Avignon in 1884. I was always keen on drawing, and, as my teachers
thought there was promise in my work, I early moved to Paris and
entered the _atelier_ of M. Dauphin. I studied there for several
years, living in a small hotel off the Boule Miche. My parents were
both dead, and I had inherited a little money--not much, but enough
to live on.
‘Amongst those working at the art school was a young fellow called
Pierre Bonchose. He was some four years my junior, and was an
attractive and thoroughly decent chap. We became close friends,
eventually sharing the same room. But he was not much good at his
work. He lacked perseverance, and was too fond of supper parties and
cards to settle down seriously to paint. I was not, therefore,
surprised when one day he told me he was fed up with art, and was
going into business. It seemed he had applied to an old friend of his
father’s, the senior partner of Messrs. Rôget, the wine exporters of
Narbonne, and had been offered a position in that firm, which he had
decided to accept.
‘But a month or two before he left Paris he had introduced to the
_atelier_ a new pupil, his cousin, Mlle. Annette Humbert. They seemed
more like brother and sister than cousins, and Bonchose told me that
they had been brought up together, and had always been what you
English call “pals.” This, Mr. Clifford, was none other than the
unfortunate young lady who afterwards became Mme. Boirac.
‘She was one of the loveliest girls that ever breathed. From the
first moment I saw her I admired her as I had never before admired
any one. As Fate would have it we were both making certain pastel
studies and, being thus thrown together, we became interested in each
other’s work. The inevitable happened, and I fell deeply in love with
her. She did not discourage me, but, as she was kind and gracious to
every one, I hardly dared to hope she could care for me. At last, to
make a long story short, I took my courage in both hands and
proposed, and I could hardly believe my good fortune when she
accepted me.
‘It then became necessary for me to approach her father. M. Humbert
came of an old and distinguished family, endowed with much pride of
birth. He was well off, though not rich, and lived almost in state in
his old château at Laroche, occupying a leading position in the local
society. To broach such a subject to him would have been an ordeal
for any one, but for me, who lacked so many of the social advantages
he possessed, it was a veritable nightmare. And my forebodings were
not disappointed. He received me courteously, but scouted my
proposal. Mlle. Humbert was too young, she did not yet know the world
nor her own mind, he had other plans for her future, and so on. Also,
he delicately indicated that my social standing and means hardly
fitted me to enter a family of such age and traditions as his own.
‘I need not try to describe the effect this decision had upon both of
us, suffice it to say that Annette, after a stormy scene, submitted
to her father’s authority, leaving the art school and going for an
indefinite visit to an aunt in the southern provinces. I, finding
life without her insupportable in my old haunts, also left Paris,
and, coming to London, obtained a position as artist with Messrs.
Greer and Hood, the advertisement poster printers of Fleet Street.
What with their salary and my spare time drawings for _Punch_ and
other papers, I soon found myself in receipt of over a thousand a
year, and then realised one of my ambitions and moved to a small
villa in the suburbs, buying at the same time a two-seater to take me
to and from my work. This villa, St. Malo, was situated near Brent,
on the Great North Road. Here I settled down, alone except for an
elderly housekeeper. I fitted up a large attic as a studio where I
began studies for a picture I had in mind.
‘But before I had been a month in my new home, I developed a nasty
attack of pneumonia. Martin, who was the nearest doctor, was called
in, and so began the friendship from which your presence here to-day
has resulted.
‘I lived a somewhat humdrum existence for some two years, and then
one morning I had a pleasant surprise in the shape of a visit from my
old friend, Pierre Bonchose. He explained that, having done pretty
well in business, he had been sent to represent permanently his firm
in London. He also told me that after a year of what he called
“sulking,” his cousin Annette had, at her father’s desire, married a
M. Boirac, a wealthy manufacturer, that he had seen her coming
through Paris, and that she appeared to be quite happy.
‘Bonchose and I resumed our former intimacy, and, during the next
summer, that is, two years ago, we had a walking tour through
Cornwall. I mention this because of an incident which occurred near
Penzance, and which profoundly modified our relations. While bathing
in a deserted cove of that rocky coast, I was caught in an off-shore
current and, in spite of all my efforts, found myself being carried
out to sea. Bonchose, hearing my shouts, swam out after me and at the
imminent risk of his own life assisted me back into still water.
Though he made light of the matter, I could not forget the danger he
had faced to save me, and I felt I had incurred a debt which I should
be glad of an opportunity to pay.
‘But though, as I have said, I had settled down in London, I did not
by any means entirely desert Paris. First at long intervals, but
afterwards more frequently, I ran over to see my friends and to keep
myself in touch with artistic circles in France. About eight months
ago, on one of these visits, it happened that I dropped into an
exhibition of the work of a famous sculptor, and there I incidentally
came across a man whose conversation interested me extremely. His
hobby was statuary, and he was clearly an expert in his subject. He
told me he had amassed one of the largest private collections in the
world, and as we became more intimate he invited me to dine that
evening and see it. I went, and on arrival he introduced me to his
wife. You can imagine my feelings, Mr. Clifford, when I found she was
none other than Annette. Acting on the impulse of the moment, we met
as strangers, though I am sure that, had M. Boirac not been so full
of his collection, he must have noticed our embarrassment. But as we
sat at dinner I found that, after the first shock of recognition, her
presence left me cold. Though I still profoundly admired her, my
infatuation had passed away, and I realised that whatever love I
might have had for her was dead. And from her manner I felt sure her
feelings towards myself had undergone a similar change.
‘M. Boirac and I became good friends over his collection, and, on his
invitation, I several times repeated my call during subsequent visits
to Paris.
‘That, Mr. Clifford, is all of what I may call my preliminary
history. I am afraid it is rather involved, but I have tried to make
it as clear as I could.’
The lawyer bowed gravely.
‘Your statement is perfectly clear. Pray proceed.’
‘I come now,’ went on Felix, ‘to the events connected with the cask
and therefore apparently with the tragedy. I think it will be better
to tell you these in their chronological order, even though this
makes my story seem a little disconnected?’
Again Mr. Clifford inclined his head and the other resumed:--
‘On Saturday, 13th March, I crossed to Paris for the week-end,
returning the following Monday morning. On the Sunday afternoon I
happened to drop into the Café Toisson d’Or in the rue Royale and
there found a group of men, with most of whom I was acquainted. They
were talking about the French Government lotteries, and in the course
of conversation one of them, a M. Alphonse Le Gautier, said to me,
“Why not have a little flutter with me?” I ridiculed the idea at
first, but afterwards agreed to enter a thousand francs jointly with
him. He undertook to arrange the matter, the profits, if any, being
halved between us. I paid him over my five hundred francs and,
believing it was the last I should hear of the affair, dismissed it
from my mind.
‘A week after my return to England I had a visit from Bonchose. I saw
at once he was in trouble and after a while it all came out. It
seemed he had been losing heavily at cards, and to meet his
liabilities he had gone to moneylenders, who were now pressing him
for repayment. In answer to my questions, he explained that he had
paid off all his loans with the exception of one for £600. That sum
he was utterly unable to raise, and if he failed to procure it before
the 31st, that was, in about a week, he was a ruined man. I was much
annoyed, for I had helped him out of similar scrapes twice before, on
each of which occasions he had given me his word not to play again. I
felt I could not go on throwing good money after bad, and yet because
of our friendship and the debt I owed him for saving my life, I could
not see him go to the wall. Divining what was in my mind, he assured
me he had not come to beg, saying that he realised I had already done
more for him than he deserved. Then he said he had written to Annette
telling her the circumstances, and asking, not for a gift, but for a
loan on which he would pay four per cent interest. I talked to him
seriously, offering no help, but asking him to keep me advised of how
things went on. But though I did not tell him, I decided I would pay
the £600 rather than see him stuck.
‘“I am going to Paris on Friday,” I ended up, “and hope to dine at
the Boirac’s on Saturday. If Annette speaks to me on the subject, I
shall tell her you are making an unholy mess of things.”
‘“Don’t put her against helping me,” he pleaded. I said I would not
influence her at all, and then he asked me when I was returning, so
that he could meet me and hear what had been said. I told him I would
cross by Boulogne on Sunday.
‘That week-end, a fortnight after the meeting in the Café Toisson
d’Or, I was again in the French capital. On the Saturday morning as I
sat in the Hotel Continental meditating a visit to M. Dauphin’s
_atelier_, a note was handed to me. It was from Annette, and in it
she said she wanted to speak to me in private, asking if I could come
at 7.30 that night, instead of the dinner hour of 7.45, and requiring
a verbal reply. I gave the necessary assurance to the messenger, who
proved to be Annette’s maid, Suzanne.
‘I reached the Boirac’s house at the appointed hour, but I did not
see Annette. As I entered, M. Boirac was passing through the hall,
and, seeing me, he invited me into his study to look at an engraving
which had been sent him on approval. Naturally, I could not refuse.
We went to the study and examined the picture. But there was another
object in the study which I also saw and commented on. Standing on
the carpet was a large cask, and, Mr. Clifford, you will hardly
believe me when I tell you it was either the identical cask which was
sent me containing poor Annette’s body, or else one so similar as to
be indistinguishable!’
Felix paused to let this significant statement, as he evidently
considered it, sink into the lawyer’s mind. But the latter only bowed
and said:--
‘Pray proceed, Mr. Felix, with your statement.’
‘I was interested in the cask, as it seemed an unusual object to find
in a study. I asked Boirac about it, and he explained that he had
just purchased a piece of statuary, and that the cask was simply the
special kind of packing case in which it had been sent home.’
‘Did he describe the statue?’ asked the lawyer, interrupting for the
first time.
‘No, except to say it was a fine group. He promised to show it to me
on my next visit.’
‘Did he tell you from whom he had purchased it, or what price he had
paid?’
‘Neither; the matter was only referred to incidentally as we were
leaving the room.’
‘Thank you. Pray continue.’
‘We then went to the salon, but, as several visitors had already
arrived, I could not, at that time, get a private word with Annette.
‘The dinner was an important social affair, the Spanish Ambassador
being the principal guest. Before it was over M. Boirac was called
from the house, owing to an accident having taken place at his works.
He apologised for leaving, promising to return speedily, but after a
time a telephone message came to say the accident had been more
serious than he had supposed, and he would be detained till very late
or even all night. The guests began to leave about eleven, but, in
obedience to a sign from Annette, I remained till all had gone. Then
she told me she had received a letter from Bonchose which had much
upset her. She did not mind his having got into difficulties--indeed,
she thought a fright would do him good; but she was really troubled
lest he might become a confirmed gambler. She wished for my candid
opinion of him.
‘I told her exactly what I thought; that there wasn’t a bit of real
harm in him, but that he had got into a bad set and that his only
chance was to break with it. She agreed with me, saying he should not
be helped until this breach had actually been made. We then discussed
where the money was to come from. She, it appeared, could lay her
hands on only £300, and, as she felt M. Boirac would disapprove, she
did not wish to ask him for the remainder. She therefore proposed to
sell a couple of her jewels--her own private property--and she asked
me to undertake the matter for her. But I could not bring myself to
agree to this, and I said that if she would advance the £300 she had,
I would find the balance. At first she would not hear of it, and we
had quite a heated argument. Finally I carried my point, and she went
upstairs and brought down the money. I took my leave immediately
afterwards, promising to let her know how the matter ended. She was
much affected, for she was sincerely attached to him. The next day,
Sunday, I returned to London.’
‘I think you said, Mr. Felix,’ interrupted Clifford, ‘that the last
of the guests left at eleven?’
‘Yes, about then.’
‘And at what time did you yourself leave?’
‘About quarter to twelve.’
‘Then your conversation lasted about three-quarters of an hour. Now,
did any one see you leave?’
‘No one except Annette. She came to the door with me.’
‘You returned to your hotel, I suppose?’
‘Yes.’
‘At what hour did you reach it?’
‘About half-past one, I should say.’
‘From Madame’s house to the Hotel Continental is about fifteen
minutes’ walk. What, then, did you do in the interval?’
‘I felt wakeful, and thought a stroll would be pleasant. I walked
across Paris; to the Place de la Bastille by the rue de Rivoli, and
back to the hotel by the Grands Boulevards.’
‘Did you meet any one you knew?’
‘No, not that I can recall.’
‘I am afraid this is important, Mr. Felix. Think again. Is there no
one that could testify to meeting you on this walk? No waiter or
other official, for example?’
‘No,’ said Felix, after a pause, ‘I don’t think I spoke to a soul,
and I certainly did not enter a café.’
‘You say you returned to London next day. Did you meet any one on the
journey you knew?’
‘Yes, but it will be no help to me. I met Miss Gladys Devine on the
Folkestone boat. But she cannot confirm this. As you must know, she
died suddenly a week later.’
‘Miss Gladys Devine? Not the celebrated Miss Devine, the actress?’
‘The same. I have met her at supper parties in Paris.’
‘But you must be able to get confirmation of that? So well known a
lady would be recognised wherever she went. But perhaps you visited
her private cabin?’
‘No, I saw her on the boat deck. She was sitting in the shelter of
one of the funnels. I joined her for about half an hour.’
‘But somebody must have seen you?’
‘Possibly, but possibly not. You see, it was horribly rough. Almost
every one was sick. People, anyway, weren’t walking about.’
‘What about her maids?’
‘I did not see them.’
‘Now, Mr. Felix, what you must think over when I leave you is, first,
what evidence can we get confirming your statement of how you spent
your time between 11.00 and 1.30 on the Saturday night? and second,
who saw you with Miss Devine on the Folkestone boat? In the meantime,
please continue your statement.’
‘Bonchose met me at Charing Cross. He was keen to know how I had
fared. We drove to his rooms, where I told him the whole thing. I
said I would hand him the £600 on condition he broke finally with his
gambling friends. He assured me the breach had already been effected,
and I therefore gave him the money. We then drove to the Savoy and,
after a rather early dinner, I left him and went home.’
‘At what hour?’
‘About 8.30.’
‘How did you go?’
‘I took a taxi.’
‘From where?’
‘The Savoy commissionaire called it.’
‘Yes?’
‘The next thing was I received an astonishing letter,’ and Felix went
on to tell the lawyer about the typewritten letter signed ‘Le
Gautier,’ his preparations to obtain the cask, his visit to St.
Katherine’s Docks, his interviews with the clerk, Broughton, and the
manager of the dock office, his ruse to get the I. and C.’s
notepaper, the forging of the letter to Harkness, the removal of the
cask to St. Malo, his dining at Dr. Martin’s, the midnight interview
with Burnley, the disappearance of the cask, its final recovery, its
unpacking, and the discovery of its terrible contents. ‘That, Mr.
Clifford,’ he ended up, ‘is every single thing I know about the
affair, good, bad, or indifferent.’
‘I congratulate you on the clear way you have made your statement,’
returned the solicitor. ‘Now, excuse me while I think if there is
anything further I want to ask you.’
He slowly turned over the rather voluminous notes he had taken.
‘The first point,’ he went on at length, ‘is the question of your
intimacy with Madame Boirac. Can you tell me how many times you saw
her since her marriage?’
Felix considered.
‘About half a dozen, I should say, or perhaps eight or even nine. Not
more than nine certainly.’
‘Excepting on the night of the dinner, was her husband present on all
these occasions?’
‘Not all. At least twice I called in the afternoon and saw her alone.’
‘I think I need hardly ask you, but answer me fully all the same.
Were there at any time any tender or confidential passages between
you and Madame?’
‘Absolutely none. I state most positively that nothing passed between
us which Boirac might not have seen or heard.’
Again Clifford paused in thought.
‘I want you now to tell me, and with the utmost detail, exactly how
you spent the time between your leaving Bonchose after dinner on the
Sunday night of your return from Paris, and your meeting the cask at
St. Katherine’s Docks on the following Monday week.’
‘I can do so easily. After leaving Bonchose I drove out to St. Malo,
as I told you, arriving about 9.30. My housekeeper was on holidays,
so I went straight over to Brent village and arranged with a
charwoman to come in the mornings and make my breakfast. This woman
had acted in a similar capacity before. I myself was taking a week’s
holidays, and each day I passed in the same manner. I got up about
half-past seven, had breakfast, and went to my studio to paint. The
charwoman went home after breakfast, and I got my own lunch. Then I
painted again in the afternoon, and in the evening went into town for
dinner and usually, but not always, a theatre. I generally got back
between eleven and twelve. On Saturday, instead of painting all day,
I went into town and arranged about meeting the cask.’
‘Then at ten o’clock on Wednesday you were painting in your studio?’
‘That is so, but why that day and hour?’
‘I will tell you later. Now, can you prove that? Did any one call in
the studio, or see you there?’
‘No one, I’m afraid.’
‘What about the charwoman? What is her name, by the way?’
‘Mrs. Bridget Murphy. No, I don’t think she could tell where I was.
You see, I practically did not see her at all. My breakfast was ready
when I came down, and when I had finished I went direct to the
studio. I don’t know when she went home, but I should think it was
fairly early.’
‘What time did you breakfast?’
‘Eight nominally, but I wasn’t always very punctual.’
‘Do you remember, and have you any way of proving, what time you had
breakfast on this particular Wednesday?’
Felix thought over the question.
‘No,’ he answered, ‘I don’t think so. There was nothing to
distinguish that morning from the others.’
‘The point is important. Perhaps Mrs. Murphy would remember?’
‘Possibly, but I hardly think so.’
‘No one else could prove it? Were there no callers? No tradesmen’s
messengers?’
‘None. One or two people rang, but I didn’t bother. I was expecting
no one, and I just let them ring.’
‘An unfortunate omission. Now, tell me, where did you dine in town
and spend the evenings?’
‘I’m afraid a different restaurant each night, and naturally a
different theatre.’
By dint of further questions Clifford obtained a list of all the
places his client had visited during the week, his intention being to
go round them in turn in search of material to build up an alibi. He
was very disappointed with all he had heard, and the difficulties of
his task seemed to be growing. He continued this examination.
‘Now, this typewritten letter, signed Le Gautier. Did you believe it
was genuine?’
‘I did. I thought the whole thing absurd and annoying, but I did not
doubt it. You see, I had actually entered for the lottery with Le
Gautier, and fifty thousand francs was the sum we would have made,
had we been lucky. I did think at first it was a practical joke on Le
Gautier’s part, but he is not that kind of man, and I at last
concluded it was genuine.’
‘Did you write or wire to Le Gautier?’
‘No. I got the letter late one evening on my return home. It was too
late to do anything then, but I intended to wire next morning that I
would go over, and not to send the cask. But next morning’s post
brought a card, also typewritten, and signed “Le Gautier,” saying the
cask had actually been despatched. I forgot to mention that in my
statement.’
Clifford nodded and again referred to his notes.
‘Did you write a letter to Messrs. Dupierre of Paris, ordering a
statue to be sent to you, to the West Jubb Street address?’
‘No.’
‘Do you recollect the blotter on your study desk at St. Malo?’
‘Why, yes,’ returned Felix, with a look of surprise.
‘Did you ever let that blotter out of your possession?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘Did you ever take it to France?’
‘Never.’
‘Then how, Mr. Felix,’ asked the lawyer slowly, ‘how do you account
for the fact that the blotted impression of such a letter, in your
handwriting, was found on the blotter?’
Felix sprang to his feet.
‘What?’ he cried. ‘What’s that you say? A letter in my handwriting? I
don’t believe it! It’s impossible!’
‘I have seen it.’
‘You have seen it?’ The speaker moved excitedly about the cell,
gesticulating freely. ‘Really, Mr. Clifford, this is too much. I tell
you I wrote no such letter. You are making a mistake.’
‘I assure you, Mr. Felix, I am making no mistake. I saw not only the
impression on your pad, but also the original letter itself, which
had been received by Messrs. Dupierre.’
Felix sat down and passed his hand across his brow, as if dazed.
‘I cannot understand it. You can’t have seen a letter from me,
because no such exists. What you saw must have been a forgery.’
‘But the impression on the blotter?’
‘Good Heavens, how do I know? I tell you I know nothing about it. See
here,’ he added, with a change of tone, ‘there’s some trick in it.
When you say you’ve seen these things I’m bound to believe you. But
there’s a trick. There must be.’
‘Then,’ said Clifford, ‘if so, and I’m inclined to agree with you,
who carried out the trick? Some one must have had access to your
study, either to write the letter there, or to abstract your blotter
or a page of it which could afterwards be replaced. Who could that
have been?’
‘I don’t know. Nobody--or anybody. I can think of no one who would do
such a thing. When was the letter written?’
‘It was received by Dupierre on Tuesday morning, 30th March. It bore
a London postmark, therefore it must have been posted on Sunday night
or Monday. That would be either the day or the day after you returned
to London, after the dinner.’
‘Any one could have got into the house while I was away. If what you
say is true, some one must have, but I saw no traces.’
‘Now, Mr. Felix, who is Emmie?’
Felix stared.
‘Emmie?’ he said. ‘I don’t understand. Emmie what?’
Clifford watched the other keenly as he replied,--
‘Your heartbroken Emmie.’
‘My dear Mr. Clifford, I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re
talking about. ‘Your heartbroken Emmie?’ What under the sun do you
mean?’
‘It should be clear enough, Mr. Felix. Who was the girl that wrote to
you recently imploring you not to desert her, and who signed herself,
“Your heartbroken Emmie”?’
Felix gazed at his visitor in amazement.
‘Either you’re mad or I’m mad,’ he said slowly. ‘I have had no letter
from any girl asking me not to desert her, and I have had no letter
on any subject from any one signing herself Emmie. Really, I think
you might explain yourself.’
‘Now tell me something else, Mr. Felix. You possess, I understand,
two navy-blue suits?’
The astonishment on the artist’s face did not lessen as he assented.
‘I want to know now when you last wore each of those suits.’
‘As it happens, I can tell you. One of them I wore on my Paris trip
and again on the following Saturday when I went to town to arrange
about the cask, as well as on the Monday and following days till I
went to hospital. I am wearing it to-day. The other blue suit is an
old one, and I have not had it on for months.’
‘I’ll tell you now why I ask. In the coat pocket of one of your blue
suits, evidently, from what you tell me, the old one, was found a
letter beginning, “My dearest Léon,” and ending, “Your heartbroken
Emmie,” and in it the writer said--but here I have a copy of it, and
you may read it.’
The artist looked over the paper as if in a dream. Then he turned to
the other.
‘I can assure you, Mr. Clifford,’ he said earnestly, ‘that I am as
much in the dark as you about this. It is not my letter. I never saw
it before. I never heard of Emmie. The whole thing is an invention.
How it got into my pocket I cannot explain, but I tell you positively
I am absolutely ignorant of the whole thing.’
Clifford nodded.
‘Very good. Now there is only one other thing I want to ask you. Do
you know the round-backed, leather-covered arm-chair which stood
before the plush curtain in your study?’
‘Yes.’
‘Think carefully, and tell me who was the last lady to occupy it.’
‘That doesn’t require much thought. No lady has ever sat in it since
I bought it. Very few ladies have been in St. Malo since I took it,
and these without exception were interested in art and were in the
studio only.’
‘Now, don’t be annoyed, Mr. Felix, when I ask you once more, did
Madame Boirac ever sit in that chair?’
‘I give you my solemn word of honour she never did. She was never in
the house, and I believe I am right in saying she was never in
London.’
The lawyer nodded.
‘Now I have another unpleasant thing to tell you. Caught in the hem
of that curtain and hidden by the chair, a pin was found--a diamond
safety pin. That pin, Mr. Felix, was attached to the shoulder of
Madame Boirac’s dress on the night of the dinner party.’
Felix, unable to speak, sat staring helplessly at the lawyer. His
face had gone white, and an expression of horror dawned in his eyes.
There was silence in the dull, cheerless cell, whose walls had heard
so many tales of misery and suffering. Clifford, watching his client
keenly, felt the doubts which had been partly lulled to rest, again
rising. Was the man acting? If so, he was doing it extraordinarily
well, but. . . . At last Felix moved.
‘My God!’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘It’s a nightmare! I feel helpless.
I am in a net, and it is drawing close round me. What does it mean,
Mr. Clifford? Who has done this thing? I didn’t know any one hated
me, but some one must.’ He made a gesture of despair. ‘I’m done for.
What can help me after that? Can you see any hope, Mr. Clifford? Tell
me.’
But whatever doubts the lawyer felt he kept to himself.
‘It is too soon to come to any conclusion,’ he answered in a
matter-of-fact tone. ‘In cases of difficulty such as this, I have
frequently known some small fact to come out, perhaps accidentally,
which has cleared up the whole affair. You must not despair. We are
only at the beginning. Wait for a week or two, and then I’ll tell you
what I think.’
‘Bless you, Mr. Clifford. You put heart into me. But this matter of
the pin. What can it mean? There is some terrible conspiracy against
me. Can it ever be unravelled?’
The lawyer arose.
‘That’s what we have to try and do, Mr. Felix. I’m afraid I must be
off now. Do as I say, keep up your heart, and if you can think of any
evidence supporting your statements, let me know.’
Having shaken hands, Mr. Clifford withdrew.
CHAPTER XXIII
CLIFFORD GETS TO WORK
When Clifford had finished dinner that evening, he went to his study,
and drawing a large arm-chair up to the fire, for the evenings were
still cold, he lit a cigar and composed himself to master the details
of his new case. To say that he was disappointed with Felix’s
statement would not be to give a true indication of his state of
mind. He was woefully chagrined. He had hoped and expected that his
client would tell him something that would instantly indicate the
line the defence should take, and instead of that he was puzzled to
know where any defence at all was to come from.
And the more he thought over it, the worse the outlook seemed. He
went over the facts in order, marshalling them in his mind and
weighing the bearing of each on the question of Felix’s innocence or
guilt.
There was first of all the fundamental question of what had taken
place in the house in the Avenue de l’Alma between 11.00 p.m. and
1.15 a.m. on the night of the dinner party. At 11.00 Annette Boirac
was alive and well; at 1.15 she had disappeared. Felix was the last
person, so far as was known, to see her alive, and it was not
unreasonable to have expected him to have thrown some light on her
fate. But he hadn’t.
It was true he had explained the motive for his interview with
Madame. Confirmation of the truth of this, Clifford thought, should
be obtainable from an investigation of the affairs of Bonchose. But
even if it was established, he did not see how it would help his
client. It would not prove him innocent. Indeed, it might be argued
that this very discussion had been the indirect cause of the
elopement, if such took place. It had given Felix an opportunity to
see Madame alone which otherwise he might not have had. And who could
tell what dormant passions that private interview might not have
aroused? No. There was no help here.
And the remainder of Felix’s statement was equally unfruitful. He had
said that after conversing with the lady till 11.45 p.m., he had
walked about Paris till half-past one. But by a singular coincidence
he had not been seen leaving the house, he had not met any one he
knew, and he had not been anywhere he was known. Was this, Clifford
wondered, so singular a coincidence? Might it not simply mean that
Felix’s story was untrue?
Then he remembered the closing of the front door. François had heard
it shut at 1.00 a.m. If Felix left at 11.45, who shut it? As far as
he could see, either Felix must be lying when he said he left at
11.45, or else Madame must have gone out by herself at the later
hour. But the lawyer did not know which of these had happened, and
the worst of it was there seemed no way of finding out.
Equally useless for the defence was Felix’s identification of the
fur-coated lady on the Folkestone boat. Even had this been Miss
Devine, it did not prove Madame Boirac was not a traveller. Might not
Felix, travelling with Madame, have seen the actress on board, her
subsequent death suggesting his story? No, even if he could prove all
that the artist had said about the crossing, it would not help
matters.
But Felix’s failure to find an alibi for himself was much more
serious. Clifford had confidently expected a defence along these
lines, and he was more than disappointed. He ran over the facts. The
location of the man or men who had arranged the journeys of the cask
was known at two periods; on the Wednesday at 10.00 a.m. at Waterloo,
and on the Thursday at 5.15 p.m. at the Gare du Nord. Clifford got
out his Continental Bradshaw. To have been in Paris at the time
named, a Londoner must have left by the 9.00 a.m. from Charing Cross
on Thursday, and he could not have arrived back before 5.35 on Friday
morning. Therefore Felix had only to prove an alibi at 10.00 on
Wednesday morning, or between 9.00 on Thursday morning and 5.35 on
Friday morning, and the greatest part of the case against him would
be met. But this was just what he could not do.
Clifford turned to his notes of the artist’s statement. According to
it, at 10.00 a.m. on Wednesday, Felix had been painting in his
studio. But the chance of the housekeeper’s absence and the peculiar
arrangement under which the charwoman got breakfast prevented this
being proved. And like an idiot, Felix had heard people ringing at
the door, and, because he did not wish to be disturbed, had not
opened it. One of those callers might have saved him now.
And then, with regard to Thursday and Thursday night. To have caught
the 9.00 a.m. from Charing Cross, Felix must have left St. Malo at
not later than 8.50. According to his statement, his breakfast was
left ready for him at 8.00, and there certainly would not have been
time for him to eat it. But there was nothing to prevent him having
in two or three minutes dirtied the plates and carried away some
food, to give the impression he had had his meal. Here there was hope
of help from the charwoman. Clifford could not decide the point till
he had interviewed her.
He turned back to his notes. After breakfast, Felix, according to his
statement, had painted without ceasing, except for a cup of cocoa at
lunch time, until half-past six. He had then changed and gone to
town, dining alone at the Gresham. Though he had seen no one he knew
at the famous restaurant, there was a chance that a waiter or
commissionaire or other official might have recognised him. He had
left about nine and, feeling tired, he had returned straight home.
There, no one could know of his presence till 7.30 the next morning,
when Mrs. Murphy would expect to hear him answer her knock.
But if he had been to Paris, meeting the cask at the Gare du Nord, he
could have been home equally at 7.30 a.m. Therefore the evidence of
his answering the knock would be immaterial. Certainly if Felix were
telling the truth, the manner in which confirmation was eluding him
was most unfortunate. But was Felix telling the truth? . . .
Then there were those three discoveries of Burnley at St. Malo, the
‘Emmie’ letter, the impression on the blotsheet, and the pin. Any one
of these alone would have been highly damaging to Felix’s case; the
three together seemed overwhelming. And yet Felix had not attempted a
word of explanation. He had simply denied knowledge of all three. If
the accused man could not explain these damaging facts, how was
Clifford to set about it?
But nothing in the whole affair depressed the lawyer so much as the
admissions Felix had made about his previous relations with Madame
Boirac. It was, of course, true that Felix, a stranger introduced
into the Boirac household, might have fallen in love with Madame and
persuaded her to elope with him. But if Felix, instead of being a
stranger, could be shown to have been not only desperately in love
with, but actually formerly engaged to the mistress of the house, how
tremendously the probabilities of such an elopement would be
strengthened. What a picture a clever counsel could draw of this
lady, tied to a man whom perhaps she detested, and with whom life in
such case must have been an endless misery, brought unexpectedly in
touch with the man of her real choice. . . . And her lover, his
crushed-down feelings swelling up at the unlooked-for meeting, seeing
her languishing in this bondage. . . . Why, the elopement would be
amply accounted for. To Clifford it seemed that if the Crown got hold
of the facts he had learnt, Felix was a doomed man. Indeed, the more
he himself thought of the affair, the more doubtful of the artist’s
innocence he became. As far as he could see, Felix had only one
uncontrovertible point in his favour--his surprise on seeing the cask
opened. And this would prove a matter of medical testimony, and no
doubt there would be contradictory evidence. . . . The lawyer could
see very little light even here.
And then he reminded himself it was not his business to try Felix.
Innocent or guilty, he, Clifford, was there to do the best he could
for him. But what form was that best to take?