case over in his mind, looking at the problem from every point of
view, still without much result. But though he could not yet see the
line his defence should follow, he was clear enough about his
immediate next step. Obviously he must first see Bonchose, Mrs.
Murphy, and the other persons of whom Felix had spoken, not only to
test the latter’s story, but also in the hope of learning some new
facts.
Accordingly, next morning saw the lawyer ascending the steps of the
house in Kensington in which the apartments of Mr. Pierre Bonchose
was situated. But here he met with a disappointment. Mr. Bonchose had
gone to the south of France on business and would not be home for
three or four days.
‘That explains why he has made no attempt to see Felix since his
arrest,’ said the lawyer to himself, as he turned away and hailed a
taxi with the idea of a call on the charwoman.
An hour later he reached the small village of Brent, on the Great
North Road, and was directed to Mrs. Murphy’s cottage. The door was
opened by a woman who had been tall, but was now shrunken, her sharp,
careworn features and gray hair indicating that her life had been a
struggle against odds.
‘Good morning,’ began the lawyer, courteously raising his hat. ‘You
are Mrs. Murphy?’
‘I am sir,’ returned the woman, ‘and would you come in?’
‘Thank you.’ He followed her into the small, poorly-furnished living
room, and sat cautiously down on the somewhat dilapidated chair she
pulled forward.
‘You know, I suppose,’ he went on, ‘that your neighbour, Mr. Felix of
St. Malo, has been arrested on a very serious charge?’
‘’Deed then, I do, sir. And sorry I was to hear of it. A fine, decent
man he was, too.’
‘Well, Mrs. Murphy, my name is Clifford, and I am the lawyer who is
going to defend Mr. Felix. I wondered if you would be good enough to
answer some questions, to help me in his defence?’
‘I would, sir, be glad to do it.’
‘You managed the house for him recently, while his housekeeper was
away?’
‘I did, sir.’
‘And when did Mr. Felix ask you to do that?’
‘On Sunday evening, sir. I was just thinking of going to bed when he
came to the door.’
‘Now tell me, please, exactly what you did each day at St. Malo.’
‘I went in the mornings, sir, and lit the fire and got his breakfast.
Then I did out his room and washed up and left his lunch ready. He
got his own lunch himself in the middle of the day, and went into
London for dinner at night.’
‘I see. At what hour did you reach the house in the mornings?’
‘About seven o’clock. I called him at half-past seven and he had
breakfast at eight.’
‘And about what hour did you leave?’
‘I could hardly be sure, sir. About half-past ten or eleven, or maybe
later.’
‘Can you remember the Wednesday of that week? I suppose you were at
St. Malo at ten o’clock?’
‘I was, sir. I was never left by ten any morning.’
‘Quite so. Now what I want to know is this: on that Wednesday morning
was Mr. Felix in the house at ten o’clock?’
‘So far as I know, he was, sir.’
‘Ah, but I want to be sure. Can you say positively he was there?’
‘Well, not to be certain, sir, I couldn’t.’
‘Now Thursday, Mrs. Murphy. Did you see Mr. Felix on Thursday?’
The woman hesitated.
‘I saw him two or three mornings,’ she said at last, ‘but I couldn’t
be sure whether it was on Thursday. It might have been, though.’
‘You couldn’t tell me at what hour he took his breakfast that
morning?’
‘Well, I could not, sir.’
It was evident to Clifford that Mrs. Murphy, though an intelligent
woman, would be no use to him as a witness. He remained at her house
for a considerable time, and was very probing and painstaking in his
questions. But all to no purpose. While she corroborated what Felix
had stated about his household arrangements, she dashed any hope the
lawyer might have had of establishing an alibi.
By the time he again reached the city it was one o’clock. He decided
he would lunch at the Gresham, and pursue his investigations among
the staff.
The head waiter, with whom he began, could not himself give any
information, but he took Felix’s photo round among his men, and at
last found one who had seen the artist. Felix, it appeared from this
man’s statement, had dined there one evening some five or six weeks
previously. The man, an Italian, remembered him because he had first
supposed him to be a compatriot. But, unfortunately, he could not fix
the date, and no one else, so far as Clifford could learn, had seen
the artist at all. Clifford had regretfully to admit that this
evidence, like Mrs. Murphy’s, was useless. In the lawyer’s private
judgment it undoubtedly tended to confirm Felix’s statement, and he
found himself more and more inclined to believe the Frenchman. But a
personal impression was one thing, and evidence in a court of law
another.
On reaching his office, he wrote to Bonchose, asking him to call on
urgent business immediately on his return to London.
The next day saw him again at Brent village. Felix had stated he had
gone by train to town each evening of the fateful week, and it had
occurred to the lawyer that possibly some of the railway officials
might have noticed him travelling. He made exhaustive inquiries and
at last found a ticket-collector who volunteered some information.
Felix, said this man, was a regular traveller. He went to town each
morning by the 8.57 and returned at 6.50 each evening. But the
collector had noticed that for some days he had not travelled by
these trains, but had instead gone up by the evening trains leaving
Brent at either 6.20 or 6.47. The collector went off duty at seven
o’clock, so he could not tell anything about Felix’s return. Nor
could any one else, so far as Clifford could ascertain. But
unfortunately the collector could not state how long it was since the
artist had changed his habits, still less could he say if he
travelled up to town on the Thursday evening in question.
Clifford then strolled to St. Malo in the hope of finding it was
overlooked by some other house, the occupants of which might have
seen the artist on the fateful Thursday. But here again he was
disappointed. There was no house in the immediate vicinity.
Puzzled as to his next step, the lawyer returned to his office. He
found pressing business of another kind awaiting him, and for the
remainder of that day, as well as the next two, he was too fully
occupied to turn his attention seriously to the murder case.
On the morning of the fourth day there was a letter from Mr. Lucius
Heppenstall, K. C. It was written from Copenhagen, and the barrister
explained that he was in Denmark on business and hoped to be back in
about a week, when he and Clifford could meet and go into the case
together.
Hardly had Clifford finished reading the letter when a young man was
announced. He was tall and slight, with dark hair and eyes, a small
black moustache and a short, hooked nose, which gave him something of
the appearance of a hawk.
‘Bonchose,’ said Clifford to himself, and he was not mistaken.
‘You have not heard of Mr. Felix’s arrest?’ he asked, as he waved his
visitor to an arm-chair and held out his cigarette case.
‘Not a word,’ replied Bonchose, speaking good English, but with a
foreign accent. He had a quick, vivacious manner, and moved sharply,
as if on wires. ‘I cannot tell you how utterly surprised and shocked
I was to get your note. But the thing is perfectly
absurd--outrageous! Any one that knew Felix would know he could not
commit such a crime. It is surely a misunderstanding that a very
short time will clear up?’
‘I fear not, Mr. Bonchose; I very much fear not. Unfortunately, the
case against your friend is strong. The evidence is admittedly
circumstantial, but it is strong for all that. Indeed, to be
perfectly candid with you, I do not for the moment see any good line
of defence.’
The young man made a gesture of amazement.
‘You horrify me, sir,’ he cried; ‘absolutely horrify me. You surely
do not mean to suggest there is any chance of a conviction?’
‘I am sorry to say that I do. There is a very great chance--unless a
good deal more comes to light than we know at present.’
‘But this is awful!’ He wrung his hands. ‘Awful! First it was poor
Annette and now Felix! But you don’t mean that nothing can be done?’
There was real concern and anxiety in the young man’s tone.
Mr. Clifford was satisfied. This man’s affection for and belief in
his friend were genuine. Felix could not be altogether a villain to
inspire such friendship. The lawyer changed his tone.
‘No, Mr. Bonchose,’ he answered. ‘I do not mean that. All I mean is
that the fight will not be easy. Mr. Felix’s friends will have to put
their backs into it. And it is to begin that fight I asked you to
call here as soon as you returned.’
‘I got back early this morning, and I was here before your office
opened. Take that as the measure of my willingness to help.’
‘I do not doubt it, Mr. Bonchose. And now I want you please to tell
me everything you can about Mr. Felix, and your own life, where it
has touched his. Also about your unhappy cousin, the late Madame
Boirac.’
‘I shall do so, and if at any point I am not clear, please ask me
questions.’
Beginning by explaining who he and Annette really were--children of a
younger daughter and the eldest son respectively of the late M. André
Humbert of Laroche--he gave an account of their childhood, their
early love of art, their moving to M. Dauphin’s school in Paris, the
meeting with Felix, and the latter’s love for Annette. Then he told
of his move to the wine merchant’s firm at Narbonne, his being sent
to London, his joy at again meeting Felix, his weakness for cards,
the help Felix had given him, and the recent serious money
difficulties into which he had fallen. He recounted his having
written on the matter to Annette, the hope expressed to Felix that he
would see her on the subject, his meeting the artist at Charing Cross
on the Sunday evening of his return to London, their dinner together,
the receipt of the £600, and finally Felix’s departure in a taxi for
St. Malo.
His whole statement, thought Clifford, was singularly like those of
Mrs. Murphy, the Gresham waiter, and the ticket-collector at Brent
Station, in that, while it confirmed what Felix had said and
strengthened the lawyer’s growing belief in the artist’s innocence,
it was of very little use for the trial. It was true that he,
Clifford, was now in a position to prove most of Felix’s statement,
but the worst of it was that most of Felix’s statement might be
proved without proving Felix’s innocence. So much so, indeed, that
Clifford could not yet quite banish the suspicion that the whole
thing was pre-arranged.
He questioned Mr. Bonchose exhaustively, but without learning
anything fresh. His visitor had not seen the artist on the Wednesday
or Thursday, and could not help towards the alibi. Finding that
nothing was to be gained by further conversation, Clifford bowed the
young man out, having promised to let him know how things progressed.
CHAPTER XXIV
MR. GEORGES LA TOUCHE
Some days later Mr. Clifford and Mr. Lucius Heppenstall, K.C.--who
were close personal friends--dined together at the former’s
residence, intending afterwards to have a long chat over the case.
Mr. Heppenstall had returned from Denmark rather earlier than was
expected, and had already studied the documents received from the
prosecution, as well as Clifford’s notes of what he had learnt. The
two men had together interviewed Felix and Bonchose and some other
small inquiries had been made, the only point of importance
discovered being that the late Miss Devine had crossed from Calais to
Folkestone on the Sunday in question and had been alone on deck, both
her maids having been helplessly ill. The meeting on this evening was
to formulate a policy, to decide on the exact line which the defence
should take.
The difficulty of this decision was felt by both men to be
considerable. In their previous cases there had nearly always been an
obvious defence. Frequently two distinct lines, or even three, had
been possible, the problem then being the selection of the best. But
here their difficulty was to find any defence at all.
‘The first thing we must settle,’ said Heppenstall, throwing himself
into an easy-chair, ‘is whether we are going to assume this fellow
Felix innocent or guilty. What is your own private opinion?’
‘I hardly know what to think,’ he answered finally. ‘I must admit
that Felix’s manner and personality impress me favourably. He
certainly told his story in a convincing way. Then these people that
we have recently seen confirm a great deal of what he said. Further,
they evidently like and believe in him. Look at Martin, for example.
He is a noisy, blustering fellow, but he is no fool. He knows Felix
well, and he believes in him to the extent of offering to guarantee
our fees to get him off. All that must count for something. Then
there is nothing inherently impossible in his story. It all might
have happened just as he says. And lastly, his admitted shock when
the cask was opened seems strongly in his favour.’
‘But?’
‘But? Well, there is all the rest of the case.’
‘Then you have no private opinion?’
‘Not definitely. My opinion inclines towards innocence, but I am by
no means sure.’
‘I rather agree with you,’ remarked the K.C. Then, after a pause, ‘I
have been thinking this thing over and I don’t for the life of me see
a chance of clearing him on the evidence. It is too strong. Why, if
it is true, it is overpowering. It seems to me our only hope is to
deny the evidence.’
‘To deny it?’
‘To deny it. You must admit that Felix is either guilty or the victim
of a plot.’
‘Of course.’
‘Very well. Let us stick to that. The evidence is not genuine because
Felix is the victim of a plot. How does that strike you?’
‘Well, you know, I shouldn’t be at all surprised if that was the
actual fact. I’ve thought over it a good deal, and the more I think
the more I begin to doubt those things that were found at St. Malo.
That letter from Emmie, the marks on the blotting paper, and the
diamond pin, they all strike me as being a little too conclusive to
be natural. Their very comprehensiveness suggests selection. Then
typewritten letters any one can produce. No, I shouldn’t wonder if
you’re on the right track.’
‘I think it’s our best defence, anyway.’
‘I think it’s our only defence. But, mind you, it’s an easy theory to
suggest, but a mighty hard one to establish.’
‘There’s only one way,’ Heppenstall declared, pouring himself out
some whisky from the jar at his elbow, ‘we must suggest the real
murderer.’
‘If we must find the real murderer we may as well let the case alone.
If Scotland Yard and the Sûreté couldn’t get him, we are not likely
to.’
‘You haven’t quite got me. I don’t say we must find him. It will be
enough to suggest him. All we have to do is to show that some other
person had a motive for Madame’s death, and could have murdered her
and carried out the plot against Felix. A doubt would then arise as
to which of the two was guilty, and, if that doubt was strong enough,
Felix would get the benefit of it.’
‘But that makes our problem no easier. The difficulty still lies in
the finding of this other person.’
‘We can only try; it may lead to something. Our first question then
is: If Felix is innocent, who might be guilty?’
There was silence for several seconds, then Heppenstall spoke again.
‘Who, perhaps I should say, is least unlikely to be guilty?’
‘I think there can be only one answer to that,’ returned Clifford.
‘In the very nature of the case a certain suspicion must attach to
Boirac. But the police were fully alive to that. From all we hear,
they went into it thoroughly and came to the conclusion he was
innocent.’
‘It depended on an alibi. But you know as well as I do alibis can be
faked.’
‘Undoubtedly, but they concluded this one wasn’t. We don’t know the
exact details, but it seems to have been fully tested.’
‘At all events, from the information available, I think we may assume
that if Felix is innocent, Boirac is guilty. There is no suggestion
of any third party being involved. If, then, we can show that Boirac
had a motive for the crime, and that he could have committed it and
made the plant, that’s all we want. We have not to prove him guilty.’
‘I suppose that is so. Then our next point is: What might have been
Boirac’s motive?’
‘That’s not hard to find. If Boirac found his wife was carrying on
with Felix, it might explain his desire to kill her.’
‘Yes, and it would give a two-fold reason for his working for Felix’s
conviction; first, self-defence by shifting over the suspicion, and,
second, revenge on the man who had spoilt his home.’
‘Quite. I think a plausible motive might be built up. Next let us
ask, When was the body put in the cask?’
‘The police say in London, because there was no opportunity
elsewhere.’
‘Yes, and to me it seems a quite sound deduction. Now, if that is
true, it follows that if Boirac killed his wife, he must have
travelled here to do it.’
‘But the alibi?’
‘Leave the alibi for a moment. Our defence must be that Boirac
followed his wife to London and murdered her there. Now can we
suggest possible details? He would arrive at his house on that Sunday
morning and find his wife gone, and a letter from her saying she had
eloped with Felix. What, then, would he do?’
Clifford leaned forward to stir the fire.
‘I have thought over that,’ he said somewhat hesitatingly, ‘and I
have worked out a possible theory. It is, of course, pure guesswork,
but it fits a number of the facts.’
‘Let’s hear it. Naturally our theories at present can only be
guesswork.’
‘I imagined Boirac, then, mad with his discovery on the Sunday
morning, sitting down and working out a plan for vengeance. He
perhaps goes on that morning to the Gare du Nord, and possibly sees
them start. He follows them to London. Or, at least, he sees and
follows Felix. Madame may have gone by another route. By the time he
finds they have reached St. Malo his plan is worked out. He learns
they are alone in the house, and he watches till he sees them go out.
Then he enters by, say, an open window, and, sitting down at Felix’s
desk, he forges a letter to Dupierre, ordering the companion statue
to that he has already purchased. He does this in order to obtain a
cask in which to pack Madame’s body, as he intends to murder her. To
throw suspicion on Felix, he copies the artist’s handwriting and
dries it on his blotting paper. For the same reason he signs it with
Felix’s name. But he does not give Felix’s address, as he wants to
get the cask himself.’
‘Good!’ interjected Heppenstall.
‘He then comes away with his letter, posts it, telephones to Paris to
know when and by what route the cask is being sent, and arranges a
carter to meet it and bring it near, but not to St. Malo, instructing
the carter to await him. Meantime, in some letter or telegram or
other trick, he gets Felix out of the way, leaving Madame alone in
the house. He rings, she opens the door, he forces his way in, and,
in that little round-backed chair in the study, he throttles her. The
pin falls out of the neck of the dress and lies unnoticed. Then he
goes back to the carter and brings the cask into the yard. He sends
the carter to the nearest inn for his dinner, unpacks and destroys
the statue, and packs the body. By this time the carter has returned,
and Boirac has him remove the cask, giving him instructions to send
it to Paris next morning. To compromise Felix still further he has
prepared the Emmie note, and he shoves this into the pocket of
Felix’s clothes.’
‘Good,’ said Heppenstall again.
‘He goes himself to Paris, gets hold of the cask at the Gare du Nord
and sends it to Felix from the rue Cardinet Goods Station. He works
out a tricky letter which will have the effect of making Felix claim
the cask. Felix does so and the police get on his track.’
‘By George, Clifford, you haven’t been idle. I shouldn’t wonder if
you are pretty near the thing. But if all that had taken place at St.
Malo, do you think Felix wouldn’t have said something about it?’
‘I think he would have. On the other hand, he may have wanted to save
Madame’s memory, and if so, he obviously couldn’t mention it?’
‘What about the charwoman?’
‘Well, that is another difficulty. But I think a clever woman could
have hidden her traces.’
‘The theory accounts for a great many things, and I think we must
adopt it as a basis for investigation. Let us now see what it
involves.’
‘It involves Boirac having been in London on the Sunday night or
Monday after the dinner party to learn what had taken place and to
write his letter, and again on the Wednesday to commit the murder and
arrange about the cask.’
‘Quite. It seems to me, then, our first business is definitely to
find out where Boirac was on these dates.’
‘He satisfied the police he was in Paris and Belgium.’
‘I know, but we agreed alibis could be faked. We’d better have the
thing gone into again.’
‘It will mean a detective.’
‘Yes, and what about La Touche?’
‘La Touche is the best man we could have, of course, but he’s fairly
expensive.’
Heppenstall shrugged his shoulders.
‘Can’t help that,’ he said. ‘We must have him.’
‘Very well. I’ll ask him to meet us--shall I say at three to-morrow?’
‘That will suit me.’
The two men continued discussing the affair until a clock struck
twelve, when Heppenstall made a move to return to town.
Mr. Georges La Touche was commonly regarded as the smartest private
detective in London. Brought up in that city, where his father kept a
small foreign book store, he learned till he was twelve the English
language and ideas. Then, on the death of his English mother, the
family moved to Paris, and Georges had to adjust himself to a new
environment. At twenty, he entered Cook’s office as a courier, and,
learning successively Italian, German, and Spanish, he gradually
acquired a first-hand acquaintanceship with Middle and South-Western
Europe. After some ten years of this work he grew tired of the
constant travelling, and, coming to London, he offered his services
to a firm of well-known private detectives. Here he did so well that,
on the death of the founder some fifteen years later, he stepped into
his place. He soon began to specialise in foreign or international
cases, for which his early training peculiarly fitted him.
But he was not much in appearance. Small, sallow, and slightly
stooped, he would have looked insignificant only for the strength of
the clear-cut features and the intelligence of the dark, flashing
eyes. Years of training had enabled him to alter his expression and
veil these tell-tale signs of power, and he had frequently found the
weak and insipid impression thus produced, an asset in allaying the
suspicions of his adversaries.
His delight in the uncommon and bizarre had caused him to read
attentively the details of the cask mystery. When, therefore, he
received Clifford’s telephone asking him to act on behalf of the
suspected man, he eagerly agreed, and cancelled some minor
engagements in order to meet the lawyers at the time appointed.
The important question of fees having been settled, Clifford
explained to the detective all that was known of the case, as well as
the ideas he and Heppenstall had evolved with regard to the defence.
‘What we want you to do for us, Mr. La Touche,’ he wound up, ‘is to
go into the case on the assumption that Boirac is the guilty man.
Settle definitely whether this is a possible theory. I think you will
agree that this depends on the truth of his alibi. Therefore, test
that first. If it cannot be broken down, Boirac cannot be guilty, and
our line of defence won’t work. And I need hardly say, the sooner you
can give us some information the better.’
‘You have given me a congenial task, gentlemen, and if I don’t
succeed it won’t be for want of trying. I suppose that is all to-day?
I’ll go over these papers and make the case up. Then I fancy I had
best go to Paris. But I’ll call in to see you, Mr. Clifford, before I
start.’
La Touche was as good as his word. In three days he was again in
Clifford’s room.
‘I’ve been into this case as far as is possible this side of the
Channel, Mr. Clifford,’ he announced. ‘I was thinking of crossing to
Paris to-night.’
‘Good. And what do you think of it all?’
‘Well, sir, it’s rather soon to give an opinion, but I’m afraid we’re
up against a tough proposition.’
‘In what way?’
‘The case against Felix, sir. It’s pretty strong. Of course, I expect
we’ll meet it all right, but it’ll take some doing. There’s not much
in his favour, if you think of it.’
‘What about the shock he got when the cask was opened? Have you seen
the doctor about it?’
‘Yes. He says the thing was genuine enough, but, sir, I’m afraid that
won’t carry us so far as you seem to think.’
‘To me it seems very strong. Look at it this way: the essence of a
shock is surprise; the surprise could only have been at the contents
of the cask; therefore Felix did not know the contents; therefore he
could not have put the body in; therefore surely he must be innocent?’
‘That sounds all right, sir, I admit. But I’m afraid a clever counsel
could upset it. You see, there’s more than surprise in a shock.
There’s horror. And it could be argued that Felix got both surprise
and horror when the cask was opened.’
‘How, if he knew what was in it?’
‘This way, sir. What was in it was hardly what he was expecting. It
might be said that he put in the body as he had seen the lady alive.
But she had been dead for a good many days when the cask was opened.
She would look a very different object. He would be filled with
horror when he saw her. That horror, together with the fact that he
would be all keyed up to act surprise in any case, would produce the
effect.’
Clifford had not thought of this somewhat gruesome explanation, and
the possibility of its truth made him uncomfortable. If the strongest
point in Felix’s favour could be met as easily as this, it was indeed
a black look-out for his client. But he did not voice his doubts to
his visitor.
‘If you can’t get enough to support the defence we suggest,’ he said,
‘we must just try some other line.’
‘I may get what you want all right, sir. I’m only pointing out that
the thing is not all plain sailing. I’ll cross, then, to-night, and I
hope I may soon have some good news to send you.’
‘Thank you. I hope so.’
The two men shook hands, and La Touche took his leave. That night he
left Charing Cross for Paris.
CHAPTER XXV
DISAPPOINTMENT
La Touche was a good traveller, and usually slept well on a night
journey. But not always. It sometimes happened that the rhythmic rush
and roar through the darkness stimulated rather than lulled his
brain, and on such occasions, lying in the wagon-lits of some
long-distance express, more than one illuminating idea had had its
birth. To-night, as he sat in the corner of a first-class compartment
in the Calais-Paris train, though outwardly a lounging and indolent
figure, his mind was keenly alert, and he therefore took the
opportunity to consider the business which lay before him.
His first duty obviously was to re-test Boirac’s alibi. He had learnt
what the authorities had done in the matter, and he would begin his
work by checking Lefarge’s investigation. For the moment he did not
see how to improve on his _confrère’s_ methods, and he could only
hope that some clue would present itself during his researches, which
his predecessor had missed.
So far he was in no doubt as to his proceedings, for this inquiry
into Boirac’s alibi had been directly asked for by his employers.
But, after that, he had been given a free hand to do as he thought
best.
He turned to what he considered the central feature of the case--the
finding of the body in the cask--and began to separate in his mind
the facts actually known about it from those assumed. Firstly, the
body was in the cask when the latter reached St. Katherine’s Docks.
Secondly, it could not have been put in during the journey from the
rue Cardinet Goods Station. So much was certain. But the previous
step in the cask’s journey was surmise. It was assumed that it had
been taken from the Gare du Nord to the rue Cardinet on a horse-cart.
On what was this assumption founded? Three facts. First, that it left
the Gare du Nord on a horse-cart; second, that it reached the rue
Cardinet in the same manner; and third, that such a vehicle would
have occupied about the time the trip had actually taken. The
assumption seemed reasonable, and yet. . . . He had to remember that
they were up against a man of no ordinary ability, whoever he might
be. Might not the cask have been taken by the first horse-cart to
some adjoining house or shed where the body could have been put in,
then sent by motor-lorry to some other shed near the Goods Station
and there transferred to a horse-cart again? This undoubtedly seemed
far-fetched and unlikely, nevertheless, the facts were not known,
and, he thought, they should be. He must find the carter who brought
the cask to the Goods Station. Then he would be certain where the
body was put in, and therefore whether the murder was committed in
London or Paris.
He noted a third point. The various letters in the case--and there
were several--might or might not be forgeries, and if the former, it
was obviously impossible for him to say off-hand who had written
them. But there was one letter which could not be a forgery--at least
in a certain sense. The Le Gautier letter which Felix said he had
received was done on a typewriter which could be identified. It was
hardly too much to assume that the man who typed that letter was the
murderer. Find the typewriter, thought La Touche, and the chances are
it will lead to the guilty man.
A further point struck him. If Boirac were guilty, might he not even
yet give himself away? The detective recalled case after case in his
own experience in which a criminal had, after the crime, done
something or gone somewhere that had led to his arrest. Would it be
worth while having Boirac shadowed? He considered the question
carefully and finally decided to bring over two of his men for this
purpose.
Here, then, were four directions in which inquiries might be made, of
which the first three at least promised a certain and definite
result. As the train slackened speed for the capital, he felt his
work was cut out for him.
And then began a period of tedious and unprofitable work. He was very
efficient, very thorough and very pertinacious, but the only result
of all his painstaking labours was to establish more firmly than ever
the truth of Boirac’s statements.
He began with the waiter at Charenton. Very skilfully he approached
the subject, and, painting a moving picture of an innocent man
falsely accused of murder, he gradually enlisted the man’s sympathy.
Then he appealed to his cupidity, promising him a liberal reward for
information that would save his client, and finally he soothed his
fears by promising that in no case should any statement he might make
get him into trouble. The waiter, who seemed a quiet, honest man, was
perfectly open, and readily replied to all La Touche’s questions, but
except on one point he stoutly adhered to his previous statement to
Lefarge. M. Boirac--whom he identified unhesitatingly from a
photograph--had lunched in the café about 1.30, and had then
telephoned to two separate places--he had heard the two numbers asked
for. As before, he made the reservation that he was not certain of
the day of the week, his impression having been that it was Monday
and not Tuesday, but he stated that in this he might easily be
mistaken. There was no shaking his evidence, and La Touche was
strongly of the opinion that the man was speaking the truth.
But as well as repeating his statement to Lefarge, the waiter added
one item of information that seemed important. Asked if he could not
recall either of the numbers demanded, he now said he recollected the
last two figures of one of them. They were 45. They caught his
attention because they were the café’s own telephone
number--Charenton 45. He could not recall either the previous figures
of the number nor yet the division. He had intended to tell this to
Lefarge, but being somewhat upset by the detective’s call, the point
had slipped his memory, and it was only when thinking the matter over
afterwards it had occurred to him.
For La Touche to look up the telephone directory was the work of a
few seconds. The number of Boirac’s house in the Avenue de l’Alma did
not suit, but when he looked up the Pump Construction Office he found
it was Nord 745.
Here was fresh confirmation. It was obvious the waiter could not have
invented his tale, and La Touche left utterly convinced that Boirac
had indeed lunched at the café and sent the messages.
As he was returning to the city it occurred to him that perhaps the
waiter’s impression was really correct and that Boirac had been in
the café on Monday afternoon instead of Tuesday. How was this point
to be ascertained?
He recollected how Lefarge had settled it. He had interviewed the
persons to whom Boirac had spoken, the butler and the head clerk, and
both were certain of that date. La Touche decided he must follow
Lefarge’s example.
Accordingly he called at the house in the Avenue de l’Alma and saw
François. He was surprised to find the old man genuinely grieved at
the news of Felix’s arrest. Few though the occasions had been in
which the two had met, something in the personality of the former had
in this case, as in so many others, inspired attachment and respect.
La Touche therefore adopted the same tactics as with the waiter, and,
on his explaining that he was acting for the suspected man, he found
François anxious to give all the help in his power.
But here again all that La Touche gained was confirmation of Boirac’s
statement. François recollected the telephone message, and he was
sure Boirac had spoken. He positively recognised the voice and
equally positively he remembered the day. It was Tuesday. He was able
to connect it with a number of other small events which definitely
fixed it.
‘Lefarge was right,’ thought the detective, as he strolled up the
Avenue de l’Alma. ‘Boirac telephoned from Charenton at 2.30 on
Tuesday. However, I may as well go through with the business.’
He turned his steps therefore towards the head office of the Avrotte
Pump Construction Company. Repeating Lefarge’s tactics, he watched
till he observed Boirac leave. Then he entered the office and asked
if he could see M. Dufresne.
‘I am afraid not, monsieur. I believe he has gone out,’ answered the
clerk who had come over to attend to him. ‘But if you will take a
seat for a moment I shall ascertain.’
La Touche did as he was asked, looking admiringly round the large
office with its polished teak furniture, its rows of vertical file
cabinets, its telephones, its clicking typewriters, and its
industrious and efficient-looking clerks. Now La Touche was not
merely a thinking machine. He had his human side, and, except when on
a hot scent, he had a remarkably quick eye for a pretty girl. Thus it
was that as this eye roamed inquisitively over the room, it speedily
halted at and became focused on the second row of typists, a girl of
perhaps two or three-and-twenty. She looked, it must be admitted,
wholly charming. Small, dark, and evidently vivacious; she had a
tiny, pouting mouth and an adorable dimple. Plainly dressed as became
her businesslike surroundings, there was, nevertheless, a daintiness
and chicness about her whole appearance that would have delighted an
even more critical observer than the detective. She flashed an
instantaneous glance at him from her dark, sparkling eyes, and then,
slightly elevating her pert little nose, became engrossed in her work.
‘I am sorry, monsieur, but M. Dufresne has gone home slightly
indisposed. He expects to be back in a couple of days, if you could
conveniently call again.’
La Touche hardly felt a proper appreciation of the clerk’s
promptness, but he thanked him politely and said he would return
later. Then, with a final glance at an averted head of dark,
luxuriant hair, he left the office.
The chief clerk’s absence was a vexatious delay. But, though it would
hold up his work on the alibi for a day or two, he might begin on one
of the other points which had occurred to him during the journey to
Paris. There was, for example, the tracing of the carter who brought
the cask from the Gare du Nord to the rue Cardinet. He would see what
could be done on that.
Accordingly he went out to the great Goods Station and, introducing
himself to the agent in charge, explained his errand. The official
was exceedingly polite, and, after some delay, the two porters whom
Burnley and Lefarge had interviewed some weeks before were ushered
into the room. La Touche questioned them minutely, but without
gaining any fresh information. They repeated their statement that
they would recognise the carter who had brought the cask were they to
see him again, but were unable to describe him more particularly than
before.
La Touche then went to the Gare du Nord. He was fortunate in finding
the clerk who had handed over the cask to the black-bearded Jacques
de Belleville. But again he was disappointed. Neither the clerk nor
any of the other officials he interviewed recollected the carter who
had taken the cask, and none therefore could say if he was like the
man who delivered it at the Goods Station.
Baffled on this point, La Touche turned into a café, and, ordering a
bock, sat down to consider his next step. Apparently Lefarge had been
right to advertise. He recollected from the report he had had from
the authorities that all the advertisements had appeared in, among
other papers, _Le Journal_. He determined he would see those
advertisements in the hope of discovering why they had failed.
He accordingly drove to the office of the paper and asked leave to
look over the files. A slight research convinced him that the
advertising had been thoroughly and skilfully done. He took copies of
each fresh announcement--there were nearly a dozen. Then, returning
to his hotel, he lay down on his bed and looked them over again.
The paragraphs varied in wording, type, and position in the columns,
but necessarily they were similar in effect. All asked for
information as to the identity of a carter who, about six o’clock on
Thursday, the 1st of April, had delivered a cask at the rue Cardinet
Goods Station. All offered a reward varying from 1000 to 5000 francs,
and all undertook that the carter would not suffer from the
information being divulged.
After a couple of hours hard thinking La Touche came to the
conclusion that the advertising had been complete. He saw no way in
which he could improve on what Lefarge had done, nor could he think
of anything in the announcements themselves which might have
militated against their success.
To clear his brain he determined to banish all thoughts of the case
for the remainder of the day. He therefore went for a stroll along
the boulevards, and, after a leisurely dinner, turned his steps
towards the Folies Bergères, and there passed the evening.
On his way home it occurred to him that while waiting to interview M.
Dufresne at the office of the Pump Construction Company he might run
over to Brussels and satisfy himself as to that part of Boirac’s
alibi. Accordingly, next morning saw him entrained for the Belgian
capital, where he arrived about midday. He drove to the Hôtel
Maximilian, lunched, and afterward made exhaustive inquiries at the
office. Here he saw copies of the visitors’ returns which every
Belgian hotel must furnish to the police, and satisfied himself
absolutely that Boirac had been there on the date in question. As a
result of Lefarge’s inquiries the clerk recollected the circumstances
of the pump manufacturer’s telephone, and adhered to his previous
statement in every particular. La Touche took the afternoon train for
Paris considerably disappointed with the results of his journey.
On the chance that the chief clerk might be back at work, he returned
next day to the pump works. Again he watched till Boirac had left and
again entered and asked for M. Dufresne. The same prompt clerk came
forward to speak to him, and, saying that M. Dufresne had returned
that morning, once more asked him to be seated while he took in his
card. La Touche then suddenly remembered the girl he had so much
admired, but whose existence he had forgotten since his last visit.
He glanced across the room. She was there, but he could not see her
face. Something had evidently gone wrong with the splendid-looking
machine which she--La Touche whimsically wondered why you did not say
‘played’ or ‘drove’--and she was bending over it, apparently
adjusting some screw. But he had no time to pursue his studies of
female beauty. The prompt clerk was back at his side almost
immediately to say that M. Dufresne could see him. He accordingly
followed his guide to the chief clerk’s room.
M. Dufresne was quite as ready to assist him as had been his other
informants, but he could tell him nothing the detective did not
already know. He repeated his statement to Lefarge almost word for
word. He was sure M. Boirac had telephoned about 2.30 on the
Tuesday--he unmistakably recognised his voice, and he was equally
certain of the date.
La Touche regained the street and walked slowly back to his hotel. It
was beginning to look very much as if the alibi could not be broken,
and he was unable for the moment to see his next step in the matter.
Nor had any information resulted from the labours of Mallet and
Farol, the two men he had brought over to shadow Boirac. Up to the
present the latter had been most circumspect, not having been
anywhere or done anything in the slightest degree suspicious. As La
Touche wrote a detailed report of his proceedings to Clifford, he
felt for the first time a distinct doubt as to the outcome of his
investigations.
CHAPTER XXVI
A CLUE AT LAST
La Touche, having finished his report, put on his hat and sallied
forth into the rue de la Fayette. He intended after posting his
letter to cross to the south side and spend the evening with some
friends. He was not in an agreeable frame of mind. The conclusion to
which he was apparently being forced would be a disappointment to
Clifford, and, if the theory of Boirac’s guilt broke down, he saw no
better than the solicitor what defence remained.
He sauntered slowly along the pavement, his mind brooding almost
subconsciously on the case. Then, noticing a letter-box on the
opposite side of the street, he turned to cross over. But as he
stepped off the sidewalk an idea flashed into his mind and he stopped
as if shot. That typewriter the pretty girl in Boirac’s office had
been using was _a new machine_. La Touche was an observant man, and
he had noted the fact, as he habitually noted small details about the
objects he saw. But not until this moment did he realise the
tremendously suggestive deduction which might be made from the fact.
Lefarge, in his search for the machine on which the Le Gautier letter
had been typed, had obtained samples from all the typewriters to
which Boirac, so far as he could ascertain, had access. But what if
that new machine replaced an old? What if that old machine had typed
the Le Gautier letter and had been then got rid of so that samples
taken by suspicious detective might be supplied from some other
typewriter? Here was food for thought. If he could prove anything of
this kind he need have no fear of disappointing his employer. He put
the report back in his pocket till he could adjust himself to this
new point of view.
And then he had a revulsion of feeling. After all, offices must
necessarily procure new typewriters, and there was no reason in this
case to suppose a machine had been purchased otherwise than in the
ordinary course of business. And yet--the idea was attractive.
He decided he might as well make some inquiries before forwarding his
report. It would be a simple matter to find out when the new machine
was purchased, and, if the date was not suspicious, the matter could
be dropped.
He considered the best way of ascertaining his information. His first
idea was to meet the typist and ask her the direct question. Then he
saw that if her answer supported his theory, not only would further
inquiries be necessary, but no hint that these were being made must
reach Boirac. It might therefore be better to try diplomacy.
To La Touche diplomatic dealing was second nature, and he was not
long in devising a plan. He looked at his watch. It was 5.15. If he
hurried he might reach the pump works before the pretty typist left.
From the window of the café which had so often served in a similar
capacity, he watched the office staff take their departure. For a
long time his victim did not appear, and he had almost come to the
conclusion she must have gone, when he saw her. She was with two
other girls, and the three, after glancing round the street, tripped
off daintily citywards.
When they had gone a fair distance La Touche followed. The girls
stood for a moment at the Simplon Station of the Metro, then the
pretty typist vanished down the steps, while the others moved on
along the pavement. La Touche sprinted to the entrance and was in time
to see the gray dress of the quarry disappearing down the passage
labelled Porte d’Orléans. He got his ticket and followed to the
platform. There was a fairly dense crowd, and, after locating
mademoiselle he mingled with it, keeping well back out of sight.
A train soon drew up and the girl got in. La Touche entered the next
carriage. Standing at the end of his vehicle he could see her through
the glass between the coaches without, he felt sure, being himself
visible. One, two, five stations passed, and then she got up and
moved towards the door ready to alight. La Touche did the same,
observing from the map in the carriage that the next station was not
a junction. As the train jerked and groaned to a standstill he leaped
out and hurried to the street. Crossing rapidly, he stopped at a
kiosk and asked for an evening paper. Bending over the counter of the
stall, he saw her emerge up the steps and start off down the street.
He remained on the opposite side, cautiously following until, after
about two blocks, she entered a small, unpretentious restaurant.
‘If she is going to dine alone,’ thought La Touche, ‘I am in luck.’
He waited till she would have probably reached her second or third
course and then entered the building.
The room was narrow, corresponding to the frontage, but stretched a
long way back, the far end being lighted with electric lamps. A row
of marble-topped tables stretched down each side, with six cane
chairs at each. Mirrors framed in dingy white and gold lined the
walls. At the extreme back was a tiny stage on which an orchestra of
three girls was performing.
The place was about half full. As La Touche’s quick eye took in the
scene, he noticed the typist seated alone at a table three or four
from the stage. He walked forward.
‘If mademoiselle permits?’ he murmured, bowing, but hardly looking at
her, as he pulled out a chair nearly opposite her and sat down.
He gave his order and then, business being as it were off his mind,
he relaxed so far as to look around. He glanced at the girl, seemed
suddenly to recognise her, gave a mild start of surprise and leant
forward with another bow.
‘Mademoiselle will perhaps pardon if I presume,’ he said, in his best
manner, ‘but I think we have met before or, if not quite, almost.’
The girl raised her eyebrows but did not speak.
‘In the office of M. Boirac,’ went on the detective. ‘You would not,
of course, notice, but I saw you there busy with a fine typewriter.’
Mademoiselle was not encouraging. She shrugged her shoulders, but
made no reply. La Touche had another shot.
‘I am perhaps impertinent in addressing mademoiselle, but I assure
her no impertinence is meant. I am the inventor of a new device for
typewriters, and I try to get opinion of every expert operator I can
find on its utility. Perhaps mademoiselle would permit me to describe
it and ask hers?’
‘Why don’t you take it to some of the agents?’ She spoke frigidly.
‘Because, mademoiselle,’ answered La Touche, warming to his subject,
‘I am not quite certain if the device would be sufficiently valuable.
It would be costly to attach and no firm would buy unless it could be
shown that operators wanted it. That is what I am so anxious to
learn.’
She was listening, though not very graciously. La Touche did not wait
for a reply, but began sketching on the back of the menu.
‘Here,’ he said, ‘is my idea,’ and he proceeded to draw and describe
the latest form of tabulator with which he was acquainted. The girl
look at him with scorn and suspicion.
‘You’re describing the Remington tabulator,’ she said coldly.
‘Oh, but, pardon me, mademoiselle. You surely don’t mean that? I have
been told this is quite new.’
‘You have been told wrongly. I ought to know, for I have been using
one the very same, as what you say is yours, for several weeks.’
‘You don’t say so, mademoiselle? That means that I have been
forestalled and all my work has been wasted.’
La Touche’s disappointment was so obvious that the girl thawed
slightly.
‘You’d better call at the Remington depot and ask to see one of their
new machines. Then you can compare their tabulator with yours.’
‘Thank you, mademoiselle, I’ll do so to-morrow. Then you use a
Remington?’
‘Yes, a No. 10.’
‘Is that an old machine? Pardon my questions, but have you had it
long?’
‘I can’t tell you how long it has been at the office. I am only there
myself six or seven weeks.’
Six or seven weeks! And the murder took place just over six weeks
before! Could there be a connection, or was this mere coincidence?
‘It must be a satisfaction to a man of business,’ La Touche went on
conversationally, as he helped himself to wine, ‘when his business
grows to the extent of requiring an additional typist. I envy M.
Boirac his feelings when he inserted his advertisement nearly as much
as I envy him when you applied.’
‘You have wasted your envy then,’ returned the girl in chilly and
contemptuous tones, ‘for you are wrong on both points. M. Boirac’s
business has not extended, for I replaced a girl who had just left,
and no advertisement was inserted as I went to M. Boirac from the
Michelin School in the rue Scribe.’
La Touche had got his information; at least, all he had expected from
this girl. He continued the somewhat one-sided conversation for some
minutes, and then with a courteous bow left the restaurant. He
reached his hotel determined to follow the matter up.
Accordingly, next morning saw him repeating his tactics of the
previous evening. Taking up his position in the restaurant near the
Pump Works shortly before midday, he watched the staff go for
_déjeuner_. First came M. Boirac, then M. Dufresne, and then a crowd
of lesser lights--clerks and typists. He saw his friend of the night
before with the same two companions, closely followed by the prompt
clerk. At last the stream ceased, and in about ten minutes the
detective crossed the road and once more entered the office. It was
empty except for a junior clerk.
‘Good-morning,’ said La Touche affably. ‘I called to ask whether you
would be so good as to do me a favour. I want a piece of information
for which, as it may give you some trouble to procure, I will pay
twenty francs. Will you help me?’
‘What is the information, monsieur?’ asked the boy--he was little
more than a boy.
‘I am manager of a paper works and I am looking for a typist for my
office. I am told that a young lady typist left here about six weeks
ago?’
‘That is true, monsieur; Mlle. Lambert.’
‘Yes, that is the lady’s name,’ returned La Touche, making a mental
note of it.
‘Now,’ he continued confidentially, ‘can you tell me why she left?’
‘I think she was dismissed, monsieur, but I never really understood
why.’
‘Dismissed?’
‘Yes, monsieur. She had some row with M. Boirac, our managing
director. I don’t know--none of us know--what it was about.’
‘I had heard she was dismissed, and that is why I was interested in
her. Unfortunately my business is not for the moment as flourishing
as I should wish. It occurred to me that if I could find a typist who
had some blot on her record, she might be willing to come to me for a
smaller salary than she would otherwise expect. It would benefit her
as well as me, as it would enable her to regain her position.’
The clerk bowed without comment, and La Touche continued:--
‘The information I want is this. Can you put me in touch with this
young lady? Do you know her address?’
The other shook his head.
‘I fear not, monsieur. I don’t know where she lives.’
La Touche affected to consider.
‘Now, how am I to get hold of her?’ he said. The clerk making no
suggestion, he went on after a pause:--
‘I think if you could tell me just when she left it might help me.
Could you do that?’
‘About six weeks ago. I can tell you the exact day by looking up the
old wages sheets if you don’t mind waiting. Will you take a seat?’
La Touche thanked him and sat down, trusting the search would be
concluded before any of the other clerks returned. But he was not
delayed long. In three or four minutes the boy returned.
‘She left on Monday, the 5th of April, monsieur.’
‘And was she long with you?’
‘About two years, monsieur.’
‘I am greatly obliged. And her Christian name was?’
‘Éloise, monsieur. Éloise Lambert.’
‘A thousand thanks. And now I have just to beg of you not to mention
my visit, as it would injure me if it got out that my business was
not too flourishing. Here is my debt to you.’ He handed over the
twenty francs.
‘It is too much, monsieur. I am glad to oblige you without payment.’
‘A bargain is a bargain,’ insisted the detective, and, followed by
the profuse thanks of the young clerk, he left the office.
‘This grows interesting,’ thought La Touche, as he once more emerged
into the street. ‘Boirac dismisses a typist on the very day the cask
reaches St. Katherine’s Docks. Now, I wonder if the new typewriter
made its appearance at the same time. I must get hold of that girl
Lambert.’
But how was this to be done? No doubt there would be a record of her
address somewhere in the office, but he was anxious that no idea of
his suspicions should leak out, and he preferred to leave that source
untapped. What, then, was left to him? He could see nothing for it
but an advertisement.
Accordingly, he turned into a café and, calling for a bock, drafted
out the following:--
‘If Mlle. Éloise Lambert, stenographer and typist, will apply to M.
Georges La Touche, Hôtel Suisse, rue de La Fayette, she will hear
something to her advantage.’
He read over the words and then a thought struck him, and he took
another sheet of paper and wrote:--
‘If Mlle. Éloise Lambert, stenographer and typist, will apply to M.
Guillaume Faneuil, Hôtel St. Antoine, she will hear something to her
advantage.’
‘If Boirac should see the thing, there’s no use in my shoving into
the limelight,’ he said to himself. ‘I’ll drop Georges La Touche for
a day or two and try the St. Antoine.’
He sent his advertisement to several papers, then, going to the Hôtel
St. Antoine, engaged a room in the name of M. Guillaume Faneuil.
‘I shall not require it till to-morrow,’ he said to the clerk, and
next day he moved in.
During the morning there was a knock at the door of his private
sitting-room, and a tall, graceful girl of about five-and-twenty
entered. She was not exactly pretty, but exceedingly pleasant and
good-humoured looking. Her tasteful, though quiet, dress showed she
was not in need as a result of losing her situation.
La Touche rose and bowed.
‘Mlle. Lambert?’ he said with a smile. ‘I am M. Faneuil. Won’t you
sit down?’
‘I saw your advertisement in _Le Soir_, monsieur, and--here I am.’
‘I am much indebted to you for coming so promptly, mademoiselle,’
said La Touche, reseating himself, ‘and I shall not trespass long on
your time. But before explaining the matter may I ask if you are the
Mlle. Lambert who recently acted as typist at the Avrotte Works?’
‘Yes, monsieur. I was there for nearly two years.’
‘Forgive me, but can you give any proof of that? A mere matter of
form, of course, but in justice to my employers I am bound to ask the
question.’
An expression of surprise passed over the girl’s face.
‘I really don’t know that I can,’ she answered. ‘You see, I was not
expecting to be asked such a question.’
It had occurred to La Touche that in spite of his precautions Boirac
might have somehow discovered what he was engaged on, and sent this
girl with a made up story. But her answer satisfied him. If she had
been an impostor she would have come provided with proofs of her
identity.
‘Ah, well,’ he rejoined with a smile, ‘I think I may safely take the
risk. May I ask you another question? Was a new typewriter purchased
while you were at the office?’
The surprise on the pleasant face deepened.
‘Why, yes, monsieur, a No. 10 Remington.’
‘And can you tell me just when?’
‘Easily. I left the office on Monday, 5th April, and the new machine
was sent three days earlier--on Friday, the 2nd.’
Here was news indeed! La Touche was now in no doubt about following
up the matter. He must get all the information possible out of this
girl. And the need for secrecy would make him stick to diplomacy.
He smiled and bowed.
‘You will forgive me, mademoiselle, but I had to satisfy myself you
were the lady I wished to meet. I asked you these questions only to
ensure that you knew the answers. And now I shall tell you who I am
and what is the business at issue. But first, may I ask you to keep
all I may tell you secret?’
His visitor looked more and more mystified as she replied:--
‘I promise, monsieur.’
‘Then I may say that I am a private detective, employed on behalf of
the typewriter company to investigate some very extraordinary--I can
only call them frauds, which have recently been taking place. In some
way, which up to the present we have been unable to fathom, several
of our machines have developed faults which, you understand, do not
prevent them working, but which prevent them being quite
satisfactory. The altering of tensions and the slight twisting of
type to put them out of alignment are the kind of things I mean. We
hardly like to suspect rival firms of practising these frauds to get
our machines into disfavour, and yet it is hard to account for it
otherwise. Now, we think that you can possibly give us some
information, and I am authorised by my company to hand you one
hundred francs if you will be kind enough to do so.’
The surprise had not left the girl’s face as she answered:--
‘I should have been very pleased, monsieur, to tell you all I knew
without any payment, had I known anything to tell. But I am afraid I
don’t.’
‘I think, mademoiselle, you can help us if you will. May I ask you a
few questions?’
‘Certainly.’
‘The first is, can you describe the machine you used prior to the
purchase of the new one?’
‘Yes, it was a No. 7 Remington.’
‘I did not mean that,’ answered La Touche, eagerly noting this
information, ‘I knew that, of course, as it is this No. 7 machine I
am inquiring about. What I meant to ask was, had it any special marks
or peculiarities by which it could be distinguished from other No.
7’s?’
‘Why, no, I don’t think so,’ the girl answered thoughtfully. ‘And yet
there were. The letter S on the S-key had got twisted round to the
right and there were three scratches here’--she indicated the side
plate of an imaginary typewriter.
‘You would then be able to identify the machine if you saw it again?’
‘Yes, I certainly should.’
‘Now, mademoiselle, had it any other peculiarities--defective letters
or alignment or anything of that kind?’
‘No, nothing really bad. It was old and out of date, but quite good
enough. M. Boirac, of course, thought otherwise, but I maintain my
opinion.’
‘What did M. Boirac say exactly?’
‘He blamed me for it. But there wasn’t anything wrong, and if there
had been it wasn’t my fault.’
‘I am sure of that, mademoiselle. But perhaps you would tell me about
it from the beginning?’
‘There’s not much to tell. I had a big job to do--typing a long
specification of a pumping plant for the Argentine, and when I had
finished I left it as usual on M. Boirac’s desk. A few minutes later
he sent for me and asked how I came to put such an untidy document
before him. I didn’t see anything wrong with it and I asked him what
he complained of. He pointed out some very small defects--principally
uneven alignment, and one or two letters just a trifle blurred. You
really would hardly have seen it. I said that wasn’t my fault, and
that the machine wanted adjustment. He said I had been striking while
the shift key was partly moved, but, M. Faneuil, I had been doing
nothing of the kind. I told M. Boirac so, and he then apologised and
said I must have a new machine. He telephoned there and then to the
Remington people, and a No. 10 came that afternoon.’
‘And what happened to the old No. 7?’
‘The man that brought the new one took the old away.’
‘And was that all that was said?’
‘That was all, monsieur.’
‘But, pardon me, I understood you left owing to some misunderstanding
with M. Boirac?’
The girl shook her head.
‘Oh, no,’ she said, ‘nothing of the sort. M. Boirac told me the
following Monday, that is, two days after the typewriter business,
that he was reorganising his office and would do with a typist less.
As I was the last arrival, I had to go. He said he wished to carry
out the alterations immediately so that I might leave at once. He
gave me a month’s salary instead of notice, and a good testimonial
which I have here. We parted quite friends.’
The document read:--
‘I have pleasure in certifying that Mlle. Éloise Lambert was engaged
as a stenographer and typist in the head office of this company from
August, 1910, till 5th April, 1912, during which time she gave every
satisfaction to me and my chief clerk. She proved herself diligent
and painstaking, thoroughly competent in her work, and of excellent
manners and conduct. She leaves the firm through no fault of her own,
but because we are reducing staff. I regret her loss and have every
confidence in recommending her to those needing her services.
‘(Signed) RAOUL BOIRAC, _Managing Director_.’
‘An excellent testimonial, mademoiselle,’ La Touche commented. ‘Pray
excuse me for just a moment.’
He stepped into the adjoining bedroom and closed the door. Then
taking a sample of Boirac’s writing from his pocket-book, he compared
the signature with that of the testimonial. After a careful scrutiny
he was satisfied the latter was genuine. He returned to the girl and
handed her the document.
‘Thank you, mademoiselle. Now, can you recall one other point? Did
you, within the last three or four weeks, type a letter about some
rather unusual matters--about some one winning a lot of money in the
State Lottery and about sending this packed in a cask to England?’
‘Never, monsieur,’ asserted the typist, evidently completely puzzled
by the questions she was being asked. La Touche watched her keenly
and was satisfied she had no suspicion that his business was other
than he had said. But he was nothing if not thorough, and his
thoroughness drove him to make provision for suspicions which might
arise later. He therefore went on to question her about the No. 7
machine, asking whether she had ever noticed it had been tampered
with, and finally saying that he believed there must have been a
mistake and that the machine they had discussed was not that in which
he was interested. Then, after obtaining her address, he handed her
the hundred francs, which, after a protest, she finally accepted.
‘Now, not a word to any one, if you please, mademoiselle,’ he
concluded, as they parted.
His discoveries, to say the least of it, were becoming interesting.
If Mlle. Lambert’s story was true--and he was strongly disposed to
believe her--M. Boirac had acted in a way that required some
explanation. His finding fault with the typist did not seem genuine.
In fact, to La Touche it looked as if the whole episode had been
arranged to provide an excuse for getting rid of the typewriter.
Again, the manufacturer’s dismissal of his typist at a day’s notice
was not explained by his statement that he was about to reorganise
his office. Had that been true he would have allowed her to work her
month’s notice, and, even more obviously, he would not have
immediately engaged her successor. As La Touche paid his bill at the
hotel he decided that though there might be nothing in his
suspicions, the matter was well worth further investigation. He
therefore called a taxi and was driven to the Remington typewriter
depot.
‘I want,’ he said to the salesman who came forward, ‘to buy a
second-hand machine. Can you let me see some?’
‘Certainly, monsieur. Will you step this way?’
They went to a room at the back of the building where were stored a
vast assemblage of typewriters of all sizes and in all states of
repair. La Touche, inquiring as to prices and models, moved slowly
about, running his quick eye over the machines, looking always for
one with a twisted S-key. But, search as he would, he could not find
what he wanted. Nor could he find any No. 7’s. These machines were
all more modern.
He turned at last to the shopman.
‘These are all rather expensive for me. I should explain that I am
the principal of a commercial school, and I merely want a machine on
which beginners could learn the keys. Any old thing would do, if I
could get it cheap. Have you any older machines?’
‘Certainly, monsieur, we have several quite good No. 7’s and a few
No. 5’s. Come this way, please.’
They went to a room devoted to more antiquated specimens. Here La
Touche continued his investigations, searching always for the twisted
S.
At last he saw it. Not only was the letter turned to the right, but
on the side plate were the three scratches mentioned by Mlle. Lambert.
‘I think that one would suit,’ he said. ‘Could you get it down and
let me have a look at it?’
He went through the pretence of examining it with care.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘this will do if it works all right. I should like to
try it.’
He put in a sheet of paper and typed a few words. Then, drawing out
his work, he examined the letters and alignment.
As he looked at it even his long experience scarcely prevented him
giving a cry of triumph. For, to the best of his belief, this was the
machine on which the Le Gautier letter had been typed!
He turned again to the shopman.
‘That seems all right,’ he said. ‘I’ll take the machine, please.’
He paid for it and obtained a receipt. Then he asked to see the
manager.
‘I’m going to ask you, monsieur,’ he said, when he had drawn that
gentleman aside, ‘to do me a rather unusual favour. I have just
bought this machine, and I want you to see it before I take it away,
and, if you will be so kind, to give me some information about it. I
shall tell you in confidence why I ask. I am a detective, employed on
behalf of a man charged with a serious crime, but who I believe is
innocent. A certain letter, on the authorship of which his guilt
largely depends, was written, if I am not mistaken, on this machine.
You will forgive me if I do not go into all the particulars. An
adequate identification of the typewriter is obviously essential. I
would therefore ask you if you would be kind enough to put a private
mark on it. Also, if you would tell me how it came into your
possession, I should be more than obliged.’
‘I shall do what you ask with pleasure, monsieur,’ returned the
manager, ‘but I trust I shall not be required to give evidence.’
‘I do not think so, monsieur. I feel sure the identity of the machine
will not be questioned. I make my request simply as a matter of
precaution.’
The manager, with a small centre punch, put a few ‘spots’ on the main
frame, noting the machine’s number at the same time.
‘Now you want to know where we got it,’ he went on to La Touche.
‘Excuse me a moment.’
He disappeared to his office, returning in a few minutes with a slip
of paper in his hand.
‘The machine was received from the Avrotte Pump Construction
office’--he referred to the paper--‘on 2nd April last. It was
supplied to the firm several years earlier, and on the date mentioned
they exchanged it for a more up-to-date machine, a No. 10.’
‘I am extremely obliged, monsieur. You may trust me to keep you out
of the business if at all possible.’
Calling a taxi, La Touche took the machine to his hotel in the rue de
La Fayette. There he typed another sample, and, using a powerful
lens, compared the letters with the photographic enlargements he had
obtained of the Le Gautier type. He was satisfied. The machine before
him was that for which he had been in search.
He was delighted at his success. The more he thought of it, the more
certain he felt that Boirac’s fault-finding was merely an excuse to
get rid of the typewriter. And the manufacturer had dismissed Mlle.
Lambert simply because she knew too much. If inquiries were made in
the office, he would be safer with her out of the way.
And as to Boirac’s deeper object. So far as the detective could see,
there could be only one explanation. Boirac knew the Le Gautier
letter was done on that machine. And if he knew, did it not follow
that he had sent the letter to Felix? And if he had sent the letter,
must he not be guilty? To La Touche it began to look like it.
Then a further point struck him. If Boirac were guilty, what about
the alibi? The alibi seemed so conclusive. And yet, if he were
innocent, what about the typewriter? There seemed to be no escape
from the dilemma, and La Touche was horribly puzzled.
But as he thought over the matter he began to see that the discovery
of the typewriter did not so greatly help his client after all.
Though at first sight it had seemed to indicate Boirac’s guilt,
second thoughts showed him that the manufacturer could make a very
good case for himself. He could stick to the story told by Mlle.
Lambert--that the type was in point of fact not good enough for his
work. He could say plausibly enough that for some time he had wanted
a machine with a tabulator, and that the bad alignment had only
brought the matter to a head. Then, with regard to the typist. Though
the girl seemed quiet and truthful, goodness only knew what she might
not be holding back. On her own showing she had had exchanges of
opinion with her employer, and she might have been very impertinent.
At all events, Boirac could give his own version of what took place
and no one would know the truth. Further, he could account for his
testimonial by saying that while he disliked the girl and wished to
be rid of her, he did not want to injure her permanently. He might
even admit falsely telling the girl he was going to reorganise his
office in order to smooth over her leaving.
With regard to the Le Gautier letter, Boirac could simply deny
knowledge, and La Touche did not see how he could be contradicted. It
could even be argued that Felix might have bribed a clerk to copy the
letter for him on that machine so as to throw suspicion on Boirac. If
Felix were guilty, it would be a likely enough move.
At last La Touche came to the definite conclusion that he had not
enough evidence either to convict Boirac or clear Felix. He _must_ do
better. He _must_ break the alibi and find the carter.
CHAPTER XXVII
LA TOUCHE’S DILEMMA
That night La Touche could not sleep. The atmosphere was sultry and
tense. Great masses of blue-black clouds climbing the south-western
sky seemed to promise a storm. The detective tossed from side to
side, his body restless, his mind intently awake and active. And then
an idea suddenly occurred to him.
He had been mentally reviewing the wording of the various
advertisements Lefarge had inserted for the carter. These, he
recollected, were all to the effect that a reward would be paid for
information as to the identity of the carter who had delivered the
cask at the rue Cardinet goods station. Who, he thought, in the
nature of things could answer that? Only, so far as he could see, two
people--the carter himself and the man who engaged him. No one else
would know anything about the matter. Of these, obviously the latter
was not going to give the affair away. Nor would the carter if the
other paid him well or had some hold over him. This, thought La
Touche, may be why these advertisements have all failed.
So far he had got when his illuminating idea struck him. The fault of
these advertisements was that they had appealed to the wrong people.
Instead of appealing to the carter, could his associates not be
approached? Or rather his employer, for it was obvious that neither
Boirac nor Felix could be his employer, except in the case of this
one job. He jumped out of bed, turned on the light, and began to
draft a circular letter.
‘DEAR SIR,’ he wrote, ‘An innocent man is in danger of conviction on
a murder charge for want of certain evidence. This could be supplied
by a carter--a clean-shaven, sharp-featured man with white hair. If
you have (or had last March) such a man in your employment, or know
of such, I most earnestly beg you to advise me. I am a private
detective, working on behalf of the accused man. I guarantee no harm
to the carter. On the contrary, I am willing to pay all men who
answer the description five francs if they will call on me here any
evening between 8.00 and 10.00, as well as 500 francs to the man who
can give me the information I require.’
Repeating the manœuvre he had employed in the case of the
advertisement for Mlle. Lambert, La Touche did not add his own name
and address. He signed the note Charles Epée, and headed it Hôtel
d’Arles, rue de Lyon.
Next morning he took his draft to a manufactory of office supplies
and arranged for copies to be made and posted to the managers of all
the carting establishments in Paris, the envelopes being marked
‘confidential.’ Then he went on to the rue de Lyon, and, in the name
of Charles Epée, engaged a room at the Hôtel d’Arles.
Taking the Metro at the Place de la Bastille, he returned to the
goods station in the rue Cardinet. There, after a considerable delay,
he found his two friends, the porters who had unloaded the cask on
that Thursday nearly two months before. Explaining that he expected
the carter he was in search of to call at his hotel on some evening
in the early future, he offered them five francs a day to sit in his
room between 8.00 and 10.00 p.m. to identify the man, should he
arrive. To this the porters willingly agreed. That evening they had
their first meeting, but without success. No clean-shaven,
white-haired, sharp-featured carters turned up.
When La Touche returned to his rue de La Fayette hotel he found a
letter from Clifford. The police had made two discoveries. The first
La Touche had realised they were bound to make sooner or later. They
had learnt of Felix’s identity with the art school student who had
been in love with the late Mme. Boirac, and of the short-lived
engagement between the two. All the assistance which these facts gave
the prosecution was therefore now at the disposal of the authorities.
The second piece of information was that Inspector Burnley had found
the carter who had taken the cask from Waterloo on the Wednesday
morning of the fateful week and delivered it at Charing Cross next
morning, for, it seemed, both these jobs had been done by the same
man.
It appeared that about 7.30 on the Tuesday evening of that week a
dark, foreign-looking man with a pointed black beard had called at
the office of Messrs. Johnson, the large carting agents in Waterloo
Road, and had hired a dray and man for the two following days, as
well as the use of an empty shed for the same period. He had
instructed the carter to meet him at Waterloo Station at 10.00 next
morning, Wednesday. There, on the arrival of the Southampton boat
train, he had claimed the cask and had it loaded up on the dray, as
was already known. The vehicle had been taken to the shed, where it
had been left, the horse having been sent back to the stable. The
black-bearded man had told the driver he might take the remainder of
the day as a holiday, but that he wanted him to return on the
following morning, Thursday, take the cask to Charing Cross, and
there book it to Paris. He had handed him the amount of the freight
as well as ten shillings for himself. Upon the man asking where in
Paris the cask was to be sent, the other had told him he would leave
it properly addressed. This he had done, for next morning the cask
had a new label, bearing the name of Jaques de Belleville, Cloakroom,
Gare du Nord. The carter had then left the black-bearded man in the
shed with the cart and cask. Next morning he had booked the latter to
Paris.
Asked if he could identify the black-bearded man, the carter said he
believed he could. But he failed to do so. On being taken to see
Felix, he stated the artist was like the dark foreigner, but he would
not swear he was the same man.
This news interested La Touche greatly, and he sat smoking into the
small hours seeing how far he could work these new facts into the
theories of the crime which he and Clifford had discussed. If the
prosecution were correct, Felix must have been the man who called at
the cartage establishment at 7.30 on Tuesday evening. He would
therefore have had undisputed possession of the cask from about 11.00
a.m. on the Wednesday until, say 7.00 on the following morning, and
there were two obvious ways in which he could have put in the body.
Either he could have procured another horse and taken the cask to St.
Malo, where, in the privacy of the walled yard, he could have removed
the statue and substituted the body, returning the cask to the shed
by the same means, or he could have hidden the body in his two-seater
and run it to the shed, making the exchange there. Unfortunately, La
Touche saw, the facts he had just learnt would fit in only too well
with the theory of Felix’s guilt.
On the other hand they supplied another period for which an alibi
might be found for the artist--7.30 on the Tuesday night. But,
remembering his own and Clifford’s researches into the manner in
which Felix spent that week, La Touche was not hopeful of help here.
The detective then turned his thoughts to Clifford’s theory of
Boirac’s guilt. And immediately he saw how the news crystallised the
issue of the alibi. Up to the present the alibi had been considered
as a whole, the portions which had been tested and those which had
not, alike included. Generally speaking, it had been argued that if
Boirac were in Paris and in Belgium during the fateful days, he could
not have been in London. But now here was a direct issue between
definite hours. At 7.30 on the Tuesday evening the bearded man was at
Johnson’s in the Waterloo Road. At 2.30 that same day Boirac was at
Charenton. La Touche looked up his Continental Bradshaw. A train
arrived at Victoria at 7.10, which would just enable a traveller from
Paris to reach the carting contractor’s at the hour named. But that
train left Paris at 12.00 noon. Therefore it was utterly and
absolutely out of the question that Boirac could be the man. But then
there was the typewriter. . . .
La Touche was back on the horns of the old dilemma. If Boirac was
guilty, how did he work the alibi? if innocent, why did he get rid of
the typewriter? He almost writhed in his exasperation. But it only
made him more determined than ever to reach a solution, cost him what
it might of labour and trouble.
The next evening he set off to the Hôtel d’Arles in the rue de Lyon,
to await with the goods yard porters the coming of sharp-featured
carters with white hair.
A number of replies to his circular had come in. Some were merely
negative, the recipients having written to say that no carter
answering to the description was known to them. Others stated they
knew men of the type required, mentioning names and addresses. La
Touche made lists of these, determining to call on any who did not
come to see him at the hotel.
While he was engaged in this work his first visitor was announced.
This man was clean-shaven and white-haired, but the sharpness of his
features was not much in evidence. The porters immediately gave the
prearranged sign that this was not the man, and La Touche, handing
him his five francs, bowed him out, at the same time noting him
‘Seen’ on his list.
After he left came another and another, till before ten o’clock they
had interviewed no less than fourteen men. All these more or less
completely answered the description, but all the porters instantly
negatived. The following evening eleven men called and the next four,
with the same result.
On the third day there was another letter from Clifford. The lawyer
wrote that he had been greatly struck by the intelligence of the
carter who had carried about the cask in London. Surprised at so
superior a man holding such a position, he had brought him to his
house in the hope of learning his history. And there he had made a
discovery of the highest importance, and which, he thought, would
lead them direct to the end of their quest. The carter, John Hill,
had been quite ready to tell his story, which was as follows: Until
four years previously Hill had been a constable in the Metropolitan
police. He had a good record, and, he had believed, a future. Then he
had had an unfortunate difference with his superior officer. Hill did
not give the particulars, but Clifford understood it was a private
matter and concerned a girl. But it led to a row during hours of
duty, in which Hill admitted having entirely forgotten himself. He
had been dismissed, and, after a long and weary search, could find no
better job than he now held.
‘But,’ wrote Clifford, ‘it’s an ill wind, etc. This curious history
of Hill’s is the thing that will settle our case. He has been trained
in observation, and he observed something about the man with the cask
that will definitely settle his identity. When he was paying him he
noticed on the back of the first joint of his right forefinger, a
small scar as if from a burn. He says he is sure of this mark and
could swear to it. I asked him had he told the police. He said not,
that he didn’t love the police, and that he had answered what he had
been asked and nothing more. When he understood I was acting against
the police he volunteered the information, and I could see that he
would be glad to give evidence that would upset their conclusions.’
Clifford had then done the obvious thing. He had gone to inspect
Felix’s finger, and he had found there was no mark on it.