The Cask/Chapter 19

Seine was looking its best on the following morning, as Lefarge boarded an east-bound steamer at the Pont des Artes, behind the Louvre. The day was charming, the air having some of the warmth and colouring of summer, without having lost the clear freshness of spring. As the boat swung out into the current, the detective recalled the last occasion on which he had embarked at this same pier—that on which he and Burnley had gone downstream to Grenelle to call on M. Thévenet at the statuary works. This time the same quest took him in the opposite direction, and they passed round the Ile de la Cité, along the quais, whose walls are topped by the stalls of the book-vendors of the Latin Quarter, past the stately twin towers of Notre Dame, and under the bridge of the Metropolitaine opposite the Gare d’Austerlitz. As they steamed up the broad river the buildings became less and less imposing, till before they had covered the four miles to the suburb of Charenton, where the Marne pours its waters into the Seine, trees and patches of green had begun to appear.

Landing at Charenton, which was as far as the steamer went, Lefarge strolled up the street in the direction of the station, looking for a restaurant with an overhanging, half-timbered front. He had not to make a long search. The largest and most pretentious café in the street answered the description and, when he saw telephone wires leading to it, he felt it was indeed the one he sought. Entering, he sat down at one of the small marble-topped tables and called for a bock.

The room was fair sized, with a bar at one corner, and a small dancing stage facing the door. But for the detective, it was untenanted. An elderly, white-moustached waiter passed back and forward from some room in the rear.

“Pleasant day,” said Lefarge, when this man came over with his bock. “I suppose you don’t get busy till later on?”

The man admitted it.

“Well, I hear you give a very good lunch, anyway,” continued the detective. “A friend of mine lunched here some days ago and was much pleased. And he’s not so easy to satisfy either.”

The waiter smiled and bowed.

“We try to do our best, monsieur. It is very gratifying to learn that your friend was satisfied.”

“Did he not tell you so? He generally says what he thinks.”

“I am not sure that I know your friend, monsieur. When was he here?”

“Oh, you’d remember him right enough if you saw him. There he is.” Lefarge took a photograph of Boirac from his pocket and handed it over.

“But yes, monsieur. Quite well I remember your friend. But,” he hesitated slightly, “he did not strike me as being so much pleased with the lunch as you suggest. I thought indeed he considered the restaurant not quite” He shrugged his shoulders.

“He was not very well, but he was pleased right enough. It was last Thursday he was here, wasn’t it?”

“Last Thursday, monsieur? No, I think it was earlier. Let me see, I think it was Monday.”

“I made a mistake. It was not Thursday. I remember now it was Tuesday he said. Was it not Tuesday?”

“Perhaps it was, monsieur, I am not certain; though I rather think it was Monday.”

“He telephoned to me that day from Charenton—I think he said from here. Did he telephone from here?”

“Yes, monsieur, he made two calls. See, there is the telephone. We allow all our patrons to use it.”

“An excellent idea. I am sure it is much appreciated. But there was an unfortunate mistake about the message he sent me. It was making an appointment, and he did not turn up. I am afraid I misunderstood what he said. Could you hear the message? Perhaps, if so, you would tell me if he spoke of an appointment on last Tuesday?”

The waiter, who up to then had been all smiles and amiability, flashed a suspicious little glance at the detective. He continued to smile politely, but Lefarge felt he had closed up like an oyster in his shell, and when he replied: “I could not hear, monsieur. I was engaged with the service,” the other suspected he was lying.

He determined to try a bluff. Changing his manner and speaking authoritatively, though in a lower tone, he said:—

“Now, look here, garçon. I am a detective officer. I want to find out about those telephone messages, and I don’t want to have the trouble of taking you to the Sûreté to interrogate you.” He took out a five-franc piece. “If you can tell me what he said, this will be yours.”

A look of alarm came into the man’s eyes.

“But, monsieur” he began.

“Come now, I am certain you know, and you’ve got to tell. You may as well do it now and get your five francs, as later on at the Sûreté and for nothing. What do you say now? Which is it to be?”

The waiter remained silent, and it was obvious to Lefarge that he was weighing his course of action. His hesitation convinced the detective that he really did know the messages, and he determined to strike again.

“Perhaps you are doubtful whether I really am from the Sûreté,” he suggested. “Look at that.”

He displayed his detective’s credentials, and the sight seemed to bring the other to a decision.

“I will tell you, monsieur. He first called up some one that I took to be his valet, and said he was going unexpectedly to Belgium, and that he wanted something left at the Gare du Nord for him—I did not catch what it was. Then he called up some other place and gave the same message, simply that he was going to Belgium for a couple of days. That was all, monsieur.”

“That’s all right, garçon. Here’s your five francs.”

“A good beginning,” thought the detective, as he left the café and, turning his back on the river, passed on up the street. There could be no doubt that Boirac really had lunched at Charenton as he said. It was true the waiter thought he had been there on Monday, whereas Boirac had said Tuesday, but the waiter was not certain, and, in any case, the mistake would be a very easy one to make. Besides, the point could be checked. He could find out from M. Boirac’s chief clerk and butler on what day they received their messages.

He walked to Charenton Station, and took a train to the Gare du Lyon. Hailing a taxi, he was driven to the end of the rue Championnet, the street in which was situated the pump factory of which M. Boirac was managing director. As he left the motor and began strolling down the footpath, he heard the clocks chiming the half-hour after eleven.

The pump factory had not a very long frontage on the street, but, glancing in through an open gateway, Lefarge saw that it stretched a long way back. At one side of the gate was a four-story block of buildings, the door of which bore the legend, “Bureau au Deuxième Étage.” The detective strolled past with his head averted, looking round only to make sure there was no other entrance to the works.

Some fifty yards or more beyond the factory, on the opposite side of the street, there stood a café. Entering in a leisurely way, Lefarge seated himself at a small marble-topped table in the window, from where he had a good view of the office door and yard gate of the works. Ordering another bock, he drew a newspaper from his pocket and, leaning back in his chair, began to read. He held it carefully at such a level that he could keep an eye over it on the works entrance, while at any moment raising it by a slight and natural movement would screen him from observation from without. So, for a considerable time he sipped his bock and waited.

Several persons entered and left the works, but it was not till the detective had sat there nearly an hour and had consumed two more bocks, that he saw what he had hoped for. M. Boirac stepped out of the office door and, turning in the opposite direction, walked down the street towards the city. Lefarge waited for five minutes longer, then, slowly folding up his paper and lighting a cigarette, he left the café.

He strolled a hundred yards farther from the works, then crossed and turning, retraced his steps and passed in through the door from which the managing director had emerged. Handing in his private card, he asked for M. Boirac.

“I’m sorry, monsieur,” replied the clerk who had come forward, “but he has just gone out. I wonder you didn’t meet him.”

“No,” said Lefarge, “I must have missed him. But if his confidential clerk is in, perhaps he could see me instead? Is he here at present?”

“I believe so, monsieur. If you will take a seat, I’ll inquire.”

In a few moments the clerk returned to say that M. Dufresne was in, and he was shown into the presence of a small, elderly man, who was evidently just about to leave for lunch.

“I rather wanted to see M. Boirac himself, monsieur,” said Lefarge, when the customary greetings had passed. “It is on a private matter, but I think I need hardly wait for M. Boirac, as you can probably tell me what I want to know, if you will be so kind. I am, monsieur, a detective officer from the Sûreté”—here he produced his official card—“and my visit is in connection with some business about which we are in communication with M. Boirac. You will readily understand I am not at liberty to discuss its details, but in connection with it he called recently at the Sûreté and made a statement. There were, unfortunately, two points which he omitted to tell us and which we, not then understanding they were relevant, omitted to ask. The matter is in connection with his recent visit to Belgium, and the two points I wanted to ask him are, first, the hour he left the office here on that Tuesday, and second, the hour at which he telephoned to you from Charenton that he was making the journey. Perhaps you can tell me, or would you prefer I should wait and see M. Boirac himself?”

The chief clerk did not immediately reply, and Lefarge could see he was uncertain what line he should take. The detective therefore continued:—

“Pray do not answer me if you feel the slightest hesitation. I can easily wait, if you would rather.”

This had the desired effect and the clerk answered:—

“Certainly not, monsieur, if you do not wish to do so yourself. I can answer your questions, or at least one of them. The other I am not so sure of. I received the telephone message from M. Boirac from Charenton at about quarter before three. That I am sure of as I particularly noted the time. As to when M. Boirac left here that morning, I cannot be so definite. He asked me at nine o’clock to draft a rather difficult reply to a letter and to take it in to him when ready. It took me half an hour to compose, as several figures had to be got out to make the matter clear. I took it in at 9.30 and he had then gone.”

“That was on the Tuesday, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, on the Tuesday.”

“And it was on the Friday morning M. Boirac returned?”

“That is so, monsieur.”

Lefarge rose.

“A thousand thanks, monsieur. I am very grateful to you for saving me a long wait.”

He left the office and, walking to the Simplon station of the Metropolitaine, took the train for the centre of the town. He was pleased with his progress. As in the earlier stages of the inquiry, information was coming in rapidly. At first he was inclined to think he had already got enough to confirm the first portion of Boirac’s statement, then his training re-asserted itself, and he decided to go back to the house in the Avenue de l’Alma, and if possible get François’ corroboration. He therefore alighted at Châtelet and took the Maillot train to Alma, walking down the Avenue.

“Ah, M. François,” he began, when the butler opened the door. “Here I am back to trouble you again. Can you spare me a couple of minutes?”

“Certainly, monsieur. Come in.”

They went to the same small sitting-room and Lefarge produced his Brazilian cigarettes.

“How do you like them?” he asked, as the butler helped himself. “Some people think they’re too strong, but they suit me down to the ground. Like strong whiffs, only without the cigar flavour. I won’t keep you a moment. It’s just about that bag of M. Boirac’s you took to the Gare du Nord last Tuesday. Tell me, were you followed to the station?”

“Followed, monsieur? I? Why no, certainly not. At least not that I know of.”

“Well, did you observe at the left luggage office a rather tall man, dressed in gray and with a red beard?”

“No,” he answered, “I saw no one answering to the description.”

“At what hour did you leave the bag in?”

“About 3.30, monsieur.”

Lefarge affected to consider.

“Perhaps it’s my mistake,” he said at last. “It was on Tuesday, wasn’t it?”

“On Tuesday. Yes, monsieur.”

“And M. Boirac sent his telephone call about two, did he not? I think he said about two.”

“It was later, monsieur. It was nearer three. But, monsieur, you fill me with curiosity. How, if I may ask, did you know I took Monsieur’s bag to the station?”

“He told me last night. He happened to mention he had unexpectedly gone to Belgium, and that you had taken his bag to the left luggage office.”

“And the man with the red beard?”

Lefarge, having got his information, was not much troubled to justify his little ruse.

“One of our detectives. He has been on a case of theft of valuable luggage. I wondered if you had seen him. By the way, did M. Boirac bring back the bag with him? It wasn’t stolen?”

Lefarge smiled, and the butler, politely presuming this was meant for a joke, smiled also.

“It was not stolen, monsieur. He brought it back all right.”

So far so good. M. Boirac had then, beyond any doubt or question, telephoned about 2.45 on Tuesday and had instructed the butler to take his bag to the Gare du Nord, as he had said. Further, he had called there himself and got the bag. So much was certain. But the statement he made of his movements on Sunday and Monday, and the unpacking of the cask on Monday night still remained to be tested. Lefarge spoke again:—

“While I’m here, M. François, I wonder would you mind checking one or two dates for my report?” He pulled out his notebook. “I will read out and perhaps you would please say if the items are correct. Saturday, 27th March, the day of the dinner-party.”

“Correct, monsieur.”

“Sunday, 28th, nothing special occurred. M. Boirac unpacked the cask in the evening.”

“That’s not right, monsieur. It was on Monday the cask was unpacked.”

“Ah, Monday.” Lefarge pretended to correct his notes. “Monday evening, of course. M. Boirac was at home on Sunday night, but he did not unpack it till Monday. That’s right, I think?”

“That’s right.”

“Then on Tuesday he went to Belgium, and returned home on Thursday evening?”

“Correct, monsieur.”

“Thanks very much. I’m glad you noticed that slip. I’ve got it right now, I think.”

He remained conversing for a few minutes, making himself agreeable to the old man and telling him some of the adventures he had met with during his career. The more he saw of François, the more he came to respect him, and he felt increasingly certain the old man’s statement was to be believed and that he would not lend himself to anything dishonourable.

As if to balance the successes of the morning, during the whole of the afternoon Lefarge drew blank. After leaving the house in the Avenue de l’Alma, he questioned the clerks in the left luggage office at the Gare du Nord. Here he could get no information at all. No one remembered François putting in the bag, nor Boirac claiming it, nor could any record of the bag itself be turned up. Again, in the Place de la Bastille, where he spent some hours interviewing the waiters in the various restaurants, both in the Place itself and close by in the diverging streets, no better luck attended his efforts. He could find no trace of Boirac’s having dined in any of them.

All the same, he was well satisfied with his day’s work. The information he had got was definite and valuable, in fact, he thought it conclusively established the truth of Boirac’s statement, at least in as far as Tuesday was concerned. If he could do as well in connection with the Wednesday and Thursday, he thought the manufacturer’s alibi would stand, and his innocence of the murder must then be admitted.

To carry on the inquiry, he would have to visit Brussels, and he accordingly telephoned to the Gare du Nord engaging a berth on the 11.20 p.m. sleeping car train that night. Then, after calling up the Sûreté, he turned his steps homewards to dine and have a rest till it was time to start.

He made a comfortable journey, and, having breakfasted in one of the cafés in the Place du Nord in Brussels, took an early train to Malines. He presented himself at the post office and asked if he could be directed to the residence of M. Armande Boirac. The clerk knew the name, though he was not certain of the address, but after inquiries at two or three of the principal shops, the detective found one at which M. Boirac dealt.

“Yes, monsieur, it’s a good four miles out on the Louvain road. A large white house with a red roof, standing in trees on the right-hand side, immediately beyond a cross roads. But I think M. Boirac is from home, if you wanted to see him.”

“I did wish to see him,” returned Lefarge, “but I dare say Mme. Boirac would see me instead.”

“I fear she is also away, monsieur. At least, I can only tell you what I know. She came in here about a fortnight ago, indeed, I remember now it was just this day fortnight, and said: ‘Oh, Laroche,’ she said, ‘you need not send anything for two or three weeks, till you hear from me again. We are going away and are shutting up the house. So, monsieur, I don’t think you’ll see either of them if you go out.”

“I am greatly obliged to you, monsieur. I wonder if you could still further add to your kindness by informing me of M. Boirac’s place of business, where I might get his address. He is in business, I suppose?”

“He is a banker, monsieur, and goes frequently to Brussels, but I don’t know in which bank he is interested. But if you go across the street to M. Leblanc, the avocat, I expect he could tell you.”

Lefarge thanked the polite shopman and, following his advice, called on the avocat. Here he learned that M. Boirac was one of the directors of a large private bank, the Crédit Mazières, in the Boulevard de la Senne, in Brussels.

He was half tempted to return at once to the capital, but a long experience had convinced him of the folly of accepting any statement without investigation. To be on the safe side, he felt he should go out and see for himself if the house was indeed empty. He therefore hired a small car and drove out along the Louvain road.

The day was bright and sunny, though with a little sharpness in the air, and Lefarge enjoyed the run through the pleasant Belgian country. He hoped to get his work finished by the afternoon, and, in that case, he would go back to Paris by the night train.

About fifteen minutes brought them to the house, which Lefarge immediately recognised from the shopman’s description. A glance showed it was empty. The gates of the avenue were fastened with a padlock and chain, and, through the surrounding trees, the window shutters could be seen to be closed. The detective looked about him.

Alongside the road close to the gates were three cottages, occupied apparently by peasants or farm labourers. Lefarge stepped up to the first of these and knocked.

“Good morning,” he said, as a buxom, middle-aged woman came to the door. “I have just come from Brussels to see M. Boirac, and I find the house is locked up. Can you tell me if there is a caretaker, or any one who could tell me where M. Boirac is to be found?”

“I am the caretaker, monsieur, but I do not know M. Boirac’s address. All he told me before he left was that any letters sent to the Crédit Mazières in Brussels would be forwarded.”

“He has not then been gone long, I suppose?”

“A fortnight to-day, monsieur. He said he would be away three weeks, so if you could call in about a week, you should see him.”

“By the way, a friend of mine was to call on him here last week. I am afraid he must have missed him also. You did not see my friend?” He showed her Boirac’s photograph.

“No, monsieur, I did not see him.”

Lefarge thanked the woman and, having walked round to two or three of the other neighbouring houses and asked the same questions without result, he re-entered the car and was driven back to Malines. From there he took the first train to Brussels.

It was close on two o’clock when he entered the ornate portal of the Crédit Mazières, of which M. Boirac was a director. The building was finished with extraordinary richness, no expense having been spared in its decoration. The walls of the vast public office were entirely covered with choice marbles—panels of delicate green separated by pilasters and cornice of pure white. The roof rose with a lofty dome of glass which filled the building with a mellow and pleasant light. “No want of money here,” Lefarge thought, as he approached the counter and, handing in his card, asked to see the manager.

He had to wait for some minutes, then, following a clerk along a corridor decorated in the same style as the office, he was ushered into the presence of a tall, elderly gentleman with clean-shaven features and raven black hair, who was seated at a large roll-top desk.

Having exchanged greetings, Lefarge began:—

“I wonder, monsieur, if you would be so very kind as to tell me whether the M. Armande Boirac, who is a member of your board, is the brother of M. Raoul Boirac, the managing director of the Avrotte Pump Construction Company of Paris? I went to Malines this morning to see M. Armande, but he was from home, and I do not wish to spend time in finding out his address and communicating with him, unless he really is the man I seek.”

“Our director, monsieur,” replied the manager, “is a brother of M. Raoul. Though I don’t know the latter personally, I have heard our M. Boirac speak of him. I can also give you M. Armande’s present address, if you require it.”

“I am exceedingly obliged, monsieur, and should be most grateful for the address.”

“It is Hôtel Rydberg, Stockholm.”

Lefarge noted it in his book and, with further thanks, left the bank.

“Now for the Théâtre de la Monnaie,” he thought. “It is just around the corner.”

He crossed the Place de Brouckère, and turned into the Place de la Monnaie. The box office of the theatre was open, and he interviewed the clerk, learning that Berlioz’s Les Troyens was given on the Wednesday night in question, as stated by M. Boirac. But a search for that gentleman’s name through the list of that evening’s bookings was unproductive, though, as the clerk pointed out, this did not mean that he was not present, but only that he had not reserved a seat.

Lefarge’s next visit was to be the Hôtel Maximilian. It was a large modern building occupying a complete block of the Boulevard Waterloo, not far from the Porte Louise. A polite clerk came to the bureau window to attend to him.

“I am expecting to meet a M. Boirac here,” Lefarge began. “Can you tell me if he is in the hotel?”

“M. Boirac?” repeated the clerk, doubtfully, “I do not think we have any one of that name here at present.” He turned over a card index on the desk. “No, monsieur, he has not come yet.”

Lefarge took out a photograph.

“That is he,” he said, “a M. Raoul Boirac, of Paris.”

“Oh, to be sure,” returned the clerk, “I know that gentleman. He has frequently stayed with us, but he is not here at present.”

The detective began to turn over the leaves of his pocket-book as if looking for something.

“I hope I haven’t made a mistake in the date,” he said. “He wasn’t here recently by any chance, was he?”

“He was here, monsieur, quite lately—last week in fact. He spent one night.”

Lefarge made a gesture of annoyance.

“I’ve missed him!” he exclaimed. “As sure as fate I’ve missed him. Can you tell me what night he was here?”

“Certainly, monsieur.” He turned up some papers. “He was here on Wednesday night, the 31st March.”

“I’ve missed him. Now, isn’t that too bad? I must have mistaken the date.” The detective stood apparently considering.

“Did he mention my name—Pascal, Jules Pascal?”

The clerk shook his head.

“Not to me, monsieur.”

Lefarge continued, as if to himself:—

“He must have come through from Paris that night.” And then to the clerk: “You don’t remember, I suppose, what time he arrived?”

“Yes, I do. It was late in the evening, about eleven, I should think.”

“Rather a chance coming at that hour, wasn’t it? He might easily have found you full?”

“Oh, he had reserved his room. Earlier in the evening he telephoned up from a restaurant in the Boulevard Anspach that he was coming.”

“Was that before five? I was to meet him about five.”

“Not so early, I think. More like half-past seven or even eight, as well as I can remember.”

“Well, I can’t understand it at all. But I mustn’t be wasting your time. I’ll write a note and, if he should turn up again, perhaps you would be kind enough to give it to him? I’m much obliged to you, I’m sure.”

Lefarge was an artist in his profession. He never made an impersonation without carrying through the details in the most thorough manner possible. He therefore wrote a note to M. Boirac in an assumed hand, regretting having missed him and carefully explaining some quite imaginary business. Having signed it “Jules Pascal” with a flourish, and left it with the clerk, he took his leave.

As he passed out of the Boulevard Waterloo to return to the old town, the clocks were striking six. He had completed his errand and he was tired, though well satisfied with its result. He would rest in a picture house for an hour or two, then have a leisurely dinner and catch the midnight train for Paris.

Sitting over his coffee in a quiet corner of one of the large restaurants in the Boulevard du Nord, he reviewed once more M. Boirac’s statement, ticking off in his mind the various items he had been able to check. On Saturday night Madame had disappeared. On Sunday and Sunday night Boirac was at his home. Monday he spent at his office, and that night he was again at home. On that same Monday evening he had unpacked the statue from the cask. Tuesday morning saw him in his office at the usual hour, but he had left again between nine o’clock and half-past. About 1.30 that same day he had lunched at Charenton, and shortly after 2.30 had telephoned to François and to his office. François had taken his bag to the Gare du Nord about 3.30, and Boirac had got it from there, as he had brought it back with him from Belgium. He had telephoned to the Hôtel Maximilian about 7.30 or 8.00 on the Wednesday, and had slept there that night. Next day he had returned to Paris, reaching his house in the evening. Further, it was true that his brother lived at Malines and that his house had been shut up on the Wednesday in question, also that Berlioz’s Les Troyens was given on the night he said.

So much was absolute bedrock fact, proved beyond any doubt or question. Lefarge then turned his mind to the portions of Boirac’s statement which he had not been able to verify.

He could not tell whether the manufacturer had walked in the Bois de Vincennes before lunching at Charenton, nor if he had gone up the Seine after it. He could not trace his having dined in any of the cafés of the Place de la Bastille. He had not proved that he went to Malines or called at his brother’s house, nor did he know if he had been present at the opera in Brussels.

As he considered the matter, he came to the conclusion that in the nature of things he could hardly have expected to confirm these points, and he also decided they were not essential to the statement. All the essentials—Boirac’s presence at Charenton and in Brussels—particularly in Brussels—he had proved up to the hilt. He therefore came to the deliberate conclusion that the pump manufacturer’s statement was true. And if it was true M. Boirac was innocent of the murder, and if he was innocent—Felix …

Next day he made his report to M. Chauvet at the Sûreté.