Chapter XXV

PROVES HOW IMPORTANT IT IS FOR THE REVENUE SERVICE THAT
PHILOSOPHERS SHOULD HAVE WIVES

Superintendent Wilson paid his next visit to Paramé on the following day, but this time he went alone, despite the lamentations of his eldest son. Robin felt that he had a right to share in the later stages of the adventure in which he had played a part. But his father pointed out to him that Miss Culpepper now knew him by sight, and would be on her guard against him.

"But she knows you, too, father," said the boy, full of discontent.

"She does, and quite possibly I may even call on her, and pay my respects. But she does not, and must not, connect me with you. If I call on her, it is simply a friendly call because I happen to be making holiday in these parts. If I take you with me, she will know at once that I have been spying on her."

So Robin was left behind, to work off his discontent by tyrannising over his brothers and sister, and detecting them red-handed in the commission of unutterable crimes.

This time, Wilson started early, and was at the Culpepper house by ten o'clock. The boat, he found, was not in the boathouse. Presumably, it had departed on its smuggling expedition and had not returned. That looked as if it went all the way to England, and did not merely hand over its freight to some other vessel a few miles off land.

Having satisfied himself of the absence of the boat, Wilson took up his post, just inside the copse, at a point from which he could see the front door of the house. A middle-aged woman, whom he recognised as Mrs. Culpepper, was sitting in a comfortable chair outside the door, reading an English newspaper. He saw the old servant, Marie, come out and speak to her, and then go back into the house. He could even hear most of what they said. Mrs. Culpepper asked if Etienne had said when they would be back. Marie's reply was less easy to hear, but it sounded like an assertion that it would not be till to-morrow, if then. "They worry me always, these voyages," said Mrs. Culpepper, to which Marie replied only with a grunt.

This brief conversation settled one of Wilson's doubts. Norah Culpepper did not man her boat alone; there was also some one called Etienne. Who Etienne was he would have to find out later.

Wilson saw no point in calling on Mrs. Culpepper in her daughter's absence, or in watching the villa further on that day. So he directed his steps back through Paramé, and stopped at the first houses he reached, a row of pleasant, whitewashed cottages, which looked as if they were inhabited by fisher folk. Boats were drawn up below them on the beach, and a young man, in the dress of a fisherman, was sitting ruminatively on an upturned rowing boat. Wilson went towards him, and passed the time of day.

By discreet stages the Superintendent led the young man on to talk. By-and-by, he asked him if there were any English living in the neighbourhood. This inquiry produced a jerk of the thumb towards the Culpeppers' villa, and the remark that there were some queer folk in that house--but then, all the English were queer. "How queer?" Wilson asked him, and got the reply that there was a young woman who was always about in her motor-boat. "Alone?" Wilson asked, as if surprised. "Sometimes alone, sometimes with Etienne--he is the husband of their servant." Wilson supposed that they went short trips sight-seeing along the coast. The young man closed one eye, and looked at him curiously. "But no; often they go far upon the open sea." He spread out his arms with an indicative gesture. "One voyages far, from that house. Monsieur perhaps has a purpose in these questions."

The young man's purpose was clear enough: he wanted money in return for his information. Wilson was annoyed that his own purpose had been perceived, but it seemed best to go on. "In effect, yes," he said, "I shall be glad to learn what you may know--and to pay, if you keep your tongue still."

"As for me, I do not love these Culpeppers," said the young man; "and, for Etienne--bah! There are queer things done in that house, monsieur, or why do they voyage so far at night? Last night, they started, and they are not yet returned. It is often so."

"Does Miss Culpepper always take Etienne with her?"

"On her long journeys, yes; but she often goes in the day-time in the boat alone."

"It is a long time ago. I suppose you do not remember whether she was making these journeys last November--just about the 17th?"

The young man started; but all he said was, "Monsieur, then, is particularly anxious to know."

Wilson gathered that the time had come to cross the fisherman's palm with money, and a note changed hands as he said, "Six weeks or so before Christmas, what is it that happened?"

"My faith, it is so. It was then she made her long voyage alone, leaving Etienne behind. Then, and then only. And she was away the night, and came back on the next day."

"You mean she went right out to sea alone? Do you know where?"

"No, I know not; but upon the broad sea. She got Etienne away by giving him a holiday, and she did not tell him she was going away. He went into St. Malo, and got drunk, the pig. He, too, did not come back till the next day."

"How do you know she went away?"

"Because I saw her, monsieur, with these eyes. I watched her quite out of sight. It was late when she went, but I could see her light--far." Again he spread out his arms.

"Did you tell Etienne, or any one else, you had seen her?"

"Where one knows a thing, monsieur, the wise man keeps his mouth tight, until there comes a generous gentleman. Generosity, monsieur, unlocks the lips."

"You mean you have more to tell."

"Perhaps, monsieur," said the young man dreamily. "Who knows?"

"I will give you a hundred francs for all you know more." Wilson saw the man hesitate, and added, "No more, no less. It is good pay."

The fisherman sighed. "We are in the hands of God," he said. "Well, monsieur, when she came back she was not alone."

"Who was with her?" said Wilson sharply.

"A gentleman. I do not know his name. But he has stayed with the Culpeppers more than once."

"What sort of a gentleman?"

"A tall, fair man of about forty. He is the friend of M. Culpepper--and of his daughter."

"This man?" asked Wilson, taking a small photograph of Pasquett from his pocket-book.

"The same, monsieur."

"But this gentleman was staying with the Culpeppers both before and after the day you mention. You are sure he had not merely been out for a short trip with Miss Culpepper in the boat."

"He had not, monsieur. Mlle. Culpepper drove him away in her car two days before, and returned without him."

"You seem to be a very observant person."

"I am a philosopher, monsieur. It pleases me to observe. It is dull here otherwise."

"What do you do for a living?" asked Wilson.

"But monsieur, I am a philosopher. My wife--loves work. I observe; she labours. It is only fair."

"What if I told you that Marie says the gentleman was staying there all the time?" asked Wilson.

"Bah, Marie, she is an idiot. She says what she is told. I say only what I have seen. There was no gentleman in the boat when Miss Culpepper left."

"But she may have returned the same night, and taken him out for a trip in the morning."

"No, monsieur, the boat was not in the boathouse in the morning. I rise early. I went to look."

"What day did all this happen?"

"What day? That is difficult. Let me see, then." The young man pondered. "It was one, two, three, four days before the Sunday when the priest died. And from then it was five Sundays to Christmas. That was when she went away."

Wilson made a quick calculation. "Hm, that tallies," he said. "And she came back the following day? When? In the morning?"

"Late in the afternoon. She and the gentleman seemed very tired. I watched them bring the boat in."

"And the gentleman. Did he stay long after that?"

"He was gone the next day, but I did not see him go. Mlle. Culpepper also was out all that day in her motor-car."

"Think hard, please. Is there anything else you can tell me?"

The young man remained silent for a minute. Then he said, "That is all, I think."

"Your name and address, will you give me them?"

"You will pay me more if you need me at the trial, monsieur. I am a poor man."

"What trial?"

"Monsieur is perhaps of the English revenue service?"

Wilson laughed. "Perhaps I am. Yes, you will be paid."

"My name is Georges Ferry. I live there." The young man pointed to one of the cottages. "They call me 'Lazy Georges' in these parts."

Wilson paid "Lazy Georges," and thanked him for his information. He had found out a great deal--far more than he could digest at the moment. He walked back into the country to think it over.

Certain things were plain. "Lazy Georges," at least, suspected Miss Culpepper's smuggling activities. But this was unimportant. What mattered was that Pasquett's _alibi_ had been a fake. He had not been at Paramé on the night of the murder. He had left before it took place and he had not come back until the day after. And he had come back from somewhere across the sea. Almost certainly he had come from England.

In that case, there was every reason to suspect him of complicity in the murder, and very likely of having committed it himself. But, in that case, where did Rosenbaum come in, and why had he fled with the trunk? No, that was nonsense. Rosenbaum had actually been seen with Radlett's dead body in his arms.

Seen; but by whom? By Culpepper, the father of the girl who had brought Pasquett back from England. If Miss Culpepper was an accomplice, why not Culpepper, too? Culpepper might have invented the whole story about Rosenbaum and the body in order to shield Pasquett.

An idea flashed across Wilson's mind. Suppose Rosenbaum and Pasquett were the same person. But no. That made nonsense, too; for it was certain, beyond any chance of doubt, that Rosenbaum was a real person, and that he had been in London and Glasgow, and had escaped from Aberdeen. He could not possibly be Pasquett, unless he had the art of being in two places at the same time. Inquiries had proved beyond doubt that he was in England when Pasquett was at Warsaw.

Besides, Radlett and Rosenbaum had crossed together to England on the boat, and it was quite ridiculous to suppose that Pasquett, Radlett's closest friend, could have disguised himself so as to deceive the millionaire. Nor was it less ridiculous to imagine that Radlett had concealed Pasquett's identity in collusion with him. What conceivable reason could he have had for doing so? Men do not connive at their own murder in such a way.

The more Wilson thought, the deeper the puzzle grew. He was convinced, in view of Georges Ferry's revelations, that Pasquett had been concerned in the murder, and inclined to believe that Culpepper must have been an accomplice. But he could not make the parts of the puzzle fit. No; he needed yet more evidence to set his mind effectively to work. And that evidence he must get without delay. His holiday was ruined, but what did that matter? He was in his element, buoyed up again by hope of solving the most puzzling mystery of his career.

Wilson lunched on bread and cheese and cider in a village inn, and then walked slowly back towards Paramé. He would make sure whether the boat had returned, and, if it had, would perhaps even pay a call on Norah Culpepper. Again he stole through the coppice, and looked into the boathouse. It was empty: the girl had not yet come back. He went round to the front of the house. Mrs. Culpepper was again sitting in the sunny garden, reading a book. Wilson approached the front door, and knocked. Marie answered, and he asked if Mrs. Culpepper was at home. The old servant, with a sharp look at him, as if she wondered on what business he had come, went away to look for her mistress. It was plain she recognised him, but she did not refer to their previous meeting. After a minute she returned, and conducted him round the corner of the house to where its mistress was sitting.

"I hope you will not think this an unpardonable intrusion," said Wilson. "I am holiday-making in these parts, and, seeing you in the garden, I came to pay my respects to you and your daughter. You will remember my visit in the winter."

Mrs. Culpepper had seemed flustered, but she was reassured when he said that he had not come on business.

"Unfortunately," she told him, "my husband and daughter are both away. Do sit down, please."

Wilson took a chair beside her. "Is Miss Culpepper in England?" he asked.

Mrs. Culpepper gave a start. "In England!" she said. "She ... oh, dear no, she is only out on a pleasure trip ... in her boat."

"I thought she might be with her father in London."

"Dear me, no. We are stay-at-home folks, Norah and I."

"Surely Miss Culpepper sees something of London, now that Mr. Culpepper is there so much. You should come yourself sometimes, Mrs. Culpepper."

"I much prefer staying quietly at home, Mr. Wilson."

"I saw your daughter not so long ago in England, I think. Let me see now. Was it when I was at Weymouth, or Southampton?" Wilson drew a bow at a venture.

Mrs. Culpepper fluttered a little, he thought, as she answered, "I think you must be mistaken, Mr. Wilson. I am sure Norah has not been at either of those places."

"I was not mistaken about seeing her, Mrs. Culpepper," said Wilson, laughing; "though, upon my word, I have forgotten where it was. It was some place on the south coast, I am sure. I'm trying to remember where. Perhaps you know where she stayed, when she was in England. I shall remember in a minute."

"Norah has been to England once or twice ... with her father. But I am afraid I don't know quite where they went. Perhaps it was in London you met her."

"No, it was not London. Somewhere on the south coast. Some small place, I think. I had motored out from Southampton. She was in a boat--a pretty motor-boat, Mrs. Culpepper. I remember perfectly. Your daughter is not the kind of person one forgets. But for the life of me I can't remember the name of the place. However, it doesn't matter."

Having failed, by his rather clumsy ruse, to get the name of the place where Norah Culpepper was in the habit of landing in England, Wilson quickly changed the subject, and talked of indifferent things in the hope of disarming Mrs. Culpepper's suspicions. He had talked her into quite a good humour before long. Then he returned to his purpose by a more roundabout way. He began talking of the merits and demerits of the various resorts, large and small, on the south coast of England, watching Mrs. Culpepper eagerly to see if any name made her start or betray uneasiness. She did not do either, but when he mentioned Bournemouth and Poole he noticed that she abruptly changed the subject, and at the first opportunity rose and gave him her hand, thanking him pleasantly for his call, and again regretting the absence of her husband and daughter. Wilson left her, by no means sure that he had got the clue he wanted, but feeling that it was at least worth while to make a few inquiries in the neighbourhood of Bournemouth and Poole. There was an excellent harbour at Poole, and many motor-boats, enough to make one more or less inconspicuous. A quotation--or rather a misquotation--from one of his favourite authors came to his mind.

"Where does a man hide a pebble? On the beach. Where does a man hide a leaf? In the forest," he repeated softly to himself, as he walked back in the direction of St. Malo.