Eight o'clock next morning found the Chief Inspector wrapped in
slumber. The Boots interrupted them to tell him that there was an
insistent telephone call for Mr. Deane—a lady speaking from Cannes.
Grateful for the fact that science did not yet enable Miss West to see
him as well as hear him, Mr. Deane descended the stairs sleepily after
the briefest of toilets.
“Gladys speaking. I was at Monte Carlo last night with some Americans,
and in the Rooms I saw a lady I had last seen in London at the hotel
which we so often talk about. She had room number twelve there. You
remember her, too, don't you?”
“Perfectly. What was she doing when you caught sight of her?”
A little gurgle came through. “Talking to Jack.”
“Indeed!” Pointer's voice sounded as amused as hers, but his eyes were
hard and keen. “Oh, indeed! Had she got rid of her cold?”
“You'll have to ask him. I was miles away from them, stuck in a block
of people around one of the tables. But it seems that Jack was only
telling her the way out.”
“You saw him later on?”
“No. He too had vanished by the time I got clear. You see, he didn't
expect me there. I had tried to 'phone him, but he was out all day.
But I got through to him the first thing this morning.”
Pointer's free hand gave an impatient tap to the table.
“Bless all amateurs!” he would have liked to reply, but he changed it
instead to “I see. But first about yourself. You didn't notice where
Miss—umph——”
“Twelve went to?”
“No, I only saw her for the one second, but I thought you'd be
interested.”
“Quite right. How was she dressed?”
“Beautifully, I guess. I can't get used to people leaving all their
clothes behind them, but she had as much on as the wife of one of your
ambassadors who was there, too, and Miss Les—Twelve had the finer
jewels.”
“Did Mr. Crane have anything interesting to tell you about her?”
“Oh, no, he was merely watching a table when she asked him the way
out. She was standing beside him you see, and as she really was a
lady, and alone, and had got separated from her husband, why, of
course, he showed her the way out himself. In the vestibule sure
enough was the husband, and they went off together. John had had
enough of the rooms—and isn't the air hot inside—so he roamed along
the _terasse_—you know what a wonderful night it was, and then after
supper at the Paris motored back to Nice. But say now, Mr. Deane,
don't you want to come and have a nice long talk with me, or have me
come and see you? I'm so dull here.”
There was nothing she could do yet, Pointer assured her, by which he
meant that there was nothing he wanted her to do, and remained adamant
in spite of all her appeals. His next 'phone was to Watts to come
immediately to the hotel. Then he rang up Carter, who having a 'phone
beside his bed answered at once, but apparently he could add nothing
to Miss West's account. Until Christine had 'phoned him half an hour
before he had had no idea as to who the lady was who had spoken to him
last night at the Monte Carlo Rooms. Her husband was a smart,
youngish-looking man with something military about his get-up. Where
the couple went to Carter did not try to see.
Toule, the French detective “attached” to Carter, when questioned next
on the 'phone, only knew that “Mr. Crane” had taken a car from the
hotel and driven along the Corniche road to Monte Carlo, returning
late at night—about twelve the hotel-porter said.
“Humph!” was the only comment of Mr. Deane as he returned to his room,
where Watts was already waiting.
“Watts, get off to Monte Carlo at once. Miss West saw Miss Leslie and
Carter talking together in the Rooms there last night. His explanation
is”—the Chief Inspector repeated the conversations. “You have a
snapshot of her—” The ladies occupying both No. 12 and No. 11 of the
Enterprise had been snapshotted going down the hotel steps on the
Monday following the discovery of “Eames' suicide.” “Rake the coast
from Ventimiglia to Marseilles if you have to, but get on her track.
What will you go as?”
“Colonel Hunter,” Watts said gloomily. He disliked that gentleman
exceedingly, from his walrus moustache to his political opinions, and
his miserable golf handicap, but it was his best impersonation, and
the only one for which he had a passport.
“Right.”
The future Colonel bustled off after making a note or two. He did not
report for a couple of days, and then he called up Pointer to say that
Captain and Mrs. Anstruther were also stopping at the Negresco, where,
oddly enough, they had gone from the Hermitage, the afternoon after
the lady was seen talking to Carter. In the hotel a slight,
casual-looking acquaintance seemed to have been struck up between them
and Carter, ostensibly connected with his civility to Mrs. Anstruther
at Monte Carlo. The closest watching had as yet shown nothing
suspicious beyond the facts themselves.
Within the hour a tall, dark-haired, black-moustached man sent in his
name to Mrs. Anstruther as one of the _Daily Post's_ reporters.
It was Captain Anstruther who came down into the lounge instead.
“My wife does not care to be interviewed,” he said shortly, handing
back his card to “Mr. Wiley.” “We are at a loss to understand why she
should be singled out for the favour.”
“It's about her contract at the Columbine,” the journalist said
chattily, “but you might do as well. The _D.P._ wants to know what has
become of Miss Leslie and——”
“Come upstairs.” Captain Anstruther spoke with more haste than
hospitality. “I don't know how you got on to the fact that my wife was
Miss Leslie. . . .”
“Recognised her.”
“Well, you tell your paper that she's retired into private life. Look
here, it's worth our while to make it worth _your_ while to mention no
names. See?”
“I do. But our paper thinks she married a Mr. Black, of Richmond,—or
no, another place on the river——”
Captain Anstruther looked still more vexed.
“Of all the damned spying!—I'm a nephew of those Blacks as a matter of
fact. Look here, keep all names out of the papers”—he squeezed a note
into the journalist's hand, who returned it promptly.
“I should get the sack if I tried that game. I can keep all names
out—possibly—without palm-oil. It's her broken contract anyway that
our paper's keen on. Why wasn't she sued? And why no announcement of
the wedding?”
Captain Anstruther bit his lip.
“Look here, Wiley, you seem a decent chap. I'll, well—I'll take you
into our confidence. I'm divorced from my first wife, and Miss
Leslie's people are Romans and fearfully pie. They'd have a fit. So,
as they're buried alive in Cumberland, they'll never know—at least
till the honeymoon is over—unless some paper spreads it broadcast. As
to the contract—I squared the management under a pledge of the
strictest secrecy. Now then, have a drink, and see how little you can
tell about us, there's a good chap. You might let me see your article
if you would?”
The journalist sipped his tumbler of lemonade.
“Look here,” he said impulsively, “I'll scratch the whole item. I've
always admired Miss Leslie immensely. I wouldn't for the world do
anything to annoy her. But I wonder if she wouldn't do us instead an
article on ‘How it feels to be on the Stage,’ or some ‘Reminiscences.’
She could sign her old name to them all right.”
“I'll bring her in and you can ask her yourself.”
Miss Leslie was quite taken with the idea of a fortnightly article.
The first one on “Hardships of the dressing-room” would let her fire
off quite a few burning truths she had often wished to singe the
manager with in the days of her comparative poverty. And it would keep
her people quiet.
Mr. Wiley only stipulated that the articles should be sent through
him, and that he must, of course, be kept in touch with the authoress
until the series of six articles for which he contracted in the name
of his paper was finished. The Anstruthers, who knew nothing of the
newspaper world, were quite impressed by Mr. Wiley's ability and
helpful suggestions, and he left the apartment with their permanent
address in his pocket.
He walked back to the Chief Inspector's hotel, whence a 'phone to
Watts relieved that detective of some of his anxiety, for to watch a
person with a known address is a very different job than keeping an
eye on a homeless wanderer who may vanish utterly within a quarter of
an hour. A telegram to the Yard brought the confirmation of the
marriage, the bride's Roman Catholic parents in Cumberland, and of the
husband's large estates in Devon. Of the lady herself Pointer had a
mixed impression. On the whole he pigeon-holed her as belonging to
those women who, outwardly well bred, can be swung completely off
their balance by but one force—the power of money. She struck him as a
woman determined to have her share—and as much more perhaps as she
could compass—of the good things of life. He took her husband to be of
different calibre, and in his case the incentive of a possible need of
money would be absent. So she had married a relation of the young
fellow she had braved the rain storm on that August Saturday to see.
He had not turned up, and whatever the reason the Chief Inspector
wondered idly whether Black ever knew that it was his absence which
had cost him the lady's affections.
On the evening of the next day arrived the key from Barcelona—the key
which he hoped would successfully unlock the Aglae safe in the villa.
At Nice there is some society function every night during the season.
This night it was a big ball in honour of a Spanish prince at Baron
Boron's castle on its beautiful hill. All the Riviera world would be
there. He and Watts, taken off duty temporarily, watched the departure
of the motor containing Mrs. Erskine, the Clarks, and Major Vaughan.
Leaving the other man near the gate to give an alarm, if need should
arise, Pointer, after allowing the servants time to be gathered
comfortably around the supper table, mounted a ladder as once before;
but this time it was a silk one, which he lifted over the sill once he
had entered by Mrs. Erskine's window, which stood open, for the night
was warm. The door safely bolted, the Chief Inspector approached the
safe and disconnected the alarums. Even his heart beat faster as he
inserted the Foch key. It turned easily, the door swung open, and with
a deep breath the police-officer took off his hat mentally to Foch as
he looked inside.
Three hours later he touched Watts on the shoulder, and leaving him to
taxi back to the Negresco, where Mr. Crane was among the
“not-invited,” Pointer sent off a pile of telegrams to all the
air-stations near London.
The replies drifted in next day. Among them was an answer to an
earlier request for information concerning Major Vaughan. That officer
had distinguished himself on several occasions during the Great War,
and it was a matter of comment that he had not received either the
Military or the Victoria Cross which had been as good as promised him.
His means were believed to be small. He had not returned to London for
many years now, and was reported to suffer from weak lungs, which
needed Riviera sunshine.
M. Guillaume of the Préfecture knew nothing against the major, any
more than he did against the Clarks. All three seemed to the French
police to be model Riviera guests, wealthy, well-born, and
entertaining a good deal. Only the major's health was not up to the
rest of his report. It sometimes necessitated seclusions for a week at
a time in his charming bachelor flat, but Pointer agreed that this
could hardly be considered a moral blemish. He walked along the
Promenade des Anglais to think it all out. But in vain did the azure
arms of land bend around one of the loveliest bays in the world, a sea
of cobalt and violet and silver. In vain did sunshine, African in its
splendour, beat on him. The Chief Inspector's thoughts were brooding
on too black a crime to take their hue from Nature. Though he strolled
under the palm trees beside beds of nodding cyclamen, in reality he
walked only along a twisted, tortuous murder trail, which still
baffled him. Now and again he faced the casino, rising from the sea
with gilded cupolas and airy pinnacles like a fairy palace, but he saw
ever instead a young man's dead face—and a wardrobe—and a poison
draught—and motives obscure and dark.
He decided to start that night for Biarritz. Since he could not pick
up the ends of the threads here, he might chance on them further back
in the surroundings of the widow years before she moved to this side
of France. Colonel Hunter he left to hover around Carter, in spite of
Watts' hints that the villa might yield a better harvest to an
unobtrusive investigator.
“I've arranged that with Guillaume at the Préfecture. A hint that Mrs.
Erskine may possibly be in some danger, which I hope to locate
shortly, will keep her safe. Not that I anticipate any trouble. As for
you, shadow Carter closely, and trail him if he leaves Nice.” A few
directions followed as to where, and when, to communicate with
himself; and Watts, willy-nilly, had to readjust Colonel Hunter's
buttonhole and, stroking that warrior's moustache firmer into place,
descend the stairs, meditating on the charms of a farm in Canada, or a
free life in Australia, careers for which he had as much talent or
real liking as a mole might have for catching birds.
Pointer found Mrs. Erskine's circle in Biarritz almost impossible to
reconstruct after fifteen years. However, he at last unrolled the main
outlines to where she had left to spend the summer on a farm further
in the Pyrenees. Here the path seemed to end, till an idea came to
him. A library! Especially a circulating library with English books!
He found the only one in Biarritz. The manager told him he had kept it
over thirty years. Did he have all books entered? Naturally, the owner
in Paris was most particular. Could he trace any library books which
might have been sent out to No. 42, Avenue de Paris, fifteen years
ago? He could, but he did not look enchanted at the prospect, until
Pointer begged him to use the trifle he pressed into his hand to buy
himself some cigars. Next morning the police-officer got his money's
worth. The manager had found three entries fifteen years ago to a Mrs.
Erskine, but the books had not been sent to the address the Chief
Inspector had given, but to a farm near St. Jean de Luz. Pointer
taxied at once to the place. It was still in the same hands, and
Monsieur Jaureguibarry recognised the portrait of Mrs. Erskine, but
knew none of her friends, except her companion, though he could not
remember that lady's name. His visitor's book gave Paris as the
objective of the two ladies on leaving the Basque farm.
“Paris,” mused Pointer. He hoped that she had made some stop on the
way, and, allowing for the length of the journey from the farm, he
decided to try Bayonne as the first likely place. He had guessed
rightly, and found Mrs. Erskine's name on an old register of the Grand
Hotel. She seemed to have made a stay of over three weeks there, and
he sallied out on his round of questions once more. First of all was a
telegram to Russell asking for all details in full of any “companions”
Mrs. Erskine had ever had, and what had become of them. The reply
arrived after a little delay.
“We know only of two women who acted as companions to Mrs. Erskine.
First a Scotswoman, Janet Fraser by name, whom she mentions once in a
letter about a year after her husband's death. She is dead. Then in a
mortgage executed by Mrs. Erskine some four years later as a witness
to her signature we have an entry of ‘Mabel Baker. Companion to Mrs.
Erskine.’ Am posting document to you.”
Mabel Baker! Mabel—— Pointer's eyes snapped. The passport of Mrs.
Clark found in the safe at the villa did not give her maiden name, but
he had written to the passport office for the particulars furnished by
her when applying for it. On her application form she had entered her
name as Mabel Baker, daughter of Arthur Baker, of Norwich. He had
tried unsuccessfully to find out anything about Arthur Baker, the
father, and all that he knew of herself and her husband was that their
forms had been signed by their London bank-manager, who was unable
after so many years to furnish any particulars Their address was a
house in Kensington which had long ago been converted into flats, so
that all efforts to trace the couple further back or further forward
had failed, but here at last was a new fact that fitted a theory of
Robert Erskine's murder, which since the night when Foch's key had
opened the safe had been steadily accumulating weight in his mind.
Christine felt more and more disappointed as the weeks passed and no
sign came from Pointer. Nothing seemed to be being done. He had spoken
of spade work, but she feared that the police had dug themselves in,
and that valuable time was being lost. She even began to doubt their
keenness. After all it was they who had actually blundered so far as
to imprison her John. Might they not be off on some other equally
wild-goose chase? Carter preached patience at their weekly meetings,
but he could not hide his surprise at the slowness of the official
tempo. Pointer would have been grimly amused could he have heard them.
The two young people talked in odd _confiseries_ or took excursions
together, meeting “by chance” in the tram, and having lunch “by
chance” in the same inns, with a tea also by the same coincidence in
the same cake-shop, or on the same hotel verandah. Luck, however,
never favoured them to such an extent that they were quite alone. Some
man, now old, now young, now middle-aged, was sure to be already
there, or come in with them, or enter before they were more than
seated. It never occurred to Christine that the faithful Watts was on
duty, and that a great deal more than she would have cared for was
absorbed by his attentive ears.
One day, when the Chief Inspector had been close on a fortnight away,
Carter watched Christine get down from the tram and pass in through
the doors of the Galeries Lafayette. They had already said good-bye
for another week before boarding the tram at the top of the hill, but
he watched her, thinking that there was no gait in the world to touch
hers. Christine had decided that new gloves were a necessity even
though the question of clothes did not interest her at all in these
dark days. While she was trying on a pair, a voice, low and faintly
monotonous, spoke to her. It was Mrs. Erskine. She asked Christine to
come back to the villa for tea. The girl accepted at once, for she
hoped to hear that Pointer after all had been making some fresh
discovery, of which the mother had been kept informed. But Mrs.
Erskine had nothing to tell her, as she complained during the drive
back, and both women lamented the proverbial stupidity of Scotland
Yard. The Scotswoman asked Christine to pass on at once into the
_loggia_ used for tea on warm days, while she took off her things. The
_loggia_ was a pretty spot, with well-placed mirrors duplicating the
scenery, and gay with tubs of flowering plants. There were a couple of
rows of books running around its three sides, and Christine idly
picked up a Paris guide. It belonged, as she saw by the name in it, to
Mrs. Clark. A loose sheet of letterpaper fell out as she turned it
over. It was the first half-sheet of a letter. Christine's eyes grew
larger. It was in Robert's handwriting,—a letter to his mother—a
Christmas letter dated four years back. She stiffened. Over and over
again she read the words, they were the ones which had disagreeably
struck the Chief Inspector in Paris. Christine folded the half-sheet
carefully away. Mrs. Erskine had tea alone with her. There was
evidently a bridge party going on below. She tried to continue their
conversation of the car about the impasse in her son's “case,” but
Christine let each question drop until her hostess had had some tea.
She was anxious that the shock of what she had to say should not be
too much for one whose health was so delicate. When the tea-things had
been cleared away, she spoke slowly.
“I _have_ got something I should like to say about Rob's case, but
could I talk it over with you in your boudoir? This is such an open
place.”
Mrs. Erskine looked at her very keenly. In silence she led the way,
and closed the door behind her visitor.
Christine held out the half-sheet of note-paper. “This dropped out of
a book of Mrs. Clark's I happened to pick up while waiting for you
just now.”
Mrs. Erskine put on her glasses. Her hand went out in a sudden nervous
little jerk. “One of my Robert's letters! Oh, let me have it! I
thought I had lost them all!”
Christine gauged the mother's affection by the eagerness of the voice
and eyes. She had never seen Mrs. Erskine show her heart so clearly,
and her own went out warmly to the widowed, childless woman before
her. “Mrs. Erskine,” Christine moistened her lips, “there's been a
strange mistake somewhere. That looks like a letter from Robert, but
it isn't! He never wrote those lines. Never!”
“What?” Mrs. Erskine turned very pale—“what do you mean?” The
half-sheet which she held in her hand shook till Christine wondered
that it did not rattle.
“You see, _I_ wrote Rob's Christmas letter for him four years ago. He
had burnt his hand badly at the mills, and couldn't go anywhere, so
that we had a quiet time together, like old times. He dictated a
letter to you and I wrote it. Jack can tell you the same thing.
Besides, you might have known that Rob couldn't—wouldn't have written
like that.”
Mrs. Erskine seemed dazed. “But—but—they were all alike. All his
letters were the same. . . . And who's Jack?”
“A friend of mine who used to know Rob well—in Canada. I'm so sorry
to've sprung this on you, but you ought to know it, and at least you
can comfort yourself with the thought that your son never wrote such
horrible letters as you have been thinking all these years. Surely
someone with you must have had a motive to intercept your son's
letters, and forge others in their stead.”
“It's his paper—the paper he always used.” Mrs. Erskine seemed quite
dazed. She gave Christine the impression of a woman speaking in a
nightmare.
“It may be, but it's not his letter. You see, I happen to be in a
position to swear to that one, and to prove it in time. Lots of other
people knew of his accident. Now, Mrs. Erskine, who is there who could
have done so wicked, so cruel a thing?”
Mrs. Erskine suddenly got up, as though she found the room stifling.
She looked ghastly, and to Christine she looked frightened as well.
“I must be alone—this shock—this blow—I want time”—she held out a
cold, shaking hand—“will you come back—it's now five. Will you come
back at seven without fail? Without fail? I—promise me you won't speak
of this to anyone in the meanwhile. I know a French detective, not so
far from here, before whom I want to lay the case. He is the only man
who can solve this riddle. But I'll go into that later when you come
back. Promise that you won't speak of it to anyone in the meanwhile. I
have a feeling that absolute secrecy is essential if this mystery is
to be unravelled,—and unravelled it must be—and quickly!”
Christine would have taken the widow's hand, but Mrs. Erskine did not
see her gesture. There was something fierce in her eyes. Action, not
sentiment, was evidently rising rapidly in her heart to the exclusion
of any softer feeling. Christine mentally apologised to her for ever
having thought her dull and cold.
“But what about the Inspector?” she asked gently.
“You mean yon English policeman? That dolt has done nothing but muddle
and muddle along. And where is he now? Away on his holidays, I
shouldna be surprised.”
Christine made a little deprecatory _moue_.
“Still, the case is in his hands,” she ventured, and remembering how
he had come to the help of them all at Lille, she repeated more
firmly. “I do think you owe it to him to let him know about this at
once.”
“And where is he to be found?” Mrs. Erskine asked fiercely; “tell me
that?”
Christine had not the faintest idea, and said so. She could not add
that the Chief Inspector had told her to consult Mr. Watts should any
emergency arise while he was away.
Mrs. Erskine sank back into her chair. “He bade me 'phone to the
Préfecture if anything unexpected should happen, and it's aye the
unexpected to that man that happens in all his cases, I'm thinking.
Well, instead of the Préfecture, I am going, as I told you, to employ
a most clever French detective of whose skill I've had some verra good
proofs indeed in other days. Now, Christine, my dear”—she had never
called the girl that before—“just send a wire, or a letter, to your
_pension_ in Cannes and bide the night here with me. I have much to
do. I need you. Leave me to myself now, but come you back at seven
without fail and we will see what my Frenchman can do to clear up this
dreadful discovery of yours.” Mrs. Erskine was deeply moved. She
folded one trembling hand over the other, as though to keep them quiet
by force.
“I canna believe it”—she turned her glowing eyes on the girl—“I canna
yet believe what you've told me. To-night you must let me hear
anything that you remember from my Rob's letters. The letters that I
never received.”
Mrs. Erskine covered her face with her hands, and only made a gesture
of farewell as Christine passed her.
“Don't fail me!” she breathed, and the girl laid a tender hand for a
second on the bowed shoulder.
She herself spent the interval as in a dream. What did it mean? What
could it mean? Was there really someone in the house with Mrs. Erskine
who had substituted those brutal begging letters; but how had they
been able to profit by the money? Surely there could not have been an
accomplice at the other end as well? Someone who could take Mrs.
Erskine's letters with their money contents and change them again for
the cold, formal epistles which alone had reached Rob? Yet he had been
allowed to receive the thousand pounds! Christine felt her head in a
whirl, and she tried to think of something else as she walked by the
sea. There was something, too, in Mrs. Erskine's manner which
suggested that she knew more than she would admit. She was afraid of
something, or someone. What or who? Christine was thankful that the
mother could turn to an expert who could throw daylight on what seemed
so dark, and to whom the other would at last speak out.
It was not quite seven when she returned to the villa.
It was on the afternoon of the same day that Pointer set out for Nice.
He 'phoned to Christine from Marseilles, where the train had a wait.
The puzzle had yielded to the key. He knew now the truth about Robert
Erskine's murder, but he wanted her help with regard to his letters to
his mother.
The Chief Inspector was told that mademoiselle was out, but would be
back in the afternoon. A 'phone to the Negresco informed him that
Crane was away too. He wondered if he had struck the weekly meeting
day of the young couple, and left a message for Christine to expect a
'phone from Nice at the hour when his train arrived. A few words over
the instrument would tell him all that he wanted to know. To “Colonel
Hunter” he wired instructions to meet Mr. Deane at the station.
Watts met him, but it seemed that Miss West had not yet returned to
her _pension_. Not only that, but she had 'phoned about an hour ago to
say that she was spending the night in Nice with friends, and would
possibly be away a day or two. “Yes, mademoiselle had sent the 'phone
herself.”
“The devil!” murmured Pointer thoughtfully; “that can only mean she's
at the villa! The very devil! Where's Carter?” he asked aloud of
Watts, who as yet had heard nothing concerning the other's journey.
“He is to dine with the Anstruthers to-night. When I left he was
playing tennis with one of the Chapman boys.”
“Humph!” grunted Pointer, “we'll try to get him.”
Carter's voice answered him at once.
“Hello! That you, Deane? At last! Anything turned up? What? Where's
Miss West? In Cannes. She was going back by the three-fifteen. Am I
sure? No, I can't be sure, as she never lets me see her off. Orders,
you know. But when I left her at half-past two that was her intention.
Is anything the matter?”
“Not that I know of, but keep near the 'phone for a few minutes, will
you?”
“You bet!” Pointer heard before he disconnected. He promptly rang up
Mrs. Erskine. That lady, too, was out, Marie's voice informed him. Had
Miss West been there during the afternoon? Yes, she had had tea with
madame, and had left a little before six o'clock. No, she had not
returned.
Again the Chief Inspector looked thoughtfully at his boot-tips. Watts,
who knew his little ways, wondered what was worrying him. In another
second Pointer was speaking to Carter again and asking him to come
around to his hotel at once in the big car he hired regularly.
“For God's sake, tell me is there anything wrong with Christine,”
urged the Canadian; but the Chief Inspector hung up the receiver. He
next tried to get into touch with the Préfecture, but the line was
occupied, and before he got through Carter's car was at the door and
that young man was in the room.
“Look here, you can't keep silence like this. What's wrong? Why did
you ask about Christine?”
“I'd like to know where she is,” was all Pointer would reply. “She's
not at her _pension_; I want to find out just where she is. Drive to
the villa.”
It was close on eight o'clock when the car rushed up the drive. Pierre
came out at once.
“M. and Mme. Clark were out. They had left after six o'clock, he
thought.” He himself looked slightly dishevelled. Marie came running
down from the floor above.
“Ah, I thought it _was_ your voice, Monsieur Pointer! What a pity
madame is out. But pray come in and rest yourselves, gentlemen.” They
followed her upstairs into the drawing-room.
“Major Vaughan in?” asked Pointer.
For answer she went to the little house 'phone on the wall. There was
no reply to her ringing.
“He is out, and his man, too, monsieur.”
“Do you know when madame will return? We must see mademoiselle as soon
as possible. It is most important. She has not gone back to Cannes. We
made sure that she would be spending the night here. Are you certain
that she did not come back later and go out with Madame or the
Clarks?”
“Ah-h, that was, of course, quite possible. As a matter of fact there
had been a dreadful upset here. Madame Clark had lost the wonderful
emerald pendant she values so highly.”
She had discovered her loss a little before six, and after that Marie
hardly knew what had happened. Pierre had been sent post haste in a
taxi way out to the _Palais des Marguerites_, where Madame Clark had
been last night, in case . . . It was absurd to send him, but Madame
Clark and her husband, usually so gay, were quite beside themselves;
even the _chef de cuisine_ and the kitchen man had been made to help
in the hunt,—been sent all the distance to some lunch place at Monte
Carlo. Madame Clark had got Madame Erskine to send her, Marie, in a
taxi to Antibes, where the Clarks had been during the late afternoon.
As for Madame Clark's own maid, it was her afternoon off. Marie did
not know whether the pendant had been found or not during their
absence. She herself had only just got back when M. Pointer
telephoned, and as for Pierre, he also was but just returned—the
others were still away. But as the car was out, the Clarks were out,
and madame as well as the major were out, Marie thought that the
emerald must have found itself, and the household be taking its
evening amusements as usual. But what a day! Oh, la, la!
Pointer walked swiftly through the rooms of the flat, followed by
Carter, silent and anxious. Watts, at a whisper, was looking over the
rest of the house, beginning—thanks to his pass-key, with the major's
rooms. Pointer stopped in a small dining-room Mrs. Erskine used for
herself, or a very small dinner party of intimate friends.
“When was the last meal served here?”
“Not for over a week, monsieur.”
Pointer asked Marie to be kind enough to 'phone to a Mr. Deane at the
Moderne to join him as soon as convenient at the villa. “He is a sort
of guardian of mademoiselle. If he is not in, ask them in the hotel to
look for him, and kindly wait by the 'phone. He will be in shortly in
any case.”
Having thus got rid of her for some little time, Pointer stopped and
picked up a couple of fair-sized crumbs.
“They're quite fresh. Someone's had a meal here recently.” He motioned
Carter to stand with his back against the door, and opened a couple of
cupboards. He glanced keenly at the bottom plates of a little pile.
“Still greasy. Been wiped with a newspaper.” He felt inside all the
cups. “Two are quite wet.” He paused over some teaspoons before he
hunted on, as though for something more definite still. Finally he
pounced on a crumpled little newspaper thrust into an empty cardboard
box on the back of the lowest shelf. He opened this out on the table.
A few scraps of bread and ham were inside. “Two people have had a meal
of sorts within the hour.” He shut the cupboards, whisked off the lace
centre and emptied the waste-paper basket on the polished surface.
More crumbs, bits of litter, and a faded flower tumbled out. Pointer
pounced on this last.
“A clove carnation. Was Miss West wearing any? There are none about.”
“Not when I saw her.”
“Marie!” called Pointer, and the maid came running up. “Was
mademoiselle wearing carnations when she came to tea?”
Marie shook her head with a smile.
“Ah, monsieur met her, then, later? I did give her a bunch when she
was leaving. Mademoiselle loves them so.”
Marie was quite certain that Christine had only been in the _loggia_
and the boudoir during her afternoon call.
Watts, who had joined the little group, shook his head. No one was in
the house. Pointer walked swiftly downstairs and out on to the drive.
“How much petrol has been taken, Pierre?” asked the Chief Inspector.
“As I said, we must catch up with mademoiselle, in her own interests,
to-night. It is a question of a paper she must sign. These gentlemen
have come as witnesses.”
Pierre rushed off to the garage. “No tin has been touched, and there
was very little in the car.”
Pointer stood motionless. Carter started to speak, but a glance from
the police-officer's eyes stopped him. Every mental nerve of Pointer's
was strung taut to the call he was making on it. Where had Christine
gone or been taken? He wasted no time on speculating on the why. He
looked at the tyre-tracks from the garage to the house, which showed
fairly clearly in the dust.
“Those wheels wouldn't do for any hill climbing. Who generally drove
the car?” he asked in French.
“Generally M. Clark. Sometimes, though rarely, M. le Majeur. Neither
would try to climb with those tyres.”
“And very little petrol . . . humph!” Pointer picked up the 'phone
mouthpiece and called a number, adding a code word swiftly.
“'Ello! Monsieur Guillaume there, by any chance, still? Ah, Monsieur
Garnier! You will do perfectly. No, it is nothing to do with my 'phone
from Tarascon this morning. That matter is all arranged, thanks to
your colleague, but I would like to know whether Madame Erskine owns a
launch or a yacht? No? Then, will you kindly have inquiries made at
once as to whether one has been hired to-day, late in the afternoon,
by anyone at the villa. It is most urgent.”
Pointer walked up and down, saying nothing. Carter, very pale, stared
hard at him, but did not offer to speak. Watts was lost in
speculation. The Chief Inspector leapt to the instrument at the bell's
first premonitory tinkle.
“Yes? Ah, good! Madame Clark hired it, you say. One of the swiftest
steam launches here. By 'phone about six, to await her at the harbour
steps by seven? Five people in all? Three ladies—one young—and two
men. That is the party. Oh, thank you, we should indeed be most
grateful. There are three of us. We will be with you in a little
minute, and if your surgeon could accompany us he might come in
useful. I do not know what we shall find.”
Carter blanched as he heard him.
Pointer turned to the other two.
“Your car, Carter! Miss West is on a launch which we shall be able to
overhaul on a still faster police boat which the Préfecture puts at
our disposal. We're in plenty of time.” But Pointer ran down the steps
and leapt up beside the driver's seat as though the margin of safety
were not so wide as he had said.
A direction or two, a turn of Carter's wheel, and they whirled up to a
quiet part of the old town's harbour where lay a wicked looking little
craft. A gendarme took charge of the car, they stepped aboard, and off
the launch flew like an arrow through the quiet blue evening.
“So Mrs. Clark arranged this party, did she?” Pointer said with a hard
stare through the lovely lilac shades of the early evening. “I fancy
it will be her last pleasure jaunt for some time.”
“What is it you're afraid of, in Heaven's name?” Carter asked, as so
often before; but Pointer only shook his head.
“Too complicated to explain just now. I think we shall be in plenty of
time.”