The Cask/Chapter 24

days later Mr. Clifford and Mr. Lucius Heppenstall, K.C.—who were close personal friends—dined together at the former’s residence, intending afterwards to have a long chat over the case. Mr. Heppenstall had returned from Denmark rather earlier than was expected, and had already studied the documents received from the prosecution, as well as Clifford’s notes of what he had learnt. The two men had together interviewed Felix and Bonchose and some other small inquiries had been made, the only point of importance discovered being that the late Miss Devine had crossed from Calais to Folkestone on the Sunday in question and had been alone on deck, both her maids having been helplessly ill. The meeting on this evening was to formulate a policy, to decide on the exact line which the defence should take.

The difficulty of this decision was felt by both men to be considerable. In their previous cases there had nearly always been an obvious defence. Frequently two distinct lines, or even three, had been possible, the problem then being the selection of the best. But here their difficulty was to find any defence at all.

“The first thing we must settle,” said Heppenstall, throwing himself into an easy-chair, “is whether we are going to assume this fellow Felix innocent or guilty. What is your own private opinion?”

“I hardly know what to think,” he answered finally. “I must admit that Felix’s manner and personality impress me favourably. He certainly told his story in a convincing way. Then these people that we have recently seen confirm a great deal of what he said. Further, they evidently like and believe in him. Look at Martin, for example. He is a noisy, blustering fellow, but he is no fool. He knows Felix well, and he believes in him to the extent of offering to guarantee our fees to get him off. All that must count for something. Then there is nothing inherently impossible in his story. It all might have happened just as he says. And lastly, his admitted shock when the cask was opened seems strongly in his favour.”

“But?”

“But? Well, there is all the rest of the case.”

“Then you have no private opinion?”

“Not definitely. My opinion inclines towards innocence, but I am by no means sure.”

“I rather agree with you,” remarked the K.C. Then, after a pause, “I have been thinking this thing over and I don’t for the life of me see a chance of clearing him on the evidence. It is too strong. Why, if it is true, it is overpowering. It seems to me our only hope is to deny the evidence.”

“To deny it?”

“To deny it. You must admit that Felix is either guilty or the victim of a plot.”

“Of course.”

“Very well. Let us stick to that. The evidence is not genuine because Felix is the victim of a plot. How does that strike you?”

“Well, you know, I shouldn’t be at all surprised if that was the actual fact. I’ve thought over it a good deal, and the more I think the more I begin to doubt those things that were found at St. Malo. That letter from Emmie, the marks on the blotting paper, and the diamond pin, they all strike me as being a little too conclusive to be natural. Their very comprehensiveness suggests selection. Then typewritten letters any one can produce. No, I shouldn’t wonder if you’re on the right track.”

“I think it’s our best defence, anyway.”

“I think it’s our only defence. But, mind you, it’s an easy theory to suggest, but a mighty hard one to establish.”

“There’s only one way,” Heppenstall declared, pouring himself out some whisky from the jar at his elbow, “we must suggest the real murderer.”

“If we must find the real murderer we may as well let the case alone. If Scotland Yard and the Sûreté couldn’t get him, we are not likely to.”

“You haven’t quite got me. I don’t say we must find him. It will be enough to suggest him. All we have to do is to show that some other person had a motive for Madame’s death, and could have murdered her and carried out the plot against Felix. A doubt would then arise as to which of the two was guilty, and, if that doubt was strong enough, Felix would get the benefit of it.”

“But that makes our problem no easier. The difficulty still lies in the finding of this other person.”

“We can only try; it may lead to something. Our first question then is: If Felix is innocent, who might be guilty?”

There was silence for several seconds, then Heppenstall spoke again.

“Who, perhaps I should say, is least unlikely to be guilty?”

“I think there can be only one answer to that,” returned Clifford. “In the very nature of the case a certain suspicion must attach to Boirac. But the police were fully alive to that. From all we hear, they went into it thoroughly and came to the conclusion he was innocent.”

“It depended on an alibi. But you know as well as I do alibis can be faked.”

“Undoubtedly, but they concluded this one wasn’t. We don’t know the exact details, but it seems to have been fully tested.”

“At all events, from the information available, I think we may assume that if Felix is innocent, Boirac is guilty. There is no suggestion of any third party being involved. If, then, we can show that Boirac had a motive for the crime, and that he could have committed it and made the plant, that’s all we want. We have not to prove him guilty.”

“I suppose that is so. Then our next point is: What might have been Boirac’s motive?”

“That’s not hard to find. If Boirac found his wife was carrying on with Felix, it might explain his desire to kill her.”

“Yes, and it would give a two-fold reason for his working for Felix’s conviction; first, self-defence by shifting over the suspicion, and, second, revenge on the man who had spoilt his home.”

“Quite. I think a plausible motive might be built up. Next let us ask, When was the body put in the cask?”

“The police say in London, because there was no opportunity elsewhere.”

“Yes, and to me it seems a quite sound deduction. Now, if that is true, it follows that if Boirac killed his wife, he must have travelled here to do it.”

“But the alibi?”

“Leave the alibi for a moment. Our defence must be that Boirac followed his wife to London and murdered her there. Now can we suggest possible details? He would arrive at his house on that Sunday morning and find his wife gone, and a letter from her saying she had eloped with Felix. What, then, would he do?”

Clifford leaned forward to stir the fire.

“I have thought over that,” he said somewhat hesitatingly, “and I have worked out a possible theory. It is, of course, pure guesswork, but it fits a number of the facts.”

“Let’s hear it. Naturally our theories at present can only be guesswork.”

“I imagined Boirac, then, mad with his discovery on the Sunday morning, sitting down and working out a plan for vengeance. He perhaps goes on that morning to the Gare du Nord, and possibly sees them start. He follows them to London. Or, at least, he sees and follows Felix. Madame may have gone by another route. By the time he finds they have reached St. Malo his plan is worked out. He learns they are alone in the house, and he watches till he sees them go out. Then he enters by, say, an open window, and, sitting down at Felix’s desk, he forges a letter to Dupierre, ordering the companion statue to that he has already purchased. He does this in order to obtain a cask in which to pack Madame’s body, as he intends to murder her. To throw suspicion on Felix, he copies the artist’s handwriting and dries it on his blotting paper. For the same reason he signs it with Felix’s name. But he does not give Felix’s address, as he wants to get the cask himself.”

“Good!” interjected Heppenstall.

“He then comes away with his letter, posts it, telephones to Paris to know when and by what route the cask is being sent, and arranges a carter to meet it and bring it near, but not to St. Malo, instructing the carter to await him. Meantime, in some letter or telegram or other trick, he gets Felix out of the way, leaving Madame alone in the house. He rings, she opens the door, he forces his way in, and, in that little round-backed chair in the study, he throttles her. The pin falls out of the neck of the dress and lies unnoticed. Then he goes back to the carter and brings the cask into the yard. He sends the carter to the nearest inn for his dinner, unpacks and destroys the statue, and packs the body. By this time the carter has returned, and Boirac has him remove the cask, giving him instructions to send it to Paris next morning. To compromise Felix still further he has prepared the Emmie note, and he shoves this into the pocket of Felix’s clothes.”

“Good,” said Heppenstall again.

“He goes himself to Paris, gets hold of the cask at the Gare du Nord and sends it to Felix from the rue Cardinet Goods Station. He works out a tricky letter which will have the effect of making Felix claim the cask. Felix does so and the police get on his track.”

“By George, Clifford, you haven’t been idle. I shouldn’t wonder if you are pretty near the thing. But if all that had taken place at St. Malo, do you think Felix wouldn’t have said something about it?”

“I think he would have. On the other hand, he may have wanted to save Madame’s memory, and if so, he obviously couldn’t mention it?”

“What about the charwoman?”

“Well, that is another difficulty. But I think a clever woman could have hidden her traces.”

“The theory accounts for a great many things, and I think we must adopt it as a basis for investigation. Let us now see what it involves.”

“It involves Boirac having been in London on the Sunday night or Monday after the dinner party to learn what had taken place and to write his letter, and again on the Wednesday to commit the murder and arrange about the cask.”

“Quite. It seems to me, then, our first business is definitely to find out where Boirac was on these dates.”

“He satisfied the police he was in Paris and Belgium.”

“I know, but we agreed alibis could be faked. We’d better have the thing gone into again.”

“It will mean a detective.”

“Yes, and what about La Touche?”

“La Touche is the best man we could have, of course, but he’s fairly expensive.”

Heppenstall shrugged his shoulders.

“Can’t help that,” he said. “We must have him.”

“Very well. I’ll ask him to meet us—shall I say at three to-morrow?”

“That will suit me.”

The two men continued discussing the affair until a clock struck twelve, when Heppenstall made a move to return to town.

Mr. Georges La Touche was commonly regarded as the smartest private detective in London. Brought up in that city, where his father kept a small foreign book store, he learned till he was twelve the English language and ideas. Then, on the death of his English mother, the family moved to Paris, and Georges had to adjust himself to a new environment. At twenty, he entered Cook’s office as a courier, and, learning successively Italian, German, and Spanish, he gradually acquired a first-hand acquaintanceship with Middle and South-Western Europe. After some ten years of this work he grew tired of the constant travelling, and, coming to London, he offered his services to a firm of well-known private detectives. Here he did so well that, on the death of the founder some fifteen years later, he stepped into his place. He soon began to specialise in foreign or international cases, for which his early training peculiarly fitted him.

But he was not much in appearance. Small, sallow, and slightly stooped, he would have looked insignificant only for the strength of the clear-cut features and the intelligence of the dark, flashing eyes. Years of training had enabled him to alter his expression and veil these tell-tale signs of power, and he had frequently found the weak and insipid impression thus produced, an asset in allaying the suspicions of his adversaries.

His delight in the uncommon and bizarre had caused him to read attentively the details of the cask mystery. When, therefore, he received Clifford’s telephone asking him to act on behalf of the suspected man, he eagerly agreed, and cancelled some minor engagements in order to meet the lawyers at the time appointed.

The important question of fees having been settled, Clifford explained to the detective all that was known of the case, as well as the ideas he and Heppenstall had evolved with regard to the defence.

“What we want you to do for us, Mr. La Touche,” he wound up, “is to go into the case on the assumption that Boirac is the guilty man. Settle definitely whether this is a possible theory. I think you will agree that this depends on the truth of his alibi. Therefore, test that first. If it cannot be broken down, Boirac cannot be guilty, and our line of defence won’t work. And I need hardly say, the sooner you can give us some information the better.”

“You have given me a congenial task, gentlemen, and if I don’t succeed it won’t be for want of trying. I suppose that is all to-day? I’ll go over these papers and make the case up. Then I fancy I had best go to Paris. But I’ll call in to see you, Mr. Clifford, before I start.”

La Touche was as good as his word. In three days he was again in Clifford’s room.

“I’ve been into this case as far as is possible this side of the Channel, Mr. Clifford,” he announced. “I was thinking of crossing to Paris to-night.”

“Good. And what do you think of it all?”

“Well, sir, it’s rather soon to give an opinion, but I’m afraid we’re up against a tough proposition.”

“In what way?”

“The case against Felix, sir. It’s pretty strong. Of course, I expect we’ll meet it all right, but it’ll take some doing. There’s not much in his favour, if you think of it.”

“What about the shock he got when the cask was opened? Have you seen the doctor about it?”

“Yes. He says the thing was genuine enough, but, sir, I’m afraid that won’t carry us so far as you seem to think.”

“To me it seems very strong. Look at it this way: the essence of a shock is surprise; the surprise could only have been at the contents of the cask; therefore Felix did not know the contents; therefore he could not have put the body in; therefore surely he must be innocent?”

“That sounds all right, sir, I admit. But I’m afraid a clever counsel could upset it. You see, there’s more than surprise in a shock. There’s horror. And it could be argued that Felix got both surprise and horror when the cask was opened.”

“How, if he knew what was in it?”

“This way, sir. What was in it was hardly what he was expecting. It might be said that he put in the body as he had seen the lady alive. But she had been dead for a good many days when the cask was opened. She would look a very different object. He would be filled with horror when he saw her. That horror, together with the fact that he would be all keyed up to act surprise in any case, would produce the effect.”

Clifford had not thought of this somewhat gruesome explanation, and the possibility of its truth made him uncomfortable. If the strongest point in Felix’s favour could be met as easily as this, it was indeed a black look-out for his client. But he did not voice his doubts to his visitor.

“If you can’t get enough to support the defence we suggest,” he said, “we must just try some other line.”

“I may get what you want all right, sir. I’m only pointing out that the thing is not all plain sailing. I’ll cross, then, to-night, and I hope I may soon have some good news to send you.”

“Thank you. I hope so.”

The two men shook hands, and La Touche took his leave. That night he left Charing Cross for Paris.