The Cask/Chapter 13
CHAPTER XIII
THE OWNER OF THE DRESS
When some time later the two friends met, Lefarge said:—
“I saw the Chief, and he’s not very satisfied with the way things are going. None of those women have done anything with the clothes. He’s got a notion we ought to advertise and he wants us to go there at nine to-night and talk it over.”
Accordingly, at the hour named, they presented themselves at the office in the Sûreté.
“Sit down, gentlemen,” began the Chief. “I wanted to consult with you about this case. In our efforts to identify the dead woman, which we agreed was our first essential, we have unfortunately had no success. Our three women have done exceedingly well as far as covering ground goes, but they have had no luck. You, gentlemen, have found out some important facts, but they have not led in this particular direction. Now, I am inclined to think we ought to advertise and I’d like to hear your views.”
“What particular advertisements do you suggest, sir?” asked Burnley.
“For everything. Advertise, in each case with 100 francs reward, for information about the dress, the underclothes if singular in any way, the rings, the comb, and the body itself.”
There was silence for a few moments, and then Burnley replied hesitatingly:—
“We have a bit of prejudice at Scotland Yard about advertising except in special cases. I think the idea is that it puts people on their guard who might otherwise give themselves away. But in this case it would probably be the quickest way to a result.”
“To me it would seem,” said Lefarge, “that even if there was a band of persons anxious to hush this murder up, there would also be enough outside that band to answer every one of the advertisements.”
“That is rather my view,” agreed the Chief. “Take the servants, for example. A woman wearing such clothes is certain to have lived in a house with several servants. Some one of them is bound to read the advertisement and recognise the description. If he or she intends to try for the reward we get the information, if not, he will certainly show the paper to the others, one of whom is almost certain to come. The same thing applies to shop assistants, none of whom could conceivably wish to keep the thing a secret. Yes, I think we’ll try it. Will you draft out some forms, something like this, I should imagine. ‘One hundred francs reward will be paid for information leading to the identification of the body of a lady, believed to have died about the 30th March’—say ‘died,’ of course, not ‘was murdered’—then the description, and ‘Apply at any Police Station.’ The others would be for information leading to the identification of the purchaser of the various clothes.”
“I shall have to see the three ladies for a proper description of the clothes,” said Lefarge.
“Of course. I’ll send for them.”
M. Chauvet telephoned to the department in question, and, after a delay of a few minutes, the three female detectives came in. With their help the advertisements were drawn up, and when the Chief had read and approved they were telephoned to the principal papers for insertion next day. Special trade journals relating to the millinery and jewellery trades were also supplied with copies for their next issues.
“By the way,” observed M. Chauvet, when the women had left, “I have had a report about the lottery business. M. Le Gautier is correct on both points. He paid in the cheque on the date stated, and the drawing does not take place till next Thursday. The probabilities seem therefore to point to his being an honest man and having had nothing to do with the letter. And now, with regard to to-morrow. What do you propose?”
“First, monsieur, we thought of going to the Gare St. Lazare to see if the superintendent has any further information for us. I thought we should then try and trace back the cask that went via Rouen.”
“Very good. I think I shall try another scent also, though not a very promising one. I shall put on a couple of men to go round the fashionable photographers with that photo of yours, and try if they can find a portrait of the woman. I had rather you could have done it”—he looked at Burnley—“because you have seen the body, but they may get something. That’s all, then, is it not? Good-night.”
“Hard lines being done out of our evening,” said Lefarge, when they had left the great man’s room. “I was going to propose the Folies Bergères. It’s not too late yet, though. What do you say?”
“I’m on,” answered Burnley, “but I don’t want to stay more than an hour or so. I can always work better on plenty of sleep.”
“Right,” returned Lefarge, and, calling a taxi, the two friends were driven to the famous music-hall.
Lefarge called for Burnley the next morning at the latter’s hotel, and they made their way to the superintendent’s office at the Gare St. Lazare.
“Well, gentlemen,” said their friend of the previous afternoon, motioning them to be seated, “I think I’ve got the information you want.” He took up some papers. “I have here the receipt of the Southampton boat people for what we may call number one cask, which was handed them on the arrival of the 7.47 from this station on the night of the 30th ult. Here,” he took up a similar paper, “I have the receipt of the I. and C. Steam Navigation Co. at Rouen for cask number two, which left here by goods train on the 1st inst., and was got on board on the 3rd. Finally, our agent at the Goods Station at the rue Cardinet informs me he has found the porters who assisted to unload this number two cask when it arrived. You can see them by going down there now.”
“I can hardly find words to thank you, sir,” said Lefarge, “your help has been of the utmost value.”
“Delighted, I am sure.”
They parted with mutual compliments, and the detectives took a Ceinture train to Batignoles, and walked down the rue Cardinet to the vast goods station.
They introduced themselves to the agent, who was expecting them, and brought them through long passages and across wide yards alive with traffic to a dock in the side of one of the huge goods sheds for outward bound traffic. Calling up two blue-bloused porters and instructing them to answer the detectives’ questions, he excused himself and took his leave.
“Now, men,” said Lefarge, “we’ll be much obliged for some information and there’ll be a few francs going if you can give it.”
The men expressed anxiety to supply whatever was needed.
“Do you remember on Thursday week, the 1st instant, unloading a cask labelled for Felix, London, via Rouen and long sea?”
“But yes, monsieur, we remember it,” said the men in chorus.
“You must unload hundreds of casks. How did you come to notice this one so specially?”
“Ah, monsieur,” replied one of the men, “had monsieur had to lift it himself he also would have noticed it. The weight was remarkable, extraordinary. The shape also was peculiar. In the middle there was no bulge.”
“At what time did it arrive here?”
“Just after six in the evening, monsieur, between five and ten minutes past.”
“It is a good while since then. How do you come to remember the time so exactly?”
“Because, monsieur,” the man smiled, “we were going off duty at half-past six, and we were watching the time.”
“Can you tell me who brought it to the yard?”
The men shrugged their shoulders.
“Alas! monsieur, we do not know,” the spokesman answered. “The carter we would recognise if we saw him again, but neither of us know where he lives nor the name of his employers.”
“Can you describe him?”
“But certainly, monsieur. He was a small man, thin and sickly looking, with white hair and a clean-shaven face.
“Well, keep a good look-out, and if you see him again find out who he is and let me know. Here is my address. If you do that there will be fifty francs for you.”
Lefarge handed over a couple of five-franc pieces and the detectives left, followed by the promises and thanks of the men.
“I suppose an advertisement for the carter is the next scheme,” said Burnley, as they walked back in the Clichy direction.
“We had better report to headquarters, I think,” replied Lefarge, “and see what the Chief advises. If he approves, we might get our advertisement into to-night’s papers.”
Burnley agreed, and when they had had some lunch they rang up the Sûreté from the nearest call office.
“That Lefarge?” was the answer. “The Chief wants you to return immediately. He’s got some news.”
They took the Metro from Clichy to Châtelet and reached the Sûreté as the clocks were striking two. M. Chauvet was in.
“Ah,” he said, as they entered, “we’ve had a reply to the dress advertisement. Madame Clothilde’s people near the Palais Royal rang up about eleven saying they believed they had supplied the dress. We got hold of Mlle. Lecoq, who was working it, and sent her over, and she returned here about an hour ago. The dress was sold in February to Madame Annette Boirac, at the corner of Avenue de l’Alma and rue St. Jean, not far from the American Church. You’d better go round there now and make some inquiries.”
“Yes, monsieur,” said Lefarge, “but before we go there is this question of the cask,” and he told what they had learned, and suggested the advertisement about the carter.
M. Chauvet had just begun his reply when a knock came to the door and a boy entered with a card.
“The gentleman’s waiting to see you on urgent business monsieur,” he said.
“Hallo!” said the Chief, with a gesture of surprise. “Listen to this.” He read out the words, “ ‘M. Raoul Boirac, rue St. Jean, 1, Avenue de l’Alma.’ This will be Mme. Annette B.’s husband, I presume. These advertisements are doing well. You had better stop, both of you,” and then to the boy, “Wait a moment.”
He picked up the telephone, pressing one of the buttons on the stand.
“Send Mlle. Joubert here immediately.”
In a few moments a girl stenographer entered. M. Chauvet pointed to a corner of the room where Burnley had noticed a screen, set back as if to be out of the way.
“I want every word of this conversation, mademoiselle,” said the Chief. “Please be careful to miss none of it, and also to keep quiet.”
The girl bowed and, having seen her settled behind the screen, the Chief turned to the messenger.
“I’ll see him now.”
In a few seconds M. Boirac entered the room. He was a strongly built man of rather under middle age, with thick black hair and a large moustache. On his face was an expression of strain, as if he was passing through a period of acute bodily or mental pain. He was dressed entirely in black and his manner was quiet and repressed.
He looked round the room and then, as M. Chauvet rose to greet him, he bowed ceremoniously.
“M. le Chef de la Sûreté?” he asked, and, as M. Chauvet bowed him to a chair, continued,—
“I have called to see you, monsieur, on a very painful matter. I had hoped to have been able to do so alone,” he paused slightly, “but these gentlemen, I presume, are completely in your confidence?” He spoke slowly with a deliberate pronunciation of each word, as if he had thought out whether that was the best possible he could use and had come to the conclusion that it was.
“If, monsieur,” returned M. Chauvet, “your business is in connection with the recent unfortunate disappearance of your wife, these gentlemen are the officers who are in charge of the case, and their presence would be, I think, to the advantage of all of us.”
M. Boirac sprang from his chair, deep emotion showing under his iron control.
“Then it is she?” he asked, in a suppressed voice. “You know? It seemed possible from the advertisement, but I wasn’t sure. I hoped—that perhaps There is no doubt, I suppose?”
“I shall tell you all we know, M. Boirac, and you can form your own conclusions. First, here is a photograph of the body found.”
M. Boirac took the slip of card and looked at it earnestly.
“It is she,” he murmured hoarsely, “it is she without a doubt.”
He paused, overcome, and, the others respecting his feelings, there was silence for some moments. Then with a strenuous effort he continued, speaking hardly above a whisper,—
“Tell me,” his voice shook as he pronounced the words with difficulty, “what makes her look so terrible? And those awful marks at her throat? What are they?”
“It is with the utmost regret I have to tell you, M. Boirac, that your wife was undoubtedly murdered by strangulation. Further, you must know that she had been dead several days when that photograph was taken.”
M. Boirac dropped into his chair, and sunk his head in his hands.
“My God!” he panted. “My poor Annette! Though I had no cause to love her, I did, God help me, in spite of everything, I did. I know it now when I have lost her. Tell me,” he continued in a low tone after another pause, “tell me the details.”
“I fear they are rather harrowing, monsieur,” said the Chief, with sympathetic sorrow in his tone. “A certain cask was noticed by the London police, a detail, with which I need hardly trouble you, having aroused their suspicions. The cask was seized and opened, and the body was found inside.”
The visitor remained with his face buried in his hands. After a few seconds he raised himself and looked at M. Chauvet.
“Any clue?” he asked, in a choking tone. “Have you any clue to the villain who has done this?”
“We have a number of clues,” returned the Chief, “but have not yet had time to work them. I have no doubt that we will have our hands on the murderer shortly. In the meantime, M. Boirac, to make assurance doubly sure, I would be glad if you would see if you can identify these clothes.”
“Her clothes? Oh, spare me that. But there, I understand it is necessary.”
M. Chauvet picked up his telephone and gave directions for the clothes to be sent in. The jewellery was not available, as Mlle. Blaise had taken it in her round of the shops.
“Alas! Yes,” cried M. Boirac sadly, when he saw the dress, “it is hers, it is hers. She wore it the evening she left. There can be no further doubt. My poor, mistaken Annette!”
“I am afraid, M. Boirac, at the risk of giving you pain, I must ask you to be good enough to tell us all you can about the circumstances of your wife’s disappearance. These gentlemen are Mr. Burnley of the London police, and M. Lefarge of our own staff, and they are collaborating in the matter. You may speak before them with complete freedom.”
M. Boirac bowed.
“I will tell you everything, monsieur, but you must pardon me if I seem a little incoherent. I am not myself.”
M. Chauvet stepped to a press and took from it a flask of brandy.
“Monsieur,” he said, “you have our fullest sympathy. Allow me to offer you a little of this.” He poured out a stiff glass.
“I thank you, monsieur,” returned the visitor, as he drank the cordial. It pulled him together, and he became once more the unemotional man of business. He kept himself well in hand and did not, during the telling of his story, allow his emotion to overcome him, though at times it was clear all his powers of self-control were needed. In a stronger voice he began his statement, and his three companions settled themselves more comfortably in their chairs to listen.