Paul Campenhaye, Specialist in Criminology/Chapter 8
CHAPTER VIII.
THE CHAMPAGNE BOTTLE.
IT was a somewhat dull and featureless afternoon in October that my clerk, Killingley, an individual who had the rare faculty of never wasting words, though he was naturally inclined to volubility, came into my private office with a small armful of the early editions of the evening newspapers, all folded and heavily marked with blue pencil, and laying them on my desk, put a forefinger on the topmost blue mark, and retired without a word. I knew that Killingley never wasted my time; I accordingly picked up what he had brought me and began to read. In this way, and within the space of the next half-hour, I made myself acquainted with what I will call the surface facts—the plain, obvious features, of the affair which centred around a bottle of dry champagne.
For some time previous to this October which I have just mentioned (to be quite precise, for a period of three years), there had resided in a flat in the best part of Shaftesbury Avenue, a gentleman who was known to the agents, the caretaker, and to the tradesfolk as Mr. Charles Becker. He was a man of apparently thirty-five years of age; a tall, well-built, good-looking man; a little inclined to stoutness, as if from love of good living; a man of ready and pleasant manner, well liked by all with whom he came in contact. The various rooms of his flat—a much more commodious one than is usually required by a bachelor—were furnished with a comfort which was closely akin to luxury; he possessed fine pictures, quantities of books, and a miniature grand piano. But from all that was seen of him by his neighbours it would appear that Mr. Becker had luxurious tastes; he was invariably well and carefully dressed in the height of fashion; he was known to possess a rare discernment in the matter of food and wine and tobacco. And during the three years of his residence in Shaftesbury Avenue, all who met him considered him to be a man of considerable means.
According to such information as the newspaper people had been able to obtain, with a view to elucidating the mystery which had led them to publish special editions, nobody knew anything of Mr. Becker’s business or profession. He appeared to be absolute master of his own time, but it was also believed that he went into the city every day, if only for an hour or two. He was a member of two West-End clubs of semi-Bohemian nature, but nobody knew much of him at either of them, except that he was a pleasant, good-natured, rather quiet clubmate. In short, up to the time of the publication of the special edition to which I have just referred, Mr. Becker’s history was of the negative order—a little was known of it.
Now, why did the newspapers publish special editions in relation to this Mr. Charles Becker, of No. —, Shaftesbury Avenue, on this particular day of October, 191-? For a simple reason. At eight o’clock this morning Mr. Becker was found lying dead on the floor of his sitting-room. What was more, it was very evident that he had been murdered.
There was no great amount of mystery about the obvious facts of Mr. Becker’s murder. According to custom, William Felton, a man who acted as valet and servant to Mr. Becker, but who slept away from the premises, entered his employer’s flat at eight o’clock that morning, and was at once surprised to see that the electric light was turned full on in the sitting-room, the door of which stood wide open. Walking within this apartment, Felton was horrified to see Mr. Becker lying in a crumpled-up attitude on the floor between the centre table and the sideboard. A single glance, a mere bending over the body, showed him that life was extinct; he immediately summoned the police, and fetched a doctor from a neighbouring flat.
Now, very fortunately, one of the police first on the scene was a man who had the excellent gift of close observation, and knew to a certain extent the meaning and significance of what he saw; he was, moreover, able to tell the newspaper people what he saw. And what he saw was this: The apartment was furnished after the conventional fashion of an ordinary dining-room. There were easy-chairs, occasional chairs, a sofa, side-tables, small odds and ends of furniture. Upon one of the chairs lay the dead man’s cloak, hat, gloves. There were no signs of any scuffle or disturbance; all seemed in order. Upon the centre-table stood a box of cigars with the lid thrown back; near it was an ashtray in which lay a cigar which had evidently been lighted only a little time before being placed there; the ash on it was about half an inch long. Also, upon the table stood a full-sized bottle of champagne of a well-known brand, uncorked.
There was no doubt as to the immediate circumstances of Mr. Becker’s death. The body lay between the centre table and the sideboard. One door of the cellaret in the sideboard was open; it was evident that the dead man was taking two champagne glasses from it when he was struck down; one glass, indeed, he had taken, and it lay broken underneath his body. Also, underneath his body was a cigar—crushed, of course. But it, like the cigar on the table, had been smoked to the extent of about half an inch.
So much for the things on the surface, the obvious things, some of which, however, many people, perhaps most people, would not have seen. But how was Mr. Becker killed? That question was speedily settled by the doctors—the doctor whom Felton had fetched in, and a surgeon who came with the police. He had been killed by a heavy blow on the back of the head, which had fractured the skull in a fashion that would cause instantaneous unconsciousness and produce death within a very short time. And without doubt he had been struck as he bent down to the cellaret to take out the champagne glasses, or, rather, just when he had withdrawn one of them. He had pitched forward on to his knees, losing his cigar, smashing the glass, and had crumpled up in a heap. The medical men thought that he had been dead some hours at the time of their examination; they thought that he might have been unconscious for an hour before death occurred.
In all these cases people—the people on the spot—began to theorise. The folk there—the superior police—concluded that Mr. Becker had been struck down by some man who had accompanied him to his flat, and who was presumably armed with a formidable life-preserver. This, they considered, was the man whose partially consumed cigar lay on the ashtray. But—what was the murderer’s motive? It was certainly not robbery. In the dead man’s pocket a considerable sum in notes and gold was found; he was wearing valuable rings; a valuable watch. There were expensive articles of jewellery in his bedroom; there was more money in a drawer of his writing-table. The entire flat was in perfect order; nothing had been touched, nothing disarranged. On the face of things, it seemed that the miscreant, whoever he was, had killed Mr. Becker, walked quickly out, and disappeared.
What puzzled the police—according to the newspapers—and the newspaper men—according to their own accounts—was the fact that it was abundantly evident that when the assault took place the assailed and the assailant were about to—presumably—pledge each other in champagne. There stood the bottle; there lay the pliers in readiness for twisting off the wire which confined its cork; the dead man had been struck down—killed—in the very act of getting out the glasses. Who, then, could the murderer be who could seize such a moment for striking such a blow? What was his motive? What—but it was much more pertinent to realise that he had not left in that room the slightest clue to his identity. There was nothing. It was he, no doubt, who had placed the recently-lighted cigar in the ashtray. But you cannot find finger-prints on the wrapping of a cigar. Diligent enquiry of folk who lived in neighbouring flats, of people who might have chanced to be about the entrance hall at midnight, had failed to produce any information. Nobody had seen Mr. Becker enter his flat in company with anyone, and nobody had seen anyone leave it. The only information forthcoming at all up to the time of the special editions was that Mr. Becker spent the evening from eight o’clock until ten minutes to eleven at the Discletion Club, and left there alone.
Such were the surface facts—up to then. I had just mastered them, after reading all the newspapers, when Killingley entered in his usual quiet fashion, and advanced to my side.
“M. Gourgand wishes to see you, sir,” he said. “He says you know him.”
I threw all the newspapers into a wastepaper basket as I nodded assent. I had a premonition that I was going to hear something about the Becker case at first hand.
“Bring him in, Killingley,” I answered.
There walked into my private room, at Killingley’s invitation, a little Frenchman, one Monsieur Leon Gourgand, whom I knew as the proprietor of a very quiet and select restaurant, café, or private hotel, where the cuisine was just about twice as good as you find in much more pretentious establishments, and who had a select clientèle of his own, no member of which was minded to advertise him. M. Gourgand’s establishment, in fact, was of a special nature; there were few such left in London, and those who know of them are not keen about making their whereabouts known, lest fine cooking and absolute retirement should be driven from the face of the town. I was one of M. Gourgand’s customers—a fairly occasional one; I had, moreover, once acted for him in a very difficult and delicate case—a case of honour—and had at that time seen much of him. We were, therefore, no strangers. Accordingly, I welcomed M. Gourgand as an old friend, installed him in the particularly comfortable chair which I kept for my clients, and handed him the cigarettes. And as he sat down and accepted a cigarette I noticed that from one of the pockets of his smart black overcoat there protruded a copy of one of the newspapers which I had just thrown aside.
“Well, Monsieur Gourgand,” I said, “and what can I do for you to-day?”
Monsieur Gourgand looked round him with eyes large with enquiry.
“We are alone?” he whispered. “Safe from observation?”
“As safe, monsieur,” I answered, “as if we were victims of a lettre de cachet and safely bestowed in some oubliette of the never-to-be-forgotten Bastille. You may say or do anything you like in this room—nobody but myself can either see or hear you.”
Monsieur Gourgand once more inspected his surroundings—the door, the walls, the window, the ceiling. Then, with a deep sigh of assurance, he leaned nearer to me, drew out a newspaper from his pocket, laid it before me, tapped a certain headline with his fat forefinger, and said with a glance full of meaning:
“Eh, well, then, monsieur, I—I, Gourgand—I can tell you something of this affair here!”
I had expected that—it was, as I said before, a premonition—but I was not going to say so. I affected interest in the newspaper.
“Oh!” I said presently. “The affair of Shaftesbury Avenue, eh? But I am not engaged in that, Monsieur Gourgand. You should go to the police.”
Monsieur Gourgand waved the fingers of both hands before his nose, and made a grimace.
“No!” he said in his most nasal tones. “It is precisely because I do not wish to go to the police that I come to you, monsieur. You are secret, you are dependable—you are my good friend.”
“I hope I am all those, Monsieur Gourgand,” I responded. “Well, then?”
Monsieur Gourgand once more tapped the newspaper.
“I knew Becker,” he said. “He was a more or less regular patron of mine. He had an excellent taste and discernment; also, he had ideas and a soul. What an end! However, Monsieur Campenhaye, that is not the point.”
“Let us approach it, then,” I suggested.
Monsieur Gourgand waved his cigarette.
“I saw Becker last night,” he said. “It says there in this paper that he was at the Discletion Club last night until nearly eleven. Very good. It was a little before eight that he came to me and took me aside. ‘Gourgand,’ says he, ‘I have important affairs to transact with a friend, a lady, to-night; I wish to entertain her to a little supper in a private apartment. I suggest your little cabinet on the first floor. And,’ he continued, ‘you can give me the key of your side door; it is an affair of the greatest secrecy, Gourgand, and the lady wishes not to be seen. I desire that the supper be ready laid, and all in order, when we arrive at eleven o’clock—there will be no need for attendance. I rely on your discretion, my friend, Gourgand,’ he says. And so, of course, Monsieur Campenhaye”
Monsieur Gourgand concluded with an expressive gesture of his hands.
“And so, of course, you humoured him?” I said.
“He was an excellent customer, and free-handed with his money,” replied Monsieur Gourgand. “Well, then, we settled the details of the little supper, which was to be simple, but of a rare delicacy. It was to be placed on the table at precisely eleven o’clock; Mr. Becker and his friend were to enter at one minute past that hour to enjoy complete privacy. And for the wine, Monsieur Campenhaye, there were to be a white wine and red—of the very best—and a bottle of”
Monsieur Gourgand paused and tapped the newspaper. His eyes flashed.
“A bottle of dry champagne of this rare vintage specified here, monsieur—here!” he said, with emphasis. “It is this very bottle, mentioned here in the newspaper as having been found on Becker’s table, that I placed in my little cabinet for him last night—I swear it! Yes, monsieur!”
“One bottle of a particular brand of champagne is very much like another bottle, Monsieur Gourgand,” I remarked.
“Listen, then, monsieur! Mr. Becker concluded his arrangements. I prepare the little cabinet myself. I lay the table; at the precise hour I serve the little supper and make myself invisible. But I am not so far away that I do not know what is going on. Mr. Becker returns to the promised moment; he and his companion enter the room; I catch a brief glimpse of them as they do so.”
“You saw the lady, then?” I asked.
“I saw a lady, heavily veiled, who appeared to be young, graceful,” replied Monsieur Gourgand conscientiously. “More I did not see. But now! They remain in the little cabinet scarcely more than twenty minutes—then I hear them depart! I hear the private door into the side street close; I go to where I can look out; I see Mr. Becker and his companion walking away down the street. I think it is strange, and I hurry to the little cabinet. Figure to yourself, Monsieur Campenhaye, scarcely have they eaten! There was a veritable creation—a triumph!—in a chafing-dish—they had trifled with it—trifled, monsieur! And there was—but no matter! And they had but tasted the white wine—the red remained unopened. But, monsieur, the bottle of dry champagne had—vanished!”
“Ah!” said I.
“Vanished, monsieur, disappeared, gone!” exclaimed Monsieur Gourgand. “Becker had taken it with him. Now, Monsieur Campenhaye, do you believe me that this bottle which the police found on his table was that which I served up to him last night, and which he carried off unopened?”
“It certainly seems like it, Monsieur Gourgand,” I answered. “Let me see, now—how long would it take for Becker to walk from your place to his flat?”
“A few minutes—six, eight,” replied Monsieur Gourgand.
“Then it would seem that this meeting was adjourned from your private room to his,” I said, “and that he took the bottle of champagne away with him, reflecting that he had none at home. It would be an interesting thing to search his rooms and see if that is so.”
Monsieur Gourgand nodded, then shrugged his shoulders.
“But that is not the point, monsieur,” he said. “I have no wish to go to the police; I dislike the police in any country; they are officious; they ask questions; they poke long noses into everything; they waste my time; so I come to you as a man of discretion, a man who can, as I, Gourgand, am well aware, since you acted for me before, who can keep counsel. Let us approach the point, Monsieur Campenhaye.”
“I am waiting for the first prick of it, Monsieur Gourgand,” I responded.
My visitor thrust his hand into some mysterious pocket and drew out an envelope. He held it up as if it had been some holy relic; his face became solemn.
“Behold, then!” he said in deep tones. “That which is inside this”—here he broke the seal—“I found in my little cabinet. A small matter, Monsieur Campenhaye—a lady’s handkerchief, of the most delicate.”
And he drew out of the envelope what looked—and was—a mere scrap of unsubstantial lace. A faint, scarcely perceptible odour of some unusual scent clung about it, fragile, delicate as itself.
“That, monsieur, crushed into a little ball, lay beneath the table at the place where, presumably, the lady had sat,” continued Monsieur Gourgand. “I placed it in my private desk, having then, of course, no notion of what was about to happen to Becker. But as soon as I heard of this affair in Shaftesbury Avenue, I took it out and placed it in this envelope, and I came to you. For it seems to me, monsieur”
“Speak out, Monsieur Gourgand,” I said.
“It seems to me that there may be a clue in it,” he concluded. “It is a small thing, and yet”
He ended with an expressive shrug of his shoulders. I made no answer to him just then; I was examining with interest the little handkerchief.
And suddenly I forgot Monsieur Gourgand, and the dead man Becker, and everything but one fact. In a corner of the delicate thing which I was fingering I saw and stared intently at a tiny bit of embroidery which represented—a butterfly!
I repeat—I forgot Monsieur Gourgand. I even forgot that I was sitting at my own desk, in my own private room. The truth was I had a vision. I was in a crowded theatre—one of those modern variety theatres which have superseded the old-fashioned music-halls. There was hushed excitement, there was music that suggested a springtide day amidst deep woods. And on the stage was a dainty and delicate figure, sylph-like in its slimness, elusive, a seeming creature of the artificial surroundings and suggested atmosphere, a mere girl, and yet a dancer of European fame—La Papillon.
Poor Butterfly!
I came out of that vision with a sudden start, and turned to my visitor.
“Monsieur Gourgand; you want my advice?”
“That is why I came to you, Monsieur Campenhaye. Of a surety—yes!”
“Then keep your own counsel. Say nothing. Leave this little article with me. Let all remembrance of last night and of Becker be buried very deep in your breast until you see me. I shall call on you—it may be before night.”
Monsieur Gourgand picked up his neatly folded umbrella and his hat. He wagged a forefinger before his lips.
“I am dumb, monsieur,” he said. And as if to emphasise the fact, he shook hands in silence and went away. I rang the bell which summoned my clerk, who was an invaluable person in many ways, and possessed a very, very comfortable knowledge of what was what and who was who in the great world of London.
“Killingley,” I said, “you are always au fait with all theatrical and musical matters. What is the real name of the French dancer who has been appearing at the Megathesium under the stage name of La Papillon? You have seen her, of course?”
Killingley answered promptly.
“Mademoiselle Odette de Contanges.”
“Odette de Contanges, of course. And no doubt, you know, Killingley, where mademoiselle has her habitation in London, where she can be found, eh?”
Killingley rubbed his chin.
“She’s had a suite at the Carlton,” he answered. “But her engagement finished on Saturday night, and I expect she’s gone back to Paris. I haven’t heard of it, though.”
“All right, Killingley,” I said, picking up my hat. “I will walk round and see. I have a little business with Mademoiselle de Contanges.”
It was only a mere step from my office in Jermyn Street to the Carlton Hotel, but I thought much as I made it. I have always had a habit of jumping straight at a conclusion, and I felt as sure as assurance can be that the cobwebby bit of stuff which I carried in my pocket-book was the property of La Papillon, otherwise Odette de Contanges. If that were so, it was she who had accompanied Mr. Charles Becker to the private cabinet at Monsieur Gourgand’s restaurant, who had gone away with him and, therefore, might be able to throw some light on the mystery surrounding his death; it might even be that she knew how that death came about. Clearly I must see Mademoiselle de Contanges.
But although mademoiselle had not yet left London, although she was at home, there, in her suite of apartments at the hotel, to see her in private was not as easy a matter as it had been to see her in public. This was no case of throwing down half a guinea at the wicket of a box-office. I sent up my private card and was denied admittance; mademoiselle was seeing no one, no one at all; she was leaving for Paris by the evening train, and was very busy packing. Then I sent up a note: would she give me but a few moments on urgent business? Down to me came a maid: no pert, flighty, young person, but a Frenchwoman who was rapidly approaching middle age, and whose black eyes took stock of me in thorough fashion. She spread out her hands, but spoke in excellent English.
“But it is impossible, sir!” she said. “We leave to-night—we are up to the eyes in packing—mademoiselle can receive no one.”
“You can at least hand your mistress a note?” I suggested. “I will write it.” And I sat down and scribbled a few words on the back of one of my professional cards, which I then fastened up in an envelope. “Give that to mademoiselle and say I wait,” I said.
Five minutes later the maid showed me into a big boudoir, and the presence of the dancer, whose name was famous in half a dozen capitals. Seen under these circumstances, stripped of all the atmosphere and glamour of the stage, she looked nothing more than a mere slip of a girl, and a frightened, anxious, nervous girl at that. Her great eyes, fixed upon me with a great apprehension as I entered, had deep shadows under them; her pretty face was worn and haggard; I knew after one glance at her that little sleep had been hers since the previous day. And as soon as I was sure that the door was closed upon us (and I had noted with satisfaction that it was a double one), I hastened to speak reassuringly to her.
“Do not be afraid,” I said, “I am here for your own good.”
She looked steadily at me from behind the table at which she stood. Then she inclined her head and glanced at my card, which she had crumpled up in her palm in a strenuous grasp.
“You are a detective?” she said, in a hushed voice.
“No!” I made haste to answer. “I am nothing of the sort, mademoiselle. I am a specialist in criminology. But sometimes matters come in my way by accident. This has come in my way by accident. Perhaps it is well for you that it has. Let me explain. I take it that you have read of the affair in Shaftesbury Avenue, mademoiselle?”
It was mere idleness to ask her the question, for there, opened on the table, was a copy of the newspaper in which the fullest account of the affair was given. Watching her closely, I saw her eyelids quiver, and a ripple of something more around the muscles of her mouth. Her throat rose and fell; instead of answering my question, she inclined her head.
“Just so,” I said. “Mademoiselle, let us come to business. Last night you supped with Mr. Becker in a private room at the Café Gourgand.”
She started away from the table on which she was leaning when I said that, and again the look of fear and anxiety came into her eyes, accentuated. I lifted a hand and lowered my voice.
“Once more, mademoiselle, do not be afraid,” I said. “Will you not sit down and listen to me?”
She stood staring at me for a full minute; then she slid into an easy-chair and, clasping her hands on her knees, looked at me as if she believed I could read every thought in her mind.
“You supped—or made pretence to sup—with Becker in a private room at Gourgand’s,” I continued, taking a chair opposite to her, and keeping my voice at a level of little more than a whisper, “and after remaining with him there twenty minutes you went away with him. In fact, mademoiselle”—here, of set purpose, I discharged a bolt at a venture—“in fact, you accompanied him to his flat.”
I saw at once that I had been right in my surmise. She was staring at me now as if fascinated; I knew that I had stated a plain fact. And I made haste to follow up the advantage.
“Now, mademoiselle, trust me! I am not a detective; I have nothing to do with the police; I am what I told you I was. I believe there is some mystery in this affair. I believe that you may have come into danger through your association with it. Trust me and I will help you. Tell me, straight out, do you know who killed Becker?”
She was twisting and intertwining her fingers now, and her head dropped lower and lower over them. Suddenly she spoke—a mere whisper:
“Yes, monsieur, I know!”
“Then trust me further, mademoiselle, and tell me! We are alone.”
Just as suddenly as she had spoken, she looked up, and I saw a quick flash of resolution in her eyes. She faced me bravely.
“It was I, monsieur. I killed him!” she said quietly.
I heard myself gasp. This was an announcement I had not anticipated; it had never even been in my thoughts. What had been in my thoughts was a suspicion that she might possibly have been in collusion with the actual slayer of Becker, and that there might have been a quarrel of which she was a witness, and that she might have left some man with Becker, who subsequently killed him. But that she herself had struck the blow had never occurred to me, and I was so astonished that I sat back in my chair and stared at her in silence. She, too, was silent; staring at me. But it was I who first found a word.
“You!” I exclaimed.
“I—monsieur—I,” she said, as quietly as before. “But, I did not mean to kill him; I meant to strike him. Listen, monsieur,” she continued, suddenly laying her hand on my knee with an almost child-like appeal. “I will tell you—I have heard of you before; you once did a service to my friend, Madame Leviquae, and I know you are to be trusted. I will tell you the truth. He was a bad, wicked man, that!”
A look of indescribable hatred and loathing came into her face; it had not cleared away when she went on.
“Years ago, monsieur, when I was a mere girl, I was guilty of a foolish indiscretion,” she continued. “It is useless to go into its history now, but this man Becker became aware of it; more, he became possessed of a few letters—only three in all—of mine. For the past three years, since I have had so much money, he had steadily blackmailed me on the strength of his knowledge—I have paid him large sums. And recently he found out that on the termination of my engagement I was going home—to be married.”
She seemed to be on the point of breaking down then, but again came the flash of the eye which I had noticed before, and she went steadily on:
“Then he decided to make a grand, a final coup, monsieur. He demanded a great sum for the three letters, a sum which would practically absorb all my profits on this engagement. It was shameful, it was cruel; yet he had me in his power, and I negotiated with him. And eventually it was arranged that I should meet him last night near the place you have just mentioned, and that we should conclude matters. I met him; we went to the private room to which you have referred. I did not wish to eat or drink with him; he insisted, and I made some show of trifling with the supper, all the time entreating him to come to business. Then, although I firmly believed him to be lying, he said he had not the letters with him, that I should have to accompany him to his flat to get them. I insisted then that we should go at once; I would brook no denial. He grumbled; I became the more insistent. Then he put a bottle of champagne which stood on the supper-table in the pocket of his cloak and we left. Oh, monsieur, how did you even find out that I had been there? For I was so thickly veiled!”
“Never mind that just now,” I answered. “Pray continue.”
“Well, I accompanied him to his flat,” she said. “He appeared ill at ease; he fidgeted. He lighted a cigar; he put it down; he forgot all about it; he lighted another. Then he swore that before we did any business, I should drink with him; we should pledge each other. He had set the champagne on the table; he knelt down to get glasses out of his chiffonier; but, as he was then occupied, monsieur, as he was withdrawing a glass, he made a cruel, a cynical, an insulting remark about my—my approaching marriage. And before I was aware of what I was doing, I snatched up the bottle of champagne and crashed it down upon his head, and he fell just as—as if he were dead!”
“Ah!” I murmured, “the bottle of champagne! That’s another thing I had not thought of. But proceed, mademoiselle.”
“But he was not dead, Monsieur Campenhaye, for he breathed,” she continued. “And then I saw my chance. And he had lied to me, for the three letters were in the breast-pocket of his coat. I took them; I left him where he was; I hurried away and came home here, and burnt the letters; and not until noon to-day did I hear that he was dead. I did not mean to kill him. Monsieur Campenhaye, what shall I do?”
I remained silent for some time, thinking. I had no doubt whatever that I had heard the truth. And in my own heart I rejoiced that the world was rid of at least one specimen of a particularly verminous type. I rose at last and drew out the tiny handkerchief with its embroidered butterfly, and handed it over to Mademoiselle de Contanges.
“Mademoiselle,” I said, “continue your packing—make your journey. Let what happened last night be dead to you. Never speak of it to anyone, not even your husband, unless you tell him, at your discretion, in years to come. And rest assured—you are safe.”
I said good-bye to her then, and repaired to Monsieur Gourgand, who at once conducted me into his private room. I slapped him on the shoulder.
“My friend Gourgand,” said I. “You are a man of a great judgment and of a ripe wisdom. Therefore, you will do exactly what I tell you to do, will you not?”
“I have sufficient confidence in Monsieur Campenhaye to do whatever he wishes,” he replied.
“It is good, friend Gourgand,” I said, slapping his shoulder again. “So you will at once and for ever forget that you ever served up a supper in your private cabinet last night; you will forget that you found anything there; you will forget all that you said to me this afternoon. You understand? In effect, you have forgotten already.”
Monsieur Gourgand spread out his hands.
“It is as monsieur says,” he said solemnly. “I have already forgotten. Oh, yes, then I remember nothing!”
Wherefore it is that the police have never found out who it was that killed Mr. Charles Becker.