The Cask/Chapter 18

nine o’clock next morning the two colleagues met at the hotel in the rue Castiglione. They had discussed their plan of campaign before separating the previous evening, and did not waste time getting to work. Calling a taxi, they drove once more to the Hotel Continental and asked for their old friend the manager. In a few minutes they were ushered into the presence of that urbane and smiling, but somewhat bored official.

“We are exceedingly sorry to trouble you again, monsieur,” apologised Lefarge, “but the fact is we find we require some more information about your recent visitor, M. Felix. If you can help us to obtain it, you will greatly add to our already large debt of gratitude.”

The manager bowed.

“I shall be delighted to tell you anything I can. What is the point in question?”

“We want to trace M. Felix’s movements after he left here. You have already told us he went to catch the 8.20 English boat train at the Gare du Nord. We wondered if he really did travel by it. Can you help us to find out?”

“Our bus meets all the incoming boat trains, but attends only those outward bound by which visitors are travelling. If you will pardon me a moment, I will ascertain if it ran that day. It was Sunday, I think?”

“Sunday, the 28th March.”

The manager was absent for a few moments, returning with a tall young man in the uniform of a porter.

“I find the bus did run on the day in question, and Karl, here, went with it. He may be able to answer your questions.”

“Thank you, monsieur.” Lefarge turned to the porter. “You went to the Gare du Nord on Sunday, the 28th March, with some passengers for the 8.20 English boat train?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“How many passengers had you?”

The porter considered.

“Three, monsieur,” he replied at length.

“Did you know who they were?”

“Two of them I knew, monsieur. One was M. Leblanc, a gentleman who had stayed in the hotel for over a month. The second was M. Felix, who has been a constant visitor for years. The third was an English gentleman, but I do not know his name.”

“Did these gentlemen converse together while in the bus?”

“I saw M. Felix speaking to the Englishman as they were leaving the bus, otherwise I cannot say.”

“Did they go by the 8.20?”

“Yes, monsieur. I put their luggage into the carriages, and I saw all three in the train as it was starting.”

“Was M. Felix alone?”

“He was, monsieur.”

“Did he meet or speak with a lady at the station?”

“I do not think so, monsieur. Certainly I did not see a lady.”

“Did he seem anxious or perturbed?”

“Not at all, monsieur. He was just as usual.”

“Thank you, I am exceedingly obliged.”

Some silver changed hands, and Karl withdrew.

“That is very satisfactory information, M. le Directeur. The only other point I want is the names and addresses of the two other occupants of the bus.”

These were ascertained with some slight difficulty—M. Guillaume Leblanc, rue Verte, Marseilles, and Mr. Henry Gordon, 327 Angus Lane, Sauchiehall Street, Glasgow—and the detectives bowed themselves out with compliments and thanks.

“That’s a piece of luck,” remarked Lefarge, as they drove towards the Gare du Nord. “Those men may have seen Felix at other stages of the journey, and we may be able to trace him the whole way.”

They spent the morning in the great station, interviewing ticket examiners and other officials, but without success. No one had seen either of the travellers.

“The boat is more likely,” observed Burnley. “If he is a constant traveller, some of the stewards will certainly know him.”

Taking the 4.00 p.m. train, they reached Bolougne as dusk was falling, and began their inquiries at the pier. Finding the Pas de Calais, which had made the run in which they were interested, would not leave till noon next day, they turned their steps to the local police station. There they saw the men who had been on duty when the boat left on the Sunday in question, but here again without getting any information. Then they went on board the steamer and sought the chief steward.

“I know that gentleman, yes,” he said when, after introducing themselves, Lefarge showed him Felix’s photograph. “He crosses frequently, once or twice a month, I should say. He is a M. Felix, but I cannot say where he lives, nor do I know anything else about him.”

“What we want to find out, monsieur, is when he last crossed. If you can tell us that, we shall be extremely obliged.”

The official considered.

“I am afraid I could hardly be sure of that. He crossed both ways fairly lately. I should say about ten days or a fortnight ago, but I’m not sure of the exact date.”

“We think he crossed on Sunday, the 28th March. Can you think of anything that would confirm whether it was this date?”

“No, I cannot. You see there would be nothing to record it. We could not now trace the ticket he held, and there is no way in which the identity of our passengers is ascertained and noted. Speaking from memory, I should say that the date you mention is about correct, but I could not be sure.”

“Is there any one on board who might be able to help us?”

“I’m really very sorry, monsieur, but I don’t think there is. The captain, or one of the officers, might know him; I could not say.”

“Well, just one other question, monsieur. Was he travelling alone?”

“I think so. No, wait a minute, was he? I believe, now that you mention it, there was a lady with him. You will understand I was not noticing particularly, as my mind was occupied with my work, but it’s like a dream to me, I saw him talking to a lady on the promenade deck.”

“You could not describe her?”

“I could not, monsieur. I cannot be even positive she was there at all.”

Seeing there was nothing further to be learnt, they thanked the chief steward courteously. Then, remaining on board, they interviewed every one they could find, whom they thought might be able to give them information. Of all they spoke to, only one, a waiter, knew Felix, and he had not seen him on the occasion in question.

“That’s no good, I’m afraid,” said Burnley, as they walked to an hotel. “I believe that steward did see a woman, but he would be useless as a witness.”

“Quite. I don’t fancy you’ll get much at Folkestone either.”

“Most unlikely, I should say, but I can but try. I think I’ll probably run up to Glasgow and see that man that travelled in the bus with him. He might know something.

“If not, I’ll see the other—the one who lives in Marseilles.”

A few minutes before twelve next day saw the detectives strolling along the wharf beside the English boat.

“Well,” said Lefarge, “our ways part here. There is no use in my going to Folkestone, and I’ll take the 2.12 back to Paris. We have had a pleasant inquiry, and I’m only sorry we have not had a more definite result.”

“We’re not done with it yet,” returned the Englishman. “I expect we’ll get it pretty square before we stop. But I’m really sorry to say “Good-bye,” and I hope we may be working together again before long.”

They parted with mutual assurances of goodwill, Burnley expressing his appreciation of the kindly treatment he had received in Paris, and Lefarge inviting him back to spend his next holidays in the gay capital.

We may accompany Lefarge on his return journey to Paris, and follow him as he endeavours to trace the movements of M. Boirac from the Saturday night of the dinner-party to the following Thursday evening, when the cask containing the body was despatched to London from the State Railway goods station in the rue Cardinet.

He reached the Gare du Nord at 5.45 p.m., and immediately drove to the Sûreté. M. Chauvet was in his office, and Lefarge reported his movements since they parted.

“I had a telephone call from Scotland Yard yesterday,” said the Chief. “It seems Boirac turned up at eleven as arranged. He definitely identified the body as that of his wife, so that point is settled.”

“Has he returned yet, do you know, monsieur?”

“I have not heard. Why do you ask?”

“I thought if he was still away I might take the opportunity of pumping François about his movements since the murder.”

“A good idea. We can find out at once.”

M. Chauvet turned over the pages of his telephone directory and, having found what he wanted, gave a call.

“Hallo? Is that M. Boirac’s?—Is M. Boirac at home?—About seven o’clock? Ah, thank you. I’ll ring up again later.—No, don’t mind. It’s of no consequence.”

He replaced the receiver.

“He’s crossing by the 11.00 from Charing Cross, and will be home about seven. If you were to call about half-past six, which is the hour at which he usually returns, your visit would not be suspicious, and you could have a chat with François.”

“I shall do that, monsieur,” and with a bow the detective withdrew.

The clocks had just finished chiming the half-hour after six when Lefarge presented himself at the house in the Avenue de l’Alma. François opened the door.

“Good-evening, M. François. Is M. Boirac at home?”

“Not yet, monsieur. We expect him in about half an hour. Will you come in and wait?”

Lefarge seemed to consider, and then,—

“Thanks. I think I will.”

The butler preceded him to the small sitting-room into which he had shown the two detectives on their first call.

“I heard at the Sûreté that M. Boirac had gone to London to identify the body. You don’t know, I suppose, if he was able to do so?”

“No, monsieur. I knew he had gone to London, but I did not know for what purpose.”

The detective settled himself in a comfortable chair and took out a cigarette case.

“Try one of these. They’re special Brazilian cigarettes. I suppose we may smoke here?”

“Certainly, monsieur. I thank you.”

“It’s a long way over from London. I don’t envy Monsieur his journey. You’ve been, I suppose, monsieur?”

“Twice, monsieur.”

“Once is all right to see the place, but after that—no, thank you. But I suppose M. Boirac is used to it? They say you can get used to anything.”

“I should think he must be. He travels a lot. London, Brussels, Berlin, Vienna—he had been at them all to my knowledge in the last two years.”

“I’m glad it’s he and not I. But I should think this unhappy event would take away his love for travelling. I should imagine he would want to stay quiet in his own home and see no one. What do you think, M. François?”

“Well, he hasn’t anyway, or else he can’t help himself. This is the second journey he’s made since then.”

“You surprise me. Or rather, no, you don’t. I suppose we shouldn’t be talking about what doesn’t concern us, but I would be willing to lay a napoleon I could tell you where the first journey was to and what it was for. It was to see the Wilson Test. Am I not right?”

“The Wilson Test, monsieur? What is that?”

“Have you never heard of the Wilson Test? Wilson is the head of a great firm of English pump manufacturers, and each year a reward of over 10,000 francs is offered by them for any pump that can throw more water than theirs. A test is held every year, and the last one took place on Wednesday. M. Boirac would naturally be interested, being head of a pump manufactory himself. He would go to the Test.”

“I’m afraid you would have lost your money, then, monsieur. He was away on Wednesday right enough, but I happen to know he went to Belgium.”

“Well,” said Lefarge, with a laugh, “I’m glad we didn’t bet, anyway. But,” he added, in a changed tone, “maybe I’m right after all. Maybe he went from Belgium to London, or vice versa. Was he long away?”

“He could not have done that, monsieur. He was only away two days, Wednesday and Thursday.”

“It ought to be a lesson to me. I’m always too ready to bet on an unsupported opinion,” and Lefarge led the conversation on to bets he had won and lost, till François excused himself to prepare for his master’s arrival.

Shortly after seven M. Boirac came in. He saw Lefarge at once.

“I don’t wish to trouble you after your journey, monsieur,” said the latter, “but some further points have arisen in this unhappy business, and I would be obliged if you could kindly give me an appointment at whatever time would suit you.”

“No time like the present. If you will excuse me for an hour till I change and get some dinner, I shall be at your service. You have dined, I suppose?”

“Yes, thank you. If, then, I may wait here for you, I would be glad to do so.”

“Then come into the study. You’ll perhaps find something to read in these book-cases.”

“I thank you, monsieur.”

The hands of the clock on the study chimney-piece were pointing to half-past eight when M. Boirac re-entered. Sinking into an easy-chair, he said:—

“Now, monsieur, I am at your service.”

“The matter is a somewhat difficult one for me to approach, monsieur,” began Lefarge, “in case it might seem to you that we had suspicions which we do not really entertain. But, as a man of the world, you will recognise that the position of the husband in unhappy affairs such as this must inevitably be made clear. It is a matter of necessary routine. My chief, M. Chauvet, has therefore placed on me the purely formal, but extremely unpleasant duty of asking you some questions about your own movements since the unhappy event.”

“That’s rather roundabout. Do you mean that you suspect me of murdering my wife?”

“Certainly not, monsieur. It is simply that the movements of every one in a case like this must be gone into. It is our ordinary routine, and we cannot consult our inclination in carrying it out.”

“Oh, well, go ahead. You must, of course, do your duty.”

“The information my Chief requires is a statement from you of how you passed your time from the night of the dinner-party until the evening of the following Thursday.”

M. Boirac looked distressed. He paused before replying, and then said in an altered tone:—

“I don’t like to think of that time. I passed through a rather terrible experience. I think I was temporarily insane.”

“I still more regret that I must persevere in my question.”

“Oh, I will tell you. The seizure, or whatever it was, is over and I am myself again. What happened to me was this.

“From the Saturday night, or rather Sunday morning, when I learnt that my wife had left me, I was in a kind of dream. My brain felt numb, and I had the curious feeling of existing in some way outside of and apart from myself. I went as usual to my office on Monday, returning home at my ordinary time in the evening. After dinner, in the hope of rousing myself, I unpacked the cask, but even that failed to excite my interest or lighten my depression. On the following morning, Tuesday, I again went to the office at my customary time, but after an hour of effort I found I could no longer concentrate my mind on my work. I felt that at all costs I must be alone so as to relax the strain of pretending nothing had happened. Still like a man in a dream, I left the office and, going down into the street, entered a Metro station. On the wall my eye caught sight of the notice, ‘Direction Vincennes,’ and it occurred to me that the Bois de Vincennes would be the very place for me to go. There I could walk without fear of meeting any of my acquaintances. I accordingly took the train there, and spent the morning pacing the more sequestered paths. The physical exercise helped me, but as I grew tired my mood changed. A great longing for human sympathy took possession of me, and I felt I must confide in some one, or go mad. I thought of my brother Armande, and felt sure I would get the sympathy I wanted from him. He lived not far from Malines, in Belgium, and I determined to go and see him at once. I lunched at a little café at Charenton, and from there telephoned to the office and to my house that I was going to Belgium for a couple of days. I instructed François to pack a handbag of necessaries and leave it immediately at the cloak-room at the Gare du Nord, where I should call for it. While sitting at lunch it occurred to me that if I went by the 4.05 p.m. train—the first I could get—I would not arrive at my destination till the middle of the night, so I decided I would wait till the evening train and see my brother the following day. Accordingly, I went for a long walk up the Seine, returning by a local train to the Gare du Lyon. I dined at a café in the Place de la Bastille, and finally went to the Gare du Nord, got my bag, and left by the 11.20 for Brussels. I slept well in the train and breakfasted in one of the cafés off the Place du Nord. About eleven I left for Malines, walking the four miles to my brother’s house for the sake of the exercise. But when I reached it I found it empty, and then I recollected, what had entirely slipped my memory, that my brother had spoken of a business trip to Stockholm, on which he was going to take his wife. I cursed my forgetfulness, but my mind was in such a state I hardly realised my loss of time and money. Walking slowly back to Malines, I considered returning to Paris that evening. Then I thought I had had enough travelling for one day. It was pleasant in the afternoon sun, and I let the time slip away, returning to Brussels about six. I dined at a café in the Boulevard Anspach, and then, thinking I would try and distract my thoughts, decided I would turn in for a couple of hours to a theatre. I telephoned to the Hôtel Maximilian, where I usually stayed, to reserve a room, and then I went to Berlioz’s Les Troyens at the Théâtre de la Monnaie, getting to my hotel about eleven. That night I slept well and next day my brain seemed saner and better. I left Brussels by the 12.50 from the Gare du Midi, arriving at Paris about five. Looking back on that abortive journey is like remembering a nightmare, but I think the solitude and the exercise really helped me.”

When M. Boirac ceased speaking, there was silence for a few moments, while Lefarge, in just the same painstaking way that Burnley would have adopted, went over in his mind what he had heard. He did not wish to question M. Boirac too closely lest, in the unlikely event of that gentleman proving guilty, he should put him on his guard; but he was anxious to miss no detail of the statement, so that he might as far as possible check it by independent testimony. On the whole, he thought the story reasonable, and, so far, he could see no internal reason for doubting it. He would, therefore, get a few details made clearer and take his leave.

“Thank you, M. Boirac. Might I ask a few supplementary questions? At what time did you leave your office on Tuesday?”

“About nine-thirty.”

“What café did you lunch at in Charenton?”

“I don’t remember. It was in a street about half-way between the station and the steamboat wharf, a rather poor place with an overhanging, half-timbered front.”

“And what time was that?”

“About one-thirty, I think. I am not sure.”

“And from where did you telephone to your house and office?”

“From the same café.”

“About what time?”

“About an hour later, say half-past two.”

“Now, the café in the Place de la Bastille. Which one was it?”

“I am not very certain. I think it was at the corner of the rue St. Antoine. At all events it faced up the rue de Lyon.”

“And you were there about what time?”

“Eight-thirty, I should say.”

“Did you get your bag at the Gare du Nord?”

“Yes, it was waiting for me at the left luggage office.”

“Did you have a sleeping berth on the train?”

“No, I travelled in an ordinary first-class compartment.”

“Was there any one else in it?”

“Three other men. I did not know any of them.”

“Now, all that day, Tuesday, did you meet any one who knew you, or who could confirm your statement?”

“Not that I can remember, unless the waiters at the cafés could do so.”

“On the next day, Wednesday, from where did you telephone to the Hôtel Maximilian?”

“From the café where I dined. It was in the Boulevard Anspach, just before it opens into the Place Brouckère. I don’t recall the name.”

“What time was the message sent?”

“Just before dinner, about seven, I should say.”

The detective stood up and bowed.

“Well, M. Boirac, accept my thanks for your courtesy. That is all I want to know. Good-night, monsieur.”

The night being fine, Lefarge walked slowly to his home near the Place de la Bastille. As he paced along he thought over the statement he had just listened to. If it was true, it appeared at first sight entirely to clear M. Boirac from suspicion. If he was in Paris on Monday he could not have sent the letter to Dupierre ordering the statue. That was received on Tuesday morning, and must therefore have been posted in London the previous day. If he was at Brussels and Malines, he obviously could not have met the cask in London. The first thing would therefore be to test the statement by independent inquiries. He reviewed it again in detail, taking a mental note of all the points on which confirmation should be obtainable.

First of all, it should be easy to find out whether he really was in Paris up till Tuesday evening. François and the other servants could tell him this with regard to Sunday, Sunday night, and Monday night, and the office staff at the pump manufactory could testify to Monday and Tuesday morning. The servants could also tell whether he unpacked the statue on Monday evening. There was then the question of the time he left his office on Tuesday; that could easily be ascertained. With regard to the restaurant at Charenton, M. Boirac would be a well-dressed and striking luncher at a place in such a locality, and would therefore undoubtedly have been specially noticed. If he really did lunch there, confirmation should be easily obtainable, particularly as the episode of the telephone would further call attention to the visit. The receipt of these telephone messages should also be easy to substantiate, as well as the leaving of the luggage at the Gare du Nord. Confirmation from the Gare du Nord cloak-room attendant, as well as from the waiters in the restaurant in the Place de la Bastille, could hardly be expected, owing to the larger number of strangers these men served, but both places would be worth trying. Inquiries at Malines might prove Boirac’s visit, and certainly would show whether he had a brother there, as well as whether the house was locked up on the day in question. The staff in the Hôtel Maximilian in Brussels would know whether or not he was there on the Wednesday night, and could tell about the receipt of the telephone message booking the room. Finally, it would be worth finding out if Berlioz’s Les Troyens was really given on that evening at the Théâtre de la Monnaie.

As Lefarge thought over the matter, he saw that the statement was one which admitted of a good many tests, and he felt that, if it stood those he had enumerated, it might be fully accepted.