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.