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.