down-at-heel friend of her artistic days, a man whom she paid
lavishly both for his help and his silence. Who that man was I
suppose we shall never know. The so-called Matthieu Vignard and his
'blousey wife,' as Mr. Kleeberger picturesquely described her, have
completely disappeared; no trace of them was ever found. They hired
the studio at Montmartre for one month, paid the concierge the rent
in advance, and at the end of that time they decamped and have never
been heard of since, but unless I am much mistaken, they must at the
present moment be carrying on a very lucrative little blackmailing
business, because it must have been Vignard who conveyed the picture
to Paris in the same way as we know it was he who first approached
Charles B. Tupper and ultimately sold him the picture."
"But surely," I objected, for the funny creature had paused a moment,
and I could not deny that his arguments were sound, "surely it would
have been more practical to have sold the copy--which we suppose must
have been perfect--to Mr. Tupper who was a layman and an outsider,
and to have kept the original in the château, as the Duc was even
then negotiating for its sale, and most of the art dealers were
coming to have a look at it."
He did not reply immediately but remained for a while deeply absorbed
in the contemplation of his beloved bit of string.
"That," he admitted with complacent condescension, "would be a sound
argument if we admit at once that the Duchesse knew for a certainty
that her husband intended to sell 'La Fiancée.' But my contention is
that at the time that she sold the picture to Mr. Tupper she had no
idea that the Duc had any such intentions. No doubt when she knew
this for a fact, she must have been beside herself with horror; no
doubt also that she had a hard fight with her own terror before she
made a clean breast of her misdeed to her husband. Apparently she
did not do this until the very last moment, until the day when the
picture was actually taken out of her studio and placed upon an easel
in the dining-hall for closer inspection. Then discovery was
imminent and we must suppose that she made a full confession.
"The Duc, like a gallant gentleman, at once set his wits thinking how
best to save his wife's reputation without endangering his own. To
have admitted to Mr. Aaron Jacobs and to the other experts and art
dealers who had come to see the masterpiece that a Duc de
Rochechouart was trying to sell a spurious imitation whilst having
already disposed of the original was, of course, unthinkable; and
thus the idea presented itself to their Graces that the copy must be
made to disappear effectually. A favourable circumstance for the
success of this scheme was the garden fête which was to take place
that afternoon, when the house would be full of guests, of strangers
and of servants, when surveillance would be slack and the comings and
goings of the master of the house would easily pass unperceived.
"The Duc, in my opinion, chose the one quarter of an hour when he was
alone in the house to cut the picture out of its frame. He then hid
the canvas sufficiently skilfully that it was never found. Probably
he thought at the time that there the matter would end, but equally
probably he never gave the future another thought. His own position
was unassailable seeing he was not insured against loss, and it was
the present alone that mattered: the fact that a Duc de Rochechouart
was trying to sell a spurious picture for half a million dollars. To
many French men and women ever since the war, America is a far
country, and no doubt the Duc and Duchesse both hoped that the whole
transaction, including the Ingres masterpiece, would soon lie buried
somewhere at the bottom of the sea.
"Fate and Lady Polchester proved too strong for them; they ordained
that 'La Fiancée' should be brought back to Europe, and that the
whole of its exciting history be revived. But fate proved kind in
the end, and I think that you will agree with me that two such daring
and resourceful adventurers as their Graces deserve the extra half
million dollars which, thanks to Lady Polchester's generosity and
ostentation, they got so unexpected.
"Soon afterwards you will remember that the Duc and Duchesse de
Rochechouart sold their château on the Oise together with the bulk of
their collection of pictures and furniture.
"They now live in Sweden, I understand, where the Duchesse has many
friends and relations and where the law of libel will not trouble you
much if you publish my deductions in your valuable magazine.
"Think it all out," the Old Man in the Corner concluded glibly, "and
from every point of view, and you will see that there is not a single
flaw in my argument. I have given you the only possible solution of
the mystery of the Ingres masterpiece."
"You may be right----" I murmured thoughtfully.
"I know I am," he answered dryly.
III
THE MYSTERY OF THE PEARL NECKLACE
§1
The Old Man in the Corner had a very curious theory about that
mysterious affair of the pearl necklace, and though it all occurred a
few years ago, I am tempted to put his deductions down on record,
because, as far as I know, neither the police of this or any other
country, nor the public, have ever found a satisfactory solution for
what was undoubtedly a strange and mystifying adventure.
I remembered the case quite well when first he spoke to me about it
one afternoon in what had become my favourite tea-haunt in Fleet
Street; the only thing I was not quite certain of was the identity of
the august personage to whom the pearl necklace was to be presented.
I did know, of course, that she belonged to one of the reigning
families of Europe and that she had been an active and somewhat
hotheaded and bitter opponent of the Communist movement in her own
country, in consequence of which both she and her exalted husband had
been the object of more than one murderous attack by the other side.
It was on the occasion of the august lady's almost miraculous escape
from a peculiarly well-planned and brutal assault that a number of
ladies in England subscribed the sum of fifteen thousand pounds for
the purchase of an exquisite pearl necklace to be presented to her as
a congratulatory gift.
Rightly or wrongly, the donors of this princely gift feared that a
certain well-known political organisation on the Continent would
strive by every means in its power, fair or foul, to prevent this
token of English good-will from reaching the recipient, and also, as
it chanced to happen, there had been during the past few months a
large number of thefts of valuables on Continental railways, and it
became a question who should be entrusted by the committee of
subscribers with the perilous risk of taking the necklace over for
presentation; the trouble being further enhanced by the fact that in
those days the Insurance Companies barred one or two European
countries from their comprehensive policies against theft and petty
larceny, and that it was to one of those countries thus barred that
the bearer of the fifteen thousand pound necklace would have to
journey.
Imagine the excitement, the anxiety, which reigned in the hearts of
the thousands of middle-class English women who had subscribed their
mite to the gift! Their committee sat behind closed doors discussing
the claims of various volunteers who were ready to undertake the
journey: these worthy folk were quite convinced that certain
well-known leaders of anarchical organisations would be on the
lookout for the booty and would have special facilities for the theft
of it at the frontier during the course of those endless customs and
passport formalities for which that particular country was ever
famous.
Finally the committee's choice fell upon a certain Captain Arthur
Saunders, nephew of Sir Montague Bowden, who was chairman of the
ladies' committee. Captain Saunders had, it seems, travelled abroad
a great deal, and his wife was foreign--Swedish so it was understood;
it was thought that if he went abroad now in the company of his wife,
the object of their journey might be thought to be a visit to Mrs.
Saunders's relations, and the conveying of the pearl necklace to its
destination might thus remain more or less a secret.
The choice was approved of by all the subscribers, and it was decided
that Captain and Mrs. Saunders. should start by the ten a.m. train
for Paris on the sixteenth of March. Captain Saunders was to call
the previous afternoon at a certain bank in Charing Cross, where the
necklace was deposited, and there receive it as an almost sacred
trust from the hands of the manager. Further, it was arranged that
Mrs. Saunders should, immediately on arrival in Paris, send a wire to
Mrs. Berners, a great friend of hers who was the secretary of the
committee, and in fact that she should keep the committee informed of
Captain Saunders's well-being at all the more important points of
their journey.
And thus they started.
But no news came from Paris on the sixteenth. At first no anxiety
was felt on that score, every one being ready to surmise that the
Calais-Paris train had been late in, and that the Saunderses had
perhaps only barely time to clear their luggage at the customs and
catch the train de luxe which would take them on, via Cologne,
without a chance of sending the promised telegram. But soon after
midday of the seventeenth, Sir Montague Bowden had a wire from Mrs.
Saunders from Paris saying: "Arthur disappeared since last night.
Desperately anxious. Please come at once. Have booked room for you
here. Mary. Hotel Majestic."
The news was terrifying; however, Sir Montague Bowden, with
commendable zeal, at once wired to Mary announcing his immediate
departure for Paris, and as it was then too late for him to catch the
afternoon Continental train, he started by the evening one,
travelling all night and arriving at the Hotel Majestic in the early
morning.
As soon as he had had a bath and some breakfast he went in search of
information. He found that the French police already had the
"affaire" in hand, but that they had not so far the slightest clue to
the mysterious disappearance of le Capitaine Saunders. He found the
management of the Majestic in a state of offended dignity, and Mrs.
Saunders, in one that verged on hysteria, but fortunately, he also
found at the hotel a Mr. Haasberg, brother of Mrs. Saunders, a
Swedish business man of remarkable coolness and clearness of
judgment, who promptly put him _au fait_ with what had occurred.
It seems that Mr. Haasberg was settled in business in Paris, and that
he had hoped to catch a glimpse of his sister and brother-in-law on
the evening of the sixteenth at the Gare du Nord on their way through
to the East, but that on that very morning he had received a telegram
from Mary asking him to book a couple of rooms--a bedroom and a
sitting-room--for one night for them at the Hotel Majestic. This Mr.
Haasberg did, glad enough that he would see something more of his
sister than he had been led to hope.
On the afternoon of the sixteenth he was kept late at business, and
was unable to meet the Saunderses at the station, but towards nine
o'clock he walked round to the Majestic, hoping to find them in.
Their room was on the third floor. Mr. Haasberg went up in the lift,
and as soon as he reached No. 301 he became aware of a buzz of
conversation coming from within, which, however, ceased as soon as he
had pushed open the door.
On entering the room he saw that Captain Saunders had a visitor, a
tall, thick-set man, who wore an old-fashioned, heavy moustache and
large, gold-rimmed spectacles. At sight of Mr. Haasberg the man
clapped his hat--a bowler--on his head, pulled his coat-collar over
his ears, and with a hasty: "Well, s'long, old man. I'll wait till
to-morrow!" spoken with a strong foreign accent, he walked rapidly
out of the room and down the corridor.
Haasberg stood for a moment in the doorway to watch the disappearing
personage, but he did this without any ulterior motive or thought of
suspicion; then he turned back into the room and greeted his
brother-in-law.
Saunders seemed to Haasberg to be nervous and ill-at-ease; in
response to the latter's inquiry after Mary, he explained that she
had remained in her room as he had a man to see on business.
Haasberg made some casual remark about this visitor, and then Mary
Saunders came in. She, too, appeared troubled and agitated, and as
soon as she had greeted her brother, she turned to her husband and
asked very eagerly:
"Well, has he gone?"
Saunders, giving a significant glance in Haasberg's direction,
replied with an obvious effort at indifference:
"Yes, yes, he's gone. But he said he would be back to-morrow."
At which Mary seemed to give a sigh of relief.
Scenting some uncomfortable mystery, Haasberg questioned her, and
also Saunders, about their visitor, but could not elicit any
satisfactory explanation.
"Oh, there is nothing mysterious about old Pasquier," was all that
either of them would say.
"He is an old pal of Arthur's," Mary added lightly, "but he is such
an awful bore that I got Arthur to say that I was out, so that he
might get rid of him more quickly."
Somehow Haasberg felt that these explanations were very lame. He
could not get it out of his head, that there was something mysterious
about the visitor, and knowing the purpose of the Saunderses'
journey, he thought it as well to give them a very serious word of
warning about Continental hotels generally, and to suggest that they
should, after this stay in Paris, go straight through in the train de
luxe and never halt again until the fifteen thousand pound necklace
was safely in the hands of the august lady for whom it was intended.
But both Arthur and Mary laughed at these words of warning.
"My dear fellow," Arthur said, seemingly rather in a huff, "we are
not such mugs as you think us. Mary and I have travelled on the
Continent at least as much as you have, and are fully alive to the
dangers attendant upon our mission. As a matter of fact, the moment
we arrived, I gave the necklace in its own padlocked tin box, just as
I brought it over from England, in charge of the hotel management,
who immediately locked it up in their strong-room, so even if good
old Pasquier had designs on it--which I can assure you he has not--he
would stand no chance of getting hold of it. And now, sit down,
there's a good chap, and talk of something else."
Only half reassured, Haasberg sat down and had a chat. But he did
not stay long. Mary was obviously tired, and soon said good-night.
Arthur offered to accompany his brother-in-law to the latter's
lodgings in the Rue de Moncigny.
"I would like a walk," he said, "before going to bed."
So the two men walked out together, and Haasberg finally said
good-night to Arthur just outside his own lodgings. It was then
close upon ten o'clock. The little party had agreed to spend the
next day together, as the train de luxe did not go until the evening,
and Haasberg had promised to take a holiday from business. Before
going to bed he attended to some urgent correspondence, and had just
finished a letter when his telephone bell rang. To his horror he
heard his sister's voice speaking.
"Don't keep Arthur up so late, Herman," she said. "I am dog tired,
and can't go to sleep until he returns."
"Arthur?" he replied. "But Arthur left me at my door two hours ago!"
"He has not returned," she insisted, "and I am getting anxious."
"Of course you are, but he can't be long now. He must have turned
into a café and forgot the time. Do ring me up as soon as he comes
in."
Unable to rest, however, and once more vaguely anxious, Haasberg went
hastily back to the Majestic. He found Mary nearly distracted with
anxiety, and as he himself felt anything but reassured, he did not
know how to comfort her.
At one time he went down into the hall to ascertain whether anything
was known on the hotel about Saunders's movements earlier in the
evening; but at this hour of the night there were only the night
porter and the watchman about, and they knew nothing of what had
occurred before they came on duty.
There was nothing for it but to await the morning as calmly as
possible. This was difficult enough, as Mary Saunders was evidently
in a terrible state of agitation. She was quite certain that
something tragic had happened to her husband, but Haasberg tried in
vain to get her to speak of the mysterious visitor who had from the
first aroused his own suspicions. Mary persisted in asserting that
the visitor was just an old pal of Arthur's and that no suspicion of
any kind could possibly rest upon him.
In the early morning Haasberg went off to the nearest commissariat of
police. They took the matter in hand without delay, and within the
hour had obtained some valuable information from the personnel of the
hotel. To begin with, it was established that at about ten minutes
past ten the previous evening, that is to say a quarter of an hour or
so after Haasberg had parted from Arthur Saunders outside his own
lodgings, the latter had returned to the Majestic, and at once asked
for the tin box which he had deposited in the bureau. There was some
difficulty in acceding to his request, because the clerk who was in
charge of the keys of the strong-room could not at once be found.
However, M. le Capitaine was so insistent that search was made for
the clerk, who presently appeared with the keys, and after the usual
formalities, handed over the tin box to Saunders, who signed a
receipt for it in the book. Haasberg had since then identified the
signature which was quite clear and incontestable.
Saunders then went upstairs, refusing to take the lift, and five
minutes later he came down again, nodded to the hall porter, and went
out of the hotel. No one had seen him since, but during the course
of the morning, the valet on the fourth floor had found an empty tin
box in the gentlemen's cloakroom. This box was produced, and to her
unutterable horror Mary Saunders recognised it as the one which had
held the pearl necklace.
The whole of this evidence as it gradually came to light was a
staggering blow both to Mary and to Haasberg himself, because until
this moment neither of them had thought that the necklace was in
jeopardy: they both believed that it was safely locked up in the
strong-room of the hotel.
Haasberg now feared the worst. He blamed himself terribly for not
having made more certain of the mysterious visitor's identity. He
had not yet come to the point of accusing his brother-in-law in his
mind of a conspiracy to steal the necklace, but frankly, at this
stage, he did not know what to think. Saunders's conduct had--to say
the least--been throughout extremely puzzling. Why had he elected to
spend the night in Paris, when all arrangements had been made for him
and his wife to travel straight through? Who was the mysterious
visitor with the walrus moustache, vaguely referred to by both Arthur
and Mary as "old Pasquier"? And above all why had Arthur withdrawn
the necklace from the hotel strong-room where it was quite safe, and,
with it in his pocket, walked about the streets of Paris at that hour
of the night?
Haasberg was quite convinced that "old Pasquier" knew something about
the whole affair, but, strangely enough, Mary persisted in asserting
that he was quite harmless and an old friend of Arthur's who was
beyond suspicion. When further pressed with questions, she declared
that she had no idea where the man lodged, and that, in fact, she
believed that he had left Paris the self-same evening _en route_ for
Brussels, where he was settled in business.
Enquiry amongst the personnel of the hotel revealed the fact that
Captain Saunders's visitor had been seen by the hall porter when he
came soon after half-past eight, and asked whether le Capitaine
Saunders had finished dinner; his question being answered in the
affirmative, he went upstairs, refusing to take the lift. Half an
hour or so later he was seen by one of the waiters in the lounge
hurriedly crossing the hall, and finally by the two boys in
attendance at the swing doors when he went out of the hotel. All
agreed that the man was very tall and thick-set, that he wore a heavy
moustache and a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. He had on a bowler
hat and an overcoat with the collar pulled right up to his ears. The
hall porter, who himself spoke English fairly well, was under the
impression that the man was not English, although he made his
enquiries in that language.
In addition to all these investigations, the commissaire de police,
on his second visit to the hotel, was able to assure Haasberg that
all the commissariats in and around Paris had been communicated with
by telephone so as to ascertain whether any man answering to
Saunders's description had been injured during the night in a street
accident, and taken in somewhere for shelter; also that a description
of the necklace had already been sent round to all the Monts-de-Piété
throughout the country. The police were also sharply on the lookout
for the man with the walrus moustache, but so far without success.
And Mary Saunders obstinately persisted in her denial of any
knowledge about him. "Arthur," she said, "sometimes saw 'old
Pasquier' in London"; but she did not know anything about him,
neither what his nationality was, nor where he lodged. She did not
know when he had left London, nor where he could be found in Paris.
All that she knew, so she said, was that his name was Pasquier, and
that he was in business in Brussels; she therefore concluded that he
was Belgian.
Even to her own brother she would not say more, although he succeeded
in making her understand how strange her attitude must appear both to
the police and to her friends, and what harm she was doing to her
husband, but at this she burst into floods of tears and swore that
she knew nothing about Pasquier's whereabouts, and that she believed
him to be innocent of any attempt to steal the necklace or to injure
Arthur.
There was nothing more to be said for the present and Haasberg sent
the telegram in his sister's name to Sir Montague Bowden because he
felt that some one less busy than himself should look after the
affair and be a comfort to Mary, whose mental condition appeared
pitiable in the extreme.
In this first interview he was able to assure Sir Montague that
everything had been done to trace the whereabouts of Arthur Saunders,
and also of the necklace of which the unfortunate man had been the
custodian; and it was actually while the two men were talking the
whole case over that Haasberg received an intimation from the police
that they believed the missing man had been found: at any rate would
Monsieur give himself the trouble to come round to the commissariat
at once.
This, of course, Haasberg did, accompanied by Sir Montague, and at
the commissariat to their horror they found the unfortunate Saunders
in a terrible condition. Briefly the commissaire explained to them
that about a quarter past ten last night an _agent de police_, making
his rounds, saw a man crouching in the angle of a narrow blind alley
that leads out of the Rue de Moncigny. On being shaken up by the
agent the man struggled to his feet, but he appeared quite dazed and
unable to reply to any questions that were put to him. He was then
conveyed to the nearest commissariat, where he spent the night.
He was obviously suffering from loss of memory, and could give no
account of himself, nor were any papers of identification found upon
him, not even a visiting card, but close behind him, on the pavement
where he was crouching, the _agent_ had picked up a handkerchief
which was saturated with chloroform. The handkerchief bore the
initials A.S. The man, of course, was Arthur Saunders. What had
happened to him it was impossible to ascertain. He certainly did not
appear to be physically hurt, although from time to time when Mr.
Haasberg or Sir Montague tried to question him, he passed his hand
across the back of his head, and an expression of pathetic puzzlement
came into his eyes.