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Title: Murder in Paris
Author: Alice Campbell
Release date: April 13, 2026 [eBook #78435]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Grosset & Dunlap, 1930
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78435
Credits: an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MURDER IN PARIS ***
MURDER IN PARIS
_by_
ALICE CAMPBELL
_Author of_ “_Water Weed_”
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
[COPYRIGHT]
COPYRIGHT, 1930, BY ALICE ORMOND CAMPBELL
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
[DEDICATION]
TO PATIENCE, WELL NAMED, AND
TO GUIDO, WHOSE KIND HAND GUIDED
ME THROUGH A MAZE OF DIFFICULTIES
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
MURDER IN PARIS
[NOTE]
_No reference is intended in this story to any
living person._
CHAPTER ONE
Catherine did not at first know what to make of Geoffrey Macadam.
Did his stiffness betoken mere British reserve, or was he trying to
hide a natural annoyance at having a stranger thrust upon him,
threatening the peace of his journey to Paris?
If the latter, she longed to tell him how hotly she shared his
resentment, how for eight days across the Atlantic she had been
fleeing from the officious patronage of the lady now needlessly
effecting the introduction.
“It’s no fault of mine,” her eyes strove to convey. “I promise not to
take advantage of it!”
The very next instant she caught that curious, almost startled look on
his face which set her wondering, asking herself if he were really as
wooden as she had imagined.
That look one may take as the starting point of the story…
Mrs. Hugh Tyler Pope--the Hugh rendered as Huge by some of their
fellow-travellers--was no more to be denied than the forces of nature.
She overcame by sheer weight of fatuity, and having constituted
herself Catherine’s protectress on the voyage was determined to see
matters through. Useless for the girl to protest that she wanted no
assistance in finding her seat. Overborne by the pressure of a mighty
bust she was propelled the full length of the train, while a voice
richly-oiled with kind intentions shouted for the benefit of all and
sundry:
“Now, if only we’d met you sooner, dear, we could have had your place
reserved along with ours. Such a pity! It’s just too dreadful to think
of you travelling all this way by your little lonesome! Still it can’t
be helped now, the train’s so jammed. Is this your seat? So it is. At
any rate it’s a corner one. _Porter! Mettay le grand sac de
Mademerselle ploos au coin, il y a un carton aussi._ These foreigners
don’t give a hoot for your convenience, you have to show ’em
everything.”
It was at this precise moment that, clogging the aisle with her
immense mink coat and treading on one pair of toes after another, she
had spied the retiring male in the opposite corner and shrilled with
recognition.
“Why, if it isn’t Mr. Macadam! Now, what do you know about that? Been
up to Havre on business? Well, well! Catherine, my dear--I want you to
meet the very nicest man in all Paris, Englishman. Mr. Macadam, let me
present a little friend of mine I’ve met on the boat, Miss West, from
Boston. She’s on her way to visit a relative in the Avenoo Henri
Martin--you know, Mrs. Harry Belmont Bender, whose husband was killed
last year in that awful motor accident in Massachoosetts. So sad!”
Extremely painful, nor was this the end. Not content with entrusting
her young friend to the Englishman’s care (“As though I were a
congenital idiot,” thought Catherine bitterly), she had dragged her
victim back into the corridor and confided a parting message at the
top of her lungs.
“Now wasn’t that luck? Such a nice man for you to know. Macadam and
Langtree. Lawyers. Everybody knows them. This one’s the son, quiet,
you understand, but such perfect manners. Be nice to him… Well, au
revoir, dear! Don’t forget to ring me up, and come to my very next At
Home.”
So saying Mrs. Hugh Tyler Pope careened up the swaying corridor and
out of Catherine’s life. Her part was played, nor did Catherine,
inwardly cursing her, suspect what an important part it was.
Self-consciously, now, she sank into her seat. To her relief the
Englishman had retired behind his magazine, so that she was able to
settle herself calmly and collect her scattered thoughts.
To tell the truth, they needed collecting. Various uneasy qualms,
hitherto stifled at birth, rose anew to trouble her, growing more
insistent with each repetition.
_Had she done right to come?_
A guilty voice whispered that she had been unwisely precipitate over
the whole affair, and might live to regret it.
“Yet why?” she argued crossly. “Germaine certainly wants me with her.
There’s no doubt about that.”
Yes, Mme. Bender’s letter, for all its characteristic vagueness, had
expressed an earnest wish for her company. She would have bothered no
more about it if it had not been for this other, rather odd epistle
now hidden in her bag, a communication she had shown to no one.
Ah, there she had been wrong, there was no blinking the fact. She
ought to have confided in her married sister Barbara and her sober
brother-in-law, John. Catherine made her home with these two, and
usually asked their advice on matters. Only sometimes, when she
foresaw the result, she omitted the formality.
To be frank, she had been feverishly eager to leave Boston behind and
with it the irksome associations of an engagement just terminated. She
felt she could not walk down Boylston Street or across the Common
without encountering a certain injured young man or some member of his
family, in bitter league against her. Yes, she had dashed off
instantly to secure her passage, and when later this curious missive
penned by a complete stranger had arrived she had kept silent about it
for fear of shipwrecking her plans.
Oh, well, it was done now, there was no looking back. Besides there
was nothing definite in the letter, no fact that one could get hold
of, in spite of its emotional tone. Who was this woman, anyhow?
Probably some excitable friend of Germaine’s, prone to exaggeration.
The hysterical note spoke for itself. Naturally that accident last
year had dealt poor Mme. Bender’s nerves a shattering blow, but there
could be nothing worse. She would put the whole thing out of her
mind.…
Why did her _vis-à-vis_ keep stealing those furtive glances in her
direction? The covert survey, always quickly withdrawn, disturbed her
like the prickings of her own conscience. There was a queer look of
interest in his face, the same expression she had noticed a little
while ago.
Discreetly she took stock of him. He was of slender build, wiry and
muscular, his skin ruddy with health, features unremarkable, and eyes
grey and keen, beneath strong bushy brows. His whole appearance had an
air of restraint, extending to his clothing, which was well-cut, not
too new, and by no detail claimed attention. Altogether he looked a
man who would do nothing rash. Like John, she decided. John, too, was
a lawyer. No, in a situation like her present one, he would
undoubtedly have weighed the pros and cons carefully, and then--she
was sure of it!--stayed at home…
“I beg your pardon?”
She started out of her reverie.
“Yes?”
He coloured in confusion.
“Nothing. I fancied you spoke.”
“No, I was only thinking.” Then she added with a little laugh, “You
didn’t overhear my thoughts, did you?”
A glint of humour was her only answer. Still, a thaw had set in, and
from now on the glances became more frequent and less furtive. Soon
she was sure he had something to say, but that his reticence was
fighting against it. Twice he cleared his throat, then at last the
question came forth.
“I beg your pardon, but did I understand Mrs. Pope to say you are a
relation of Mme. Belmont Bender?”
He had leaned forward, voice lowered, as though the matter were a
private one.
“Mr. Bender was my cousin,” she replied in surprise. “Mme. Bender is
French.”
“Yes. Oh, yes, of course!”
“Perhaps you know Mme. Bender?” she suggested.
“I have met her,” he said cautiously. “Not in a social way. You see,”
he went on after a pause, “my firm--we happen to be solicitors--has
had the handling of the Benders’ affairs for a very long time. Your
cousin was one of our oldest clients.”
“Oh! So that’s it!”
Catherine’s eyes lit up, transforming her entire appearance
miraculously. Her eyes were her most striking feature. Rather sombre
in repose, with a brooding melancholy recalling the famous portrait of
Beatrice Cenci, they had a trick of flaming up with the rise of any
sudden emotion and becoming twin lakes of liquid fire.
“That’s extremely interesting,” she exclaimed, and bent towards him,
flecks of red straining her cheeks. “I--I wonder if you’d mind telling
me just how she seemed to you when you last saw her? I’d rather like
to know.”
He was gazing straight into her eyes now, as though fascinated, half
against his will, by their molten glory. He took a moment to reply.
“It was some time ago,” he answered slowly. “Before Mr. Bender’s
death, in fact. Few people have seen her recently, and I am told that
she’s by way of being a complete--” he hesitated, choosing the right
word--“invalid. Probably you know more of her than I do.”
Her face fell.
“I know very little indeed,” she said uncertainly. “Except for one
short note, I’ve had no news for almost a year.… You see, I have never
known her well. She and Cousin Harry were seldom in America, and it
wasn’t till after the accident, when she was ill in a sanatorium----”
“Sanatorium?” he repeated quickly.
“She was injured, you know--a bad concussion.”
She thought he looked a trifle embarrassed.
“But do you mean to say,” he ventured gravely, “that her mind was
affected?”
“Certainly not!” she retorted with energy. “Why do you ask that?”
He reddened again.
“I’m sorry! In England a sanatorium usually means a home for mental
patients.”
“Oh, I see! With us it’s simply a private hospital.”
It was odd, though, his suggesting such a thing. Suppose, after all…
“I interrupted you. Please go on.”
“I was only about to say that while Mme. Bender was recovering I used
to go and see her every afternoon. She seemed so alone, so helpless
and so crushed. You know, she had always depended on Cousin Harry for
everything, gone everywhere with him, let him act for her, think for
her even. Why, she’s never bothered to learn English properly. There
was no need, her husband spoke such beautiful French.”
“I recall that he did.”
“She was so overwhelmed by grief and shock that she was utterly
incapable of making any plans. She even turned to me for advice, like
a little child, perhaps because I could talk French with her, and
scarcely anyone else could. She wanted me to go back to Paris with her
then, but it wasn’t possible.”
There was a far-away look in her eyes as she thought of her broken
engagement, rejoicing that the ring she had worn for a year--its stone
cut like a piece of rock quartz because her fiancé had thought it bad
taste for diamonds to sparkle--was no longer on her finger.
He was watching her closely.
“But was Mme. Bender entirely alone in Boston?”
“Oh, no! There was a maid, a most excellent woman, who had been with
her for years and understood her perfectly. Indeed, there were two
servants, a man and a woman, who used to travel with the Benders
wherever they went--Egypt, Biarritz, Cannes, all those places. The man
was a sort of courier-valet, spoke a dozen languages--very efficient.…
I wonder if those same servants are still looking after her?” she
added, “because, poor dear, she had such a horror of strangers!”
“The servants? Oh, yes, they are still there,” he assured her quickly;
then in reply to her look of surprised inquiry continued by way of
explanation, “At least I saw them at her apartment a few months ago.
Mme. Bender sent for me on a business matter, but when I arrived she
was too ill to see me, so that the maid you mention had to speak to me
instead.”
Inexplicably Catherine felt that he was withholding some item of
importance. Moreover his interest in her had become so pointed that
she grew positively ill at ease, and saying no more, resolutely
directed her attention to the flying landscape.
They were in the heart of Normandy, which early spring had garnished
with rainwashed tints delicate and vague. Through a mist of green,
thatched cottages appeared, each with its little rectangle of
farmyard, walled in by slender poplars. There was a flush upon the
budding hedges, and here and there showed the pink bouquet of a
flowering almond.
Catherine feasted her eyes, but her soul was troubled. The letter in
her bag suggested anew such alarming possibilities that she was
impelled to run through it again, hoping to fathom the writer’s real
meaning.
No use. It was a tangled mass of contradictions, framed in extravagant
phraseology which left her baffled and irritated. She sat staring at
the blue pages as though they contained some strange hieroglyph she
had not the wit to decipher.
Minutes passed. The other occupants of the carriage had lapsed into
whole or partial somnolence, with the exception of the Englishman, who
having donned a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles was frowning sternly at
the cover of his magazine.
Suddenly Catherine addressed him.
“Do you happen to know anyone in Paris by the name of
Cushing--Hermione Cushing?” she inquired.
He started violently, the copy of _The Bystander_ sliding to the
floor.
“Hermione Cushing?” he echoed, obviously to gain time.
Their eyes met, and in a flash Catherine realized that there was
something in the letter after all.
CHAPTER TWO
During the pause which followed, Catherine had time to reflect that
this young man was a lawyer, and as such would be extremely unlikely
to part with information. Her brother-in-law belonged to the legal
profession. She thought she knew the breed.
“Hermione Cushing?” he repeated again with a sort of negative
inflection. “Oh, yes! You mean the singer.”
“Do I?” she demanded bluntly. “I didn’t know she was a singer.”
The gleam in his eye was altogether human.
“Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that she was a singer,” he
amended. “In any case, she’s a country-woman of yours.”
“You do know her, then?”
“Very slightly. Every one knows Miss Cushing. She’s a well-known
figure in Paris.”
That was all. He had shut up like a clam.
“Oh dear!” fumed Catherine inwardly, “he’s going to be tiresome like
John! And yet he must know something, or why did he jump like that
when I mentioned her name?”
There had been no doubt about his confusion. Even now he was watching
her warily, as though dreading a direct attack. She decided to lay her
cards on the table.
“Mr. Macadam,” she began, glancing hastily at their comatose
companions, “just before I sailed I had a queer sort of letter from
this Miss Cushing, who tells me she is an old and dear friend of Mme.
Bender’s, and as such feels it her duty to warn me about something. Is
it true? I mean, is she really my cousin’s friend?”
He considered briefly.
“Oh, yes. I believe--indeed, I know that she is.”
“Then there’s nothing wrong about her? Nothing odd?”
She fancied his smile was reminiscent.
“Nothing,” he replied discreetly. “Beyond a certain excitability,
which one may put down to the artist temperament.” Yet even as he
spoke she detected a trace of reservation which further mystified her.
Why couldn’t he be more open?
“Perhaps that explains things. You see, I have been frightfully
bothered to know what to make of this.” She fingered the pages with
hesitation, then suddenly made up her mind. “If you won’t think me
stupid, I’d like to ask you to read her letter and tell me whether I
ought to take what she says seriously or not. You can understand my
feeling nervous about it.”
She finished the sentence hurriedly, rather ashamed of her boldness;
then, as he took the sheets from her and gave them careful attention,
she held her breath, studying him anxiously.
Secure behind an expressionless mask, the young solicitor perused the
pages to the final flourish. Catherine, watching, could obtain no clue
to his thoughts.
“You see what she says about the maid believing Mme. Bender to be out
of her mind,” she put in presently. “And about it’s being an
undeniable fact that the poor thing is behaving queerly. Does she
herself think my cousin is unbalanced, or doesn’t she? That’s what I
can’t make out. The very vehemence with which she denies the
suggestion makes me wonder if where there’s so much smoke there mayn’t
be a little fire? Do you understand what I mean?”
“Of course,” he assented, “it puts the idea into one’s head.”
“That’s precisely it. I never dreamed of such a thing before, and it’s
naturally very upsetting.”
He folded the pale blue sheets and handed them back to her.
“If it’s not impertinent, may I ask if anyone else has seen this?”
Catherine blushed.
“No,” she confessed guiltily. “I had made my plans, and frankly I
didn’t want to give up the trip. Besides, I had heard from Mme. Bender
herself----.”
“Oh, she wrote to you, did she?”
“Certainly, and her letter seemed perfectly rational. She’s always a
little wandering and impractical, you know, but as a matter of fact,
on this occasion she was less so than usual. She urged me to come as
soon as possible, and told me to send a wire from Havre, so that
Eduardo--that’s the manservant--could meet me with the car and see me
through the customs.”
“You are sure she wrote the letter herself?”
Catherine stared at him astonished.
“Of course! I know her handwriting well. Besides, who else could have
written it?”
Somehow his manner filled her with apprehension. How she wished he
would offer some opinion, or if he had any secret information that he
would let her share it!
“Besides,” she argued, to justify herself, “it is not as though Miss
Cushing were trying to prevent my coming. It is only that she
apparently thinks I ought to be prepared for what to expect. Indeed,
she seems most anxious for me not to change my mind. Don’t you get
that idea?”
“Very much so,” he agreed. “She appears to think she will have a
better chance of seeing Mme. Bender if you are there.”
Catherine gave a quick nod.
“Evidently she’s had some sort of shindy with the maid, Jeanne.
Here--what is it she says?--‘She detests me, _cette femme là_, and
will go to any lengths to prevent my seeing her mistress.’ I wonder
what is at the back of that?”
Macadam stirred uncomfortably and took out his cigarette case.
“Oh, I expect the maid is of a jealous disposition. You know what
these old servants are like. Will you smoke?”
“Oh, thanks!” She paused while he held his lighter to her cigarette,
then puffing thoughtfully remarked: “That probably explains it. But it
occurred to me--what if Mme. Bender herself doesn’t want to see Miss
Cushing, in which case the maid is merely carrying out her orders?”
“Oh, perfectly! I see your point.”
Indeed, he saw it only too clearly. This possibility had impressed him
so strongly during his one memorable interview with the lady in
question that even now he could not be sure Miss Cushing was not
making a nuisance of herself, forcing her attentions where they were
not wanted. Various information, all emanating from the singer
herself, disposed him to this opinion. He wished now that he had
investigated the matter more thoroughly, but in all justice he had
done the best he could.…
“Of course, it is not always easy to tell if a person is insane,” he
remarked with apparent irrelevance. “Often there are completely lucid
intervals, so that two observers might easily have different
opinions.”
“That’s what bothers me. I can’t help thinking that this maid, who has
known Mme. Bender for so many years and is her constant companion,
must be in a better position to judge of her mental state than someone
who sees her occasionally. Similarly, if Jeanne objects to admitting
Miss Cushing, she is likely to have a good reason for it.”
She stopped suddenly, realizing that she was putting into words all
the doubts she had been trying not to admit. Perhaps she was driven to
do so by her companion’s evasiveness.
Macadam let his gaze dwell upon her sensitive, troubled face. The eyes
were pensive now, clouded with doubt, the corners of the mouth drooped
a little. It was a fairly wide mouth, generous, and with a look of
firm sweetness, which accorded well with the high-bridged, delicately
modelled nose. One would not call her pretty, he decided. Pretty was
too trivial a word. No, there was a sort of high loveliness about her,
showing as much in her expression as in the fine lines of her body.
When her eyes ran over with that golden, liquid fire it was as though
emotion had suddenly fused something clear and intense in her very
soul. It made one think she had a greater capacity for feeling than
most of the women one met. Now, because she was looking downcast, he
longed to find some way of relieving her anxiety. But how?
“At any rate,” he said, “I don’t see that you need worry. I happen to
know that your cousin is under the care of a reputable physician who
probably understands her case.”
“An American?”
“No--French, I believe.”
“She’s changed, then. Cousin Harry always had an American doctor. Oh,
well, I suppose it’s all right my going to stay there. Anyway, I hope
so.”
So did he. The truth was he was finding himself quite concerned over
the thought that this singularly attractive girl was about to become
the sole companion of a woman whose sanity was in grave dispute. She
might be letting herself in for something unpleasant. He himself had
known at least one case of so-called “circular insanity,” where the
patient after a long period of normal conduct, had veered with
startling abruptness into homicidal mania, and ended by inflicting a
knife-wound upon a member of his family. Miss Cushing’s account of
things, garbled and difficult to follow, rushed into his mind so
forcibly that for an instant he opened his lips to utter a guarded
warning. Then, simply because he had long been trained in grooves of
discretion, he decided that it was no business of his to interfere.
When the train pulled into the Gare St. Lazare dusk was deepening into
night. Doors banged open, porters swarmed into the carriages
clamouring for hand-luggage, there was a confused surging exodus of
passengers on to the grimy platform.
Catherine felt a thrill of happy excitement. Paris at last! How she
had longed to be here, ever since her single brief visit four years
ago! The staccato babble filling her ears had an exotic sound,
heralding an era of freedom and romance. How stupid of her to upset
herself over imagined difficulties! Everything was going to be
perfect.…
What was Mr. Macadam saying?
“Shall you be able to recognize this butler who is coming to meet
you?”
“Eduardo? Oh, certainly! I’d know him anywhere. He’s a sort of mongrel
Portuguese, looks as though he ought to have rings in his ears and a
knife between his teeth, but quite decent, really. He must be
somewhere among the crowd.”
While a blue-clad brigand fastened her bags together with a strap and
slung them over a nonchalant shoulder, she scanned the platform with
an eager eye.
“I’ll stay with you, if you don’t mind, till you find him,” suggested
her companion tentatively.
“Oh, thank you, though it’s not at all necessary. He’s sure to be
here.”
She accepted the hand outstretched to assist her down the awkward step
and, looking this way and that, followed her porter’s slouching figure
towards the customs enclosure. Humanity jostled her, raucous voices
shouted “_Attention!_” and more than once she was glad of the
protecting pressure on her arm as some heavily laden truck trundled
ruthlessly towards her, bent upon destruction.
Somewhere amid this seething mass her cousin’s servant must be
searching for her, but although she peered into every masculine face
she could descry no one faintly resembling him.
“Probably he’s been held up by the traffic. Better let me see you
through all this business so as not to waste time.”
She turned grateful eyes upon him, her brow faintly furrowed with
uncertainty.
“It is too good of you! But aren’t you in a hurry to get away?”
“I’ve nothing to do but go home to dinner,” he assured her. “Here we
are. Your trunk ought to be down near the end of the line.”
It was comforting to be looked after; she let him guide her through
the chaos. Already upon the long benches trunks lay open, their
contents jumbled together under the inspectors’ appraising eyes.
“Like the Last Judgment--the graves giving up their secrets!” she
laughed. “I hope they don’t paw my possessions about. I’ve nothing to
declare.”
It was finished. Certainly Mr. Macadam knew how to get things done
with ease and dispatch. Once more, amidst the turbulent scene, her
eyes sought expectantly for the familiar, squat figure of the
Portuguese, only to meet with disappointment.
Eduardo was not there.
CHAPTER THREE
In the open space taxis honked and porters jostled each other with
the peculiarly vicious abandon characteristic of Paris. A few private
cars were drawn up, and each of these they examined searchingly, sure
that one among them must be Mme. Bender’s. However, in turn they were
claimed, and drove away.
“You say you sent a telegram?” inquired the Englishman.
“Certainly, as soon as the boat docked. Of course it may have gone
astray.”
“Possibly. That does, of course, occasionally happen.”
She glanced at him with indecision. Twenty minutes had now passed, and
there was no sign that anyone was coming to meet her. She could not
deny feeling disappointed.
“Oh, well, there’s no good hanging about. I’ll just get into a taxi
and go along by myself.”
He had not noticed in the train how young she looked, and how slender,
almost fragile. Standing now against the dingy building with the cold
draught whipping her squirrel coat about her silk-clad knees, she
seemed to him altogether unfit to be venturing across a strange city
unescorted.
He found himself suggesting solicitously:
“Perhaps you’ll let me drop you at the apartment? I’d very much like
to.”
She shook her head quickly.
“Oh, no, I shouldn’t dream of it! You’ve been too awfully good as it
is.”
She was conscious of a warm appreciation, more pronounced than if the
offer had come from one of the cheerful, less restrained youths of her
acquaintance. She had begun by considering him stiff and severe. Now
she was not so sure.
“Here’s a taxi. I don’t in the least mind going alone, really. It’s
not as if I didn’t speak French.”
Her manner brooking no argument, he somewhat reluctantly handed her
into the waiting cab and gave directions to the driver. Then, not
quite satisfied, he hung on to the sill, looking in at her.
“You’re sure you’re all right?”
“Oh, absolutely! I’m not a baby, you know. I’ve been looking after
myself for years,”--and she laughed, wrinkling her nose.
“It’s this question of your cousin, Mme. Bender. I daresay you’ll find
everything as it should be, but if it isn’t--if for any reason you
don’t want to stay there”--here he floundered a little not sure as to
what he wanted to say--“well, perhaps you might let me know.”
“I will, if you like,” she agreed readily, though a little astonished.
“I’ll give you my telephone number--both my numbers, in fact. The
first is the office, the second my home.”
He scribbled on a card and handed it to her through the window.
“You won’t forget, will you? I shall be rather anxious to hear how
you’re getting on.”
For an instant his two hands rested on the ledge. She noted that they
were unexpectedly large and sinewy for his medium build, and that
there were dark brown hairs on the backs. A detached part of her brain
reflected that they were utterly unlike the pale smooth hands of Miles
Waring, her late affianced--hands which for some inexplicable reason
had always roused in her a faint repugnance.
She thanked him with a grateful smile, and the taxi lunged away,
leaving him upon the kerb, gazing after it with doubt in his eyes.
Beastly annoying of these people to let a young girl arrive like this
with no one to meet her. Nothing in it, of course, but all the same he
ought to have told her plainly the things Hermione Cushing had said to
him a few weeks ago. As it was, he had let her go to her destination
totally unprepared. Well, it was too late now.…
Meanwhile, at breakneck speed the taxi hurtled along crowded
thoroughfares. Lights twinkled through the violet dusk, cars flashed
past, the air was heavy with the distinctive scent of French petrol,
so oddly thrilling because of its associations. Intoxicated by the
well-remembered odour, by the hurrying people and the gay shop
windows, Catherine sat upon the edge of her seat, keyed up with
anticipation of all that Paris was going to mean.
Presently she glanced at the card in her hand. “Mr. Geoffrey Blair
Macadam,” she read, with the address in the corner, 59, rue d’Assas.
She recalled the rue d’Assas. It was across the river, by the
Luxembourg Gardens, a delightful place to live. How thoughtful he had
been! She wondered if she was likely to see him again.
With a lightning swerve the taxi rounded a corner, and behold, the
Champs Élysées, broad and darkly glistening like a ballroom floor.
Far ahead, in the evening gloom, rose the shadowy Arc of the Étoile,
grandly beautiful, the climax to a perfectly planned vista. Beyond it
spread the Bois de Boulogne, full of mystery, with its young bare
trees, and over the Seine to the left lay the heights of St. Cloud
forest. The thought of the myriad slim poplars, pale green even to the
mossy stems, pierced her heart with a joy that hurt.
Ah, here was the Avenue Kléber! Two minutes more and she would reach
Mme. Bender’s magnificent apartment, where four years ago she had
spent a few pleasant days. At the thought sudden stage-fright chilled
her exultation. She was quite forgetting the possible state of her
hostess, and a qualm of self-reproach assailed her. Still, in spite of
last year, she felt almost a stranger to her cousin’s widow, that
intangible creature, so extremely difficult to know. One pitied rather
than loved her, but that was inevitable. Ardently Catherine hoped that
these rumours about her mental condition were exaggerated. Until she
had actually seen her she would feel a bit nervous.
She recalled her first, childish impression of Mme. Bender, long years
ago. Always there had been something unreal, a clinging, orchidaceous
quality, suggesting that she was constitutionally incapable of
existing alone. In the positive personality of her American husband
she had taken root, but recently, torn from that support and
sustenance, her entire character had wilted and sagged, a fact
pathetically apparent a year ago. What would she be like now? With age
creeping pitilessly upon her, it was hopeless to expect her to build
for herself an independent life.
They turned into the Avenue Henri Martin, a spacious street with a
double row of chestnuts down the central parkway. The handsome
building on the left contained the Benders’ two-floored apartment.
There, just round the corner in the side-street, was a private door,
through which one might go without passing the concierge’s loge; but
naturally now she would use the main entrance.
Queer for that telegram, properly addressed, to go astray. Would her
arrival take them by surprise?
The driver descended, unstrapped her trunk, and dumped it
unceremoniously within the flagged court. Catherine got out, paid the
fare, and started to enter the archway.
Then an incident occurred which in itself meant nothing at all, and
which would have been speedily erased from her memory if subsequent
happenings had not served to emphasize it. As she crossed the pavement
she collided forcibly with a lounger who, idling along, head upturned
towards the windows above, had not observed her approach. She recoiled
with the impact, straightening her disarranged hat, as a muttered
apology met her ears.
“_Pardon, mademoiselle!_”
“_Pas de quoi, monsieur_,” she replied mechanically, still tingling
with the blow, which had all but knocked the breath from her body.
He drew back to let her pass, and to her slight discomfiture favoured
her with a long, penetrating stare. How like a Frenchman, she
reflected indignantly. She lowered her eyes, but her brief glance had
shown her a slight, meagrely-built person, execrably dressed in black,
with a wide-brimmed hat upon his head. Above an old-fashioned winged
collar with a cravat rose a small, pasty-white face, the skin
recalling the unwholesome pallor of a fish-belly, while pale,
red-rimmed eyes, one of them marked with a black triangular blemish,
gazed forth with an unwinking fixity.
He was still standing there behind her on the pavement when she
reached the high glass doors of the concierge’s loge, the official
occupant of which came forth to greet her, grudgingly, after the
manner of her class. A dried, spare little woman with a nut-cracker
countenance and a black crocheted shawl about her shoulders, she bent
on the new-comer a vulture-eyed look of mingled curiosity and
suspicion.
“_Bonsoir, mademoiselle!_” she accosted Catherine with metallic
precision. “_On desire----?_”
“Madame Bender,” announced Catherine briefly.
A quick change came over the hard old features. Eyebrows and shoulders
hoisted themselves with one movement, and the sharp eyes narrowed for
a closer inspection of the young girl’s face.
“Ah!” breathed the concierge with an upward, insinuating inflection.
“Madame Bender! I was not informed that madame was expecting a
visitor. However, that is no affair of mine.” She made a curt gesture
with her gnarled hand, at the same time jerking her head towards the
octagonal court beyond the covered way. “_Montez, mademoiselle.
L’ascenseur est à droit._”
Catherine thought her manner definitely unpleasant. In some annoyance
she motioned to her luggage asking to have it sent up as soon as
possible, then turned towards the shallow steps at the right side of
the court. She had not gone two paces, however, before the hard voice
called out with what sounded like malicious enjoyment:
“Mademoiselle has chosen an unfortunate moment for her visit. If she
expects madame to receive her in person, she must prepare for a
disappointment.”
Catherine looked around.
“What do you mean?” she demanded quickly. “Is anything wrong?”
There was a second meaning shrug.
“I cannot tell you. I know nothing, I! All I can say is that the
doctor was summoned for madame last night at nine o’clock, and that he
has only this instant gone out of these doors. Almost twenty-four
hours he remained there, but everyone has been in too fine a state of
excitement to tell me what has happened. Mademoiselle will soon know
the truth, though. She has only to inquire.”
She turned her back and thrusting her scrawny neck in through the
glass doors, screamed “_Gaston!_” in a strident voice.
Her heart pounding, Catherine ran across the court, past the group of
trimly clipped box trees, to the big double-doors. A final glance over
her shoulder showed her a fat, sluggish old man lumbering out to join
the woman under the archway. There the pair stood, planted beside the
little pile of luggage and stared after her with a concentration which
had something ominous about it. Why should they look at her like that?
She was filled at once with antagonism and dread.
A second later she had shut herself into the bronze cage of the lift
and was juggling with the automatic buttons. Up rose the _ascenseur_
and halted at the _entresol_. She sprang out and with rapid steps
crossed the thickly carpeted floor to the imposing mahogany door on
the left.
She rang and rang again, but there was no response. Within was
complete silence, as though the big flat were untenanted. Really it
was incredible that no one should answer the bell! Impatiently, she
pressed her finger once more to the bronze button and kept it there.
All at once, without warning, the door opened to reveal the thick,
squat figure of a man in conventional butler’s attire.
It was Eduardo.
Out of the broad, swarthy face his smallish black eyes stared at her
without a trace of recognition. The wide mouth tightened with an
expression unfriendly, faintly contemptuous. Was this the suave
manservant she knew, this uncompromising person who barred the
entrance with his body, making no attempt to admit her? She felt
curiously dashed, as though cold water had been thrown in her face.
“Eduardo!” she cried, to jog his memory. “Surely you recall me? I am
Miss West, madame’s cousin. Madame is expecting me, you know.”
Only then did he stand aside, an unwilling smile breaking over his
features.
“Oh--Miss West,” he mumbled indistinctly. “Sorry, miss, I didn’t
recognize you.”
Then with something approaching his former manner he removed himself
from her path and by an after-thought took from her the umbrella and
small dressing-bag she was carrying.
Catherine was less annoyed by the nature of her reception than alarmed
at what it might indicate. The thought struck her that something had
occurred to upset the whole _morale_ of the household.
“Didn’t madame get my telegram? She was going to send you to meet me.
However, that’s of no consequence,” she added quickly. “The point is,
what has happened? Is madame ill?”
In spite of his command of many languages, Eduardo was a man of few
words. He muttered something unintelligible in which she could only
make out “accident” and “very bad,” then after an awkward hesitation
he showed her towards the wide doors of the salon.
“Perhaps you’d better go in there, miss,” he said, with a jerk of his
head. “I’ll fetch Jeanne to talk to you----” and without further
explanation he vanished, his tread making no sound on the padded
carpet.
Catherine was bewildered. Why, he had addressed her with the
inarticulate but casual manner he might have used towards one of his
own station! Certainly Harry Bender, easy-going though he had been in
many ways, would never have tolerated this rude familiarity. Yet she
knew that this man had for years been almost indispensable, something
approaching a major-domo. Had the accident to which he referred
overthrown his customary balance? She hoped it was only that.
She pushed open the salon doors and entered; then, too perturbed to
sit down, gazed round her at the rich furnishings. The immense
double-room, built on two levels, was divided through the middle by
graceful gates of wrought iron and gilded bronze, placed at the head
of broad shallow steps. Both portions were filled with exquisite
examples of the Louis Quinze period, genuine pieces, fit for a museum,
the upholstery of delicate _petit point_. On the left wall hung a
large tapestry, and here and there stood vitrines containing
collections of miniatures and snuff-boxes. The whole effect was much
as she recalled it, yet there was a subtle difference which she was
now too preoccupied to define. Probably it was due to the general air
of neglect and complete absence of flowers, which, together with a
stuffy atmosphere, gave the impression that no one had used the
apartment for a very long period.
Minutes went by. She wandered restlessly about, longing for the maid
to come and put an end to her suspense. Whatever had occurred, she had
perfect confidence in Jeanne, whom she remembered as capable and full
of good sense. Sometimes she fancied her a bit too ingratiating, but
that was merely a manner.
Why didn’t Jeanne come? The prolonged wait intensified her fears.
Again and again her eyes strayed towards the doors, but there was
neither sight nor sound of anyone approaching.
She walked to the end of the room, where two long windows gave upon a
narrow balcony. The curtains of old-gold brocade had not been drawn,
and through the opening she could see the trees and glimmering lights
of the avenue. Between the windows was a wide fireplace, over which
hung an eighteenth-century mirror with a painting in the Watteau style
let in at the top. Facing her, flanked by twin lustres with
pear-shaped drops, stood a columned _pendule_ of white marble with
ormolu mounts. Mechanically she compared the time with that of her
wrist-watch, then saw that the clock was not going. At the same
instant she discovered a thin coating of dust on the delicate surface.
Odd! She touched the crystal pendants of the lustres, ran a light
finger over the strip of brocade beneath. Dust again.…
Suddenly she felt her eyes gravitate upward towards a reflection in
the glass. Through the iron tracery of the gates a strange face
appeared, sallow and lined, a woman’s face, out of which, with a fixed
and hostile expression, two opaque eyes stared straight into her own.
She gave a little gasp. Who was this person? For a second she gazed
back, unpleasantly fascinated. Those black bars between gave her a
curious sensation.
It wasn’t--it couldn’t be----
She wheeled about with a nervous laugh of relief and made an eager
movement towards the steps, pushing the gates wide.
“Jeanne!” she exclaimed, “I didn’t recognize you! Oh, thank goodness
you’re here at last!”
She extended an impulsive hand, and the woman took it, after a brief
hesitation, and with little answering pressure.
“It is you, mademoiselle. Pardon me for keeping you so long.”
Catherine saw that she was indeed altered, her strong features haggard
and drawn with fatigue, discoloured semi-circles like bruises under
her eyes, the brow deeply furrowed. A year ago she had thought the
maid almost handsome with her good white teeth always showing in a
cheerful smile, but now, sapped and strangely preoccupied, she
appeared actually ugly.
“Jeanne, I am frightened! What has happened to madame?”
The vertical cleft deepened where bristling hairs met over the snub
nose.
“How did you know anything had happened to madame?” the woman parried
in accents resentful, almost suspicious.
“Why, I heard it from the concierge. She told me the doctor had been
here since last night.”
A stubborn look settled over the close-lipped face. An appreciable
pause elapsed before the reply came, cautious, deliberate.
“Madame is very ill,” she said shortly.
A doubt swept into the girl’s mind.
“Oh, Jeanne--you don’t mean she’s--dead?” she whispered, her voice
shaking.
“No, no! Certainly not!”
This time she spoke with quick impatience, as though for some reason
she were vexed by the suggestion.
“Well, then, tell me what is wrong. I insist on being told.”
The idea came to her that there was some mystery in all this. Why
couldn’t the woman come straight out and tell her?
“Very well, mademoiselle, since you must know, but I warn you it will
give you a shock.” She came a step closer, glanced over her shoulder,
and lowered her voice: “The fact is, last evening madame attempted to
commit suicide. There--now you have the truth!”
CHAPTER FOUR
Catherine was aghast. Her eyes dilated with horror, while an inner
voice whispered that rumour had not lied. Poor Mme. Bender was
certainly deranged.
“When--how did it happen?” she gasped.
“It was last evening. Madame tried to drink a glass of strong
disinfectant. I only managed to summon the doctor in time to save her
life.”
For a few seconds the girl remained speechless, her eyes fixed on the
maid’s worn face.
“What a terrible thing!” she exclaimed at last. “I had no idea it was
as bad as this. But”--with a faint glimmer of hope--“are you quite
sure she meant to do it? Couldn’t it have been accidental?”
Jeanne shook her head slowly and with decision.
“That is what she wishes us to believe,” she replied with a shrug and
in a leaden manner, as though fatigue had dulled her faculties. “By
good luck she had only drunk a little of the liquid when I discovered
what she was doing. I seized her arm and dragged it away. To-day, of
course, she is ashamed, and pretends she took it in mistake for her
sleeping-draught, which I need hardly tell you is extremely unlikely.”
“Ashamed, Jeanne? What do you mean?”
“Only that madame in her sane moments suspects that we are watching
her, as indeed we are. Invalids with her complaint become cunning.”
“Oh, Jeanne, is it true then, about madame’s mental condition?”
A shade of reproach almost scornful passed over the other’s face.
“In my opinion madame has never been normal since the death of
monsieur. Surely you must have realized that last year in Boston,
when, ill as she was, she suggested your coming to visit her.”
Catherine flushed a little.
“No, Jeanne, she seemed to me perfectly sane at the time. Indeed, I
should never have dreamed anything was wrong if I had not heard…” Here
she checked herself, not sure that it was wise to divulge her
informant’s confidences.
A look of shrewd intelligence came into the heavy eyes.
“Oh, I see! It was Mademoiselle Cushing who told you,” remarked Jeanne
rather coldly. “I am not surprised that you have heard from her.”
Catherine felt curiously ill at ease, as though she were being accused
of some wrongdoing.
“As a matter of fact, Miss Cushing did write to me,” she admitted.
“But I may as well tell you she doesn’t think Mme. Bender is
insane--only very nervous and depressed.”
A long silence greeted her statement. Then the woman spread her hands
outward with an expressive gesture.
“_Eh bien_,” she commented with singular emphasis, as though she had
expected this. “There is another who believes what it suits her to
believe.”
Although Catherine did not grasp the meaning of this cryptic
utterance, she felt vaguely disturbed at the undercurrent of
hostility, directed, it seemed, at her as much as at Miss Cushing.
What had either of them done to incur the maid’s displeasure? Still
one must not judge a person who so clearly had just passed through a
painful ordeal and had not yet recovered her poise.
“Never mind, Jeanne,” she ventured soothingly. “The point is, how is
madame now? Is she quite out of danger?”
“Ah, yes! She is sleeping. The doctor ordered her a sedative, and she
is not to be disturbed.”
“That is good. What a mercy she has you to look after her!”
The Frenchwoman turned on her suddenly with a hint of suppressed
passion.
“Ah, mademoiselle, you may well say that!” she whispered, her voice
shaking. “Little do you know what I have been through these past
weeks. It has been one crisis after another. I live in terror! I dare
not leave poor madame, day or night, for fear she will do harm to
herself!”
The girl was forcibly impressed by the devotion, almost fanatical,
which blazed forth from the sunken dark eyes. Not knowing what to say,
she laid her hand upon the arm nearest her with impulsive sympathy.
At her touch a change came over the woman. Pulling herself together
she spoke in a business-like tone, almost cheerful:
“And now, mademoiselle, we must think what is to be done about you.
Naturally you could not know the situation here, or else----”
Catherine interrupted her reassuringly:
“Don’t think of me, Jeanne, I shall be all right. Just show me my room
and I’ll give you no trouble whatever. You must go to bed and get some
sleep.”
Her remark was met by a blank stare. She saw the maid’s body stiffen
slightly.
“Your room? But surely, mademoiselle, you cannot have any idea of
remaining here!”
Catherine was taken aback by the almost irritable incredulity of the
exclamation. For the second time she felt the blood mount to her
cheeks. This was a Jeanne she had not encountered before.
“Why not? I shan’t bother anyone. And, of course, I mean to do all I
can to help you.”
“I do not require help,” retorted the maid quickly. “But--visitors, at
a time like this! Really, mademoiselle, it is not to be thought of!
The apartment is like a _maison de santé_! No, assuredly, it would
never do. Eduardo will assist you at once in finding an hotel. There
are many small, quite comfortable ones in the quarter.”
Her determined manner brooked no contradiction. Catherine was silent
for a moment, dashed and puzzled. Then a rush of obstinacy overtook
her, and she made up her mind not to be dealt with in so peremptory a
fashion. After all, she was not suggesting anything unreasonable.
“Listen to me, Jeanne,” she replied, kindly but firmly. “Madame
invited me to stay here, and I do not intend to go to an hotel. Show
me where I am to sleep, and I will look after myself. Which room is
it?”
For a long moment the two regarded one another. The girl felt herself
in conflict with a will of steel, but she did not waver. At length she
saw that she had won.
“I am not sure that any bedroom is ready,” muttered the maid rather
sullenly. “But if you are determined to stay, mademoiselle, I must see
what can be done.”
She turned and left the salon, irate protest in every muscle of her
rigid back.
It was a chilling reception. Easy to understand that in the recent
crisis no thought could be spared for the coming guest, yet for all
that Catherine could not help feeling that Jeanne was assuming an
unjustifiable amount of authority. Besides, in an apartment full of
servants a single extra person could hardly prove a serious
inconvenience.
She felt damped and depressed. What an idiot she had been not to make
sure of the situation before plunging into it! Her own fault, too, for
she had received a sort of warning. Yet perhaps, after all, she had
not done wrong to come; perhaps in some small way she might be able to
assist her unhappy relative. It was selfish to think only of her own
comfort, which really did not matter very much. She would not have
done so but for the fact that she was tired after her journey. Once
she could wash and change and have some food, she would take a
brighter view of things. A glance at her watch told her it was past
eight o’clock. She had eaten nothing since lunch.
All at once a disconcerting thought occurred to her. What if her
coming had precipitated this action on Mme. Bender’s part? Suppose the
poor, tormented woman had brooded upon the prospect of her arrival,
yet had not had the courage to put her off? There was no saying what
vagaries and exaggerations neurasthenia might attain. For an instant
she was half inclined to run after Jeanne and tell her she had changed
her mind about remaining. She even went as far as the entrance hall,
but before she could carry out her intention common sense pulled her
up.
No, it was hardly possible Germaine could feel like that about her. At
all events it was better to do nothing till she had seen and spoken
with the invalid. It could not possibly matter if she spent the night
here. Her cousin would not even be aware of the fact.
She stood looking round the formal hall with its carved chairs and big
Sèvres vases, the latter bare and a little dusty. Always before there
had been a profusion of flowers, frequently renewed--Madonna lilies,
delphiniums, roses. The wide fireplace used to be banked with azaleas,
in and out of season, but now it gaped empty, with an unsightly wad of
paper thrown carelessly upon the hearth.
Paper? The crumpled fragment, of a pale blue colour, stirred a chord
in her memory. She picked it up and straightened it out. Could it
possibly be----?
Yes, here it was--the telegram sent from Havre this very afternoon. It
had come, then, and been tossed aside as of no account. Queer, that.
She studied it abstractedly, and again saw before her the butler’s
unfriendly stare, the hard, resentful face of Jeanne seen just now in
the mirror. Why, it had not looked like Jeanne at all! She still
recalled her sense of shock at finding the baleful glare fixed on her.
She shook herself free of disturbing fancies. Why make a mountain out
of a molehill? These servants had had twenty-four hours of tension
calculated to upset the evenest dispositions. Now things had calmed
down, they would come to their senses. They could not bear her any
personal ill will.
In the passage which cut across the main hall a whispered colloquy was
going on between Jeanne and another maid. She could distinguish no
words, but the voices sounded irritable, breaking now and again into
smothered exclamations of annoyance. Finally a sentence uttered by
Jeanne reached her ears:
“_Alors, la chambre Empire, c’est tout ce qu’on peut faire! Changez
les draps, tout de suite!_”
Evidently they were holding a hurried debate as to where they were
going to put her. Oh, well, one room was as good as another, if only
they would be quick about it.
She caught sight of a blowsy female crossing the archway with an
armful of linen. This person, who had a mop of straw-coloured hair and
was unsuitably attired in a short black pleated skirt and a blue satin
jumper very open at the neck, stared at her curiously. Catherine also
stared. Never could she have imagined anyone here going about domestic
duties clad in so incongruous a fashion. Even a _femme de ménage_
would not be allowed to wear such clothes.
A quarter of an hour elapsed, then Jeanne came to inform her that her
room was prepared.
“If you will come with me, mademoiselle, I will show it to you.”
She was composed now, still not altogether friendly, but much her
usual self. Catherine began to feel more comfortable.
“Thanks, Jeanne, I shall be glad to get off my things.”
“You will understand our being a little confused, what with last
night’s excitement. None of us has slept since the night before last,
and it never occurred to me to give orders for you, as I felt so sure
you would not wish to stay.”
She smiled, showing her very good, white teeth, but her agreeable air
did not quite hide the reproach of her last words. Catherine felt
unaccountably small and guilty, but she said nothing and followed the
brisk figure along the passage which led to the far side of the
apartment. Here, turning a corner, she saw ahead of her the stairway
which communicated with the ground floor, and just beyond it an open
door, in front of which her guide halted.
“I thought it best to put you as far from madame as possible,”
remarked the maid, signing to her to enter. “Madame sleeps badly, and
is apt to be disturbed by the slightest noise.”
“Quite right, Jeanne. This will do splendidly.”
A glance assured her that her luggage had been brought up, the
cabin-trunk placed on a stand at the foot of the bed.
“I hope you will not object to unpacking for yourself,” continued her
companion with a tentative manner. “The truth is I dare not leave
madame for more than a few minutes in case she wakes. Just now is a
critical time.”
She seemed indeed rather preoccupied and a little restless, as though
anxious to get away.
“Certainly, Jeanne--don’t let me keep you. I shan’t need anything.”
A dozen questions regarding last night’s affair crowded to her lips,
but she decided to postpone them till to-morrow. She saw the maid bow
her head in an absent, detached fashion.
“Thank you, mademoiselle. I will wish you good night.”
The door was quickly shut, and Catherine was alone.
With a sigh of relief she removed her hat and looked about her. At
once she realized that the room, although decent and comfortable, was
one of the poorest in the apartment. It was furnished in Empire style,
good mahogany with mountings of gilded bronze, the sort of thing now
highly prized but twenty years ago picked up for little money. Walls,
curtains and covers were alike of a cheap printed _toile_ in Empire
design, bees and lyres in medallions of rose and yellow. Upon the
marble mantelpiece were candlesticks made of gun-metal with crystal
drops, while the centre was occupied by a pierced basket of the kind
of enamelled iron-work known as _tôle_.
The atmosphere was close, laden with a pungent, cloying odour,
suggesting inferior scent. She could not think what it came from, but
as she hated the smell she crossed to the curtained window and threw
open the casement, letting in the damp night air.
Below lay the narrow side-street, lit by an arc-light at the corner.
An occasional motor-car whizzed along the avenue, a section of which
was visible. She remained for a few minutes looking out, still shaken
by the news lately received. How near this had come to being a house
of death! If it had not been for Jeanne’s timely intervention, poor
Mme. Bender would have breathed her last, no doubt in agony. Yet she
found it difficult to grasp the fact of her cousin’s suicidal
impulses, so cheerful had been the letter written only a few weeks
ago. It was frightening to know that a period of gloom could follow so
quickly upon apparently tranquil spirits. The thought made her tremble
with apprehension. Still she meant to stay. After all, it was only for
two months, for she had promised to join some American friends later
on and go with them to Italy. These people, a young Harvard professor
and his wife, were enjoying a Sabbatical year in Europe, and were to
pick her up in May or June, after they had completed the work they
were doing at the British Museum.
Gazing absently down, she noticed a small man in a wide-brimmed black
hat detach himself from the shadow of the chestnuts and stroll into
the circle of light. In him she recognized the lounger she had
encountered on entering the building. Still there! What did he want,
hanging about like that for almost an hour? He had the appearance of
waiting for something.
A moment later the mystery was solved. Below, a few yards to the left,
she saw the private door of the apartment open, and a woman issue from
it, dressed in a dark cloth coat and a plain pull-on hat. On the
threshold she glanced rapidly about, then made straight for the
corner, where she joined the black-clad lounger.
In the full glare of the lamp her identity was revealed. It was
Jeanne.
Catherine experienced a mild astonishment. After what the maid had
said only three minutes ago about not daring to leave her charge
alone, it was a little surprising to find her going out, cloaked and
hatted. She must be bent on some urgent errand. Hardly unforeseen,
though, for the gesture with which she greeted the loiterer--brusquely
familiar and charged, it seemed with irritation--showed plainly she
expected to find him there. The two exchanged a few words, then
hurried away together, down the avenue, out of sight.
It occurred to Catherine that this man, whose rude stare she had not
forgotten, must be a relation of Jeanne’s, or perhaps an admirer. Of
course the woman must have some personal life, difficult as it was to
imagine such a thing. For that matter, Catherine had sometimes
wondered if there were not some sort of attachment between Jeanne and
Eduardo, who for so many years had travelled about together in their
service to the Benders. Not that she had ever seen any sign in either
remotely suggesting the tender passion.
As she mused thus idly there sounded on the door a sharp rat-tat. She
turned with a start.
“_Entrez!_” she called.
CHAPTER FIVE
A servant entered with a tray upon which a meal was set, with
silver-covered dishes.
She was none other than the blowsy woman Catherine had seen in the
hall, and though she had put on a small, rather absurd apron, she
still wore the satin blouse, and her bulging legs, encased in
flesh-coloured stockings, ended with patent leather shoes run over at
the sides. The mop of bleached hair stuck out unrestrainedly from a
vapid, rouged face.
“_Bonsoir, mademoiselle!_ As it is so very late, and as mademoiselle
no doubt wishes to go early to bed, Jeanne thought it best that I
should bring mademoiselle her dinner to her room.”
“Oh, thank you! Put it here, on the little table.”
The woman set down the tray, and as she bent over Catherine caught an
overpowering blast of the same scent already permeating the
atmosphere. The creature reeked of it. Instinctively the girl moved
away, hoping the abominable odour might not cling to her own person.
Realizing that this extraordinary female was actually attached to the
household, she inquired her name, whereupon the blonde vision beamed
with a fatuous smile, placed her red hands on her hips, and
volunteered a considerable amount of information regarding herself.
She was called Berthe, she was the _cuisinière_, and she had been in
her present situation barely two months. The place was not too bad,
for although there were only three domestics kept, there was the
advantage of no entertaining, and she had all her evenings to herself.
She was not much interested in cooking now, since she was going to be
married before long, and in company with her prospective husband was
planning to start a business of letting rooms in Paris Plage.
“But do you mean to say there are only three servants here now?”
Catherine could not help inquiring in amazement.
The creature opened her china-blue eyes wide.
“_Mais si, mademoiselle, il n’y a que trois--Eduardo, Jeanne, et moi.
Mais c’est suffisant, puis ce qu’il n’y a pas beaucoup à faire_,” she
returned with a friendly yawn.
She added that she had only once seen madame, who kept strictly to her
room and issued orders through Jeanne, if indeed she issued them at
all. Since the housekeeper left Jeanne was in command. Poor madame
dreaded strangers and saw no one, not even her friends when they
called, but that was not remarkable as, _bien entendu_, madame was a
little odd. Here Berthe touched her forehead with meaning. The poor
lady, she went on, had to be constantly guarded, for fear she should
do away with herself. Several times she had given them a fright, and
last night, _vraiment!_ there had been a _scène affreuse_. No one had
closed an eye, and she herself had not been able to get out to see her
fiancé.
Left alone, Catherine sat down to her solitary repast. It was decently
served and not unpalatable, though the cold chicken and galantine
suggested a hasty visit to a pastry-cook’s, while the soup had most
certainly come out of a tin. However, she was not disposed to be
critical, especially as she felt sure the cook had received no
notification of her arrival. Indeed, the woman had assured her that
Jeanne was in a state of stupefaction at the idea of anyone choosing
to remain here at a time like this.
So Berthe, with her satin blouse and flagrant make-up, was the cook!
It was a violent change from the days when Harry Bender’s table had
been noted, and his chef, in a tall white cap, had on occasions of
ceremony been invited into the dining-room to receive congratulations
and to partake of a glass of _fine champagne_. She sighed, not because
she had expected to find anything approaching the former standard, but
simply over things in general--her genial cousin gone, his widow
mentally unbalanced and confined to her room, the home in which he had
taken so much pride given over to domestics who neglected, if not
abused, his cherished possessions. Already her eye had detected small
evidences of slipshod management. The best of servants, she reflected,
grow careless when left to their own devices.
Oh well, of what importance was it, so long as the invalid herself was
properly attended? She had seen a good deal of Jeanne, and felt sure
that, however imperfect she might be as an administrative, she would
never fail in devotion to her mistress.
Except for the breezy cook, who returned to bring coffee, no one came
near her that evening. She might as well have been in an hotel. In
half an hour’s time she heard Jeanne re-enter the apartment, but saw
nothing of her. Somewhere close by she assumed that Mme. Bender was
sleeping, prostrated from shock and stupefied by a sedative. She
wondered when she would see her, if at all, and the uncertainty as to
what to expect filled her with vague discomfort. Easy to picture the
clinging woman as rudderless, dependent, her grip of life shaken, but
the idea of recurring mania was difficult to grasp. One could not
associate the gentle Germaine with any violent action.
She set about unpacking and arranging her belongings, and in so doing
made several minor discoveries of a disagreeable nature. First, the
enamelled basket on the mantel contained cigarette stumps and ashes;
in the dressing-table drawer was a little cheap, red comb, the teeth
of which held a wisp of fair hair; the paper at the bottom of the
drawer was smeared with grease-paint and powder, at the same time
sending forth a wave of the now familiar perfume.
Last she noticed with disgust that the bright pink soap on the
wash-stand was partly used and still moist.
The conclusion was unavoidable. The room until this evening had been
used by Berthe herself, who, in her haste to turn out of it, had
neglected to remove all traces of her occupancy.
Really this was too much! In an apartment of this size, was there no
other room available? How poor Germaine would suffer if she knew! She
could not help resenting the advantage taken of a helpless invalid,
and most of all she held Jeanne responsible, excellent though she was.
For a moment she was conscious of a personal affront, and in order to
calm herself had to bring to mind the maid’s long and faithful care of
her mistress, the undeniable fact that the woman had proved herself
both kind and trustworthy.
The hot bath soothed her ruffled temper, and eventually she fell
asleep between soft, monogrammed sheets, with the sound of pattering
raindrops in her ears. Just before dozing off she thought of the young
solicitor she had met in the train. What attentive, serious eyes he
had, lighting up now and again with a most agreeable flash of humour!
At the beginning there had been a sort of barrier between them,
probably because he was English and did not quite know what to make of
Americans, but at the last, on the station platform, she had felt
suddenly as though he were a real friend. She longed to tell him what
had happened here, but she did not know if she would have the courage
to ring him up as he had begged her to do. Once more she asked herself
if he had known anything about her cousin’s condition which he had not
seen fit to disclose; but even as the question crossed her mind it was
eclipsed by the vision, wholly inconsequent, of his strong, big hands
as they had grasped the sill of the taxi.…
Morning broke brilliant and windy. It promised well that Berthe,
bringing her breakfast, should have had the grace to make herself
almost presentable, appearing in a clean print frock, even though her
hair was adorned with tiny combs to achieve a “water-wave” and secured
in place by a purple veil. The coffee was capital, the croissants
crisp and delicious.
Eagerly Catherine inquired news of her hostess, and learned that she
had passed a peaceful night and, according to Jeanne, was in a fairly
calm state of nerves. Perhaps, after the doctor had paid his call,
mademoiselle might be permitted to see her. It all depended on the
physician’s verdict.
This was slightly reassuring, yet to tell the truth she was nervous at
the thought of conversing with a woman who two days ago had tried to
take her own life. One never knew when another crisis might occur, or
what might cause it. Still, she could ascertain whether or not her
visit was welcome, and act accordingly.
As soon as she was dressed she ventured forth, in search of some place
to sit and read till the doctor had come and gone. The formal salon
oppressed her, especially in its present state of dustiness, but she
recalled a small, cheerful room next it, used by her cousin as his
study. The door stood ajar, she pushed it wide to enter.
The next instant she gave a faint gasp.
In a big leather chair sprawled Eduardo, legs upon the writing-table,
face hidden by a copy of _Le Petit Parisien_. Around him hung wreaths
of cigarette smoke, while ashes lay thick on the brown carpet.
Catherine drew back as though struck, but before she could escape the
butler had muttered something hardly to be construed as an apology and
shuffled out. As he passed her his eyes, muddy like those of an angry
bull, surveyed her with abashed but scornful defiance.
Her colour rose, her heart pounded uncontrollably. What insufferable
insolence! The man was disgracefully untidy, too, his usually sleek
hair bristling rough above the narrow strip of forehead, his chin blue
from lack of shaving, carpet slippers on his feet.
After a few seconds she forced herself to treat the matter as a joke.
Why work herself up over what did not concern her? Eduardo had simply
fallen back to what must have been his original state, a reversion not
to be wondered at in the circumstances. After opening the window to
rid the room of smoke, she made herself comfortable on the sofa and
picked up her book.
However, it was hard to fix her attention. Everything here, from the
big mahogany desk to the painting of a favourite race-horse over the
mantel, recalled insistently her late relative’s presence. Shutting
her eyes she could plainly see the tall, blond New Englander leaning
back in the chair the butler had just vacated, his silvered hair
smooth above keen boyish eyes, his fresh, unlined face so oddly
suggesting that of a handsome schoolmaster.
She had always liked Cousin Harry. Her mother’s first cousin, the sole
heir to a wealthy Boston banker, he had come to France in his youth,
married a French wife, and from thence on had pursued a care-free,
generous existence, travelling widely, collecting _objets d’art_, and
breeding race-horses. In spite of his pleasure-loving instincts he had
somehow preserved the backbone of his Puritan ancestry, and had
remained singularly unspoiled, never drinking too much, never running
after women. His attachment to Germaine had been well known, and for
all his popularity he had been happiest in her company. Probably he
alone had understood the shy, elusive woman now so shipwrecked by his
death.
Thinking of these things Catherine heard a ring at the bell and soon
afterwards saw through the crack of the door a heavily-built man with
a spade-shaped black beard lumber past, escorted by Jeanne. In the
distance a door closed. Then there was silence again, presently broken
by subdued whistling which the listener attributed to the cook.
Twenty minutes elapsed, after which the doctor, still accompanied by
Jeanne, returned along the hall. Close to the study the two halted for
a conference, and Catherine heard a deep bass rumble alternating with
the staccato utterance of the maid, whispered and mysterious.
At first there was only a confused babble but eventually after a
pregnant pause a few sentences emerged clear. The physician inquired
in booming accents oddly puzzled.
“_Vous êtes sûre, entendu, qu’il n’y a pas de souris là bas?_”
To which the reply came, positive and a little impatient:
“_Mais, voyons, monsieur! Un souris, dans cet apartement, parfaitement
soigné, tout propre? Elle rêve, la pauvre--c’est évident!_”
“_Ah, la malheureuse! Je crains que vous avez raison._”
The two moved away.
Catherine knit her brows, perplexed. A mouse? What had a mouse to do
with madame, and why should Jeanne make so indignant a denial? She
could think of no explanation.
It seemed an age before she caught Jeanne’s voice, brisk and
business-like, inquiring as to the whereabouts of Mademoiselle West.
Without waiting for a reply, Catherine jumped up and ran into the
hall.
“I am here, Jeanne. What did the doctor say?”
She fancied the maid looked a little annoyed at finding her at her
elbow, but her countenance quickly cleared, resuming its old
expression of suavity.
“Ah, there you are, mademoiselle! Madame is much better to-day. The
doctor thinks you may be allowed to see her for a quarter of an
hour--no longer, for it would not be wise. You will, of course, be
careful not to excite her in any way, as she is still in a very
nervous state.”
“You may trust me, Jeanne.”
Keyed up with expectancy, she followed the maid along the transverse
passage which communicated with the rooms opening on the court. At the
third door Jeanne paused, listened a moment, then grasped the girl’s
arm and whispered in her ear.
“Another thing, mademoiselle, which the doctor told me to caution you
about. Whatever you do, try not to contradict madame. She is apt to
get strange ideas into her head, to imagine things which are not true.
It is part of her illness, and to oppose her may bring on a _crise_.
You will be very careful about this?”
Catherine nodded, and the next instant the maid had slipped quietly
into the room, motioning to her to wait. From the other side of the
door came a plaintive voice which she well knew. It filled her with
surprise to find it so little altered.
“She is there? Tell her to come in--at once, at once! I am longing to
see her.”
“Yes, yes, madame. I only wished to make sure that madame is ready to
receive mademoiselle.”
“But of course I am ready! I am waiting! Catherine, my dear child,
come in, come in!”
With inward trepidation Catherine opened the door and entered.
CHAPTER SIX
She found herself in a room unexpectedly small and narrow, furnished
with sparse simplicity. Nearly everything was white, walls, covers,
the bed-hangings, pendent from a sort of crown. The only colour was
contained in the dull mauve-grey carpet and in the dark wood of the
severely beautiful Directoire furniture. The curtains were drawn, so
that although it was nearly midday there was a clear, luminous
twilight. On the panel beside the bed, facing the entrance, hung a
silver crucifix, under which were wax candles in brackets.
All this was but a general impression. What the girl chiefly saw was
the fragile figure in the bed, the grey eyes staring out of the drawn
and pallid face, the thin arms outstretched to greet her.
“Catherine! You have come, then! I did not know till a moment ago. My
dear--my dear!”
There was strained pathos in the quivering features, a catch in the
voice which poured forth its words in a rapid torrent. Tears dimmed
the invalid’s eyes, the veins stood out on her waxen temples as with
feverish intensity she kissed the young girl on both cheeks, then
clung to the warm hands with her own transparent ones.
“My darling Germaine!”
Now the first shock was over Catherine felt easier. Until this moment
she had nurtured a cankering doubt as to whether or not Mme. Bender
would recognize her.
“Madame! madame! Calm yourself! You will suffer for this.”
It was Jeanne who spoke, solicitous and reproving, hovering near by as
though in readiness to interpose at the slightest warning symptom.
Catherine had a fleeting impression of watchful eyes regarding them
anxiously.
“No, no, Jeanne, I am quite myself. You need have no fear. Only I am
so very, very glad to see this dear child, who has come all the way
across the ocean to be with me. Leave us for a little. I promise I
shall not become excited.”
“Very well, madame, I will go, but I shall not be far away. If madame
wants me, she has only to call.”
She withdrew into the adjoining room, not without a backward glance
full of doubt, and, it seemed to the girl, distrust. Through the
half-open door she could be heard moving about, as if reluctant to
remove herself from earshot. Evidently, although the patient appeared
quite normal, she was not satisfied. Probably experience had taught
her not to rely upon these fortunate phases too implicitly.
The Frenchwoman still detained Catherine’s hands, stroking them with
trembling, quick movements. Her eyes devoured the vivid young face.
“Sit there, my child, in the big chair, quite close to me. Now, tell
me everything about yourself. Did you have a good crossing, and was
Eduardo in time at the station? You were well looked after?”
“Everything was perfect, Germaine dear! Quite, quite perfect.”
On no account must Mme. Bender know what had actually happened.
Clearly she had not the least suspicion that her orders were
neglected.
“And your room? Do you like it? I told Jeanne to give you my own old
one, at the corner. I have lain here thinking how charming you would
look against the green and gold. Are you happy there?”
“It is a beautiful room, Germaine. It is like you to think of it.”
“No, no. I have nothing pleasanter to think of, here alone. I have
always marvelled how, out of that dull, cold New England, where no one
has any eyebrows, you could have got that colouring of a Tintoretto.
It warms one, like the sun.”
She ran on flutteringly in her pure and lovely French, and as the
sentences followed one another with rapid irrelevance the girl scanned
her features for some sign of aberration. After a few minutes he began
to feel less uneasy. Germaine was much as she had always been--aged,
of course, and tremulous from weakness, but otherwise little changed.
In the haggard features it was still possible to trace remnants of the
beauty which had first captivated Harry Bender. The luxuriant hair was
streaked with grey, but it retained its natural wave, and was worn as
she had always worn it, drawn back from a central parting to show her
delicate ears. On the right temple it revealed the end of the ugly
scar which marked the injury of last year.
Above all else it was the eyes which held Catherine’s attention. Wide,
strained and wistful, the eyes of a neurasthenic, they now riveted
their gaze eagerly on the girl’s face, now darted this way and that
with frequent watchful glances towards the open door. They expressed
timidity, lack of assurance, and some other less easily defined
emotion baffling to the onlooker; yet in them Catherine could detect
nothing to indicate loss of reason.
Nor in the rather childish prattle, skipping like a dragonfly from
topic to topic, was there anything unusual. At no time had Mme. Bender
possessed a keen or logical brain, though fineness of taste and an
evasive charm had in a great measure made up for lack of
understanding. Always she had given the impression of being withdrawn
in an inner fantastic world, and when it came to practical affairs she
had accepted the dictates of her husband without question. Now it
struck Catherine that these characteristics had assumed exaggerated
form. She had definitely reverted to a child-like state, trusting and
fearing without reason, shrinking from reality and claiming
protection. Just how far this retirement might extend it was
impossible to say.
All was now silent in the next room, though the girl did not remark
the fact until upon her companion’s face she caught an expression of
acute listening. Then she knew that Germaine wished to tell her
something, and had been waiting for the maid to go away.
“Catherine, my dear!”
She whispered the words, meantime clutching Catherine’s arm in a
nervous grasp.
“What is it, Germaine?”
“Yesterday--or was it the day before?--I had a dreadful experience.
Something so stupid happened. Have they told you?”
“A little, Germaine. You drank something by mistake. Wasn’t that it?”
returned the girl, embarrassed to find a suitable reply.
The grey eyes took on an eager glitter.
“A mistake--yes, yes! Just that. So foolish of me--I cannot yet think
how it came about.” She paused, again listening, then continued
earnestly: “I want you to believe me when I say it was an accident. I
had here on my table my sleeping-draught in a little glass, and in
another glass a solution of carbolic in which at night I put a little
dental plate. You understand?” she demanded urgently, her eyes
searching Catherine’s face.
“Of course. What happened then?”
“You see, one of the glasses is green. That is the one that contains
the sleeping-draught. Well, while Jeanne was out of the room getting
me a hot-water bottle, I took up the green glass and drank a little.
Only a very little, for at once I knew I had taken the wrong thing.
Ah!” with a convulsive shudder, her eyes closing, “it was strong, so
strong! It burnt my throat. My throat is still raw, though Jeanne
declares that is my imagination. You know sometimes my imagination is
very vivid.… Yet I cannot see how…” Her voice trailed off and she
pressed her fingers to her throat with a distracted gesture. “Anyhow I
screamed. ‘Jeanne, Jeanne, come at once!’ I called, ‘I have taken
poison!’ But she was at the back of the apartment, she could not hear
me. Meantime the drop I had swallowed burnt like fire all the way
down. I was in agony. It was a long time before I could make her
hear--poor Jeanne! She was terribly upset.”
Spent by the recollection, she lay back upon her pillows, while
perspiration broke out and lay in heavy drops on the waxen skin.
Catherine eyed her in keen distress.
“There, dear, it is all over now. Try to forget about it.”
Suddenly the prone figure stiffened, sat bolt upright, staring with a
look of terror. At the quick change Catherine realized the fact that
she was alone with a patient who a short time ago had suffered an
alarming attack. Ought she to summon Jeanne? Yet a second before she
had been impressed by the lucidity, the poignant underlying
conviction, of the invalid’s recital. She watched, uncertain what to
do.
“Forget it! Ah, that is what I must not do!” breathed the hoarse voice
fearfully. “I must remember it, so I cannot commit so frightful an
error again. The great trouble is my memory. I forget things so
easily--so easily! I must have forgotten which glass was which,
otherwise how could I have done what I did? You see? It shakes one’s
confidence. It----”
She checked herself with a gasp, eyes dilating. Following the
direction of their gaze, Catherine saw that Jeanne had come back, was
standing just inside the door. So engrossed had she been by her
cousin’s excitement she had not heard the light footfall.
The maid approached, anxious and disapproving.
“Madame! madame!” she declared with authority, “this will not do! I
implore you not to speak of that affair. Mademoiselle, you see? She is
getting into a panic again. Did I not warn you?” she ended accusingly.
Catherine thought it better not to reply. Besides, her attention was
transfixed by the instant alteration which had taken place with the
patient. Mme. Bender’s wan features assumed a timid, conciliatory
smile as she relaxed and lay back, breathing hard.
“It is nothing, Jeanne! I was only telling mademoiselle how imbecile
it was of me to mistake the plain glass for the green. Never in my
life have I done such a thing. It makes me feel quite, quite odd!” She
finished with an hysterical laugh of apology infinitely pathetic.
The maid, now on the other side of the bed, nodded at Catherine with
grim significance.
“One makes these mistakes sometimes when one is not quite oneself,”
she remarked soothingly yet with emphasis. “One imagines all sorts of
things. Madame knows now that she was wrong, because I showed her the
plain glass with the disinfectant still in it. Is it not so, madame?”
“Ah, yes, that is so. You were right, of course,” agreed the invalid
with eager alacrity. Then she caught the maid’s unresponsive hand in
hers and pressed it affectionately. “What should I do, where should I
be, without my dear, good Jeanne? No one, Catherine, would do for me
what she does,” she added, as though longing to assure the other of
her appreciation.
“You had better go now, mademoiselle,” suggested the woman firmly.
“This has been quite enough for one day.”
The girl rose, but a lightning clutch at her sleeve pulled her back
again.
“No, Jeanne, let her stay! I will not excite myself, really I will
not!”
With unmoved face the maid bent and loosed the fragile fingers.
“No, madame,” she said quietly, then stooping so that her lips were
close to the other’s ear she whispered in a low, distinct tone:
“Madame must try to behave reasonably, if she wishes to be permitted
company at all.”
At once Mme. Bender gave in with complete docility.
“Very well, then, I will do as you say. But she is to come again soon?
Catherine, my dear, you will sit with me often, will you not? I am
alone so much, and I think and think--such strange, disturbing
thoughts…”
“But of course, dear, I mean to be with you every day. As long as you
will have me.”
She kissed the thin cheek and withdrew, gravely nonplussed by the
recent scene. Jeanne followed her out, closing the door softly, and
when they had reached the bend in the passage spoke in an undertone.
“You see?” she said, and her tone though sorrowful held a touch of
triumph--almost, thought Catherine, as if she believed her word had
been doubted.
“I don’t know what to say, Jeanne,” faltered the girl. “Madame was
much more rational than I expected. In fact, if I had not been told
about this insanity, I doubt if I should have noticed anything. It was
only when she mentioned the poison----”
A quick gleam came into the other’s eyes.
“Ah, yes, I heard a little of what madame was saying. It is as I told
you, she is trying to justify her action and make us think it was
unintentional.”
“You are quite certain it wasn’t accidental?” suggested Catherine
doubtfully. “It seemed to me----”
The maid raised her eyebrows.
“Who can say?” she returned after a pause. “But it is strange, is it
not, how the mention of it throws her into a fever? No, I am afraid
she has lain there making up this story, which she now believes to be
true. She is often like that.”
“Do you mean, Jeanne,” whispered Catherine, recalling the marked
discrepancy between the invalid’s statement and the maid’s, “that what
she says about calling you and your not hearing her is an invention?”
A pitying smile broke over the sallow face.
“I am sorry to say, mademoiselle, there is not one word of truth in
it,” she replied positively. “I was upon the threshold at the time,
and snatched the glass from her lips. She did not know, of course,
that I was watching. Eduardo, Berthe, both heard me cry out, and ran
to see what was the matter.”
There seemed no doubt about it. Catherine pondered the matter
unhappily.
“But why? Why should she want to take her life?” was all she could
manage to say. “A year ago I saw no sign of such a thing, wretched
though she was.”
“Ah, that is the nature of her malady. Melancholia. It comes in fits,
and when the spell is upon her the poor creature cannot be held
responsible. Only three weeks ago--but no, I must not alarm you
unduly,” she broke off, closing her lips with determination.
“Tell me, Jeanne, I would much rather know the truth.”
“Well, then,” admitted the woman reluctantly, watching her as she
spoke, “if you must know, I came into the room there to find madame,
in her nightdress, standing upon the window-sill, preparing to throw
herself into the court below. If you will look you will see that I
have had two bars fastened across the opening, to prevent her
attempting it a second time.”
Catherine drew in her breath sharply. This was something not easily
explained away. Painfully she inquired the details, and learned that
after the rescue Mme. Bender suffered from nervous collapse, following
which the entire affair appeared to be erased from her memory. Not
once had she referred to it, nor asked why the bars were there.
“You understand why it is I have moved my bed into madame’s
dressing-room,” went on the maid. “As I told you last night, it is not
safe to leave her for any length of time.”
Inconsequently Catherine recalled Jeanne’s departure the evening
before, but naturally said nothing. After all, her charge had no doubt
been sound asleep.
“Of course it isn’t,” she replied earnestly. “But all the same it is
too much for you. Oughtn’t you to engage a professional nurse?”
The look of fanatical obstinacy she had seen before tightened the
strongly marked features.
“Ah, no, mademoiselle. Such a thing might drive the poor creature to
desperation. No, I have served her for fifteen years, and I shall
continue to do so now that her need of me is so great. Who so well as
myself understands her, who would protect her, not only from herself,
but”--she hesitated, then finished with slow emphasis--“from those who
perhaps might do her injury?”
What on earth could she mean? Catherine stared at her in astonishment.
“Surely, Jeanne, there can be no such person. Why do you suppose there
is?”
For a second there was guarded silence. Then the maid, with a
suggestion of a shrug, replied:
“I must not make any accusations, mademoiselle. But does it not strike
you as strange, to say the least, that on the occasion I have
mentioned and also two days ago the attempts at suicide should have
followed close upon the visits of an old friend?”
This was news indeed!
“Whom do you mean, Jeanne? I understood madame saw no visitors.”
“No one, except”--here she halted and glanced about her, then brought
out the name with apparent reluctance--“Mademoiselle Cushing.”
Hermione Cushing! Catherine could not suppress a start. She gazed
fixedly into the unflinching eyes of the maid.
“Miss Cushing!” she echoed, wonderingly. “But what possible reason is
there to connect her visits with--with----”
“There may be no connection. Do not misunderstand me, mademoiselle.
Only, since you have put the question to me, I will say plainly that
this lady, who calls herself an old and intimate friend, seems to me
to exert a bad, a depressing influence on madame. So sure am I of this
that I have done my utmost to discourage her coming; but,” and she
made a gesture of helplessness, “I cannot always keep her away. I know
that she persistently speaks of things which are distressing to anyone
in madame’s condition.”
“What sort of things, Jeanne?” demanded the girl curiously.
At the same time she rapidly reviewed the disjointed letter which had
so upset her peace of mind, recalling the writer’s complaints about
the difficulty in seeing her friend. Was there anything behind it all?
The maid’s eyes turned from hers secretively.
“Mademoiselle Cushing cannot forget that madame is a rich woman, has
been for years her patron and supporter. No doubt she is afraid that
madame will die and leave her unprovided for. In short, she thinks
always of feathering her nest.”
Indefinite as the explanation was, it hinted at unpleasing
possibilities. It seemed to her she was beginning to understand in
part the problem with which Jeanne had to cope. Had she not somewhere
heard the prayer, “Oh, Lord, save us from our friends!”?
She came to herself to find the intelligent brown eyes regarding her
shrewdly.
“And now, mademoiselle, that you see what all this is like, do you not
think it would be happier for you to leave this sad abode? You can do
no good here--you are young, you wish to be gay. It is no life for one
whose duty does not call her to it. Believe me, I know what I am
saying when I beg you to go elsewhere to live.”
Catherine had not expected this renewed importunity.
“On the contrary, Jeanne, I shall be quite content to stay, at least
for a few months, and I honestly think I may have a good effect on
madame’s spirits. She was so evidently glad to see me just now----”
She stopped in time to see an expression of strong displeasure settle
over her companion’s features. Before she could finish her sentence,
however, the silence was pierced by a long ring at the telephone. She
found herself listening mechanically to the gruff voice of Eduardo
answering the call.
A moment later the butler issued from the study, came a step towards
them, then, spying Catherine, halted.
“A gentleman to speak to you, miss,” he announced in an offhand
manner, more loudly than was necessary. “A Mr. Geoffrey Macadam.”
Her friend of the train! The tension snapped, as with a glad sense of
relief she hurried towards the study.
She could not say what instinct made her glance back at the two
servants, nor why the penetrating look of question passing between
them should cause her such poignant discomfort. Certainly it told her
that she was an unwelcome alien in their midst, but she half-fancied
an additional meaning less easy to interpret.
A tremor shook her voice as she spoke into the telephone.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Geoffrey Macadam had been going through a struggle. Why this
consuming eagerness to acquire news of an American girl whom he had
not known existed till yesterday afternoon? Was it genuine anxiety for
her welfare, or simply the hankering to hear again a voice which for
some inscrutable reason lingered disturbingly in his memory?
Suspecting his motives he had fought for an entire hour, during which
the telephone drew him like a magnet.
Sheer nonsense, this! She was there haunting him the whole time. Twice
last night he had dreamed about her, and even now her dark, shining
eyes came between him and the work upon his desk, scattering his ideas
to the winds of heaven. There was a kind of spell about it.… Not that
it would last, of course. This sort of thing never did. In all
likelihood after he had looked at the original eyes a time or two…
This decided him. He would ring her up, ask her to lunch--not
immediately, that was too impetuous--but later, say the end of the
week. Then he would see that she was just an ordinary mortal, and as
such put her into her proper place.
On firm ground now, his scruples placated, he did what he had been
longing to do and put through the call.
Two minutes more, and his prudent resolutions were broken to bits, all
because the familiar voice had a catch in it and an undercurrent of
excitement vibrating through its guarded replies. Clearly Miss West
was upset about something. Lunch at the end of the week became dinner
to-night--if she could manage it. Could she? There was a little gasp
of astonishment, a pause, then a wavering consent, in which it
thrilled him to detect a note of thankfulness. That meant that she
really wanted to talk to him about her cousin. Well, he also wanted to
talk about her cousin. Only there was no use pretending that Mme.
Bender’s affairs could cause his pulse to beat in this ridiculous
fashion, or rouse in him a thirsty craving like the desire for water
after a hectic night. What had come over his well-ordered self? He
must take his emotions in hand, or there was no knowing to what
stupidity they might lead.
Freeing himself from his reverie, he crossed the reception room to his
father’s office. He wanted to inform his parent of his meeting with
the late Harry Bender’s cousin, a fact he had not previously mentioned
because the elder Macadam had been dining out last night. Secretly he
suspected himself of a fatuous need to speak to someone about the
subject of his thoughts.
Blair Macadam was leaning back in his swivelled chair dictating to his
secretary, an attractive-looking English girl with well-waved hair and
a smart blue serge frock. He glanced at his son from beneath heavy
grizzled brows, but went dryly on, now and then running his fingers
through the coarse grey hair which stood up stiffly above his furrowed
forehead. He was a big, powerfully built Scot, who in his forty years’
exile from his native Edinburgh had never lost his accent, noticeable
even in his careful French.
Geoffrey walked to the window and looked down upon the busy traffic of
the rue Auber. Across the way loomed the square, dingy bulk of the
Opera, round whose island circled a ceaseless stream of hooting taxis
and motor-busses, constant menace to the harassed pedestrian. The sun
streamed down, spring was in the air.
“_Croyez-vous, cher monsieur, l’expression de mes sentiments_--and so
forth. Get those typed as soon as you can. That will be all now, Miss
Curwen.”
The secretary gathered up her pads and departed, not without an
unobtrusive flicker of the eye towards the junior partner’s
unconscious back. It was characteristic of the old man that he took
note of the glance, but paid absolutely no attention to it.
“Well, Geoffrey?” he said, turning over the letters on his desk.
“It’s nothing much,” replied his son. “Only coming up from Havre on
the boat-train I met an American--West her name is--who it seems is
some relation of Harry Bender’s. I thought you might be interested.”
“Going to stay with the widow, is she?” remarked the old lawyer with
no evidence of special concern. “What age is she? Responsible woman?”
“No--quite young. Twenty-three, perhaps.”
Suddenly self-conscious Geoffrey lit a cigarette, offering his case to
his father.
“Thanks, not till after lunch. Well, I daresay it will be dull enough
for her.” He continued to sort papers. “Odd your mentioning the
Benders, though. While you were away that woman came in again to me.
Second or third time in six months.”
“What woman?”
“Mme. Bender’s maid. Seems to have a good deal of authority.”
The younger man made a movement of interest.
“Oh! What did she come about?”
“A message from her mistress, who apparently sees to nothing for
herself these days. Lost the key of her safety-deposit box at the
bank, and wanted to get a duplicate.”
“What did you do about it?”
“Oh, communicated with the bank. Told her, of course, that it would be
necessary to have a written order, signed by Mme. Bender. However she
knew all about that, and produced the paper properly signed.
Thoroughly business-like.”
Geoffrey frowned suddenly. Had not Miss Cushing, at his one memorable
interview with her, made some obscure reference to the contents of the
safety-deposit? He was sure, he recalled something of the sort.
“What do you suppose Mme. Bender keeps at the bank?” he inquired.
“Jewels, I should say. You know she seldom wore any, though Bender
must have given her some valuable ones.”
“Did this maid happen to speak of her mistress’s health? Her mental
condition, I mean. You know I mentioned it to you some time ago.”
“Did you? I forget. In any case nothing was said about it the other
day. I gather that she’s merely confined to the apartment. She can
sign her name, at all events. Why do you ask? Nothing wrong, is
there?”--and he glanced up keenly.
His son paused on the threshold.
“I don’t know that there is. I happened to hear that she is regarded
as rather--well, erratic.”
“Always was,” murmured his father. “Nothing new about that.”
“By the way,” remarked the young man, pausing in his exit, “you might
tell Elspeth I’m dining out.”
Elspeth was his married sister, who lived at Fontainebleau, but who at
the moment was staying with his father and himself at their flat in
the rue d’Assas. Father and son maintained a bachelor existence they
liked to feel was all sufficient, yet both were quick to fall into
consulting and relying upon Elspeth during her brief visits to their
_ménage_.
At a little before eight that evening Geoffrey drove his Citroën over
the Pont de la Concorde, along the Cour la Reine and so past the Place
d’Iéna and the Place du Trocadéro to the Avenue Henri Martin. He was
conscious of a vivid elation, yet in proportion as this sensation
soared within him he felt himself growing each moment stiffer and more
awkward. Why, he asked angrily, should anticipation exert so
petrifying an effect upon his powers of speech and movement? With his
whole soul he envied the easy, expansive youths of his generation,
their readiness to pay compliments and to take small liberties without
giving offense. Never could he hope to be one of these lucky beings.
He was far removed from a prig, nor did he cherish any footling
illusions about womenfolk. Except for his school and university days
he had spent his life in Paris, a city which does not foster illusions
of any kind. No, it was not from ignorance nor prudery if he froze at
a glance the exceedingly desirable girl he was hastening to meet. It
was some despised quality handed down to him through a long line of
Scottish forebears, as inseparable from their fibre as the heather
from their hills. He could as easily cut off his right arm as to rid
himself of its restraint.
It might have soothed his ire to know that this adamantine exterior
carried its own compensations, that a fair number of women, French as
well as English, regarded him with covetous interest, feeling as women
do that a nut hard to crack must contain a rewarding kernel; but
little suspicion of this penetrated his mind, even though for the past
year he had been dodging the advances of at least two damsels,
well-bred and amply dowered. What vanity was his left him uninformed
as to his powers of personal seduction.
He crossed the well of the court and entered the _ascenseur_.
Alighting at the _entresol_ he became at once aware of angry voices, a
man’s and a woman’s, engaged in turbulent altercation. The sounds came
from the direction of the Bender apartment, and as he turned the
corner he saw the maid, Jeanne, making vigorous efforts to shut the
door upon an intruder, a man in chauffeur’s uniform, who, having
wedged his foot within the entrance, stubbornly refused to budge.
“I tell you, I am not going to take my dismissal from such as you!”
shouted the aggressor furiously. “After five years, to be sent about
my business, and by another domestic! No, a thousand times no! It is
not done--a serious man, with a family, too, chucked for no reason! I
won’t have it! I insist on seeing madame, devil take you and yours!”
The woman’s features glowered with black rage.
“Must I repeat, dirty pig, that madame is ill, can see no one, by the
doctor’s orders? I have given you her message. Let that be enough for
you. Now take yourself off!”
“Not till I’ve been told why I’m given the sack. Do you imagine I am
going to say to my next patron that Mme. Bender, of the Avenue Henri
Martin, has sent me packing after five years, without a character?
Name of a pipe, no, you infernal schemer! I intend to see madame in
person and get to the bottom of this!”
Here the brawlers caught sight of Geoffrey and lapsed into sullen
silence. With slow reluctance the chauffeur withdrew his foot and
turned away, breathing hard. Geoffrey had a glimpse of a white,
enraged face, chin mutinous, eyes blazing. He was a youngish man of
decent appearance, and, contrary to Geoffrey’s first impression,
seemed to be perfectly sober. He shot a glance at the new-comer as
though of half a mind to appeal to him for support, thought better of
it, and made off towards the stairs. The woman gave a snort of
triumph.
“Another time,” she muttered in vitriolic accents, “he will not get
past the concierge. I’ll see to that! Making a scene like this in a
respectable house!”
Then pulling herself together she addressed Geoffrey with courteous
composure.
“Monsieur----?”
“Good evening. Will you kindly tell Mademoiselle West that Monsieur
Macadam is here?”
On hearing the name a subtle alteration came over the pronounced
features. The lips drew back in a mechanical smile, the brown eyes
scrutinized the visitor with searching keenness.
“Ah-h-h!” breathed the maid with a prolonged inflection. “It is for
mademoiselle! Come in, monsieur. I will inform mademoiselle.”
It was needless to do so, however, for at that moment Catherine, ready
in her coat and hat, issued from the salon. At once the expression of
her face arrested Geoffrey’s attention to such an extent of
self-consciousness and deserted him and he forgot everything except
curiosity and concern. He could not say that she looked frightened;
that was too strong a word; but her shining eyes were wide with
bewilderment, and in each cheek burned a spot of crimson evidently not
rouge. She approached him eagerly, hand outstretched with the
informality of an old friend.
“Oh!” she cried, with what he fancied was relief in her tone, “how
nice to see you! I’ve got such a lot to talk to you about!”
She faltered in the midst of the last sentence, as though disconcerted
by the fixed gaze of the maid’s eyes, somehow at variance with her
smiling mouth. Neither she nor Geoffrey had any idea as to how much
English the woman understood, but both detected a quick narrowing of
the lids not altogether friendly.
“Mademoiselle has the key I gave her?” inquired the woman with smooth
solicitude.
“Certainly, Jeanne, it is in my bag.”
“And if you should come in late, mademoiselle, you will be careful not
to make a noise?” pursued the other with perfect suavity. “It is so
easy for madame to be disturbed.”
“I’ll be very quiet,” returned the girl. “And I shan’t be at all
late.”
Rather quickly she preceded Geoffrey through the door, and as he
reached her side he thought that the colour staining her cheeks burned
a still brighter hue, but she said nothing till the cage of the lift
was sinking to the ground floor. Then suddenly she let herself go with
a burst of confidence, though her voice remained lowered.
“Oh! how thankful I am to get away!” she cried, with a half-ashamed
laugh. “That flat is getting horribly on my nerves. Silly, isn’t it?”
she added, with an appeal for tolerance.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded anxiously. “Anything gone wrong?”
She hesitated, biting her lip.
“Yes and no. I don’t know what to say. Mostly it’s just a--a feeling.…
What happened a few minutes ago, for instance. Did you see a man
talking to Jeanne as you came up?”
“Yes, Mme. Bender’s chauffeur, I fancy. They were having some sort of
shindy.”
“So that’s who it was! I wondered. You see, I heard nearly the whole
of the dispute, I couldn’t help it. It was quite right, of course, for
Jeanne to refuse to let him see Mme. Bender, but--well, she was
abusively rude to him from the beginning, and I somehow felt he had a
real grievance. Odd for him to be dismissed without any reason, don’t
you think? Not a bit like my cousin to do that. I can’t understand
it.”
It flashed into Geoffrey’s mind that in all probability the dismissal
had come from the maid herself, in which case Mme. Bender knew nothing
about it, but he shook his head in silence. After all, it was only
supposition, founded on a knowledge of the autocratic ways of old and
trusted servants.
“Oh, well”--and Catherine sighed as though trying to throw off an
irksome load. “Why bother? I came out to enjoy myself.”
“Right! Then first of all, where shall we go? A lively restaurant with
music, or a quiet one?”
“Oh, a quiet one! You see I want to tell you about something rather
dreadful which happened just before I arrived. That and other things.
The fact is, it’s all decidedly worse here than I thought.”
“In what way?” he demanded quickly.
While they were abreast of the concierge’s domain she made no reply,
but as soon as she was seated in the car she described the incident
which two nights ago had thrown the household into confusion.
“Good God!” he cried, seriously shocked. “So it’s as bad as that! I’d
no idea.”
“I’m afraid it is. But let’s talk of cheerful topics for a bit. Later
on I’ll tell you everything.”
They whirled along by the way of the Champs Élysée to a typically
French restaurant in one of the Grand Boulevards, where the food was
noted for its excellence. Here, against the wall in an alcove with
shaded lights, they pored together over a menu-sheet, while an elderly
functionary with a bottle nose bent an attentive ear to catch their
gastronomic wishes.
Catherine was to find that her new friend knew how to order a meal.
The first sip of the amber, icy cocktail set the stamp of success upon
the evening and by the time the _œufs Bourgognaises_ arrived,
embedded in their incomparable sauce, she was prepared to pay him the
tribute of a willing admiration. With the first real hunger she had
felt since she reached Paris, she fell to in appreciative silence.
Meanwhile Geoffrey studied her as closely as he dared, almost
chagrined to find her much lovelier than the picture he had carried
about with him. American women were as smart as the French, he
decided, with better figures, too, and a look of finer breeding. Also
they knew not only what to put on but what to leave off, scorning to
distract the eye with irrelevant detail.
How effective her plain parchment-coloured velvet was against the red
plush of the seat! It defined her slender body delicately, while her
tiny, black hat was so close-fitting as to appear almost
indistinguishable from her hair. Round her throat lay a necklace of
flat, plaited gold, toning subtly with her warm pallor, and she wore
but one other ornament, a ruby ring with a big decorative setting, its
single stone repeating the crimson which formed her present
background.
For the moment the luminous eyes were veiled by the pensive sweep of
her lashes. He longed, man-like, to rekindle the dancing flames in
them, but found himself tongue-tied. Poor girl, he was afraid she had
been going through a nasty time. Better leave her in peace till she
was ready to speak.
At last she looked up, absently twisting her wine-glass between
nervous fingers.
“Do you know why I wasn’t met at the _gare_ last night?” she asked.
“No. Wasn’t the telegram delivered?”
“It wasn’t that. There was another reason.”
She glanced for a moment at the adjacent tables. The sole diners
within earshot were a pair of pompous, middle-aged Frenchmen greedily
intent on their meal.
“The truth is, those servants don’t want me there, and thought they’d
begin by making things uncomfortable for me. They’re rude, they’re
overbearing, they act as if they hated me. In fact,” she finished with
a rueful laugh, “both Jeanne and Eduardo are doing their utmost to
drive me away!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
So that was the situation!
“You’re sure about this?” Geoffrey inquired seriously.
“Oh, quite! At first I made excuses for them. They must,
of course, have been fearfully upset over what had just occurred,
and in no frame of mind for looking after a guest.
But--well, I’m giving them almost no trouble, and yet it is
perfectly plain they are determined to get rid of me.”
“Why?” he asked, though fairly sure of the answer.
“Oh, you know what servants can be like when they’ve
had the uninterrupted run of a place. They don’t want anyone
there who might possibly criticize their arrangements or
pull them up.”
She went on to relate the incident of the Empire bedroom,
laughing when she came to the offensive comb and
soap. Her companion, however, exclaimed in sharp annoyance:
“By Jove, what impertinence! They are behaving as
though they owned the flat!”
“They really are. You can’t think what liberties they
are taking. Everything is neglected and dirty, curtains unwashed,
silver not polished. Eduardo looks like a desperado;
the cook, who’s not at all a bad sort, is so impossibly slack
she scarcely bothers to cook me enough to eat. I suppose
that’s why I’m so ravenous to-night,” she added, laughing.
“This cook,” she went on, “is a priceless person. This afternoon
I glanced into the kitchen--filthy, of course, the sink
piled up with dishes. What do you think she was doing?
Sitting on the table, smoking a cigarette, and lacing a pair
of pale blue satin stays!”
He joined her in mirth over the picture she drew, but
sobered directly and frowned with noticeable displeasure.
“Jeanne,” she continued thoughtfully, “is, _au fond_, a
really splendid character. I don’t want to minimize her devotion
to my cousin, whatever faults she may possess. She is
without any doubt deeply attached to her, giving her every
possible attention, so that is really all that matters.”
“You’re satisfied about that, are you?”
She glanced at him, surprised.
“Oh, absolutely! And Mme. Bender is fond of her--quite
dependent, in fact. I don’t know what she would do without
her.”
He was silent at this, but after a moment turned the conversation
to the invalid herself.
“How did Mme. Bender strike you when you saw her
to-day? What exactly do you feel about her condition?”
She drew a long breath.
“I don’t quite know. After what I was told I was astonished
to find her so little changed. She talked for the most
part reasonably and seemed much as she was after the accident
last year. I almost think that’s the worst part,” she
added, “to sit and chat with her quietly all the time knowing
what she has tried to do, what she may want to do again.
I shiver when I think of it!”
He nodded understandingly.
“Yet you tell me she describes the thing as an accident.”
She assented.
“I would have believed her story, only how can one? You
see Jeanne is probably right about it’s being the cunning of
the madwoman trying to put us off the scent. Besides, it was
the second attempt. There are bars up now, to prevent her
throwing herself from the window. One can’t explain those
away, can one? Oh, I’m afraid it’s really serious.”
He dug his cigarette into his coffee-cup, listening attentively
while she went on to relate various small incidents
to illustrate her meaning. One thing was clear--she ought
to remove herself from so gloomy an atmosphere as soon
as possible. He wondered if he dared tell her so.
“You believe, then, that your cousin may be likely to repeat
the attempt on her life?” he asked when she had finished
her recital.
“I’m afraid she may. I can’t help being apprehensive
about it. But it isn’t only that that’s bothering me. I’ve got
a horrid feeling about it all, something I can’t put into
words.” Here she paused, striving to express an almost intangible
idea that had come to birth during the past twelve
hours. “I keep thinking there’s something I don’t quite grasp
in all this, that things are going on beneath the surface, if
you understand me…?”
“What do you mean?” he demanded.
She extended her hands with a helpless gesture.
“Exactly. What do I mean? You see I don’t know. It was
Jeanne who put it into my head. She is so certain about the
unfortunate influence of this friend of Mme. Bender’s, the
one I spoke to you about.”
He looked up suddenly.
“You don’t mean----?”
“Yes, Hermione Cushing.”
“Miss Cushing!”
She watched his face, but could tell nothing from it.
“It seems that she was with Mme. Bender on both occasions,
immediately before those suicidal attacks. There may
be nothing in it, but I shan’t feel easy till I’ve seen what
she’s like. In fact, I mean to call on her to-morrow.” She stopt,
then went on again: “That’s another thing--to-day when
I rang her up, Jeanne overheard me making the appointment,
and was quite rude to me afterwards. It was
exactly as though she suspected me of conniving with Miss
Cushing to make trouble for her mistress. Funny, isn’t it?
She’s rather like a fierce watch-dog where Germaine is
concerned.”
On his side Geoffrey was indulging in a brief battle with
his usual scruples. When he spoke it was with a conscious
effort at naturalness.
“By the way,” he said, “I don’t want to prejudice you, and
I am pretty sure it’s hardly worth mentioning--but a few
weeks ago Miss Cushing came to see me about Mme.
Bender.”
“She came to see you?” echoed the girl in amazed eagerness.
So that was it! At last he was going to tell her what he
had so studiously kept back.
“She complained bitterly about being prevented from seeing
her friend. She said she could scarcely ever get a word
alone with her, and sometimes was denied admittance altogether.”
“Ah!” cried Catherine, “that bears out Jeanne’s story!”
“There was something else, too, though I’m not sure I
ought to speak of it. I must rely on you not to give me
away. She displayed an extraordinary concern in the disposition
of Mme. Bender’s property, inquired if a will had
been made, and seemed very worried as to whether or not
she was in danger of losing a legacy she had reason to hope
would come to her when Mme. Bender died. Don’t for
Heaven’s sake,” he hurriedly supplemented, seeing the girl’s
gesture of startled interest, “run away with any wrong ideas
on the subject. I don’t attach any importance to this myself,
I assure you.”
“But I’m not sure that I don’t,” murmured his companion,
her eyes dark with excitement. “I can’t help thinking----”
“Don’t think,” he cautioned lightly. “Not at least till
you’ve seen Hermione. I gathered,” he went on, “that a
more or less open warfare was going on between the lady in
question and this Jeanne. Each no doubt thinks the worst
of the other. I daresay there’s a considerable amount of
jealousy mixed up in it, for which reason I decline to take
it seriously.”
She considered this doubtfully, and he could see that her
brain was busy with speculation.
“Shall you stay on there?” he ventured after a pause. “Or is it going
to be rather too disagreeable?”
“I shall stay for the present, anyhow,” she replied slowly. “You see,
whatever her mental state is, Mme. Bender seems so really happy to
have me there. I couldn’t hurt her by going away, not at once, that
is. Later in the spring I am leaving for Italy, so it couldn’t be for
long in any case.”
His face fell.
“Oh! So you don’t mean to stay long in Paris?”
“Not this time. I’m thinking of joining some people who are in England
now, but my plans will depend somewhat on their movements.”
She was powdering her nose, so did not see the blank disappointment in
his face, rather like the expression of a thirsty dog from whom a
basin of water has been callously snatched away.
“But meantime,” she remarked with determination, “I am going to do my
best to find out what, if anything, is causing these fits of
depression with my cousin. I can’t help thinking there may be some
definite, outside reason.”
He shook his head disparagingly. The vagaries of a hopeless neurotic
were pretty difficult to fathom. If the case proved to be actually
mental there was little chance of improvement, but he said nothing and
gave his attention to the bill just presented to him.
The evening being still young, Catherine gladly agreed to his
suggestion of a cinema, in her heart unwilling to return at once to
the solitude of the gloomy apartment. Accordingly they presently found
themselves seated in the warm darkness of a palatial building where
shifting streamers of light played like the Aurora Borealis and an
orchestra _en masse_ rose as from the sea, shining pure gold against a
violet curtain. In an instant they had entered a realm of fantasy.
“How extraordinarily good the music is!” whispered the girl in amazed
delight.
He told her that each member of the orchestra was a _premier prix de
Conservatoire_, the conductor a well-known figure in Paris.
As he spoke there was a hush, and the first violin, an elegant youth
with sleek hair swept off his forehead, stepped forward with an air
and raised his bow. Simultaneously the curtain parted, and a pair of
Spanish dancers moved on to the stage. The man, bullet-headed and
lithe, wore trousers of white cloth ornamented in silver, while his
narrow body was tightly encased in a silver-braided jacket. His
partner, sumptuous in snowy lace, stiffened at the hips Goya fashion,
was draped in a magnificent mantilla, pendant above her glossy black
coiffure from a towering comb of red coral. Against the black velvet
back-drop the two figures poised, sheer, flashing white, and there
were only four accents of carmine--the woman’s comb, her immense
earrings, her lips, and the heels of her shoes.
Then the music began, slow, deliriously exquisite, with a heavy
sweetness, like the perfume of honeysuckle under a midnight sky.
Catherine drew in her breath ecstatically.
“That heavenly tune! I’ve heard it before.… Oh, of course, it’s the
Albeniz Tango that Kriesler plays! It is too, too lovely!”
In a spell of enchantment she watched the swaying pair, while the
violin with steady rhythm dripped notes that were like globules of
clear amber. Never, afterwards, was she to forget the sensuous rapture
of those moments. Always whenever she heard the Albeniz Tango, no
matter in what surroundings, she had but to shut her eyes to feel
about her the enveloping darkness, see the opening heart of brilliant
light in which moved the dancers. There was something else she was to
recall, though at the time she was only dimly aware of it. That was
the right hand of Geoffrey Macadam as it rested on the arm of the seat
dividing her from him, brown, muscular, a little over-large for his
slight, wiry build.…
It was nearing half-past twelve when they reached the shadowy
chestnuts of the Avenue Henri Martin. The neighbourhood was deserted,
the buildings had a blind look with all the massive doors closed for
the night.
“_Cordon, s’il vous plait!_” shouted Geoffrey, his voice ringing
hollow against the black expanse of wood.
After a short delay a ghostly click sounded and one of the doors swung
heavily ajar. Catherine stepped within the entrance and held out her
hand, but her companion after a slight hesitation followed her in.
“I think I’d like to see you actually into the apartment, if you don’t
mind,” he said. “You may have trouble with the key.”
Their steps echoed across the paved way to the foyer, where a dim
light shone in a suspended glass cage. Silently the _ascenseur_ crept
up to the _entresol_.
“I say, there’s something odd about this lock. It’s a good thing I
didn’t leave you to wrestle with it alone,” remarked Geoffrey a moment
later, after several fruitless attempts to open the door.
He struck a match and examined the key, an ordinary Yale one. There
seemed nothing wrong with it.
“Let me have a go,” suggested Catherine, taking it from him.
It appeared to fit, even to turn, but nothing happened.
“Curious, that. Here, give it to me again.”
However, though he pushed and tugged and manipulated, the door refused
to budge. Minutes went by with no result. At length, red in the face
with effort and chagrin, he straightened up and shrugged his
shoulders.
“No doubt about it,” he declared shortly. “Someone has drawn the bolt.
Damned careless--if you’ll forgive the language. I suppose we’ll have
to ring.”
“Oh, don’t! I’m so afraid of waking Mme. Bender.”
“There’s nothing else to do! She won’t hear, though, as it probably
sounds in the kitchen.”
He pressed his finger to the button and they waited expectantly.
Within was unbroken silence.
“They must be sleeping very soundly. Try again.”
There was a second interval of prolonged waiting. Far away, at the
back of the apartment, sounded a faint, persistent ringing.
“Who sleeps on this floor?” Geoffrey inquired, frowning.
“Only Eduardo and Jeanne. The cook moved to-day up to the _sixième_.”
“Well, either those two can’t hear or they won’t. Anyhow, you can’t
spend the night out here. I’m going to let go with the knocker;” and
before she could protest he had laid hold of the wrought-iron handle
and hammered resoundingly.
Somewhere in the interior a door opened and a padded footfall
approached, barely audible. Someone was at last astir. Yet even now
there was a long delay. The steps paused, retreated, and then,
exchanging questioning glances, Catherine and Geoffrey fancied they
caught the murmur of whispering voices, sibilant and cautious.
Finally, after protracted silence, there fell on their ears the
stealthy grate of a bolt withdrawn.
The next instant the door cracked open, and silhouetted against a
rectangle of light the stocky figure of the Portuguese appeared, clad
in an overcoat buttoned to the chin. From beneath bristling hair his
small, animal-like eyes glowered at them suspiciously.
“Oh--it’s you, miss,” he mumbled with a touch of insolent surprise. “I
took it you were in hours ago.”
It was a flimsy pretext to cover his own thoughtlessness, or so it
seemed to Catherine. Her eyes flashed at his rude tone, but she made
no reply. Her escort, on the contrary, accosted the butler in a
peremptory manner.
“Another time, please be sure before you put the bolt on. It’s only by
chance that mademoiselle hasn’t had to wait out here a quarter of an
hour by herself.”
The man said nothing, but as he stared impudently first at the
speaker, then at Catherine, his lips curled in an unmistakable sneer.
Geoffrey’s blood boiled at the unuttered insinuation, and even the
girl, without understanding its import, felt indignation rise within
her.
“You needn’t wait, Eduardo,” she coldly informed him. “I’ll put out
the lights.”
Without replying he shuffled off, hitching his coat collar higher
around his thick bull neck.
“See here, I don’t care for that fellow’s manner,” whispered Geoffrey
as he took her hand. “Are you sure you don’t mind----”
“Oh, I’m not a bit upset over him,” she returned scornfully. “You see,
though, that I didn’t exaggerate about the deterioration in him. It’s
as if the veneer had come off. Never mind--good night, and thank you
for a marvellous evening.”
For a second he retained her slender hand, reluctant to let it go.
However, his expression remained studiously matter of fact, betraying
no hint of his inward feelings.
“Let me know if that brute gives you any trouble,” he said at parting.
“I shall hope to see you again soon, at all events.”
Glancing at his watch on the way down, he found it was just after one
o’clock. That meant they had spent half an hour outside that infernal
door. His wrath rose anew as he recalled the insolence of the butler,
whom he would have liked to throttle.
“_Cordon!_”
The concierge had gone to sleep in the interval, and no wonder.
“_Cordon!_” he called more loudly.
An irate voice, heavy with sleep, issued from within the loge.
“Who are you, going out at this hour? What are you up to, _diable!_
coming in with a woman and remaining with her all this time? I’ll have
you to know this is not the way to conduct yourself in a respectable
house. Do you take this for a _maison de rendez-vous_?”
Geoffrey’s anger shot up like a flame.
“Hold your foul tongue, you filthy camel, and open that door before I
lay hands on you!” he shouted, furious with rage.
More abusive wrangling followed, epithets in choice argot hurled on
both sides. Not for the first time did Geoffrey rejoice in his command
of Gallic profanity. Finally, with a last imprecation, the unseen
porter pulled the cord and the door swung open.
Stupid to lose one’s temper with a concierge. It was like beating
one’s head against a wall. Still it was impossible not to be
infuriated by the man’s insinuations. Rain was falling, but he did not
feel the drops as with rapid strides he crossed to the car and started
the engine.
“The swine!” he muttered as the Citroën purred along wet streets
towards the Seine. “So he, too, had that idea in his putrid mind! I
shouldn’t have got so wild if it had been another sort of girl. But
Catherine!”
Already in his thoughts he was calling her by her first name.
Alone in the hall, Catherine stood for a moment, her palm still
tingling with the recent hard pressure. Circumstances had combined to
rouse in her a fluttering emotion--uncertainty as to why she had been
shut out, the interval on the dim landing with its faint suggestion of
intimate _rapproachement_, and last, the butler’s peculiarly offensive
manner. Her heart beat with strong strokes.
Why, indeed, had Eduardo stared at them like that? There had been
something insulting about it. If only Germaine could realize what his
behaviour was like now, how quickly she would dismiss him! Not that
she was likely to find out.
She tiptoed towards her distant room. Then as she switched on the
light in the passage, she spied, at the top of the staircase before
mentioned, a limp, dark object. Picking it up, she discovered it to be
a man’s glove.
A glove--but of an unfamiliar sort, made of black, stuffy fabric. Who
on earth wore things like that? She stared at it curiously. Somewhere,
not long ago, she had seen a man with gloves resembling this, but for
the moment she could not say who it was. Certainly no one she knew.
There was something rather horrid about it. With slight distaste she
replaced it where it had lain before.
As she did this she noticed, a little lower down the stairs, a small
heap of acrid cigar ashes, and nearby the muddy imprint of a
square-toed boot, plainly marked on the pale grey carpet.
Her eyes narrowed in thought. Eduardo, she had remarked only to-day,
wore pointed, rather foppish shoes, ill-according his thick,
prize-fighter frame. Who, then, had been here this evening? The
person, whoever it was, had been to the apartment in her absence, most
likely using the private door.
With a shake of the head she gave it up. And then, all at once, she
remembered the vulgar-genteel lounger who last evening had stared at
her so curiously in the street below, and later had gone away with
Jeanne. Yes, he had certainly worn gloves like the specimen lying
there on the floor. She recalled in a flash the prim nastily-decent
look of them, as she had passed him on the pavement.
“So Jeanne has a lover,” she concluded with a touch of amused wonder.
“But what a lover!”
Somehow the creature had suggested an undertaker.
CHAPTER NINE
Hermione Cushing inhabited a small apartment high up in the rue de
la Bienfaisance, on the edge of the quarter known as that of Europe.
It is for the most part a typically French neighbourhood, which
explains why long ago Miss Cushing chose it, experience having taught
her that in the sections of Paris given over to Americans one pays
through the nose for everything, from rents to cabbages. In short,
Miss Cushing was canny, knowing how to make ten centimes do the work
of fifty.
She had lived here for twenty years, and everyone knew her. Moreover,
in spite of petty bickerings, she was in excellent repute with the
concierge and tradespeople, and for practical purposes one need say no
more. She possessed, indeed, certain attributes revered by the French.
She was _une dame sérieuse_, spent not a sou on display, and was well
connected into the bargain. Did one not frequently see the imposing
motors of la Baronne de Grèves and the Princess Guiccioli ranged in
front of the entrance, positive proof that the Faubourg St. Germain
had toiled up four flights of stairs to pay its respect to the singer?
The fact spoke for itself.
None of this was known to Catherine, but her eye noted the respect in
the concierge’s mien when she spoke the name of Cushing.
“_Au cinquième, à gauche mademoiselle_,” instructed the woman
promptly, and came forth like a mole out of a burrow to point the way,
adding the further direction, “_C’est le deuxième escalier, en
face_.”
There were two staircases, it seemed, one wide and grand, the other
narrow and dingy. It was the latter, at the back of the small court,
which led to the singer’s abode.
The upward journey was steep, the day unexpectedly mild. Catherine
took the first three flights in a rush, so that at the turn of the
fourth she was obliged to pause before a window and take breath before
finishing the climb. Gazing out on the mansard roofs and blackened
chimney-pots, she took stock of her recent impressions and prepared
herself for the coming interview, which for some reason made her
slightly nervous.
The morning’s experiences had been disturbing. The hour she had spent
with Mme. Bender had failed to clear up the uncertainty in her mind,
and she had gained nothing except a strengthened conviction that her
cousin was frightened about something. How or why, she could not say.
Again and again she had sought to probe the mystery of that quick,
recurring gleam of positive terror in the grey eyes, but she had come
away without reaching any satisfactory conclusion. Was the poor
creature’s fear merely a symptom of disordered intelligence, or had it
some positive, external cause? That, as she had said to Geoffrey
Macadam last night, was what she was anxious to ascertain.
Following her visit to the ill woman had come a disagreeable shock.
Jeanne, not without a trace of malice, had informed her that the
concierge’s wife had sent a message to say she wished to hold converse
with the young American lady staying with Mme. Bender. Catherine could
not guess what she wanted, but on descending for a walk her ignorance
was brusquely removed. The feminine half of the _ménage_ which held
sway over the tenants’ lives accosted her with sour disapproval, and
chid her severely for the fault she had committed in allowing her
escort to accompany her upstairs after the house was shut for the
night. Apparently it was a heinous offence against propriety. No
_jeune fille bien élevée_ would dream of doing _une chose pareille_,
and while mademoiselle’s youth and professed ignorance of national
customs might excuse her this once, no similar escapade could possibly
be tolerated. She would give the house a bad name.
Catherine had stared in stupefaction. At first the veiled implications
had escaped her, for though she was no fool she had always regarded
her motives as above reproach. However, the pinched face with its evil
leer forced her to see that in this quarter at least she was an object
of suspicion.
The revelation infuriated her. It seemed to her that not only her own
decency was attacked, but that of all her countrywomen as well, and in
the heat of the moment it was difficult to hold her tongue and refrain
from telling the old harpy what she thought of her. She could still
picture the woman’s twisted smile as she withdrew into her lair, still
feel the blood tingling in her own cheeks as bit by bit the full
infamy of the suggestion sank into her mind. At last out of the flames
of her wrath had risen the determination never again, if she could
avoid it, to encounter the guardians of the loge. There was a way out
which she meant to take.
Accordingly, at lunch-time, she had asked Jeanne for a latch-key to
the private door, only to be met with a chill refusal. There was but
one key, it seemed, which the maid and butler were in the habit of
using. However, Catherine was undaunted. Her antagonism was roused by
this and similar rebuffs, and she knew by now that Jeanne’s autocratic
ways must be met with equal firmness.
“Never mind,” she had returned intrepidly; “if you won’t give me the
key, I shall have a spare one made.”
She had won her point, though against a grudging displeasure only too
apparent. The key now lay in her bag, giving her a sense of
independence and triumph. Let the concierge do her damnedest, her gun
was spiked.
How little could she guess the _rôle_ this same key was to play in
future events, or to what extent it was to shape her entire destiny!
Thus lightly do we forge the links in the chain which will bind us
prisoners, arrange the noose to encircle our unconscious necks. But
for that insignificant shape of metal reposing beneath her
powder-puff, handkerchief and lipstick--but the matter can wait. In
peaceful ignorance she ascended to the top floor, and thinking only of
the person she was about to meet, rang a jangling bell at the
left-hand door.
The summons was answered by a gaunt grenadier of a servant in a
starched apron and brown knitted jersey, too short in the sleeves.
Behind steel-rimmed spectacles a pair of searching eyes regarded her
with mingled goodness and severity, while a deep voice bade her enter.
Simultaneously she was aware of a piano, close at hand, played in a
florid and sketchy manner.
“Mademoiselle,” announced the stalwart domestic, throwing open the
door of the small salon, “here is the young lady you are expecting.”
Whereupon, without ceremony she pushed Catherine forward with a brawny
hand. “_Entrez, mademoiselle_,” she commanded, and stalked away.
The music ceased. Miss Cushing rose from the tiny stool which she had
completely obliterated with her bulk and billowed forward with a
swishing of skirts. Catherine perceived that she was blonde,
middle-aged, and of a shape and movement which made her think forcibly
of a whale plunging in mid-seas.
“_Ma chère Mademoiselle West_,” cried a voice, tempestuous with
welcome. “Come in, come in! You find me busy arranging a programme
with the help of some dear friends, but you won’t mind, I’m sure, if I
go on and finish. Let me present you to the Baronne de Grèves and
Madame Strakosch.”
Two plain-featured, elderly ladies in sombre black nodded
ceremoniously from a sofa at the end of the room. Both wore old
fashioned head-gear and soft, high, buttoned boots such as old women
affect. One held an ear-trumpet glued to her ear; the other, wizened
and with quick, hawk-like gestures, darted little sharp but not
unkindly glances at the new-comer.
“This dear child,” explained the singer, detaining Catherine’s hand in
her cushioned palm, “is a young cousin of poor dear Harry Bender’s.
She is staying now with my darling Germaine--_dont je vous ai parlé
cet instant_.”
This clause she shouted down the ear-trumpet, and as a sign that it
had registered the two ladies turned and gazed at Catherine with
various nods of understanding.
“_Et comment va madame votre cousine?_” inquired the deaf lady in a
sepulchral baritone, shifting the instrument to receive the girl’s
reply.
Catherine telephoned the opinion that her relative was far from well
and extremely nervous, whereupon both listeners murmured,
“_Neurasthènique_. Ah-h-h!” and exchanged glances of solemn meaning.
“_Vous voyez?_” demanded Miss Cushing with a dramatic sweep of her
arm. “_C’est comme je vous ai dit_,”--and forthwith she returned to
her seat at the piano.
Catherine thought she had never seen anyone who so completely filled
the room as did Miss Cushing. She trembled for the insecure easel in
her path, and eyed nervously a tottering vase of furry palm which
stood precariously upon a fragile stand. Yet the singer was not
shapeless. On the contrary, her vast bulk curved in at the waist and
out again at the hips after the fashion of an enormous hour-glass, a
resemblance heightened by her costume. She was dressed in black
taffeta with tiny ruffles, a wide skirt and a bolero jacket, from the
arm holes of which bulged white muslin sleeves covering arms as large
in girth as Catherine’s body. Her feet, in shabby bronze pumps, were
by contrast quite ridiculously small, and her face, unlined and pink
like a baby’s, rested upon a series of chins undulating into
well-cushioned shoulders. Her eyes were the faint blue of a winter
sky, and her scanty, neutral hair was arranged anyhow in a twist, from
which vagrant wisps strayed and clung to the creases of her neck.
“And now, _chères amies_, I shall give you the Sibelius. No one in
France understands Sibelius as I do. I am without doubt his chief
interpreter here.”
Herewith she began a slap-dash prelude and proceeded to vocalize, in a
voice piercingly thin, uncertain as to registers and now and then
grazing from the key. Catherine set her teeth. The other listeners
preserved expressionless faces, and it seemed to her she alone was
marvelling at the temerity and verdant hope which could prompt an
artist to appear in public with so vanished an equipment. She had yet
to learn what Paris can stand in the way of music.
To distract her thoughts from the embarrassing performance, she let
her eyes stray round the little drab salon, taking account of its
fussy detail. Everything which could be draped was draped, from the
upright piano to the shelves in the corners, and all the drapes had
bobbles on them, while in some cases they were rucked into puffs
between anchoring ornaments of silver and Dresden china. The chairs in
particular arrested her attention, since she had never seen any like
them before. Endowed with gilt cabriole legs, they were like little
squat sofas, too wide for one, yet not wide enough for two. They were
in fact precisely right for their owner, for whose use they might have
been specially designed.
Everywhere were mementoes, signed photographs and faded knots of
flowers under glass, while the room abounded in likenesses of the
singer, of every possible description. Over the mantel hung a
full-length portrait of Miss Cushing as _Marguerite_, with pendant
braids and a daisy between her fingers; on the easel was a chalk
drawing of the lady in the dress of the nineties; from the walnut
commode beamed a marble bust, the head thrown back with artless
coquetry, butterflies poised on the plump shoulders. Never, reflected
Catherine, had the original not been endowed with a generous amplitude
of form. Had she at any remote period possessed the semblance of a
voice?
“And now, what about a little du Parc? One must give them something
French.”
Wheeling on the stool, the performer began thumbing over a pile of
tattered sheet-music.
“Hah!” she exclaimed distractedly, “_ou se trouve ce chanson
là?_”--then impatiently elevating her voice, she shouted towards the
kitchen, “_Yvonne! Yvonne! Venez m’aider!_”
The servant appeared, a woollen stocking on one hand, a coarse
darning-needle in the other.
“Mademoiselle?”
“Find me that du Parc song--you know the one I mean,” and she thrust
the jumble of music into the unwilling arms.
Yvonne shook her head with wooden disapproval.
“Mademoiselle should not attempt the du Parc to-day,” she advised
severely. “Mademoiselle must not forget she had _moules marinières_
for _déjeuner_. Better try something lower.”
“Oh, well, then, find me another,” returned her mistress petulantly.
“Reynaldo Hahn, or Debussy. It doesn’t much matter.”
Muttering darkly, Yvonne departed, and through the open door
Catherine, inwardly convulsed, could see her seated in the kitchen,
going solemnly through the pile with grunts and sniffs of
disparagement. Meanwhile Miss Cushing, unruffled, launched full steam
upon the elaborate “Les Filles de Cadiz,” swooping and curveting like
a spirited Percheron.
The audition was over. The elderly couple, after discussing practical
matters of _affiches_ and subscription tickets, rose and made a
ceremonious departure. Catherine was alone with her hostess.
“_Enfin!_” cried Miss Cushing with a gusty sigh. “Now, my child, we
can talk. Only we must have tea. _Yvonne! Du thé, tout de suite! Je
suis epuisée, moi--complètement finie!_”--and throwing her weight
upon the creaking sofa she pressed her hand to the region of her
heart.
For a second she remained thus, eyes closed, with an air of
exhaustion. Then she roused herself and fixed upon her guest a gaze of
intensity.
“Tell me at once, dear Miss West, just what your impression is of that
unfortunate household. Don’t leave anything out. It may be important.”
Was this melodrama or farce? Catherine could not decide. However, sure
that Hermione Cushing was ignorant of the recent crisis, she set out
to enlighten her, watching closely to observe the effect of her news.
She saw the pink face turn pale, the blue eyes start with unmistakable
horror, while one hand trembled forward as though to ward off a blow.
“_La pauvre petite! Elle a fait ça?_” whispered the singer in an awed
tone. “But no--it is not true! It can’t be true!” she protested
vehemently.
“I assure you it is,” Catherine declared.
“_Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!_ Then if it is so--if she did try to take her
life”--she paused impressively, then bent forward to hiss in
Catherine’s ear--“then you may take my word for it, it was that demon
who drove her to it! I have said that she would. That fiend of a
Jeanne!”
“_Jeanne?_” repeated the girl, hardly able to believe her ears.
For a moment she was speechless over the arrant absurdity. Was Miss
Cushing serious?
“I knew it, I knew it,” her hostess murmured, half to herself. “It is
what I have been expecting. Oh! that such a tyranny can continue,
unchecked, in an age like this! It is infamous, it is----”
“Tyranny?” echoed Catherine again, then thinking it time to play her
trump card, made an earnest bid for attention. “Forgive me, Miss
Cushing,” she began seriously. “But there is something I feel you
ought to know. You see, Jeanne declares that after you left the other
afternoon Mme. Bender was terribly depressed. She thinks it was
something you said to her which threw her into that morbid state and
made her--made her----” It was difficult to complete the sentence.
She was unprepared for the phenomenon which greeted her statement. The
huge body swelled, appeared on the point of bursting. The round face
turned a turkey-red hue.
“That creature said such a thing?” she gasped in a stifled voice.
“_Impossible! Menteuse! Menteuse!_”
For half a minute she trembled on the verge of apoplexy, while the
girl looked on in positive alarm.
Yvonne strode into the room, bearing on a tray the tiniest glass
Catherine had ever seen filled with cognac.
“Drink this, mademoiselle, and calm yourself!” she commanded
brusquely, and thrust the glass to her mistress’s lips.
The artist swallowed, coughed and recovered her balance.
“Yvonne!”--and she stretched forth a detaining hand. “Did you hear
that infamy? That devil, Jeanne, is saying that I--I--am responsible
for Mme. Bender’s trying to take her life!”
“_Ah! Incroyable!_”
The staid Yvonne scowled from one face to the other, muttering such
expressions as “_folle!_,” “_C’est un peu trop, ça!_” and “_C’est le
comble!_” Finally, casting her arms with an irate gesture, she
withdrew with a last, “_Elle est méchante, cette femme là_,” hurled
into space.
“Listen,” cried Miss Cushing, “now you shall hear the truth! On
Tuesday afternoon my poor Germaine was almost happy. She was rejoiced
over the thought of your coming. I said to myself that there was
really going to be an improvement, now she would not be left alone to
mope and brood. She kissed me and said, ‘My darling Lili’--that is her
name for me--‘promise you will come again, very soon. You put new life
into me.’--So! You see?”
“And you saw no sign of any delusions?”
“Delusions, indeed! I may say I have never seen anything of the sort.
With me she has always been--well, not normal; that is a strong word;
but absolutely sane. Why, the other day she was so much her usual self
that I actually ventured to advise her upon a matter I had felt I
ought to mention for some time past. I mean, of course,”--here she
paused and moistened her lips--“the question of drawing up her will.”
Catherine experienced a slight shock.
“Oh!” she exclaimed a little blankly. “So you spoke of that?”
“I thought it my duty,” replied her hostess firmly. “You see,
Catherine--I may call you that, _n’est-ce pas?_--Germaine has never
made her will. It is a business she is unwilling to face. In
consequence, if the poor darling were to pass away suddenly all
Harry’s entire fortune would go--who knows where? To the State,
perhaps. It is appalling to think of such waste!”
Catherine sat quite still, struggling with the confusion of her
thoughts.
“But surely Mme. Bender has heirs?” she suggested at last.
“Not one. Amazing, isn’t it? But surely you must have been told that?”
Catherine shook her head.
“I know almost nothing about her before she married Cousin Harry.”
“You didn’t know, then, that it was I who introduced Harry to Germaine
Dieulefit when she and I were studying together for the Opera?”
“Dieulefit? What an odd name!”
“Yes, most unusual. There are no others, the family is extinct. Her
mother was a singer, coloratura, and illegitimate--probably the child
of some minor royalty and an Italian peasant. No one knew. Old Jérome
Dieulefit was a wine-grower from the south, the last of a bourgeois
line. So you see there is no one to whom this money can go, by law,
unless Germaine leaves a will. In her present state of health it is
madness not to think of such things.”
Catherine fingered her gloves.
“Have you any idea who would benefit if she did make a will?” she
asked presently.
Miss Cushing grew suddenly warm. She seized a worn copy of _Ouvre tes
Yeux Bleus_ and fanned herself vigorously.
“Not the slightest,” she declared a little consciously. “All I can say
is that there is a certain string of pearls, quite valuable, which she
has promised to leave to me. I helped her choose them. ‘Lili,’ she
said at the time, ‘one day these will be yours, so be sure you approve
of them!’ Always she referred to them as Lili’s pearls. She seldom
wore then, only sometimes the copy she had made. The pearls themselves
are insured for three million francs.”
Three million francs! Catherine glanced about her. All the small
evidences of gentility struggling against poverty which had been
apparent to her since she entered the tiny flat took on a new meaning.
Three million francs would represent security and dignity in old age
to this woman who was striving against difficult odds to gain a decent
livelihood. No wonder Hermione was worried lest her friend should die
without putting her bequest into legal form.
Suddenly she thought of the Bender apartment, given over to servants.
One of the latter was a stranger of whose morals she knew nothing.
Eduardo himself was behaving so abominably he all but invited
suspicion, and last night there had been some outside person, possibly
the little man she had seen with Jeanne, prowling about the place.
“By the way, where does Mme. Bender keep her pearls?” she inquired
casually. “I hope they’re well locked up.”
“Ah, yes, they, at least, are perfectly safe. She keeps them with all
her most valuable jewels, at the bank in the Place Vendôme.”
An indefinable qualm shot through the listener. What precisely did
Miss Cushing mean by saying that the pearls _at least_ were safe?
CHAPTER TEN
A moment later Catherine was listening to a jumbled discourse, as
full of irrelevant detail as the room about her. She could not take
her eyes from the overblown spinster, who, having contrived in some
astonishing manner to tuck one foot beneath her, was imbibing
countless cups of tea as though to provide her system with the
moisture which constantly suffused her pale eyes and occasionally
spilled over the edge of her scanty lashes.
Unless she had remarkable histrionic powers, which Catherine was
inclined to doubt, she was certainly much moved; yet, watching her,
the girl was not convinced that all this easy emotion did not cover a
grasping nature and a singular lack of tact. In short, she was not at
all sure that Jeanne was entirely wrong in assuming that Miss Cushing
had somehow or other precipitated those violent fits of depression
which had so nearly ended in their victim’s death. Yet she was even
more sure that Miss Cushing had meant no harm, and was quite unaware
that any blame could attach itself to her actions. Her own account of
things, told with a ring of sincerity, bore this out.
Apparently Hermione had been in Germany at the time that Mme. Bender
returned from America. It was only last October that she first called
to see her old friend, on which occasion she was refused admittance on
the plea that the poor lady was too ill to receive visitors. The same
thing happened several times, not only to herself, but to other
callers as well.
“Although there is no one here but me who was ever at all intimate
with Germaine. She had so few close friends, you know: only myself and
the Comtesse de Bréart, and the comtesse is in _Afrique_, shooting
lions.”
At last she felt there was something wrong about these refusals.
Afraid lest the invalid might not be receiving proper care and
suspecting that her messages were not delivered, she resolved to be
put off no longer.
“What did you do?” asked Catherine curiously.
“I informed Jeanne that I intended to see madame, whether she liked it
or not, and when she tried to keep me out I simply put my full weight
against hers and forced my way into the room!”
Catherine could not repress a gasp of admiration. The picture of the
redoubtable maid overborne on the threshold of her fortress by sheer
avoirdupois was almost too much for her gravity.
“_Figurez-vous_,” continued the singer, her eyes widening to circles
of swimming earnestness. “_Figurez-vous_ the shock I received when at
last I beheld my _pauvre amie_, so terribly shattered, only a ghost of
the woman I had known! Never shall I forget the look in her eyes. It
was like some frightened bird caught in a snare.”
So she had noticed that, too! Catherine felt more and more mystified.
She watched her hostess dab at her tears with a sodden handkerchief
and pause long enough to swallow another cup of tea.
“Forgive me, my dear, for being so stupid. You see, I am very fond of
Germaine. _Elle a toujours été si gentille pour moi!_” The tears
dripped down.
“Was she glad to see you?” inquired Catherine, mainly to stem the tide
of emotion.
“Glad! Her joy was pathetic. Why had I not come before? Why, at least,
had I not written? She had been so alone, was beginning to think that
no one cared whether she lived or died. You see how it was? That woman
Jeanne had never told her of my visits, never delivered a message or a
flower!”
“But are you sure of this?” demanded the girl incredulously.
A scornful shrug answered her question.
“She swore, naturally, that she always informed her mistress, but that
Mme. Bender’s mind was so affected that she promptly forgot what was
told her.”
“And you think that may not be true?”
Miss Cushing made an indignant gesture which nearly capsized the
teapot.
“Lies--lies, every word of it! Nothing will make me alter my opinion.
She simply wants to keep me and everyone else away from that poor ill
creature.”
This on the face of it struck Catherine as manifestly absurd.
“But why? What possible reason could she have?” she objected
argumentatively.
“There you have me. What reason can there be?” Miss Cushing stared
helplessly in front of her. “She is, of course, frightfully jealous;
one has always known that; she resents anyone having the least claim
on her mistress’s affections. Still, I can’t help thinking there is
more in it than jealousy. Sometimes I believe”--and she brought her
face close to Catherine’s before whispering mysteriously--“that she is
afraid for strangers to see what is going on in that apartment!”
“Going on?” repeated the girl rather startled. “What do you mean?”
“Why, my dear, isn’t it pretty evident that those servants are
fleecing poor Germaine at every turn? Cutting down expenses and
putting the difference in their pockets?”
Catherine was silent, recalling her own reception and the efforts,
still continuing, to dislodge her. There might be something in it,
though to suspect the hitherto upright Jeanne of such conduct was
against all her previous conceptions of the latter’s character.
“It’s true,” she admitted, “they are not the least anxious to have me
there.”
“Naturally not!” cried her hostess in triumph. “That clever Jeanne
doesn’t want you looking on while she is busy feathering her nest!”
The identical phrase Jeanne herself had employed in regard to Miss
Cushing! The listener bit her lip.
“But how can she do this? I don’t quite see----”
“Where are your eyes? Think for a moment. Until recently there were
six servants kept. What has become of them? What has become of the
chauffeur?”
“Oh, he has been dismissed. I happen to know about that,” put in
Catherine.
“Then you may take it from me it was Jeanne who dismissed him, for
Germaine knows no more of it than the babe unborn. It was Jeanne who
got rid of the housekeeper and maids and replaced the cook with that
slattern of a Berthe, who is asleep or gallivanting two-thirds of the
time. Oh, it’s quite clear what she’s up to! She is taking the usual
weekly cheque for the housekeeping, and keeping most of it for
herself.”
Disagreeable though it was, the theory was certainly plausible.
“And Mme. Bender doesn’t suspect?”
“Ah, she is too trusting and too utterly absorbed in herself to give
the matter a thought. Besides, she never was good at money matters.
But Jeanne is afraid that you or I might open her eyes to the truth.
Tell me--has she left you alone, really alone, with her mistress for a
single moment?”
Catherine was forced to admit she had not.
“_Eh bien--vous voyez?_ She doesn’t trust you. She is afraid also that
you will discover what I have discovered--that all this talk about
madame’s insanity is untrue. That will give you something to think
about,” she added, nodding vigorously.
However, on this point Catherine was unconvinced. It was unfortunately
so easy to see why Miss Cushing wanted to believe her friend sane,
since evidently she was hoping to obtain a will in her own favour.
“Don’t you think,” she contented herself with saying, “it would be
much better for Mme. Bender if she could be persuaded to go out?”
Her hostess raised a plump hand excitedly.
“Ah, now you shall hear something!” she cried. “I, too, knew that it
was bad for her to remain always a prisoner, in that tiny room with
scarcely any air----”
“Why does she use that room?” interrupted the girl curiously. “I’ve
been wondering.”
“It is simply one of the poor dear’s peculiar notions. She grew up in
a convent, and all her girlhood was accustomed to a little bedroom
like a cell. Since Harry’s death she has gone back to the time before
she met him. _Voilà tout!_ She told me so herself.… But to
continue.…”
It seemed she had been cooped up there for months, dreading the
daylight, shrinking from the idea of strange faces. No wonder she was
as white as a sheet of paper and trembling from weakness. At last, in
January, by dint of great diplomacy and opposed every step of the way,
Hermione had persuaded her to go for a drive. The car was brought
round from the garage where presumably it was standing idle, the
invalid was assisted downstairs.
“I went with her, my dear, so I can describe what happened. When we
were out in the avenue she was astonished to find the chestnuts bare.
You see, she had lost all count of time. Everything went well until
she caught sight of the car, then suddenly I saw her tremble and turn
the colour of chalk. Can you guess why?”
Catherine could not.
“Nor could I, at first. Then I saw that it was newly done up. It had
been pale beige before, but now it was black outside and in--paint,
upholstery, all. _Chic, mais un peu funeste._ Jeanne’s idea, for it
had been left to her. Now I want to tell you something strange. I had
already noticed, on several occasions, that Germaine, since Harry’s
death, has had a horror of black. I dare not even wear a black dress
when I go there. Not that she admits it--she is far too sensitive
about showing her peculiarities--but I know what I am saying is true.
Well, to return. All during that drive the poor thing sat huddled in
her sable coat, shaking like a leaf, her eyes staring ahead of her.
When we got her home again, she tottered to her room and fell across
the bed in a dead faint! That was three months ago. Since then the
very mention of going out throws her into a panic. Nothing will induce
her to stir foot outside the apartment.”
Catherine listened in distress. She had often heard how almost
impossible it is to uproot the fixed ideas of a neurasthenic.
“You can see,” went on Miss Cushing shrewdly, “how that incident
played into Jeanne’s hand. She blamed me for what had happened, and
has redoubled her efforts to prevent my visits. Oh, she’s a deep one!
Believe me or not, she is wholly determined to keep Germaine under her
thumb.”
“You don’t mean to suggest,” ventured the girl in helpless amazement,
“that she had the car painted black on purpose to keep Mme. Bender
from using it?”
“That, my dear, is exactly what I do believe. Everything points to
it.”
The idea seemed ludicrously improbable. Catherine concluded that her
companion was a woman of incurably romantic mind. Moreover, she
remembered what Geoffrey Macadam had said last night about the warfare
between Miss Cushing and Jeanne, and the likelihood of there being a
good deal of reciprocal jealousy mixed up in it. Perhaps, indeed, the
pot was taking a venomous delight in denouncing the kettle’s
complexion.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of Yvonne at the door.
“You will not forget, mademoiselle, that you have an appointment with
the modiste,” she announced in her deep voice. “It is almost six
o’clock.”
“_Mon Dieu!_ Is it so late?” cried the singer, starting up. “I must go
at once. Catherine, my dear, perhaps you would care to come along with
me? My milliner lives only a step from here, and you may be glad to
know of someone who will do up things cheaply. Oddly enough,” she
added confidentially, “it was this same Jeanne who first told me about
her, almost ten years ago!”
Although Catherine had little faith that her own ideas of hats would
coincide with Miss Cushing’s, she agreed, since there was no reason
why she should go home just yet. Accordingly, a few minutes later she
followed her hostess down the narrow stairs, it being manifestly
impossible to walk abreast of her. The spinster had arrayed her vast
form in a coat composed of two quite different kinds of fur,
suggesting that it had been fashioned from separate garments donated
by wealthy friends--as was indeed the case. This she wore with an
indescribable air of elegance, while her step was light, even jaunty.
She might have been a débutante, sallying forth, sure of conquests.
Skirting the rear of the Gare St. Lazare, they arrived at the rue
d’Amsterdam, then half-way between the rue de Londres and the Place de
Clichy they turned into a sombre court and ascended a staircase at the
back. At the first floor, before a door bearing the single name
“_Honorine_,” blazoned in faded gilt, they paused and rang.
A little apprentice in a black apron admitted them to a square room,
whose windows overlooked the court. In the centre was a table heaped
with felt hoods of various colours, straw shapes, bits of velvet and
ribbon. At a smaller table between the windows two young girls sat,
making hats. They glanced at the new-comers without interest, going on
with their work.
“If the ladies wouldn’t mind waiting a moment,” the apprentice said,
“madame is busy with a client.”
“Client!” murmured the younger of the two assistants with malicious
drollery, “that is a new name for monsieur!”
Her companion caught up a huge pair of shears and snipped off the brim
she was shaping.
“Such ardour, coming in the afternoon,” she returned, giggling with
secret enjoyment. “She’s a lucky woman, if you want my opinion!”
“You’ve said it, at her time of life! It’s a mystery to me how she’s
caught an admirer, a serious one, too. All these years living across
the way, and all of a sudden he makes up his mind to marry her. I
believe she must have put something in his coffee.”
“Beer, you mean!”
They giggled again, secretly savouring their morsel of gossip.
While Miss Cushing rustled the pages of a fashion magazine, Catherine
found herself idly listening to the two chatterers, who continued in
undertones, probably ignorant that their audience understood French.
“Of course, you forget he’s handled her affairs. That makes me wonder
if she’s saved up more than one thinks she has. Anyhow she doesn’t
throw it about.”
“Well, all I say is, there’s hope for all.”
The inner door opened and the milliner appeared, following a small man
in black, wearing, with disregard of manners, his wide-brimmed felt
hat. Catherine saw a drab and tired-looking woman in the forties, who
at another time would have appeared worn and spiritless with hard
work. Now, however, in spite of her parchment skin and untidy hair,
there was a twist to her mouth denoting gratified vanity, a general
look of conscious pride. Catherine had seen that expression before and
knew what it meant.
The man’s face was hidden, but something oddly familiar in his stiff
back caused her to gaze after him with sudden interest. Impossible
that she could know by sight this insignificant Frenchman, and yet----
In the doorway he stopped, speaking in a low voice and with a hard,
guttural accent--Belgian or Alsatian, she could not tell which. At the
same time he flicked across his palm a pair of ugly, black fabric
gloves.
Pair? No, strangely enough there was but a single glove. Catherine
eyed it, fascinated. How odd to carry one glove! Odder still that it
should so closely resemble the one she had picked up the evening
before in Mme. Bender’s apartment. However, it could be no more than
coincidence.
“_Alors, demain soir_,” said the owner of the glove impassively.
“_Entendu_,” murmured the modiste, closing the door upon him.
Miss Cushing billowed into the other room, where Catherine could hear
her haggling over the price of an ancient hat which the milliner
gently declared was not worth the trouble of re-making.
Instead of accompanying her, Catherine moved to the window and stood
looking down into the court. Almost at once she saw Honorine’s visitor
emerge, cross the flags to a door opposite, and fumble in his pocket
for a key. Then, just before entering, he turned and looked up in her
direction, the fading daylight revealing his features.
She saw an unwholesomely pallid skin, a small, bristling moustache,
and eyes pale reddish in hue, staring upward with cold, unwinking
fixity.
A queer sensation shot through her. She had seen him again--the
pavement lounger, Jeanne’s friend, the midnight caller who had dropped
his glove on the stairs!
Who on earth was the man?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
She did not know why she should attach so much importance to the
incident just related, nor why, during the next few days, she should
keep seeing in her mind’s eye the white, dull skin and pale, staring
eyes of the little man in the rue d’Amsterdam. Again and again the
vision recurred to her, always with a sense of distrust and vague
repulsion, akin to the antipathy with which one regards certain
specimens of the saurian kingdom.
As a matter of fact she was now acquainted with his name and
occupation, for on the way out from the milliner’s she had read upon
his door the words, “_A. Blom, Notaire_.” A _notaire_ was probably a
humble sort of lawyer, which offered a reasonable explanation for the
man’s connection with Jeanne. In France upper-class servants
invariably have their legal advisers who help them with the investment
of their savings. Jeanne, the soul of thrift, was undoubtedly putting
aside every available sou against her old age, so that it was quite
natural for her to consult an expert on the subject of stocks and
bonds.
As Catherine turned this over in her mind a sudden thought struck her.
Very likely Eduardo put the bolt on the door the other night to
prevent her walking in and finding the _notaire_ there. Then as the
visitor had gone out by the private entrance the precaution was
forgotten till the knocker woke the sleeping occupants.
Her position in the household was now less positively unpleasant, and
while she felt that she was still regarded as a thorn in the flesh,
she fancied the servants had accepted her presence as inevitable and
were making the best of things. She even noticed an improvement in
their attitude towards her. Eduardo was not actually insolent, and
Jeanne, though distant, was for the most part as suave as in former
days. Occasionally she betrayed a slight gleam of resentment, but for
this the girl was ready to make allowances.
“Poor, warped creature!” she mused, full of compassion. “It’s not that
she dislikes me personally. It’s only that she doesn’t want to share
her mistress’s affection with anyone. What a starved life she must
have lived, to be so completely centred on one object!”
It did, indeed, seem that the woman had but a single passion, her
devoted attachment to Mme. Bender. Impossible not to admire the
indefatigable care with which she surrounded her charge, her quickness
to forestall the invalid’s slightest wish. Steadfastly she refused
Catherine’s offers of assistance, and remained hour after hour on
duty, scarcely ever quitting the apartment. If in the evening she
slipped out for an hour, Eduardo took up his post in the converted
dressing-room adjoining Mme. Bender’s bed-chamber, and remained there
until she returned.
Daily Catherine spent an hour or two with her cousin, trying to cheer
her and at the same time to study her condition, but after a week she
was as far as ever from coming to any definite conclusion. She was
chiefly struck by the invalid’s total lack of confidence in herself,
her unwillingness to affirm anything positively, cunningly waiting to
take her cue from the opinions of those about her. It suggested that
she was distressingly aware of blank patches in her memory, which she
was anxious to conceal.
Mme. Bender’s spirits varied startlingly, passing from a childish,
hectic gaiety to periods of moodiness impossible to lighten. At times
she chattered volubly, jumping from topic to topic with utter
inconsequence; then again she would sit for hours without opening her
lips. It was on the latter occasions that Catherine noticed the look
of terror before mentioned, but every effort to fathom the cause of it
met with failure. All she succeeded in rousing was a hint of something
very like suspicion towards herself.
Another thing puzzled the girl. This was neither more nor less the
extreme readiness of Mme. Bender to agree with her maid on every
subject, complaisance carried to the point where it seemed as though
she were actually trying to curry favour in Jeanne’s eyes. Absurd, of
course! Yet so it appeared when again and again the weak personality
bolstered itself up by leaning upon the strong one. Sometimes
Catherine told herself that if Jeanne had declared black to be white
her mistress would have hastened to say that it was so. Reluctantly
she began to see that there were some grounds for Miss Cushing’s view
of affairs, and that for good or for bad her cousin was, to an
alarming extent, under the maid’s influence.
“I suppose it’s only to be expected in the circumstances,” she
reflected. “So long as there’s no harm in it, one oughtn’t to care.”
On the latter point she could not quite make up her mind. She
continued to hold a high opinion of Jeanne, but as the days went by
little doubts crept across her mental sky like clouds, each leaving
its shadow beneath. Perfect as the woman showed herself in her
devotion to the invalid, in other respects she was not so flawless. It
became more and more evident that the establishment was badly run,
that the maid did not trouble in the least what happened outside the
patient’s own room. The second week passed, and the sheets on
Catherine’s bed had not been changed. The windows wanted cleaning, not
only in her bedroom but all over the apartment. The food served to her
was carelessly cooked and all but insufficient. This neglect in a rich
woman’s dwelling was inexcusable. In spite of herself, Catherine could
not help thinking of the singer’s declaration that Jeanne was pinching
and saving in order to put money into her own pocket. It must be so,
for what other reason could there be for so niggardly an economy?
Petty pilfering, for which one must not use too harsh a term, yet for
all that it was distasteful to find the quality prompting it linked in
the same character with motives of sterling excellence.
Meanwhile she was enjoying Paris. She presented introductions, made
many acquaintances, and went about shopping and visiting
picture-galleries to her heart’s content. Each day brought a fresh
invitation, so that soon she was caught up in a gay and active life.
More and more often she saw Geoffrey Macadam, and it was somehow
gratifying to note the frequence with which he sought her society,
yet, although she was getting to know him extremely well, he continued
to preserve towards her an unbroken attitude of matter-of-factness, as
impersonal as that of a brother. Sometimes the feminine part of her
was piqued by this unexciting behaviour, but presently she came to
regard him as one of those beings preordained for bachelordom, and
having settled this to her satisfaction felt even more than before
that she could confide in him with freedom. Undoubtedly there was
something solid and worth while about him which counted higher than
the facile attractions of the other men she had met, and though he
seldom paid her a compliment and had never once tried to hold her
hand, she began to look forward eagerly to her meetings with him, sure
of mental stimulation and sympathetic accord.
Existence flowed on, outwardly serene, yet there was a sub-current to
affairs which rendered Catherine ill at ease. Was she imagining
things, or was it perhaps true that Jeanne, under cover of her
unremitting labours, was conducting some secret game for her own
advancement? She could not be sure.
Take the single instance of Mme. Bender’s car. Not once had she set
eyes upon it, although her cousin appeared to assume that it was
always at her disposal. What had become of it? No effort, she was
sure, was being made to engage another chauffeur. Naturally she did
not broach the subject to Jeanne, for at all cost she was anxious to
avoid friction. At best her presence here was merely tolerated, and to
stir up latent antagonism against herself would make life unbearable.
For the same reason she kept silent when, with a shock of surprise,
she found that several of the best rooms in the apartment were under
lock and key. Why was this so? Lying in bed at night she puzzled over
the circumstance, unable to come to any conclusion. With one exception
she had no desire beyond that of curiosity to penetrate the closed
portions of the flat. Their contents did not concern her, but it was
true she would have liked to go into the picture-gallery on the ground
floor. Here were hung all the best of Harry Bender’s collection, which
included many interesting examples of the modern French school--a
number of the Barbizon group, a couple of Claude Monets, a fine
Cézanne, and three or four Renoirs. In particular she recalled with a
thrill of pleasure a small still-life of apples and pears, executed by
Manet during his sojourn at Boulogne--a gem of a painting, highly
treasured by her dead cousin.
Several times she was on the point of asking Jeanne for the key, but
always something--instinct or premonition--held her back. In the end
an incident occurred to render the request unnecessary.
Returning home one afternoon, she saw in the street outside the
private entrance a luxurious Rolls-Royce standing by the kerb. For a
moment she wondered if someone were calling upon Mme. Bender, but that
could hardly be, for there was no sign of a chauffeur. Then she
noticed that the car was black, inside as well as out, and the
knowledge flashed on her that it was her hostess’ own. What was it
doing here, and who was going to drive it?
As she fumbled for her key the question was answered. Eduardo came
hurriedly out carrying a long cylindrical parcel wrapped in brown
paper, took one startled look at her, and headed straight for the
driver’s seat.
So the car was being used, but only for the servants’ convenience! The
knowledge angered her, but hardly had she taken it in when she saw in
front of her the door of the gallery standing wide open.
What luck! At once she stepped inside, then stood looking round her
with blank disappointment.
Every painting was shrouded in ghostly muslin, not an inch of frame
visible. Chairs and canapes, too, wore covers of linen, while even the
carpet--a valuable Aubusson, if she remembered rightly--was hidden by
an enormous dust-sheet.
“What a shame!” she murmured aloud.
She would have liked to remove the wrappers, but most of the pictures
hung too high for her reach. The little Manet, though--that she might
manage, for she remembered its position, lower down, at the end of the
room.
“That’s it, I’m sure,” she thought, identifying a small rectangular
shape. “No harm in having a peep at it--” and she loosened the muslin
bag.
A cry of dismay escaped her. The gold frame, robbed of its precious
canvas, stared her in the face.
What an odd thing--to part with the picture and leave the frame
behind! She had never heard of such a thing. She stared at the open
space, while in her brain a disagreeable suspicion began to take form.
Quickly she made the round of the other paintings, feeling the
canvases through the material. There were several missing, she could
not say which. Very strange, this.…
Next, her heart beating fast, she tugged at the enveloping linen upon
the furniture, only to meet with a fresh shock. Every scrap of the
eighteenth-century tapestry, fit for a museum, had been removed,
leaving the coarse lining. Last she turned over a corner of the
dust-sheet underfoot. As she expected, there was nothing between it
and the perfectly laid parquet.
She remained rooted to the spot, while the blood sang in her ears.
Who, she asked herself grimly, was responsible for these depredations?
For that they were depredations she could not doubt. The artful
concealment told its own story. Carpet and tapestries alone
represented many thousands of francs, while the missing pictures might
run into millions. Had they been secretly abstracted and sold?
A step ran lightly down the stairs outside. A pause, then in the
doorway Jeanne appeared, a bunch of keys in her hand. Her brown eyes
shot a rapid glance from Catherine to the muslin bag upon the floor
and back again. In their hard gaze the girl caught the same expression
she had seen in the mirror nearly three weeks ago--something alien,
hostile. Now she fancied there was another emotion in them. Was it
fear?
“Mademoiselle is searching for something?” inquired the crisp voice,
edged with irony.
Catherine braced herself.
“Yes, Jeanne, I was looking for the little Manet. What has become of
it?”
The maid raised her brows regretfully.
“Ah, the little Manet! It is sad, is it not? Monsieur parted with it,
only a few weeks before his death. No wonder you are astonished to
find it gone.”
Incredulity swept over the girl. Cousin Harry part with the pearl of
his collection? She could not possibly believe it. She still recalled
the pride with which he had shown it to her four years ago. She kept
her gaze rivetted to the composed face opposite.
“Why did monsieur let the painting go without the frame? It is most
extraordinary.”
A shrug answered her, indifferent, chill.
“Who knows? A whim, perhaps. I believe I heard them say that the
picture was bought by some gentleman from South America. No doubt he
paid a large price; but why he did not take away the frame I have no
idea.”
“There are other pictures gone, also the carpet and the tapestry from
the furniture. Were those sold as well?”
“At the same time, I imagine, but as I was away on my holiday I know
nothing about them. We sailed immediately afterwards for America, and
when we returned, madame and I, the room was as you see it now.”
“But madame? Has she never mentioned them to you?”
“Ah, poor madame? She does not occupy herself with these affairs. I
doubt if she even remembers they were sold. I never dare speak of
things which make her think of monsieur, as you well know!” She
bestowed a cursory glance round the walls, then turned to Catherine
with an air of polite dismissal. “And now, mademoiselle, if you have
quite finished, I will lock up the room. It is safer, is it not?”
A plausible answer, which it was impossible to refute; yet as
Catherine heard the key turn in the door instinct warned her that
every glibly-uttered word was a lie. The servants themselves had
disposed of those paintings, were probably planning the sale of
others. She had wondered just now what the butler was carrying in that
oddly-shaped parcel. Of course, it was a rolled-up canvas!
Her knees trembled as she walked up the stairs.
CHAPTER TWELVE
For the next few days Catherine was tormented by her suspicion. In
justice she could not give it a stronger name, though from the first
she was instinctively certain of the servants’ guilt. Certain--but
cold reason told her the thing would be difficult to prove. To breathe
a word to the invalid might shatter the very foundations of her being,
and, except for Mme. Bender, there was no one at all likely to be
acquainted with the facts. Hermione could not help, since at the time
Jeanne declared the pictures to have been sold she had been absent
from Paris. Indeed, it was probable that for the past year no outside
person had entered the gallery.
After the upsetting discovery she shut herself in the salon and
painstakingly examined its contents. For some time she could find
nothing missing, though she fancied the vitrines contained rather less
than their former store of _bibelots_; but at last she gave a gasp of
triumph. A blue enamelled patch-box and a miniature set with pearls,
both of which she had admired the day after her arrival, had
disappeared. The final shred of doubt was brushed away.
She burned now to explore the locked bedrooms, but that meant
demanding the keys.
What ought she to do? The question haunted her. Useless to assure
herself that dishonesty was one thing, unkindness to an ill woman
another, that she could put her finger on no instance of neglect or
lack of consideration towards Germaine. The ugly fact stared her in
the face that her cousin, helpless and ignorant of harm, was being
hourly ministered to by an unscrupulous thief. Nor was this all. Over
and above the tangle of moral values one idea stood out clear. _If
Jeanne could lie about one thing, she could lie about another._ The
thought was alarming, though she did not draw any direct conclusion
from it.
She resolved to consult Geoffrey. After all, he was not only a real
friend, but he and his father were Mme. Bender’s solicitors, so that
no one could be better able to advise her. She was going to see him on
Sunday, having been invited to his flat to meet his sister, up from
Fontainebleau for the day. If she could get a moment alone with him,
she would tell him the whole affair.
Till then she was forced to go on as though nothing had happened,
though to do so was increasingly difficult. Her sensitive eye detected
a hard defiance in the servant’s manner towards her, saw in their
grudging politeness the mark of an armed neutrality. They distrusted
her now, regarded her presence as a menace to their safety. Well, let
them--they would not dare to go ahead with their systematic thieving.
That, at least, was a consoling thought.…
All this time she was assuming that not only was Jeanne almost
indispensable to Mme. Bender, but that her firm, managing hand exerted
an influence for the invalid’s good. Now, however, she was to receive
a second shock which ship-wrecked all her previous beliefs.
About the middle of the week, after lunching at the Ritz with some
American friends, she came back to find her cousin, in one of her
moods of apathetic depression. Usually at this hour she was sitting up
in the bergère, a rug about her knees, but to-day she was in bed, her
face pinched and wan, with purple patches beneath her eyes, an ivory
rosary held loosely between her emaciated fingers. In the grey dusk of
the room she looked like some poor, fear-haunted ghost.
“Is it you, Catherine? Come in--I have been waiting for you.”
The girl bent to kiss her, holding out the bowl of violets she had
brought.
“Look, aren’t they lovely and fresh? All along the Madeleine the
flower-sellers’ stalls are so marvellous, a blaze of colour. I do so
wish you could see them.”
“And you brought me these? My dear, I am touched!”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I’ll put them here on the little table where you can smell them. It
is warm to-day, such gorgeous sunshine, and the chestnuts are actually
budding. Oh, Germaine dear, if only you could bring yourself to go
outdoors, I can’t help thinking it would do you good!”
She spoke impulsively, then was distressed to see the result of her
words. The ill woman shut her eyes shudderingly, her features
contracted with a spasm of pain.
“Ah, no! Not that!” she murmured in positive alarm. “It is impossible!
You do not know what you are saying.”
Hermione’s story about the ill-fated motor drive flashed into
Catherine’s mind. Yet almost against her will she found herself saying
persuasively:
“But, darling, it must be bad for you to stay shut up in this little
room. It’s unnatural to want to, you know!”
The shrinking gaze turned suspiciously on her, eyeing her with a sort
of pained distrust.
“You too!” muttered the invalid. “First Lili, and now you… Jeanne was
right. She is always right,” and she shook her head with a hint of
fatalism.
Catherine was mystified, both by the words themselves and by the air
of hurt reproach which accompanied them; but before she could muster a
reply the maid entered with a tray bearing tea and a little pot of
chocolate for her mistress.
“I will pour out, Jeanne,” cried the young girl, welcoming a
diversion. “Put it here on the table.”
The woman complied, removing the violets, upon which she cast a brief,
contemptuous glance, then hung about, needlessly officious, settling
Mme. Bender’s pillows and arranging the cups and saucers. It seemed to
Catherine that she was unwilling to leave her alone with the patient,
but presently she straightened up and stood as though waiting for
orders.
“You may leave us, Jeanne,” suggested the invalid timidly. “Perhaps as
it is a fine day you might care to go out for a little.”
Somewhat to Catherine’s surprise the woman assented.
“As madame wishes. Since mademoiselle is going to remain, I will take
this opportunity to get a breath of air.”
For a second her eyes rested full on Catherine’s face, with a look
which the recipient read as a mixture of speculation and defiance.
Then she withdrew, and presently a brisk step along the passage
outside told the two listeners she had departed.
Catherine felt more comfortable, and fancied her companion shared her
feeling, but after a little while she was distressed to see that the
cup of chocolate remained untasted, her cousin’s eyes fixed blankly on
the window, through whose white drawn curtains showed faintly the two
iron bars Jeanne had spoken about. She asked herself what the poor
woman thought about those brutal reminders of her past folly, and if
the sight of them preyed upon her mind. She had never mentioned them,
but there they were, staring her in the face, proof, even if she had
forgotten the episode, that she was not to be trusted.
“You are very quiet to-day, Germaine,” remarked Catherine lightly. “Is
anything troubling you?”
A tremulous sigh answered her. The white hand pressed itself against
the tormented eyes as though to shut out disturbing fancies.
“I don’t know… I don’t know,” murmured the sad voice with a touch of
irritability. “Everything is so confused. My memory, you know. Things
go from me, and I never can tell what has happened and what I--I have
imagined. It frightens me. I don’t know what to believe.…”
Catherine felt a wave of intense pity sweep over her. She would have
given much to be able to help the poor, brooding creature, but what
could one do or say to reassure her?
“Your chocolate is getting cold. Let me give you some more,” she
gently urged. “As for forgetting things, if I were you I shouldn’t
give it a thought! Memory is so very much a matter of health.”
“Ah, you only say that to comfort me. I know--I know it is far more
serious than you think. There are things I could tell you of, dreadful
things, ghastly things, things like nightmares! Ah! If you knew only
half that goes on here----” and she touched her forehead with a
distraught gesture. “Sometimes I--but no,” checking herself quickly,
“I do wrong to speak of them. I am forgetting again. Jeanne says I am
not to mention them to anyone, or else…” She stopped once more,
setting her lips together with a look of frightened secrecy.
Things like nightmares! Here at last was a reference to the delusions
both Jeanne and the doctor had mentioned. It was the first time
Germaine had spoken of them, but the repressed terror in her manner
showed the acuteness of her mental suffering.
“I don’t know what you are talking about, Germaine,” declared
Catherine stoutly. “But I’m sure it is all due to disordered nerves.
Remember the shock you have had.”
“You mean my accident?” The thin hands quivered spasmodically. “Ah, if
I could only believe it was due to that! But no--what I speak of began
much later. Oh, a great deal later! That is what terrifies me so.”
Catherine caught the fluttering hands in hers with a firm pressure.
“Nonsense, dear! Everything is all right. But since you are so
worried, why not let us call in another doctor? Someone who
specializes in nervous cases. Mightn’t it be a good idea?”
At once she realized her mistake. With a violent movement the invalid
recoiled from her, hiding her face in the pillows.
“Ah, not that, not that!” she whispered in an agonized appeal. “Ah,
Catherine, if you love me, never call in a specialist! I implore you!”
There was nothing to do but soothe and coax her back into a quiet
state. At last she lay back with closed eyes, seeing which Catherine
gave up the attempt to make conversation and let her rest, thankful
that the panic of the moment was over.
The fading light was all but gone. Catherine sat on, busy with her
thoughts, believing that her cousin had fallen into a doze, although
in the shadow of the bed-curtains it was difficult to tell. There was
no sound save the faint ticking of the little tortoiseshell clock on
the dressing-table, and the occasional honk of a motor-horn from the
avenue.
Presently one of the draperies close to her side stirred slightly. She
glanced at it, thinking the movement came from a breeze through the
window, but no, the other curtains hung limp and still. The vibration
continued, then a tiny, pricking noise reached her ears. What could it
be? She sat motionless, holding her breath and watching fixedly
descried a small, dark form creeping stealthily up the white fringe of
the material from the floor. Surely she herself must be imagining
things!
She stared harder. Good Heavens, it was a mouse!
Up, up it moved in jerks, its jewelled eyes glistening, its long tail
slipping behind like a line of dark thread. It must have ventured
forth in search of a meal, attracted by the cake-crumbs. But how bold,
when there were people about! The thought came to the girl that it was
treading familiar ground.
Fascinated, she stayed her impulse to shake it off, lest the sudden
movement might alarm the sleeping woman. Now it had reached the
surface of the bed, and with twinkling feet, halting and cocking its
ears to listen, it proceeded confidently across the supine figure.
Still Catherine did nothing. Into her mind had come the scrap of
unintelligible conversation she had caught that first morning between
the doctor and Jeanne. She heard again the deep voice saying. “_Vous
êtes sûre qu’il n’y a pas de souris là bas?_”
Was Germaine asleep? Noiselessly bending forward, she stole a glance
at the shadowed face. To her amazement she saw that the eyes were wide
open, glued with horror and loathing to the darting form, while upon
the forehead great drops of sweat stood out.
Catherine sprang to her feet, jostling the tea-table. The mouse
vanished like a streak of light.
“Why, Germaine! Did you see? A mouse was actually running over your
bed! Don’t be frightened, it’s gone now.”
She ran to the wall-button and switched on the lights.
“What an impudent creature!” she exclaimed, laughing. “Were you
afraid?”
Then to her utter dismay she saw the poor invalid sitting bolt
upright, tears streaming down her cheeks, hands clasped.
“Catherine! Catherine! You saw it, too? It was real? Oh, my God, my
God! And I thought it was my fancy!”
As long as she lived Catherine never forgot the anguished relief of
the outcry, wrung from the Frenchwoman’s very soul.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The next moment she was on her knees beside the bed, her arms round
the trembling figure.
“But of course it was real!” she declared vigorously. “I tell you I
watched it climb up the hangings and didn’t dare to speak for fear of
waking you. There, it’s quite gone. We’ll set a trap and catch it. I
promise you won’t see it again!”
The unnerved woman clung to her, weeping hysterically.
“It always comes--again and again. I have told her, but she can’t, she
won’t believe me. At last I’ve become afraid to say anything,
because--because it is so plain what she thinks!”
Understanding flooded the dark places of Catherine’s mind. This, then,
was one of Germaine’s delusions--mice running unchecked about her bed,
while her poor bewildered brain strove to deny the evidence of her
senses! What incredible negligence did it reveal, what wilful refusal
to face facts? Or was there some much worse explanation?
For a second it seemed as though a curtain had been lifted, giving a
glimpse of a monstrous scheme to cast doubt upon the invalid’s sanity.
Here was a single instance of it; there might be others. What if an
organized attempt was going on to overthrow the insecure balance of
this poor woman’s reason?
Instantly common sense pulled her round. The idea was too utterly
fantastic. Carelessness, yes, and inconceivable stupidity, but surely
nothing more grave.
Still, the known facts were bad enough, and must be dealt with at
once. While she fetched smelling-salts and eau-de-Cologne, chattering
lightly and treating the whole affair as a joke, her mind was busy
planning a surprise-attack on the offender now due to return. High
time someone took matters in hand, but at the thought of facing Jeanne
she inwardly trembled.
Presently she contrived without being noticed to lift the bed-valance
and peer at the floor beneath. What met her eye filled her with
righteous anger. Now she was no longer afraid.
Ten minutes later a hurried step approached, and the familiar figure
stood in the door.
“Madame is comfortable? She has not required anything?”
The invalid summoned a tremulous smile.
“No, no, Jeanne! I have not needed you,” she hastened to declare.
The maid’s nostrils dilated, sniffing the eau-de-Cologne. Then she
went back into the dressing-room to remove her wraps. Not heeding the
imploring hand stretched out to stop her, Catherine walked straight
into the adjoining room and closed the door.
“Jeanne,” she said abruptly, “there are mice in madame’s room.
Something must be done about it at once.”
The woman wheeled round in the act of taking off her hat. Her eyes
glared with sudden annoyance.
“Mice?” she repeated shortly. “Impossible! Madame has been telling you
that story.”
“Not at all,” retorted Catherine. “I myself have just seen a mouse
crawling across madame’s bed. There is no doubt about it.”
For several seconds the two regarded each other fixedly. Then with a
face hard as iron Jeanne turned deliberately and hung her coat upon a
peg. She was silent so long that Catherine began to think she was not
going to reply. Once more she started to remove her round, dark hat;
then, changing her mind, left it on her head. When at last she spoke
it was with great restraint.
“Mademoiselle will pardon me if I find it difficult to believe her. In
all the years I have lived in this apartment I have never set eyes on
a mouse.”
“I’m sorry you think I’m lying,” returned the girl with asperity. “In
any case I must insist on your setting a trap in a place which I will
show you. Madame is being terrified half out of her senses.”
The woman darted a glance at her full of hatred and scorn. If she was
intimidated, she showed no sign of it.
“_Jamais!_” Catherine heard her mutter under her breath. “_Jamais!_ I
cannot think what you mean to insinuate.”
“Simply this, Jeanne. Quite obviously that room in there has not been
properly cleaned for weeks, months even. I want you to come now and
look under the bed. There has been something sticky there, and the
mice have gnawed the carpet bare in patches.”
The sallow face swelled till the eyes were reduced to pinpoints. On
the cheek-bones areas of mottled red appeared.
“Come, please, and let me show you what I mean,” said Catherine,
holding open the door.
After a brief hesitation, still wearing her hat, the woman obeyed,
stooped to examine the spot Catherine indicated, and straightened up,
her features set in a mutinous mask.
“I see nothing beyond a few drops of spilled medicine. Madame herself
knows whose fault it is that no one but me is allowed to do her room.
I slave from morning to night; when I go to bed, I am often too tired
to sleep. I am a human being, not a machine! No other person would do
for madame what I do; but if my efforts are not appreciated, if I am
to be criticized and called to account over trifles, it is time to
give up. It is plain that mademoiselle came here for the purpose of
setting her cousin against me!”
“Nothing of the sort, Jeanne. I only want you to remove whatever it is
that is attracting mice. That is all.”
If Catherine spoke mildly, it was to spare Germaine, whose white face
was quivering with agitated distress. Nothing could be gained by
contradicting the maid, though what the valance concealed was not
spilled medicine, but particles of food. She had even detected the
odour of cheese.…
An hour later Catherine sat in the study, trying to think calmly.
Difficult as it was to conceive of a well-trained servant leaving
scraps of food upon the floor, it was equally incredible that the
thing could have been done purposely. What was one to believe? One
thing alone was certain. She had completely lost faith in Jeanne, whom
she now regarded as a bad, if not dangerous, influence for Germaine.
Devoted she might be, but for all that she was undermining the
invalid’s confidence in herself, fostering, whether by ignorance or
design, the poor creature’s fear of encroaching insanity. As things
were, it was worse than hopeless to attempt to nurse the patient back
to health.
“Somehow or other she must be got rid of!” she told herself, still
shaken by indignation. “Perhaps this business will open the way. A
thief; and incompetent into the bargain!”
She could not help feeling a little exultant over the recent scene.
After this Jeanne must either mend her ways or go. She hoped it would
be the latter.
However, she had much to learn, as the evening was to prove.
Amid the staid magnificence of the _salle à manger_ she ate her
solitary meal. Speculatively she looked round at the three fine
pictures on the walls, at the tall, gold candelabra which once had
adorned a palace. More objects easily convertible into money. Were the
servants she now thought of as rogues merely waiting for her visit to
be over before laying hands on these treasures? Well, they would wait
in vain. It was her fixed intention to foil them at that or any other
game they might be playing.
All at once her thoughts veered to the little _notaire_, A. Blom. What
if he were in league with this pair, aiding them in disposing of their
plunder? His visit here that night three weeks ago might have been to
cast his appraising eye over things and possibly to take something off
with him. Jeanne’s secret conferences with the man took on a new
meaning. She wondered if there were any way of finding out the truth.
It was usual on the evenings she spent at home for Jeanne to call her
when Mme. Bender was ready for bed, so that she could go in to say
good night. However, the hour passed and there was no summons. This
did not astonish her, for the feeling between Jeanne and herself was
naturally strained; but when ten o’clock struck and nothing had
happened she put down her book and went toward her cousin’s bedroom.
The door was shut, but from the other side came sounds of tempestuous
weeping.
She halted, full of consternation, thinking the strangled sobs came
from Germaine, but a moment’s listening informed her that it was
Jeanne herself who was indulging in the violent outburst. Somehow she
had not expected this. A second later words reached her, stormy with
protest.
“No, madame, it is useless! All is finished, all, all! I swear to you
I am going away, at once; I shall pack to-night and leave quite early
in the morning. Nothing can stop me. Eduardo, too, will go. Madame
will be left absolutely alone, to face the doctors, the nurses, the
strange enemies who will swoop down upon her. I have done my utmost,
I; but if madame distrusts me, then my time with her is over. I have
my future to think of. I cannot support plotting and scheming behind
my back by those who have their own ends to serve!”
Catherine held her breath, appalled by the hurricane of tears and
recriminations. Through the outcries she caught a despairing whimper
which cut her to the heart.
“Jeanne, dear Jeanne, you must not say such things! Have I ever
doubted you? It is cruel to torture me like this!”
The feeble protest was drowned in a renewed burst of weeping.
“Cruel? It is madame who is cruel! She accuses me of neglect, me who
have given fifteen years of my life to her service! It is too much!
How could I know this one thing was true, when every day madame sees
and hears what is not there? Even now I cannot altogether believe. No,
I see it plainly. I am no longer wanted, and am to be cast aside like
an old shoe. Enough! I go to-morrow, to give place to some persons for
whom madame will be only a mental case. But if when I am no longer
here it is thought wise to shut madame up in an asylum----”
“Jeanne, you cannot, you must not leave me! Listen to me, I implore
you to listen!”
“I will not hear madame! I go to my brother in the Vosges to take the
long rest I have been needing this twelve-month. Then madame will
realize what I have done for her, how I have protected her. She will
know, she will know!”
Unable to bear more, Catherine burst into the room.
“Jeanne--what is the meaning of this?” she demanded in a stern
whisper.
Quick as lightning the woman turned upon her, one finger outstretched
in venomous accusation. She still wore her hat, while her face was
swollen and streaked with tears.
“There!” she cried hoarsely. “Behold one who calls herself your
friend! Why is she here if not to profit by madame’s weakness? Does
madame flatter herself for one moment that this young American has
come across the ocean for love of a bed-ridden woman? Ask her what she
hopes to get for her pains! Ask her if she is not waiting for madame
to die and leave her a fortune!”
The shameless attack deprived the girl of speech. She could only stare
while the stream of abuse flowed on.
“Madame’s friends!” went on the voice with bitter scorn. “Who are
they? I know of none but Mademoiselle Cushing and Mademoiselle
West--paupers both! Why do they come here, why does the fat singer
urge madame to make her will? Madame is indeed insane if she cannot
see into the hearts of these creatures. Always this talk of the will,
this fear that madame will die and leave these people penniless! Tell
me--have I ever hoped that madame would leave me a single sou? Am I
taking away with me more than I brought here? No, a thousand times no!
Madame is turning away the one being who has tried to stand between
her and these grasping----”
“Stop! Look, Jeanne, what you have done!”
The form on the bed had collapsed. Mme. Bender had fainted.
Instantly a miracle happened. Jeanne, her entire bearing transformed,
every sign of hysteria vanished, cast a single appraising glance at
the dead-white face of her mistress, then going to a little
medicine-cupboard took out a bottle and measured a few drops of liquid
into a glass.
Catherine watched the brisk, business-like movements with amazement,
saw her raise the limp body, murmuring, “_Buvez-ceci, madame!_” in a
tone of complete control.
Parenthetically she noticed that the bottle was labelled “Digitalis.”
In another second Mme. Bender’s eyelids fluttered open and a trembling
sigh escaped her lips. With a grunt of satisfaction Jeanne turned to
face the spell-bound girl.
“And now, mademoiselle,” she said in an even voice, “perhaps you had
better leave madame with me.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“But you aren’t actually afraid of anything, are you? You don’t
think Mme. Bender is any the worse for what you’ve just told me?”
Geoffrey was trying hard to read Catherine’s thoughts. Was she keeping
something back? He fancied she was more deeply troubled than she was
willing to admit, but he could not quite get at the cause of her
anxiety.
It was late Sunday afternoon; the air was soft with the first full
tide of spring, and half the Latin Quarter thronged the pavements, or
lingered at little tables in front of the cafés, sipping apéritifs.
Everywhere were flower-sellers laden with tulips and daffodils, while
on the street corners venders of balloons exhibited their huge soaring
bunches of multi-coloured grapes. The whole presented an effect of
pageantry and that outpouring of the holiday spirit which Paris knows
so perfectly how to achieve.
Catherine and Geoffrey, having quitted the rue d’Assas, had sauntered
aimlessly across the space beside the Café des Lilas, ancient haunt
of long-haired poets, and turned into the narrow avenue of flowering
chestnuts which leads like the neck of a bottle to the Luxembourg
Gardens. Now that they were alone, the girl had hastened to pour out
the story of the past week, her pent-up feelings finding relief in the
recital. Yet that her companion, in spite of his evident sympathy, did
not take the situation as seriously as she did, was plain from the
question he asked at the end.
She bit her lip, and considered for several seconds before framing a
reply.
“I don’t know what to say. On the surface things are going on much as
usual. Mme. Bender was prostrated for two days, exactly as long as
that woman kept to her word about leaving, but the minute Jeanne gave
in and said she would stay my cousin revived again. Now she’s just as
she was before.”
“Do you think this maid actually meant to go?”
“Not for a moment! I’m sure it was only a bluff on her part, but it
was a most effective one. She’s got her mistress now exactly where she
wants her, more than ever under her thumb. Oh, I was blind not to see
it before! Hermione was right. It’s terrifying to think that any human
being can be so completely dominated by another.”
He let his eyes dwell on the straight parallels of chestnuts
stretching ahead before speaking.
“I wonder if there’s any use trying to persuade her to go into a
nursing-home? It seems to me she would be better off with expert
care.”
“Of course! I have thought so from the beginning. But it is very
difficult, as the doctor pointed out to me when I spoke to him. She
has got some morbid dread of being put under restraint, and if one
overruled her there’s no telling what might happen. That, I begin to
see, is at the root of her fear about losing Jeanne, who probably
keeps her frightened with tales of French asylums.”
“So she believes Jeanne alone is standing between her and a
sanatorium?”
“Exactly. I tell you that creature is fiendishly clever! Whether
because of egotism and jealousy or from some other motive, she has
made Germaine think no one but herself is capable of a disinterested
devotion. Everyone else is an enemy--even I.”
Her cheeks flushed, there were tears in her eyes. He could see how
deeply she was hurt.
“That’s absurd!” he exclaimed hotly.
“Absurd or not, it’s true! I can’t bear to speak of it. You see, ever
since that afternoon I have noticed a change in Germaine towards me.
There’s a barrier between us, she isn’t frank any more, and I know
only too well it’s because of those vile accusations Jeanne made
against me. She thinks--oh, it’s too shameful!--that I am staying
there simply for what I hope to get out of her.”
“Can’t you make her see how false all this is?”
“How can I? If I protest against the insinuations, the fact of doing
so amounts practically to an admission. It’s not as though she said
anything openly, it’s only a sort of subtle reproach in her manner.
No, there’s nothing I can do.”
“Except,” he suggested, “to leave there altogether.”
She turned for a moment in his direction, then shook her head.
“I can’t do that,” she answered firmly. “I’d like to, but I daren’t.”
“Why?” he demanded. “It’s not as though you could help matters by
staying. What can you do?”
“Someone must be there,” she replied obstinately, “if only to keep an
eye on those servants. She’s so utterly alone! Why, she even refuses
now to see Hermione--another result of Jeanne’s work. If I go away,
she’ll be completely cut off from the world.”
He nodded thoughtfully.
“I see your point,” he said. “But, after all, you can’t be with her
long. What about your visit to Italy?”
“That’s off. I’ve written to the Hardwickes to say I’m not joining
them after all. Too bad, but it can’t be helped.”
He stopped stock-still in astonishment.
“Is there any real need to sacrifice yourself like this?”
“I don’t know. I hope it may do some good! Anyhow I feel I must see
things straightened out for Germaine before I go away. Perhaps you
think I’m foolish, but I believe you would do the same in my place.”
He said no more. Secretly he was exulting over the knowledge that he
was not going to lose her in a few weeks’ time. The future suddenly
held out rosy hopes.
In silence they passed through the big iron gates into the gardens.
Ahead of them stretched the grey palace of the Luxembourg, and in the
amphitheater before it the round basin of water shimmered in the sun,
white-winged boats flying across its bosom, and the fountain lifting a
plume of diamond spray. Tiny children, dressed like gay dolls, darted
about with hoops and balls, street urchins in black aprons chattered
clamorously, rusty crows of old women huddled on the seats above which
the stone queens of France gazed down in a majestic circle.
Close to the statue of Marguerite de Valois they found a seat and
resumed their conversation.
“Now as to this thieving business,” said Geoffrey, offering his
companion a cigarette. “I don’t say you are wrong, but it’s possible
Mr. Bender did dispose of certain things before he died. It strikes me
that for those servants to sell anything as conspicuous as a Manet
would be taking a frightful risk.”
“Would it?” she retorted. “I’m not so sure. If I had not happened
along, who would have been the wiser?”
He was forced to admit the logic of this.
“I daresay they are rogues,” he said reflectively. “The moment you
spoke of their cutting down the household expenses I had my
suspicions. You say no one comes to the flat?”
“Not a soul, except that horrid little man I told you about. I suppose
he is Jeanne’s lawyer, but I am not satisfied about him somehow. I
can’t help thinking he is mixed up in this, though I can’t guess how.
Do you know, I actually went and had a hat copied at Honorine’s,
merely to try to find out about him; but although I’ve been to her
place several times, I have not seen him again.”
Geoffrey continued his own train of thought.
“Of course, the paintings would fetch large sums, even if sold through
a _receleur_,” he remarked.
“A _receleur_? What’s that?”
“A receiver of stolen goods. Naturally such sales could not be
conducted through legitimate channels.”
She made an excited gesture.
“The little _notaire_!” she cried. “Perhaps that’s what he is--a
receiver of stolen goods. Had you thought of that?”
“By Jove, you may be right! That’s a thundering good suggestion. I
wonder if we can find out?”
He pondered the idea, bending forward and examining the pebbles
underfoot with close attention. Presently without looking at her he
spoke again:
“When you said just now that you wanted to stay there to keep an eye
on the servants, had you anything in mind beyond the fact that they
may be dishonest?”
She started slightly, shifting her gaze from the impertinent profile
of the sculptured queen to the leafy avenue stretching out behind
them.
“Nothing definite,” she answered reluctantly. “After all, stealing is
bad enough. No, I don’t know that there’s anything else.”
He studied the tip of his cigarette.
“Yet you are nervous about something. Am I right?”
How observant he was! She had tried to conceal her secret from him,
but he had guessed it in spite of her.
“It’s only an instinctive feeling,” she admitted guiltily. “I can’t
define it. Do you think me frightfully stupid?”
The confession brought relief. Since Wednesday she had battled with a
nameless dread, vague yet sufficiently strong to account for her
letter to the Hardwickes. She had been haunted by the consciousness of
impending disaster, the more to be feared because of its
obscurity--something which would require all her wits to circumvent.
Instead of replying he asked another question:
“Do you happen to know if this maid is trying to induce her mistress
to make a will?”
“It’s odd you should speak of that,” she answered, surprised. “As a
matter of fact, she has not done anything of the sort. It was the very
point she made to prove to Germaine she had no mercenary motives. She
brought it out like a trump card.”
“Ah!” he exclaimed in satisfaction, “that’s good!”
“Why?” she demanded, puzzled.
“Why? Simply that if what she declares is true, then there can be no
actual danger threatening your cousin. You see what I mean?”
“Not quite.”
“I’ll make it plainer. Unless we can show that this woman is trying to
secure a will in her favour, then it is clear she has everything to
lose and nothing to gain by her mistress’s death. In short, it is to
her own interests to take the best possible care of Mme. Bender,
knowing that she can profit so long as the latter lives, but no
longer.”
“Of course!” she cried. “How dense I must seem!”
A load of anxiety slipped from her heart. Why had she overlooked this
utterly reasonable point of view? She understood now something of the
nature of her recent apprehension.
“In fact,” he continued, “I’ll go so far as to say that the surer we
are that the maid and the butler are fleecing their mistress, the
better guarantee we have for her personal safety. Not that the thefts
can be allowed to go on. We must do all we can to find proof and send
the servants packing. It may be hard, though, since we can’t look for
any assistance from Mme. Bender herself.”
“She won’t believe anything wrong of Jeanne, nor does one dare ask her
about the pictures, as any reference to Cousin Harry upsets her
terribly. Besides, she does not think for herself any more, she only
expresses Jeanne’s opinions.”
“Well, we must do our best without her. There’s another matter, too, I
should like to mention now we’re on the subject. While I was in Havre
the maid came to the office to obtain a duplicate key to Mme. Bender’s
safety-deposit. I don’t know if there was anything wrong about it, but
you might just try to find out if your cousin has that key in her
possession.”
Her eyes dilated with fresh suspicion.
“The safety-deposit? That’s where Germaine’s pearls are kept, in fact
most of her jewellery; Hermione told me so. Oh! do you suppose Jeanne
has designs in that direction?”
He laughed.
“Even if she has, you needn’t worry. Banks are pretty careful.”
“Just the same, I don’t like the look of it. Poor Hermione! She’s
dreadfully in the dumps. That’s another thing Jeanne is responsible
for. She has succeeded in cutting Mme. Bender off from her one
remaining friend.… Heavens! is it almost seven o’clock? I must fly!”
“I’ll drop you, if I may. I am going over to the other side anyhow,”
she lied cheerfully.
“If you’re quite sure,” she agreed doubtfully.
His pulses leaped as he fancied he caught a gleam of pleasure in her
eyes. Was it faintly possible that she, too, was glad to delay the
moment of separation?
At the corner of the Boulevard they got into an open taxi, and in
another moment were racing towards the river, the soft breeze in their
faces. Catherine looked happier now. Colour stained her cheeks a
delicate rose, and her eyes had lost the fear-ridden look so
noticeable a little while ago. Geoffrey studied her with appreciation,
delighting in the trim lines of her grey homespun coat and skirt, her
tiny, close-fitting hat and the slender fineness of her hands and
feet.
“Did you like my sister?” he inquired abruptly.
She started at the suddenness of the question.
“Oh, tremendously! She’s rather like you, don’t you think?” she added
naïvely, then blushed a deeper red.
“I wanted you two to meet,” he said slowly, then was silent because of
the thought in his mind. “I hope,” he went on, “that you’ll go and see
her at Fontainebleau when she asks you, as she’s sure to do. You’ll
like my brother-in-law--he’s an etcher. Odd chap, but a decent sort.”
“I’d love to go,” she said hesitatingly. “Perhaps a little later. Just
now I hate leaving Germaine.”
“What rubbish! You can’t stay tied to her for the rest of your life!”
She laughed at his impatient tone.
“I know you think I’m over-scrupulous. Never mind--I’ve a plan in my
head which may help to straighten things out. Don’t ask me what it is
yet--it mayn’t succeed,” and she smiled at him tantalizingly.
At the Cours la Reine they were caught in a traffic block. It was dusk
now, and the river on the one hand, the Place de la Concorde on the
other glittered with a million stars. Suddenly Catherine gave a
smothered cry.
“Look!” she whispered, grasping her companion’s arm. “There is
Eduardo, driving Mme. Bender’s car. And do you see the man with him?
It’s the creature from the rue d’Amsterdam I have been talking about!”
Following her eyes, Geoffrey spied a jet-black Rolls, upon whose front
seat slouched the Portuguese, his sullen face lit by an adjacent
street lamp. The features of the man beside him were hidden by a
wide-brimmed hat, but as the taxi crept forward a few yards they could
be seen in profile.
Geoffrey uttered an astonished exclamation.
“By Jove, I know the fellow! At least I’ve seen him.…”
“Where? Who is he?” demanded the girl eagerly.
He thought hard, then shook his head, chagrined.
“That’s the worst of it. I’m hanged if I know!” he admitted.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
All that evening Geoffrey cudgelled his brain to recall how and
where he had come across the butler’s companion. There might be no
special point in remembering, yet, on the other hand, if Catherine’s
suggestion were correct any facts concerning the _notaire_ might prove
useful. However, try as he would, he could not bring back the
circumstances of the chance encounter, and went to bed thoroughly
exasperated.
Next morning at the very moment of setting foot in the outer office
the thing flashed on him. Why, it was here, in this room! The man had
been standing by the table, stolid and a little furtive, apparently
waiting for an appointment. He had looked up suddenly, and his
unwholesome pallor, together with his red-rimmed eyes, one of them
marked by a curious blemish, had photographed themselves on the
onlooker’s memory.
As soon as Geoffrey had run through his letters he called one of the
under-clerks, a youngster named Ballou, into his private office.
“Guy,” he said, “do you happen to know of a _notaire_ called A. Blom,
living at 359, rue d’Amsterdam?”
The clerk, a dapper French stripling justly proud of his good command
of English, gave the question careful consideration.
“Blom?” he repeated, his black eyes sharply alert. “No, sir, I think
not. A _notaire_, you say?”--and his tone expressed conscious
superiority. “I don’t often come across any of that lot, sir.”
“He was here on business about a couple of months ago--a small chap,
pasty-faced, with something queer about one of his eyes. I’d like to
find out what he wanted.”
Again the young man reflected, passing a long hand over his sleek,
brilliantined hair.
“I will inquire, sir. One of the others may know.”
“Do so, Guy, and let me hear the result.”
Ten minutes later the youth returned to report failure.
“No one has heard of the person, sir. Of course, there’s Mr. Howard,
who’s ill. Shall I get in touch with him?”
“You needn’t trouble to do that. Instead, I want you to go to the rue
d’Amsterdam--here’s the address--and see what you can find out from
the concierge. This much I will tell you: I have reason to believe
Blom to be mixed up in the disposal of some stolen works of art. But
don’t let any hint of this leak out.”
“Right, sir--you may depend on me,” and with an air of enjoyment
Ballou departed on his mission.
Geoffrey resumed his work, but between him and the dull routine of
deeds and titles floated a delicate, troubled face. He could not
forget the look in Catherine’s eyes yesterday, nor the conviction
forced upon him that she was living in the grip of constant if
indefinable dread. Something must be done to set her mind at rest, and
this move regarding Blom was the one immediate thing which occurred to
him.
As for Mme. Bender herself, frankly he was not greatly concerned.
“It’s a pretty rotten business,” he said as, lighting a cigarette, he
gave himself up to reflection. “She seems completely in that maid’s
power, and yet for the life of me I can’t see any reason for alarm.
The point is, there’s no motive.… To allow the poor creature to die
would be simply killing the goose that lays the golden egg--a folly
that precious pair of servants are much too clever to commit! No,
they’ll play the game for all it’s worth, knowing that once their
mistress is dead they’ll get nothing further, beyond a small legacy,
which in any case is bound to come to them.… I can see, though, why
they were furious when Catherine descended upon them. They don’t want
any watchful eye checking their movements. I’d give a good deal to
have a look at Mme. Bender’s pass-book, by the way. I’ll wager that
tells a story.”
If the poor lady got either better or worse the position would right
itself. In the former event she would be able to look after herself,
in the latter his firm could assume authority. It was in this
intermediate state that she presented such a problem and surely before
long she would tend definitely one way or the other.
No, it was Catherine herself whose situation troubled him. He chafed
at the thought of her living in proximity to a victim of mental
illness, subjected to annoyances she had no power to check. He would
have given much to put and end to it, but he could think of but one
possible solution the risk of which he was frightened to take.
No, although he now knew he meant with all his soul to marry her if
she would have him, he dared not put his chances to the test. Not till
he felt more sure of her. Up till now he was miserably certain she did
not care for him--at least not in the right way. Instinct warned him
she would take a lot of winning.…
It was just before lunch-time that young Ballou re-entered the office
with an important air, and laid his bowler hat and a pair of
particularly smart new gloves upon the desk. His black eyes glistened
with mystery.
“Well, Guy--any luck?”
“A little, sir.” The youngster cleared his throat nonchalantly. “Not
much, I admit. I’ve been gossiping with the concierge in the rue
d’Amsterdam, and I flatter myself there’s not much I can’t tell you
about this person, Adolph Blom. I posed as a _notaire_ myself, in
search of a bureau, and as such it was natural to want to know
something about my professional rival.”
“Excellent. What did you find out?”
“Well, sir, I’m sorry to say the concierge gives this fellow a most
unassailable character. Nothing shady about him. It seems he is an
Alsatian, who has lived for years at the same address, pays his rent
regularly, numbers several of the _locataires_ as his clients, and is
universally regarded as a shrewd man of affairs. A little mean,
perhaps, but that is not held against him. He is quiet, spends little
on pleasure, and once a year takes a holiday of two weeks, always in
Alsace, and invariably in August, like other people. A hard-working,
reliable chap.”
Geoffrey raised his brows in disappointment. Whatever questionable
there might be about the _notaire_, it evidently did not appear on the
surface.
“However,” continued Guy, referring to a _dossier_, “this year he
departed from his custom, and in February took an additional holiday,
this time going South. From something he dropped on his return the
concierge thinks he went to Bordeaux.”
“Bordeaux!”
The name suggested nothing except that the town was a port from which
many boats departed. It might offer a suitable point, well removed
from Paris, from which to conduct nefarious operations.
“I also inquired into his private life, but I don’t suppose that will
interest you. Blom, it seems, is a bachelor, something over forty.
Until quite recently he had a mistress, some young woman employed in a
_usine_, but soon after this visit to the South he broke with her, and
began paying serious attentions to a woman who lives across the
court--a milliner named Mme. Baron. Husband killed in the war. Runs a
business under the title of Honorine. She’s a client of Blom, who
probably knows all about her affairs. The concierge thinks she must
have saved considerable money, or else our friend would not find her
attractive, for she’s middle-aged and not much to look at.”
Geoffrey pondered this bit of information, then shook his head slowly.
“Thanks, Guy. You’ve done a thorough job of it, and if you didn’t come
across anything suspicious it’s not your fault. There was only a faint
chance.”
But the clerk was in no hurry to depart. He picked up his hat, flicked
an imaginary bit of dust from it, and coming a step closer, fixed his
eyes on his employer’s face.
“One thing more, sir,” he remarked confidentially. “While I was in the
loge the man we were discussing looked in to collect his letters, and
although I kept well behind the door I had a good view of him. And,
sir, I knew him at once.”
“You did?” exclaimed Geoffrey, startled. “Who is he, then?”
“Ah, that’s the question! You were right, he came to this office about
two to three months ago. I saw him myself, and handed him on to Mr.
Howard. I can’t recall what it was he wanted, but the name he gave
wasn’t Blom. I can swear to that. It was something altogether
different.”
Here was a new development. The thing had a definitely suspicious
look.…
“You are sure of this?”
“Oh, absolutely, sir. As a matter of fact, I noticed him at the time
rather particularly, because I had seen him once before.”
“Where?”
“At the archives bureau, sir. You remember that job I was doing in
January? Well, I ran across him then, searching through some records.
I thought he looked like a white rat nosing about among the files.”
Geoffrey pushed back his chair.
“Guy,” he said, “get on at once to Mr. Howard’s apartment, and see if
he’s well enough to come to the telephone. I must just question him
about this.”
While the call was put through he paced the room impatiently. In the
past few minutes the _notaire_ had suddenly assumed a definite
importance, although in what way it was impossible to tell. However,
it was quite likely he would soon know something from Howard, who was
their oldest clerk, a steady-going Essex man, and a walking repository
of stored information. Howard never forgot anything, nor for that
matter divulged anything without reasonable justification.
After a short delay Guy returned, his face regretful.
“No good, sir--that avenue’s blocked. Mr. Howard is very ill, in fact,
out of his head. It’s a bad case of pleurisy.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
On Tuesday evening Catherine dined with Miss Cushing with the idea
of discussing a project formed in her mind. Since events had shown her
how hopeless it was to get rid of Jeanne by ordinary means, she had
concentrated on a plan which at first glance appeared
impossible--namely, that of persuading the maid to go away of her own
accord. If this could be accomplished, even for a short period,
Germaine might become gradually accustomed to an altered régime, so
that when a definite break came she could bear it with equanimity.
“For Jeanne has got to go,” she declared to herself with passionate
vehemence. “Thief or not, she’s undermining the poor thing’s vitality
to a terrifying extent. The more Germaine clings to her, the more
dangerous the situation becomes.”
She had, in fact, begun to regard the maid as an insuperable barrier
to her cousin’s improvement--she hoped the only one, though that was
an optimistic thought. Still if Mme. Bender could be given a chance to
believe in her own sanity, who could say what wonders might not be
achieved? She would have to be provided with competent nurses, and
against these she would fight tooth and nail, but Catherine trusted to
her own persuasiveness to overcome the unreasoning prejudice. After
all, was the latter not due to Jeanne’s insidious suggestions? Once
the childish creature realized that she need not be removed from her
home, she would probably cease to regard a professional nurse as an
enemy.
Everything therefore depended on getting Jeanne away for a holiday. If
she herself wished it, her mistress would raise no objection; but
could she be induced to consider such a proposal? Catherine, after
hours of thought, believed she had solved the problem.
However, she doubted if by herself she could accomplish her purpose.
She was young and inexperienced, her word might carry little weight.
She must have Hermione’s support.
She outlined her idea with earnestness, seated opposite the singer in
the tiny _salle à manger_, and resolutely keeping her gaze from
gravitating towards the large photograph of her hostess which
displayed the latter’s ripe charms in the classic draperies of
_Thaïs_, ready primed for seduction.
“You see, Jeanne is so clever that she has undoubtedly pulled the wool
over that doctor’s eyes. He may not be willing to believe anything
against her. Will you back me up in what I am going to tell him?”
“_Mais certainement, ma chère--de grand coeur!_” replied the artist
emotionally. “_C’est une bonne idée!_”
With moist eyes and utter self-forgetfulness she was drinking many
little glasses of Burgundy, under the influence of which her depressed
spirits were rising by rapid degrees. In the beginning she had been
steeped in misery, and had donned an emblematic costume, nothing less
than the gown of voluminous net in which she had many times died a
lingering death as _La Dame aux Camélias_; but now she had so far
forgotten her intended _rôle_ as to allow the angel sleeves to dip
into the _soupe à l’oignon_, so that they left little trails of
grease and cheese across the table-cloth.
“But _naturellement_ I will come with you,” she cried, delighted at
the prospect of outwitting her hated rival. “I scarcely know this
man--_comment s’appelle-t-il?_--but he has undoubtedly heard of me. We
will go at once, when we have finished dinner. I have eaten nothing
for days, owing to my unhappiness, and Yvonne insists that I am in
need _d’être nourie_.”
Whereupon she did justice to the excellent _ragoût de veau_,
following it with several helpings of _haricots verts_, a _crême
renversée_, and two cups of black coffee, managing so successfully to
fortify herself that she was in danger of lapsing into lengthy
reminiscences of her opera days if Catherine had not reminded her to
change into street attire before it was too late for their venture.
At nine o’clock they sallied forth in a taxi to a quiet street leading
out of the Avenue de la Grande Armée, and soon afterwards were
ushered into Dr. Girard’s reception-room, ghastly with modern
François Premier chairs and snowy marble groups set upon pedestals.
Catherine had barely time to collect her thoughts when the pompous
figure of the physician appeared in the doorway. Bowing ceremoniously,
he gazed at his visitors through thick convex lenses, meanwhile
fingering his black, spade-shaped beard with a tentative hand.
“And what can I do for these ladies?” he inquired in his booming
voice.
Hermione made the necessary introductions, then embarked with
tumultuous dignity upon a narrative so jumbled and incoherent that
presently Catherine was obliged to take pity on the poor man’s
bewilderment and explain matters herself. She described simply and
forcibly all that had come under her observation during the past
weeks, emphasizing her belief that Jeanne’s influence on Mme. Bender
was distinctly bad. The Frenchman listened with growing astonishment,
and when she reached the mouse episode gave vent to an exclamation of
shocked incredulity.
“_Est-ce possible? Est-ce possible?_” he murmured, wiping his glasses
with a hand that trembled.
Catherine assured him it was.
“But, mademoiselle--you saw this animal, with your own eyes?”
“Not only that, monsieur, but I found traces of food under the bed,
left--I believe purposely--to provide an attraction.”
“_Mon Dieu!_”
He rose, pacing the floor, his brow heavily corrugated. Both women
watched him eagerly.
“But this alters everything! It puts the whole case in a different
light!”
“I hoped you would see that,” cried Catherine earnestly. “Mind, I may
be wrong about her doing this intentionally; it is possible she is
only very careless; but the result is the same. Mme. Bender has been
encouraged to think that she is suffering from delusions.”
He scarcely heard her, snapping his fingers impatiently. After a
moment he subsided into his chair, deep in thought.
“Since you tell me this, mademoiselle,” he said at last, “I am forced
to admit that my knowledge of the poor lady’s hallucinations is
founded chiefly on hearsay. There are indications to show that she is
in a state of profound melancholia, but beyond that I can affirm
little with exactitude. I now see that I have been disgracefully
misled. I have looked upon this maid as a capable nurse, but if I had
faintly suspected that she was falsifying her reports I should long
ago have insisted on a trained attendant. It is mainly because madame
herself so violently objected----”
“Ah, that is the difficulty!” interrupted the girl, and straightway
described what had happened when Jeanne threatened to depart. “You see
from this, monsieur, how useless it is to expect madame to send the
woman away. She is completely under her thumb. That is why we want
your assistance.”
She waited till the good man had roused himself sufficiently to give
her full attention.
“Yes, mademoiselle? I am listening. What do you suggest?”
“It seemed to us,” began Catherine tactfully, “that if you could use
your authority to order this Jeanne to take a rest--say that she was
overtaxing herself and becoming unnerved--she would have to agree to
go away. That would give us our chance. Once the woman is out of the
house we could easily find an excuse to prevent her return, and
meanwhile we might persuade my cousin to go into the country, where
with new surroundings and expert care she could build up her strength
again. Doesn’t it seem a feasible plan?”
He nodded with slow approval.
“Excellent, mademoiselle! Excellent! The chief obstacle will be the
patient herself, but if we can over-rule her objections----”
“We can do nothing without you, monsieur. Neither Jeanne nor madame
would listen to us.”
It was a wise move. The doctor was not immune to flattery.
“I see! Precisely! Well, then, I promise to do my utmost. I will warn
this woman to-morrow that she is on the verge of a _crise_ of nerves,
order her to take a month’s rest, and _voilà!_ the affair will soon
right itself--or at least we shall hope so!”
With an impulse of glad relief Catherine sprang up and seized his big
hands in hers.
“Oh, that is good of you!” she exclaimed gratefully. “If you only knew
what a load you have taken off my mind!”
“It is nothing, mademoiselle, nothing!” replied Girard, not unmoved by
this appreciation. “It is I who should thank you for shedding light on
a most troublesome case--not, however, the first in my experience,” he
added jealously. “For I can assure you, mesdemoiselles, I have seen
some strange things in my practice!”
When the two were outside on the pavement Catherine breathed a sigh of
relief.
“Well, that’s accomplished!” she cried with satisfaction. “We’ve
opened his eyes a bit, which is something. Poor man, I felt rather
sorry for him. He is now in a state where he doesn’t know what to
think.”
“He is not the only one,” replied Hermione with an ominous shudder.
The exhilarating effect of the Burgundy having worn off, she was
becoming mysterious and pessimistic.
“Why do you say that?” asked Catherine, slightly annoyed.
The singer shrugged her vast shoulders.
“Jeanne. She is a deep one. I warn you, Catherine, we have not got the
best of her yet, any more than we have got to the bottom of her
devilment. You’ll see!” and she shook her head with a gesture
Cassandra might have envied.
It was stupid to be cast down by any pronouncement so irrational. So
Catherine told herself several hours later, when, unable to sleep, her
mind tiresomely harped upon what she scornfully called the gipsy’s
warning. Hermione was always dramatic; she invariably read mysteries
into things. It was simply her temperament, unchecked by common sense.
“And yet Jeanne is deep,” she reflected apprehensively. “If she
suspects this plan of ours she’ll find some way of outwitting us. Oh!
How I distrust the woman! It’s her cleverness that frightens me.”
The hall clock struck twelve, half-past, then one, and still she was
wide awake. At last just as consciousness was beginning to film over a
stealthy sound in the passage outside roused her again to alert
attention. She sat up in bed and listened.
Footsteps, muffled by _pantoufles_, were descending the stairs to the
lower floor. She strained her ears, but after some time had elapsed
the person or persons had not returned. With a feeling of puzzled
uneasiness she slid out of bed, put on dressing-gown and slippers, and
went quietly out.
From the downstairs hall, in which a light showed, voices reached her.
She tried hard to catch what they were saying, but could make out
nothing beyond an angry whispered wrangling.
Curiosity got the better of caution. She crept stealthily down a step
at a time until, crouching at the turn, she was able to peer through
the balustrade into the illumined space.
What she saw made her gasp.
Against the closed door of the picture gallery Eduardo was stationed,
with his foot braced in an attitude of defiance. Jeanne was ranged
beside him, a dark coat thrown over her night-gown, her eyes hard and
sullen, while confronting the pair stood the meanly built figure of a
man, quivering with rage. One glance at the latter’s black,
broad-brimmed hat was enough. It hid the features of A. Blom.
What on earth was he doing here at this hour?
His manner frightened the watcher. Charged with malevolent animosity,
it hinted at something arrogant and at the same time implacable. She
held her breath, terrified lest he should turn and discover her, even
while realizing that his fury was entirely concentrated on the two
guarding the door. Guttural words reached her, but there was so much
argot as to render their meaning unintelligible.
Catherine stared, fascinated. The Alsatian was no match for Eduardo,
who could have throttled him with one powerful fist, yet for some
reason the butler’s bravado seemed a hollow sham, while the gleam in
his small eyes was distinctly nervous. Only Jeanne remained calm,
glancing from one face to the other with a cold calculation.
The whispering stopped, there was a pause during which nothing was
heard save stertorous breathing. Then the _notaire_ spoke between his
teeth:
“Enough! Give me the key. I am going to see for myself,” he commanded
brutally.
“No! I refuse. It’s not your affair,” retorted Eduardo.
“_Hein!_ Not my affair? Then listen: I will tell you something!”--and
putting his lips close to the Portuguese’s ear the speaker hissed a
few words venomously.
Some of the butler’s assurance wilted away. He wavered uncertainly,
looking towards Jeanne in doubtful question. The latter considered for
a moment, then with a shrug and a jerk of the head moved aside.
“Very well,” she agreed indifferently, “let him have his way.”
With slow reluctance the Portuguese drew a key from his pocket and
inserted it in the lock. The next instant the _notaire_ had pushed him
away, and with a muttered expletive had vanished into the gallery,
switching on the light within. The others followed with less confident
steps.
Silence ensued, broken only by hoarse exclamations of rage. Evidently
Blom had made some discovery not to his liking, doubtless in
connection with the missing pictures. Yet what could it mean?
Catherine’s belief that the three were working in conjunction with
each other was suddenly shaken.
If the listener had hoped to learn something conclusive, she was
doomed to disappointment. The door was softly closed, and the voices,
which had resumed their angry conference, sank into inaudibility.
Still she remained, rooted to the spot, and shivering more from
tension than cold, for the apartment was warm and close.
An endless time passed before the trio re-issued into the hall. They
were no longer quarrelling, and Eduardo was obviously cowed, but
Jeanne’s features remained an enigma. Without speaking, the _notaire_
moved towards the street door and opened it. A damp breeze swept in,
ruffling the tails of his ill-fitting coat. He turned and addressed
his companions distinctly, with the air of laying down the law.
“Remember, this is the last time. Play that trick again, and you will
find yourselves in the soup!”
In the glare of the overhead lustre his face showed pale like a
fish-belly, his eyes horridly repellent. Catherine shuddered.
“Now mind what I say. I am the master here--I,” he repeated, striking
his meagre chest.
He was gone, swallowed up in the darkness. The door shut upon him.
Eduardo and Jeanne exchanged questioning glances. Then the woman’s
lips tightened with a mutinous expression.
“We shall see,” she muttered briefly. “Put out the light.…”
Once more they disappeared into the gallery, while Catherine seized
the chance to escape unobserved. Safe in her room, she sank upon the
bed and waited with pounding heart till she heard the two servants
come up the stairs and separate in the passage outside. Only when all
was quiet again did her strained muscles relax and her pulse resume
its normal beat.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
When Berthe sauntered in with the breakfast-tray Catherine was
already partially dressed.
“Mademoiselle is up early,” declared the massive blonde with engaging
candour.
She herself looked half asleep, her hair untouched by the comb.
“Ah, well, what it is to be energetic,” she sighed with a luxurious
yawn and, craning her neck towards the mirror, examined a pimple on
her chin. “As for me, I could have slept all day. My young man took me
to the Pastry-cooks’ Ball in Montmartre. I have not danced so much
since _Mi-Carême_, and my feet are so swollen I can’t get on my
shoes. I daresay mademoiselle is fond of dancing?”
“Very,” replied Catherine, pouring her coffee.
Difficult as it was to resent Berthe’s placid familiarity, she was in
no mood to encourage it this morning. However, the cook meandered on
undisturbed.
“You are right. Enjoy yourself while you are young, I say, for when
you are old, what man will look at you? That is what I am always
preaching to Jeanne, but she--bah!--is all for being serious, and
would die rather than spend a sou on a good dress. She will not even
wear the beautiful clothes madame gives her, but sells them to the
wardrobe dealers. Such stupidity! She might at least keep an
occasional one for herself and make a decent appearance.” She paused,
then added with a change of tone: “By the by, that is a nice frock
mademoiselle had sent home the other day--the green and silver. It
looks as though it had come from one of the Grandes Couturières. If
mademoiselle tires of it, she might care to sell it to me.”
In spite of her preoccupation Catherine could not repress a smile at
the thought of Berthe’s buxom form compressed into her slender
garments.
“Certainly, Berthe--but I intend to wear it for a long time.”
“She’s a sober one and no mistake, that Jeanne,” continued Berthe,
resuming her former theme. “Slave, slave, from morning till night,
never a thought of pleasure. No doubt there will be a fine seat for
her in heaven one day, but as for me, it is not of the hereafter I’m
thinking! Nor Eduardo either, let me tell you,”--and she winked
broadly. “He likes his bit of fun, though he has to be sly about it.
It is she who wears the trousers in that _ménage_, and she keeps a
tight rein on him, poor man!”
Impatient though she was to be rid of the chatterer, Catherine gleaned
something from the random remarks. Whatever manœuvres Jeanne might be
engaged in, she kept them well hidden from other eyes. Even to Berthe
she was a model of rectitude.
As soon as she was alone she finished her breakfast hurriedly and went
along to the study, passing no one on the way. Then, with the door
closed and keeping her voice low, she rang up the Macadam office and
asked to speak to Geoffrey. A second later the familiar accents
answered her.
“Geoffrey--it’s I, Catherine. I want to see you at once. No, I can’t
tell you what it’s about, but it’s important. Are you very busy?”
“Of course not. But you sound upset. Is anything wrong?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I must see you. I’ll be with you in half an
hour.”
As she was about to ring off, her ear caught a faint but distinct
click. Several times before she had heard that noise, which sounded
like another receiver being replaced, but up till the present moment
she had paid little attention to it. Now the idea came to her that
some person might be listening-in to her conversation, perhaps close
at hand.
Was there a second instrument in the apartment? She had never seen
one, but she felt certain that formerly at least there must have been
an extension, probably in her cousin’s bedroom. She walked back to her
own quarters, filled with a fresh apprehension. If someone had taken
the trouble to listen, that meant that her movements were regarded
with suspicion. Only how could she make sure?
As she passed the corner bedroom, until recently Mme. Bender’s own,
the door opened and Jeanne came out. Something in her face told the
girl that her surmise was correct. Thank goodness she had said nothing
definite, for she was sure the woman had overheard every word. The
maid must have seen her go into the study, and had hastened to
eavesdrop, as no doubt she had done on other occasions.
Returning after putting on her coat and hat, she tried the bedroom
door, to find it locked. Yes, she was right. There was surely another
telephone in there. In future she must not forget the fact.
Much as she now dreaded the moments spent with her cousin, she nerved
herself to go and say good morning, partly to keep up the illusion
that nothing was altered between them, and partly to make the inquiry
about the safety-deposit key, a matter she felt must not be neglected.
Now that she was going to report to Geoffrey, she wanted to tell him
as much as possible.
Mme. Bender was alone, propped against pillows, her face shadowed by
the white bed-curtains. After a single timid glance of reproach she
averted her eyes so pointedly that Catherine, cut to the heart, found
it hard to proceed. Yet in pursuance of her policy she ignored the
tacit rebuff, making her usual inquiries as cheerfully as she could.
Presently she broached the difficult subject.
“By the way, Germaine,” she ventured, “Mr. Macadam wanted me to find
out if the bank had sent you the key you asked for. Did it reach you
safely?”
She was met by an uncomprehending stare.
“Key?” faltered the poor woman in a puzzled tone.
“Yes--don’t you remember? It was some weeks ago, I think. You lost the
key to your safety-deposit, and had a duplicate made.”
There was no mistaking the blankness of the bewildered gaze.
“Did I? I--I don’t know. I can’t seem to recall. I--perhaps you are
right.…”
The muddled brain was making an effort to capture an elusive memory.
Catherine took pity on its confusion.
“Why not ask Jeanne? She will know,” she suggested casually. At the
same time she was perfectly sure that this was the first time Germaine
had heard the matter mentioned.
“Jeanne--yes. That is a good idea,” assented the invalid with obvious
reluctance. “I will speak to her. She----”
But at that moment the ever-watchful maid appeared in the doorway.
Without a glance at Catherine she went at once to the chest of drawers
and, picking up a tortoiseshell box, rattled it crossly.
“_Le voilà, madame!_” she exclaimed in annoyance. “What is all this
fuss about? Have you so soon forgotten the trouble you put me to,
turning out everything to search for that wretched key? You mislaid
it, and sent me to get another made. There! You see?”--and she
produced the small object, tied with pink tape, and dangled it
accusingly before the fascinated eyes of her mistress. “It came by
special messenger from the bank. Is it possible you have no
recollection of it?”
Mme. Bender gazed as though hypnotized.
“How stupid I am,” she apologized weakly. “Of course--it all comes
back to me.”
But the maid was not content. Shaking her head as one might at a
tiresome child, she spoke with exasperated patience.
“Really it is too much!” she scolded. “You would forget your head, if
it were not fastened to your shoulders! And you try to tell me your
memory is improving!”
Replacing the box with a shrug, she went out, leaving the patient
overcome with shame.
Indignation swept over Catherine. Jeanne might or might not be telling
the truth--it was impossible to say--but the manner in which she had
put the poor woman in the wrong called only for condemnation. While
she was wondering what she could say to relieve matters, she caught a
sudden piteous expression in her cousin’s eyes, which could have but
one interpretation. It was the craving for affection.
For a second she hesitated, then with a swift impulse ran to the
bedside and put her arms round the emaciated figure. For a second she
fancied the embrace was faintly returned. Then she felt herself pushed
away, and before she could ask the reason was dismayed utterly to find
that Mme. Bender had burst into a flood of tears. There was no word of
reproach, no explanation, but none was needed. That silent, miserable
weeping told her plainly that any advance of hers was unwelcome. For
once she was almost relieved when Jeanne reappeared and with a single
glance took in the situation.
“Leave madame to me,” she said with her quick air of authority. “I am
afraid, mademoiselle, you can do little for her.”
The significant emphasis on the pronoun left nothing to the
imagination. Catherine flushed and departed, a last glimpse of the
room showing her the maid at the weeper’s side, ministering to her
with prompt efficiency. Even as she tingled with resentment, the girl
heard Germaine’s emotion subside under the influence of the cajoling
voice, and told herself that Jeanne had done her work well. The
unfortunate woman was firm in the belief that no one really cared for
her except this single, humble companion.
Half an hour later in the office of Macadam Senior she sat facing the
solicitors, father and son. Something severely sceptical in the older
man’s bearing intimidated her, but, thrusting her fears aside, she set
forth in as few words as possible the event of the night before.
“It is perfectly evident there is something afoot between those
three,” she finished, her voice trembling a little from nervousness.
“But what it is, or how it may affect Mme. Bender, I haven’t an idea.
What do you make of it all?”
The senior partner, who had listened gravely, leaned back in his
swivelled chair and thrust out his lower lip. He glanced at his son
and drummed on the desk beside him.
“Would you mind repeating word for word, Miss West, exactly what you
heard these people say?” he requested after a pause.
She did so.
“I could catch very little. Most of the time they were whispering.”
“And your impression was that this fellow, who appears to be their man
of business, was put out with them over something, and that the
dispute in some way related to the picture-gallery?”
“I was sure of that much. When the man was leaving he said, ‘Mind,
this is the last time. Do this sort of thing again, and you will find
yourself in the soup. Remember, I am the master here.’”
“That looks as though he had got wind of their tampering with the
paintings, and was warning them not to continue.”
“Or else,” put in Geoffrey, “he had arranged that they were to dispose
of certain things together, and had just discovered the servants were
going ahead on their own.”
His father waved him aside.
“So far we can’t be sure that the woman was lying when she said that
Bender sold the paintings himself. It is possible he did so.”
Catherine agreed doubtfully.
“You must realize, Miss West,” he went on, “that your own prejudice
against these people does not constitute evidence of guilt. Before we
can establish any case we shall have to get track of those missing
pictures, discover the dates and circumstances of the sales, and so
on. We can’t arrest the servants on suspicion. Exactly what paintings
have disappeared?”
“The Manet is the only one I am sure about. Three more are gone, but I
can’t say what they were. Then there is the Aubusson carpet, and all
the tapestries off the furniture.”
Macadam made notes on a pad, then sat silent with wrinkled brow. The
girl’s spirits sank as she watched him. Less imaginative than his son,
he presented a familiar type of dry and hard lawyer, impeccably just,
but difficult to impress. Her recital had left him so little moved
that she began to wonder if she herself were not attaching undue
importance to what had happened. Only the knowledge that Geoffrey did
not discount her suspicions saved her from utter despondency.
“Do you think you can trace the pictures?” she inquired.
Macadam cleared his throat.
“I trust we can. We must get to work at once. If your cousin sold
them, we may hope for quick results; otherwise the purchasers will not
readily come forward, of that you may be sure. I take it you have not
mentioned the affair to Mme. Bender herself?”
“No,” confessed the girl, more than ever ill at ease. “Besides, I
doubt if she knows anything about them.”
“Still, unless her mind is entirely gone, she can’t be wholly unaware
of anything so important as the disposal of a Manet.”
Catherine looked at Geoffrey.
“She refuses to trust her memory,” she said. “I had the most complete
proof of that fact only this morning,”--and she went on to describe
what had happened about the key. “I’m convinced she remembered nothing
herself, but she was quite ready to accept Jeanne’s word for it.”
The old man glanced at his son in sharp inquiry.
“I asked Miss West to find out about the key the bank sent Mme.
Bender. I admit I haven’t felt comfortable about it.”
“And you could swear that your relative had never heard of this
matter?” demanded the solicitor.
“I can’t swear anything. I can only tell you my belief. That is the
great trouble,” she added distractedly, “one can’t be absolutely sure
of anything!”
Macadam looked annoyed, rubbing his unruly hair the wrong way. Finally
he spoke:
“The position is this, Miss West. Unless Mme. Bender is certified as
mentally incompetent, which I understand is not the case, then we have
no authority to act for her. We cannot check her expenditures, nor
enter her apartment to make any sort of investigation. As things are
we can only hold a watching brief--not, I admit, a very satisfactory
method of solving the difficulty.”
“I was afraid you’d say that,” replied Catherine despairingly. “And
yet--this man, Blom. Can’t one get hold of him and find out what he’s
up to?”
“As a matter of fact, Catherine,” Geoffrey put in, “I have been making
some inquiries about him. I was only waiting for a chance to tell
you.”
“You don’t mean it! What have you found out?” asked the girl eagerly.
“Nothing that’s the least use, I fear,” Geoffrey answered regretfully.
“He appears to be a decent, hard-working fellow of unimpeachable
reputation, though naturally that’s not final. We may yet discover
something.”
“How?”
“Why, by employing a private agent to shadow him. It could be done.”
Macadam senior tapped the arm of his chair. Who did the boy think was
going to defray the expense? Not the firm, certainly. Geoffrey had no
difficulty in interpreting the disparaging silence.
“If it were proved that this person was defrauding her,” he said
calmly, “Mme. Bender would be only too glad to bear the cost of an
investigation.”
Macadam raised his brows, but said nothing. There was an awkward pause
during which Catherine rose.
“Anyhow,” she said desperately, “something must be done to get that
woman away. I am already pulling wires to remove her, but if my plan
doesn’t succeed we must try something else.”
“You?” inquired Geoffrey, with sudden interest. “What have you been
doing?”
“I’ve seen the doctor and have got him on our side. He’s going to
insist on Jeanne’s taking a rest.”
Admiration shone in the younger man’s eyes.
“I say, that was clever of you!”
She blushed, less at his open praise than because of the shrewd look
directed at her from beneath the old man’s bushy brows.
“Miss Cushing went with me. She feels about it just as I do.”
Macadam turned on her suddenly.
“Miss Cushing is in this?” he asked a little sharply. “Miss Cushing,
the singing-teacher?”
She was disconcerted by the abruptness of the question, feeling
vaguely that she had suddenly weakened her case, though she did not
know why.
“Yes. She is an old friend of my cousin’s.”
She said good-bye hastily, relieved to find herself in the corridor
with Geoffrey beside her.
“Your father makes me feel not only a fool but a mischief-maker!” she
confided with a half-laugh. “Am I really being stupid about all this?”
“Good God, no!”
He looked at her with concern. Although she had told her story with
the utmost composure, it was easy to see that she was unnerved by last
night’s experience.
“You mustn’t mind him,” he said quickly. “That manner of his is purely
superficial. He means to take things in hand, never fear; but what is
more to the point, I intend to have Blom shadowed. If there’s anything
queer about him, we’ll run it to earth.”
“But you can’t do that,” she objected, recalling the elder man’s
meaning silence.
“Of course I can. We’ll discuss details later. Meanwhile, keep in mind
what I said yesterday, that as long as these rogues are profiting by
your cousin’s condition she can’t possibly come to serious harm. I
say--what about lunching with me on Sunday? By that time I may have
something to report.”
She assented with a grateful look. It was comforting to know that she
could rely upon his help, that he took a really personal interest in
her difficulties. The memory of his shy and steady grey eyes dwelt
with her reassuringly as the descending lift hid him from sight.
Outside the American Express a woman passed her with rapid, nervous
steps, and vanished into the building she had just quitted. With a
start Catherine turned to look after the disappearing figure.
It was Jeanne herself.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
His nerves still vibrating in response to the look he had just
received, Geoffrey turned back for a moment to speak to his father. He
found the old man running through some papers with an abstracted air,
suggesting that his attention was already given to other matters.
“These Amalgamated Iron shares,” he remarked, “I think I’ve found the
reason for their depreciation. It’s due to----”
“Never mind that now, father. I want to know your real opinion of this
Bender affair.”
“Oh, that!”--Macadam removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his
nose exasperatedly. “When you’ve lived as long as I have and listened
to as many stories of this kind, you won’t attach too great importance
to them.”
“What do you mean by that?” demanded Geoffrey hotly.
“Oh, only that this girl has worked herself into a state where she is
ready to believe anything. It’s a mistake her being there at all. She
ought to go home.”
His son reddened with fury.
“I suppose you grasped why she was staying,” he retorted with sarcasm.
“She is unselfishly trying to protect her cousin from----”
“From what?” inquired the other calmly. “You don’t know. Neither does
she. Well, it’s my opinion she’s assuming far too much. Possibly the
servants are stealing; how many would remain honest in the
circumstances? If it’s true, we’ll put a stop to it. But I don’t see
any reason to believe anything more against them, beyond the fact that
they’ve antagonized her. They are not mistreating or neglecting their
mistress in any way. On Miss West’s own statement, Mme. Bender is
perfectly content with things as they are.”
He returned to his desk, impervious to the indignant gaze fixed upon
him. The strained silence was still continuing when Henri, the old
Frenchman employed to receive clients, tapped on the door and entered.
“A woman to see you, monsieur. She gives her name as Laborie.”
“Laborie!” repeated Macadam in surprise. “That, I believe, is the
person who is causing all this fuss,”--and he exchanged glances with
his son.
“Shall I stay?” inquired the latter, irritation giving way to
curiosity.
“No, leave me to deal with her.” He jerked his head towards the door.
“Show her in.”
Denied the satisfaction of hearing what the maid had come about,
Geoffrey departed through the inner door. Left alone, the senior
partner leaned back in his seat and was polishing his glasses with a
grey silk handkerchief when Henri ushered Jeanne into the room.
“_Bonjour, monsieur!_ I crave a thousand pardons for disturbing you.
It is extremely kind of you to see me.”
Macadam nodded curtly and made a gesture towards a chair.
“Sit down. What is it this time?” he demanded briefly.
“Oh, thank you, monsieur!”
With a manner respectful but not cringing, Jeanne Laborie brought
forward one of the straight mahogany chairs and placed it a couple of
yards away from the solicitor, then sitting down stiffly on the edge
of it she fingered her bag with nervous hesitation. She was decently
dressed in black, well-brushed and neatly put on. She might have been
the wife of some superior tradesman. From beneath the brim of her hard
felt hat her brown eyes looked out of her sallow face, direct,
unflinching, yet with something of appeal in them.
“Monsieur, I have come on a rather delicate matter. The truth is, I
desire to ask your help, though I am well aware you will think it
extraordinary. I should not have troubled you if there had been anyone
else who could possibly be of assistance.”
She moistened her lips. Her entire manner, reasonable, restrained,
conveyed the impression that she was embarking upon a painful
undertaking solely because of a sense of duty.
“Go on. I am listening.”
“Monsieur, I think you know something of the state of Mme. Bender’s
health. You are aware, perhaps, that she is subject to fits of
depression, during which she has made attempts on her life.”
“Suicide!” exclaimed Macadam, raising his brows. “I didn’t know it was
as bad as that.”
“Unfortunately it is, monsieur. I may venture to say that if she had
been in the care of any person less understanding than myself she
would not be alive to-day. You may remember that I have looked after
madame for fifteen years?”
The old man nodded. What was the woman getting at? He could not even
faintly guess, but her manner of addressing him, making no obvious bid
for favour, commanded his grudging respect.
She continued in a low voice:
“Monsieur, a little more than a month ago, just after the second of
these suicidal attacks, and at a time when the household was in great
confusion, a young lady, an American, suddenly arrived upon the scene.
I believe she is some distant connection of Monsieur Bender’s. I
really do not know who she is. I had seen her before in Boston. She
called repeatedly at the hospital and, if you will not misunderstand
me, sought to ingratiate herself with madame when the poor lady was in
a state even weaker than at present. Madame is soft-hearted. When this
almost unknown young relative begged to be permitted to visit her in
Paris she had not the power to refuse--or at least that is how I
interpret it. Possibly I am wrong; but surely to invite a guest at
such a time was not the act of a responsible person.”
The old lawyer knit his brows non-committally, and the speaker
proceeded with still greater hesitation.
“I was afraid it was a mistake for this young lady to remain in the
apartment with madame in so precarious a condition. I did my best to
dissuade her from staying, but without success. She overrode all my
objections, and there she has been ever since.… Monsieur, I wish to
tell you that her presence has had a most distressing effect upon
madame. Really at times I have not known what to do. She upsets the
strict discipline it is necessary to maintain, excites the patient,
and has even set herself to weaken madame’s confidence in me. In that
respect she has happily failed; but all the same she has caused
several severe crises. Last week, following a distressing scene, I was
obliged to sit up the entire night with madame, and only this morning
another terrible time occurred. I found my lady in violent hysterics,
so uncontrolled that I had great difficulty in calming her. I have
left her now in charge of the cook, for if she were unguarded I could
not answer for the consequences. There was the look in her eye which
warned me she was planning some fresh attempt to kill herself, only
waiting for the opportunity. I must not be absent long, but I was so
frightened I felt I must come at once and speak to you on the matter.”
She cast a glance at the clock fixed in the panel opposite, then
continued more rapidly:
“Monsieur, I appeal to you. This young lady, Mademoiselle West, is
known to your son. Cannot you or he induce her to go away and leave
madame in peace before anything irrevocable happens? I assure you it
is of the gravest importance.”
Macadam levelled a stern regard at her and swung his glasses to and
fro by their slender chain.
“Why,” he demanded, “do you think Mademoiselle West has this
disturbing effect upon your mistress?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“I would rather monsieur did not ask me that question. You see, I may
be prejudiced, and do not want to make unjust accusations. However, it
has been clear to me from the outset that mademoiselle has designs of
her own. She is hoping that madame will make a will in her favour, in
which respect she is not alone. She is close friends with another lady
who cherishes similar expectations. There has been correspondence
between these two before Mademoiselle West left America, and I am
convinced in my own mind that they have arranged things together, to
become joint heirs to madame’s estate.”
Her declaration met with a stern frown.
“Are you aware of what you are saying?” the solicitor shot at her
brusquely.
Jeanne bowed her head.
“I realize I do wrong to hint at such a thing. But,” she went on,
speaking in measured, distinct tones, “right or wrong, madame herself
suspects their intentions. She has told me so. It is for that reason
that she is so distressed in their company. She does not wish to
offend either of them by asking them to keep away, but she has at last
implored me to forbid them to see her!”
The old man’s eyes were like steel.
“Is that true?”
Here Jeanne betrayed her first hint of emotion. She clasped her hands
rigidly together, raised her chin and looked him squarely in the eyes.
Her voice, when she spoke, shook with a vibrant tremor.
“As God is my witness, monsieur, that is the absolute truth!” she
said.
The words had a ring of sincerity. Macadam deliberated, looking away
from her.
“Who is this other friend you mention?” he asked presently.
“There is no reason why I should not tell you, monsieur. It is
Mademoiselle Cushing, the singer.”
Macadam rose.
“I will look into the matter,” he said laconically. “I’ll see what can
be done. Mind, I do not promise anything.”
With this she had to be content, but that she was not disappointed was
shown by a sudden gleam in her intent eyes.
“Thank you, monsieur! I am glad you have not mistaken my meaning.
Naturally, since I have laboured so long, organizing madame’s whole
establishment with the sole idea of nursing her back to health, I do
not like to see my efforts go for nothing. If this Mademoiselle West
persists in going against the doctor’s orders and causing trouble, I
cannot hold myself responsible for what may happen.”
He watched her go out with her dependable and unobtrusive air, then
stood fingering his chin reflectively.
“By George,” he muttered to himself, “I’ve always known if one waited
a bit one would hear the other side.”
He considered himself an excellent judge of character, not easily
fooled. This woman had struck him as decent and straightforward,
strongly biased, perhaps, but that was only natural. Of course he had
purposely avoided sounding her on the missing articles, the mention of
which matter could only serve to rouse her antipathy still further
against Miss West, or, if she were indeed guilty, put her on her
guard. No, he was too old a hand to commit that indiscretion.… Last
night’s affair looked queer, but there were various possible
explanations. On her own admission Miss West had understood little of
what had been said. Her accusations were decidedly vague.
“Jealousy on both sides, I’d be willing to take my oath,” he concluded
with a contemptuous snort. “There’s usually jealousy where women are
concerned.”
After careful cogitation he drew a sheet of paper towards him and
composed a letter in his own stiff angular hand. This he sealed and
addressed, then turned it face downward on the blotter, just as his
son appeared in the doorway.
“Well?” inquired Geoffrey shortly, “what did she want?”
Briefly the old man gave an account of the interview. The listener
swore irritably.
“What unmitigated brass! You saw she was lying, of course?”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. There may be truth on both
sides.”
“On both----! You can’t mean to tell me that after one look at Miss
West you could believe this abominable story?”
The old man raised a restraining hand.
“You mean about her having designs on Mme. Bender’s money? I didn’t
say I believed it. But have you ever known a business of this kind
cropping up where the person involved was penniless? I thought not.
There would be no point in it.”
His son regarded him in cold fury.
“What exactly are you getting at?” he demanded.
“Nothing whatever, except that I’m fairly well convinced we are
wasting valuable time. Take my advice: put your energies into
persuading this girl to leave and find another place to live. I
presume she’s not without means?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t asked her,” returned the younger man with
contempt.
“Anyhow, she’s only complicating matters by staying where she isn’t
wanted. That will do, now. Send Parkin to me. I shall get him to look
through Harry Bender’s papers in case there is any record of a
picture-transaction. No use starting an inquiry till that point is
cleared up.”
Curbing his wrath, Geoffrey did his father’s bidding, then called the
French clerk, Ballou, to his own office.
“Guy,” he said, “yesterday you mentioned a young girl who had a
connection with that _notaire_ you were inquiring about. Do you know
where she worked, and if one can get hold of her?”
“The young person in the _usine_?” replied Guy promptly, “Oh, yes,
sir. The concierge told me she was employed in a manufactory for
artificial flowers, near the Place Clichy. I daresay I could find the
place and the girl, too, if you want me to try.”
“Thank you, Guy, it will be wiser to put someone else on the job. I’m
glad you remembered about it, though.”
As soon as he was alone he searched in the telephone directory for a
number, rang it up himself, and a few minutes later took a taxi to an
address in the rue Blanche. Here he entered the dingy bureau of a
private agent already known to him in connection with one or two
affairs, a man he had found both trustworthy and acute.
A solemn, thin Frenchman rose at his approach. He had round, pensive
black eyes, a lantern-jawed countenance, and a scrawny neck enclosed
in a wide standing collar, the gold stud of which protruded above a
rusty black cravat.
“Monsieur Macadam? I am happy to see you, monsieur. Be seated, please.
What can I do for you?”
As concisely as possible Geoffrey made his business known, and while
he spoke the Frenchman’s melancholy gaze ran this way and that,
exploring the corners of the little room where dusty files were heaped
upon the floor. Once or twice he coughed behind his bony hand, but
beyond an occasional question in a lugubrious tone he remained silent.
“You see, although this man I refer to may be perfectly honest, I am
not satisfied that he’s all he appears to be. If he’s mixed up in any
nefarious proceedings, no matter what their nature, I must find it
out.”
“You desire me to look into his record, monsieur?”
“Yes, and follow him if necessary. Here is the information I have
obtained, addresses and so on. Do what you can.”
“You say this young woman is a discarded mistress?” remarked the agent
sadly. “That would seem to provide our best mode of attack. Artificial
flowers… I know the place--Achille Benet is the name. I will arrange
to get in touch with the person and see what can be learned from her.
No doubt I can persuade her to accompany me to a cinema or a Palais de
Danse.”
He uttered the suggestion in much the same tone he would have employed
in proposing a tour of the Montmartre Cemetery. However, knowing his
man, Geoffrey did not despair, and departed with an easier feeling
than he had had for some hours. He still felt indignant towards his
father for his insensitive attitude, yet was forced to admit that if
he himself had had less knowledge of Catherine he might have adopted
the same view.
All at once he recalled that his father was ignorant of Blom’s visit
to the office under an assumed name.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed, in annoyance. “What a fool I was not to have
told him that! If only poor Howard hadn’t chosen this precise moment
to be laid up! I wonder how he is, by the way?”
Reproaching himself for not having inquired since yesterday, he
hurried to the nearest public telephone and rang up the old clerk’s
home, only to learn that Mr. Howard was still very ill. His lungs were
badly congested, though he was putting up a brave fight.
“Nothing to be hoped for in that quarter for days,” reflected Geoffrey
with exasperation.
Mixed with his genuine concern over the news was the thought that if
the old man should die the knowledge he sought would pass beyond his
reach.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Catherine’s first feeling was one of relief that Jeanne had not seen
her leaving the Macadam offices. Next she asked herself what errand
had brought the woman to consult the solicitors--for there could be no
doubt as to her destination. The look of concentration on the
tight-lipped face suggested fresh mischief afoot.
Then her thoughts turned to Mme. Bender, and her eyes filled with
tears over the memory of the recent scene. Never in her life had she
felt so helpless to combat injustice. Her cousin’s mind was poisoned
against her, yet she could do nothing to put things right.
Worse, the talk with the old Scotchman had clearly shown her the
weakness of her position. Thanks to his uncompromising logic she
realized to what extent her suspicion against the servants rested upon
isolated incidents, each capable of a dual construction. She began to
wonder if she had magnified trifles till they pointed to conclusions
wholly false.
Even Mr. Macadam’s promise to investigate the question of theft gave
her little comfort, for during the long and tedious inquiry Jeanne
would remain firmly entrenched, working her will upon her mistress’s
susceptible imagination.
“What can I do? It’s now almost impossible for me to stay there. Soon
it may be quite so, if Jeanne persists. She’ll end by driving me
away.”
It was true. Her self-appointed guardianship was being thrust aside;
Germaine herself did not desire her presence. It would certainly be
more dignified to withdraw. Her income was sufficient to enable her to
live comfortably in some small hotel, where she would be free from
indignities.
“Yet God knows it’s not my own pleasure I’m considering!” she argued
sincerely.
It was terribly difficult to help a person who did not want to be
helped.
Pride drew her in one direction, conscientious scruples another, but
now the latter’s voice was obscured by doubt. Suppose she was
altogether wrong about Jeanne? The mouse incident, even last night’s
scene, might have no guilty significance. The woman had been in her
post for fifteen years, implicitly trusted long before Mme. Bender’s
judgment became impaired. Hysterical and crabbed she might be, but as
yet there was no positive proof against her.
Thinking all this over, she wandered along the Avenue de l’Opéra and
sat for some time in the little garden of the Palais Royale. The
fountain plashed, pigeons strutted about, occasionally a lounger
looked at her, but she noticed nothing. Unable to bear the thought of
going back to the apartment, she decided to lunch out; but although
there were several friends she knew would be glad to welcome her, she
was averse to company. She must be alone to wrestle with her problem.
At last she made up her mind on one point, driven thither all but
against her will. She would spend the afternoon looking at hotels and
_pensions_, not with the idea of definitely engaging a room, but in
order to have a place ready to go to if during the next day or two she
decided to leave. In her little book were a number of recommended
addresses. She would take them in turn.
This settled, she glanced at her watch, and saw with surprise that it
was past her usual hour of _déjeuner_. She was tired, too, possibly
because of her inward struggle. Then she recalled a tiny restaurant
close at hand in the rue d’Argenteuil, a simple, homely _auberge_,
where the cooking was excellent. In five minutes she had reached it,
chosen a table against the wall, and was studying the big
purple-scrawled sheet of the menu.
It was late and only a few tables were occupied, mostly by
quiet-looking men she imagined to be journalists. The cook, an immense
man with a snowy apron round his Gargantuan paunch, crisp curly hair
and sparkling black eyes, approached with a friendly welcome and with
his hands upon his hips offered advice on the subject of dishes.
“If mademoiselle would care to try the _plat de jour_,” he suggested,
pointing a fat red finger at the menu, “I can specially recommend it.
Veal with mushrooms and little peas. Also the chateaubriand garnished
is good to-day. With it I should like to serve some _pommes
soufflées_.”
She chose the chateaubriand which when it appeared was so appetizing
in its bed of fresh watercress and flanked by mounds of potatoes fried
to a feathery lightness that she realized suddenly how hungry she was.
She followed the course by spinach, piping hot and foaming up
brilliant emerald green in a red copper pannikin, finishing the repast
by a _tarte de la maison_. When at length she lit a cigarette and
leaned back with a cup of coffee before her, she felt inclined to take
a more cheerful view of things, letting her taut mind relax and drift
where it would.
On the seat near by lay a paper _feuilleton_ in a gaudy cover, left
there by some departed luncher. She picked it up idly, then seeing
that it was a collection of four or five short stories of de
Maupassant, opened it at a tale entitled _Le Diable_ and began to
read. In a few seconds she was engrossed, fascinated.
It was a story of a peasant who hires an old woman of the village to
remain beside his dying mother while he gets his hay in from the
fields. The mercenary crone, paid for the entire job, becomes
exasperated by the poor creature’s slowness in dying and, loath to
waste time over her, resolves to hasten the event by strategy. She
describes with gruesome details what she declares to be a common
experience with sufferers about to breathe their last, affirming that
at the crucial moment the devil appears to them with horns and a
pitchfork. Then, when she had worked the patient up to a suitable
state of terror, she hides in a cupboard and steps forth suddenly,
armed with a huge fork and wearing a three-legged saucepan on her
head. The ruse succeeds, the peasant’s mother drops dead of shock.
“Good God!”
The booklet fell from her hand, she sat quite still staring ahead of
her at the opposite wall. One by one the tables had been cleared, she
was the last customer to remain. The big chef untied his apron,
struggled into a short, tight-fitting jacket which, when buttoned,
strained across his abdomen like a bursting pod, stuck a small Trilby
hat jauntily upon his head and a cigar in his mouth, then sallied
forth for a stroll, pausing near Catherine to bid her a courteous
adieu. She scarcely saw him or the questioning glances cast at her by
the waiters.
All she could think of was the curious parallel between the tale just
read and what was going on in her cousin’s home. She had seen only too
well the power of suggestion at work on the credulous victim. What if
Germaine, left alone with the woman whose word she implicitly
believed, should succumb to a like fate? In her present condition, how
easy to administer a fright sufficient to kill her? The idea paralysed
her with horror.…
At last she came to, as from a dreadful dream. What was she telling
herself? Jeanne could not, by the remotest stretch of the imagination,
wish her mistress to die. Geoffrey had pointed that out to her
plainly. No, the more mercenary her motives, the more reason she must
have for keeping Mme. Bender alive. All this had been thrashed out
before to her entire satisfaction. With a shiver she shook herself
free from the stupid obsession, motioned to the _garçon_, and paid
her bill. She must not give way to these absurd fancies.
Yet oddly enough in those few minutes all her recent decisions had
reversed themselves. She would go and look at hotels, since it was a
way of killing time till evening, but she was resolutely determined
not to abandon the field to Jeanne. However innocent the latter’s
intentions might be, her influence represented a force capable of
being used with evil result. No, even if things were made still more
difficult for her, she would stick it out, at least till something
occurred to alter the position.
“If anything should happen,” she whispered, “I should never forgive
myself!”
Besides, she was forgetting the doctor’s promise. Even now he might
have seen Jeanne and persuaded her to go away. What an enormous relief
if that were so!
Entering the apartment at six o’clock, she heard Dr. Girard’s deep
voice in the distance, and reflected with thanksgiving that the good
man had not disappointed her. At the turn of the hall she stood trying
to catch what he was saying, but although she listened hard she could
make out nothing. Presently the front door closed.
Had he been successful? A thrill of anticipation shot through her as
she told herself she would soon know the result.
On the table in the entrance hall several letters were awaiting her,
one bearing an English stamp and writing she recognized as Claire
Hardwicke’s. Going into the study, she curled herself up in the big
chair and was speedily engrossed in her correspondence.
Claire was upbraiding her for her deflection. What was all this
nonsense about a sense of responsibility towards Mme. Bender? The
latter was little more than a stranger, and till recently had got on
very well indeed without her supervision. Florence would be lovely in
May. Jim meant to buy a little cheap car and they were going to tour
about among the adjacent villages, working their way south.
The picture was an alluring one. Catherine put down the closely
written pages and gave herself up to dreams of what she was going to
miss. Then she realized that she was not quite so regretful as she had
expected to be. Was it because Paris held someone whose companionship
had grown steadily more agreeable than she cared to admit? She blushed
at the thought. Geoffrey Macadam had never given her a single look
which she could construe in terms other than those of impersonal
friendship. Possibly he was beginning to regard her as a bit of a
nuisance, what with her continued worries, real or imagined. He was
wonderfully good about it all, but really she was making a great deal
of trouble for him.…
Padded footsteps, probably those of Eduardo, passed by the door,
lingered a moment, then receded again. She listened mechanically, but
thought little of the circumstance till, on issuing from the study,
she spied on the table a solitary white envelope, addressed to
herself. That was odd--there was no post at this hour, nor had she
heard the concierge’s customary knock. She wondered still more when
she saw in the corner of the printed heading of Macadam and Langtree.
The round yet crabbed writing was unfamiliar. Glancing quickly at the
signature, she learned that the communication was from the senior
solicitor.
So the old man had lost no time in writing to her! She felt a sudden
qualm of misgiving.
In the seclusion of her own room she ran through the contents twice.
Tactfully worded, it gave no hint that its author had anything other
than her own interests at heart, yet the meaning was plain. When she
had finished the second reading, she drew a deep breath and sat
rigidly regarding the sheet with a smile that was lightly grim.
Here was an unexpected turn of events, not a pleasant one, either.
Sensibly, convincingly and in no uncertain terms, Mr. Macadam was
urging her to go away. What was this he said about unintentionally
promoting discord? The phrase puzzled her. Then all at once she
understood! Jeanne had been to him with her own version of things.
This letter was composed after his talk with her.
Catherine tingled with sudden anger, then gave a little laugh at the
irony of the affair.
“It really is rather funny! Here am I working hard to oust her, while
she is equally determined to oust me. Mr. Macadam is the referee, and
at the present stage of the game he’s inclined to take her side. Which
of us is going to win?”
She picked up the envelope and fingered it curiously. The flap had
come open with surprising readiness, and now she noticed that the gum
on it was slightly moist. Did that mean that it had been secretly
opened? If so, that fact would explain why the letter had not been
with the others when she came in. Eduardo understood English. No doubt
he and Jeanne had been anxious to find out how matters stood. Once
more she recalled her telephone conversation of the morning, and her
impression that someone was listening. Wheels within wheels.… What was
it all about?
“Yet they can’t have any suspicion that I was spying on them last
night. Why all this scheming to get rid of me? What have I done to
make them afraid?”
For that they were afraid of her she had now little doubt. They must
be apprehensive about those missing pictures, dreading lest she bring
an accusation against them. She could think of no other reason for
their actions.
Pondering this she changed slowly into another frock, still annoyed
and a little resentful over the old lawyer’s attitude towards her, and
was in the act of brushing her hair before the glass when a tap on the
door jarred on her reflections. In answer to her “_Entrez!_” Jeanne
came in.
“_Pardon, mademoiselle, si je vous dérange…_”
The maid’s manner was quietly respectful. She paused a second in the
doorway, then crossing, laid a package wrapped in white paper upon the
bed.
“The laundry has just brought mademoiselle’s linen. Perhaps
mademoiselle will glance through the list to see that everything has
been returned.”
“Thank you, Jeanne.”
Putting down the brush, Catherine undid the parcel and ran over the
neat pile of clothing inside it--a _combinaison_ and a _crêpe de
Chine_ night-gown, both beautifully pleated, a lace bodice, a sheaf of
handkerchiefs. As she examined the articles she was uncomfortably
aware of the woman’s lingering gaze. There was a tentative quality
about it as though the owner had something on her mind.
“Do you want anything, Jeanne?”
“Only this, mademoiselle. I trust you were not wounded by what
occurred this morning. I am afraid it is the sort of thing one has to
be prepared for. Madame is apt to be like that,” she added with an air
faintly conciliatory.
“You need not bother, Jeanne, I quite understand,” replied the girl
evenly, masking her surprise.
Still the maid was not satisfied. She hung about, smoothing the
creases from the bed-cover and folding up the paper in which the
laundry had come.
“Madame takes notions into her head, and while they last it is wisest
not to cross her. Does mademoiselle grasp my meaning?”
Catherine faced her squarely. “What exactly is it you wish to say,
Jeanne? You may as well be frank about it.”
“Well, mademoiselle, I have been thinking it might be safer if you did
not attempt to see madame for a little. No doubt madame’s dislike of
you will pass in time, but while it continues is it best to annoy
her?”
She finished with a significant glance which brought the blood into
Catherine’s cheeks. Still one could not afford to get angry, thinking
which, the girl replied with composure: “You may be right. At all
events I shall not force myself upon madame.”
“Ah, I see that you understand, mademoiselle! Naturally it is painful
for me to mention this, but after all it cannot inconvenience you
long, since in all probability your stay is nearly at an end. No doubt
you will soon be proceeding with your tour?”
So it was this the woman wanted to find out! Not a word of what Girard
must surely have said to her half an hour ago, only the scarcely
veiled suggestion that the visitor was to take her departure.
Rapidly it dawned on Catherine that here was the turning-point. She
must decide once and for all whether she was to stick to her guns or
leave her cousin to this jealous guardian who brooked no interference
with her rule. Was she making a foolish mistake? Perhaps she was wrong
to meddle in things which did not concern her. If so, now was the
moment to withdraw.
For a moment Catherine wavered, meanwhile putting her _lingerie_ into
a drawer, laying the crisp pleats in place with fingers which shook.
Then as she straightened up she caught sight in the mirror of Jeanne’s
close-set brown eyes watching her every movement with an attention all
too acute. In a flash her spirit rose to arms. Turning, she met the
steadfast gaze with a fixed determination to fight the affair to a
finish.
“I am not going to Italy, Jeanne,” she declared shortly. “In fact, I
do not intend to leave for some time. I shall not trouble madame, but
I expect to remain in this apartment perhaps for months.”
She saw the ragged brows shoot up, the nostrils widen with
displeasure. A brief pause ensued while, like two fencers, the two
eyed each other, wary and watchful. When the delayed reply came it was
uttered in a tone of studied indifference, cold and calm.
“_Ah? Ça m’étonne… Bien--c’est entendu, alors._”
That was all. The door closed, leaving Catherine with racing pulses,
her heart pounding hard.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Meantime in the rue Auber investigations were going on with
commendable thoroughness. Macadam himself telephoned to various
well-known picture dealers to inquire first the approximate price a
still-life of Manet was likely to fetch in the market, and second,
whether at any recent time a Manet belonging to Harry Belmont Bender
had passed through their hands. To the former question he received
definite figures, quoted from sales, while the answer to the latter
was an unequivocal negative. One of the dealers expressed surprise to
learn that the painting had changed hands.
“Monsieur Bender made a number of deals through me,” he said. “In 1924
I sold a Renoir for him and got an excellent price for it. At the time
he asked me to value his collection, including the Manet you speak of,
and it was my impression that nothing was further from his thoughts
than to part with it. As a matter of fact I made him an offer, which
he refused.”
The dealer went on to say that if M. Bender’s widow had disposed of
the picture she must have done so with extraordinary secrecy, for when
a work of so great importance changed owners all the world of art
connoisseurs got to know about it. As to the possibility of its having
left the country, it was rare nowadays that such a thing could happen
without being found out. The port authorities were exceedingly strict.
Occasionally some canvas slipped through, but each year it became
increasingly difficult.
Macadam hung up the receiver and scratched his ear thoughtfully. It
began to look as though there were something in the American girl’s
story after all, though he must not jump at conclusions. He had yet to
hear the junior clerk’s report following his perusal of certain files,
and there remained the study of his late client’s pass-book, about
which he had written to the bank. If any sum sufficiently large had
been deposited during the weeks preceding Bender’s death, it would
tell a different tale. However, for the present there was nothing more
to be done.
He had no suspicion of the fact that his son was pursuing another line
of inquiry, and if he had been aware of it would have censured him
severely for quixotic conduct. However, the mysterious Blom was not
altogether absent from his thoughts was proved by a remark he made to
Geoffrey the following day.
“This notary fellow,” he observed ruminatingly. “Thinking things over,
it occurs to me there may be a fairly plausible explanation for his
behaviour the other night.”
“What’s that?” inquired the young man sharply.
“Why, blackmail. He may have something on those servants which he’s
using to force them to pay up. Have you thought of that?”
Geoffrey’s eyes gleamed.
“Then you admit they are thieves,” he replied shrewdly.
“I’m admitting nothing yet. I only say it’s a possible solution.”
Whereupon he detailed for his son’s benefit the result of his
conversations with the dealers.
Geoffrey listened with interest.
“Good!” he exclaimed. “I confess that’s what I expected. If you knew
Cath--Miss West as well as I do, you’d know she’s not a girl to be
easily deceived.”
“Be that as it may, we are still a long way from proving our case, and
till we do so we can’t make any arrests. It’s a ticklish business
prosecuting servants when their own employer regards them as perfect.
We may not be thanked for our pains.”
Alone Geoffrey rejected the blackmail suggestion, holding firmly to
his belief that Blom, engineering the thefts, had called his
confederates to account for exceeding instructions. He had little
doubt that the crafty Alsatian was under cover of his profession a
secret _receleur_, and that the visit to Bordeaux was for the purpose
of getting the stolen canvasses out of France.
Not till Saturday, however, did he hear from the inquiry agent, and
meanwhile, though he was in frequent communication with Catherine,
there was nothing to tell her. As soon as Bernard’s message reached
him he hurried to the rue Blanche, hoping for news.
“I have made the young person’s acquaintance, monsieur,” his funereal
friend informed him. “At first she was inclined to be off-hand and
suspicious, but I have persuaded her to come out with me to a café
to-morrow evening, and if things go well I may obtain some information
from her.”
“How does she appear to regard Blom?” Geoffrey asked.
“Ah, that is difficult to say. But while she does not strike one as a
young woman of deep feelings, I fancy she is a little vindictive. If
so, she may lead us to the truth.”
On a sudden inspiration Geoffrey made a suggestion, to which the agent
agreed.
“If you like, monsieur. There can be no harm in it. But mind, I do not
promise anything startling.”
“Ten-thirty, then,” replied Geoffrey, and departed, tingling with
anticipation.
Sunday broke warm and cloudless, a dazzling April day. The Bender
salon, after the brilliance of outdoors, struck Geoffrey as more than
ever depressing, but the girl who rose to greet him appeared the very
incarnation of spring. She had put on a frock of _crêpe de Chine_ the
colour of young leaves, while her oval face was framed by a small felt
hat also delicate green. Round her throat lay the necklace of plaited
gold which suited her so well, and her suede gloves matched in tone
her slender lizard-skin pumps. The faint fragrance of her garments
went to Geoffrey’s head like champagne as he took her hand and gazed
in unrestrained admiration.
“How ripping you look!” he exclaimed.
It was the first open compliment he had paid her. The blood swept in a
wave to her cheeks.
For a second she caught something in his eyes which unsettled her
previous conception of him. There was a self-conscious pause, during
which they eyed one another awkwardly.
“I thought we’d lunch in town at Ledoyen, then drive out into the
country.”
“Splendid! I was hoping you’d say that. I am longing to get out of
Paris.”
In taking her coat to put it over his arm his hand brushed hers. The
momentary contact sent an electric shock through him.
“I say,” he remarked, conscious of inner perturbation, “must you get
back early? Because I’m going to suggest making a day of it and dining
out as well.”
Her eyes shone.
“Oh! you don’t know how I should love it! I only meant to come back
and write letters, a most dull proceeding. Let me run and tell Berthe
not to expect me in,”--and she vanished on her errand.
She returned directly to say that the cook was enchanted, for now she
could have the entire evening off.
“And Mme. Bender? Have you seen anything of her?”
Her face clouded.
“Not for days. There is no good forcing myself on her while she feels
towards me as she does. Jeanne has advised me to keep away from her,
but I shouldn’t try to go into her room in any case now. I’m afraid
there’s nothing I can do.”
He preserved a significant silence, but once they were seated in the
car he spoke to her with quiet decision.
“Listen to me, Catherine. I am not at all happy about you. I wish you
could be persuaded to leave that place.”
She turned reproachful eyes on him.
“_Et tu, Brute!_” she murmured lightly, though with a catch in her
voice.
“Why me, too?”
“Wait. I have something to show you.”
He was a little curious, but said nothing as the car slid into the
Avenue Kléber and headed for the Étoile. In the Champs Élysées he
halted before a flower-shop and, leaving his companion for a moment,
returned with a large cluster of lilies of the valley, crisply fresh
in their frame of satiny green leaves.
“They go with your frock,” he remarked shortly, laying the offering in
her lap.
Something had happened to Geoffrey. It was like the preliminary
melting of ice after a long winter.
He was aware of it when they entered the restaurant half-hidden by
flowering chestnuts and made their way to the corner table he had
reserved. The sun pouring into the glass-lined room shone no warmer
than the glow within him, while the whole festive scene with its
popping of corks, subdued chatter and tables garnished with spring
blossoms formed a fitting background for his mood.
On a day like this every goose was a swan. The very waiters looked the
best fellows in the world, to whom you might confide your heart’s
secrets with perfect safety. Every woman present was a miracle of
exquisite smartness, every paste brooch flashed like diamonds of the
purest water. Best of all not a male eye failed to note Catherine as
she passed serene in her little green frock and with that look of
fresh naturalness doubly dear to an Englishman’s heart. A moment worth
living for, to be recalled long afterwards with a thrill of pride.
“Now, what were you about to tell me?” Geoffrey asked as soon as they
had ordered lunch.
He watched her fingers busy themselves, unfastening the glittering
brooch on her shoulder in order to transfer the lilies of the valley
to its keeping. Then when she had enshrined the nosegay in the V of
her frock and surveyed the result with satisfaction, she opened her
lizard-skin bag and took out an envelope.
“What do you think of this?” she asked. “Read it.”
She saw his eyebrows go up in astonishment as he recognized the
crabbed writing, and an expression of annoyance settle over his face
when he had run through the letter’s contents.
“The old devil!” he exclaimed softly. “What’s the meaning of this? He
never told me he’d written to you.”
“It was sent off almost immediately,” she said with composure. “Soon
after he had talked with Jeanne, I think.”
He looked quickly towards her.
“How did you know she came to see him?”
“I passed her in the street outside. She didn’t see me.”
She could tell that he was not only ruffled but embarrassed. For a
moment he avoided her eye.
“Please don’t pay the least attention to this,” he said constrainedly.
“I hardly know what to say.”
“I’m not angry,” she answered, “though I was a bit at first. He makes
me feel he doesn’t believe a word I said. Not only does he imply that
I’m a fool for meddling in what doesn’t concern me, but that I may be
doing my cousin actual harm.”
“Rubbish!” he muttered, impatiently.
“It’s not rubbish. There’s a certain amount of truth in what he
says--at the moment. She would be upset if I insisted on seeing her,
only I am convinced that’s only temporary. Things can’t go on like
this. I’m only biding my time.”
“God knows I hope we shall soon know something definite about these
thefts,” he remarked after a pause.
“Do you believe we shall?”
“I don’t know. We’ve established the fact that the Manet hasn’t passed
through any dealer’s hands, which is something.”
“That’s good!” she cried eagerly. “Oh! I hope we are not trying to
hound down innocent people.”
“Don’t bother your head about that. I’m as sure as you are they have a
good deal on their consciences.”
She took back the letter and glanced at it.
“Another thing--you see what he says about finding some older, more
experienced woman to look after Mme. Bender. Surely he must know that
she has no relations?”
He frowned over this information.
“You are certain there is no one?”
“Hermione declares that Germaine has absolutely no family, and she
ought to know. Since I have been at the apartment I have not seen or
heard of anyone connected with her. I have never known anyone so
completely isolated.”
“That does make things extremely difficult,” he observed thoughtfully.
“Do you know, I don’t believe I’d grasped that fact before. By the
way, what was Mme. Bender’s maiden name?”
She told him, and he repeated it with a curious inflection.
“Dieulefit? Never heard it before. Most uncommon.”
“Very. Hermione says the line is extinct.”
He pondered the matter for a little, then drawing a note-book from his
pocket scribbled the single word “_Dieulefit_” on an empty page. She
watched him with interest but said nothing, though she noticed that
his forehead was still knit with speculation.
The _sole Mornay_ arriving, they attacked it with relish, nor until it
was a thing of the past did they recur to any serious topic. Then
Geoffrey asked if the doctor had yet settled the matter of Jeanne’s
holiday.
“He came yesterday, but so far Jeanne has said nothing. Still, one is
bound to know before long.”
It was nearly three o’clock when they again sought the out-of-doors to
spin through the Bois, across the gardens of St. Cloud, and penetrate
into the open reaches beyond. Larks sang high in the heavens where
vague cloudlets drifted like puffs of smoke across an expanse of
aquamarine. The whole warm sweet air breathed the fragrance of
flowering trees, whose pink, white and yellow bouquets dotted the
landscape.
Catherine sighed in utter contentment. April at its loveliest, a
well-run car, a companion who all at once had become something rather
more interesting than a brother--what more could one ask? Hard to
believe that the past week had been spent in a turgid tangle of doubts
and fears. At the moment all life was bathed in the same soft sunshine
which spread its radiance over the low-lying hills.
At five o’clock they stopped at a place unknown to her, but familiar
to Paris pleasure-seekers. An ancient farmhouse nestled beside a
narrow stream spanned by an enclosed bridge where in bad weather one
might eat under cover. Now a score of motorists in gay attire sat
under orange umbrellas at tables with orange cloths, along the side of
the brook, whose edges glowed with thickly planted spring flowers,
vivid blue and yellow. Gardens like those in a picture-book spread on
each side, and a little distance away an outlet from the stream
chattered over a rockery to fall into a pool.
Tea in an orange tea-pot, crisp toast, home-made _confiture_, and
butter smoothly-moulded into little brown crocks! It was good that the
air had given them fresh appetites to do justice to the feast.
When they had lit cigarettes, Catherine suddenly remembered a matter
she wished to discuss.
“Geoffrey,” she said. “About this agent you are employing. You
understand, of course, that I must insist on paying for him. I can,
you know. I don’t want you to think----”
He reddened a little.
“Must we speak of that? I wish you wouldn’t.”
“Well then, I won’t. But before we go any further, you must promise to
let me know how much it comes to, otherwise I shall make it unpleasant
for you!”
Seeing her determination, he nodded briefly.
“Well then, I promise. Now let’s talk about something else.”
But for a moment both were silent, while the look which passed between
them left Catherine a little breathless. Why was Geoffrey so different
to-day? She began to wonder if she knew him so well, after all.
They dined late at a small restaurant in the rue Jacob where the food
was good, and although Catherine protested that she could not possibly
be hungry again, the sight of the oysters Geoffrey ordered and the
young duck with delicate _petits pois_ made her change her mind.
“Oh dear!” she sighed, “when I’m with you I do nothing but eat!”
“You need to,” he assured her lightly. “I’m sure that when you are at
home you are half-starved!”
It was true that, lovely as she looked to-day, she had grown a bit
thinner since their first meeting, while he noticed a faint shadow
beneath her eyes which disturbed him, suggesting as it did a constant
state of apprehension. Not blind to the absurdity of his action, he
heaped her plate high with _fraises de bois_ and piled thick cream
upon them till she was obliged to stay his hand.
“I’m not a Strasbourg goose, you know!” she reminded him, laughing.
When with her coffee before her she leaned back in her corner and
lazily took out her powder-puff, he studied her carefully.
“Tired?”
She shook her head.
“No--only blissfully content. I can’t bear to think that to-day is
over.”
“It isn’t,” he returned, glancing at his watch. “There is something
else I want you to do this evening.”
“What is it?” she inquired languidly.
She fancied there was a slight air of secrecy about him as he paid the
bill and left a ten-franc note on the saucer. Then with his
characteristic caution he answered her question.
“Nothing much. Wait and see. But I hope it may prove worth while.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
It was almost ten o’clock, but according to Geoffrey it was yet too
early for what he planned to do. Catherine asked no further questions
and possessed her soul in patience as they drove slowly about for half
an hour, along the _quais_, up to the Bois and back, and around the
Cité and the Ile St. Louis. The night was perfect. The twin truncated
towers of Notre Dame stood out in bold relief against a starlit sky;
the river, swiftly flowing between its inky parapets, was studded with
gems of light. One after another they passed the stately Palais de
Justice, the Hôtel Dieu, and the tall house where Abelard introduced
the classics into the head of Heloïse and love into her heart.
At last Geoffrey re-crossed the river, and threading the garishly
lighted Boul’ Mich’, teeming with humanity, turned into the Boulevard
Montparnasse. Here, a few hundred yards to the right, he parked his
car at the tail end of a long queue of motors drawn up before a small
building, the lower walls of which were painted in the crudest
possible version of the Futurist style. Catherine looked at it with
surprise. The name, “Tattenham Corner,” roughly inscribed over the
door, told her that it was a night-haunt then much in vogue, but which
she had not visited and had heard her companion mention with contempt.
Why he had brought her here she could not guess.
A blare of strident jazz music greeted them together with a hot rush
of fœtid air, heavily laden with scent, stale smoke and the odour of
perspiring bodies. Shrill laughter and the babel of many tongues rose
above unvibrant saxophones, and as they lifted a grimy curtain hung
over a doorway and looked in upon the single cramped and crowded room,
they had a confused impression of seething, jostling couples, hugged
in tight embraces and swaying, cheek to cheek, upon a dance-floor
little larger than a hearth-rug. Hell let loose was all Catherine
could think of. Amusing but loathsome! Instinctively she drew closer
to Geoffrey, who put out a strong arm to shield her from the horde of
boisterous students who surged in behind them, shoving their way to
the fore by brute force.
No one paid the least attention to them, and it was with difficulty
that Geoffrey attracted the notice of the one frowsy waiter who plied
his way among the jammed tables, executing orders and making charge
with an air of stolid indifference. Finally the man approached, wiped
his hands on a dirty apron, and listened with dull eyes while Geoffrey
said a few words to him in French. After a second he nodded, cast a
glance over the room, and undertook to pilot them towards the far end,
where they managed to squeeze their way to the only vacant places,
fortunately against the wall.
“We shall have to order something,” Geoffrey said, “but I warn you it
will be bad.”
Whereupon he commanded a _fine_, while Catherine chose an orangeade,
thinking it would be comparatively harmless. However, she was wrong.
The drink, in a smudged tumbler, arrived, poisonous red in colour,
syrupy and strangely chemical to taste. The _garçon_ slopped it over
on the table and made an ineffectual effort to mop it up with a filthy
swab, his attention busy in other quarters.
What a place! Yet half the clients were of the leisured class, jaded
but immaculately attired men, with women severely exquisite in the
smartest of hats and the newest of ornaments. Why did they come here
to stew in this stifling atmosphere, be served with nauseous drinks,
and sit pressed like sardines against the unwashed bodies of
midinettes, models and cocottes of the lowest type? It was a question
only Paris can answer. They did not appear to be extracting any
enjoyment from the experiment.
The music stopped, the dancers wormed their way to their seats. A thin
girl with a chalked face, mouth like a vermilion scar, and hair
plastered in dagger-points against her cheeks, threw herself into the
chair opposite with a loud laugh and a wriggle of her snake-like
figure. Her escort leered on her with a thick-lipped grimace, wiped
the sweat from his forehead, and hammered loudly upon the table.
“Ent she sweet?” he carolled jocosely. “A walk-eeng down zhe street--I
ask you confidont-zhallee, ent she sweet?” and he tweaked his lady’s
ear, to be rewarded by a smack on the jaw.
In the comparative lull the curtain swayed, and an ancient dame,
familiar to Montparnassians, stood like an image peering into the
smoky interior. On her sparse grey hairs perched a man’s hat
ornamented with a tiny bedraggled feather, while a soiled muffler was
tied about her neck. Her toothless mouth was sunken between nose and
withered chin, her bleared eyes ran slowly round with a knowing smile.
“_A’ Ami du Peuple--A’ Ami du Peuple_,” she piped in a monotonous
sing-song, making it into a little tune.
No one noticed her, and presently she vanished, elbowed on her way by
the waiter. She was promptly replaced by a little girl in a shawl,
bare-headed, feet in ragged _pantoufles_, who carried a tray filled
with bunches of flowers, one of which she extended in a grubby hand
towards first one reveller, then another.
“_Des violets--des muguets--touts frais--messieurs, mesdames, des
violets, des muguets.…_”
Then she, too, gave way before a jerk of the _garçon’s_ head and
departed without disposing of a single posy, but undaunted, calmly
philosophical.
Geoffrey bent his head towards Catherine.
“I want you to notice the couple beside you,” he whispered, his lips
barely moving. “Watch the girl particularly and try to catch what
she’s saying. She is the person I brought you here to see.”
She looked at him with amazed inquiry, then turned her head and
surveyed her neighbour, whom till now she had scarcely noticed.
What she saw was a little wren-like creature of about twenty, jauntily
arrayed in a bright blue jacket and skirt with a red-spotted
neckerchief knotted round her throat and a hat like an aviator’s
helmet worn so as to display a fringe of hennaed hair. Her perfectly
round blue eyes had a babyish stare amidst black-beaded lashes raying
out like the petals of a flower, her nose tilted up, and there was a
circular patch of crimson painted upon each cheek, giving her the look
of one of those naïve, slightly grotesque dolls seen in French shops.
In a high, chirping falsetto she was chattering with an air familiar
and inconsequent to a companion more than twice her age, a sober,
hollow-eyed man, just now regarding her attentively while his bony
fingers fumbled in a yellow packet of Maryland cigarettes.
“Who is she?” murmured Catherine, returning to Geoffrey in complete
mystification.
“Never mind who she is. Listen.”
She obeyed wonderingly. For a few minutes she caught nothing of
interest, only a childish description of some escapade at
_Mi-Carême_, punctuated with argot and laughter. At the end of it the
young person drained her glass, set it down with a smack of the lips,
and gazed at her escort blandly, eyelashes in full play. At once the
middle-aged man beat solemnly upon the marble with a coin till the
waiter looked his way.
“_Encore un porto pour mademoiselle_,” he called, abstracting a note
from a battered pocket-book.
Not until the full glass was brought did he speak, and though his tone
was low, Catherine heard every syllable.
“And that was the last time you saw this Monsieur Blom?” he asked
purringly.
Monsieur Blom!--Catherine repressed a start.
“Did you hear?” she whispered to Geoffrey.
He nodded and signed to her to continue listening. The girl at her
side had risen to the bait like a hungry trout.
“_Comment c’etait la dernière fois?_” she retorted shrilly. “_Ta
mère accouchait un singe, alors!_” she added with rude raillery, and
sipped her port.
“No,” she continued more seriously. “I saw him lots of times after
that. It wasn’t till a month after that Bordeaux visit that I told him
he could go to the devil, nasty little toad! As if I was going to play
second fiddle to that bag of bones. There are too many chances for a
girl like me, I can tell you.” She sniffed contemptuously and ran a
wetted thumb over her pencilled brows.
“I don’t know where his eyes were,” murmured her companion
flatteringly, “to prefer this Madame Baron to you. Old, isn’t she?”
“Is she old?” chirped the damsel rhetorically. “Older than God, and a
skin like an ostrich! Eyes--my word! They’re sharper than yours are,
I’ll wager. They see where she’s got her savings hidden, Rich she must
be, although you’d never guess it to look at her! That’s all he really
cares about--money. He’d sell his soul to the devil for ten thousand
francs!”
“But he must do pretty well, what with one thing and another,”
suggested the other persuasively. “Shouldn’t you say so?”
“Oh, I daresay. He’s no spender, though. He was precious mean where I
was concerned.”
“Ever hear him mention any pictures?”
There was a blank stare.
“Pictures? Never--unless you count some postcards he showed me
once--filthy little beast!”--and with a grimace she produced her
lipstick and applied it freely, studying her reflection in a small
mirror.
“But what took him to Bordeaux? Have you any idea of his business
there?”
“Bah! He never told me his affairs. Never talked much at any
time--just sat drinking his beer and staring like this with his
spotted eyes. _Sacré!_ It used to get on my nerves!”
“Secretive sort of man, was he?”
“Man! He’s not a man at all, he’s an animal, a crawling reptile, who
has no knowledge of life. Mind you, he’s not French.”
The all but untranslatable phrase, “_qui n’a pas de savoir vivre_” was
indescribably ludicrous, coming from these childish lips with an air
of arrogant authority.
So this little piece of painted femininity had known the _notaire_ on
the most intimate terms, might perhaps be acquainted with his secrets.
Was she going to divulge anything important? Catherine listened
eagerly.
“Did you ever hear him mention a client of his by the name of Jeanne
Laborie?” pursued the agent smoothly, always with the manner of one
not particularly concerned.
“Laborie? Never. Who is she? Friend of yours?”
“Only a lady’s maid, working at a place in the Avenue Henri Martin.”
She repeated the name of the street musingly.
“He had a man friend in the Avenue Henri Martin. Drove a big car, a
Rolls-Royce. One Sunday we went for a drive with him, all the way to
Chartres--had dinner at a hotel, and the friend stood us a bottle of
champagne. It was just before Blom went away. I remember it, because
I ruined my new skirt getting champagne on it, and the stingy little
brute wouldn’t pay to have it re-pleated.”
“What was the friend like? A Frenchman?”
“No--Italian, or maybe Spanish. I don’t know which, but he could speak
French well enough. Oh, he was quite _chic_, the friend. I could have
had a good time with him, but I didn’t get a chance. I was a bit tight
after dinner, and slept all the way home. He and Blom sat in front and
talked.”
“What about?”
“How should I know? Didn’t I say I was asleep?” She gave him a push.
“I only woke up to hear the Spaniard, or whatever he was, telling Blom
the name of a hotel.”
“Ah! Can you remember what hotel it was?”
“No, of course I can’t. I wasn’t interested. But--well, now you speak
of it, I believe I do know. It was the Hôtel des Négociants. Yes,
that was it.”
“In Paris?”
She shook her head indifferently.
“Perhaps. I haven’t an idea. Anyhow, as he went away the next day, it
may have been in Bordeaux.”
“Did he write to you from Bordeaux?”
“Not a line! But he was like that. I might have died for all he
bothered.”
She sighed, but did not appear deeply affected. The agent continued to
probe skilfully into her shallow little brain, but although the girl
seemed quite willing to talk, there was no further information to be
gained. However, just as Catherine was beginning to feel disappointed,
she caught something which held her interest with a sort of
fascination.
“No, I’m not sorry he’s gone,” observed the little creature callously.
“I’m glad. I feel I can breathe again. I tell you, there was something
about that little man I didn’t half like. So cold, so
calculating--always planning, always thinking about something, I never
knew what. He would sit and sit.… Say we were in a café, a gay place
like this. He used to forget all about me, just sit and stare without
blinking. If I spoke to him he didn’t answer, but kept his spotted
eyes fixed on me with a sort of stillness, like…”
She broke off, wrapped in thought. Then with a laugh oddly nervous she
went on again:
“I’ll tell you what it was like. Once in the packing-room at our place
I found a huge spider in the middle of a web. Such a wicked devil--oh,
a monster! It didn’t move, just stayed still and watched me. I
screamed! You may laugh, but it was terrifying. There were flies
tangled in the web, they couldn’t get away. I felt if he looked at me
much longer I wouldn’t be able to get away either. You see? Well then,
that is how I used to feel about Blom. He made me think of that
spider, just sitting quiet in the midst of its web, waiting--and
waiting. I wanted to shriek and run, and then it was as though my legs
were tied together. Ah! It was frightful. If that Honorine can stand
it, it’s more than I could!”
Her high-pitched voice trailed away, and she remained with round eyes
staring at space, while one coarse little hand plucked at the scarf
about her neck. At last she shook herself free from the disagreeable
memory.
“Here, this is no good!” she cried brusquely, jumping to her feet.
“What did you bring me here for, a funeral? Let’s dance.…”
When the space beside her was vacant Catherine drew a deep breath and
turned to Geoffrey.
“Could you hear?” she asked, her eyes blazing.
He nodded with vexation.
“Total failure. The girl knows nothing against Blom.”
“Perhaps,” replied Catherine shaking her head. “But all the same she’s
terrified of him. Did you notice her face when she spoke about the
spider? She positively shuddered! She’s right, too, Geoffrey. There is
something rather horrible about that little man. He gives me exactly
that feeling of repugnance and--well, terror. I am quite, quite sure
he is up to something evil.”
“Catherine, what a romantic imagination! Hermione Cushing couldn’t do
better. I must take you home quickly, or you’ll be seeing spiders in
your sleep!”
She laughed, crest-fallen.
“Am I such a fool? I wonder… Tell me, what did you gather from all
this?”
“Very little, except the fact that Blom is evidently marrying the
widow for her money. Moreover, the suddenness with which he began to
pay court to her suggests that he wanted financial help in a hurry,
for some definite purpose.”
It had, in fact, occurred to him that perhaps the _notaire_ intended
to set up as a picture-dealer in some other country, probably America,
in which case he would need capital for the enterprise. He could even
be buying the pictures from Jeanne and Eduardo, meaning to pay for
them with his future wife’s savings. If this were true, the visit to
Bordeaux, a seaport, no doubt had a connection with his plans, since
he would most likely consider it safer to remove the paintings away
from Paris, preparatory to smuggling them out of France. Here at last
was a clue for Bernard to work on.
“Come along, let’s get out,” he said, reaching for Catherine’s coat.
“This air is unbearable.”
In the fresh night outside the clamour they had left behind seemed as
unreal as a drunken dream.
“My poor lilies-of-the-valley!” exclaimed Catherine, touching the
fading flowers at her breast.
“You must be wilted too. Do you realize I’ve dragged you about with me
for eleven long hours?”
“Eleven hours! It has gone like a flash.”
Twenty minutes later, inside the dark hall of the apartment, she held
out her hand to bid him good night.
“Not just yet,” he whispered, “Listen…”
Out of the spring night floated the strains of a violin, piercingly
sweet. She held her breath, her eyes lit with reminiscence.
“Is it--? It is! The Albeniz Tango again! How wonderful it sounds,
coming out of nowhere, like music from another world!”
They looked at each other, and suddenly under the influence of the
darkness and the wooing notes the air became charged with electricity.
Before she knew what had happened his arms were around her, his lips
upon hers.
Strength ebbed away, she gave herself up to moments of exquisite
rapture, during which time stood still. Under her fingers she felt his
arm muscles tighten, while the odour of his warm skin and hair, so
close to her nostrils, swept her away with subtle intoxication.
Seconds passed while they clung thus hungrily together. Then with a
gasp Catherine pushed him from her.
“Don’t! You mustn’t!” she murmured, frightened. “I--I didn’t want you
to do that!”
“Didn’t you?” he demanded, holding her hands fast in his. “I don’t
believe it!”
Her face burned. They were still so near each other that she could
hear the pounding of his heart.
“Why?” he insisted urgently. “Catherine, I mean this--with my whole
soul. Don’t tell me you don’t care too. Since that day in the train
I’ve thought of nothing but you. I’ve never felt like this about any
woman. I want you to marry me as soon as possible. Will you?”
The force of his tone took away her breath. She retreated a step, eyes
wide and dark, trying desperately to think clearly.
He loved her, then! After all these weeks of calm, unemotional
behaviour, he was begging her to marry him! She could hardly believe
her senses.
“Oh, Geoffrey,” she managed to answer in a shaking voice. “I--I don’t
know. You see, for a whole year I was engaged to a man I didn’t love,
and I swore never to make such a ghastly mistake again. I almost think
I daren’t be engaged at all, but that some day, when I’m quite sure,
I’ll marry someone all at once, before I can change my mind!” She
finished with a wavering laugh.
“I’m not asking you to be engaged,” he muttered, smiling a little.
“But marriage is so irrevocable, isn’t it? I mean I’ve got to think
things over… All the same, I did love--that.” Her breast rose. “Only,
because I loved it I must be all the more cautious and not be carried
away. It mayn’t be the real thing, and until I’m quite sure I mustn’t
let you kiss me again.”
“Very well, then,” he said briefly. “But it will be hard-going--now.”
“Perhaps it will be hard for me, too,” she answered with shining eyes.
“But I must stick to it, for I know I’m right.”
He was gone. She heard his car start, then with fluttering pulses
groped her way towards the staircase.
Yes, she was right. Until she could determine the depth of this new
emotion she dared not repeat the embrace which had robbed her of all
reasoning power. Yet, oh, how terribly she longed to do so! She clung
to the newelpost, weak with the memory of physical ecstasy.
Round her was heavy stillness, broken only by the ticking of the hall
clock. Then, out of the enveloping gloom, her ear detected a faint,
distant sound which rose and fell spasmodically. She raised her head
and listened.
It came from the court side of the apartment, a stifled piteous
sobbing, heart-rending to hear. Could it be Germaine, and if so, was
she alone? At this hour, too, past midnight?
Without stopping to think she crept quietly along the passages to her
cousin’s room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Outside Germaine’s door she stood, wondering what she ought to do.
The sobbing continued softly, as though the hidden weeper were afraid
of being overheard. It had a piteous sound which went to the girl’s
heart and at the same time vaguely alarmed her. Where was Jeanne? Then
she noticed that the dressing-room door was ajar. Cautiously she
pushed it open and stole a glance inside.
The room was empty, the cover of the couch-bed smoothly drawn up. So
much she could make out in the dimness, and drew her conclusions
accordingly. Jeanne had gone out--perhaps to meet Blom. For once the
invalid was left unguarded.
Not without a tremor of nervousness, she took her courage in both
hands and went into Mme. Bender’s room.
But where was the occupant? The sobs had ceased. Two candles against
the wall burned with a wavering light, casting black shadows across
the disarranged but empty bed. The air was hot and stuffy.
All at once a movement caught her eye, and above the edge of the
armchair showed a pallid face, tear-streaked, hair in disorder, eyes
gazing fixedly.
“Germaine!” whispered the girl in consternation, mystified at the
sight.
Then she realized that Mme. Bender was crouched on the floor before
the crucifix, in an attitude of prayer.
It was a long second before she saw recognition come into the
frightened eyes and the lips move stiffly, whispering her name.
“It’s you--it’s you--it’s you…” murmured the invalid over and over,
clutching the bed-curtain with a shaking hand. “At first I thought…”
“But of course it’s me,” said Catherine soothingly. “I heard you and
came to see what was wrong.”
She watched anxiously for any sign of recoil, but could detect none.
Still puzzled, but with a feeling of relief, she put her arm about the
older woman’s shoulders protectingly.
“But you will catch cold, dear. You must let me get you into bed
again,” and she reached for the white _peignoir_ lying on the chair
and wrapped it round the unresisting frame.
“No, no, I am not cold. It is very hot in here--too hot. I could not
sleep,” whispered Mme. Bender vaguely, her eyes fixed like those of a
somnambulist. “Sometimes the sedative does not work. I think it is
because I have taken it so often.”
She allowed herself to be led back to bed, and with complete docility
let Catherine arrange the pillows and remove the stifling eiderdown.
The window was closed, there was not a breath of fresh air. No wonder
the poor creature could not rest.
“But where is Jeanne?” the girl could not help asking, as she lowered
the upper sash a little and poured some water into a glass which she
held to the patient’s dry lips.
Germaine regarded her as though in a dream.
“Jeanne? I don’t know… she went out, I think, an hour, two hours ago.
Ah,” she added quickly, “you must not tell her I was awake! It will
only distress her. Poor Jeanne--she does so much for me, and I am so
selfish. No one in the world cares for me as she does. I know that
only too well,” she muttered with curious insistence.
Catherine did not oppose her. She sat on the edge of the bed, stroking
the trembling hand which she was glad to notice did not withdraw from
her clasp. Then, seeing that the candles, still alight, were only a
few inches removed from the draperies of the bed, she got up and
extinguished them. The acrid smoke from the burning wicks filled her
nostrils.
“Why did you light the candles, dear?” she asked, as she turned on the
lamp. “You know, I don’t think it is quite safe to do that.”
The grey eyes avoided hers with a look of guilt.
“I was praying,” whispered the invalid childishly. “I was so unhappy,
lying here… I couldn’t bear it any longer. I thought if I lit the
candles and prayed I might get some relief from the pain here,”--and
she touched her heart, while a spasm of suffering crossed her
features.
“But why are you unhappy, Germaine? Won’t you try to tell me?” begged
the girl, afraid to speak the words.
“Because--because I am so alone. Who would not feel as I do, with no
one to care for me except Jeanne? Ah--if you knew! I am lonely, I am
desolate--I have not a single friend. I would be happier if I were so
poor that I had not a sou to call my own, for then I should perhaps
have someone to love me!”
It was the old story. Jeanne had distilled the poisonous suggestion
into the poor credulous mind until there was no removing it. It was
almost unbelievably cruel.
“Germaine,” said Catherine firmly yet with an attempt at lightness,
“all that is sheer nonsense. Listen to me, dear. Every one has
friends--rich people as well as poor ones. It is Jeanne who has made
you think this absurd thing--and is it possible you don’t realize
why?”
The wan face expressed nothing but bewilderment.
“Jeanne? I don’t understand. Why should she?”
“Simply because she is jealous. She hates the thought of any other
person sharing your affection. It has been plain to me from the
beginning. I don’t blame her, but it is so. She is jealous of anyone
who might come between you and her. Can’t you see that?”
She spoke with strong conviction, determined to drive home something
she did not herself wholly believe any longer. She saw a light of
wonderment come into her cousin’s eyes.
“But can this possibly be true?” faltered the poor woman in amazement.
“I’m sure of it. Think for a moment. Who are your friends? Tell me
their names.”
The strained gaze wavered.
“Not many,” muttered the invalid after a moment. “Some are dead. There
was, of course, Madeleine de Bréart…”
“The Comtesse de Bréart is in Africa, with her husband. She has been
gone for many months. Surely you know that.”
But it was plain that Germaine did not know.
“A number of people have called to inquire about you, but you were not
considered well enough to see them. They left cards and sometimes
flowers. There was the Baronne de Grèves and Madame Strakosch.” She
mentioned the names at random, shamelessly, bent only upon uprooting
the fixed idea which was causing so much mischief.
Incredulous joy flamed up in the starved eyes.
“They came? You mean this? And I never knew! Or if I did I have
forgotten it,” she added, pushing her hair off her forehead with a
confused gesture.
“Of course! You see?” cried the young girl triumphantly. “Now you must
never get such ideas into your head again.” She waited a moment, then,
growing bolder, continued: “And then there is Hermione. You forget
her. She cares for you very deeply, more, perhaps, than anyone.”
A shadow hovered over the sensitive face.
“Lili… do you think she does?”
“I swear it. For that matter, how is it possible you can doubt her
devotion, after all these years, with nothing to go upon except the
angry words of a servant?”
As she said this she shook inwardly, afraid that she had gone too far.
However, the abashed expression on her companion’s features assured
her she was right to take a firm line.
“You must not reproach me,” murmured the Frenchwoman, fidgeting.
“She--she did urge me to make my will, you know.”
“And why not?” interrupted Catherine quickly. “She meant no harm.
Everyone makes a will. Even I, with my tiny bit of property, made my
will soon after my father died. It is the only sensible thing to do.”
Here she paused to allow the common sense of this to sink into
Germaine’s mind. “You cannot realize how hurt Hermione is when you
refuse to see her. To be shut out like this by the one friend of her
girlhood--surely you must know how terribly it has wounded her
feelings. You really owe her an apology!”
“But--but----”
It was easy to read the meaning of Mme. Bender’s embarrassed
hesitation. Half-convinced now that she had made a mistake, the poor
woman was in terror of displeasing Jeanne by admitting it. She was far
too weak to make any sort of stand by herself.
“Never mind that now,” said Catherine gently. “I don’t say this to
upset you, only to make you understand things better. As for making
your will, it is a matter only you can decide. No one wants to bother
you about it. All we think of--Jeanne, Hermione, I--is to get you well
again.”
The shaking hand picked at the sheet mechanically.
“I ought to do it--I know I ought,” whispered Mme. Bender
indistinctly, as if arguing with herself. “Only feeling as I do about
myself I dare not. My memory… Ah, what was that?” She started,
trembling afresh. “Did you hear a noise?”
Listening, Catherine caught the sound of a door closing. It was Jeanne
come back. Simultaneously the invalid’s eyes dilated with nervous
dread.
“Go--go!” she urged, pushing the girl away with both hands. “She must
not find you here. Quick, I beg of you! I shall pretend to be asleep.”
Catherine sprang up, put out the lamp, and slipped into the passage,
shutting the door behind her. She was not a moment too soon, for
barely had she time to step inside the neighbouring bathroom when she
heard the maid’s brisk steps approach and enter the room she had just
quitted. She waited till all was silent, then made her way back in the
darkness to her own side of the apartment.
The past quarter of an hour had cheered her enormously, proving as it
had how amenable Germaine was to the influence of any vigorous mind.
How readily she had responded to the suggestion of Jeanne’s jealousy!
A very little more and all that unhappy distrust in her soul could be
melted away. Wonders might be achieved if only one had a free hand.
She took off her hat and began to unfasten the cuffs of her frock.
Then, glancing down, she saw that the lilies of the valley which had
been pinned into the front were gone. A little pang shot through her.
Where could she have dropped them? They had been in place a little
while ago, for she recalled their fragrance during the moments when
she had leaned against the post at the top of the stairs. That meant
they had fallen off either in the passage or in Germaine’s room.
Suddenly oppressed, she retraced her steps cautiously all the way to
the distant bedroom, feeling the carpet every inch of the way. No, the
flowers were not there. She had certainly lost them in her cousin’s
room, where they would remain till the maid discovered them, silent
evidence of her presence there.
Would the incident lead to further trouble? It had been only too plain
just now that Germaine was afraid of what Jeanne would say if she
knew. Well, the damage was done now, there was no help for it. One
must simply hope for the best.
In bed at last, with weary body but alert mind, she saw the day’s
events pass before her in a series of vivid pictures. The brilliant
restaurant of Ledoyen, the April countryside, moonlight on the dark
quais, the lurid interior of Tattenham Corner…
Those round staring eyes of the Montmartre grisette! What a note of
fascinated loathing there had been in the piping voice when it
described the huge spider, watchful in its web! Almost as though the
girl herself were the hapless fly entangled in those paralysing
meshes.… Geoffrey was right, all the same. One must not let one’s
fancy be governed by such absurdities!
Candles… too close to Mme. Bender’s bed. They were dangerous. One
flicker of a draught, and the draperies might be set on fire. All that
must be changed. Never mind, to-night’s conversation was a distinct
step forward. A little more scheming, reasonable luck, and Jeanne with
her bad influence and slack ways would be gone forever.…
Meanwhile a warm thought flooded her consciousness. Geoffrey loved
her, wanted her! Just now it mattered little what her own feelings
were. Enough that she had been held in strong arms and kissed as all
her life she had longed to be kissed…
She fell asleep, the Albeniz Tango pulsing rhythmically in her inner
ear. Peace, oblivion, and not one disturbing hint of what the
following day was to bring forth.…
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
She felt strangely sick and queer, her head going round. What was
wrong with her? She had slept till ten, rung for her coffee and drunk
it before she had noticed anything amiss. Then, after reading her
letters--one a note from Geoffrey’s sister, Elspeth Baxter, inviting
her to spend a week with her at Fontainebleau--she had risen lazily to
dress, only to discover an unexpected faintness combined with racking
pains in her stomach.
Oh, well, it could not be serious. Yesterday she had eaten and drunk
rather unwisely. Her thoughts flew to the poisonous, over-sweet
concoction, falsely called orangeade, which she had imbibed at
Tattenham Corner. Foolish to drink the stuff, only she had been so
thirsty.
“I’ll take a starvation cure to-day,” she told herself, plying her
hair-brush vigorously.
What about her lost flowers? Had Jeanne found them? If so she would
instantly jump at the idea of collusion and perhaps make trouble. How
annoying, at this crucial time!
Elspeth’s invitation.… How much she longed to accept it! She knew that
Geoffrey would spend as much time as possible out there, and she
thrilled at the prospect of rambles in the forest with him these warm,
sunny days. If only she dared to go! But she must not think of it
while things hung in the balance. Perhaps later on, with affairs
satisfactorily settled--but they couldn’t be for some time yet. She
did not even know what had come of the doctor’s interview with Jeanne.
She rose to go into the bathroom, then had to steady herself with a
hand on the nearest chair. A wave of giddiness overtook her, thick
beads of perspiration broke out all over her body.
Really, it was too stupid! Why, yesterday she had felt more than
usually fit!
“I can’t, I won’t be ill!” she declared angrily, making a second
movement to pick up her bath-towel. “I’ll dress and go out into the
fresh air. All this is nonsense!”
The next moment she had collapsed across the bed, panting for breath
and doubled up with pain like the stab of a knife. She tried to rise,
but gave up in despair.
There she lay, uncovered in her thin _crêpe de Chine_ night-dress,
helpless and weak as a baby, for what must have been twenty minutes,
before she could summon strength to ring the bell. All but
unconscious, she wondered dimly what could possibly be the cause of
the alarming attack. Her skin burned, her mouth felt parched, while
her body seemed strangely swollen. Appendicitis occurred to her. Never
in her life had she given it a thought, but now all at once the
disease seemed a dreadful reality.
She was too miserable when the door opened to feel surprised that it
was Jeanne and not Berthe who answered the call. She could not even
raise her head as she lay huddled and racked with agony, and was
barely able to articulate.
“Jeanne--I am feeling dreadfully ill. I can’t imagine what it is.” She
succumbed again, speechless with a terrific fit of cramp.
“_Ah, ah, mademoiselle! Vous êtes bien souffrante!_”
The voice came from far away. At the same time practised hands lifted
her capably, placed her between the sheets, while dimly she heard
something about a possible chill and the advisability of summoning the
doctor. Then she was once more alone.
Whatever this was, it was no joking matter. She was shivering from
head to foot, her teeth chattered like castanets, and for a little
time it seemed as though she would lose consciousness.
Presently Jeanne returned with a hot-water bottle which she placed at
her icy feet.
“Eduardo is telephoning to Dr. Girard,” she said. “I am afraid to give
you any medicine, as I do not know what is wrong. Where are the
pains?”
Catherine tried to show her. It was an unwelcome turn of events which
had brought this woman to minister to her needs. She would far rather
have had Berthe, but there was no help for it.
“In the stomach, is it? Ah!” There was a grunt and a faint shrug. “Ah,
well, that looks bad, but perhaps it is nothing serious!”
Through half-closed eyes Catherine saw the maid straighten up and
survey her with an appraising frown.
“A hot drink will do you no harm, and may bring some relief. Lie quite
still, and I will prepare you a _tisane_.” She departed briskly on her
errand.
At least, thought Catherine, the doctor will soon be here. Then in a
momentary cessation of pain she recalled an additional reason for
wanting to see him. She could now find out if he had settled matters
satisfactorily. What a blessing if Jeanne had given in!
Ten minutes passed, then the maid returned to hold a steaming cup to
her lips. She took a sip of the hot liquid only to cough and choke
with a qualm of renewed nausea.
“What bitter stuff!” she murmured in disgust.
“Bitter? But no! It is simply _tilleul_. Sure mademoiselle has tasted
it many times?”
“Never.”
She forced herself to drink, then fell back exhausted.
“That is better. Now rest, it will do you good.”
For a brief interval it seemed that Jeanne was right. A sort of
numbness ensued during which she drifted into a half-doze. Then she
was roused anew by horrible sickness and suffering worse than before.
Mentally she resolved not to touch _tilleul_ again…
“Fancy,” remarked Jeanne, busily tidying the room. “We have been
wondering why Dr. Girard failed to come yesterday. Now we learn that
he has met with an accident--slipped on the parquet, and torn some
ligaments in his leg. Poor man, he will not be able to go out for
several days. However he is sending his assistant to see you.”
What bad luck! Nothing seemed to go smoothly. In the midst of her
anguish the girl found time to question the complacent ring she
detected in Jeanne’s voice. Did it mean that Girard had been stupid
enough to betray some hint of their scheme?
So violent were the paroxysms now that she scarcely knew when Jeanne
left her, nor was she able to speak to Berthe, who presently appeared,
round-eyed and awed, to offer suggestions of brandy and
mustard-plasters. She shook her head and with set teeth waited for the
doctor, wondering if he would hurry her off to a hospital for an
immediate operation. Even the thought of an anæsthetic was welcome in
her present torture.
It was midday when the door opened to admit a plump, serious-looking
young man, ushered in by Jeanne. He glanced at the patient’s white
face, removed his gloves with deliberation, then turning his back on
the bed engaged in a whispered colloquy with the maid. Catherine could
not catch what they said, nor did she care, but she was aware of a
brusque hardness in the assistant’s manner which would have roused
antagonism if she had been less ill.
At length, as though satisfied, he motioned Jeanne outside, closed the
door, and proceeded to make a brief examination, muttering to himself
with an air of displeasure. Finally he sat down close to the bedside
and leaned forward, solemnly confidential.
“And now, mademoiselle,” he began with a sort of accusing disapproval,
“I want you to tell me precisely what it is you have taken, and how
much.”
“Taken?” echoed Catherine in amazement. “I don’t understand.”
“Yes, certainly,” he persisted. “I want to know what drug you have
taken. Do not be afraid. I will not give you away.”
She stared at him mystified. What was the man driving at?
“But I haven’t taken anything. What do you mean?”
He uttered an abrupt exclamation, jerking his plump shoulders. She
could not think why he seemed so annoyed with her.
“Mademoiselle, I beg of you, don’t attempt to deceive me! It is most
foolish. If I am to help you, you must play fair with me. Now, once
again--what medicine, what drug did you take last night? I insist upon
knowing.”
Weak though she was, she felt bewilderment succumb to irritation, and
roused herself to a more emphatic denial.
“I tell you, nothing whatever. I drank some rather horrid orangeade at
a café last night, and I had two cocktails, one at lunch and one at
dinner. But I haven’t taken any medicine, and I felt all right till
after breakfast this morning.”
“And that is all, absolutely all?”
“Certainly. Why should I want to deceive you?”
By the half-veiled scorn in his eyes she could see that he only partly
believed what she had said. An explosive sigh escaped him as he fixed
his full eyes on the wall over her head, muttering to himself:
“_Ces jeunes filles--tellement stupides, tellement ignorantes!_”
Catching the indistinct words, she was stirred to a vague resentment.
A flush mounted to her cheeks, but she forebore to argue.
“_Eh bien!_ If you are determined to keep silent, I must do what I can
without your help.”
“I’m sorry you think I’m lying,” she said bluntly, “and I wish you
would say what is in your mind. You believe I’ve taken a drug. Is it
possible”--she hesitated, frowning incredulously--“is it possible you
think I have been trying to kill myself?”
“Kill?” He gave vent to a short, ironic laugh which grated on her ear.
“No, mademoiselle, not that. Assuredly not! But if one tampers with
dangerous medicines, no matter for what purpose, one runs the risk of
committing suicide!”
She gave up trying to understand, and mastered her growing
indignation. What a disagreeable young man! Then the idea occurred to
her, only to be rejected, that perhaps he had got hold of this notion
from his talk with Jeanne. There had been something odd in Jeanne’s
manner, only how could the woman have any opinion one way or the
other? There was no point in it.
He began to ask a great many questions, some of them intimate ones,
the bearing of which she could dimly surmise. She answered him frankly
enough, but with an inward sense of embarrassment. Then, as the
consultation went on she saw his expression change, grow less
cocksure, and finally take altogether another phase. He rubbed his
chin thoughtfully, and still looking at her with searching eyes, led
the inquiry in another direction.
“_Enfin_, mademoiselle, let us hear what you had to eat yesterday.
Everything, please. Don’t leave out a single article of food.”
Thinking back carefully, she enumerated the items of the various
menus. When she came to last night’s dinner he gave an exclamation of
triumph.
“Oysters!” he cried. “The end of April! You have been poisoned by the
oysters, there is little doubt of it. The trouble is gastric.”
She did not know why all at once he should appear both relieved and
mollified. His brow cleared and he looked at her in quite a different
way.
“Well, mademoiselle, first of all I must prescribe for you a large
dose of an unpleasant remedy. I will give directions to have it
prepared for you at once, with orange juice.”
He mentioned the name--_huile de ricine_. That was merely castor oil.
She nodded, quite ready to believe that it was the oysters which had
caused the mischief. As for the trouble being gastric, it had never
entered her head that it could be anything else.
“I will call again this evening. Meantime you are to keep warm and eat
nothing until the middle of the afternoon, when you may have a cup of
tea. You English like your five o’clock, is it not?” he added, heavily
jocose.
She smiled at him wanly. After all, he meant no harm.
Yet, thinking it over after he had gone she was again affronted by his
disbelief and the severe cross-examination he had put her through. She
was still dwelling upon these things when Berthe entered with the
castor oil, and she could not help noticing that in the friendly
cook’s eyes she was an object of interest and curiosity. Why should
Berthe look at her like that? A moment later, while the door was
temporarily ajar, she caught a scrap of whispered conversation, which
explained it even while it increased her mystification.
“_Mais non! Tu crois?_” She heard Berthe gasp in astonishment.
“_Humph! J’en suis sûre_,” retorted Jeanne’s voice, contemptuously
emphatic.
Whatever it was the maid was so sure about, it seemed certain, after
all, that the doctor had taken his original cue from her.
After this she dozed from exhaustion, but at seven o’clock when the
physician reappeared she was still in so much pain that it was
necessary to administer an injection of morphia.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The suffering passed, but she was distressingly ill for three whole
days, during which she was ably cared for by Jeanne, who proved an
efficient nurse. Berthe, too, bestirred herself to prepare the simple
dishes ordered by the doctor, and hung about, much concerned as to the
patient’s progress. From her Catherine learned that Geoffrey had
telephoned several times daily, a fact which brought solace even while
she felt too weak to see him.
Also he had sent flowers--more lilies-of-the-valley and great bunches
of golden daffodils, filling the room with colour. She lay feasting
her eyes on them, now and then slipping the accompanying notes from
beneath her pillow to read again his ardent messages.
The fourth afternoon Dr. Girard himself arrived, hobbling with a
stick. He had been fully informed of her alarming symptoms, which he
agreed were those of acute ptomaine poisoning, occasioned by the
oysters eaten on Sunday evening. Oysters at this season were a bit of
a risk. She might think herself fortunate to have got off so lightly.
“But fortunate or not, mademoiselle,” he added with pompous
kindliness, “you have had a bad time which has left you extremely
weak. You must go slow, and as soon as possible get away from Paris
into the country, for a change of air.”
She stared at him in slight annoyance. This was not the right tack at
all--for her to go away. It was the last thing she had thought of.
“But I’d rather not leave Paris just now,” she said. “And I shall be
all right in a few days.”
“Not so soon as you think,” he contradicted with a shake of his head.
“I should really like to insist on your getting out of town. It is
what you need to put you on your feet.”
Why was he so determined? In spite of his amiable face suspicion
assailed her that Jeanne had been getting at him. This might mean a
fresh manœuvre on her part.
“Tell me, doctor,” she said, looking him straight in the eye, “has
anyone suggested this to you?”
He wavered a little.
“Well, yes, I admit it. Someone has, only yesterday.”
Ah! She knew it! What an exasperating irony!
“Does it occur to you that this person is being rather officious on my
behalf?” she inquired sarcastically.
“I would hesitate to call it that,” replied the old man in a
conciliatory tone. “As a matter of fact, it was a young man, who
appears to take a very warm interest in your welfare.”
So! It was not Jeanne but Geoffrey who had stolen a march on her. She
was relieved, yet could not repress a rueful smile at the doctor’s
insinuating repetition of the words, “_Un jeune monsieur, très
distingué--un Anglais_.” What a reversal of the situation! Here she
had lain, praying for Girard to order the maid away, and now it was
herself he was virtually commanding to go!
“But, monsieur, have you forgotten our conversation last Friday?” she
asked, ready to cry with disappointment.
“Ah, no, mademoiselle, assuredly not! I had meant to speak of it this
afternoon. I broached the subject to the person in question the last
time I was here, and I am happy to report that I met with almost no
opposition. The affair is arranged most satisfactorily.”
“Arranged?” she exclaimed, electrified with astonishment. “You mean
she is willing to go?”
“But certainly--quite willing, even pleased at the prospect. She
desires only a little time to make her plans. She was to write to her
brother to prepare him for her visit and make sure he has room for
her. That is all. You can put your mind at rest.”
Catherine sank back, overcome by the unexpected good news. How simple
it all was! If only she had known, she might have spared herself
endless anxiety. She began to laugh softly, while tears of weakness
came into her eyes. She wiped them away hurriedly, aware that Girard
was watching her with concern.
“There, mademoiselle, you see? It is you who are unnerved now. Your
friend the Englishman was right, you must get away from this
atmosphere for a little in order to recover your strength. Yes, the
woman was most reasonable. She only stipulates that madame should be
gradually accustomed to her leaving, and that she should not be left
entirely alone with a strange nurse during her absence. In short, she
wishes that you yourself should be here while she is away.”
“I?” echoed Catherine, hardly able to believe her ears.
Either Jeanne had experienced a change of heart, or else her own
suspicions were hopelessly false. It was difficult to take it in.
“Yes, you, mademoiselle. As she says, Mme. Bender is attached to you
and will be less likely to feel the change if you are with her. It is
for that very reason that I urge you to get your own holiday first, so
you will be perfectly strong and equal to the responsibility.”
She looked at him searchingly, wondering if he knew what a clever
method he had hit upon for gaining her consent. His heavy features
gave no hint of duplicity, showing merely complacence at his
management of the situation.
“_Eh bien!_ We may regard the matter as settled. Naturally you must
stay in bed for a few days longer, while we watch the diet and give
you a tonic to put some strength into you. Towards the end of the week
we might think of getting you to the country. What do you say to
Fontainebleau?” he added, with a look of arch cunning.
She was silent. Much as she wanted to go to Fontainebleau the idea
that wires were being pulled to make her do so was distasteful.
Moreover, Jeanne’s complete veering round provided food for
conjecture. Not once had the woman mentioned the flowers she must
surely have discovered in Mme. Bender’s room, or hinted at the
possibility of a reconciliation. True, all this week she had been
extraordinarily assiduous and kind, a gesture one might construe as a
desire to bury the hatchet.
Catherine pondered the matter, languidly puzzled.
“Perhaps she has some reason for wanting to placate me,” she
reflected. “Or is it that I’ve been mistaken about her all along?”
At the moment she felt thoroughly confused.
Still her main purpose was accomplished. Soon Germaine would be under
competent care, free from adverse influence. A month was not long, to
be sure, but before it was over one might reasonably hope to find
means to prevent Jeanne’s return to power. Eduardo, too, must be dealt
with, but alone he presented no formidable difficulties.
A knock sounded and Berthe’s voice was heard saying that a gentleman
had called. Might he be permitted to come in?
For the first time in days Catherine’s heart leaped with glad
expectancy, while a flush crept into her cheeks.
“One minute, Berthe. Fetch me my mirror and powder-puff, please.”
Vanity had revived--a healthy sign. Hastily, with Berthe’s aid, she
made herself presentable, smoothing the dark mass of her hair and
rebraiding the twin, short pigtails which fell over her shoulders. The
thinness of her face shocked her. She had not looked in a glass since
early Monday morning.
“_Un peu de parfum, n’est-ce pas?_” whispered her attendant with the
air of a sympathetic conspirator.
She assented, laughing, and the thick finger of Berthe planted a spot
of scent behind each of her ears.
When Geoffrey entered he found her propped up against pillows, her
eyes shining in their wells of dark shadow. He took her hand in his
warm clasp and stood looking down on her with intensity.
“Catherine--my dear! What is the meaning of this?”
She shook her head with a grimace.
“Oysters, I suppose. Anyhow, that’s what they tell me.”
“It’s my fault. I was a fool to suggest the damned things in this
weather. I ought to be kicked!”
“What rubbish! Besides, I’m well now. In a few days I shall be up.”
“In a few days,” he retorted grimly, “I mean to have you out of this.
Whether you like it or not, you’re going to leave this place.”
Her eyes opened wide with amazement.
“Aren’t you a bit premature with your airs of authority?” she demanded
with severity. “For that matter, what do you mean by plotting with the
doctor behind my back?”
He looked slightly abashed.
“Maybe I’d no right to,” he muttered doggedly. “But someone has got to
take you in hand. It was bad enough knowing you were ill, but much
worse to think of you at the mercy of these slovenly servants. I very
nearly had the American Hospital at Neuilly send an ambulance to fetch
you away.”
“You needn’t have bothered. I’ve had nothing to complain of, except
feeling absolutely rotten.”
He sat down, still retaining her hand, which she could not bring
herself to withdraw. She was battling with a sudden absurd desire to
cling to him and weep upon his shoulder; instead of which she assumed
a bantering smile and tried to turn the conversation away from her
illness.
“Elspeth wrote you,” he said presently. “What are you going to do
about it?”
“Oh, that! I haven’t felt up to making plans.”
“You needn’t make plans. Decide now when you think you can go, and
I’ll send her a telegram.”
His new assurance astonished her. Had those brief moments on Sunday
night been to him like the tiger’s first taste of blood? The idea
amused her, at the same time causing a faint thrill. Clearly it was
impossible for them to resume their former friendly relations.
Yet his very urgency roused in her a perverse desire to object.
“I’m not sure I want to go just yet, Geoffrey. You see the unexpected
has happened. Jeanne has consented to take a holiday.”
“The devil she has!” His thick brows shot up in rueful consternation.
“By George, that alters things, doesn’t it? I mean if she’s really a
bad hat, would she be willing to walk out and give us a free hand at
investigation? Either she’s extremely sure of herself, or else…”
Their eyes met guiltily.
“I know,” replied Catherine, nodding. “I’ve been thinking that, too.
Perhaps we--or rather I--have been misjudging her all along. It makes
me feel so ashamed. Oh, Geoffrey, do you think me an utter lunatic to
have stirred up this hornet’s nest?”
“Your suspicions were quite natural.”
“Yes, they were, weren’t they?” she whispered. “However innocent she
may be in the main, her conduct has been open to reproach in many
ways. In any case I am positive about one point--her really bad effect
on Mme. Bender. That is what actually matters.”
He agreed heartily, not thinking it necessary to tell her that,
judging by his own talk with Dr. Girard, the latter’s opinion of the
maid was not seriously shaken. It was just as well, according to the
doctor, to supplant Jeanne, or at least to supplement her services by
professional ones, but on the whole she seemed to him a devoted,
obstinate servant, a person of one idea, unwilling to admit herself in
error, as the unfortunate mouse episode proved. She had been on a
long, severe strain at a time of life when a woman’s nerves are apt to
prove uncertain; moreover, quite possibly she had a touch of the _type
hystérique_ in her make-up, which would account for many
peculiarities. This was his pronouncement, uttered sanely, without
rancour. He struck Geoffrey as an intelligent and well-meaning man,
kindly disposed towards Catherine, but withal anxious to be just.
Coming out of a brief reverie, Geoffrey again attacked the subject of
Elspeth’s invitation.
“If, as you say, Jeanne means to get off as soon as she hears from her
brother, then obviously you ought to lose no time over your own visit.
What about Saturday? Do you think you’ll be well enough by then?”
She remained quite still for a few moments, her brows knit over
troubled eyes which avoided his gaze.
“I don’t like being hurried into a thing,” she murmured presently,
trying to take a light tone.
“My dear!” he laughed, but was plainly annoyed. “Don’t you realize
you’ve been deucedly ill, and that the doctor says it’s most important
for you to have a change?”
She gave him a scornful look.
“I realize he said that before he’d seen me at all,” she retorted.
“Besides, I always pick up with amazing speed. No, that doesn’t mean
anything,” she added, as he spread her thin, olive-tinted hand out on
his palm and traced the bones with a significant finger. “I can gain
that back in a fortnight. Anyhow, I don’t intend to go, so that’s
that,” she finished, her chin stubborn.
“Why?”
She resented the fashion in which the question was shot at her. How
could she put into words the rather preposterous idea which was
wandering about in her brain, seeking confirmation? Already she had
exposed herself to sufficient ridicule.
“The same old reasons, I suppose,” she admitted reluctantly. “I don’t
want to leave Germaine till Jeanne is away.”
He exclaimed in exasperation, giving her hand a squeeze which made her
wince.
“Catherine, you’re impossible! Can’t you see it will be only for such
a short time that it can’t make any difference to anyone? That you’ll
come home feeling strong and able to cope with things? I’ve no
patience with you. You deserve a smacking.”
“Who’s going to inflict it?” she laughed at him.
He hesitated, eyeing her sternly.
“I am. I made up my mind what I should do if you took up this
unreasonable stand. I’m going to resort to pressure.”
She could not be sure whether he were joking or serious.
“That sounds like a threat,” she said lightly.
“It is. Here’s the situation in a nutshell. The doctor has definitely
ordered you to go away from Paris. If you refuse, I shall simply send
a cablegram to your family in Boston and tell them the whole story.”
She stared at him, drawing in her breath.
“You don’t mean that. You couldn’t do it.”
“Why not?”
“For one thing,” she said, laughing, “you don’t know their address.”
He smiled confidently.
“I have already got your brother-in-law’s cable address, which shows
how much you know about it. I intend to send a night-letter outlining
the position.”
He meant it, that was plain. In a flash she foresaw the appalling row
which would ensue when Barbara and John learned what was going on
here, realizing that her own silence on the subject would make a bad
matter worse. Barbara could not compel her to return to America, but
she could stir up a deal of trouble. The prospect frightened her.
Geoffrey saw her eyes smoulder with indignation, but he did not give
in an inch.
“Think it over,” he said calmly. “I’ll give you till to-morrow
morning, but no longer.”
Without rhyme or reason a quick change came over her face. Her mouth
softened into a smile wholly disarming, her eyes shone at him through
a mist as she answered with a catch in her voice.
“Very well. I’ll go. Tell Elspeth, if you like, to expect me on
Saturday.”
“Good girl!”
The abrupt capitulation took the wind out of his sails. With a laugh
he bent his head and kissed the hand he held, outside and in.
“But mind, it’s only because you’re being so horrid to me,” she warned
him reproachfully. “And remember I haven’t promised anything
about--you know what.”
With a deep breath he relinquished the imprisoned hand.
“I understand.”
Now she had made the decision her brain was working feverishly.
“I must put certain things right before I go. Germaine will have to
make it up with Hermione, so there will be someone to keep an eye on
Jeanne. I think I can manage that though. Will you ask her to come and
see me?”
“Miss Cushing? Certainly, if you think it a good idea.”
Why did he hesitate in that embarrassed manner? Had she said anything
wrong?
“Don’t, if you’d rather not. I’ll drop her a line.”
“No, no. I’ll telephone her. I was only thinking that in your present
wobbly state she might prove slightly overpowering.”
He was a bad liar, and consequently became disturbingly self-conscious
when her eyes rested on him thoughtfully. Had she guessed that he was
feeling more than a little queer about Hermione?
It was nothing serious, of course, but all the same an incident had
occurred that very afternoon to sow doubts in his mind regarding the
singer and set him once more struggling against a crop of peculiar
surmises.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Geoffrey earnestly hoped his stupidity about Miss Cushing had passed
unnoticed. Seriously concerned over Catherine, his one idea was to get
her quickly and safely into his sister’s care, a project easily
jeopardized if one introduced her to fresh worries.
Besides, the information recently obtained might prove of no
importance, though he had to admit it had given him a jar.
Two hours ago he had had his first talk with the senior clerk since
the latter’s illness, and questioning him about Blom’s visit to the
office had received a somewhat startling reply.
“I recall the fellow,” the old man had said at once. “Rénier was the
name he gave, and he came on a rather delicate mission, respecting one
of our clients--in fact Mme. Belmont Bender. He wanted to know if this
lady had executed a will.”
“Why should he wish to know that?” Geoffrey had demanded,
suspiciously.
“He was acting on behalf of another lady, who, as she is a personal
friend of Mme. Bender’s, felt a natural hesitancy in approaching us on
the matter. It seems this individual has hopes of inheriting something
substantial in the event of Madame’s decease, and was anxious to learn
if the bequest had been put into legal form. Rénier also inquired the
terms of Mr. Bender’s own will, and as the request appeared a harmless
one I informed him that Mr. Bender had left the whole of his property
unconditionally to his widow. That was all.”
Geoffrey’s mind had leaped to the conclusion that Jeanne, fearing her
mistress had stolen a march on her, had taken this roundabout means of
learning the truth.
“I suppose you don’t know who the client was?” he asked.
“Oh, but I do. It seems she is an American lady by the name of
Cushing.”
Hermione! Geoffrey had sprung from his chair, all his previous ideas
in confusion.
“Yes, Miss Cushing, the singer. I heard her once, at the Salle
Erard--a large woman, with a wreath of rosebuds on her hair. No kind
of voice, but I believe she has an influential connection.…”
Feeling as though he had doubled on his own tracks, Geoffrey had
departed, chagrined and mortified. The revelation that the mysterious
Blom was acting for Hermione shocked him curiously. Was it possible
that under cover of pretended hatred the singer was in collusion with
Mme. Bender’s servants? For a wild moment he asked himself if Miss
Cushing herself was concerned in the thefts, using Blom as a
go-between. It was a monstrous thought.
Going over the circumstances he felt it could not be true. The singer
bore a blameless character, and moreover had herself asked him frankly
about this will some time ago. In any case as a _femme de monde_ she
would not be likely to employ a common _notaire_. Then, too, it was
she who had first dropped hints of the servants’ possible dishonesty,
a proceeding manifestly absurd if she was in league with them towards
a mercenary end.
The only other explanation was that Blom was representing Jeanne, and
had substituted Miss Cushing’s name to hide his client’s identity.
Ah, that must be it! The maid was plotting to establish herself as her
mistress’s legatee!
Ambitious, yes--but it was not the first time such a thing had been
done. Possibly Jeanne’s protestations were so much dust in the eyes of
onlookers, while she played a devious game to obtain her object. To
alienate the poor woman from her friends by doubts cast upon their
disinterestedness, to work upon her affections by subtle degrees--did
it not all point in one certain direction?
This was what he had feared in the beginning, only Catherine’s
statement had put him off the track. Now he was filled with a new
uneasiness, which was relieved only when he recalled the fact that
Jeanne was undoubtedly profiting by her mistress’s present condition.
Yes, he had overlooked that point. There was as yet no talk of a will,
and whatever the maid’s secret intentions might be she was pocketing
all she could lay hands on. He breathed again.
Still--Miss Cushing! Her name stuck in his mind like a burr. Perhaps
she did have an obscure connection with Blom, who, innocent of
thieving, might be acting in a quite different capacity from the one
first suspected.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed in annoyance. “If that is so the man may be
trying to protect Mme. Bender instead of defrauding her, in which case
I have sent Bernard off on a goose-chase!”
For, although he had not mentioned it to Catherine, he had just
instructed the agent to go to Bordeaux, with the idea of making
inquiries into the _notaire’s_ visit in that city three months ago. It
now began to look as though the mission might lead to nothing.
However, in the main, events were shaping towards the desired end.
With Jeanne away, there would be an opportunity for searching the
apartment and ascertaining the exact state of affairs. Meanwhile, they
would probably be able to frame a definite charge against the two
servants and remove them from their posts. Altogether things looked
promising.
When he opened the door of his own flat, his father called out to him
from the library.
“Come in for a moment, Geoffrey. I’ve something which may interest
you.”
Sunlight gilded the book-lined walls, a wood fire burned on the
hearth, and a pot of blue hyacinths bore witness to a visit from
Elspeth. Macadam Senior, seated in a worn leather chair, was turning
over a sheaf of papers, his glasses perched on the tip of his nose.
“It’s this Bender business again. I’ve got hold of Harry Bender’s
pass-book and all the details I can assemble regarding his movements
prior to his death. There’s no record of a picture-sale, nor any
unidentified deposit large enough to correspond with one. If he did
dispose of those paintings, he must have received cash, which he
failed to pay in to his account.”
“He never sold them,” declared Geoffrey shortly.
“Not so fast. You may be right, but one mustn’t jump to conclusions.
Suppose, for example, Bender wanted to make a payment in some quarter
in such a way that it could not be traced? In the event, let us say,
of such a thing as an entanglement with a woman?”
“Did you ever hear of any entanglement?” demanded his son bluntly.
“I admit not, but my ignorance proves nothing. Mind, I only state a
possibility.”
Geoffrey lit a cigarette and threw the match into the fire.
“I don’t believe he would have parted with the Manet. He would have
found the money in some other way.”
His father made no comment.
“Well, then, I’ve had a talk with Ellsworth, the manager of Mme.
Bender’s bank, to find out if any use has been made of that duplicate
key. It was used, only a few days later, by the maid herself.”
“The devil it was!” exclaimed the young man sharply.
“Yes--but everything was quite in order. It seems Ellsworth received a
note from Mme Bender saying she wished to exchange her string of
pearls, which she felt nervous about keeping in the apartment, for the
copy then in the bank, and proposed sending her maid to attend to the
matter.”
“Stop a moment--you say the _copy_ was kept at the bank? Surely that’s
a bit absurd?”
“She explained that. Apparently no one but herself was aware that the
pearls in her possession were the genuine ones, as for safety’s sake
she had always pretended they were the copy. She had given up wearing
them, because their lustre was suffering from her low state of health,
but she wanted the imitations to keep up the deception.”
“I see,” replied Geoffrey rather blankly.
“Foreseeing the chance of a hoax, Ellsworth himself telephoned to Mme.
Bender and was assured by her that the maid was completely to be
trusted. The next day Laborie appeared, was conducted by one of the
clerks into the vaults, made the exchange and went away. The clerk
watched her closely and saw nothing amiss. The two strings were
identical, the copy having a clasp of real diamonds set in platinum.”
Geoffrey frowned incredulously.
“You say the manager spoke to Mme. Bender herself? He recognized her
voice?”
“Certainly--he’s known her for years.”
“I suppose I ought to be satisfied, but it seems odd for all that,”
declared Geoffrey, moving about restlessly. For the life of him he
could not reconcile Mme. Bender’s action on this occasion with her
recent helplessness. His eyes narrowed in thought. “See here,” he said
suddenly. “When Miss West asked about that key only last week, her
cousin disclaimed all knowledge of it. At least she appeared not to
recollect until the maid reminded her. Doesn’t that strike you as
queer?”
“And nothing was said about changing the necklace?”
“Not a word.”
The elder man wiped his glasses upon a silk handkerchief, then rubbed
the bridge of his nose exasperatedly.
“I give it up,” he said briefly, adding after a moment: “Either her
memory is subject to lapses, or she was displaying a sort of cunning
in keeping the matter dark. There’s no accounting for the vagaries of
neurasthenics.”
Geoffrey was silent. A voice whispered to him that these were the
pearls Hermione Cushing considered as hers by right, at least when her
friend should die. She had assured him they were safe in the bank.
“Where that woman can’t be tempted by them,” had been her exact words.
For the second time misgivings assailed him. Was the story about the
copy a true one? Suppose there was some fraud, with Miss Cushing at
the back of it?
“Still, Ellsworth recognized Mme. Bender’s voice, so she evidently
approved of the transaction. That much is fairly certain, so why
bother?”
At the same time he added to himself that it was a blessing Catherine
knew nothing about it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Fontainebleau…
It was evening. Elspeth was bidding her children good night, Clement
Baxter, her husband, was rummaging in search of some etchings, in the
adjacent studio. Four candles in silver candelabra flickered upon the
bare waxed refectory table, their yellow flames casting deep wells of
shadow. The curtains were yet undrawn, and through the long windows,
square-paned and arched at the top, could be seen the walled garden,
fresh and still in the gathering dusk. At the back stood a row of
lime-trees with clusters of snowy blossom, whose fragrance stole into
the room, penetratingly sweet.
Catherine gave a deep sigh, and nestled further back into the pale
cushioned _bergère_. It was with a little start that she discovered
Geoffrey beside her, holding out his cigarette-case.
“Not too tired, I hope?” he inquired in an undertone.
She shook her head, smiling.
“Only blissfully comatose. I don’t want to move so much as a finger.
It is heavenly just being here.”
She glanced about the agreeable room with appreciation. Everything
about it pleased her. The colours, the space, the very perfection with
which the pictures were hung brought balm to her troubled spirit, so
that she felt content to lie without thinking and drink in the beauty
and tranquillity.
“You’re not sorry you came, then?”
“Sorry?” She shook her head. “I’m glad. It’s good to be away from--all
that.”
He hung about anxiously.
“And the drive here wasn’t too much for you? It’s been a bit of a day
for anyone just out of bed.”
“I’m all right. I expect to have ten full hours’ sleep to-night.
That’s what an idiot requires, isn’t it?” she added, laughing.
She was still very pale, but her attitude showed that her nerves were
beginning to relax. To-morrow he meant to keep her outdoors as much as
possible so that the air might bring her colour back.
“That’s right, Philomène--put the coffee on the hearth. Madame will
be here in a moment.”
The maid set the coffee, foaming in a copper pot, upon a tripod close
to the log fire. The tray, bearing majolica cups of blue, green and
orange, she placed on an oak stool, then she moved away to close the
curtains. When her back was turned Geoffrey laid his brown hand
lightly upon Catherine’s white one, where it rested listlessly on the
arm of the chair. She let it remain for a second, feeling her own
tingle with the warmth of his touch, then as Elspeth’s step approached
she drew it gently away.
“Coffee, you two?”
Elspeth bent over the hearth and lifted the copper pot. Her bronze
head shone in the firelight, her blue frock made a pleasant splash of
colour. She had the fresh complexion of her brother as well as his
heavy brows, slightly modified, and her grey eyes, honest and candid,
held a sparkle of humour.
“Not for me, thanks,” replied Catherine. “I’ve been sleeping rather
badly for the first time in my life, and I don’t want anything to
spoil the marvellous rest I mean to have.” Elspeth surveyed her
critically as she handed a cup to her brother.
“Then you’d better have a cup of my _tilleul_. See, I’ve got some
here. I always take it after dinner. It’s supposed to be soothing for
the nerves.”
As she spoke she took up a little teapot from the tray and held it
poised above a cup. Catherine shook her head.
“_Tilleul_? Oh, no, if you don’t mind, I won’t take any. I’ve only
tasted it once--last Monday when I was feeling so rotten--and I’m
afraid I rather hated it.”
“Did you? I think it’s good stuff.”
“It seemed to me bitter and--queer,” explained Catherine
apologetically.
Her hostess looked surprised.
“Bitter? It couldn’t have been _tilleul_, then. Why, it’s only
lime-flowers, you know. We make our own. Can’t you smell the lime now,
from the trees in the garden?”
Catherine hesitated. The taste of the drink Jeanne had given her came
disagreeably before her, mingled with memories of racking pain. She
could not associate it with the honeyed odour of the blossoms outside.
“Let me try some of yours,” she said. “It may seem different now.”
She took the cup of pale amber liquid, upon whose surface floated a
few tiny petals. A pleasant aroma rose as she sipped.
“Why--it’s delicious!” she exclaimed, astonished.
“I think so. Anyhow, it won’t keep you awake.”
Catherine drank it slowly, then leaned back among the cushions,
slightly puzzled. This concoction seemed totally unlike the other. She
could almost swear it was not the same thing at all. Had her illness
made such a difference? It was true that on the wretched morning in
question nothing had tasted as it should. Even her coffee had not been
quite as usual, though she had supposed the berries to have been
scorched.…
Oh, well, that was all over. Nothing mattered now. She was very tired,
more so then she wished Geoffrey to know, and the thought of bed was
pleasant to her.
The past few days had been rather nerve-racking. She had had the task
of re-establishing Mme. Bender and Hermione upon terms of friendship,
at the same time avoiding friction with Jeanne, so that she now felt
as though she had been steering a frail barque between Scylla and
Charybdis. Jeanne, she was forced to admit, had proved unexpectedly
amenable, but the strain had proved severe up till the moment of
departure.
Jeanne! She still marvelled at the improvement in her. Why, the woman
had actually offered to pack her bags, had smiled on her from the
doorway this afternoon and called out, “_Bon voyage, mademoiselle!
Soignez-vous bien!_” with the utmost good-nature. A wave of shamed
compunction swept over the girl as she thought of what she planned to
do on her return to the apartment. If her late enemy even faintly
guessed her intentions she could not have borne herself with such
cheerful composure.
Meantime it was delightful to lie here in the candlelight, to listen
to the conversation without taking an active part in it, and watch
drowsily the three people in the glow of the fire--Elspeth cool and
steady-eyed, Clement Baxter sandy and thin, sucking an old briar and
recounting droll incidents of Paris life in a drawling voice, and
Geoffrey at her elbow, his face shadowed but turned, she knew, towards
her own with a steadiness which soothed her vanity and made her feel
as a cat does when its fur is stroked by a firm hand. She was wrapped
in a sense of extraordinary peace.
In the morning she was roused by the twitter of children and the voice
of their nurse trying vainly to keep them silent. It was not yet time
for her breakfast to arrive, but she was rested and refreshed, all the
faculties which last evening had lain dormant now vividly alert.
All at once she began to think over her recent illness and to wonder
about it. Strange that she had slept peacefully the night before, that
nothing had happened till after she had got up. Did that mean the
poison from the oysters took all that time to make itself felt, or was
it that… Oh, of course, it couldn’t have been the coffee! How
impossible! And yet, there certainly had been a bitter tang about it,
which curiously enough had some quality in common with the hot drink
she had taken later on. Or was she imagining things?
Her mind went back to the young doctor’s insistent questions, his
accusing manner, and again it occurred to her that perhaps Jeanne had
purposely given him a wrong idea.
But why on earth should she do such a thing? Why should she want him
to believe what was not true, that is, unless----
Suddenly it struck her that there was a possible reason. Jeanne might
conceivably have taken this attitude if she herself was aware of the
real cause of the attack, and was eager to put the doctor off the
scent. It sounded wild, but was it altogether out of the range of
possibility?
Arrested by this new view of the case, she set herself to recall in
detail everything which had occurred on Monday morning, from the time
she waked up. Berthe, she remembered, had been very late, had the look
of having hurried into her clothes. At the time she had even wondered
that the woman had been up in time to make the coffee. Perhaps, for
that matter, Berthe had not made it. It might have been Jeanne.
A shiver ran through her. Yes, the pains had come on a little while
after she had drunk the coffee, and had increased in violence
following the cup of supposed _tilleul_--which since last night she
knew was either not _tilleul_ at all, or else had some strong
substance mingled with it to alter its flavour. Could all this mean
that Jeanne had deliberately introduced something into the two cups of
liquid with the purpose of making her ill? Not poison--no, the doctor
had laughed at the suggestion. Medicine, a drug of some sort.…
She shook herself angrily. “What absolute nonsense! What a fool I am
to invent such an improbable story!”
Granting it were true, she could not imagine any motive for such an
act. Easy to call it pure malevolence, but people did not go about
doing things like that for the fun of it.
She pondered deeply, feeling her heart beat as it had done so many
times since the attack, whenever she became a little agitated. Slowly
and uneasily the conviction stole upon her that she was a pawn in a
game, moved about against her will and made to do things she had had
no intention of doing. Was it possible that in coming away she had
simply been following out a course of action designed by Jeanne
herself? Was her illness a preliminary step towards it?
She saw again how the way had been smoothed, her objections removed
one by one. Jeanne’s good nature and reasonableness, the armistice
between her and Hermione, the whole new air of complaisance which had
transformed the household during the last few days--oh, surely it was
too good to be true! In fact, during the entire week the maid’s
attitude towards her had been altered, beginning with--when exactly
did it begin?--yes, _from the time when she had found the flowers in
Mme. Bender’s room_.
She became so nervous that it was all she could do to keep from
springing out of bed.
“Yes, I am sure of it! She wanted to get me away from Germaine. She’s
afraid of me, that’s what it is! She knows I have made it up with the
poor thing, and she’s terrified of the consequences. Is that because
she thinks I may expose her? Or because Germaine may get too fond of
me? Is it jealousy again?”
It must be partly that, she concluded. Yet it could mean only a petty
triumph to the schemer, a small result for so much plotting. A
week--there was comfort in the thought. Nothing was likely to go far
wrong in so short a time. Besides, Hermione would be there daily, glad
to watch over her friend. Not much would escape her suspicious eye.
Her _petit déjeuner_ arrived, deliciously appetizing, with a plate of
huge strawberries and a little jug of cream. Philomène, a genial
soul, beamed upon her.
“_Mademoiselle a une meilleure mine ce matin_,” she declared, eyeing
Catherine with interest, adding that the air at Fontainebleau was very
bracing and would bring her an appetite. Madame had sent a message to
say mademoiselle was to rest as long as she liked, that no one
expected her to appear before _déjeuner_. Perhaps she would care to
lie in a deck-chair in the garden. The sun was beautiful now, the
birds singing.
However, Catherine did not want to rest. The idea had come to her that
she would feel more comfortable if she could telephone through to
Paris and inquire after Mme. Bender, just to see that everything was
as it should be. Foolish, perhaps, but there could be no harm in
making sure.
As soon as she had bathed and put on a pale grey jumper-suit with a
band of green about the hips--a dress she somehow felt Geoffrey would
like--she slipped into the living-room to negotiate a trunk-call,
feeling just a trifle guilty, and glad that the room was deserted.
“_Elysée zére zéro deux dix.…_”
She was lucky in not having to wait long for the connection. In only a
few minutes the bell summoned her, and picking up the receiver she
heard a man’s gruff voice saying, “_Allô, allô!_” It was Eduardo.
“Eduardo, this is Miss West speaking. I wanted to know how madame is
this morning. Can you tell me?”
She caught an indistinct mumble, then there was silence. He had
departed, no doubt to fetch Jeanne. She pressed the receiver to her
ear in slight suspense, waiting. Presently a faint, gentle voice spoke
over the wire:
“_Allô, allô… qui est là?_”
Catherine started so that she nearly dropped the receiver. _The voice
which addressed her was Germaine’s._
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
For a single instant her heart almost stopped beating. Germaine at
the telephone? But this was impossible! Yet it was unmistakably her
voice. Confused ideas rushed headlong upon her, instinctive attempts
to supply an explanation for the phenomenon. At the same time she was
so paralysed from shock that speech deserted her, and she could only
gasp, clutching the receiver in a hard grip. When the pause had become
noticeable, the voice at the other end of the line spoke again, this
time with impatience:
“_Allô! C’est de la part de qui? Est-ce que c’est Mademoiselle West
qui parle?_”
_Mademoiselle West!_ A second shock neutralized the first, leaving her
weak. So it was not Germaine at all, but Jeanne herself. Jeanne--but
with a tone, an accent indistinguishable from those of her mistress!
What an amazing similarity! Never before had Catherine noticed it, but
then never till now had she spoken to the woman over the telephone.
People’s voices played strange tricks over the wire.…
All this passed rapidly through her brain as she forced herself to
reply calmly:
“Yes, yes, Jeanne. I only want to know if madame passed a good night,
and is feeling well this morning?”
The answer came promptly, with reassuring emphasis:
“But certainly, mademoiselle, everything is going marvellously well!
Madame is quite cheerful, and looking forward to seeing Mademoiselle
Cushing this afternoon. You need have no concern for her.”
Replacing the instrument, Catherine sank on the nearest chair. What a
turn that deceptive voice had given her! She had been totally
unprepared for it, simply because she had never before spoken to
Jeanne over the telephone. She could not get over the startling
illusion.
Growing calmer, she recalled that this was not the first time she had
noticed a similarity between a maid’s voice and that of her mistress.
Indeed, she knew that the conscious or unconscious aping of an
employer’s speech is a fairly familiar phenomenon. That in this case
it was unintentional she felt almost sure, for why should Jeanne want
to deceive her?
A step in the doorway made her jump with a nervous start. Geoffrey,
fresh in grey flannels, stood before her.
“What’s this--up already? Why--is anything wrong?”
She sprang up, smiling at him.
“Of course not! I’ve been telephoning to inquire about Mme. Bender,
that’s all.”
His keen eyes searched her face.
“You look as though you had seen a ghost.”
Laughing apologetically, she explained what had happened.
“The most amazing likeness--inflection, tone, everything. I could have
sworn it was Germaine.”
He stared at her hard as though puzzled.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed under his breath, and then again, “By
Jove!”--in a manner betokening a sudden revelation.
“Is anything wrong about it?” she inquired curiously.
He shook his head.
“No, only it struck me as queer.”
She was unconvinced, but said no more till they had wandered out into
the garden and seated themselves on a bench beneath the lime-trees.
Then, seeing that he was distrait, his brow furrowed in perplexity,
she attacked him boldly.
“Geoffrey, you can’t fool me. What is it you’ve got in your mind?”
“Nothing important--I swear it. Hardly worth mentioning.”
“What a bad liar you are! You ought not to be a lawyer if you can’t
hide your feelings better than that.”
He laughed.
“Are you praising or condemning me?”
“Never mind which. I’m determined to know what you are thinking.”
“Catherine, you’re incorrigible! If I don’t tell you everything, it’s
because you are so quick to worry over trifles.”
“I shall worry ten times more over this trifle if I don’t know what it
is.”
Seeing that she was in earnest, he gave in reluctantly and in a few
words related what he had learned about Jeanne and the bank manager.
“I should not have given it much thought if you hadn’t mentioned this
trick about the voices. Now I am naturally asking myself if Ellsworth
didn’t mistake Jeanne’s voice for Mme. Bender’s.”
She leaped up with a feverish light in her eyes.
“You say she took the pearls away with her?”
“Calmly, my dear! Only the copy The actual necklace is in the bank
now.”
She quivered with excitement, her brain working rapidly.
“But don’t you see? The whole affair is probably a fraud. I am quite
sure Germaine has not spoken on the telephone for many months, and as
for the note supposed to have come from her, couldn’t it have been a
forgery? By the way, was it written by hand, or typewritten and simply
signed?”
“I’m ashamed to say I didn’t inquire, but I will do so.”
It was a searching question. To copy or trace a mere signature
presented fewer difficulties than forging an entire letter, yet both
he and his father had overlooked the point. He wondered if the note
was still on file, as well as the one in which Mme. Bender had applied
for the new key.
“Still, if all the woman did was to take out a string of imitation
pearls----”
She turned on him with withering scorn.
“You poor innocent! Have you ever seen a really good copy of an actual
pearl necklace? You couldn’t tell it was imitation. I couldn’t. Only
an expert would know the difference, and a bank clerk is no expert.
No, the more I think of it the surer I am that Jeanne put the copy
into the box and took away the real ones!”
No good trying to smooth down her ruffled feathers. He could only
stand abashed by her ruthless argument.
“She’s stolen them, Geoffrey--I know she has! Even now they are
probably disposed of, one by one. Oh! to think what the wretched
creature has been up to, while we’ve looked quietly on.”
“We are not sure of this yet, you know,” he reminded her. “Besides, it
happened before you arrived in Paris, so you can’t reproach yourself.”
She seemed not to hear him, staring before her unseeingly. A breeze
stirred the lime trees, sifting a few petals down upon her dark hair
where they rested like snowflakes. Gently he put both hands on her
arms and pressed her down upon the seat.
“You may be right. I’ve a suspicion myself that there’s been mischief
going on. But as far as the pearls are concerned, we can do nothing
without a statement from your cousin. We can’t open her private box
and examine its contents. Do you think we ought to tell her what we
believe?”
She looked at him dumbly.
“I daren’t risk it,” she murmured after a pause. “The shock might kill
her. Later, when Jeanne is away and we have got her into a more normal
frame of mind, I might sound her on the subject.”
“I thought you’d say that. It’s a question of which is more
important--Mme. Bender’s recovery, or the loss of something she can
well afford to part with.”
She nodded, her face filled with painful doubt.
“Those were Hermione’s pearls. What a blow it will mean to her!”
“Never mind Hermione,” he retorted with slight impatience. “What we’ve
got to be careful about now is to see that Mme. Bender does not
execute some fantastic will, leaving her property to Jeanne.”
Her eyes widened in alarm.
“Then you think that is what she is up to?”
“I do. I’ve come to believe that her pretending other people are after
her mistress’s money is merely a blind.”
“But why----? I don’t understand. She seems to be actually trying to
prevent her from making her will.”
“So she is--now. That is because she’s afraid the money would go to
someone else. But I am pretty certain she pictures herself ultimately
as the fortunate legatee.”
“Good heavens!” cried the girl, jumping up in fresh agitation. “Then
I’d better hurry back at once!”
He laughed at her look of fright.
“It’s not so bad as all that. Even if the will were drawn up it
wouldn’t be irrevocable, and besides I fancy Miss Cushing will act as
a restraining influence while you are away.”
“That is so,” she admitted thoughtfully. “What a blessing I managed to
make it up between them! No, I suppose there’s no danger at the
moment. For that matter, Jeanne’s practically beaten, although she has
used every possible weapon against me. Why, I almost believe she…”
She checked herself abruptly, on the verge of relating the notion
which had just come to her regarding her illness. If Geoffrey believed
it to be true he would certainly try to prevent her going back. His
recent conquest over her will made her nervous of a second encounter.
Fortunately he did not notice her sudden pause.
“There’s one thing we can do,” he remarked. “We can submit those
letters of Mme. Bender’s to a handwriting expert, and determine if
they’re genuine. If they turn out to be forgeries, we can arrest
Jeanne on the spot.”
“Oh! I hadn’t thought of that! What a marvellous idea!”
He was not feeling particularly brilliant. Here, obviously, was
something he ought to have considered days ago.
“Of course it’s possible the letters have been destroyed, but we’ll
hope for the best, I’ll see to it the first thing to-morrow. Come
along now,” he said, pulling her to her feet. “We’ve a couple of hours
before lunch. Let’s take a drive through the forest. I’ve brought the
car round.”
They spent the rest of the morning exploring the leafy fastnesses,
winding their way along cloistered roads, where immense trees
interlaced overhead. Occasionally they came on patches of warm sand
heaped with rugged boulders, amethyst in the shade, then plunged back
again into the cool green depths of woodland, silent but for distant
bird-calls. Once in a clearing they surprised a group of villagers in
Sunday attire, dancing out-of-date steps to the thin strains of a few
stringed instruments. The tunes, simple and sugary, like all popular
French music, reminded Catherine of an old musical-box, while the
entire scene was singularly charming in its total absence of
sophistication. Far through the forest sounded the tinkling notes,
punctuated by singing and laughter.
It was a relief to Catherine that Geoffrey did not refer to the
question he had put to her a little more than a week ago. Sometimes
she fancied he was on the brink of doing so, but always the momentary
tension passed with the words unspoken. She did not yet know her mind,
and conscious of physical languor wanted simply to let herself drift,
absorbing the beauty and peace of the spring day. There was ample time
to decide, provided her companion’s sentiments did not alter--and she
was sure from the look in his eyes that there was little likelihood of
that.
It was not until she was alone that evening that she permitted her
thoughts to return to Mme. Bender. Then it was that she remembered the
letter, written by her cousin in February, just before she planned to
leave for Paris. Here was a genuine instance of the invalid’s
handwriting which might prove of value to the expert Geoffrey intended
to consult. It was still in the back pocket of her bag. She read it
over once again, then enclosed it in a note to Geoffrey who was
leaving too early in the morning for her to see him.
As she made ready for bed she found herself wondering uneasily what
was going on in her absence, and whether Jeanne was using the
opportunity to press her impudent claims. What a leech she was! She
was doing her utmost to suck her victim dry, always under cover of
intense devotion. Nothing more detestable could be conceived.…
Yet was she alone in her infamous designs? Was there some guiding
intelligence in the background, thinking for her, actuating her
conduct? More than once this idea had occurred to her vaguely, yet
except for the definite instances of theft, she could not think of any
way in which the woman could have an associate other than the stupid
Eduardo. The little _notaire_ might be helping her to dispose of
stolen objects, but did he play any other part? According to Geoffrey,
the man bore an impeccable reputation.
Thinking this over, she stood by her window gazing out into the dark
garden below. Along the wall the inky shapes of the lime-trees stirred
and whispered together, while at the far corner, aloof from the rest,
a small, malformed hornbeam stood remote. Its stunted trunk and
branches like antennæ seemed to her distorted fancy like a gigantic
spider watchful in the centre of an invisible web. Almost she could
imagine that the other trees were prisoners, spellbound in the evil
power of this misshapen creature.…
“_It didn’t move--just stayed still and watched me… there were flies
tangled in the web.…_”
She could hear again the little _grisette’s_ shrill voice uttering the
words. Geoffrey had laughed at her, but she had never been able to get
the haunting impression out of her mind. Even now, when a black cloud
blotted out the moon, she could feel the presence of something coldly
insensate and grasping, lying in wait to drain its captives’ blood.
She swept the curtains together with a jerk. What a childish idea!
Besides, there was no positive danger, could be none. She had thrashed
the whole thing out to her satisfaction.
Yet the face she turned to the mirror was pale, the eyes dilated with
speculative dread.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Geoffrey lost no time in getting hold of Mme. Bender’s notes,
neither of which had been destroyed. The bank manager expressed some
astonishment at being asked for the one in his possession, but
produced it readily, remarking as he did so:
“Your father has already mentioned this matter to me, Mr. Macadam. Is
it possible you think there’s some hanky-panky about it?”
“I trust not. I will let you know what we find out.”
“I observed the usual formalities. It’s hard to see how there could be
any fraud.”
“It’s no fault of yours if there was. But knowing something of Mme.
Bender’s state of health, it seems to us unlikely for her to have
spoken on the telephone at any recent time.”
The manager started slightly.
“I could swear it was her voice. You believe it may have been someone
impersonating her?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Ellsworth, a confident man with a smooth round face and pince-nez,
looked decidedly perturbed. He fidgeted with a waistcoat button,
letting his gaze stray round the room, then as though struck by a
bright idea brought his plump hand down on the desk with a bang.
“Surely, my dear fellow, the simplest course to pursue is to ask Mme.
Bender straight out whether she did or did not sanction the
transaction.”
“It’s less easy than you think. First, we do not want to agitate her,
and second, she happens to be in a state where, to put it crudely, one
cannot rely upon her word as conclusive evidence.”
The manager’s pale eyebrows shot up.
“Dear me! You mean she is----” He stopped, touching his forehead
significantly.
“At least her condition is such that we have to act without her
knowledge or consent.” Geoffrey spoke cautiously, as he examined the
sheet of grey note-paper. “Typewritten.” He murmured with
disappointment. “Still, the signature is distinctive.”
The sloping, spidery hand had the typical character of most French
caligraphy. As soon as he was alone he compared it with the letter
received from Catherine, only to find his unpractised eye unable to
detect any differences. Enclosing the three specimens in an envelope,
he despatched them in Henri’s care to the expert, with a request for a
speedy opinion.
On Wednesday he motored again to Fontainebleau, where he found
Catherine much improved in strength and spirits. However, he had only
a few minutes alone with her, and his ardour was damped by the feeling
that she was far more interested in what he had to tell her than in
himself. An evasive manner and a touch of unexpected shyness depressed
him, causing him to wonder if she were trying to prepare him for a
definite refusal. Had she thought things over and come to the
conclusion that she could not love him? He was ready to swear at
himself for fatuously expecting too much.
When he took his departure, it was Elspeth who followed him out to his
car.
“Poor old boy,” she murmured as he put his hand on the starter.
“Aren’t things going too well for you?”
“What in heaven’s name do you mean?” he demanded, reddening savagely
and brushing off her caressing touch.
She laughed with a touch of feminine malice.
“Never mind--it will do you good,” she replied enigmatically. “You’ve
had it all your own way far too long. She’s worth a struggle, and I
wish you luck. I can’t say more, can I?”
So they all knew he had been captured at last! No wonder, the truth
must be written all over him. Desire had laid hold of him so
powerfully that he could scarcely eat or sleep, much less take an
interest in anything which did not concern the object of his hopes.
Life without Catherine--! It was a prospect of slow starvation.
So entirely engrossed was he by his personal problem that the letter
received the following day from Bordeaux came as a distinct surprise.
He had for the time being forgotten Bernard’s mission, from which, in
the light of his recent conclusions, he expected little result.
As he read his face altered. The agent had traced Blom to the Hôtel
des Negociants, where he had apparently spent a few days early in
February, afterwards moving on successively to several small towns in
the district. The quest had been difficult owing to the fact that the
_notaire_ had in each case left no address, so that it was only by
dint of many inquiries that his movements became known. In each of the
towns visited he had passed several days, but it had been impossible
to find out how he had filled in his time, except that he appeared to
have examined into various local records of births, deaths and
marriages--a pursuit legitimately compatible with his profession. So
far Bernard had discovered nothing to connect the man with any
nefarious dealings, or anything other than a rather aimless pottering
about.
“Yet I am not satisfied,” concluded the writer. “I am inclined to
think that all this activity among the archives was intended to cover
up his real business. If he carried any unframed canvases, he could
easily have concealed them in his normal luggage, and my idea is that
somewhere in this neighbourhood he has hidden them in a secret
_cache_. I have one or two lines of inquiry to follow up, and will let
you know if anything develops.”
Geoffrey lit a cigarette and pondered the matter, reflecting that it
seemed impossible to catch the _notaire_ at anything shady. What could
be farther removed from picture-thieving than this harmless poking
into provincial archives? But for the two known facts testifying
against him, one would be tempted to declare him a wholly spotless
character. However, those facts stood out like black question marks,
demanding an answer. The man had undoubtedly held a violent dispute
over the contents of Mme. Bender’s picture-gallery, and he had paid a
visit to the Macadam office under an assumed name, inquiring into Mme.
Bender’s affairs. Plainly he was up to something he wished to keep
secret.
“Decidedly a dark horse,” concluded Geoffrey, with annoyance. “Indeed,
we should never have known of his existence at all if Catherine had
not seen him that first evening and later recognized him as the
milliner’s fiancé. Just accident--that’s all. On the surface he seems
nothing more than a money-grubbing notary, with a taste for records,”
and he recalled what Ballou had said about running across the Alsatian
at the Bureau des Archives. How was it Guy had described him? “_I used
to think he looked like a white rat nosing about among the files._”
Yes, this record-hunting was probably a blind, at least at Bordeaux.
Moreover, for the second time Geoffrey was struck by the man’s pursuit
of the widow, Mme. Baron, immediately after his return. Honorine’s
reputed savings would furnish the wherewithal for his start in a new
field.
“By Jove, I shouldn’t wonder if we’d hit the trail at last. The
servants are selling him those pictures, and he is planning to set
himself up as a dealer. The thing to do now is to notify the police of
Bordeaux, give them a description of Blom, and have all out-going
boats carefully watched. I’ll telegraph to Bernard at once.”
It occurred to him that it might be wise to keep both Blom and the
milliner under strict surveillance, but that matter could rest until
Bernard’s return.
Late Friday afternoon he was hard at work when the office factotum
announced M. Bernard. Leaping up in astonishment, Geoffrey beheld the
agent, adorned with a bowler hat green with age and a black muffler
wrapped round his cavernous neck.
“So you’ve come back! Did you get my telegram?”
“Yes, monsieur. I informed the Bordeaux police, and will forward them
a description of our friend, with a photograph, if obtainable. But I
regret to state I have not been able to discover anything definite
regarding the paintings. He has covered his tracks too well. All I
could do was to warn the port authorities.”
Geoffrey was conscious of disappointment.
“Yet you still hold the opinion that he means to take them out of the
country?”
“I assume so, monsieur, but I confess there is little to support the
theory. All my inquiries led me to was a series of records offices,
one after the other. I have spent the past two days interviewing the
archives officials in three small towns, trying to ascertain what
object Blom had in mind. At last I found it, but I am afraid it will
tell you little. It seems that the man was seeking particulars about a
family apparently extinct in the district--people by the name of
Dieulefit.”
“Dieulefit!”
The young man jumped as though shot.
“You know the name, then?”
“Do I know it!” cried the other excitedly. “Why, it’s the family name
of Mme. Bender herself! My God, Bernard, don’t you see what it means?
The fellow is searching for an heir to our client’s estate!”
The solemn eyes regarded him with interest.
“Then you think he has not stolen the pictures at all?”
Geoffrey frowned in confusion.
“I can’t say. No--yes.… At any rate, this business has nothing to do
with theft. He’s got something quite different up his sleeve.… I’ve
got to think this out. I’ll let you know if I shall need you further.”
Indeed, it seemed doubtful whether the agent could supply the missing
link in the chain, namely, Blom’s reason for his investigations. There
must be some strong motive to take a canny _bourgeois_ on an extensive
journey. The _notaire_ was not likely to spend money without hope of
an ample return. But in what way could he hope to profit?
Over a solitary meal at a restaurant Geoffrey argued the question out
to a tentative conclusion, his legal knowledge providing him with a
clue. He knew that when a person of property died intestate it was the
custom to look about at once for the next of kin. If the search proved
difficult, anyone furnishing information as to the missing heirs
invariably received remuneration for his services, based on a
percentage system. Where the fortune was a large one, the commission
might run to a considerable sum, well worth scheming to obtain.
Undoubtedly, Blom, in his capacity of legal adviser to the Bender
servants, was in a position to know certain useful facts. He could
easily be aware of Mme. Bender’s former name, of the probability of
her dying intestate, and of the precarious state of her health. Armed
with his knowledge, he might very naturally wish to locate some remote
connections of the ill woman, in order to be first in the field to
claim the said commission.
Now at last he began to see daylight. He understood Blom’s anxiety to
make sure whether a will had been executed, since if that were the
case his hopes vanished automatically. Probably also he suspected
Jeanne’s private machinations, and had tried to put a stop to them by
the threats Catherine had overheard, knowing they would foil his own
scheme. It all fitted in with surprising ease.
Only one point remained obscure. Was Blom acting purely on
speculation, or had some rumour of a possible heir reached his ears?
Suddenly Hermione Cushing flashed across his mind. As Mme. Bender’s
oldest friend, it was likely that no one better than she would be
acquainted with the invalid’s antecedents. Perhaps she had supplied
Blom with the necessary facts, meaning to split the commission with
him. Or else--and here was a totally new idea--she herself might have
French blood in her veins, and unknown to anyone possess some shadowy
claim she wished to substantiate. Was she by any remote chance
connected with the family of Dieulefit? If so it would explain
everything.
Determination seized him. Quitting the restaurant he jumped into a
taxi, and in ten minutes was climbing the stairs to the singer’s
apartment, bent upon taking the owner unawares and subjecting her to a
few blunt questions.
Decidedly brutal, that! His face burned at the thought. Yet he felt he
must know once and for all what part Miss Cushing played in the
affair, and he was shamelessly taking this course because he believed
the lady could not withstand a frontal attack.
The door opening to his ring, he found himself confronting a
spectacled grenadier who regarded him severely, a steel thimble on her
roughened finger, and a chemise, of dimensions suitable for a baby
elephant, draped over one arm.
“_Mademoiselle est sortie_,” he was informed.
He did not know whether he was disappointed or relieved. Under the
_bonne’s_ righteous gaze he reluctantly gave his name, realizing that
any hope of catching Miss Cushing unawares was now extinguished. The
singer, hearing he had called, would be on her guard.
“Monsieur Macadam?” repeated the domestic, her visage softening.
Clearly she knew who he was. Indeed, there was probably little of her
mistress’s affairs she did not know. She warmed, becoming
communicative. Mademoiselle was dining in the Faubourg St. Germain,
after calling on her friend, Mme. Bender. If Monsieur cared to leave a
message.… But Geoffrey was already half-way down the stairs.
He felt curiously at a loose end, his brain revolving the new
information and burning to impart it to the person most likely to be
interested. A glance at his watch told him it was barely nine o’clock.
Why not drive to Fontainebleau and talk the thing over with Catherine?
He could be there in little more than an hour.
His waiting taxi bore him swiftly to the garage where his car was
kept, and presently he was speeding towards the Porte d’Italie, the
wind whistling in his wake. In record time he alighted in the broad,
quiet street outside his sister’s dwelling, and a second later burst
unceremoniously into a somnolent family group lounging before the wood
fire.
Elspeth looked up with surprise.
“Geoff! You did give me a start. What’s up?”
He cast a rapid look round the room.
“Where’s Catherine?” he inquired shortly.
“Gone,” she replied composedly.
His jaw dropped.
“Gone? Where? Why?”
“That’s all. She left us, this evening. On the 10.45, to be exact.
What’s the excitement about?”
His eyes blazed at her.
“I don’t understand you. She knew I was coming to fetch her to-morrow
afternoon. Why this sudden change of plan?”
“Don’t be silly. It was quite unexpected, of course. On the evening’s
post she had a letter from some friends of hers who are crossing to
Dieppe to-night and arriving in Paris early to-morrow morning. They
are only stopping over a couple of hours, and want to see her. She
would go.”
Still he stared at her, visibly annoyed.
“I can’t make it out,” he muttered, frowning. “You mean to say you let
her go back there--alone?”
“Yes. Why not? We couldn’t stop her, and she refused to let us ring
you up.”
“Do the servants expect her?”
“No; but it doesn’t matter, does it?”
Then he realized that both listeners were eyeing him oddly and with a
glint of amusement at his concern.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Geoffrey remained with the Baxters only long enough to smoke a
cigarette and swallow a whisky and soda. Even this he consented to do
with an unwilling air, elbows on his knees and an expression moodily
abstracted. Then with a curt good night he vanished into the darkness.
When the doors had closed his brother-in-law raised humorous eyebrows
after his departing figure and rose with a stretch.
“What’s his trouble?” he lazily inquired.
“Catherine, evidently. He’s hurt because she ran off without letting
him know.”
“A rift in the lute, I fancy. Looked as though he had something on his
mind he didn’t want us to know.”
“That’s what I thought. Did you see how he almost bit my head off when
I told him she had gone?”
Her husband nodded, yawning.
“Oh, well, he can see her to-morrow and put things right. My God, the
agonies these lovers go through! I never pictured the old blighter
losing his self-control like that, though,”--and he knocked his pipe
against the side of the fireplace.
Meanwhile, with jaw set and a feeling of indignation seething in his
breast, the object of these remarks was making full speed along the
Paris road. Somehow Catherine’s abrupt departure wounded him like a
personal affront. Was she really so anxious to meet these precious
friends of hers, or had she taken the sudden decision in order to
avoid the drive back with him to-morrow? Unreasonably he inclined
towards the latter opinion, recalling how reserved and standoffish she
had been when he last saw her.
“Yet she liked me well enough two weeks ago,” he argued resentfully.
“No one could fool me on that subject.”
Once again he smelled the fragrance of her skin mingling with the
crushed lilies of the valley as she had pressed against him, felt the
warmth of her lips upon his. Yes, for a moment at least the same
sensation had surged up in them both, binding them together. Yet how
little that physical _rapprochement_ must have meant to her if she did
not desire to repeat it! He felt strangely humiliated.
Oh, well, she had warned him not to expect too much. If he had been
living in a fool’s paradise, it was his own fault. Only he must know
exactly how he stood with her and end this maddening suspense. He
would ask her to dine with him to-morrow and have the whole thing out.
So absorbed was he in his sense of grievance that he had come to the
Porte d’Italie before he thought of the girl at home in the hated
apartment. She must have reached there half an hour ago. Was
everything all right with her? He could not define the vague
uneasiness which prompted him to cross the city and make straight for
the Avenue Henri Martin.
A little later he stopped his car in the turning outside the Bender
apartment, and peered up towards the darkened _entresol_. The fourth
window along was Catherine’s. His eyes could just detect a faint glow
of light through the closed curtains, and a thin line of radiance
along the edge. Watching he saw a shadow cross the window, pause an
instant, then pass on.
She was there, safe and sound, so close to him, too, only a dozen
yards away. Probably she was just about to get into bed, little
dreaming who was beneath her window. He longed to throw a stone at the
pane, but thought better of it as he realized the lateness of the
hour. He struck a match and looked at his watch. A quarter past one.
No, he must not disturb her now. When he raised his eyes again the
glow was extinguished.
Geoffrey slept but little. His personal chagrin over Catherine’s
abrupt departure gave place after a time to uneasy conjectures over
Adolph Blom’s mysterious movements, and all during the night he
devised first one theory then another, only to reject the lot.
Finally, when it was almost time to rise, a new idea struck him,
turning him cold all over. He leaped out of bed.
Why in God’s name had he not thought of this before?
As soon as he heard the maid go into his father’s room with coffee he
followed to set before the older man his recent information. The
senior partner groped for his glasses, put them on, and stared.
“Hunting for Dieulefits? Why the devil should a stranger do that?”
“In case of an heir, to collar the commission,” replied Geoffrey.
“What other reason can there be? The point that bothers me is, is he
working alone, or in conjunction with another person?”
“What person do you suspect?”
“There are two possibilities. First the maid, and second”--he paused,
then brought the name out resolutely--“Miss Cushing.”
“Miss Cushing!”
His father set down his coffee-cup with a jerk.
“Well, what of it?” he remarked dryly. “It is not a criminal offence
to make inquiries. At all events it is a waiting game.”
Geoffrey paused before replying.
“Are you sure it is a waiting game?” he inquired pointedly. “Has it
occurred to you that in all this there is one feature we have
overlooked? I refer to Mme. Bender’s attempts at suicide.”
The old eyes narrowed.
“Exactly what do you mean?”
“What if the person to benefit by her decease is impatient for the
event to happen? What if those reputed attempts weren’t suicide at all
but something much worse? Remember we have only the maid’s statement
for them.”
“Good God!” The solicitor started, all but capsizing his breakfast
tray. For the first time the Bender muddle had assumed a grave aspect.
“But who would profit? Not these servants, that is unless----”
“Unless they are in collusion with the unknown heir. The _notaire_ may
be banking on a fat commission which he proposes to share with them.”
“The commission on the Bender estate will amount to a pretty penny.…
Geoffrey, this looks bad!”
“I thought you’d say that. What is our best move?”
The old man was making for the bathroom, but paused and thought for a
moment.
“Get hold of that maid at once and put the fear of God into her.
Telephone to her now and say that I want to see her at eleven o’clock.
Don’t rouse her suspicions--simply tell her to come. She daren’t
refuse. I’ll soon put a stop to any nonsense. Once she knows we are on
to her schemes she’ll have to clear out.”
The vagaries of the Paris telephone service are perhaps the worst in
the world. After repeated attempts to establish a connection, Geoffrey
was forced to admit failure.
“Can’t be helped,” grunted his father. “We’ll have another go at the
office, and if there’s still no reply I’ll send Henri up there. I
don’t mean to delay this a single day.”
A single day! Geoffrey reflected cynically that here they both were,
roused at last over something which had happened fully two months ago.
At the actual moment the woman they were crediting with villainous
intentions was quietly planning to take a holiday. Did that mean
someone was going to deputize in her place, or were there suspicions
wholly unfounded?
Nothing seemed clear when at the rue Auber he again besieged the
telephone, still without success. Finally an angry appeal to the chief
operator elicited the information that the line he wanted was out of
order.
He slammed down the receiver and rang the bell. After a long wait
Ballou stuck his sleek head in at the door.
“Henri’s out, sir--won’t be long. By the way, if you’re not too busy,
there’s something I wanted to tell you. You recall that _notaire_ you
were inquiring about?”
Geoffrey glanced at him sharply.
“What about him?”
“He’s going to be married within the next few days. I was at the
Mairie in the rue de Lisbonne yesterday, and I happened to see the
announcement on the _affiche_ board. He’s marrying a widow.”
“I knew that. She’s a Madame Baron.”
“Quite. But it was her other name--what you call in English her maiden
name--which caught my eye. I can’t remember it now, but it was rather
odd, something beginning with a D.”
When he had gone out Geoffrey sat for some minutes spellbound. An odd
name, beginning with a D! But of course it was absurd, it couldn’t be.
And yet…
With a sudden movement he crammed his hat upon his head, left the
building and hailed a taxi.
“The Mairie, rue de Lisbonne,” he instructed the driver.
He might as well see for himself.
Five minutes later he alighted and strode into the paved courtyard of
the Mairie. There, facing him, stood the announcement board, its
surface covered by scribbled notices pinned into place and protected
by wire netting. Here, according to French custom, the names of every
prospective bride and bridegroom resident in the quarter were posted
for two weeks previous to the legal ceremony, a formality
corresponding to the English banns.
Rapidly his eye ran over the scraps of paper till he hit upon the one
he sought. Here it was in crabbed script, for everyone to read:
“Adolph Gustav Blom, _notaire_, of 359, rue d’Amsterdam, and Marie
Honorine Baron, née Dieulefit.…”
There was no mistake.
He had come through a long dark tunnel to find himself on the brink of
a precipice.
For a moment he was completely staggered. Then he swore aloud, cursing
his lack of imagination. Why in the name of all that was damnable had
this possibility never occurred to him? Why had he not at once dreamed
of questioning the identity of “Honorine,” instead of passing her by
as of no importance? She it was who provided the key to the whole
mystery, she alone--and a single inquiry would have secured the
desired information!
Now in a flash he saw the _notaire’s_ game. Why, the man was not
juggling for a paltry commission, he was marrying the heir to the
Bender millions!
What a stroke of genius, superbly daring, amazingly simple! Blom had
known the milliner for years, was intimately acquainted with her
history, but had paid no attention to her till by accident he learned
that her former name was identical with that of the wealthy invalid in
the Quartier de l’Étoile. Secretly and systematically he had set out
to prove that a tie of blood existed between the two women so widely
separated by class and fortune; then, assured of the relationship, had
with the same calculation severed his connection with his little
_grisette_ and begun paying his addresses in a new quarter, calmly
certain that sooner or later the whole of Mme. Bender’s property would
pass into his control.
As the details rushed through Geoffrey’s mind one supreme fact stood
clear. Blom could not possibly intend to wait for his victim to die a
natural death. Every day added to the uncertainty of his future wife’s
inheritance, since it needed but the stroke of a pen to ruin his
scheme. Jeanne, with her diabolical cleverness, might postpone the
making of a will for a time, but she could hardly be relied upon to
circumvent it altogether. No, whatever occurred must not be long
delayed, and must bear the stamp of accident or suicide. Perhaps at
this very moment plans were maturing. The fact that Blom’s marriage
was scheduled to take place within a few days suggested an imminent
_dénouement_.
On tenterhooks to acquaint his father with this latest turn of the
wheel, Geoffrey arrived breathless at the office and flung open the
door. Then he stopped on the threshold, aware that some unusual
disturbance had taken hold of the place.
The entire force was gathered in the outer room, heads together, eyes
intently studying the front page of the _Paris Midi_, fresh from the
press. All looked up at his approach, while Ballou spoke in a tone of
marked excitement.
“Mr. Macadam was asking for you, sir. Have you seen this?”--and he
thrust the paper into Geoffrey’s hands.
At that instant the senior solicitor appeared in the opposite doorway,
his face an ashen tinge, his eyes narrowed to steel points.
“It’s happened,” he announced in a dry voice. “Accident or not, that
poor woman is dead.”
“_Dead_? You don’t mean----”
“Just that. She was burned to death last night in her bedroom.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Father and son exchanged looks of mute horror.
Through both minds rushed the same thought.
“Read what it says. There’s not much.”
Riveting his attention upon the page before him, Geoffrey forced
himself to digest the scant particulars the journal had to offer. In
emotionless brevity it stated the following:
“Mme. Henry Belmont Bender, of Numero 44 Avenue Henri Martin, met
death in the early hours of this morning as the result of a fire in
her apartment. No facts are yet known as to how the conflagration
started, or whether the victim’s decease was due to heart failure or
to suffocation from the fumes. The maid and butler made a valiant
attempt to effect a rescue, themselves sustaining injuries. The fire
department was speedily summoned and contrived to save the major
portion of the building.”
For a second the words swam before his eyes. Then he made a seemingly
trivial observation.
“This explains why I couldn’t get through on the telephone.…”
The clerks looked at him. No one could know that his thoughts had
flown in a rush to Catherine, wondering why it was he had had no word
from her. The clock was striking twelve. Had anything happened to her?
Thank God, her room was on the opposite side of the flat.…
“I must go up there at once,” he muttered.
His father nodded grimly. For all his outward composure he was badly
shaken. With a brusque gesture he drew the young man apart from the
group, saying in a low voice:
“Find out everything you can and keep your eyes well open. I needn’t
remind you how difficult it is going to be, that as far as we know the
only persons to give evidence are the suspects themselves. If we could
bring to light any suspicions of a motive----”
“Motive?” repeated Geoffrey, suddenly coming to from his brief stupor.
“But there is a motive! Something stupendous!”
In a rapid undertone he made known his discovery. His father listened,
struck dumb. Several seconds elapsed before he found his voice to
gasp.
“An heir… marrying the heir! Good God, how blind we’ve been!”
He seemed paralysed, all at once ten years older. The effort with
which he pulled himself together was painfully apparent.
“We’ve been fools, Geoffrey--utter, hopeless fools! We’ve stood by and
allowed that wretched woman to be done to death, and even now there
may not be a chance of bringing the scoundrels to justice! Do you
realize that fact?”
“We can at least order a post-mortem.”
“And what will that prove if, as is probable, she died of heart
failure? No, I am afraid even now they may slip through our fingers.…
But do your best; get back as quickly as you can and let me know the
result.”
Within a few minutes Geoffrey was speeding towards the Étoile, his
consciousness harassed by two dominant emotions--futile
self-accusation for his failure to avert a dreadful calamity, and a
growing apprehension in regard to Catherine. Nothing serious could
have happened to her, or there would have been some mention in the
newspaper, yet it struck him again as strange that in all these hours
he had received no message. In vain he told himself that it was only
natural in the shock and confusion of the terrible happening, with the
telephone out of commission into the bargain, for her not to have
communicated with her friends. His solace lay in the knowledge that
soon he would see her and, if she were willing, take her back again to
Elspeth’s home.
A knot of curious spectators clustered round the entrance to the
apartment building, and as he hastened through the archway several
pairs of eyes followed him with morbid interest. At the doorway of the
_loge_ the concierge’s wife was discoursing with an air of ghoulish
enjoyment to a handful of cronies, for the main part servants,
hatless, and laden with string-bags of marketing. Seeing Geoffrey, she
darted forward and seized his arm with a horny talon.
“_Vous désirez_, monsieur?” she demanded sharply, every line of her
witch-like face avid with the righteous opportunity of showing her
authority.
Impatiently he gave his name, the woman cringing away with a servile
shrug to stand looking after him curiously.
Although from the avenue there was no sign of destruction, the damage
was now only too apparent. The windows of the _entresol_ and several
on the floor immediately above were blackened and smashed to atoms,
all visible woodwork charred to a crisp, while the three interior
walls ran with rivulets of water, still dripping into pools on the
stones below. The lift, however, was unharmed, and the larger part of
the building appeared to be little injured.
Above, the broad mahogany doors gaped wide. The pale grey carpet was
soaked through and plastered with muddy footprints, the walls on both
sides sodden with moisture which had seeped through in streaks of
discoloration. No actual indication of the fire showed, but the entire
atmosphere was permeated with the acrid odour of burnt and drenched
wood.
Geoffrey entered and glanced about. Not a soul was in sight, but from
the salon came subdued voices, speaking with that curious deadness and
restraint usual on such occasions. Reaching the open door, he
perceived a small gathering composed entirely of men, some of them
with an official aspect, the rest nondescripts whom he took to be
representatives of the press. The first excitement had died away, the
prevailing atmosphere now being that of tension and hesitancy.
Rapidly his eyes explored the rooms in search of Catherine, but she
was not in sight. He was still staring about with a frown of
perplexity when a police sergeant, trim and efficient-looking in his
tight uniform, stepped forward with an interrogatory gesture:
“Monsieur?”
Briefly Geoffrey stated his business.
“There is a relative of the dead lady staying here, a young American.
Can you tell me where she is?”
“An American lady, monsieur? I have not seen her. You think she had
been here?”
“There is no doubt about it. I am anxious to find her.”
The sergeant, a small man with sharp features and black, observant
eyes, shook his head, his attention straying back towards the salon.
“You must be misinformed, monsieur. I understand there was no one in
the apartment last night except the two servants. You had better
inquire of them. There is the butler now,”--and he motioned towards
the squat figure of Eduardo.
The Portuguese, his left arm in a sling and his shiny face daubed with
smut, was speaking jerkily to one of the reporters, a grubby Frenchman
who was busily engaged in taking notes. As he talked his bloodshot
eyes glanced in Geoffrey’s direction, then away without a sign of
recognition. The young man took a step towards him, then halted as a
choking voice from behind uttered his name:
“Monsieur Macadam!”
Wheeling round, he beheld Hermione Cushing tottering towards him,
officiously escorted by the concierge. The huge singer, garbed in
voluminous black, surged forward and grasped his hands to steady
herself. Her large moon-face was drained of colour, her lips quivered
pathetically, while every inch of her immense body vibrated with
emotion. Whatever his secret thoughts had been Geoffrey could feel
nothing but pity for a grief so evidently sincere.
“You have just learned of the accident?” he whispered.
She nodded, closing her red-rimmed eyes. Then with a stupendous effort
at control she opened them, fixing her watery gaze upon him.
“Twenty minutes ago.… Yvonne heard it in the fishmonger’s. I cannot
yet take it in. I was with her till seven last night.…”
For a second he feared she was going to swoon, and braced himself in
anticipation. However, drawing a tremulous breath she drew herself up
with commendable resolution and laid a shaking arm on his arm.
“Catherine--?” she murmured interrogatively. “She knows nothing of
this, I suppose? Poor child, poor child! What a shock for her,
too!”--and before he could disabuse her mind of error she moved away
into the salon.
At her approach the group disintegrated, and for the first time
Geoffrey caught sight of a still figure at the far end near the
windows, huddled in a _bergère_ covered with violet brocade. From a
drab countenance, deeply lined, two dull eyes stared up,
expressionless, apathetic.
They were the eyes of Jeanne.
The maid was wrapped in a dark dressing-gown buttoned to the chin. Her
disordered hair clung in dank wisps to her forehead, her lips were set
in a straight line. Immobile as an effigy, she sat with her feet in
black _pantoufles_, and her arms, swathed in bandages, resting stiffly
upon the wings of the chair. If she was aware of Geoffrey’s presence
she gave no sign, her opaque gaze passing him by and coming to rest
upon the singer’s face.
Moving quickly towards her, he bent over and spoke in an undertone.
“Jeanne, where is Mademoiselle West?”
She seemed not to hear him, and only when he had repeated the question
insistently did she turn her head slowly in his direction.
“Mademoiselle West? But how should I know, monsieur?” she muttered in
a lifeless voice. “I have been through too much to think of
mademoiselle.”
“But you must know where she is,” he urged impatiently, trying to fix
her attention. “Has she gone out?”
Her gaze wandered away. She appeared utterly absorbed in herself, with
the indifference of nervous exhaustion. Again he was forced to repeat
his words, this time with noticeable impatience.
“But I do not understand,” she replied at last. “Surely monsieur is
aware that I have not seen mademoiselle for a full week.”
“Not seen her?”
The words leaped out. Had the woman turned silly? Irritation laid hold
of him so that he longed to catch her by the shoulders and shake her.
Several of the men behind him had drawn closer, listening with marked
curiosity.
“But you must have seen her! How could you help it? She was here last
night.”
One of the bandaged hands made a slight gesture of protest, as much as
to say that this was scarcely the moment for idle questions.
“You are mistaken, monsieur. It is this evening she is supposed to
return. I should have thought you knew that.”
His face reddened with anger. Leaning nearer, he spoke slowly and
emphatically, as if to a stupid child.
“Listen to me, Jeanne! You know as well as I do that mademoiselle came
home last night. The point is, where has she got to?”
For answer he received an uncomprehending shrug and a blank shake of
the head. Either the maid could not or would not grasp his meaning.
Alarm began to creep into his mind. Was it possible she had not seen
Catherine? He felt utterly at sea. Then as he rallied himself for a
fresh attack, Hermione addressed him in astonishment, her black-gloved
hand upon his sleeve.
“What is this you are saying? Catherine here last night?”
He opened his lips to explain, but before he could speak Eduardo, who
had been listening, moving quietly to his side.
“Some mistake, Mr. Macadam,” he mumbled. “Miss West did not come home.
If you care to look, you’ll see for yourself that her room has not
been occupied.”
Speechless with rage, Geoffrey returned the man’s unflinching stare.
In spite of the usual covert insolence in the butler’s manner, his
statement somehow carried conviction.
“Is this true what you are telling me?” demanded Geoffrey rudely.
“Quite, monsieur; if she had been here, we could not have failed to
know it, could we?” came the supercilious retort.
Catherine not here!
The room reeled before his eyes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
What could it mean?
For the moment every other consideration was submerged in the wave of
staggering doubt which swept over him.
He stared hard into the Portuguese’s bloodshot eyes, trying to read
the thoughts that lurked behind, then shifted his scrutiny to Jeanne’s
sallow countenance. The two faces were like a blank wall. Neither
servant treated his agitation seriously, or showed any particular
concern. He saw the maid’s eyes close with spent fatigue, as though to
shut out wearisome discussion.
He became aware that the onlookers were eyeing him queerly, that Miss
Cushing was gathering her forces to bombard him with questions. He
strode out of the room, just managing to elude an American reporter
who was sidling towards him, pad in hand.
Quickly he gained the corridor and make for the passage leading to
Catherine’s bedroom.
Although the court side of the apartment had been gutted by fire, the
exterior portion was untouched. He reached the familiar chamber, threw
open the door, and cast a searching glance round.
The bed was smooth beneath its _toile de Jouy_ cover, the
dressing-table bare save for a few stray bottles and scattered
oddments. There was no sign of luggage, nor anything to indicate the
girl’s return. Opening the cupboard he descried Catherine’s grey
squirrel coat, an evening wrap, and several frocks, none of which he
had seen her wear at Fontainebleau. Most of the hangers pendent from
the steel rod were empty. Three or four pairs of shoes were ranged on
the floor beneath, while upon the shelf lay a couple of felt hats
beside an oval hat-box covered in flowered paper.
He stared blankly, his brain revolving possibilities.
If she had meant to spend the night elsewhere, she would certainly
have told Elspeth her intention. Besides, what of the light he had
seen in the window, the shadow on the blind? Only a few hours ago the
feeling of her presence here had been an overwhelming reality.
As he looked about him a sickening fear crept into his mind. _She did
come home._ Whatever Jeanne and Eduardo might declare to the contrary,
she reached here at midnight. Inconceivable for her to have slept
through the clamour and excitement. No one, unless heavily drugged,
could have done so. Did this mean that for some reason she had removed
her belongings and gone quietly away, unnoticed? Such an explanation
was manifestly absurd!
Rapidly the suspicion grew upon him that something sinister lurked
behind this. Terror clutched at his heart as he made his way back to
the front, while the thought hammered in his brain that somewhere,
close at hand, Catherine was concealed. He must find her without loss
of a moment.
The sight of the police sergeant brought him to his senses. Drawing
the man aside, he pinioned him by the arm, and poured forth an
incoherent story. His auditor, stolidly inattentive, began at last to
realize that the young Englishman was in earnest, whereupon he brought
his eyes to bear upon him with a faintly incredulous smile.
“Young lady? Disappeared from here? No, no, monsieur, you must be
dreaming! There was no young lady in the apartment, as I told you just
now--only two servants, whom you have seen. Look--there is the cook,
who slept on the top floor, and was roused by the fire-engines. She
will confirm what I say.”
He motioned towards Berthe, who now loomed on the scene, eyes swollen
with weeping, her vacuous face full of self-importance. Geoffrey
seized her arm.
“Have you seen anything of mademoiselle?” he demanded fiercely. “I
know that she returned last night.”
The china-blue eyes opened wide in amazement.
“But no, assuredly not, monsieur! What makes you say that? It is
to-day, Saturday, that we expect her, but now, of course, she will not
come!”
Geoffrey turned away with an exasperated cry.
“You see,” remarked the sergeant in triumph, and glancing towards the
astonished Berthe, raised his brows slightly.
“But I tell you I know what I’m saying. She has been spending the week
at my sister’s in Fontainebleau. I was there last evening, and she had
just left by the 10.45 train!”
The sergeant drew a toothpick from his pocket and used it discreetly.
The smile in his black eyes grew more pronounced.
“Perhaps, monsieur, your sister was having a game with you. No doubt
the young lady was there all the time and did not wish you to know.
Take my advice, make sure of this before you upset yourself.”
Game? The childish suggestion offered a ray of hope. It was true that
Elspeth, long ago, used to indulge in practical jokes.…
“I don’t believe it for a moment,” he rejoined shortly, “but I will
put through a trunk call to find out.”
Without pausing for a reply, he took a couple of strides towards the
study, throwing wide the door. Instantly the sergeant bounded upon
him.
“Not in there, I beg of you, monsieur! No one is allowed in that
room!”
No need to ask why. In full view confronting him loomed a long
shapeless form shrouded in a sheet. The curtains were drawn, the room
in semi-darkness, out of which the stark mass met the eye, placed on
stretchers beneath the painting of the race-horse.
Geoffrey drew in his breath sharply.
At his elbow the sergeant spoke, pulling him back.
“In any case, this instrument has been put out of commission by the
fire. I would try the one in the loge below.”
Geoffrey waved him aside.
“I want to know first what time the fire started. Can you tell me?”
“I understand the alarm was given in at one-thirty this morning.”
One-thirty! It was a quarter of an hour earlier that he had stopped
his car outside.
“And the cause?”
“Candles, before a prie-Dieu, monsieur, or that is the maid’s opinion.
The flames caught the bed-draperies. It is said that the poor lady was
a bit touched here”--and he tapped his forehead significantly. “She
was trapped. The fire spread in a ring, the body was found collapsed
beneath the crucifix. The servants dragged her out and wrapped her in
blankets, but----” He shrugged.
“She was badly burned?”
“Frightfully, monsieur. Recognizable, of course. If you would care to
take a look…”
For a second he drew back a corner of the sheet, disclosing the grisly
remains. Geoffrey cast a glance at the body, then averted his eyes.
Devoutly he hoped that Catherine had been spared this sight. Tormented
by indecision, he asked himself which course of action to follow
first--telephone his sister, or go over the apartment on the chance of
lighting upon some trace of the missing girl. He resolved upon the
latter.
“Sergeant, I want you to accompany me while I make a thorough search
of this floor and the one below. I must inspect everything--even the
damaged portion.”
The officer appeared somewhat surprised, then a gleam of intelligence
showed in his face.
“Willingly, monsieur--but if you have the least fear of the young
lady’s having fallen a victim to the fire, let me set your mind at
rest. I can assure you positively no other remains were found.”
Geoffrey did not trouble to explain that so far it had not even
remotely occurred to him that Catherine, too, had been burned to
death. Such an idea was grotesquely unthinkable. No, whatever had
happened, he felt positive it was something quite different; but find
her he must, without delay. Other investigations could wait.
The puzzled expression in the sergeant’s eyes increased when his
companion briefly requested him to fetch all the keys to the
apartment.
“The butler will give them to you. I will wait for you here.”
“But, monsieur, this seems somewhat irregular. I do not know by what
authority----”
“Never mind the authority, he won’t refuse. If he objects, tell him I
intend to make a demand for a search-warrant.”
Impressed at last, the man departed, to return a few minutes later
with a bunch of keys which he handed to Geoffrey. Together the two set
out on their tour of inspection, the sergeant in the rear, mystified
and a trifle bored. What was this mad Englishman getting at? Surely he
had a bee in his bonnet.
Beginning with the _rez de chaussée_, they explored
everything--picture-gallery, billiard-room, small salon, guests’
cloak-room, lavatory, cupboards--all empty and thick with dust.
Apparently no one had entered them for months. Then proceeding to the
_entresol_ they inspected one after another a series of bedrooms,
baths, housemaids’ cupboards, linen-rooms, not overlooking a single
hiding-place large enough to secrete a cat. The search revealed
nothing whatever. The girl was simply not there, nor was there any
indication of her return.
In spite of Geoffrey’s previous conviction, doubts began to creep into
his mind. Had the servants spoken the truth? He caught the little
sergeant’s eyes upon him sharp with inquiry.
“Have you thought to ask the concierge whether or not the lady passed
the loge?”
“That would be useless, as mademoiselle came in by the private
entrance.”
“Ah, indeed! You are satisfied, however, that you were mistaken?”
Geoffrey shook his head. He was satisfied of nothing beyond the
obvious fact that she was not here now. With each step of the way the
problem had grown more momentous, his mind more seriously disturbed.
For a second he had the wild feeling that he might indeed be going
mad.…
They were standing now at the rear end of the passage leading past the
ruined portion. In front the way was blocked by wreckage, the floor at
their feet an irregular cavern barred across by blackened beams. Over
heaps of charred debris and sodden plaster great holes gaped in walls
and ceiling, the whole saturated with water. Of the dead woman’s own
room little was left, but through a jagged opening at the side one
could see the bathroom, the bath itself intact in the midst of a
litter of twisted pipes and shattered appliances. Ten hours ago the
place must have been a roaring furnace. It spoke well for the fire
department that they had managed to check the flames so quickly.
The sergeant pointed at a spot against the outer wall.
“There, monsieur, is where she was found. The bed was to the right,
I’m told, but naturally nothing remains of it.”
Geoffrey looked, but the sight told him nothing he wanted to know.
Meanwhile precious minutes were slipping away.
“Sergeant,” he said rapidly, but with caution, “I am now going to
telephone to Fontainebleau, but if I obtain no news of Mademoiselle I
intend to make a report at once to the Commissariat. However, I have
one more question to ask. Has any person from outside been here to
talk with either of these servants during the morning? I am
particularly interested in a small blond man with a thin moustache and
eyes which are not mates.”
The sergeant considered, and shook his head.
“No, monsieur, I have seen no one of that description. The doctor of
Mme. Bender has come, and one or two officials, but I am positive the
servants have seen no one alone.”
“Good. It is private interviews I wish to prevent. Can I look to you
to keep an eye on things, report to me anything out of the ordinary,
and if possible try to keep the butler from going out?”
“But, monsieur,”--in evident astonishment,--“I have no right to
restrain anyone’s movements!”
“I can only beg you to do your best. I may tell this much, that very
probably I shall have to place those two under arrest. Until that
occurs they must not be allowed to suspect our intentions.”
He had exploded a bombshell.
“Arrest! but this man and woman are regarded as heroes! They have
risked their lives to----”
“Never mind that. Do as I say. It is of the utmost importance.”
As he spoke he took a hundred-franc note from his pocket and thrust it
into the sergeant’s hand, then without further explanation retraced
his steps by way of the uninjured passages to the front door. As he
was going out the American reporter’s eagle eye fastened itself upon
him.
“Pardon me, Mr. Macadam, but could you oblige me with a few facts
about the deceased? That woman in there is too dazed to say much, and
I want to prepare my story.”
“Not now,” returned Geoffrey in desperation. “I have urgent business
to attend to. Some other time.”
“One moment, please! What about this American lady I heard you
mention? Did you say her name is Miss West?”--and with undaunted
persistence he linked his arm through the other’s and followed him to
the landing.
“Yes, Miss West, of Boston, a cousin of the late Mr. Bender. She has
been visiting here, but I find she has gone away.”
It seemed the wisest thing to say.
A moment later in the concierge’s abode he assailed the difficulties
of establishing a connection with Fontainebleau, and, fuming with
impatience, waiting for what seemed an æon of time. Finally to his
relief he heard the sound of his sister’s voice.
“Elspeth--this is Geoffrey. Tell me at once--were you joking or is it
true that Catherine left you last night? No nonsense, I’ve got to
know.”
The reply came fraught with amazement.
“But of course she left. What on earth do you mean?”
His heart sank as he nerved himself to go on.
“Simply this: Mme. Bender is dead--burned to death in her room last
night--and the servants swear they have not seen anything of
Catherine.”
“Not seen her? Impossible! Why, she must have reached there about
midnight.”
“Apparently she didn’t. Is there any other place she might have gone?
Any friend’s house, or----”
“Certainly not! There must be some mistake. Geoffrey--this is too
frightful! I’ll take the next train up to Paris. I----”
He waited for no more. Staring him in the face was the concierge’s big
clock, the hands pointing to one. An hour gone, and nothing
accomplished.
Instinct warned him not to lose sight of Jeanne and Eduardo, but
whatever happened he must not delay his visit to the police, who
should be informed at once of Catherine’s disappearance. Unfortunately
he could attend to only one thing at a time.
As he quitted the archway he saw at the corner of the street a man’s
figure in the act of diving into an open taxi-cab. A glance was
enough. The heavy shoulders, the rakish angle of the hat, to say
nothing of the injured arm, revealed the person of the butler. In
short, one of his suspects was even now making off, probably on secret
business.
Where was he going? Faced with a fresh dilemma, Geoffrey decided that
the Commissariat must wait.
Luckily a second cab approached, unoccupied. He flung himself into it,
pointing towards the Place du Trocadero and shouting. “You see that
red taxi just ahead? A hundred francs if you keep it in sight!”
French chauffeurs are quick-witted. With a comprehending grunt the man
jammed down the accelerator, and they were off, even as the quarry
turned the corner of the Avenue Kléber heading towards the Étoile.
Ten seconds more and they caught sight of it again, one of a score of
swiftly moving cars.
Round the vast circle of the Arc de Triomphe sped the red taxi like a
crimson streak, the other in hot pursuit. Along the Avenue Wagram,
past the Place des Ternes, then with a lightning swerve into the
Boulevard de Courcelles. So far no hitch. A glance told Geoffrey that
the prey was still within sight, though a hundred yards ahead.
From the Place des Ternes to the Place de Clichy is a straight run,
the thoroughfare altering its name midway and becoming the Boulevard
des Batignolles. The way ahead was clear.
_Pszt!_ Without warning came a grinding of brakes, and the cab stopped
with such violence that Geoffrey was thrown off the seat, his head
crashing against the glass. Then he saw what had happened. They had
struck the mudguard of a large Mercédès incautiously rounding the
entrance to a side-street.
Forseeing the inevitable altercation, Geoffrey got out, paid the
driver his hundred francs, and leaving the two infuriated Frenchmen to
exchange volleys of profanity gazed up the boulevard. In the open
space of the Place de Clichy he could just make out a spot of red
negotiating a rapid right-turn to plunge down a narrow street.
No good continuing the chase, the butler was gone. Besides, Geoffrey
knew beyond doubt his destination, for the street which had swallowed
him up was the rue d’Amsterdam.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Within the next three minutes Geoffrey had found a telephone-booth
and was in communication with his father, exasperated to find the old
man not greatly impressed by Catherine’s absence.
“Probably gone to stay with some friend,” he suggested. “In which case
it’s likely she hasn’t yet heard of this disaster.”
“What, descend on people at twelve o’clock at night?”
“It has been done.”
Geoffrey cast his mind over Catherine’s acquaintances. Only two
families did she know at all well, some Americans named Barton, in the
rue Freycinet, and a young married couple, artists both, in the rue
Léopold-Robert. He mentioned their names, giving the addresses.
“Get in touch with them at once and see if they have heard anything of
her,” he ordered briefly. “You’ll have to send a message up to the
O’Briens, as they are not on the telephone. I am going to see Bernard
and get his help, but I would like you to meet me at two o’clock at
the Commissariat. There are three divisions in the district--the one
we want is in the Rue Mesnil.”
“You think there’s been foul play?”
“I am sure of it--but the important matter now is to find Catherine.”
From the Place de Clichy to the rue Blanche is but a step. By great
good luck the agent was in his office, and listened attentively to the
story Geoffrey poured out. He ruminated a moment, then gave his
opinion.
“I agree, monsieur, that in the light of this man Blom’s approaching
marriage last night’s affair was deliberate murder. But your friend’s
failure to appear may be easily explained. I should think she would
probably turn up during the day.”
He coughed discreetly, as though he could if he wished disclose a vast
amount of information regarding feminine vagaries.
“But I tell you I saw the light in her room last night! The servants
may swear what they choose, I don’t believe them. Something tells me
they know where she is. My God, man, don’t you see what that means?”
“Certainly, if they do know. But I am inclined to believe there is
nothing in this beyond a change of plan on her part.”
“However that may be, the Portuguese I mentioned is at this moment
with Blom, at his office. I am sure of it. I want you to shadow him
and find out what he has up his sleeve. Come at once, before he has
time to get away.”
The agent reached for his rusty hat. Geoffrey arranged to meet him at
two-thirty in the foyer of the Hotel Claridge, and hailing a taxi
drove quickly to the Commissariat. It was now half past one.
The narrow rue Mesnil leads out of the Place Victor Hugo, the small
building of the Commissariat being situated at the farther end, its
unimposing façade marked with a faded tricolour. Passing the _agent_
on duty at the entrance, Geoffrey found his father waiting within, and
eagerly inquired news.
“There’s none, I’m afraid,” Macadam made reluctant answer. “Neither of
those families even knew she’d been out of Paris. But there may be
other possibilities.”
Geoffrey could see none. Badly shaken by the report, he motioned to
his father to precede him up the wooden staircase to a door on which
was written, “_Entrez Sans Frapper_.”
Entering they found a bare room divided by a desk behind which lounged
an employé diligently engaged in paring his nails with a
pocket-knife. This individual listened vacantly to Geoffrey’s urgent
request to see the Chief, and after clicking his knife-blade into its
warty case, blowing his nose thoroughly on a soiled handkerchief and
staring the two Englishmen up and down in a wooden manner announced
that it would be necessary for them to state their case first to the
_Secretaire du Commissaire_.
They were caught in the toils of officialdom. Geoffrey ground his
teeth as he watched the underling amble out and heard him in an
adjoining room exchanging feeble jests with an unseen company for
fully five minutes before there was any sign of activity. Eventually
there emerged from the doorway a pink-faced official, dapperly-built,
with hair freely plastered with pomade.
“_Vous desirez, messieurs?_”
Macadam made a concise statement in excellent French, while the
secretary’s eyes wandered dreamily this way and that, finally coming
to rest on the speaker’s waistcoat, which they appeared to find mildly
interesting. In the end without betraying the slightest degree of
concern or hurry, the man motioned languidly towards a couple of hard
chairs against the wall, and remarked that if the Commissaire was not
engaged he would perhaps hear the complaint himself.
Another maddening wait, and the two solicitors found themselves in a
second office, facing a dry-as-dust little person with a stubble of
grey beard and a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. This was the
Commissaire.
Bent over his desk steadily covering a sheet of foolscap with angular
writing, he did not look up when the secretary retailed to him a
garbled account of the visitors’ mission, continuing for endless
minutes to dip his fine pen into the ink-pot and pursue his labours
unmoved by rumours of murder and arson. Long after Geoffrey’s patience
was frayed to breaking-point he pushed aside his document and cleared
his throat.
“And now, messieurs, what is your business?” he calmly inquired.
No expression crossed his face till he caught the words, “double
affair, relating to the death last night of Mme. Belmont Bender,” when
a gleam came into his eyes.
“Ah, the victim of the fire in the Avenue Henri Martin. But--double
affair, you say? Kindly explain.”
This time it was Geoffrey who set forth the circumstances and his
suspicions of foul play. Several times the Commissaire indulged in a
meditative shrug, and now and then raised a hand for the benefit of
the secretary, who made a note in a little book.
At last the little chief removed his spectacles, rubbed his eyelids
with a reflective finger, and summed up the case with bloodless
precision.
“You wish to suggest, monsieur, first of all an affair of
sequestration supplemented by undue influence, object pecuniary gain.
As to the possibility of murder, from what you tell me there seems
little actual evidence. Failing witnesses, the charge may be difficult
to prove, unless, of course, the examination of the corpse reveals
some trace of poison. That, naturally, remains to be seen. Since you
have managed to hit upon a plausible motive for a crime, it will be my
duty to order a post-mortem, though I understand you are not certain
that this Mme.--what is the woman’s name?--Mme. Baron, is a blood
relation of the deceased. You only assume that she is. However, we
will waive that point. The aggregate of circumstances will provide us
sufficient excuse to go on.”
He wiped his lenses carefully and set the spectacles again upon his
nose.
“Now for the other matter, the supposed disappearance of
Mademoiselle--how does she call herself?--ah yes, Mademoiselle West.
It seems to me rather early, monsieur, to conclude that she is
actually missing. Several solutions suggest themselves. On your own
statement she was not on the best of terms with Mme. Bender’s
servants. Is it not possible that on her way home last night she felt
a sudden reluctance to descend upon them unawares, and in consequence
spent the night at an hotel? I am thinking also of your mention of the
fact that she intended an early start in the morning, to meet her
friends.”
Geoffrey admitted this might have happened, but declared it to be
unlikely. What, he demanded, was one to do about the light in
mademoiselle’s bedroom and the shadow on the blind?
The Commissaire shook his head disparagingly.
“One cannot rely upon that as proof that she was there. The shadow may
have been that of some other person.”
“But at a quarter past one, monsieur! The alarm was given in at
one-thirty. At the time I mention the servants must have been either
asleep or occupied with the fire--if one is to believe what they say.”
“True. You are sure it was a quarter past one?”
“Absolutely. I looked at my watch.”
“Ah, well, that fact may be of value to us, particularly if it shows
up any flaw in the servants’ evidence. We shall see.”
He rang a bell on the desk, the sluggish employé before mentioned
appeared.
“Send Inspector Bazin to me,” he commanded, and closing his eyes,
lapsed into silence.
Presently a stalwart officer appeared in the doorway. His fresh,
sun-burned colouring and small blond moustache suggested a Norman
heritage; his pale blue eyes, stolid and honest, gazed forth from
beneath a square forehead several shades lighter in tint than his
cheeks. But for his alert air and more nervous movements he might have
been a representative of the London Police Force. Geoffrey took an
instant liking to him.
“This, messieurs, is one of my men to whom I am going to entrust your
case. Kindly inform him of the details. He will look after you, I
trust satisfactorily. Inspector, conduct these gentlemen to the
waiting-room and hear what they have to say. I wish you good day,
messieurs,” and with a brief nod the Commissaire resumed his writing.
On the threshold the father and son separated, Macadam to return to
the office and Geoffrey to go through his story once again to the
inspector.
The past half-hour had been a nightmare. Not only had it consumed
valuable time during which anything, everything might be happening,
but the Commissaire’s refusal to treat Catherine’s disappearance as
serious had seemed to him densely lacking in imagination. Now another
ordeal faced him, one more official to try to impress.
However, Inspector Bazin proved human. He showed keen interest, asked
many questions, and having written down every salient detail read it
aloud briskly, beginning with the description of Catherine.
“American, United States. Age twenty-four. Slender, dark, height one
metre sixty-three centimetres. Well dressed, beige coat trimmed with
castor fur, small hat of pale green felt, gown to match. Luggage, one
fairly large pigskin case, initialed C.W., and one round patent
leather hatbox, black.… Is there anything else, monsieur? Jewellery,
for instance?”
Geoffrey thought for a moment.
“Only a ring, a ruby, oval-shaped, set in gold, and--but I am not sure
about this--a flat gold necklace worn close round the throat.”
“Should you say she had any large amount of money on her?”
“I don’t know. I imagine not.”
“Now, then, monsieur. At what time did she leave Fontainebleau?”
“Ten forty-five, which means she must have arrived at the Gare
Fontainebleau-Avron at about eleven-fifty.”
The inspector twisted the waxed ends of his moustache thoughtfully for
a second, then spoke with decision.
“As I see it, monsieur, we have three distinct possibilities to
consider. First, the young lady may have gone elsewhere of her own
accord--either because on reaching the apartment she found herself
bolted out, or for some other reason. In this event you will no doubt
soon hear from her.”
“We may as well rule that out,” cut in Geoffrey shortly.
“Permit me to say, monsieur, that that is merely your present opinion.
To be quite candid, you do not know that it is not the case. Well,
then! My second surmise is that some fate may have overtaken her on
the way, so that she never arrived home. I suppose I need not explain
my meaning?”
Geoffrey’s rigid face showed that he understood. Already his mind had
flown to accounts of persons robbed, murdered and thrown from moving
trains, as well as to those other familiar occurrences where the
victims are taken to the lonely reaches of the Bois, and left there
dead or in an unconscious state.
“Go on,” he said briefly.
“In consideration of this second theory, I shall try at once to get in
touch with the chauffeur who drove her from the Gare; also find out if
any unidentified bodies of young women have been discovered in the
vicinity of the city. _Bien!_ Let us look at our third possibility,
which I fear is not more pleasing than the last. You permit me,
monsieur?” and he looked at Geoffrey with grave hesitancy. “I know
what you are going to say. The servants themselves…”
“Exactly. If your assumption of their guilt is correct, and if the
young lady chanced to surprise them in the act, they would naturally
have to remove her for their own safety. In such a case it is as well
to be prepared for the worst.”
The listener’s eyes were bleak. This was the identical thought which
had tortured him since the moment he learned of the disappearance.
“I suppose we may obtain a warrant for their arrest on suspicion?” he
forced himself to say.
To his astonishment the inspector shook his head.
“That, monsieur, is exactly what I do not wish to do. Examine the
situation for a moment. Placed under restraint they will stick to
their prepared statement, and we shall be obliged to institute a
tedious investigation. Given a sufficient amount of rope, they are
certain to betray themselves in some way. My idea is this: granting
that it was mademoiselle’s shadow you saw on the blind, whatever
happened must have taken place between one-fifteen and one-thirty when
the fire engines were summoned--a bare quarter of an hour. In so short
a time they could not have taken her far. She must therefore be hidden
about the premises or somewhere close at hand. In either case they
dare not leave the body for long for fear of its being discovered, and
will take the first opportunity of removing it.”
A shudder passed over Geoffrey as he noticed the speaker used the word
“body.”
“What I propose to do is to surround the building with a cordon of
police in plain clothes, so that if the suspects attempt to go out
their movements will be watched. If our third surmise is the right
one, then before many hours--probably to-night--one or the other of
them will lead us to the missing lady.”
“Remember they have an accomplice--the _notaire_ in the rue
d’Amsterdam. The butler was with him at noon to-day.”
“That fact is suggestive. Give me the man’s address, and I will see
that he also is shadowed.”
Geoffrey complied, and the inspector wrote it down.
“Am I to understand that you and your father are Mme. Bender’s legal
executors?”
Geoffrey nodded.
“That is very useful, as in your position of authority you can issue
certain orders. My advice to you is to suggest that these servants
remain in the apartment till the inquest is over. In all events they
will be required to give evidence. On no account let them imagine that
you suspect anything. As soon as I have set my plans in operation I
shall question them and conduct a thorough search of the building, but
in such a way as not to arouse needless alarm.” He glanced at his
watch. “It is now three o’clock. I will meet you at the apartment at a
little before four. Meanwhile, monsieur, bear in mind that we have
been adopting an extreme view of things, and that at any moment we may
find our fears groundless.”
Five minutes after this Geoffrey entered Claridge’s Hotel and hastened
through to the central lounge. At his approach a figure in rusty
black, as conspicuous as a lone crow in a corn-field, rose from one of
the little tables and came to meet him.
“Well?” cried the young man eagerly.
“I am afraid, monsieur, I have not much to report. Twenty minutes
after I left you the Portuguese came out, then took a taxi back to his
own neighborhood. I trailed him all the way, but instead of returning
at once to the apartment, he paid a call on a concierge, apparently a
friend, several houses farther along the street. I made a point of
dropping into the loge on the pretext of inquiring for an imaginary
_locataire_, and found the two discussing the fire. I did not see
anything that looked wrong.”
Geoffrey considered the information, which meant nothing whatever to
him. Although disappointed at the result of the agent’s mission, he
comforted himself with the reflection that if the butler had any
designs he had not been able to carry them out.
“Did you do anything further?” he demanded.
“I hurried back to the _notaire’s_ office, hoping to hit on something
in that quarter. I saw him for a moment, representing myself as a
life-insurance agent, and tried to get him to talk, but it was no
good. He was preoccupied and, I think, a little suspicious--all but
shut the door in my face. However, I found out this much--his marriage
takes place at the Mairie on Tuesday next--just three days off.”
Well timed, was the listener’s inward comment. If Blom had married the
milliner while Mme. Bender was alive there would have been
considerable doubt as to whether the latter’s fortune would ever come
into his wife’s possession; while if he postponed the wedding until
Mme. Baron actually occupied the enviable position of heiress, she
might easily throw him over, being then independent and able to pick
and choose.…
“Is there anything more you wish me to do, monsieur?” queried Bernard
when the silence had lengthened to minutes.
The young man roused himself from his reverie.
“Not at the moment, but I want you to hold yourself in readiness for
the next day or so in case I need you,” and in a few words he outlined
the theories set forth by the police inspector.
The agent listened with solemn attention.
“Perhaps, monsieur, you will allow me to do a little investigation on
my own account. There is half an idea in my head… nothing may come of
it of course.… Nevertheless,” he added with an effort at cheerfulness
similar in effect to the passing of a hearse, “let us not look too
much on the dark side of things. Who knows but the young lady may have
had some reason of her own for spending the night away? You tell me
she was to meet some friends early this morning. In that case she
might easily remain ignorant of the news for a considerable time,
since few strangers read the _Paris Midi_. Even now she may be on her
way home.”
The same lingering hope was in Geoffrey’s mind, though he was afraid
to bank upon it. At any moment now the agony of the past few hours
might dissolve like a hideous dream. He could hardly wait to get back
to the Avenue Henri Martin to end his suspense.
He reached the scene of the fire, and the lift being above-floors,
started to mount the broad stairway, too keyed up with expectancy to
notice a dull shuffle of feet approaching from the _entresol_.
However, rounding the turn he pulled up abruptly, flattening himself
against the wall to avoid a descending cortège--nothing less than a
company of stretcher-bearers, engaged in removing the body of the
deceased.
So, he reflected, the Commissaire had lost no time in carrying out his
intention. The remains would now be taken over by the
Institut-Medico-Légiste, and the cause of death determined by
post-mortem. That much at all events had been accomplished.
From the top step the dapper sergeant superintended the operation.
Slowly the sheeted mass went on its way, the men manœuvring the turns
cautiously to avoid the balustrade. Geoffrey waited, hat in hand, till
the party had crossed the lobby, then cleared the remaining steps at a
bound. As he did so, Eduardo came out of the open doorway, started to
speak to the police sergeant, then noting Geoffrey, checked himself.
The young man accosted him directly:
“Have you seen anything yet of Mademoiselle West?” he demanded.
The Portuguese looked coolly amazed.
“Certainly not, monsieur. Unless you yourself have communicated with
her, I should doubt if she has heard the news.”
Geoffrey’s heart took a sickening plunge. Instinctively he put out a
hand towards the lintel of the door to steady himself under this fresh
blow. For a second his eyes and the hot brown ones of the butler met
in an unwavering stare.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Catherine’s letter from the Hardwickes came as a complete surprise.
Jim had finished his work at the British Museum sooner than he had
expected, and the English weather remaining persistently raw and cold
he and Clare had decided to set off at once for Rome and Florence,
travelling for economy’s sake, via Newhaven-Dieppe. Crossing by the
night boat they were due to reach Paris early Saturday morning, and as
they would have only a short time between trains Catherine felt she
must snatch this opportunity of seeing them. Hence her sudden decision
to return to the city and sleep at the apartment in order to get an
early start.
She was now almost fit again, nerves calmer and eyes bright with
renewed energy. Yet up till two days ago she had felt languid and
unequal to any effort, so much so that there was a physical excuse for
her behaviour towards Geoffrey, much as she reproached herself for her
apparent coldness. What had he thought of her? She knew he had been
puzzled and disappointed, but she had been unable to pretend an
emotion she did not feel. Now all that was changed. Perverse though it
seemed, she longed to be alone with him, to touch him and respond to
his advances, this time freely, with a full realization of all he
meant to her.
Geoffrey! The vision of strength filled her mind all the way back in
the train. To-morrow she would see him, atone for her tiresome
conduct. It pleased her to know from Elspeth that he did not wear his
heart on his sleeve, that neither the wealthy young woman in Passy nor
the beautiful Irish girl who had tried to ensnare him during the past
year had met with the slightest success. That he was beginning to be
regarded as a hardened bachelor enhanced his value in her eyes and
simultaneously flattered her own self-esteem.
To-morrow! It was not long to wait. She would meet the Hardwickes, and
then, perhaps, lunch with him. Her heart swelled with excitement.
It was nearing midnight when she arrived at the Gare
Fontainebleau-Avron, secured a taxi, and set off towards her own
quarter. The night was mild and soft, with a gusty breeze that held a
hint of moisture. A pale moon dodged among floating clouds lit by the
glow of the city, the buildings to left and right cast masses of
shadow, laced occasionally by a golden ribbon of light where a door
stood open. She leaned back, drowsy and content.
What a relief to think things were all going smoothly! Did Jeanne
faintly suspect that her power was almost at an end, that when she
returned--if she did return--it would be to find herself displaced by
capable nurses? Perhaps she did know what was in the air, and was
taking this method of withdrawal, hoping to evade the police before
her thefts were proven. In that case, Eduardo too would vanish. Only a
few days now…
Triumphant reflections--yet it was with a slight feeling of dread that
she approached the house. Possibly it would have been wiser to let
Jeanne know she was coming to-night, but there had seemed no need,
particularly as she planned to slip out early in the morning and get a
cup of coffee on the way to the station.
With her key ready, she opened the side door, and directed the driver
to set her bags in the hall. Then very quietly she crept up the
stairs, listening at every step.
All serene, no reason to fear that anything had gone wrong in her
absence. What a fool she had been to worry! She had made herself
miserable for weeks past anticipating events not in the least likely
to materialize. She must take herself in hand and stop making
mountains out of molehills.
She had meant to go straight to bed, but now there was nothing to
prevent her doing so she succumbed to the temptation to dally, and
consumed considerable time in aimless trifles. She wrote a dozen
post-cards of Fontainebleau to friends at home, added a long
postscript to her letter to Barbara, and sat before the mirror
dreaming of the past week and still pleasanter days to come. More than
half an hour had gone by and still she had not bothered to finish
unpacking. Boring task! She would leave it till next day.
Finally she opened the cupboard to put away her hat and coat, and as
she did so her eye fell on the parcel containing the new hat Honorine
had copied for her. Only once had she tried to wear it, on which
occasion she had more or less given it up as a failure. Now she took
it out of the bag and looked it over, frowning.
What was wrong with the thing? It was all but identical with the one
she had just removed, pale green felt and the same model, chosen
because it suited her particularly well. Yet the old one, getting
shabby now, was still smart, while the copy somehow missed its aim. An
experiment in economy which had ended in waste; but then she had
ordered it purely as an excuse for trying to secure information about
Adolph Blom, so she must not complain.
Humming a tune--it was the Albeniz tango, she recalled with tender
reminiscence--she tried the hat on once more, setting it at a
different angle and arranging her hair at the sides. A survey in the
glass brought agreeable surprise. Why, it was not so bad, after all!
Like this, the flat wing at the right hugging her cheek, it looked
distinctly possible. The colour, anyhow, was admirable. Geoffrey liked
her in green.
As the thought rose to her mind, a tide of red flooded her face, with
the result that the hat became positively becoming. Ah, that was it!
She had been pale before.
Taking her lipstick from her bag she touched her lips lightly, then
stood back to note the improvement. As she did so her sleeve brushed
the bag to the floor, and its contents spilled in every direction.
“Damn!” she muttered with annoyance, stooping to retrieve the fallen
articles.
Were they all here? Latchkey, powder-compact, diary, cards for a
private view of pictures, but no lipstick. She searched for several
minutes, then gave it up. It must have rolled far away under some of
the furniture. Never mind, she could find it easily in daylight.
As she straightened up she stood still and sniffed the air
inquiringly. Some queer odour had crept into the room. What was it? It
could not come from outside, for the window was tightly closed. She
sniffed again with growing intentness. Smoke… something was burning.
But where? Not, surely, in the apartment. It couldn’t be, unless the
careless Berthe had left the gas-stove in the kitchen alight with a
saucepan upon it.
She opened the door and peered into the passage. Here the smell was
distinctly noticeable, acrid, insistent. She went along softly towards
the back of the apartment, came to the kitchen door and looked in. No,
there was nothing wrong in this quarter. Yet the odour increased,
carrying with it a pungent flavour of burning varnish. There was even
a faint streaked haze in the air, hovering in her direction from the
passage on the court side. At the same moment her ear detected the
ominous crackle of flames.
Good heavens, the place was on fire! She could not be mistaken.…
Something must be done, she must rouse Jeanne, give the alarm. She
quickened her pace towards the dressing-room, then, as she reached it,
drew up abruptly, her heart in her mouth. There, just in front of her,
she beheld the source of the conflagration. Smoke, thick, dark grey,
oozed in ribbons from beneath her cousin’s door, streamed through the
keyhole and round the cracks at the side.
“Oh, my God!”
She choked suddenly as the fumes mounted in her nostrils.
Germaine’s room was on fire. Did the poor creature know? She took
drugs to make her sleep. The crackling grew, small popping explosions
came from the other side of the door. She seized the knob and turned
it, only to meet with an unexpected resistance. She pushed with all
her strength, beat upon the panels, then gave up. Cold sweat broke out
all over her. God in heaven, the door was locked!
Like lightning she darted into the adjoining room, straight to the
couch in the corner, where in the tempered gloom she was just able to
make out the dark mass of the maid’s recumbent body, covered to the
ears with a thick eiderdown. A smothered snore greeted her. She
grasped the huddled shoulders violently, shouting:
“Jeanne, wake up! Madame’s room is on fire. She will be killed!”
Then she dashed to the inner door, tried it, pushed with might and
main. To her horror this, too, was securely fastened, nor was there
any sign of a key. What could it mean?
In desperation she turned back to the bed, amazed to see that for all
her shakings the woman yonder was still wrapped in slumber. How was it
possible? The small room was filled with smoke. With a ruthless hand
she swept the covers to the floor, and as she did so a double clink of
metal tinkled upon the floor. Yet throughout the sleeper had not
stirred. There she lay in her stuffy night-gown, her head buried in
the pillow. The idea shot into Catherine’s mind that the maid herself
was drugged. Once more she attacked her vehemently, screaming in her
ear. At last a grunt came, the form moved in the darkness,
protestingly, and a voice thick with sleep muttered:
“_Qu’est-ce qu’il y a donc? Qui me dérange?_” Then as the girl
continued her merciless pounding, the eyes opened with a dull vacancy.
“_Mademoiselle----? Qu’est-ce que vous faites ici? Vous êtes revenue,
alors…!_”
Without replying, Catherine made a dive for the light, switched it on.
The glare shone on the hazy room, revealing the pile of neat garments
lying across a chair, the heap of bed-clothes on the floor, the
stripped couch with its supine occupant.
“Get up, Jeanne! Don’t you hear me? Madame’s room is in flames and the
door is locked! Quick--where is the key?”
“Flames? Impossible! What is all this fuss about?”
Hysterical with despair, Catherine gazed at her helplessly. The
situation was like some fantastic dream. Had the keen-witted Jeanne
taken leave of her senses? Then all at once she caught a gleam in the
brown eyes, and in a flash saw through the whole ruse. This stupidity
was assumed--the woman was pretending! No other explanation was
possible with the smoke pouring in through every crevice, the fire
next door swelling to a roar.…
Suddenly she recalled the metallic clink of a moment ago. She looked
down and spied a little distance apart, two keys lying where the cover
had swept them from the bedside table. She swooped upon them, even as
a hand from the bed shot downward like a bird of prey, striking her
own in its descent.
No time to think. She was at the door now, fitting first one key then
the other into the lock. The next instant there was a cataclysmic
movement behind her, her arms were grasped and she felt herself
powerfully dragged away.
“What are you doing? Are you mad?” a harsh voice grated in her ear.
Jeanne, every vestige of sleep or shamming gone, had clutched her in a
grip of steel. Catherine fought like a tigress, her brain too
distraught to grasp the significance of what was happening. All she
knew was that a few feet away the helpless invalid was trapped in a
furnace, while this idiot of a woman tried to prevent her going to the
rescue.
Terror lent her super-normal strength. She wrenched herself free,
turned the knob and threw open the door. A column of smoke billowed
through the gap, and even as she recoiled before the suffocating fumes
her starting eyes beheld like a vision in a nightmare a picture she
was never to forget.
In the room beyond, lit by a red glare, she saw the bed wreathed in
pennants of fire, galloping, racing to the ceiling. The carpet,
scorched to a cinder, spouted with jets of orange, while through the
blackened draperies gleamed upon the wall the silver crucifix, the
candles beneath it melted to dripping streams of wax. On the floor
between the bed and the chair, outstretched and motionless, lay Mme.
Bender, her night-dress just beginning to ignite. One glance at the
still face revealed to Catherine the awful truth. Germaine was already
dead.…
She screamed and took a step forward. Then an incredible thing
happened. The door was driven back upon the seething holocaust, and
she herself was pushed aside by an impact so violent as to knock the
breath from her body. Through the choking atmosphere a voice was
saying:
“Too late.… You are insane to go in there, mademoiselle. Do you wish
to be burned alive?”
Then and only then did the truth rush upon her. The locked doors, the
cool deliberation of Jeanne’s speech!
Like a maniac she cast herself upon her assailant, who, with set face
and shoulders squared, had braced herself against the closed door. Her
heart-beats stifled her, she shrieked in a voice that was not her own
the horrible suspicion now hardened into belief.
“Murderess--murderess! It is you who set fire to that room, you who
planned this! You have killed her, locked her in so she couldn’t
escape! Open the door, beast that you are!”
Out of the saturnine face the dark eyes bored into hers with an
expression of venomous hatred. Slowly a dark smile twisted the corners
of the mouth.
“_En bien--et aprés?_” she caught the words, uttered in a curious
undertone.
“Murderess! Murderess!”
Her voice made no sound. Her breath was exhausted, yet she continued
to rain blows upon the rigid figure which hardly seemed to feel them.
Jeanne’s eyes, narrowed with bitter triumph, were fixed now, not upon
herself but at a point just over her shoulder. Even in the anguish of
the moment the girl noticed an attitude of expectancy, as though the
woman were watching for something to occur.
It all took place within a few seconds. She suddenly became aware of a
pounding noise, like that of a heavy knocker hammering upon a door. At
the same instant she saw the woman’s face alter, the eyes suddenly
dilate with a look of terror. Then, behind her a board creaked, and
instinctively she turned her head.
There, only a pace removed, stood the Portuguese, swarthy features
livid, lips drawn back to disclose yellowed teeth. His right arm was
uplifted, there was a glinting object in his hand, probably a heavy
candlestick. For a second he poised above her, and she knew from his
transfixed gaze that he, too, was listening to that persistent
clamour.
That was all she saw. The same instant a crashing blow fell upon her
skull and she crumpled to the floor.
Even then she made one final supreme effort to raise herself, groped
in a world suddenly grown black. Across her mental vision shot points
of dazzling silver, like meteors threading a midnight sky. A roaring
as of the sea filled her ears, then that, too, subsided, and
consciousness ebbed away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
No words can convey Geoffrey’s agony of mind on receiving the
butler’s cool denial. In that moment every shred of delusion was swept
away, leaving him face to face with a stark reality nothing could
cloak or soften. Catherine was gone. Whether she had fallen victim to
the rapacity of an unknown assailant, or was at this moment hidden
away in some dark corner, silenced for ever by the mongrel confronting
him, he was powerless to fathom; both suppositions were possible, both
equally appalling.
As on a former occasion, a savage impulse seized him to drive his
fingers into Eduardo’s thick neck and throttle him. His desire must
have showed in his face, for with a watchful look the man retreated a
step. Noting the movement, Geoffrey took an iron grip on himself,
recalling the part he had to play.
“Evidently,” he remarked in even tones, “you did not take in what I
said to you this morning. The fact is, Miss West left Fontainebleau
last night, meaning to return here. Since that time she has not been
seen.”
What might have passed for a glimmer of interest showed in the small
wary eyes.
“That’s odd,” he replied insolently. “I am sure I don’t know what to
say about it. We’ve not seen her, I promise you that,” and he
scratched his ear defiantly.
“In any case,” continued Geoffrey, “I have thought best to report the
matter to the Commissariat, and they are sending a man here presently
to look into the matter. He will want to take a formal statement from
you and Jeanne, in order to make certain she did not come home. Also
the apartment has got to be searched.”
“Quite so,” replied the Portuguese imperturbably. “Jeanne has been put
to bed. She’s come over a bit queer after all this, but I daresay she
is well enough to answer questions.”
He turned to walk away, but Geoffrey stopped him.
“That is not all. You and Jeanne will naturally be required to give
evidence at the inquest. Until that is over I wish you both to remain
here, occupying the uninjured rooms. Your wages will be paid, and you
will assist with the inventory and removal of Mme. Bender’s effects.”
The butler gave this a brief consideration.
“I understand,” he agreed casually. “Anything more?”
“Not at the moment,” answered Geoffrey.
He stood watching the thick-set figure move stolidly away towards the
bend of the hall, satisfied that he had said nothing to rouse
suspicion. Then he pushed open the salon doors and stepped inside.
Not a soul of all the mixed assembly now remained, only the trampled
carpet and a litter of cigarette ashes, bearing evidence to the scene
of the morning. From the left wall the mediaeval figures in the
tapestry looked down upon him with placid indifference, while
opposite, above the mantel-mirror, gay ladies and gallants made
frivolous love in a sylvan paradise. A pall-like stillness pervaded
the place.
Mechanically he moved towards the window and, pushing aside the
curtains, stared into the street below. Then, with sudden interest he
fixed his eyes on a roughly-clad labourer, at that moment hoisting a
ladder against one of the chestnut trees. On the ground beside him lay
a canvas bag of implements. An odd time of the year to clip the trees,
reflected the watcher. Then it dawned on him that in all likelihood
this inconspicuous workman was one of the persons employed to surround
the house. If so, the inspector had been prompt.
A step sounded on the carpet behind him and, turning, he saw the
little police sergeant approaching with a confidential air.
“About that matter, monsieur,” whispered the Frenchman with a backward
jerk of the head. “I regret to say I was not successful. No sooner was
your back turned than the fellow put on his hat and--_pszt! Quel
trace!_” He swept an expressive gesture.
“Never mind, it was just what I expected. I have made a report to the
Commissariat, and they are going to take things in hand.”
The black eyes widened with interest.
“_Ah, mon Dieu!_ So you intend to make a charge?” he whispered.
Before Geoffrey could reply a loud knock shattered the silence,
causing both men to jump. They reached the hall to find Eduardo in the
act of admitting Inspector Bazin and two supernumeraries.
“Any news, monsieur?” inquired the officer expectantly.
“None. She has not come back.”
The blond countenance expressed surprise.
“I confess that astonishes me. Well, then--we will proceed.”
In a few words he despatched his men on their business of searching
the premises, having first demanded the keys to the _cave_, which the
butler promptly produced. His manner towards the Portuguese was
affable, creating the impression of enlisting assistance.
“One never knows what to expect in these cases,” he remarked to the
party at large. “One is obliged to allow for the most unlikely
possibilities. As a matter of fact,” and here he addressed Eduardo
directly, “although most of this search is a pure formality, I have an
idea that the young lady did come home without anyone’s knowing it and
went away again soon afterwards. I suppose that has not occurred to
you?”
Thus appealed to, the butler was forced to give some sort of reply,
which he did in an unresponsive fashion.
“No,” he said shortly. “But I have not thought about it.”
“I see,” assented the inspector, unmoved, and got out his note-book
and pencil. “However, as the stairs from the _rez de chaussée_ emerge
close to her room, and your room is on the other side of the
apartment, would it not be possible for her to come in without your
hearing her? Did you, in fact, hear her on the evenings when, for
example, she was out late?”
“Not as a rule.”
“Ah!--and now what was your first intimation of last night’s trouble?”
For a second the butler’s glance flickered in the Englishman’s
direction. Was there something furtive about it, or had Geoffrey’s
imagination become over-acute?
“I waked up with the maid shaking me. She was screaming out that
madame’s room was on fire, that she had tried to put it out, but----”
“Never mind the maid’s part. The time is what I want to know.”
“Can’t say exactly. Something after one.”
“And on your way to your mistress’s room did you hear any sort of
noise?”
Eduardo hesitated, thought a moment, then to Geoffrey’s surprise said,
“A moment later I did.”
In spite of himself the young man leaned forward eagerly, his eyes on
the heavy face. The inspector went on calmly:
“Indeed! What did the noise seem to be?”
“There was no seem about it. Someone was beating on this door here,
nearly breaking it in. I’ve told all that to M. l’agent here,” he
added, motioning towards the little officer. “It was a gentleman from
the third floor who was crossing the court, saw the flames through the
window, and came up to wake us. While the maid and I tried to get
madame out he ran down the avenue and gave the alarm.”
“Ah--so it was he who gave the alarm? I did not know that.”
“Yes--first he had a go at the telephone, but the line was dead.”
“Were the engines quick in getting here?”
“Quick enough, but the fire had made a fair headway. You see, the maid
did not wake up till her own room was filled with smoke. She was up
with Madame most of the previous night, and slept heavily in
consequence.”
“Precisely. Well, that is about all I wanted to know.” The Inspector
ran an alert eye over his notes, then added suddenly, “By the way, can
you account for a light being seen in the young lady’s room at a
quarter-past one this morning? About the time you were attempting the
rescue, I should say.”
If this news came as a shock, not a muscle of the swarthy face
betrayed the fact. Only the small eyes grew watchful, and it was
almost half a minute before their owner answered indifferently.
“It’s the first I’ve heard of it. Maybe one of the women went in the
room early in the evening and left the light on.”
“Ah, that seems possible. Still, if mademoiselle took it into her head
to go quietly out just then, I take it there was a good chance of her
doing so unobserved?”
“I daresay,” returned the man, who was now looking a little puzzled.
“A good deal might have happened about then without our knowing.”
“Naturally. That will do, I think. And now if you will conduct us to
the maid we will see if she has anything more to suggest.”
For the first time a trace of hesitation appeared in the confident
manner.
“I’ll ask the doctor if you can see her,” he muttered, making off to
the left. “He is with her now.”
Feeling sure that the fellow was anxious to have a private word with
his associate, Geoffrey shot a questioning look at Bazin, but the
latter did not heed him. Already he was striding after the Portuguese
with long easy steps.
“That is all right, my man: I will speak to the doctor myself. Is this
the room?”
They had reached the door at the corner, giving on the largest
bedroom, indeed, the one formerly occupied by Mme. Bender. The
butler’s thick hand was already on the knob, but with a firmness not
at all discourteous, the inspector pushed it aside.
“Allow me,” he said, and the following instant he and Geoffrey stood
within, while by the simplest manœuvre Eduardo had been left alone in
the passage. Geoffrey fancied he caught a contraction of annoyance in
the murky brown eyes as they watched the door close.
The two men paused for a moment, their eyes accustoming themselves to
the semi-twilight, for the curtains of apple-green damask were drawn
across the windows, excluding every ray of sunlight. The wide,
irregular chamber, furnished with a delicate magnificence, had a
general look of abandonment and neglect. The panelled walls showed
here and there a faded rectangular patch, where at some time a picture
had hung; the dressing-table, formed of a beautiful Venetian console,
was bare of ornaments, as was the painted eighteenth-century
escritoire opposite. The thick neutral-toned carpet showed streaks of
dust.
In an alcove stood a wide decorated Italian bed, with a table beside
it on which was a telephone instrument and an open medical case. A
black-clad, pompous figure straightened up to take a survey of the
intruders through thick glasses.
“Ah, monsieur,” murmured the doctor, coming forward as he recognized
Geoffrey. “What a truly shocking affair! Who could have foreseen such
an event? That poor woman there”--he motioned to the bed--“is
completely prostrated! Would not give up, however, until I threatened
her with hospital. She has spirit.”
“Badly injured?” asked the Inspector.
“Not physically. Some painful burns about the hands and arms. It is
her nervous system which is suffering most, and no wonder. I have
given her a small injection of morphia, and presently she will get
some sleep. You wish to speak to her?”
“Only to ask her a few questions. I shall not be long.”
The good man nodded. Watching him closely, Geoffrey was confirmed in
his former impression, that here was a well-meaning, somewhat
old-fashioned muddler--just the sort of physician Jeanne would be
likely to choose for her purpose, accurately sizing him up as a
complaisant, unsuspecting tool.
“This will prove a severe blow to the poor Mademoiselle West,” went on
the doctor, preparing to depart. “I thank God that she was away when
it happened.”
Geoffrey did not attempt to undeceive him. He allowed the other to
press his hand with kindly solemnity, then shutting the door upon him,
turned towards the alcove with a taut feeling of expectancy, letting
his eyes rest upon the still figure lying upon the bed.
There was little light in the shadowed recess, and for a moment he
could not tell whether the woman’s eyes were open or closed. All he
could make out was the outline of her body beneath the satin coverlet,
the dark streaks of disordered hair above the sallow forehead, and her
two stiff, white-swathed arms. Intense loathing seized him. The
apparent fact that she was suffering from nervous collapse stirred in
him no compassion, since her very state argued an abominable scheme to
extort sympathy and divert suspicion from herself. She had taken
everyone else in, but she had no power over him. He told himself that
whether or not she had had any hand in spiriting Catherine away, she
had at any rate one crime upon her soul, and that a peculiarly
cold-blooded, diabolical one.
The inspector had switched on a reading-lamp beside the bed, and its
shaded rays fell now upon the drawn and pinched countenance, revealing
the expression of dull apathy Geoffrey had noticed earlier in the day.
It was impossible to guess the thoughts that lay behind that
indifferent stare, or to tell whether or not its owner could be
trapped into any damaging admission.
In a few words the inspector explained his business. The prostrate
woman let her opaque eyes rest upon his face for a full minute, then
slowly turned them upon Geoffrey, her ragged brows contracted with
puzzled incredulity.
“But surely monsieur was not serious in what he said this morning?”
she murmured. “Even now I cannot understand. You say that mademoiselle
came here last night?”
“That is what we have got to find out,” replied Bazin soothingly. “We
cannot tell yet what has happened. You were asleep up till the time
your room became filled with smoke?”
“Yes, monsieur, I woke up half-suffocated.”
“And before that--was everything as usual?”
She drew a long breath.
“Not quite, monsieur. Madame had a caller, a lady, who remained with
her till seven o’clock. This lady had always an exciting effect on
madame, and when she had gone last night I had great difficulty in
quieting the patient.”
Geoffrey’s thoughts flew to Miss Cushing.
“What did you do?” inquired the inspector.
“I massaged her for a quarter of an hour, and at nine o’clock
administered the usual dose of veronal prescribed by the doctor. At
half-past ten I looked in and found her just dropping off to sleep.
Then I went to bed.”
“Have you any idea as to how the fire started?”
There was a long pause. Geoffrey listened with strained attention for
the reply.
“I have, monsieur,” replied the maid slowly. “Indeed, after what I saw
when I first opened the door there can be no doubt as to the cause.
The curtains of the bed caught in the flame of the candles on the
wall.”
“Candles!”
“Yes, monsieur. Madame must have waked up, got out of bed, and lighted
the candles before the _prie-dieu_. I saw plainly the streams of
melted wax.…”
“But surely it was dangerous to have candles so close to the
draperies?”
“Most dangerous. Indeed, when I discovered recently that madame had
been burning her candles during the night I took them away, fearing
she might do herself an injury.”
“You took them away! Then how----?”
Watching closely, Geoffrey saw the still face darken with a look of
accusation.
“That is what I am asking myself, monsieur. It is evident that unknown
to me madame had obtained others, as well as matches. Someone must
have given them to her secretly. That person, whoever it was, is
responsible for madame’s death.…”
The cold deliberation of this statement caused both listeners to
stiffen. Here was something totally unexpected.
“But is it possible that anyone knowing madame’s condition could have
done so foolish a thing?”
There was the faintest perceptible shrug of the supine shoulders.
“Ah, monsieur, you do not know what I have had to fight against with
those who refused to recognize madame’s mental state, and set
themselves to humour her whims.…”
“You mean to suggest that the caller yesterday brought candles with
her and helped madame to hide them?”
Another pause, while Geoffrey hung breathless upon the next words,
which came hesitatingly:
“Ah, no, monsieur, I cannot believe it was the friend I mentioned. She
is a lady of a certain age, who though sometimes unfortunate in her
speech would, I believe, know better than to commit such an
indiscretion. No, monsieur, in my opinion it was someone else--someone
younger and less responsible.…”
“You mean?”
“The young lady you tell me is missing… Mademoiselle West.…”
Geoffrey made an angry movement forward, the cool infamy of the
suggestion acting on him like the prick of a spur. Catherine
responsible for the victim’s death! Even as his lips parted to voice a
furious protest he caught a warning glance from the Frenchman’s eye,
and subsided, breathing hard.
“That statement implies a serious accusation,” Bazin replied somewhat
sternly. “You are aware of what you are saying?”
The lined face remained inscrutable.
“I do not think that mademoiselle realized the gravity of her action,
consequently I accuse her of nothing but thoughtlessness. But if I am
questioned in court as to the cause of my mistress’s death…” She
allowed her sentence to end in ominous silence, and with an air of
exhaustion closed her eyes.
Geoffrey’s fingers twitched, but the inspector proceeded, unperturbed.
“Listen to me,” he said, referring to his notes. “If the young lady
did reach the apartment last night, she must have done so shortly
after midnight. Well, then--at a quarter-past one there was a light in
her room.”
The eyes opened abruptly. Geoffrey saw that their dullness had
vanished, giving place to a sharp attention. For a tense moment they
searched the speaker’s face.
“_En effet!_” The words were muttered under her breath with a mixture
of wonderment and cogitation. “Is it true what you are telling me?”
“It is an established fact. This gentleman here was outside in his
car, saw the window lit up and a shadow across the blind. Then the
light was put out.”
With a jerk Jeanne turned her head and stared at the Englishman in
silence. She seemed to be thinking deeply.
“_En effet!_” she repeated slowly, as though some new light began to
break over her. “Now I see why you are asking me all these questions.
So she was here!… One might almost suppose, monsieur, that she was
hiding in her room waiting for a chance to steal away unobserved.…”
“Why unobserved? Have you anything in your mind?”
She did not answer at once, her dark eyes still narrowed with their
look of concentrated thought. When she spoke it was with halting
deliberation.
“It is difficult to say, monsieur.… But the idea has this moment
occurred to me that perhaps--who knows?--mademoiselle discovered the
fire before I was aware of it, realized that it was the consequence of
her own folly and--you follow me, monsieur?--took herself off in order
to avoid the result of an inquiry. Mind, I know nothing, I. But if the
unfortunate young lady saw at a glance that it was impossible to save
madame…”
Geoffrey never knew how the interview terminated, nor by what exercise
of diplomacy Bazin managed to get him out of the bedroom without
making a scene. All he recalled was that somehow or other he was
outside in the passage, struggling to throw off a firm grasp which
detained him by the shoulder. Through a red haze of anger he heard a
voice saying:
“Gently, monsieur! There is nothing to be gained by violence. Do not
speak now--follow me to the back of the apartment.”
With an effort at control the young man allowed himself to be led
along to the left and into an unused room, the door of which the
inspector closed. Then his indignation burst its bonds.
“You heard what that devil said?” he cried in stifled accents. “You
heard? She has had the audacity to assert that mademoiselle----”
He broke off, dimly aware of a change in his companion’s manner. The
blue eyes level with his held a shade of uncertainty, one rough hand
upraised itself to twist the ends of the blond moustache.
“Monsieur,” came the reply, hesitatingly and with a slight hint of
embarrassment, “either that woman in there is exceedingly resourceful,
or else----” he paused.
“Else what?”
“Or else she has hit upon what very possibly may be the true
explanation of mademoiselle’s absence.”
Geoffrey’s eyes blazed at him.
“My God! You don’t mean to tell me you believe her story!”
“Monsieur, I do not believe anything till we have absolute proof that
the young lady returned last night. Remember our first two theories.
But if we find that she was here, then what we have just heard
suggests the happiest way out of the difficulty.”
“_Happiest?_”
“Naturally--for in that event she is at this moment perfectly safe,
only dreading to come forward.…”
Thunderstruck, Geoffrey stared at him, temporarily deprived of speech.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Geoffrey was still trying to master his outraged feelings when his
companion turned his head towards the passage and lifted a warning
hand.
“Let us not speak of this here, monsieur. We can discuss it all better
at the Commissariat, if you will accompany me there.” Whereupon he led
the way briskly towards the front entrance, leaving the Englishman no
choice but to bottle up his indignation as best he could and follow
submissively.
As they passed the ruined passage one of the two subordinates came
forward from his inspection of the debris and spoke a few words to his
superior. The latter, in turn, addressed Geoffrey in an undertone,
first glancing round to see that they were not overheard.
“It seems there are certain personal effects of the young lady in her
bedroom. Our problem is to decide whether any of them were taken by
her to Fontainebleau on her visit. Can you help us?”
Geoffrey considered, and shook his head.
“The best person to know about them is my sister, who I believe is in
town this afternoon. Shall I try to get in touch with her and ask her
to come here?”
“If you please, monsieur. You can telephone from the rue Mesnil.”
Outside, a low-built grey car, strong and efficient-looking, was drawn
up close to the kerb. Into it the inspector climbed, taking his place
at the wheel, and motioning to Geoffrey to take the seat beside him.
As they drove away the young man cast a backward glance at the
building and touched his companion on the sleeve. In the window of the
room occupied by the maid stood Eduardo, staring into the street
below, his gaze directed, not upon the car, but at the blue-clad
figure of the workman busy on one of the chestnut-trees.
“Is that one of your men?”
Bazin nodded.
“If you had taken the trouble to look out of the kitchen windows you
would have seen a brick-mason, tinkering with the rear wall. Our
friend seems interested. If he has anything on his conscience, he will
not venture out while the daylight lasts.… You know, of course, that
the deceased’s body has been removed to the Palais de Justice?
However, I took care not to allow the servants to guess our intention.
They believe the body has been taken to a mortuary to await the usual
inquest.”
“I wonder if the post-mortem will reveal anything?”
The inspector gave a disparaging shrug.
“Who knows? I warn you, monsieur, that they may find nothing worse
than veronal. To employ actual poison would be running a serious
risk.”
“Unless the criminals reckoned on the body being too badly burned to
discover anything,” retorted Geoffrey. “I have an idea the
intervention of that _locataire_ came at an inopportune moment, and
that the intention was to let the fire go on for another quarter of an
hour before the alarm was given.”
“Possibly. In any case we shall soon know what the Médecin Légiste
has to say.”
Geoffrey said nothing. His concern as to Mme. Bender’s mode of death
was completely overshadowed by anxiety regarding the missing girl, his
feelings at the moment chaotic and contradictory. That the man beside
him could have read in the maid’s cool assertion anything other than a
fabrication of lies so astounded him that his brain still recoiled
from the shock. Catherine--Catherine, to have perpetrated so appalling
a stupidity and, having done so, to flee from the consequences of her
act without a word of warning to the occupants of the burning flat!
The suggestion was so monstrous that his ire rose afresh against any
being capable of according it serious consideration.
Still, the Inspector knew nothing of Catherine’s character, nor for
that matter of Jeanne’s, and the theory in the abstract was plausible.
No stranger could be expected to see in it a quick-witted schemer’s
ruse to cast her own weight of guilt on innocent shoulders. At the
same time the very fact that the woman had dared to put forward this
dastardly explanation argued an inner knowledge of her own safety in
so doing. In other words she must know that the person she accused
would not be able to contradict her.
At the door of the Commissariat the Inspector left Geoffrey to do his
telephoning and went to inquire if any report had come in from the
taxi-driver who presumably picked up the missing girl at the Gare
Fontainebleau-Avron. Ten minutes later he returned to find the
Englishman pacing the floor.
“No news has come in,” he announced. “But it is a little early to look
for any. However, I have started a new line of inquiry which I hope
may lead to results.” He hesitated, glancing at the young man’s
haggard features. “In short, I want to find out if anyone answering to
Mademoiselle’s description quitted Paris by a morning train.”
Geoffrey’s eyes flashed.
“If that is what you have in mind, I can assure you your efforts are
wasted. Mademoiselle West is not trying to hide from us.”
There was the ghost of a smile in the Frenchman’s practical blue eyes.
“In any case, there is no harm in making sure,” he replied amicably,
and dropped the subject. “You have located your sister?”
“She is on her way to meet us at the apartment,” Geoffrey informed him
shortly.
The other’s manner made him uncomfortable. It hinted at a secret
belief that Catherine’s disappearance was not only voluntary but had
something of duplicity in it; that, indeed, the poor girl had some
reason of her own for keeping out of the way. Nothing he could say
would refute the unspoken charge, he could only chafe inwardly.
“Now, monsieur, I have another little matter to attend to on our way
back. The deceased had a car. I obtained the address of the garage
from the concierge, and I propose to give instructions that on no
account is the car to be taken out.”
Geoffrey looked at him quickly.
“You think the butler may want to use it?”
“Either he or the _notaire_, Blom--although I cannot say if the latter
has a driving-licence. It is only a chance, but we may as well be on
our guard.”
As they drove rapidly round the Place Victor Hugo and into the Avenue
Malakoff, Geoffrey acquainted his companion with the facts concerning
the Portuguese’s sortie that morning.
“It is certain that he held some sort of conference with Blom, though
his subsequent movements appeared harmless enough. All he did was to
pay a call on one of the concierges lower down the avenue.”
Bazin listened attentively.
“The fact that he took the first opportunity to see his friend is
certainly suggestive. I congratulate you, monsieur, on having had him
watched. Ah, here we are!”
Turning into a narrow mews, he sounded his horn in front of a large
garage. A youngish man with tousled hair and a face streaked with oil
came out to meet them, wiping his hands on a piece of cotton-waste. To
him the inspector stated his business.
“You understand? This car--a Rolls, is it not?--is in no circumstances
to be allowed out of the garage. If anyone calls for it, you are to
give a point-blank refusal and communicate at once with the
Commissariat.”
The proprietor nodded, but looked slightly surprised.
“Certainly, monsieur, I will carry out your instructions--when the car
is returned.”
“Returned! Do you mean it is not here?”
“No, monsieur. It was taken out two days ago. I understood it was
going into the country for the week-end.”
The occupants of the grey car exchanged startled glances, and Geoffrey
swore under his breath.
“You are sure of this?”
“But yes, monsieur. I know the car you speak of well. For the past few
months there has been no regular chauffeur, but it is sometimes used
by a manservant--a Spaniard, I think he is. It was he who called for
it on Thursday.”
There was nothing to be done. As they backed out of the mews the
inspector’s blond face was contracted with annoyance.
“This looks as though they had stolen a march on us,” he muttered. “I
don’t like the look of it. I daresay I could find the car, but it
might mean searching half the garages of Paris. On the whole I am
afraid we must let it go.”
This development deepened Geoffrey’s conviction of a pre-arranged
plan. It looked as though Eduardo, foreseeing the chance of things
going wrong, had removed the Rolls to some locality where he was
unknown, in order to facilitate a quick get-away.
Well, things had gone wrong, although perhaps the servants were as yet
unaware of that fact. In the circumstances they would probably sit
tight, knowing that any false move would jeopardize the stake for
which they had played.
Catherine’s absence was another matter, the most maddening feature of
which was the complete uncertainty surrounding it. What if the
servants were not involved? As Bazin had pointed out, there were other
explanations. But for the tell-tale shadow on the blind Geoffrey would
have been ready to picture the poor girl as the victim of robbery and
murder, perpetrated either in the train, or in the taxi later on.
Perhaps before the day was over her body would be found.
Elspeth came out of the loge to meet them, her fresh colour faded, her
whole manner betraying anxiety.
“Have you heard from her?” she demanded, grasping her brother’s arm.
He shook his head. She drew in a dismayed breath.
“If only I could make some suggestion! I have racked my brain. Could
something have frightened her so that she was afraid to come here? She
disliked the servants, you know.”
“We are absolutely in the dark. All we know is that both the maid and
butler deny having seen her. Come along, the police are waiting.”
They overtook the Inspector at the lift, and a few seconds later the
three were admitted to the apartment by the little sergeant, who was
preparing to depart. The pair who had conducted the search came
forward, the taller of the pair, a finely built Auvergnais, acting as
spokesman.
“We have gone over the whole building from top to bottom, monsieur,”
he announced in a confidential tone, “not omitting the _cave_ and the
roof. Nothing has come to light barring a cabin-trunk in the box-room,
marked with the lady’s initials. We broke it open, but it is quite
empty. There are only those few personal belongings we should like to
get an opinion on.”
The party made their way to the distant bedroom Catherine had occupied
and, taking a key from his pocket, the Auvergnais unlocked the door.
The afternoon sun flooded the disordered room, revealing a heap of
clothing on the bed, empty drawers pulled out to their farthest
extent, and cupboard doors gaping wide. Motes danced in the bars of
brilliant light which the yellow, _toile_-covered walls rendered the
more dazzling.
“If madame will take a look at these?” suggested Bazin, motioning to
the confused mass of apparel.
One by one Elspeth picked up and examined a frock of beige kasha, a
tweed skirt and jumper to match, an old cardigan, an afternoon gown of
parchment-coloured velvet and two evening-dresses. The onlookers
watching tensely, saw her reject the lot, then turn to a smaller
collection of underclothing, delicate garments of _crêpe de Chine_,
some primrose yellow, some pale apricot.
“No,” she said decidedly, “she had none of these with her. I am
certain, because I helped her pack.”
“And the toilet articles?”
There were not many of these, merely a few bottles, an almost empty
powder-box, and a small pot of cream for chapped hands. Again Elspeth
shook her head, instinct telling her that here was the unimportant
flotsam one leaves behind. Then she turned towards the open cupboard,
where the squirrel coat hung lonely from the rod, let her eye wander
over the shoes at the bottom and the two last winter’s hats on the
shelf.
“Do you recognize this, madame?”
It was the tall Auvergnais who addressed her, extending his broad
palm, in the centre of which lay a tiny red cylinder.
“_Une tube à rouge_, madame--we found it lying against the wall under
the bed.”
Elspeth gave a sharp exclamation.
“Catherine’s lipstick!” she cried, her eyes meeting Geoffrey’s. “I saw
her use it when she was changing her dress to go.”
Geoffrey’s hand shook as he reached for the lipstick and examined it.
Crimson morocco, outlined in gold.
“I know it, too,” he muttered. “I was with her the day she bought it,
in the Trois Quartiers.…”
The three men were eyeing him eagerly. He repeated his remark in
French, his manner betraying excitement.
“But are you sure it is the same?” inquired Bazin. “Sometimes ladies
possess more than one of these things.”
Elspeth took it again and removed the cap. The dark red composition
within appeared scarcely used.
“I can’t be absolutely positive,” she faltered. “She may have had two
alike.…”
Brother and sister continued to gaze as though fascinated. The little
object seemed to both a silent witness of its owner’s presence in the
room: yet, as the inspector had suggested, it was not conclusive
proof, since it was possible Catherine had owned an extra one of the
same make. There was a moment of tantalizing suspense.
Once more exploring the room, Elspeth’s eyes came to rest on the
despoiled cupboard.
“What is in that?” she asked suddenly, indicating the flowered
hat-box.
“_Encore un chapeau, madame. Je vous le montrerai----_” and the
Auvergnais removed the carton, setting it upon the bed.
The next instant Elspeth uttered a cry.
“Geoff! Look, look!”
Inside the box, resting upon smooth layers of tissue-paper, was a
small green felt hat. She snatched it forth tremblingly, turned it
round on her hand.
“Don’t you see? It’s hers, the one she was wearing. Oh, there’s not
the least doubt of it! I can prove it to you. See here,”--and
displaying the lining, she pointed to a black silk tag sewn inside, on
which were embroidered the words “Jane-Mary, Boston.”
Geoffrey stared transfixed. He, too, knew this hat, had noticed it on
many occasions. The memory of its narrow brim hugging the oval cheek
on one side and upturned on the other, brought a choking sensation to
his throat. Instantly he turned to the inspector, his entire manner
charged with electricity.
“Monsieur, we need look no longer, here is the proof! This is the hat
mademoiselle wore when she left Fontainebleau!”
For a second there was no sound in the room save the quickened
breathing of the startled hearers.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Bazin was the first to break the silence, his eyes ablaze in his
sunburned face.
“Madame--there can be no mistake about this?”
“None whatever. I tell you this is the hat she was wearing when my
husband put her into the train last night. It is one she brought from
America.”
“She was here, then. She came home and went away again soon
afterwards, leaving nothing behind her but her hat and this.” He
indicated the lipstick. His tone was one of puzzled reflection. “Why
her hat?”
“She could have worn another one,” suggested Elspeth impatiently. “I
do not know what other hats she has.”
“Then let us say she changed her hat. But does that help us to a
solution?”
On the contrary it deepened the mystery. Blank looks met the question,
and it was some seconds before Elspeth spoke, with a trace of
eagerness.
“If she took the trouble to put on a different hat, don’t you see what
it may mean? That for some reason she changed her mind about spending
the night here, carried her bags down again just as they were, and
went somewhere else.”
“And the _tube à rouge_, madame?”
“That must have fallen out of her bag, and she did not bother to
search for it.”
“It suggests she was anxious to get away.”
“Exactly my opinion,” agreed Elspeth quickly. “Don’t you see,
Geoffrey? She must have gone of her own accord, else why should she
take off one hat and put on another?”
Her brother continued to stare at the tell-tale head-gear. Its
presence did not argue haste, but a certain deliberation, yet he was
unconvinced.
“We don’t know that she did do that. Besides, if all this is true, why
don’t we hear from her?” he objected stubbornly.
“But think, my dear--if she met those friends of hers this morning she
may have spent the day sight-seeing with them, and even now may not
know about Mme. Bender. Depend upon it, we’ll soon have news.”
“She knew I was going to drive out to Fontainebleau this afternoon and
bring her back.”
He glanced at his watch, the hands of which marked a quarter to five.
By now he would have been on his way.
“It looks damned odd,” he remarked stonily. “It must have taken some
strong motive to make her quit the place with her luggage at past one
in the morning.”
“Ah, _ça_!” the inspector waved an expressive hand round the
disarranged room. “I agree there must have been some unforeseen
happening to account for so sudden a departure. Does madame know the
explanation offered by the maid?” he inquired, sinking his voice.
“The maid? What does she think?” demanded Elspeth, searching the four
faces.
Before Geoffrey had conquered his obvious reluctance to divulge what
was so distasteful to him, the inspector threw open the door and
scanned the passage in both directions. No one was in sight.
“Now then, monsieur,” he said with a slight nod.
“It’s simply this, if you must know: Jeanne suggests that perhaps
Catherine found out about the fire and Mme. Bender’s death before
anyone else was aware of it, that she got into a panic and took
herself off because”--here he hesitated painfully--“because she was
terrified lest blame should attach to her.”
His sister gasped in bewilderment.
“Blame! Why, what on earth----”
“You see, she insinuates that it was Catherine who supplied the poor
woman with the candles which caused the fire.”
“Oh!” She stifled a horrified cry. “Do you believe that?”
“Not for a moment,” replied Geoffrey between set teeth. “It is not in
the least like Catherine to do either one thing or the other.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. He could see Elspeth grappling
with this new idea, her eyes narrowed in thought.
“I wonder?” she whispered slowly. “Geoff--you don’t know. She might
have done it, in utter innocence. Remember, she did not believe Mme.
Bender was insane. And supposing she did discover what was happening,
mightn’t she have been so overwhelmed by the shock that she lost her
head completely? Her one idea may have been to rush away and hide,
pretend she had not been here at all. One can’t say how one would
behave if faced with such a crisis.”
He did not reply. Put into words, the thing sounded remarkably
plausible. The inspector made a sign to show his agreement.
“Precisely, madame. One still does not altogether grasp the meaning of
this”--and he indicated the hat--“but it is fairly clear to me that
the young lady is well and safe, only does not wish her presence here
last night to become known. It would not astonish me, monsieur, if
before many hours you had some news of her. Probably she has gone to
an hotel and will communicate with you later on. If she should care to
assume total ignorance of this affair”--he paused with a tolerant
shrug--“then the less said about our discoveries the better.”
A steely light had come into the young man’s eyes.
“Does it not occur to you,” he said slowly, “that if what you suggest
is the case, she may not turn up at all?”
His sister stared at him frowning, then exclaimed in sudden dismay:
“You don’t mean she might… oh, no, Geoffrey! She wouldn’t do anything
so mad!”
“Why not? If she believed herself responsible for her cousin’s death?”
Bazin’s quick intelligence took in the implication.
“Ah, hardly, monsieur! It takes a great deal to bring one to suicide.
No need to exaggerate matters at this stage of the game.”
However, the horrible idea had taken hold of Geoffrey so that he could
not throw it off. No one but himself knew to what extent Catherine had
brooded over her relative’s situation, and had striven to put it
right. If, after all her planning and contriving, she had suddenly
been faced with last night’s horrible revelation, who could say what
the result might be? All these apparently contradictory evidences of
hasty departure might point to one dreadful conclusion. Yet, even as
his distraught mind grappled with its new obsession, the vision of
Jeanne’s enigmatic eyes came before him, and he asked himself if,
against his will, he were not being made the dupe of some cleverly
conceived infamy.…
He watched the inspector place the lipstick in an envelope, seal it up
and consign it to an inside pocket. Then, rousing himself, he inquired
what arrangements had been made for guarding the apartment after
nightfall.
“Ah, yes, monsieur! I shall have two of my men posted in the buildings
at the back and side, and I myself intend to pass the night in the
apartment directly opposite, across the avenue.”
“May I share watches with you?”
“Willingly, monsieur. Shall we meet at the Commissariat at eight
o’clock? That is to say, if nothing is heard from mademoiselle in the
meantime.”
“But you may hear, Geoffrey,” put in Elspeth quickly. “I can’t help
thinking there is some foolish mistake about all this which may be
cleared up at any moment. Those friends of hers she was to meet--she
may be with them now, sight-seeing somewhere. Had you thought of
that?”
There was nothing he had not considered, but in spite of all a leaden
pall lay upon his heart, crushing out hope. A voice whispered that he
would never hear from Catherine again.
They quitted the room, which was again locked behind them, and
retraced their steps through the silent passage to the front entrance,
where Elspeth and Geoffrey took leave of the police officers.
“Leave everything to me, monsieur,” murmured Bazin reassuringly. “By
this evening I hope to have something cheerful to report.”
At the glass doors of the loge they came upon a familiar figure, no
less a person than the office factotum, Henri, at that moment
shuffling forward to meet them. His wrinkled face held a trace of
unusual excitement.
“Ah, Monsieur Geoffrey, you have not gone! Here is a telegram just
come for you at the rue Auber. Your father has sent it on.”
Geoffrey snatched the blue paper, the seal of which had already been
broken, glanced at the contents, then uttered a sharp cry.
“My God!” he exclaimed. “Elspeth, you were right! It’s from
Catherine!” and he thrust the flimsy slip into her hand.
She devoured it with eager eyes. Upon the form was scrawled the
following words:
“_Overcome by frightful news unable go out but will telephone you
to-morrow and explain my absence do not trouble yourself all goes well
with me Catherine._”
The wave of relief that swept over Geoffrey engulfed all reason.
Voiceless, he could only stare stupidly at the jumbled sentences,
reading in them a reprieve from utter despair. Catherine was safe, he
would soon see her again. The knowledge overwhelmed him.
Elspeth’s hand on his arm brought him to his senses.
“Geoffrey! It’s too marvellous! I can hardly believe it!” There was an
hysterical tremor in her voice. “Oh! to think nothing is wrong, after
all!”
“Are you so astonished?” he demanded suspiciously. “A moment ago you
were positive we should hear from her.”
“I know I said that,” she replied a little guiltily. “But--well, I
wasn’t so sure as I sounded. Uncertainty is so awful--one thinks of
such appalling things.”
He nodded. What use now to admit that since noon to-day he had been
haunted by the fear that Catherine had met a violent death? As his
strained nerves relaxed he felt a foolish desire to laugh, to shout
aloud, and at the same time realized that he was extraordinarily
tired. He had had nothing to eat all day since his morning coffee, but
the fact had altogether escaped his notice.
“Where is she now? Does she give an address?”
Together they examined the form, but beyond the message it bore
nothing beyond the hour when it was handed in--three o’clock--and the
words. “Hôtel des Postes.”
“That’s queer,” Geoffrey muttered. “Why doesn’t she tell us where she
is?”
“Too upset to think of it, I suppose. It’s not really strange. I
should say she went to some small hotel last night, one where there
are no room-telephones, that she is simply prostrated by the shock,
and only able to collect her thoughts sufficiently to realize we may
be worried about her. She’s got the concierge to send this wire.”
“I daresay you’re right.” He continued to stare at the blue slip as
though striving to force some additional information out of it. “Oh,
well, the important thing is that she’s found. Here’s the inspector
now.”
He turned back to announce the welcome tidings, translating the
telegram into French for the other’s benefit. Bazin’s blue eyes
widened with relief.
“Well, well, monsieur! I felicitate you. The young lady has given you
a bad quarter of an hour, but, _voilà!_ the mystery is cleared up, as
I hoped it would be.”
“I am not so sure of that. I can’t help feeling there is something odd
behind it.”
From the tactful avoidance of his eye it was plain that his opinion
was shared by his two companions. During the uncomfortable pause which
followed, the inspector studied the message and made a few notes in
his book.
“I will look into this, monsieur, and see what I can find out, since
you are no doubt still somewhat anxious, though, as mademoiselle
promises to communicate with you to-morrow, you will not have long to
remain in suspense. As for the other affair----” He left the sentence
unfinished, and with one accord the three moved through the archway
and into the street before resuming the conversation.
Geoffrey detected a note of uncertainty in the other’s voice, and
thought he could guess the reason. Bazin was thinking that since
Catherine’s disappearance had turned out a false alarm, the rest of
their suspicions might prove equally groundless. He spoke decidedly:
“Whatever may be the truth about this,” he said, motioning to the slip
of paper, “nothing is altered in regard to what happened last night.
We had ample reason for starting an investigation, and I should think
it extremely likely those servants are going to be indicted for
murdering their mistress. Meanwhile, they are still at liberty. You
see what I mean?”
“Perfectly, monsieur. You need have no fear; I shall not abandon watch
of the house. However, there is now no need for you to sacrifice your
night’s rest. You will do as you think best, naturally, but if you
decide not to come this evening I shall proceed without you.”
“One thing more: do you think we ought to let the servants know we
have heard from mademoiselle?”
“I shall inform them now. Undoubtedly our best purpose is served by
setting their minds at rest.”
They separated, Bazin returning to carry out the intention just
stated, the brother and sister setting out aimlessly in the direction
of the Avenue Kléber, both wrapped in thought.
Now that Geoffrey had grown accustomed to the shock of joy, he found
himself grappling with doubts and questions. The problem was only
partly solved, his mind still in utter confusion. A mad impulse seized
him to begin at once a tour of all the hotels in the district
surrounding the Hôtel des Postes, but such a proceeding was
manifestly stupid. It would be like hunting for a needle in a
haystack. Presently he pulled himself together sufficiently to inquire
of Elspeth where she wished to go.
“Home,” she replied. “I would have stayed the night, but now there is
no need to, is there?”
“I’ll take you to the station,” he murmured mechanically, and raised
his hand to stop an approaching taxi.
A little later, seated beside his sister, he leaned forward with a
moody expression, chin in hands.
“I am not satisfied about this,” he declared morosely. “It has a
deuced queer look.… It is not like Catherine to funk anything, yet
that appears to be what she’s done. I wish to God I could go and see
her now.…”
Elspeth eyed him shrewdly and with kindly impatience.
“Geoff, Geoff! Why can’t you wipe the whole thing out? If the poor
child made some fearful mistake and doesn’t want us to find out----”
“You keep harping on that!” he cried, as though stung. “How do you
know she did? You have only the word of a woman who’s proved herself a
thief and a liar, and may be something far worse. There is only one
fact we can be sure about, which is that Catherine came home and went
away again.”
She sighed tolerantly.
“At any rate, Geoff, Clement didn’t take her disappearance very
seriously, nor did father. Both of them thought there was some mistake
about it, that she would turn up after a bit, and it seems they were
right. Not that I blame you for getting frightened.”
There was nothing to say. Perhaps it was true that his infatuation had
played havoc with his commonsense.
“You’re worn out,” she said suddenly. “You look absolutely finished.
Promise me you’ll go straight home and get a bath and some dinner. You
need both.”
Following her glance, he saw for the first time the streaks of smut
upon his hands, and realized that his collar was wilted.
“You will do as I say?” she urged.
“I suppose I may as well.”
“Let me know what happens,” she added as the taxi swerved into the
open space before the Gare. “And whatever you do don’t bother
Catherine about this affair. Let her alone.”
She waved her hand and was gone. He remained staring after her in a
daze from which the driver’s gruff voice presently roused him. Then he
drew a deep breath, and with a sense of flatness and lethargy, got
back into the taxi and gave his own address.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Geoffrey’s father had read Catherine’s message before sending it on,
consequently at dinner there was little to discuss. The meal passed in
strained silence, Geoffrey consuming food mechanically, while the
other scanned with a gloomy frown the evening papers’ accounts of the
fire.
Through the open windows a breath of sun-drenched air stole in from
across the Luxembourg Gardens; the tall candles flickering on the
table filled the young man’s mind with an uneasy suggestion, driving
home the fact that while his worst fears were allayed, he was still
restless and dissatisfied.
If only Catherine had told him where she was! For the life of him he
could not regard the omission as accidental. At one moment he imagined
sensitively that she shrank from seeing him for some personal reason,
at another attributed her motive to a desire for concealment. The
occasional probing glances directed at him by his father goaded him to
irritability, for it was not difficult to read their cause.
The coffee arriving, Macadam pushed back his chair and thrust a cigar
into his mouth at an irascible angle.
“Whatever Miss West’s reasons may be for her behaviour,” he pronounced
gratingly, “she has given us a deuced deal of trouble and made us look
a couple of fools as well. If you enjoy this sort of thing, it’s more
than I do.”
The sarcasm flicked Geoffrey on the raw.
“We may as well reserve comment till we know the facts,” he retorted
curtly.
With a shrug the old man wadded the newspapers into a ball and strode
from the room, reappearing for a moment to toss an envelope in his
son’s direction.
“There’s your report about the handwriting. The notes were forgeries
right enough--though much good it does to know it now! The next thing
will be the discovery that the pearls are missing, so we can arrest
that woman for theft, whether or not there’s any foundation for a more
serious charge.”
It was with feelings bordering on complete indifference that Geoffrey
read the enclosure. Indeed, so absorbed was he in his own
contradictory emotions, he did not realize to what extent his father’s
ill temper was occasioned by a sense of failure in averting a
calamity.
Much as he wished to ignore Jeanne’s detestable theory, he could not
deny that Catherine’s present conduct was strange. The idea that a
cloud of doubt might for ever hang over the past twenty-four hours was
loathsome to him. Then the thought of her fearless eyes and frank
honesty rushed before him as a reproach, and he tried resolutely to
postpone all conjecture till to-morrow.
To-morrow----!
All at once, with a pang, he understood why he was so disturbed. Was
he really going to see her? The vagueness of her message held
something elusive, a quality summed up in a repetition of the phrase,
“not like Catherine.” That was it--it was not like her. What was it
she had said?
Taking the telegram from his pocket, he studied it closely, once more
trying to discover some hidden meaning.
“_Overcome by frightful news unable to go out but will telephone you
to-morrow to explain my absence do not trouble yourself all goes well
with me…_”
Awkwardly put, that. He wondered now why she had employed the
expression, “do not trouble yourself.” Much more natural to have said
“Don’t worry.” The reflexive verb sounded oddly un-English. He
pondered it, then passed on to the following sentence.
Suddenly he frowned, staring hard. Here was a combination of words he
would not have expected an American to use. Surely the obvious thing
to say was, “Don’t worry, I’m all right.”
“All goes well with me.” He repeated the stilted form, annoyed and
exasperated. What did it suggest? At first the significance escaped
him, then in a flash he knew. Why--it was pure French construction! Of
course! Its equivalent was the phrase “_tout va bien_.”
For a few seconds he remained stupefied, his brain in confusion. Then
out of chaos emerged an awful, crashing truth. This telegram was not
composed by Catherine at all. It was the concoction of some
foreigner--someone with an imperfect knowledge of English idioms. It
bore two glaring marks of falsity.
The revelation stunned him. How had he been such an unmitigated ass?
Catherine would not, could not, construct sentences like those, the
thing was impossible.
His fatuous security tumbled about him like a house of cards.
Catherine might or might not be alive, but instinct warned him that
all hope of recovering her was lost unless immediate action were
taken. His chair clattered to the parquet behind him as, leaping to
his feet, he made a bolt for the door.
He was still cursing his blindness when, at the rue Mesnil, he met the
inspector just setting forth for his night’s vigil.
“So you are coming with me after all, monsieur? I promise you it may
prove a boring affair. Why--has anything new occurred?” he ended in
surprise as he took in the Englishman’s distraught bearing.
“Look at this again!” cried Geoffrey, thrusting the telegram under his
eyes. “It is worded in such a way that it could not possibly have been
written by Mademoiselle West. I don’t know how I was such a fool as
not to spot it at once,” and he hastily attempted to explain the two
paradoxes contained in the message.
Bazin listened with an altered face.
“You are sure of this? The English language is a sealed book to me.
Perhaps you had better compare that paper with the original, which I
obtained an hour ago from the Hôtel des Postes,” he added, producing
a pencil-written form. “None of the employés could recall who handed
it in, but you will probably know if it is in the young lady’s hand.”
Eagerly Geoffrey seized the form, only to see what at first glance
appeared to be Catherine’s writing. He stared nonplussed, then hunting
through his pockets, found the note sent him several days ago from
Fontainebleau. Examining the two specimens, he decided that one was a
creditable but faulty imitation of the other.
“They are not the same,” he pronounced positively. “See, all her own
o’s are separated from the other letters, while in the telegram they
are joined on. Besides, there is an angularity about this writing
which is distinctively Continental.”
Bazin’s blue eyes had a hard brightness.
“I agree. They were never written by the same person.” He fingered the
slip with manifest excitement. “You are right, monsieur. This telegram
is the work of someone anxious to put us off the scent, and for
to-night, mind--since the deception would surely have been revealed
when you failed to hear anything further.”
“Then you think that whatever is planned will take place before
morning?”
“I do. I was wiser than I knew when I arranged to have that house
watched.”
His face was grave as he got into the waiting car and motioned to
Geoffrey to take the seat beside him. In another second they were
circling the Place Victor Hugo.
“I have some more news for you, monsieur. I have now heard from the
taxi-driver who brought mademoiselle home from the Gare. He declares
that he set her down at the private entrance at about ten minutes past
twelve last night, and as he is able to furnish a satisfactory account
of himself for several hours afterwards, we can safely eliminate him
from the inquiry. So far no other driver has come forward, which leads
us to assume that while your friend arrived at the apartment, she did
not leave again in the way that has been suggested.”
As Geoffrey listened to this confirmation of his worst fears, dread
lay like a leaden weight at the pit of his stomach.
“Furthermore, I have instituted a search at some thirty hotels in the
rue de Rivoli district, and while there may still remain some small
place we have overlooked, it begins to appear a useless quest.”
“Who do you suppose sent the telegram? Was it Blom?”
“Not in person, certainly, for he has been under strict surveillance
all the afternoon, and I have my man’s word for the fact that he has
gone nowhere, except across the court to his fiancée’s apartment.”
“He may have sent it by one of Honorine’s work-girls.”
“A risk, in case of embarrassing inquiries. Your name is sufficiently
unusual to impress itself on a French person’s memory. I am inclined
to believe he employed a public messenger.”
Geoffrey considered this.
“He would be bound to take some risk in order to telegraph at all, but
from his point of view it would be a small one. Remember, he has not
the slightest reason up till now to think that any of us is aware of
his existence.”
“Ah, in that case he may well consider himself safe. Certainly, if you
had not had the good fortune to discover his connection with the
affair, last night’s happening would have been regarded as a tragic
accident, with blame attaching to no one, least of all to him. As
things stand, what with mademoiselle’s disappearance and this
deliberate attempt to make it appear a voluntary withdrawal, I now see
that the situation looks distinctly serious.”
Geoffrey forced himself to utter the question which was gnawing into
him like a canker.
“You believe, then, that mademoiselle may be dead?”
The inspector bit his lip.
“It may be as well to accustom oneself to the idea, monsieur,” he said
in a low voice. “It seems extremely probable that she has been
murdered because she is a dangerous witness, and that the criminals
are merely waiting till a suitable moment to dispose of her body.”
They had slowed down in turning off the Avenue Henri Martin. The rays
of an arc-light shone full on the young man’s face, revealing its
ghastly pallor.
“I suppose we can doing nothing but watch?” he suggested, his tone
deadened with repression.
“Not for to-night. If nothing occurs, then to-morrow we shall have to
take definite action, but so long as a bare hope remains of the young
lady’s being alive we must tread warily.”
Leading the way, he turned into a narrow passage squeezed between the
rows of buildings, passed through a doorway and began to ascend a
winding stair, lit by a dim wall-bracket.
“This is the rear entrance to the house we want, monsieur. It is
better not to use the front way, for fear of being seen.”
On the first floor he tapped upon a door, which was opened by a
middle-aged _femme de chambre_.
“Will you kindly inform M. le Commandant that Inspector Bazin is
here?”
The woman nodded.
“If you will come this way, messieurs, I will conduct you to the room
monsieur has placed at your disposal.”
Following her along a passage, they found themselves in a small study,
the walls of which, above compactly filled bookshelves, were
ornamented by a collection of arms arranged in a coruscating
pattern--spears, poniards and scimitars of an interesting variety.
Brown velvet curtains covered the window, while deep chairs and a sofa
were grouped about a low table bearing smoking materials, among which
were a narghileh and a Turkish chibouk.
When the servant withdrew, Bazin informed his companion that they were
the guests of M. le Commandant Jules Heller, well known as an
authority on modern warfare. Geoffrey recognized the name, one
frequently seen signed to articles in _le Gaulois_ and similar
journals. As he looked restlessly round at the weapon-hung walls a
clock somewhere in the flat struck a single metallic _ping_. A glance
at his watch told him it was half-past eight.
The door opened to admit their host, a small, bald-headed man,
one-armed and with a glass eye. His spare body was attired in a velvet
jacket, the lapel of which bore the tiny red ribbon of the _Légion
d’Honneur_.
“Good evening, messieurs!” The Commandant bowed with exquisite
courtesy, his lone eye beaming with welcome. “I trust this study is
suitable for your purpose? It is near the corner and commands a view
of both entrances opposite, although unfortunately the trees are in
full leaf and may obstruct the vision.”
The inspector declared the position excellent, adding that he trusted
they were not causing inconvenience.
“Not in the least! I confess I would like nothing better than to share
your watch, but alas, I am suffering from migraine, and my wife
insists on an early retirement. However, I have given orders for
refreshments to be brought you, and if you require anything further
you have only to ring.”
He seated himself, offered them liqueurs and cigars, and for a short
time discoursed with a charm and fluency which, at another time, would
have delighted both listeners. As matters were, it was a relief to
Geoffrey’s nerves when at the stroke of nine he rose to bid them good
night. In the doorway he paused, his manner suddenly altering.
“That maid across the way,” he remarked with serious thoughtfulness,
“I have watched her going about her duties for eleven
years--respectful, efficient, but, messieurs, hard--as hard as
those,”--and he pointed a finger at the polished blades on the wall.
“I know her accent; she is from the Vosges. The butler I cannot place,
he is probably of no nationality, but I know what I am saying when I
tell you that there is bad blood _chez lui_. If you wish to trap those
two, messieurs, you will need to be like our friend the fly--all eyes,
below, above and in the backs of your heads! _Bon soir, messieurs--et
bonne chance!_”
The door closed. The two men exchanged glances.
“He is right,” muttered the inspector shortly.
He turned off the lights, then cautiously drew aside the curtains. The
room was saved from complete darkness by the street lights and the
silver radiance of the moon, just risen above the house-tops.
“Too much illumination. We must be careful not to show ourselves.”
Yet it was a point in their favour that no one could possibly issue
from either of the entrances over the way without being plainly seen.
The avenue was quiet except for an occasional car whizzing past, but
from all around came the staccato honking of motor-horns pitched in
various keys. On a level with the eyes stretched the double row of
chestnuts, their waxen blossoms stiffly upright like candles on a
Christmas tree, while above the odour of warm asphalt and petrol rose
the fragrance of the spring night, fresh and thrilling. To Geoffrey it
was like a knife turned in a wound.
Opposite, the wide doors gaped open, with a thin blade of light from
the loge lying athwart the pavement. On the _entresol_ floor all was
gloom save for a slender thread of radiance round the edge of the
corner window.
A woman’s figure, flamboyantly dressed and with a scarlet hat perched
on her blond hair, emerged from the gates and stood looking up and
down the street. As she turned her rouged face towards the light
Geoffrey recognized Berthe. Presently she was joined by a coarse,
thickset man, and the two went off arm-in-arm, discoursing volubly.
“The cook, setting out with her friend,” whispered Bazin. “That is
good; the others will feel freer.”
Seating himself in the shadow of the curtains, he offered a packet of
Marylands to his companion, masking the lighted match with his hands.
During an interminable interval the two puffed in silence. Ever and
again Geoffrey’s cigarette went out and had to be re-lit. His muscles
twitched, his features in the tempered gloom showed blanched and
drawn. He chafed helplessly at the tediousness of the vigil, haunted
by the fear that while they sat here idle, elsewhere events might be
moving forward with fatal rapidity.
The unseen clock struck ten. A groan escaped him. The night had barely
begun!
A moment afterwards he stiffened and laid a hand on the inspector’s
arm.
On the narrow balcony of the corner room Eduardo had appeared, his
squat shoulders silhouetted against the glow within. He stood with his
right hand resting against the railing, and Geoffrey saw that the
sling had been abandoned. Slowly, indifferently, it seemed, his bullet
head turned, surveying the avenue in both directions, then, throwing
back his chin, he stared up at the night sky. A cloud of pale smoke
wafted out over the chestnuts from the cigarette between his lips.
For several minutes he remained thus, then withdrew, closing the
casement. All was quiet once more, though the light inside the room
was still visible.
Silence and another endless wait. Would nothing ever happen?
Then suddenly out of the soft night rose the thin notes of a violin.
The tune, charged with poignant associations, clutched at Geoffrey’s
heart. It was the Albeniz Tango.…
He shut his eyes. Across velvet blackness swayed two white figures
like glittering frost-flowers, accented here and there with spots that
were crimson as drops of blood.
Then the vision melted kaleidoscopically into another, and he sensed
around him a different darkness, with the odour of lilies of the
valley filling his nostrils. He could all but feel the pliant body
close against him and the pressure of those lips which for two weeks
had been a constant memory. Acute anguish shot through him. His nails
dug into his palms.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Catherine opened her eyes.
What was this red glow round her, sending forth waves of pulsing heat?
Was she still dreaming?
The night had been one long jumble of phantasmas, sucking her back
like quicksands whenever she seemed on the point of waking. In most of
them fire had figured, thick foggy smoke, pierced by flashes of murky
flame. It must be a repetition of her fevered delusions, this
furnace-like atmosphere which caused her head to throb and her parched
throat to ache from dryness.
Incapable of analysing her impressions, she lay surveying the crimson
haze through eyelids drooping of their own weight. Meanwhile, her
languid brain recalled the visions sleep had conjured up to torment
her, reviewing them one by one.
A waxen face--whose was it?--tear-stained and lit by tall white
candles, which as she watched, grew, lengthening into rockets which
shot off through space. Then another face, sallow and hard, with
round, close-set eyes, which stared steadily at her with venomous
hatred. Curiously enough, this face showed crossed and recrossed by an
iron grille, as though it were seen through prison bars. Wherever she
turned it was there, watching her, baleful and livid. She could not
get away from it. Indeed, she had been possessed by the familiar
nightmare of paralysis, feeling herself bound, unable to move. Finally
in her dream she had made a sickening discovery. She was trapped in a
huge web, legs and arms imprisoned by pitiless meshes, which cut into
her when she turned and twisted to escape.
Next, periodically recurring, had been an impression surely culled
from the _Arabian Nights_ of her childhood. A crack in the ground at
her feet had yawned wide, while out of it poured dun-coloured smoke,
assuming to her fascinated eyes the form of a demon. Rapidly it
swelled to gigantic size, its swart features horribly magnified, one
upraised hand brandishing a cudgel with which to strike her. There was
no eluding that certain doom. Inexorably the arm descended, she reeled
with the shock of pain, and sank again into oblivion.…
Now the faces had vanished, leaving her to wander with leaden feet in
a desert of dazzling sand. On every side stretched the hot waste, upon
which the copper disc of a sun beat down through waves of quivering
heat. The sand itself suffocated her, filling her eyes, her teeth, her
throat with its clogging particles. She longed for water, with a
thirst more devastating than any she had ever known. Water--water! Was
there none in the world? She scanned the horizon in search of some
spring where she could throw herself down and drink to repletion, but
although a faint shimmer appeared in the distance, she knew she could
never attain it, for at every step she sank into the yielding mass of
sand.
Even now, though her head ached blindingly and she was conscious of a
dire sickness in her stomach, every other sensation was dwarfed by
appalling thirst. She could drink a well dry. The thought came to her
that she was ill once more and had wakened early after a night of
fever. The red light must be that of early morning.
Opening her eyes wide, she glanced curiously round, wonder growing to
find her room so strangely altered. What was this thick material
hanging beside her, cutting off the air? Why, it was a curtain--heavy,
red damask. Her bed had no curtains. The windows, too, were covered in
red, and so were the walls--crimson damask, all alike. With the light
showing through the cracks the entire place had the look of being
suffused in blood.
All at once it dawned on her that this was not her room at all, nor
yet the one she had occupied at Fontainebleau. No, it was some new
bed-chamber she had never seen before. In the hot glow she spied a
walnut dressing-table, its oblong mirror touched by a shaft of sun,
which by reflection threw a brilliant patch upon the opposite wall.
There were chairs with red cushions, a stool, and a stand filled with
books in yellow paper covers. On the stand stood a vase containing a
bunch of dead anemones, withered and dried into the mere ghosts of
flowers. The air between danced with sparkling motes.
Where was she then? Had she been here a long time, and had her memory
gone?
Her baffled cogitations occupied but the fraction of a second. Almost
immediately recollection rushed upon her, and in a vivid flash of
horror she saw again the picture last witnessed with her waking
eyes--Jeanne’s dark face close to her own, Eduardo’s swarthy, furious
features, the glitter of the candle-stick in his lifted hand, and
round her swirls of grey smoke.
She tried to scream, but there was a tight gag between her teeth; to
spring up from the bed, only to find herself securely bound so that
she could stir neither hand nor foot. All she could do was to struggle
into a sitting posture, an achievement which tore her hair away from
the material beneath with a sensation of pain. Turning she saw that
she had been lying upon a folded bath-towel, on which were dark
stains. That meant she had been wounded. This stickiness contracting
her forehead and brows was blood, dried into a cake. How badly was she
hurt? She could not loose her hands to explore the injury.
At a little distance lay her new green hat, crushed and blood-smeared.
It came to her that it was probably due to that protective covering
that she was alive at all, the felt having deadened the blow which
struck her down. The hat had saved her--but for what? Yet surely
someone would discover her, help would come soon.
Then, even as hope crossed her mind she noticed again the withered
anemones, the dust thick upon the furniture, and grasped the fact that
wherever she was, the room had not been entered for days, perhaps
longer. No one was likely to look for her here. The place was
unoccupied.…
Where was she? There was nothing to guide her. She might be near Mme.
Bender’s apartment, or miles away in some distant quarter of Paris. At
least she was reasonably sure that this room was not one of the locked
ones in her cousin’s flat. These red damask walls spoke of an alien
taste in decoration.
Terror gripped her, sweat burst from every pore and streamed down into
her eyes. She felt she must not waste a minute, but make a desperate
effort to free her hands, get the choking gag out of her mouth so that
she could shout till someone heard her. For a short time she fought
with might and main, but presently, forced by exhaustion to give up
the attempt, fell back limp and panting. Not only were her wrists
tied, but the bands, which seemed to be strips of linen, encircled her
body layer after layer, up to her elbows. Similarly her legs were
swathed in mummy-like wrappings, while the knot which fastened the gag
was so well contrived that without the use of her fingers it was
hopeless to think of removing it. The struggle had left her weak and
dizzy. Nausea overcame her, the room swam before her in a red haze.
At last she mustered her faculties. Round her was unbroken stillness,
and such sounds as came from out-of-doors were muffled and faint--only
distant motor-horns, nothing to indicate whether she was in the
neighbourhood she knew or another locality altogether. However, the
street noises were so far away that she concluded the room must be at
the rear of a building. Beyond this she could decide nothing at all.
Who owned the place, why it was deserted, remained a mystery.
She must have been faint from loss of blood, for every now and then
the scene clouded over and she was unable to concentrate. When, after
one of these intervals of semi-stupor, fear roused her afresh, she
noticed with a shock that the light, instead of increasing, was fading
rapidly away. The glow was gone, swallowed up in a deepening twilight.
Night was coming on. In a little while she would be in total darkness.
She shuddered as with ague at the thought.
It was Saturday evening then. A swift calculation told her she must
have been here about seventeen hours. What had happened about the
fire? Germaine was dead. There could be no doubt of that. The memory
of the still face lit by flickering flames came before her poignantly.
Well then, the thing could not be hushed up, the news by now must be
in the papers. Did Geoffrey know? Then she remembered that he had
planned to drive to Fontainebleau soon after lunch, consequently if he
did not hear what had happened before that time there would be nothing
to stop him. Perhaps even now he was ignorant, asking himself why she
had not telephoned to save him a useless journey. As likely as not he
was feeling annoyed with her for her thoughtlessness. The Hardwickes,
too--what had they thought when she failed to meet them this morning?
They were on their way to Italy hours ago. In all Paris there was not
one person who would miss her till it was too late.
Her brain recoiled from the obvious conclusion. Shivering in every
benumbed muscle, she lay still and strove to pray.…
It was darker now. She could just make out the shapes of the
furniture, with the pale rectangle of the mirror dimly visible. Alone,
powerless to move or cry out, here she would have to lie like a rabbit
in a snare and wait--how long? Perhaps till reason deserted her. As to
her ultimate fate she harboured no delusions. Since last night she was
a dangerous witness, and as such must be suppressed. Those murderers
could not afford to let her live. To save their own skins they must do
away with her completely before anyone could guess the truth.
How did one dispose of bodies? Safest and surest way--the Seine, that
swift-flowing tide which yearly carried away a toll of victims! Or
would they carry her to some remote corner of the Bois de Boulogne, or
the Bois de Vincennes, there to leave her for the police to find? No,
they would hardly attempt that. Drowning was so much simpler.
Thus she lay with cramped body and tortured brain, freezing and
burning alternately, till a merciful coma engulfed her senses. Hours
passed and she knew nothing.
What was this new sound penetrating her consciousness, calling her
back persistently to reality? Music--a violin playing, not far away.
She listened, straining her ears to catch the high, pure notes.
Silvery and fine they soared, above a faint piano accompaniment, and
with a measured rhythm she knew at once for that of the Albeniz Tango.
Where had she heard it played like that, with that identical phrasing,
and with the lilting _ritardando_ just where she knew it would come?
Then she remembered.
Tears sprang to her eyes, her dry throat contracted as a voice
whispered that this was probably the last time she would listen to
music, and that never again would she feel the embrace of strong arms.
At the same time another portion of her brain registered the knowledge
that she was still within close range of the unseen violinist,
consequently not far removed from her former dwelling.
Oh! If only she could make a noise, break a window, knock over a piece
of furniture--anything! As the tango drifted on to its final cadence
she began a renewed struggle, battling hard to shift her body towards
the edge of the bed. It was worse than useless. She was far too weak,
nor could she move her elbows to get sufficient leverage.
The playing continued. Now it was the _Caprice Viennois_, with its
wooing double-thirds and its fantastic interlude, making her picture
masked figures flitting along a dark alley, mysterious moths moon-lit
under a sky dappled with inky clouds. Carnaval, a spring night, all
the thrilling aspects of life which she was about to leave for ever.
Then followed the César Franck sonata, graceful and delicate as a
spray of apple-blossoms. The agony of it now seemed more than she
could endure.
The recital ceased. How quiet it was! Only those distant staccato
motor-horns, stabbing the stillness, reminding her that all around
free and careless pleasure-seekers went their various ways, little
dreaming what torment existed within this locked and airless room. For
perhaps ten minutes she lay and listened to the pounding of her heart,
thump after thump, quick, regular blows of a hammer. She counted the
strokes mechanically, to keep from thinking.
Suddenly she stiffened as another noise reached her ears. Without
warning a door was opened stealthily, and muffled footfalls
approached. Instantly she sat up again, bathed in sweat. Someone had
entered the flat, was coming softly and without hesitation towards her
hiding-place. Before she could do more than brace her pinioned body
against the wall, a key grated in the lock and the invisible intruder
entered. In the dense darkness she caught the quick inhalation of a
hurried breath, and for an instant thought that her heart would burst.
A hand fumbled along the wainscoting, as though feeling for a switch,
then close by a man’s voice whispered peremptorily:
“_Touche pas la lumière. J’apporte une bougie, moi…_”
At the same moment there was a scratch of a match, followed by a
dazzling glare, and in the light of a candle-end sheltered by a broad
palm, two dark figures emerged from obscurity. The smaller of them
came near on tiptoe, bent down and peered into her face.
It was Jeanne. Behind her rose the shadowy mass of the Portuguese, his
bloodshot eyes gleaming in the candlelight. Both servants wore coats
and hats, and the woman carried a bundle under her arm. Her hands were
bandaged.
For a second Catherine stared back at her with fascinated eyes. Again
she tried to scream, her voice ending in a gurgle.
Eduardo spoke in an undertone:
“She has come to herself, then? That is good. Now! Be quick about it.
Do you need any help?”
“No. Better keep watch at the outer door.”
“Well, sharp work then. Here’s the knife.…”
They were going to kill her outright! She cowered away with a
suddenness which sent her toppling.
“None of that!” commanded the woman’s voice sibilantly.
At the same time she felt herself rudely grasped and thrown upon her
back. The sallow face leaned over her, the eyes boring into hers.
“You can hear, I suppose? Well, then, listen carefully. You are to
obey me, everything I say--and if you make one sound you will find
this between your ribs!”
At the word “this” a sharp point pressed into her side. The yellow
light shone upon the polished blade of a long carving-knife, clutched
in murderous fingers.
“_C’est entendu, n’est-ce pas?_”
Although the girl could make no sign, her jailer was apparently
satisfied. She withdrew the weapon, bent over the prisoner’s feet, and
with a quick ripping noise severed the strips confining the helpless
ankles. Next she dragged her body into an upright position, slid it to
the edge of the bed so that the feet touched the floor, and unrolling
the bundle, which proved to be Catherine’s tweed coat, produced a
package of medical gauze.
What was this for? The victim was not long in doubt. Even as she asked
herself the question swift, expert fingers began to wrap her face and
head in bandages, covering the gag and leaving nothing free save nose
and eyes. She was swathed like a cocoon in surgical wrappings,
fastened here and there with safety-pins. A dive behind her back, and
with a spasm of unbearable pain she felt her hat thrust upon her head,
pulled well down to hide the upper part of her face. For a second she
swayed, the candle was blotted out, and she grazed the borders of
unconsciousness.
When she recovered it was to hear the words brusquely uttered: “You
are able to walk, I hope? Stand on your feet.…”
She was lifted bodily, an arm steadying her to prevent her falling.
When the darkness cleared, she was aware that her coat had been thrown
round her shoulders, dangling loose over her bound arms. The woman was
saying with hard emphasis, driving home her meaning:
“You have got to walk as far as the car. You will be able to manage.
Stay where you are--there is a chair beside you to lean against.”
By the smoking flame of the candle, stuck on a chest of drawers, she
could see the maid busy herself rapidly with the disordered bed,
smoothing down the red damask cover and wadding the blood-stained
towel and linen strips into a ball, which she placed in her coat
pocket. Hardly had she finished when Eduardo reappeared in the
doorway, his distorted shadow rising behind him.
“Ready? She can stand upright?” he whispered.
“With us to help her.”
The ironic laugh accompanying the reply sent a chill down the girl’s
spine.
“Well, then”--impatiently--“what are you waiting for?”
Catherine, too, sensed an ominous pause which at first she did not
understand. Then she felt her left hand grasped from underneath her
coat and pulled as far as it would go towards the flaring candle,
while the woman stooped over it, her breath audible through compressed
nostrils. Simultaneously the Portuguese moved a step closer.
“Ah, that! It is a good stone, too. A pity to let it go.”
Then Catherine knew that Jeanne was examining her ruby ring.
Another pause.
“Suppose I take it off her. He will never know.…”
“No, but the police will, when they fish her up. It’s suicide,
remember, not robbery. A little thing like that might make all the
difference.…”
A sigh, charged with baffled cupidity, then her hand was released.
When they fished her up! Now, with sickening certainty, she knew what
her end was going to be.
With a strong smell of smouldering wick the candle was put out. She
felt herself seized on both sides and hurried across a second room,
along a tiled hall-way, and thence to a lighted landing where a lift
waited. The door was shut behind them.
“Better leave the key in the lock,” muttered Jeanne. “The old fool
will think he left it there. Have you got the bags?”
“Here, beside you. Look sharp now--in with her.”
She was pushed roughly into the lift while a bag and hat-box she
recognized for her own were jammed alongside of her. Evidently no
trace was to be left. Her captors followed, the metal doors closed
with a click, and the cage sank, slowly, past three landings to the
ground floor. As it came to rest, a final ray of hope shot through the
speechless girl. It could not be very late. Perhaps the concierge
might see her and question her identity. She must be on the alert to
attract his attention.
Then, as if in answer to her unspoken thought, Jeanne bent towards
her, hissing in her ear, “You have not forgotten what I showed you
just now? One attempt to escape and you will feel it! I have it ready
in my sleeve.”
The following instant she was supported down a flight of shallow steps
into a court, which had a tiny garden in the centre, bordered with
hyacinths, pale in the moonlight. No one was in sight, but above, on
the first floor, the casements were open, and through them issued
laughter and the babble of clamorous voices. A party was in progress.
Someone struck a few chords of a popular song on a piano and began to
sing, only to be silenced by a feminine voice raised in mock
annoyance, shrilling the words, “_Qui a versé la Benedictine sur ma
broderie Perse? Cochon, va!_”
As she was led forward on tottering feet she glanced desperately
towards the loge. Now she was abreast of the lighted window, through
which she could see every detail of the room within--the stickily
bright, machine-carved dresser, the blue cover on the table, the clock
upon the wall, and beside it a lurid oleograph of Maréchal Foch. She
was past it in a second, but not before her eager eye had taken in the
rear view of two seated figures, one that of a little elderly man
whose head was encircled by a half-hoop of steel terminating in
head-phones pressed tightly against his ears. In that instant hope
perished. The concierge, a devotee to the _sans fils_, was dead to the
outer world, intent upon his evening’s enjoyment.
Now they were in the street crossing the familiar avenue of chestnuts.
As they set foot on the opposite pavement a man in evening dress
brushed by them, casting a curious glance at Catherine’s bandaged
face. With all her strength she tried to move in his direction, only
to find the grip on her arms tightened and to feel a sharp prod in her
side. At the same time Jeanne’s voice spoke soothingly, but loud
enough for the passer to hear:
“Courage, madame! Only one little step farther. Lean on me.”
Crushed by despair, the prisoner felt her legs give beneath her, but
she was borne up strongly and propelled with haste to an adjacent
turning, where in the shelter of overhanging trees stood an empty car.
Almost before she could grasp what was happening, she found herself
upon the deep seat inside, with Jeanne whispering in a tone of
triumph:
“There, mademoiselle, that was neatly done, I think!”
A few seconds passed, while Eduardo placed the bag and hat-box on the
floor at their feet and climbed into the driver’s place. The engine
started, but they did not move. Instead, in the darkness, Catherine
felt rather than saw the two servants straining round to look behind
them, their attitude full of alert expectancy.
From out the gloom rapid steps sounded, coming towards the car. The
girl’s heart gave a wild leap. Someone was approaching, a possible
rescuer, perhaps. Oh! if only she could scream, or at least make some
sign to attract attention! With a mad effort she threw herself
forward, her head colliding with the glass in front. Immediately she
was violently seized and thrust back again.
“Ah, you would, would you?” There was a smothered imprecation.
The next instant the door at her side was flung open and a man, out of
breath from hurrying, got in. There was just sufficient light to
discern a dead-white face close to hers beneath the brim of a wide
hat, and two eyes fixed upon her with a cold, unwinking stare.
She shuddered with sudden nausea. They were the eyes of Adolph Blom.
Simultaneously the car lurched forward. They were off.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Eleven o’clock sounded.
The watchers at the Commandant’s study window sat in almost unbroken
silence, their eyes glued to the building across the way. In the
window opposite a glow still showed, suggesting that at least one of
the occupants of the flat was yet awake. The street noises had
partially subsided in the lull between the dinner hour and midnight
when the theatres close, and the real night life of the city begins.
Suddenly a peal from the telephone ripped the stillness in two.
Geoffrey jumped, while the inspector reached his hand towards the
instrument. Almost his first words showed that the call was for him.
“You have lost him? Where? How long ago?” Then a pause, followed by an
exclamation of mingled annoyance and resignation. “_Zut!_ Well, he is
gone, now. No telling where he has got to by now.”
He replaced the receiver, and in reply to his companion’s glance
whispered: “It is one of my men who has been covering the entrance to
the _notaire’s_ bureau. Half an hour ago Blom went out, got into the
Métro at the Place Clichy, took a train and made two or three
changes. At the Concorde he disappeared in the crowd, so all our
vigilance is gone for nothing.”
“Do you think he is up to anything in connection with this business?”
Bazin shrugged. “Who knows? The repeated _correspondance_ looks as
though he suspected he was being followed. If our conclusions are
right, he is in a very nasty position. However, we can be very sure of
one thing--he did not take any part in getting the young lady away
last night. I have proved that he spent the entire evening up till
two, at the apartment of Mme. Baron, who was giving a party;
consequently, if anything was done, it was those people over there who
managed it. That is why I am concentrating on the house itself, for in
the extremely short time at their disposal they could not possibly
have removed her any distance. If the butler left the apartment at
all, it must have been while the _locataire_ from the third floor was
out giving the alarm, for he was there when the man returned five or
at most ten minutes later.”
Geoffrey grasped his meaning. Alive or dead Catherine must at this
moment be somewhere in the immediate vicinity. His harassed eyes
explored the façade opposite, vainly striving to fathom the secret of
her hiding-place.
“Ah, that is the question,” remarked the inspector in answer to his
unuttered query. “There is not an inch of those premises which has
been overlooked. We have searched all the apartments and the servants’
quarters above. There is no sign of her or of the bags she brought
home.”
“Yet she must be there!” muttered Geoffrey. “What about the space
between the flooring? There is a gap where the fire burned through.”
“I examined it myself.”
“And the roof itself? Is it easy to get out on to it?”
“Simple enough, by means of the usual trap-door, but it, too, has been
inspected.”
Leaning forward, Geoffrey studied the parapet. It extended along a
group of five houses, the line varying in height and shape, but
continuous. After the fifth house came a break before a second group
began.
“I wonder,” he said suddenly, “if there are any vacant apartments in
that row?”
“Not one. I am informed there has not been an apartment to let in any
of those houses for three years.”
A groan escaped Geoffrey. In spite of himself, it began to look as
though they were on the wrong tack after all. Perhaps it was true
that, distracted by grief and shock, Catherine had wandered off and
found some means of leaving the city. Then the telegram recurred to
him and he rejected the idea. Much as he longed to believe that it had
come from her, the evidence against the supposition was overpowering.
No, the message was patently false, and as obviously contrived to
serve a definite purpose. Bazin must be right. The words “_but will
telephone to-morrow_” surely meant that something was planned to take
place before that time. Seven hours at most remained. Meanwhile the
minutes were slipping away.…
His reflections were broken by a touch on his arm.
“Look!”
Following the direction of the pointing finger, he saw that the light
opposite had been extinguished. What did it mean? Were the two over
there going harmlessly to bed, or did they merely wish the outside
world to believe they were doing so?
“They can’t do anything without getting out first,” muttered Geoffrey
to himself.
“Exactly--and the house is well guarded. There are two others watching
as well as ourselves.”
Ten minutes passed, then Geoffrey knew that he could no longer support
the maddening inaction.
“I am going out,” he said abruptly. “Not far. If you want me, tie your
handkerchief to the knob of the casement. I shall be able to see it.”
“Very well, monsieur,” assented his companion. “But use the back exit,
and if you cross the street let it be farther along, out of range of
those windows. For all we know they are watching to see if the coast
is clear.”
It took but a few seconds to descend the dimly lighted stairs and
emerge into the side-street. With his hat low over his eyes and the
collar of his Burberry well up, Geoffrey set out at a brisk pace to
make a tour of the neighbourhood. Without stopping he inspected the
darkened windows along the turning, then after a brief détour came
back again, recrossed the avenue lower down and, pursuing an idea that
had come to him during the recent conversation, walked boldly into the
loge of the house adjoining the corner one.
He was met by a yawning concierge who, by the look of him, was at that
moment revolving in his mind the suitability of closing up for the
night. Apologizing for the lateness of his call, Geoffrey inquired if
any of the _locataires_ wished to sublet his flat. He was answered by
a supercilious negative. No, these apartments were seldom sublet; all
the _locataires_ were in residence now, and not one of them had any
intention of leaving. Yes, he would take the gentleman’s address, but
there was nothing to be gained by it. Monsieur would do better to go
to an agent.
“You say they are all here now?” persisted Geoffrey, undaunted by the
man’s arrogant manner.
“Certainly, monsieur--but it would be the same if they were not.”
Geoffrey thanked him and departed, to repeat the questions in the
house next door, where the result, framed with less discourtesy, was
similar. Again in the fourth building he received a like response.
He was beginning to think there was nothing in his theory after all,
but he did not mean to give up without trying the last of the five. He
was in the act of entering the wide opening, through which issued
sounds of laughter and high-pitched voices, when a man’s figure
detached itself from the shadow of the chestnuts and took a step
towards him. To his amazement he heard his name called in an
undertone:
“Monsieur Macadam! A word with you, please!”
The subdued voice was charged with excitement. Turning, Geoffrey made
out the lugubrious features of Bernard, whom since midday he had
entirely forgotten.
“You! What are you doing here?”
Instead of replying the agent stalked away under the shelter of the
trees, where, after a glance round, Geoffrey followed him. In the
darkness the man’s cavernous eyes appeared mere sockets of gloom
beneath the hard rim of his bowler hat.
“Monsieur! It is fortunate you have come! Who do you suppose at this
moment is with the concierge in that loge you were about to enter?”
Geoffrey shook his head, his eyes fixed on the other’s face.
“It is Adolph Blom. I have been watching this house, because it is the
one to which the butler went this morning, and I have had an idea that
that fact might mean something to us. A quarter of an hour ago I saw
the _notaire_ go in. He is with the concierge now, chatting as though
he were an old friend.”
Blom--here, in this neighbourhood!
“What do you think it indicates?” demanded Geoffrey quickly.
“I do not know. I glanced in the window and saw them tinkering with
the _sans fils_, but I cannot believe it is merely a social call. It
is my opinion he is waiting for someone, that the loge there is a
rendezvous--but for what I cannot say. Perhaps…” He stopped and let
his gaze wander slowly over the lighted doorway, but though the
listener waited eagerly he did not complete the sentence.
Meanwhile the young man was cursing his stupidity for allowing this
particular house to escape his calculations. Surely he ought to have
guessed that Eduardo’s visit here to-day must have had some
significance, yet because he could see nothing in it he had all but
dismissed it from his mind. Hurriedly taking stock of the situation,
he explained his own presence, pointing out the window a hundred yards
along the street where till recently he had been stationed.
“The police inspector is there now. Stay here while I tell him what
has happened. Only a little while ago Blom gave one of his men the
slip, so that may lead us to some clue. We have been assuming that
Mademoiselle West is hidden in the corner building, but now----” He
hesitated, looking round.
“I understand, monsieur. I am asking myself the same question. I will
remain on guard while Blom is here.”
Three minutes later, panting from his dash up the stairs, Geoffrey
opened the study door. A few yards away the red tip of a cigarette
told him the inspector was still at his post.
“Well, monsieur?” came the expectant whisper.
“Blom!” burst out Geoffrey. “He’s turned up in this street, in the
loge of that last house there. It’s the house the butler visited this
morning. What do you make of it?”
Accustomed now to the gloom, he could see the inspector’s glaring at
him with incredulity. Then he caught a smothered expletive as the man
leaped to his feet and fixed his gaze on the long line of the opposite
roofs.
“_Sacré!_ What fools we are! That house below there is the one we
should be watching--not this! How did you find this out? You have seen
the fellow?”
Geoffrey related briefly what had happened. As he listened intently,
Bazin consulted the luminous dial of his watch, the glimmering hands
of which pointed to twenty-five minutes past eleven.
“It is getting late, but that concierge yonder will not close up till
his visitor has gone. If they have got mademoiselle hidden somewhere
in that building----”
Even as he spoke they saw the fat old porter over the way amble forth
and begin swinging the heavy doors together.
“You think she may be there--that they have carried her across
the----”
The sentence died in his throat as he leaned suddenly out the window,
staring intently at a man who came running toward them between the
lines of chestnuts. The swiftly padding steps reached the pavement
beneath, and at the same instant a hoarse voice called Geoffrey’s
name.
“Monsieur, come down again--not a moment to lose! I have just seen the
Portuguese together with two women cross to the Square Lamartine and
get into a car. I do not know, but I believe one of the woman may be
your friend!”
The warning acted on the listeners like a galvanic shock. With a
single impetus the two men sprang for the door, made a plunge down the
broad stairway and breathlessly confronted the excited agent.
“A car? What sort of car? When?”
“It is a large black Rolls-Royce, standing in the Square. I watched
the three of them come out of the house--a man and a woman leading an
invalid lady between them, her face covered in bandages, so I could
not see who she was. As they reached the car I thought I recognized
the butler.”
Geoffrey’s blazing eyes met the inspector’s.
“It is they! I’m sure of it! Quick--we’ll follow them! Like
hell!”--and not pausing for a reply he led the way at top speed round
the corner into the turning where showed the lights of the inspector’s
car.
No time to consider how the pair whom they had believed safely
confined in the flat opposite had emerged from another building two
hundred yards farther along the street. Besides, there was but one way
in which such a trick could have been managed--a passage over the
roofs. The invalid lady must be Catherine, and at the thought
Geoffrey’s heart gave a great leap. She was alive still, but in
imminent peril. At this moment she was being conveyed to her death, of
that he felt horribly certain.
Within less than a minute Bazin was at the wheel with Geoffrey beside
him and Bernard on the seat behind. Swiftly the car moved forward into
the avenue, now empty as far as the eye could see. The Square
Lamartine lay ahead of them on the right-hand side.
“It has not been more than a few minutes,” the agent assured them. “If
we are lucky we can catch them up. Here we are! Look sharp!”
They had entered the Square Lamartine, a secluded spot comprising a
group of detached houses, each surrounded with its own patch of walled
garden. Geoffrey leaned out, scanning the darkened roadway in every
direction, then struck his knee with his clenched fist and swore
aloud.
The entire place was deserted.
“My God, they’ve given us the slip!”
It was true. Short as the interval had been, the trio, car and all,
had completely vanished.
CHAPTER FORTY
The chill of utter blackness descended. The inspector spoke first,
glancing behind as he backed out into the avenue again.
“They cannot have more than a few minutes’ start of us. The point is,
in which direction have they gone?”
Before either of his companions could answer, a man-servant in livery
entered the square, turning into it from the lower end of the street.
Geoffrey called out to him.
“Have you seen anything of a black Rolls-Royce which was here a little
while ago?”
The man stopped in the act of pushing open the nearest gate, and eyed
the party with slight surprise.
“As a matter of fact, I did see such a car, monsieur,” he returned
civilly. “It was standing along there, empty, twenty minutes ago, and
just now it passed me as I crossed the Avenue Victor Hugo.”
“Which way was it heading?”
“Towards the Bois, monsieur.”
The inspector gave a grunt.
“As I thought--the Porte Maillot,” he muttered.
In another second they were out of the square and hastening towards
the Bois, which they entered at the Large Henri Martin, at once
turning to the right along the Allée des Fortifications. Not a word
was uttered as they whizzed past the Pavillion Dauphine and the Porte
of the same name, their three pairs of eyes riveted upon the gleaming
roadway in front. A few minutes brought them to the Porte Maillot,
where they were obliged to halt. As the _gabelou_ handed them the
ticket of exit Bazin fired a terse inquiry at him.
“A Rolls, monsieur? Black, you say?” The man thought for a moment,
while the three men hung upon his reply. “Yes, a large black car came
through not very long ago. Six or seven minutes, I should say. Three
passengers and a chauffeur in ordinary clothes--a foreigner, I think.
They were taking an ill lady to a hospital somewhere out there,” and
he jerked his head in the direction of Neuilly. “I fancy she’s had an
operation on her face, for she was covered in bandages. Is that the
party you mean?”
“M. l’Inspecteur, it is they!” cried Bernard.
“Ah!” exclaimed Bazin. “We are on the right track so far,” and driving
down the accelerator, he plunged ahead into the broad Avenue de
Neuilly.
At the second mention of bandages Geoffrey’s heart missed a beat.
Still, Catherine was undoubtedly alive, had managed to walk a couple
of hundred yards to the car. He must not allow himself to dwell upon
gruesome possibilities, but try to think that the covering of her face
was merely an attempt at disguise. The whole business before them now
was to overtake her before any further harm could be done, a
proceeding which challenged to the utmost their powers of ingenuity
and speed. The Commissariat car possessed a good engine, but with a
six or seven minutes’ handicap it seemed a hopeless matter to
out-distance a Rolls, besides which at any moment the prey might elude
them altogether by some unexpected turn. He voiced his fear to his
companion.
Intent on the road in front, the inspector answered with a shake of
the head.
“It is true they have a fair start of us, but that does not
necessarily mean we shall not be able to catch them. Remember, they
can as yet have no idea that they are being followed, consequently
they will not risk a hold-up by excessive speed. They have several
hours before them, ample time to cover a considerable distance and yet
be back by morning.”
“You think they intend to return, then?”
“But of course, monsieur! When they have accomplished their purpose.
Unless I am totally misled, those servants mean to slip into the
apartment by the private door before anyone is stirring--say at four
or five o’clock.”
“And their destination?”
“I am afraid there can be little doubt, monsieur. Some lonely point
along the river.”
Geoffrey controlled a shudder. It was what his own belief had told
him, and with a sick mind he visualized those head-lines unfortunately
so familiar in the daily press: “Body of Young Woman Found in the
Seine.…”
“Have you any idea what spot they will choose?”
“Ah, that is difficult to say. They will scarcely venture anything too
close to the city, but whatever place they have in mind they will make
straight for it, you can depend upon that. From their point of view
the sooner the thing is done the better for them. That is why I dare
not risk telephoning ahead to have them stopped. It seems to me our
wisest course to keep hot on their trail.”
Geoffrey said no more. With gaze fixed on the vista stretching before
him, he leaned forward, every muscle in his body rigid as steel. No
sound reached him save the engine’s hum and the tense, slightly
asthmatic breathing of Bernard behind.
The Pont de Neuilly loomed in sight. They crossed it, then slowed down
in doubt as to which way to take. A sleepy _sergent de ville_ emerging
into view, they shouted to him a question which after a stupid stare
he managed to answer.
“A Rolls-Royce? I believe one passed five minutes or so ago, but I was
talking to a motor-cyclist at the time, and did not notice.… Wait a
moment, though. A large black car, going pretty fast? Yes, I recall it
now. It was making in the direction of La Défense.”
With a cry of triumph Bazin shot forward.
“I believe we are gaining a little,” he commented. “At all events we
have not gone astray.”
They reached the monument to the Defence of Paris, inquired again with
less certain results, and hesitatingly chose the road to Nanterre,
from thence pressing on to Rueil. Here they met with further
encouragement. A motorist changing a tyre informed them that he had
seen a car corresponding to the Rolls’ description only a few minutes
before.
“Good! Then we are still right. Unless something turns up to upset our
calculations, I propose going through Malmaison to Bougival and see
what we hear when we reach there. I begin to have an idea.…”
Geoffrey looked at him eagerly, but he shut his mouth with a snap and
kept it closed for another mile or so.
There were now short stretches of open country. The smell of pavements
had yielded to the fragrance of fields, while an occasional flowering
fruit-tree showed white in the moonlight. As they rushed past the
Château at Malmaison, that tranquil dwelling filled to the brim with
the intimate memories of the great Napoleon, Geoffrey recalled with a
stab of pain how only three weeks ago he had set with Catherine in the
garden and listened while somewhat shyly she had for the first time
spoken to him of her broken engagement. He could see now the colour in
her cheeks that was like a stain of claret, the liquid brightness
welling up in her eyes, her delicate nervous fingers as she played
with a stem of grass.
For the hundredth time he cursed his stupidity in not foreseeing the
trap into which she had walked. If only the knowledge of Blom’s
intentions had come to him a day sooner! It seemed to him incredible
that not until this very day had he grasped the monstrous truth,
although the affair had been going on steadily under his eyes for over
two months.
The agony of suspense continued. At Bougival they learned nothing
fresh, so that it was only the inspector’s instinct to guide them that
they pushed on to St. Germain, hoping there to obtain tidings.
Soon they were within sight of the Château’s gloomy mass, with the
dim glow of Paris behind them and the dark hills of Montmorency
cutting off the view. Below them the Seine wound like a serpent, its
shining surface marked with splashes of golden light.
The town was almost deserted. In the principal boulevard a _sergent_,
blinking in the glare of their head-lamps, considered their unvarying
question with a stolid face. A Rolls? No, he had noticed no such car.
He had been at this very spot for the past quarter of an hour.
The pursuers exchanged blank looks. The thought came to them that the
Rolls must have taken a side-turning the other side of St. Germaine,
in which case it was now miles away in another direction.
“Yet this is the direct route,” muttered Bazin obstinately. “Unless I
am totally misled, this is the road they would have taken.”
What was to be done? Geoffrey began to think that perhaps they were
wrong in assuming the river to be the objective. In any case the
quarry had vanished. They had tracked the Rolls for many miles only to
lose it now when another twenty minutes might have brought it in
sight. Every second’s delay lessened their chances.
With a hopeless feeling they prowled along the quiet streets of the
town until they came to the outskirts, where they met face to face a
belated market-wagon wending its way towards Paris with a load of
vegetables for the Halle. The driver dozed in his seat, but the woman
beside him, brawny and moustachioed, stared hard at them from beneath
a battered hat.
Had she seen the car in question? She surveyed them coolly and spat
into the dust. Yes--_diable!_--they had just encountered a car like
that, scarcely half a kilometre back, going towards Aubergenville. The
chauffeur had taken the middle of the road, pig that he was, and had
nearly run over them. The horses had shied, she had had to take the
reins herself to avoid a mishap. If monsieur would put on a little
speed he might overtake the road-hogs--bad luck to them and theirs!
Before she had stopped speaking the Commissariat car had leaped ahead
in the direction of Aubergenville. Again the faint glimmer of
hope--yet Geoffrey was far from being convinced that their course was
the right one. Somehow he feared that they were now trailing some
other car. However, the inspector seemed satisfied.
“Listen, monsieur,” he said, without removing his eyes from the road
in front. “From Aubergenville there is a lonely stretch leading
directly to the Seine. It is the first suitable spot this side of
Paris, and I would have gone straight for it if that _sergent_ had not
confused me. I believe that our friends skirted St. Germain for fear
of being identified later on. If, as I think, they are nearing their
goal, they do not want to take chances, but their little détour may
have lost time for them. If that is the case, we may catch sight of
them at any moment.”
Three kilometres farther along Geoffrey gave a sudden shout. Far ahead
a tail-light was just visible, moving at high speed. Occasionally it
vanished at the dip of a hill, only to reappear upon the approaching
brow. Like this always the same distance in the rear, they went on for
some minutes, Geoffrey upon the edge of the seat, his eyes straining
to keep in view the faint point of light.
Before them swept the long road, straight as a length of ribbon,
nothing to be seen except the recurrent gleam of the tail-light. They
were going at a terrific rate now, and presently their efforts were
rewarded by seeing a quarter of a mile in advance the dark shape of a
car emerge from the surrounding shadow. A cry of triumph burst from
three pairs of lips.
“Shall we overtake them?”
“That will depend on whether or not they suspect we are following
them. Still, they must slacken when they come to the town.”
A few straggling lights now appeared, marking the limits of
Aubergenville. At the same moment they realized that the distance
between the two cars was gradually diminishing. At last in a brilliant
patch of moonlight they could plainly make out the swiftly-moving
black body.
“Ah, good! Now if we are lucky we shall catch them!”
A few seconds of supreme tension, then to Geoffrey’s dismay the car
ahead, instead of slowing as they expected, put on a sudden spurt, and
in another instant had completely disappeared.
“What does it mean? They have seen us?”
“I am afraid so. It looks as though they were trying to give us the
slip.”
One minute more brought them to the centre of the small town, but
although they had wasted no time the black car was not to be seen. How
in so short an interval it had contrived to disappear was a mystery;
perhaps even now it was close at hand, concealed by one of the obscure
turnings; but as far as the trackers were concerned it might have been
leagues away. The empty market-place showed not a sign of life as they
purred along its cobbled stones, the darkened buildings offered no
assistance.
At last they came upon a solitary _sergent de ville_, sauntering
languidly along the pavement. To him Bazin shouted the inevitable
query, to be rewarded by the information that a Rolls-Royce had passed
only a few moments ago, stopping long enough for the driver to inquire
the road to Poissy.
“Poissy!”
The inspector’s tone was furiously amazed, while his two companions
reflected his sentiments. Were their conclusions entirely wrong?
“You are sure it was Poissy he asked for?”
“But absolutely, M. l’Inspecteur. I showed them which turning to
take--the second along there,”--and he pointed ahead. “They set off at
once in that direction, and must be well on their way by now.”
“_Eh bien!_” the inspector muttered with a shrug.
There was nothing for it but to press on towards the turning indicated
and trust to increased speed to bring them once more within sight of
their prey. Soon they were shooting along the highway headed for
Poissy, uncertain now as to the miscreants’ intentions, and maddened
by the minutes lost in the town.
“It’s odd, that,” fumed the inspector, watching the road between
narrowed lids. “If they really mean to make for Poissy they have
something different in mind from what I thought. I half believe they
are playing a trick upon us, that they suspect we are after them and
want to throw dust in our eyes.… Here! What is this ahead of us? Do
you see those tyre tracks just in front?”
He had jammed on his brakes so suddenly that the other two were thrown
out of their seats. In answer to his question Geoffrey sprang out and
examined the roadway immediately before them. The fine white dust
revealed an imprint of wide tyres curving first to the extreme right,
then making a horseshoe bend till finally they went off, twin streaks,
in the direction from which they had come.
“My God, you’ve hit it! These are recent tracks. They’ve doubled on
their traces and gone back. We must have missed them by about a couple
of minutes.”
In a trice they had repeated the manœuvre of the other car and were
facing back towards the town.
“What a chance!” murmured Bazin excitedly, as Geoffrey flung himself
back beside him. “If I had not suspected that ruse, we should have
gone on without noticing. We shall have to look sharp now if we are to
catch them. I could take a right-hand turning I know of and attempt to
cut them off, but at this stage I dare not risk it. The river lies
just down there, only a short distance,”--and he nodded his head
towards the declining ground. “Another moment and we come to the
lonely road I spoke of.”
Already the car was rushing ahead like a rocket. Dusty hedges flashed
past; as far as the eye could reach there was no impediment. Watching
breathlessly, Geoffrey could discern no glimmer of a light, nor were
his ears able to detect any sound save their own regular drumming on
the hard surface of the road. If a tyre should go now--but no, one
must not think of accidents. Every second brought them closer to the
Seine, flowing silent at the bottom of the slope, far removed from
habitation. Perhaps already the Rolls had reached it by some adjacent
route. Certainly at this speed it seemed incredible not to overtake
the car, if it had indeed come this way.
They dashed through the heart of a wooded expanse, out again into the
open, then back into the shadow of a group of pine trees. Still no
lights. Now in the distance appeared the thin line of poplars
bordering the river. Three seconds more and they would be in sight of
the banks. A horrible conviction assailed Geoffrey. They were too
late. That parley in the streets at Aubergenville, brief though it had
been, had dished their hopes. By now the villains were probably
homeward bound, one passenger the less.…
“_Look out! My God, don’t you----_”
The warning came an instant too late. Intent on the prospect in front,
neither of the two men had seen the concealed lane on the right till
they were full upon it. There was a confused vision of a whirling
black monster on wheels hurling itself upon them, and before Bazin had
had time to do more than swerve abruptly to the left a smashing blow
struck them broadside, driving them with a terrific impact into the
opposite hedge. The door beside Geoffrey was burst open and he was
pitched headlong on to the ground. In the same moment sounded a
mingling of curses, shouts, grinding of brakes and splintering of
glass. Leaping to his feet, half-stunned, he beheld, three yards away,
the dark mass of the Rolls they had been chasing poise tottering for a
second, to crash over ponderously upon its side.
There was no time to wonder how this final _débâcle_ had happened.
Already Geoffrey’s two companions had leaped out of their battered car
and were standing beside him, uninjured save for small cuts. Bazin,
his set face glistening with blood and sweat, grasped a revolver in
one hand. The three men faced the prostrate Rolls in strained
expectancy. All was silent. Did this mean that the occupants were
stunned, dead perhaps? If any of them had been thrown out, the immense
weight of the falling body must have crushed them utterly. Geoffrey’s
heart stood still. Catherine--inside that death-trap! Was this the end
of it all?
During what seemed an infinite age he remained rooted to the spot
staring with starting eyes at the tomb-like car, round which clouds of
powdery dust still swirled. Then with a feeling of grotesque unreality
he beheld two figures emerge, clambering out of the exposed
windows--first the Portuguese, hatless, his swart features streaming
with rivulets of blood, while the lobe of one ear dangled from a shred
of skin; then Jeanne, her hair dragged back from a face of ghastly
pallor, out of which her close-set eyes glared with a dreadful fixity.
Hardly had she grasped the sill to hoist herself clear, when from
behind came a man’s hand shoving her aside and pawing the air in the
manner of a drowning person. Then a dead-white face was thrust out of
the aperture and a pair of pale, red-rimmed eyes surveyed the scene.
Events now followed one another so rapidly that it was impossible to
sort them out. Eduardo, alighting on the ground cast a single glance
at the group close to him and made a headlong dash towards the bottom
of the slope. Instantly Bernard sprang upon him, there was a short
tussle, the noise of a pistol-shot, then the agent was thrown to the
earth, while the flying figure of the Portuguese sped onward. He had
covered twenty yards when a second shot crashed, this time from the
inspector’s weapon, and the entire party saw the thick-set body reel,
sway and collapse face downward in the middle of the road, a smoking
revolver clutched in his hand. One, at least, of the scoundrels was
accounted for.
“_Attention! Ah, crapaud!_”
Geoffrey wheeled at the inspector’s sharp cry in time to see the mean
figure of Blom backed against the Rolls’ mudguard, pale eyes
glittering in the moonlight, a revolver raised in the act of taking
aim. A third resounding shot. Geoffrey felt a hot flame sear his
shoulder as he flung himself upon his assailant, closing with him in a
death-grip. In that moment he realized that his left arm was useless,
broken above the elbow by his recent fall. Undeterred by the mishap he
wound the fingers of his right hand round the lean throat, felt the
twist of muscles as the imprisoned man bent double to free himself,
displaying an unexpected force. A red haze blotted out everything.
With a foot round the _notaire’s_ leg he threw his victim to the
ground, fell atop him, aware of nothing save a rapidly purpling face
and a tongue beginning to protrude horribly…
A voice panted in his ear, “That will do beautifully, monsieur!” At
the same instant there was a click of handcuffs, and he was dragged
away.
Blinking and coughing from the dust, he rose to see close at hand a
second scene of violence. Jeanne, her muscles rigid as those of a
maniac, a long murderous knife in her hand, was hurling herself on
Bernard, who in the nick of time managed to pinion her wrists in his
bony grasp.
“Ah--the she-devil! She would have that in his heart!”
There was a swift blow from Bazin’s fist across the taut knuckles, the
knife clattered to earth, and another click sounded as a second pair
of handcuffs slipped into place. Even then the woman made a dive to
bury her teeth in the agent’s hand, but the other two shook her off
and dragged her towards the Commissariat car.
A minute more and the maid and Blom were both securely trussed with a
rope abstracted from the tool-box. As he tightened the last knot the
inspector cast an inquiring glance towards the still figure lying a
little distance off.
“That one will give us no trouble,” he remarked with meaning. “Now!
That business is finished. Shall we turn our attention to
mademoiselle?”
Geoffrey drew a long breath. Since the three plotters had climbed out
into the open, no sound or movement had come from the Rolls. Did that
indicate that the black cavern was empty? A devastating dread seized
him as he went slowly towards it, fearing to look through the window.
She was there. He saw at the bottom a huddled mass, of which in the
darkness he could discern nothing more than a heap of clothing.
“Permit me, monsieur. You can do little with that arm of yours. She
has probably fainted.”
It was a matter of extreme difficulty to extricate the inert body, but
at length they did so, laying it gently upon the ground. With shaking
fingers Geoffrey removed the shapeless green hat, revealing, above
thick bandages which concealed all the lower portion of her face, a
forehead greyish-white and sunken, closed eyes. Not a flicker of an
eyelash altered her complete immobility as, heavy and limp, she rested
in the roadway. A lock of dark hair matted with blood clung to her
brow, accentuating her dreadful pallor.
Geoffrey uttered a groan.
_Fainted? She was dead._
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The inspector was cutting away the encircling bands of gauze.
Kneeling beside him, Geoffrey watched with a stony expression,
fatalistically certain that rescue had come too late. Either the poor
girl’s jailers had slain her outright during the long drive, or death
had come five minutes ago when the car overturned. The heavy sag of
her head made him believe her neck was broken.
As the last fold of material came away, the two men bent forward,
dreading the disfigurement which threatened to meet their eyes. None
appeared. Only the tight gag was revealed, together with sundry
creases where the skin had been long compressed.
“Look what has been done to her!” murmured the officer with a savage
click of the tongue. “Now we begin to see.… They have much to answer
for, those two!”
So saying he severed the gag, and drew it cautiously from between the
swollen lips. Beyond the head wound there was no visible mark of
injury, yet the cheek which Geoffrey touched remained cold as ice.
“The hands, too--bound to her body! See how the strips have cut into
the flesh! Those bruises would have told a story.…”
The loosened hands dropped upon the ground, like two weights.
“She is dead, of course?”
Geoffrey expected no reply to his toneless utterance, which was less a
question than a statement. For a moment he looked on while the
inspector, without replying, pressed his ear over the girl’s heart.
All at once, with the movements of an automaton, the young man rose,
picked up the revolver which lay in the road, and took a step towards
the two bound figures propped against the dusty hedge. He scarcely
heard the astonished cry which burst from Bernard.
“Monsieur! Are you mad?”
He stared stupidly as a lean hand shot out and wrested the weapon from
his grasp.
Perhaps he was mad. At any rate it was not a self he knew which had
yielded to that instinctive urge towards revenge. He came slowly to
his senses to hear Bazin calling to him sharply:
“Monsieur--quick! There is a flask in the flap-pocket of the car. And
bring a cushion, so we can raise her head.”
He complied, sure that no stimulant could bring back the spark of life
to that senseless form. All hope was dead as mechanically he lifted
the limp body and watched while the inspector tried to force a few
drops of brandy into the mouth.
“It’s no use,” he heard himself muttering.
Seconds passed. He saw both the other onlookers shake their heads,
then no longer able to bear the sight before him, he closed his eyes.…
A cry roused him.
“Monsieur! Look!”
He obeyed in time to catch the faintest discernible twitch of the
eyelids. Only a mere trace of movement, but it was sufficient.
“Catherine!” he cried in a frenzy of love and longing.
“Catherine----!” and seizing her cold hands he began to chafe them
vigorously.
For a single second the eyes opened, gazed blankly at him. Then the
lids drooped again before there had been any sign of recognition.
“She is not dead, monsieur, but we must lose not an instant in getting
her to a doctor. That wound has probably bled a great deal, besides
which she has suffered terribly from shock.”
Leaving the young man to continue the work of resuscitation, the
inspector hastened to inspect his damaged car, which by a miracle was
still fit for service. Finding this to be the case, he then held a
hurried consultation with the agent, as a result of which it was
decided that the latter should remain behind with the prisoners while
the injured girl was conveyed to Aubergenville as quickly as possible
in search of medical aid.
As they had supposed, the Portuguese was dead--shot through the back.
They dragged his body to the road-side, then returning to the
unconscious victim, gently raised her and placed her within the car.
Geoffrey’s last glimpse of the scene of wreckage showed him the
butler’s glazed eyes and blood-stained features upturned to the
moonlit sky, and a few yards off the two living accomplices, glaring
and livid, while Bernard, mounting guard, leaned against the hedge, a
vulture-like figure etched in black, his bony fingers philosophically
extracting a cigarette from a battered yellow packet.
After her brief flicker of animation Catherine had sunk back into a
state of coma. As her head rested heavily against Geoffrey’s shoulder,
it seemed certain that she was in no degree aware of her surroundings.
Indeed, she scarcely appeared to breathe, but she had given proof that
she was alive, and at that knowledge a passion of thanksgiving welled
up in her lover’s heart. She was here, in his arms, her hair brushing
his lips at a time when but for the most extraordinary good fortune,
she would have been at the bottom of the cold whirling stream. Perhaps
she had been unconscious all the latter part of her terrible drive.
The wound on her head was no recent one by the look of it, nor had any
fresh injury, beyond a few bruises, resulted from the collision.
Wedged between Jeanne and Blom and with her face thickly covered, she
had even escaped cuts from the shattered window.
In the sleeping village they managed to knock up a doctor, who quickly
attended to the gash in her scalp and made her as comfortable as
possible on a couch in his dispensary. She was suffering from slight
concussion, which, combined with shock and exhaustion, had reduced her
to a fairly serious state. He shook his head gravely over her as he
applied restoratives, but offered no objection when Geoffrey suggested
sending for an ambulance to take her to the American Hospital at
Neuilly, merely stipulating that she should not be moved till the
following day. He then set the young man’s broken arm, dressed the
bullet wound in his shoulder--luckily no more than a graze--and,
providing him with a glass of cognac, left him to get what rest he
could.
Meanwhile the inspector returned to pick up his prisoners, after
promising to communicate with the elder Macadam as soon as he reached
Paris.
Geoffrey spent the rest of the night in acute anxiety. During long
hours the poor girl remained dead to the world, now wholly
unconscious, now raving with delirium. Visions of brain fever filled
the watcher’s mind, and for a time he seriously feared that her reason
would suffer as a result of what had happened in the past forty-eight
hours. However, by seven o’clock in the morning she had drifted into
a more or less normal slumber, and when the doctor entered bringing
hot coffee and the news that the ambulance was on the way, Geoffrey
himself had succumbed to exhaustion and, his head fallen forward upon
the couch, was sleeping soundly.
Catherine opened her eyes upon a tiny bare room, overlooking a walled
garden. Birds were singing in the trees outside, a nurse in uniform
was bending over her with a keen but kindly scrutiny. For the moment
she had not the remotest idea where she was, and while a thermometer
was inserted into her mouth, lay examining her new surroundings with
slight curiosity.
“That’s better,” she heard her guardian say in an honest
middle-western voice as she shook down the little tube and placed it
in its case. “That’s decidedly better.… By the way, there’s a young
man walking up and down the corridor begging for a look at you. Shall
I let him in for one minute? He’s feeling rather badly used.”
Catherine stared. By an ironic twist her thoughts leaped back to Miles
Waring, her former fiancé. Who but he could think himself badly used?
Then realizing the absurdity of this, she gropingly came a little
nearer the present situation.
“Why, of course,” she replied weakly. “Let him come in.…”
The next instant Geoffrey stood beside her. He was ghastly pale, she
thought, and had his left arm in a sling.
“What’s happened to you?” she whispered wonderingly. “Have you hurt
yourself?”--and she stretched out a hand which he grasped in a hungry
clutch.
“Only a fractured arm. Nothing at all,” he replied awkwardly, his gaze
devouring her. “It’s you I want to know about. How do you feel?”
“Rather groggy,” she murmured. “I’ve just waked up. Have I been ill
long?”
As she spoke she raised her other hand to her head uncertainly and
encountered the rim of a bandage. Astonishment overspread her face.
“Why--am I hurt, too? What is all this?”
For a second she was completely bewildered. Then recollection began to
dawn on her.
“Of course! Now I remember!”--and the pupils of her eyes dilated. “It
was that beast Eduardo. He banged me over the head with a candlestick
last night--or was it last night?”
He did not tell her that the thing she mentioned had happened four
days ago.
“Eduardo is dead,” he said shortly. “He’s paid for his sins.”
“Eduardo dead?” She stared at him. “And the others?” she ventured
fearfully.
“Locked up, waiting for their trial. There’s nothing for you to bother
about now.”
She struggled to take it in.
“Germaine,” she whispered faintly. “She’s dead, too. They killed her,
you know. They set fire to her room and locked her in. I tried to stop
them, but they were too much for me. They----”
“S’sh--don’t talk,” he commanded soothingly, stroking her hand.
“Better go now,” cautioned the nurse, coming forward. “She’s run on
like that for hours, ever since she was brought here. We mustn’t let
her excite herself.”
But Catherine’s hand stayed her with an imploring gesture.
“Don’t send him away just yet,” she begged, while tears started to her
eyes and spilled over her dark lashes. “I won’t say any more if you’d
rather I didn’t.”
And so, without speaking, they sat hand in hand during a long interval
of perfect peace.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Ten days passed before Catherine was considered well enough to
discuss recent events without undue agitation, and while Geoffrey saw
her each afternoon for a short time, their conversation was limited to
commonplaces. At the end of that period, however, she showed a
definite improvement. Her nerves calmed down, she was able to sleep
the night through without a sedative, and exactly a fortnight from the
memorable Saturday night she described to Geoffrey all that had
happened, from her arrival at the flat till the shock of the
collision, when she lost consciousness for the final time.
Geoffrey in turn related his experiences during the corresponding
interval--the sudden knowledge of Blom’s motive, his discovery that
she was missing, his suspicion of the servants, the false telegram
which had thrown him off the scent, his vigil in the room across the
street, and last of all, the wild race with death, when every moment
had been torture, lest she should be consigned to the river before the
pursuers could overtake her.
She listened absorbedly. All this time she had been completely
ignorant as to the mainspring of the plot, and she could scarcely
contain her astonishment when she heard of Blom’s intended marriage to
the woman he planned by his villainy to turn into an heiress.
“Honorine!” she gasped. “That poor, middle-aged, downtrodden woman? I
feel quite sure she never dreamed of the relationship any more than
Mme. Bender did. I don’t suppose they ever heard of one another. I
can’t believe she was a party to any wrongdoing.”
“I am sure she was not. Well, in all probability she will inherit your
cousin’s money, though she still is ignorant of the fact; and the
outcome of this has spared her tying herself up with a scoundrel who
would have used her fortune and neglected her for the first pretty
face that came his way.”
She mused a little over this, then turned back to the night which had
so nearly ended everything for her. It seemed that the drive had taken
place in almost total silence, Blom, who had evidently studied a
road-map, only speaking to issue commands, and every few minutes
pushing her aside to peer through the window at the back to see if
they were being followed.
“It was only a precaution, though, for they all believed they had come
away unobserved. However, on the bit of road before we came to that
last town----”
“Aubergenville,” he told her.
“He remained looking out for some time, then swore horribly in German
and called through the tube, to Eduardo, telling him to drive like
hell.”
“That was when he saw us.”
“You may imagine my feelings when I knew that rescue was close at hand
and heard the loathsome creature beside me scheming to throw you off
the track. We pulled up in the town to ask a direction, then tore off
again, only to double back and take two or three turnings till finally
we got into a sort of narrow lane, very rough.”
He explained what must have happened, how her captors had made the
detour in order to avoid returning to Aubergenville, and how they were
in the act of entering the lonely road leading to the Seine when they
ran headlong into the very car they were endeavouring to escape.
“I never knew what hit us,” she said. “I felt a terrific jolt which
made me see stars, but if there was any thought in my brain it was
that it was better to die that way than by drowning.”
She repressed a shudder, and yielding her hand to his seeking one, lay
back among her pillows.
“I forgot to tell you,” she remarked presently when the nurse had
brought tea and retired again tactfully, “that I had a visit from
Hermione this morning. Poor thing, she is quite broken up, and has
positively lost weight. Her clothes hung on her. Do you know, she
never mentioned Germaine’s money, nor the pearls, though surely she
knows they are gone?”
“My father had a talk with her after the safety-box was opened. It
must have been a great blow to her, but she was quite dignified about
it.”
“She seemed to me rather stunned. I don’t believe she has grasped it
all yet. The only comment she made about Honorine’s getting the
fortune was that heaven knows where she would go now to have her old
hats made over!”
They laughed a little at this.
“The wretched part about it is that I am positive Germaine would have
left her something if she had not been interfered with by Jeanne.
Isn’t it damnable? I am afraid the poor creature has almost no money.”
“As a matter of fact,” he replied, “things won’t turn out for her at
all badly. It is she, after all, who will furnish us with particulars
regarding Mme. Bender’s family, and the commission she will receive
for her services will be quite enough to provide for her comfortably.”
Her eyes brightened.
“Is that true? I’m glad you told me. I’ve been bothering about her.
She is miserably unhappy, you know. She told me she has not slept
since the night of the murder, thinking of Germaine and her awful
end.”
Her voice trembled as she whispered the last words. Geoffrey set down
his cup and sat upon the bed beside her, raising her chin with his
hand so that he could look into her troubled eyes.
“Catherine,” he said. “I can see you are letting that dwell on your
mind, too. Isn’t that so?”
“It haunts me,” she admitted. “Every time I close my eyes I can see
that flaming room and poor Germaine lying in the midst of it. I wish I
could forget it.”
He thought for a moment.
“But at the time you were pretty certain she was already dead?”
“I believed she was. I had only a glimpse, though, before I was
dragged away.”
“Well, you may take it for granted that she not only did not suffer,
but that she was never even aware of the fire. She simply went to
sleep as usual and died before anything happened.”
She looked at him with painful eagerness.
“Oh! If only I could believe that!” she cried with intense longing.
“Do you think it is possible?”
“More than that. Since the post-mortem we are quite sure of it. Her
organs were found to contain sufficient veronal to have killed her
quietly and without pain. The fire was merely to cover things up. If
the doors were locked it was only because Jeanne, having failed in her
previous attempts, was unwilling to take any chances.”
A sigh of thankfulness escaped her.
“Then there will be no difficulty about proving it was murder?”
“They will put up a fight, of course, you may depend on that. You see,
veronal happens to be a drug which accumulates in the system, and it
is undoubtedly true that your cousin had taken considerable quantities
of it for months on end. They will swear that death was due to heart
failure.”
Her face fell a little.
“But do you think the courts will accept their theory?”
He hesitated slightly. Up till now he had not mentioned the part she
would be obliged to play in the trial.
“Not when they have heard your evidence,” he answered. “But don’t
let’s talk of that now.”
Watching, he saw a stoical light come into her eyes.
“I shall be equal to it when the time comes,” she said intrepidly.
“When I think of what those two have done, I could go through fire
myself to bring them to justice.”
“One tremendous point in our favour is their attempt to do away with
you,” he reminded her. “They’ll find it pretty hard to explain that
away.”
“That was Eduardo’s stupidity,” she replied. “When he came in and saw
me struggling with Jeanne, he lost his head and let go at me. But for
that they might have pretended they were merely anxious to prevent my
harming myself by going into the burning room. I shouldn’t wonder if
they could have got away with it, too--Jeanne is so abominably clever!
By the way,” as a sudden thought struck her, “what was the hammering
on the front door which I heard just before I lost consciousness?”
He told her it must have been the _locataire_ from the third floor,
trying to wake up the servants.
“But for that interruption they would probably have allowed the fire
to go on much longer. In fact, it was probably their plan to let the
whole apartment be consumed, just managing to escape with their lives.
In that way Mme. Bender’s body would have virtually disappeared, as
well as every trace of their various thefts.”
“I see. So it was that unexpected hitch which altered things for them.
It must have been an awkward moment. What did they do with me, I
wonder?”
“I should say they moved you into one of the back rooms for the time
being, then while the man ran out to give the alarm, Eduardo must have
carried you up in the lift and through the trap-door on to the roof.
Certainly there was only a short interval before the place was
inundated with people, so they had to work quickly. It was probably
Jeanne’s shadow I saw on the blind in your room. She must have been
busy putting your things back into the bags ready for removal. By the
time the engines arrived she and Eduardo were both back at the scene
of action, making a great pretence of rescuing their mistress’s body.”
She stared in blank amazement at this arrangement of facts.
“Then I spent the remainder of the night on the roof?” she said
wonderingly.
“With your luggage,” he replied. “It’s the only solution I can think
of. You were not in the apartment next day when we searched it, and
except for that possible quarter of an hour of which I speak, Eduardo
had no free moment to get you out.”
“Then how did I come to be in the other flat?”
“The inspector has been investigating that. The flat belongs to a
Chilian family, who went off to Rome, leaving their butler in charge.
The butler took the week-end off, leaving the key with the concierge,
whom he had sworn to secrecy. But the concierge mentioned the fact to
Blom, who it seems was his man of business, as well as Eduardo’s. He
admits all this now.”
“Yes, go on.”
“Our theory is that when Eduardo told Blom what had happened to you
and the danger they were in, Blom, knowing the Bender apartment would
be searched, advised him to steal the key to the empty flat, which he
must have done during the time Bernard found him with the concierge.
After this he came home, took the lift straight to the top of the
building, climbed on to the roof, carried you across and down into the
other house, and returned by the same route. Previously he had garaged
the car elsewhere in Blom’s name, so that all the latter had to do was
to claim it, drive to the Square Lamartine, and drop in for a friendly
call on the concierge at the right moment to engage the old man’s
attention while you were being brought out. The whole thing was timed
to a second, and would have gone off without a hitch if Bernard had
not been watching the premises. So you see,” he added, “you owe your
life to Bernard.”
“Only partly. What about your finding out that the telegram was faked?
But for that you wouldn’t have been on the spot at all.”
“There was a good deal of luck about it. If I had not felt I could not
sit still in the Commandant’s study another instant I should never
have seen Bernard at all, and alone he could hardly have accomplished
much. If he had set upon the scoundrels single-handed in that quiet
square, they would probably have stuck Jeanne’s knife into him and
left him in the gutter.”
The trial of Jeanne Laborie and Adolph Blom became within the next few
weeks a _cause célèbre_. Both prisoners stuck woodenly to their plea
of not guilty, and throughout a rigorous cross-examination preserved
an unbroken stolidity of bearing. Their _avocat_, a sharp if somewhat
shady lawyer from Montmartre, displayed diabolical cunning on their
behalf, so that only after a prolonged tussle did his defence break
down under the weight of accumulated evidence. In the end, as Geoffrey
had foreseen, it was the attempt to remove Catherine which turned the
balance.
The truth, when all was known, may be summed up in this wise:
Shortly after Mme. Bender’s return from America, Jeanne, hitherto an
irreproachable servant, realized the extent to which her mistress’s
will had become weakened, and resolved to profit by it. At first she
did not venture beyond petty thefts--juggling with household accounts,
the occasional sale of some small article of value--but emboldened by
success she soon began operations on a more extensive scale. She
dismissed the other servants, engaged the stupid cook, who in exchange
for liberal outings and a minimum of work fell in blindly with her
plans, and by dint of many ruses was speedily putting away a
substantial sum of money. At this period she probably thought of
nothing worse than keeping Mme. Bender in a helpless state so that she
could continue her pilfering. However, after nearly a year of this,
Blom forced his way into the game, and the whole scheme was materially
altered.
The _notaire_, through whose hands the stolen money passed, began
eventually to wonder at the large sums which the maid regularly
brought to him for investment. It did not take him long to discover
the source of this surprising wealth, and, once sure of his facts, he
pounced upon Jeanne and her fellow-thief, Eduardo, and informed them
brutally that either they must admit him to a share of their gains or
else he would lose no time in reporting them to the police. It was
useless for the two to protest innocence; he had them in a cleft
stick. From that time on both servants were reluctantly obliged to
submit to his terms.
Now entered the sinister element in the plot. Some months previous
Jeanne, in one of her talks with the _notaire_, had happened to
mention her mistress’s maiden name, in conjunction with the fact that
Mme. Bender possessed no known heir. Blom had said nothing, but had
noted that by a curious coincidence the name had also been formerly
borne by one of his humble clients--Mme. Baron, known to her customers
as Honorine. He resolved quietly to ascertain if a blood relationship
might exist between the two Dieulefits, made the visit to Bordeaux,
and hit on the astounding truth that the milliner was indeed not
merely a connection of the wealthy woman, but actually her sole
heir--a cousin in the seventeenth degree!
This gave him his cue, and he forthwith prepared his plans with
cold-blooded thoroughness. He offered Jeanne and Eduardo a definite
choice--prison, or conniving with him at the murder of the invalid, at
whose death he, as Mme. Baron’s husband, would be in a position to
recompense them amply for their services. At this stage it is probable
that Jeanne, the master-mind of the two servants, while hating to
submit her will to another, yet realized that it served her best
interests to do so. She began to think that her mistress might not
have long to live, in which case her income was likely to be cut off
at any moment. Better, from her point of view, make certain of a
single large sum and have done with it. That she was quite
conscienceless and devoured by avarice was only too apparent.
The decision made, Blom lost no time in making sure of his widow, who,
regarding him as a desirable partner, accepted his proposal with
astonished alacrity. It now remained to prevent Mme. Bender’s making a
will, and to bring about her death, in such a manner as to suggest
accident or suicide. Jeanne’s gradual instillation of the insanity
idea--begun to serve her private ends--was an admirable aid to both
these projects. It discouraged the invalid from venturing a
disposition of her property which the courts might set aside, and at
the same time hoodwinked the outside world into believing her capable
of self-destruction. The one annoying obstacle was Miss Cushing.
However, that unfortunate lady, by displaying anxiety as to her own
inheritance, played into the crafty maid’s hand, with the result
already seen.
The train was carefully laid when the plotters were thrown into
confusion by Catherine’s approaching visit. Deeming it best to hasten
things, they arranged the first known attempt on the victim’s life by
substituting the extra strong solution of disinfectant--actually the
dangerous Burnett’s Fluid--for the glass of water with which she was
about to take her veronal tablet. The plan failed, was interpreted as
a foiled effort at suicide, and for the time being nothing further was
done, Catherine’s presence acting as a deterrent. The truth about Mme.
Bender’s trying to jump out of the window was never revealed, but it
was almost certainly an invention of Jeanne’s to lend colour to her
assertions. Here again she killed two birds with one stone. She
influenced public opinion, deceiving even the doctor, and by placing
the bars across the window shook her mistress’s faith in herself to a
terrifying extent. Indeed, her cunning foresaw and allowed for every
contingency. In but one respect did she err, and even here her
stupidity would have passed unremarked had it not been for Catherine’s
arrival on the scene. However, her ruling passion, greed, was too
strong to withstand, and it was greed which indirectly brought about
her ruin, even though it confused the issues and argued potently
against a motive for murder.
Knowing that, once her mistress was dead, she and Eduardo would have
to content themselves with what Blom was willing to pay them, she
resolved to make the most of her present opportunity, and from the
moment she agreed to the _notaire’s_ terms, set about quietly
stripping the apartment of saleable objects. Bibelots, antique silver,
tapestries and finally paintings, disappeared. Catherine’s suspicion
regarding the thefts gave her a bad fright, but she had a worse
adversary to reckon with. Blom himself was incensed at the loss of
what he now regarded as his own belongings, the scene in the lower
hall being due to his discovery of what was going on. At this stage he
could do little but threaten; the trio were in it now up to the neck,
and stood or fell together; but he managed to insist that Mme.
Bender’s death should no longer be postponed, ordering his tools to
proceed with the business of dispatching her quickly.
The conspirators were now faced with an embarrassing situation.
Catherine had become a positive menace. She was resolved to make an
indefinite stay, and showed signs of her intention to oust the
servants from their positions. Drastic action must be taken without
delay, consequently the maid hit on the idea of making her enemy ill
so that she would either be confined to her room or else forced to go
away. Thereupon she administered to the unsuspecting girl small daily
doses of a drug which brought on the attack, later supposed to be
ptomaine poisoning, throwing the young doctor off the track by hinting
that the patient had given herself some violent medicine. The drug
employed was in all likelihood the digitalis kept for Mme. Bender’s
occasional heart seizures. It was the one noxious substance at the
woman’s disposal, it could be partially disguised in coffee and
_tilleul_, and the result was calculated to produce precisely the
symptoms noticed in Catherine’s illness--acute nausea, cramps, and
fainting. Mrs. Baxter’s invitation happily came at the right moment,
as did Geoffrey’s insistence on its acceptance. The field was cleared,
and all went smoothly up to the moment of the visitor’s untimely
return.
Geoffrey’s theory regarding the fire was probably correct. Having got
all she could hope to obtain, Jeanne did not in the least care if the
whole building was destroyed. It meant safety for her, and although
Blom might be furious over the needless loss he could not say
anything. Indeed, his only possible course was to remain steadfastly
behind the curtains, go ahead with his humble marriage, which would
have included the customary drive in the Bois in a char à banc,
accompanied by his friends, and then subside until the moment when
more than anyone else he would express amazed gratification at his
wife’s stupendous luck.
The pearls, disposed of piecemeal, were never recovered, nor were the
Aubusson carpet and tapestries; but when Jeanne was taken to the
prison a packet of bank-notes, representing many thousand francs, was
found strapped around her waist, no doubt the proceeds of various
sales. The Manet was eventually traced to South America, whence it had
been smuggled by an obscure dealer, and a Claude Monet, a Dégas and a
small Renoir turned up finally in the French provinces, where the same
person was holding them till a safe time.
The two criminals received the death sentence.
Catherine’s sister knew nothing of what was happening till the
excitement was past. Even then, for an anxious day or so Catherine
feared that the zealous Barbara would dash across the ocean to take
charge of her--an event she particularly dreaded. However, a series of
reassuring cables set matters right, and she breathed again, secure in
her independence. It required but little persuasion on the Baxters’
part to induce her to spend her convalescence at Fontainebleau, where
she rapidly gained strength, soothed by a sense of blessed security,
and happy in the knowledge that almost every evening would bring
Geoffrey to her side.
One afternoon towards the end of May, when Catherine was well enough
to walk and Geoffrey’s arm was free of its sling, the two strolled out
into the forest and sat down upon a fallen beech-trunk in an open
glade. The slanting sun-rays streamed through a canopy of leaves,
dappling the ground with shadows and playing on the tender green of
the girl’s frock. The hush of the hour held them spellbound, and they
were silent so long that a thrush in the nearest thicket resumed its
interrupted song.
Catherine for her part was feeling curiously shy. During the past
weeks she had thought of her lover with a calm and steady affection,
but somehow this evening she was disturbingly aware of his
masculinity, which all at once struck her as a force to be reckoned
with. As she watched him poking among the dead leaves with a stick,
and noticed once more the dark hairs upon the backs of his muscular
hands, a tremor of nervousness seized her. Tension was in the still
air, the approach of a crisis which she longed for, yet dimly dreaded.
Presently it came.
“Catherine,” he began abruptly, “do you remember what you said to me
that evening after the cabaret? That you’d never consent to be engaged
again, but that one day you’d make up your mind to marry quite
suddenly?”
“I remember.…”
“Do you still mean it?”
She coloured with confusion.
“I--I suppose I do,” she faltered uncertainly. “Only I’d have liked to
let my hair grow to a more decent length first. I’m such a fright like
this!”--and she rubbed her fingers ruefully over the ruffled crop she
had spent hours trying to train into subjection.
“As if that mattered!” he cried impatiently. “Besides, it will take
just over a fortnight to comply with the French regulations. That
ought to be long enough, surely. What do you say? I could start the
process to-morrow.”
The practical firmness of his tone startled her a little. It was some
moments before she could meet his gaze, and when she did so she was
still unable to frame a response.
Suddenly she uttered a cry.
“Speaking of hair,” she gasped, “did you know you have got a patch of
grey over each ear? Geoffrey! To think I never noticed it!”
“Have I?”--indifferently. “It doesn’t matter. You haven’t answered my
question.”
“But it does matter,” she replied obstinately. “You hadn’t them
before. Tell me--is it because of--me?”
Evading her importunity, he lifted her two hands in his and kissed the
open palms.
“At any rate,” he said half-seriously, “you realize now what you are
able to do to me if you like. For instance, if ever you should change
your mind----”
Through a sudden mist fire flamed in her eyes.
“I shan’t,” she murmured quickly. “I----”
But whatever she might have added was stifled by the pressure of his
lips.
[The End]
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
This story was also published as _Spiderweb_.
Minor spelling inconsistencies (e.g. fire-engines/fire engines,
moonlit/moon-lit, etc.) have been preserved.
Alterations to the text:
Formatting: abandon the use of drop-caps.
Punctuation: fix some quotation mark pairings/nestings.
Add ToC.
[Chapter One]
Change “resolutely directed her _attenton_ to the flying landscape” to
_attention_.
[Chapter Two]
“Macadam _stired_ uncomfortably and took out his cigarette case” to
_stirred_.
“surging exodus of _pasengers_ on to the grimy platform” to
_passengers_.
[Chapter Eight]
“you know what servants can be like when _they ve_ had the” to
_they’ve_.
“after several fruitless _attemps_ to open the door” to _attempts_.
[Chapter Twelve]
“dark form creeping _stealthly_ up the white fringe” to _stealthily_.
“tears streaming down her _checks_, hands clasped” to _cheeks_.
[Chapter Thirteen]
“All at once her thoughts veered to the little notaire” italicize
_notaire_.
[Chapter Fourteen]
“Not a soul, except that _horried_ little man I told you about” to
_horrid_.
[Chapter Nineteen]
“On the table in the entrance hall several _letter_ were awaiting”
to _letters_.
[Chapter Twenty-Seven]
“the entire scene was singularly. charming in its total absence”
delete the period.
[Chapter Thirty-Four]
“furnished with a delicate _magnificance_, had a general look” to
_magnificence_.
[Chapter Thirty-Eight]
“_Whereever_ she turned it was there, watching her” to _Wherever_.
[Chapter Forty]
“to the Rolls’ description only a few _minutues_ before” to _minutes_.
[End of text]
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