"What do you think about going over to Boulogne, Mr. Gimblet?"
It was the following morning, and Jennins was sitting in Gimblet's
rooms. He had come round to talk matters over and discuss plans and
methods of carrying them out.
"I think I may be more useful if I stay here," Gimblet said, in answer
to his question. "Your fellow, Burford, who is over there, is a good
sound man who will, at least, not overlook the obvious, and Bonnot, the
French detective, who is said to have been summoned, is a master of his
profession. These murders are certainly the work of the same gang, and
it may be easier to trace them here in London, if it is, as it appears
to be, their starting point, than it will be to do so in a foreign
country. There is no more news from Burford, I suppose?"
"Nothing new since last night. And no more than the papers have, anyhow.
These reporters are the deuce."
"They are," Gimblet agreed. "Let's see again what they say about it." He
took up a paper, turned to the sinister headline, and read aloud:
"A startling sequel has followed the mysterious disappearance of
Mrs. Vanderstein and Miss Turner, who left their home early in the
week and whose whereabouts were only yesterday discovered. One
of these ladies, Mrs. Vanderstein, who, it will be remembered, we
ascertained to be staying at Boulogne, was found dead in her room at
the Hôtel de Douvres yesterday afternoon, and foul play is strongly
suspected. Traces of violence were plainly to be seen and it is
thought likely that the poor lady was strangled to death. A curious
feature of the affair is that though Mrs. Vanderstein had with her a
large quantity of her valuable jewellery, some of which was actually
lying on the table at the time, so far as is at present known none of
it has been stolen.
"A page in the service of the hotel reports that he showed a visitor
to Mrs. Vanderstein's room soon after luncheon, and this stranger, who
is described as a tall man with a black beard, left the hotel shortly
before three o'clock, after delivering a message from the lady to the
effect that she did not wish to be disturbed again that day. The order
was duly given to the domestics of the hotel, and if a messenger from
London had not arrived by the five o'clock boat on important business
and insisted on penetrating to Mrs. Vanderstein's presence, it is
probable that the murder would not have been discovered until to-day.
The authorities are investigating the affair with the utmost energy,
and it is believed that they are on the track of the man with the
black beard."
Gimblet put down the paper. "There are various other paragraphs saying
the same thing in different words," he remarked.
"It certainly looks as if you were right again," observed Jennins
reflectively, "about all this being the work of the same gang, I mean."
"There's not a doubt of it," said Gimblet. "I was sure of it from the
first, though I admit that I had not much to go on. A mere whiff of
perfume. Let us see how much we know now. To go back to Monday night,
Mrs. Vanderstein and Miss Turner voluntarily entered the house in
Scholefield Avenue, though whether in response to an invitation from the
so-called West or not we do not know, in spite of a theory I have on the
subject. They then presumably separated, Miss Turner being imprisoned
in the room on the ground floor, very much against her will and to her
alarm since she broke a window in the hope of escaping, and when that
attempt failed wrote a despairing message on the wall, in which she
stated her fear that something dreadful was being done to somebody in
the drawing-room. You will, I am sure, agree with me that, though the
message says that her alarm was for 'Mr' and then stops, an s would
have been added if Miss Turner had not been interrupted, and it was her
intention to write 'Mrs.' But whether this would have referred to the
woman who was buried in the flower stand or whether she was thinking of
her friend, Mrs. Vanderstein, is not clear.
"Was Mrs. Vanderstein in the drawing-room at the time of the murder,
and if so what was her business there, is the next question where
our knowledge fails us. We know she was in that room at some time
or other--I knew that the moment I smelt her perfume on the powder
puff and note--but whether or no she was there at the moment of the
crime we cannot tell. In either case her subsequent proceedings are
extraordinary. If she was detained in the house against her will and
made her escape by some unknown means, why did she fly to Boulogne,
instead of to her own house or to the nearest police station? Why, when
she got to Boulogne, did she not communicate with her friends until
yesterday? It is true she said she had written previously, but it would
have been more natural if she had telegraphed, and if she received no
reply had telegraphed again. Why did she display no anxiety on Miss
Turner's account? Her actions seem at present to be inexplicable and
strange to the last degree. Had she suddenly gone off her head? That is
the most probable solution, to my mind. If so, it may well be that it
was she who committed the terrible crime I discovered in Scholefield
Avenue, and then, with the mixture of cunning and recklessness common
to lunatics of a criminal type, retired to Boulogne to wait till the
affair should have blown over. There are, however, several drawbacks
to such a theory, and one of them is that it does not account for the
black-bearded man, unless he was a lover, and indeed it seems most
likely that he was.
"We don't know what was the part he played on Monday night. Perhaps he
helped Mrs. Vanderstein to escape more effectually than he did Miss
Turner, in spite of his promise to her.
"All we know is that he took the girl out of the house on Tuesday night
or Wednesday morning and that they went together to the bank of the
canal in Regent's Park, where Matterson came upon them. We know that
'black-beard' carried a heavy spade with him. What for? Not to use it as
he did, I think; neither was it to dig a grave with after Miss Turner
had been disposed of in some other way. Think, Jennins, there was a
cord attached to the handle, and the canal was within a few yards of
them. Do those two facts suggest nothing to you? Surely it is obvious
that his intention was to throw the young lady into the water, having
previously tied the spade to her so as to make sure she would sink. No
doubt she guessed what was in his mind, and that was why Matterson saw
her defending herself, poor girl, and heard her scream. Such at least is
my opinion."
"I shouldn't wonder if you've hit the nail on the head this time,"
agreed the inspector. "The question is, what's the next thing to be
done?"
"It's high time I followed up a clue contained in the letter purporting
to come from Prince Felipe," replied Gimblet. "I should have done so
long ago, if I had not waited for Mrs. Vanderstein's version of the
affair. You remember a Madame Q. is mentioned as the bearer of the
note. Well, who is Madame Q.? I telegraphed early yesterday to Mrs.
Vanderstein saying, 'Were you at 13 Scholefield Avenue on Monday night,
and who else was present? Letter has been found there apparently
addressed to you by Prince F. mentioning Madame Q. Please wire very
fully, and give Madame Q.'s full name and address. Very grave matters
involved.' If the lady had replied to my wire we should doubtless have
been spared a lot of trouble, though we might not have been able to save
her life; but, as things are, I propose to try and sift the question of
Madame Q.'s identity for myself."
Jennins went away; and Gimblet, after being detained by a short visit
from Sidney--who was on his way to catch the eleven o'clock train to
Boulogne--also took up his hat and left the house.
A quarter of an hour later he was standing on the doorstep of Mrs.
Vanderstein's Grosvenor Street house.
He found, as was natural, a shocked and dislocated household. The
cook and Blake were seated in the morning-room, where the cook was
flourishing a handkerchief, and reiterating observations to the effect
that she had always known something terrible was going to happen ever
since the second footman had broken the looking-glass in the pantry;
while the young man referred to was standing just outside the door, and
putting his head into the room every few minutes to remark defiantly,
though with a certain uneasiness, that it wasn't in nature for so
tremendous an event to be brought about by such an insignificant
piece of glass as the one he had had the "misfortune" with. From
the drawing-room came the penetrating shrillness of Amélie's voice,
apparently filling in the newspaper account of the murder, with all the
embellishing detail an unshrinkingly gruesome imagination could suggest,
for the benefit of the rest of the maids, whose chorusing groans could
also be distinguished. But, on the whole, there was more perturbation as
to the effect the tragedy would be likely to have on their own futures
than distress at the dreadful fate of their mistress; and Gimblet, if he
had to listen to much lamentation, found himself also beset with many
anxious questions.
It was some minutes before he was able to introduce his own object in
coming there; but at last he drew Blake to one side, and asked him if
Mrs. Vanderstein had kept a visiting book with a list of the people she
called on.
She had done so, and it was produced, but to Gimblet's disappointment
contained no name beginning with the letter Q. There were, however, the
names of two or three French ladies, and he wondered whether Q were
merely a cipher for Gerady or Kerigoet. Blake, cross-questioned, could
think of no foreign lady with whom Mrs. Vanderstein was on familiar
terms.
Gimblet remembered Amélie's thorough knowledge in the matter of her
mistress' correspondence, and called to her to come and speak to him.
"Had Mrs. Vanderstein a friend of your nationality?" he asked. "Was
there any French lady whom she knew well, and whose name, perhaps, began
with a Q?"
"A lady? No," said Amélie. "A friend? Hardly! Il ne manquait plus que
cela! But she was acquainted with a French woman, whose name begins with
Q. Without doubt, it is of that Justine you speak."
"Justine?"
"Eh! Yes. Justine Querterot. Madame Querterot, as she calls herself,
though, for me, I never saw that she had a husband. It is said that he
shot himself, the poor man, and I do not see what he could have done
better with a wife like that one! Ah, monsieur, a nasty, bad woman!"
"There are people like that," Gimblet agreed diplomatically; "but tell
me, how did Mrs. Vanderstein know this Madame Querterot?"
"She came for a time to _coiffer_ Madame, and to rejuvenate her
complexion, which needed nothing of the kind, I assure you. But she had
the idea to be massaged, and for some months that woman was daily in the
house. Never did I comprehend how Mrs. Vanderstein could tolerate her. A
woman so vulgar, so familiar, and who never ceased to talk and talk and
talk!"
Amélie spoke with virtuous indignation, as one to whom the gift of
silence has been vouchsafed.
"She is a masseuse, then?"
"Not a real masseuse, though so she calls herself; but, to say the
truth, she is just a hairdresser who tries to make people believe she
knows something of the care of the skin. For some reason she appeared to
amuse Madame, and I think it was chiefly for that reason that she let
her come."
"Did she come every day, and has she been here since Mrs. Vanderstein
left home?"
"For two or three months she came every day," replied Amélie bitterly.
"Indeed I thought she was coming always, but only last Monday--the very
day Madame went away--I heard la Justine say that it was her final
visit; and, in truth, she has not been here since, I am very happy to
say it."
"Ah," said Gimblet. "Well, I shall have to go and see her. Let me see,
you said she is a tall, dark woman, did you not?"
"But no," cried Amélie, "on the contrary she is short, and has yellow
hair in the worst possible taste."
"What makes you dislike this woman so much? Do you know anything against
her, by any chance?"
But it appeared that Amélie knew nothing against Madame Querterot. Vague
accusations and dark charges of a general character were all she had to
bring; and, after listening to a tirade of this kind for a considerable
time, Gimblet cut it short by asking for the masseuse's address.
"Your mistress left a letter for her," he said, "which has been sent
over to us by the French police. It is of no importance, and contains, I
think, only a reference to Madame Querterot's account, but I am anxious
to deliver it; and, as the poor lady had got no further with the address
than Madame Q, without your assistance it would have been a matter of
some difficulty."
It was unfortunate that the detective should have hit upon this excuse
to explain his interrogations, for the idea that even death had not put
a stop to intercourse between Mrs. Vanderstein and her enemy nearly
suffocated Amélie, whose jealous suspicions woke again at the challenge.
"This is the address, monsieur," she said, as she gave it to him,
"but I would not count on finding the bird in the nest. It is in the
neighbourhood of Boulogne that you should look for that infamous woman.
One of her kind is capable of everything; and, in my opinion, nothing is
more probable than that it is she who is the real assassin of my poor
Madame! A black beard, indeed! Is she not a hairdresser?"
Gimblet fled before the storm of words he had provoked, and hurried to
the Pimlico address that he had obtained.
In spite of himself, Amélie's words echoed in his ears: "Is she not a
hairdresser?" A black beard was a simple enough disguise, and fair hair
may be covered. But he had been told also that the masseuse was a short
woman, and height is not so easily simulated. Such were his thoughts as
he turned the handle of the shop door.
There was no one inside, and Gimblet had time to remark the empty
shelves and forlorn look of the window--which the waxen lady no longer
graced with her presence--before, in answer to the rapping of his hand
on the counter and his repeated cry of "Shop, please," the door leading
to the back room opened and Julie Querterot made her appearance.
It was a sad enough figure she presented to him that day: paler,
thinner, more tired-looking than ever. There was a scared look in her
eyes now, and black lines under them. She came forward slowly, almost
timidly.
"Did you want anything?" she said. "I am afraid our stock is nearly
all--sold out."
"Thanks," said Gimblet. "I called to see Madame Querterot--is it
possible that I am speaking to her?"
"Oh no," said Julie with a little smile. "I am her daughter. But I fear
you cannot see my mother just now. She is--out."
"Never mind," returned Gimblet. "I will wait. Perhaps she will be in by
luncheon-time? I have a message for her."
"I do not know when she will be back," said the girl. "Can you not leave
the message with me?"
"It is for her own ear," said Gimblet. "If you don't mind, I will wait a
little."
He sat down as he spoke, and Julie, after a hesitating glance, went back
to the inner room, leaving the door ajar between the two.
Gimblet, left to himself, was surprised to notice again how very few
were the articles exposed for sale. Bare as the shop had looked when he
first entered, he now saw it to be even emptier than he had thought. A
tradesman's almanack on one wall, a picture from an illustrated paper
on the other, two or three bottles of hair-wash and a few packets of
hair-pins seemed to constitute the whole stock in trade.
Gimblet was still wondering whether the massage was in as bad a way as
the hairdressing side of the Querterot business, when a subdued sound
coming from the next room drew his attention.
What was it, that sort of low, muffled panting?
The detective got up softly, and stole to the door.
Peeping shamelessly through the crack, he saw that a chair had been
drawn up to the table and that Julie sat there with her head bent and
resting on her hands. It was from her that the sound came which had
caught his ear, for her whole body was shaking with the sobs which she
tried in vain to stifle.
Gimblet opened the door and passed boldly through.
"I am so sorry," he said, "to have come at a time when you are unhappy.
But won't you tell me all about it? Who knows, I may be able to help
you."
At sight of him the girl started up, with a renewed effort to get the
better of her grief; but the kind tone of Gimblet's voice put the
finishing touch to her emotions: losing all attempt at self-control, she
laid her head down on the table before her and gave way to unrestrained
and passionate tears.
Gimblet let her weep for a while, then he sat down near her and tried
to comfort her. He took one of her hands and patted it gently, as if she
had been a child.
"There, there," he said, "don't cry any more. Tell me what's the matter
and let's see if something can't be done about it."
Gradually her tears came more slowly; the convulsive sobs that had
shaken her died away, and she sat up and dried her eyes, looking at him
from time to time with furtive shyness.
"You are very kind, sir," she said at last, succumbing reluctantly to
that feeling of confidence which Gimblet always succeeded in inspiring
if he tried. "It was--it was only because you asked to see my mother."
"How's that?"
"She--she--I don't know where she is."
"No? But never mind. You will hear where she has been when she comes
home."
"You don't understand. She hasn't been home for four days, and I have no
idea when she is coming back. She did not tell me anything."
"Dear me!" Gimblet looked grave. "When do you say you saw her last?"
"It was on Tuesday morning," said Julie. "She came and woke me very
early; she seemed to have been out, for she still wore her hat, and in
her hand she had a black bag. After that she went away. I heard her
moving about for some time, till at last she went downstairs and I heard
the front door slam. I jumped out of bed and looked out of the window
and saw her going down the street with a big bag in each hand. And I
haven't seen or heard anything of her since. But I am sure, oh, I _know_
she did not mean to come back!"
"How do you know that?" Gimblet asked.
"I know it from what she said, and from what she did, before she went."
"Won't you tell me?"
Julie looked at him doubtfully.
"Bert--that is a friend of mine--tried to make me promise not to say
anything about it, but I told him I should go to the police if I didn't
hear soon. And I feel I must tell some one, for something dreadful may
have happened to her," Julie added, half to herself. "Have you anything
to do with the police?" she asked.
"Well, yes, I have, as a matter of fact; in an indirect way."
"You will know what to do then, if I tell you. Bert doesn't seem to know
what to do; he only rages. Well, I think my mother has gone away for
good, because, before she went, she got a man to come to the house and
buy nearly every portable thing in it. There is hardly anything left
besides these chairs and table, and my bed upstairs. Soon after she had
gone they came and took away the things."
"Did she leave you no money?"
"No, but she left me the house, you see; only the rent is due and I have
nothing to pay it with. And she told me to collect any bills that were
due for her services, and that she made me a present of the money. So
when she was gone I looked in the ledger and found that everything owing
to her had been paid up during the last few days, except one account. It
was that of Mrs. Vanderstein, the poor lady who was murdered at Boulogne
yesterday, as perhaps you have seen in the papers?"
Gimblet inclined his head gravely, and she went on.
"My mother used to go to massage the complexion of Mrs. Vanderstein, and
the amount owing was large, over twenty pounds. I was grateful that such
a sum should be given to me; but, when I saw the next morning that the
lady had disappeared, I made sure it was because she was unable to pay
her bills, and it seemed likely that my mother had known this when she
was so generous to me. I made sure I should never see a penny of that
money, and I was in despair, as I didn't know what to do about the rent,
or even how to live in the meantime. I went up to Mrs. Vanderstein's
house to see if she had really gone, and a kind old gentleman told me
the bill would be paid all the same. That was a great comfort, but I
knew it would not be for some time, at any rate, and perhaps not till
I was starving. It did not really matter so very much," Julie added
loyally, "for I am anxious to enter a religious sisterhood, and they
will take me, I am sure, even if I have nothing to bring them. But I
can't bear to go to them as a beggar, and I wish, I wish she hadn't left
me quite destitute without any warning," she concluded, her eyes filling
with tears again.
"Then what did she wake you up to say, early on Tuesday morning?"
"I told you she had a bag in her hand? She took some clothes out of it
and gave them to me. She told me to burn them and that she would explain
why when she came back. But she said I might keep the linings to make
myself petticoats. Such fine petticoats would be no use to me. Still,
it was kind of her. And then she took out this and gave it to me to
take care of"--Julie put her hand to her neck and pulled out from under
her blouse a long string of enormous pearls. "She said that one of her
customers had asked her to look after them while she was travelling,"
continued the girl, lifting the necklace over her head and holding it
out to Gimblet. "I don't know if they are real, though she told me to be
very careful of them and to wear them always. But I think if they had
been real she would not have left them."
Gimblet took the necklace without a word. He was for the moment
incapable of speaking.
"That was all my mother said to me," went on Julie, "but she seemed
very pleased about something; and at the same time excited. When I
looked out of the window and saw her walking away, she was wearing
clothes I had never seen before; they must have been quite new. They
were simple, certainly, just a coat and skirt and a small hat; but they
were beautifully made and fitted her so well, not at all like what she
generally wore. There is something about expensive clothes that makes
people look so different. I should hardly have known her if it had not
been for a way she has of walking. I could only see the top of her
head, but the hat was a very smart one, with a beautiful osprey in it.
Somehow she had the air of a person going to a wedding, and I can't help
thinking that perhaps it was her own wedding she was going to. She may
have married some one above us in station and not have wanted him to
know of my existence. That is what I think, but Bert says not."
Gimblet cleared his throat. "I wonder," he said, "if you would mind
showing me the clothes you spoke of that your mother gave you before she
left."
"I'm afraid I can't," said Julie. "I--you see I had no money--I sold
them to a second-hand clothes shop in Victoria Street. Bert wanted to
see them too. He thinks my mother must have had some special reason for
saying they were to be burnt, but I don't believe she would have told me
I could keep the linings if they had been infectious."
"What were they like?" Gimblet asked. It needed all his self-control to
keep the eagerness out of his voice.
"Two beautiful white evening dresses," said Julie, "and two opera cloaks
of red and mauve silk all covered with lovely embroidery and lace. Of
course I could never have worn them and it seemed a pity to cut them up.
I simply couldn't have burned them. The shop only gave me five pounds
for the lot, but that will keep me for some time till I have decided
what to do. Still, Bert says I ought not to have sold them."
"By the way," said Gimblet, "who is Bert?"
The girl flushed. "He's just a boy I know," she said. "He used to go
to school with me, and he is always good to me. I shouldn't like to
annoy him or to hurt his feelings, and I ought not to have spoken of
him, because when he advised me not to go to the police, and I wouldn't
promise, he said that I should see that harm would come of it. And so
I told him that if my mother came back and blamed me for having spoken
of her absence, as he seems to think she would, I would say that he had
urged me not to. And then he got quite angry and told me to do as I
pleased, but not to mix him up in it, and so I said of course I'd never
mention his name if he didn't like; but now I've done it." She stopped,
breathless.
"Well, give Bert a message from me," said Gimblet; "tell him I agree
with him so far, and think you have no need to go to the police yet
awhile. But you had better not tell him I have anything to do with them,
as he seems to dislike them so much. Shall you see him soon?"
"Yes, I expect he will come this evening when he leaves off work; he
generally does. And I think I shan't tell him anything about you.
Really, it isn't his business and I don't like being always lectured."
"I think you are quite right," said Gimblet. "Now one question. Have
you any idea as to the man with whom you think your mother may have
gone off? Had you any suspicion before that she was thinking of marrying
again?"
The girl hesitated a moment. "No," she said, "I have no idea at all who
it could be."