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.