Part 4

“In the bowl of the pipe that’s hanging on the wall in the room on your left. I haven’t cleaned it. The letter’s there.”

They rushed into the room. Béchoux fell upon the pipe and shook out the ashes. But the bowl was quite empty. Leboc seemed utterly overcome and Formerie’s temper broke out again.

“You liar—you confounded faker! But you’re going to tell me where that letter is—at once!”

At that moment the inspector met Barnett’s gaze. Barnett was smiling a happy, childlike smile. Béchoux’s fists clenched convulsively. He began to understand that the Barnett Agency was gratuitous in a peculiar fashion all its own. Dimly he saw how Jim Barnett, while protesting truthfully that he never asked his clients for a penny, could afford to live in comfort as a private detective.

He drew close to him and muttered:

“You think you’re pretty clever, don’t you? The Arsène Lupin touch!”

“What?” Barnett was all wide-eyed innocence.

“The way you spirited that letter away!”

“So you guessed my weakness? I always had a passion for the autographs of royalty!”

Three months later there called upon Elizabeth Lovendale, then in London, a highly distinguished gentleman, who assured her that he could lay hands on King George’s love-letter to great-grandmother Dorothy. His price was a mere bagatelle of a hundred thousand francs.

There were lengthy negotiations. Elizabeth took counsel with her brothers, the renowned provision merchants. They haggled, refused to pay, and finally gave in.

The highly distinguished gentleman pocketed his hundred thousand francs and appropriated, into the bargain, an entire vanload of choice groceries which disappeared into the void!

IV

A GAME OF BACCARAT

Jim Barnett, making his way out of Rouen railway station, was met by Inspector Béchoux, who clutched his arm and led him quickly away.

“We haven’t a minute to lose. Things may take a turn for the worse at any moment!”

“I should be much more impressed with the gravity of the situation,” Barnett remarked with profound logic, “if I knew what it was all about. I came in answer to your wire and in complete ignorance of the excitements awaiting me.”

“You arrived according to plan—my plan,” said Inspector Béchoux complacently.

“Can this mean, Béchoux”—Barnett paused to strike a dramatic attitude—“can this mean that you’ve got over the little affair of King George the Fourth’s love-letter and no longer distrust me?”

“I still distrust you, Barnett, just as I distrust the way the Barnett Agency settles accounts with its clients. But there’s nothing in this case for you, old man. For once in your career you’ll have to give your services gratis.”

Barnett’s lips pursed to a soft whistle. The prospect did not seem to daunt him. Béchoux gave him a swift sidelong glance, already uneasy and wishing that he could manage to dispense with the private detective’s assistance.

They turned into the station yard. A private car was drawn up, waiting and in it sat a handsome woman with a pale, tragic face. Tears stood in her eyes and her lips were pressed together in a desperate effort at self-control. She opened the car door and Béchoux introduced his friend.

“Madame, this is Jim Barnett. I told you of him as the only man who might be able to save you. Barnett, let me introduce Madame Fougeraie—the wife of Monsieur Fougeraie, the engineer. Madame Fougeraie’s husband is on the verge of being arrested on a charge of——” He paused dramatically.

“Of what?”

“Murder.”

Jim Barnett’s tongue clicked in ghoulish appreciation. The horrified Béchoux stammered an apology for his friend.

“Forgive him, madame. He always feels so utterly at home on a really serious case.”

The car was already speeding towards the quays of Rouen. It turned left and drew up in front of a big building.

They all got out and went up in a lift to the third floor, on which were the premises of the Norman Club. “Here,” said Béchoux waving a hand to indicate the palatial precincts, “is the rendezvous where the biggest merchants and manufacturers of Rouen and the district meet to talk, read the papers and play cards, especially on Friday, which is Stock Exchange day. As nobody is about in the morning except the cleaners, there is plenty of time for me to tell you on the spot about the drama that has just been enacted here.”

They passed down a passage into a large, comfortably furnished room with a thick pile carpet. This, with two similar adjoining rooms, lined the façade of the third floor of the building. These rooms were intercommunicating, and the third led into a much smaller circular room, with only one window, opening on to a big balcony, which overlooked the banks of the Seine. They passed into the third large room.

There they all sat down, Madame Fougeraie a little withdrawn near a window, and Béchoux spoke:

“Now listen. A few weeks ago, on a Friday night, four members of this club sat down after a good dinner to play poker. They were all friends, mill-owners and manufacturers at Maromme, a big industrial centre near Rouen. Three of the men were married and the fathers of families: Alfred Auvard, Raoul Dupin, and Louis Batinet. The fourth, Maxime Tuillier, was a younger, unmarried man in the same set.

“Towards midnight a fifth member joined them—a rich, young idler, Paul Erstein by name. The five started playing baccarat now that the rooms were deserted. Paul Erstein, an enthusiastic and regular player, held the bank.”

Béchoux pointed to one of the tables in the room, and went on:

“They were playing there, at that table. At first it was a quiet game—they had begun playing half-heartedly for want of something better to do—but gradually it warmed up, after Erstein had ordered two bottles of champagne for the party. From that moment luck was on the banker’s side—shocking, unfair, maddening luck. Paul Erstein had it all his own way. The others were exasperated and did their utmost to break the run, without success. Contrary to all common sense, they would none of them give in, with the result that at four o’clock in the morning the Maromme manufacturers had lost all the money they were bringing from Rouen to pay their hands. In addition, Maxime Tuillier had given Paul Erstein his I.O.U. for eighty thousand francs.”

Inspector Béchoux drew a long breath and continued:

“Suddenly there was a coup de théâtre, a strange turn given to Fortune’s wheel by Erstein’s own happy-go-lucky generosity. He divided his winnings into four shares, corresponding exactly to the other men’s losses, then subdivided those into thirds, and proposed having three final deals. This meant that each of his opponents was to play him individually double or quits on each of the three bundles of notes. They took him on. Paul Erstein lost all three deals. The luck had turned. After an all-night battle there were neither winners nor losers.

“‘All the better,’ said Erstein, standing up. ‘I felt a bit ashamed of myself, winning like that. Lord! what a head I’ve got! Must be the heat of the room. Anyone coming to smoke a cigarette with me on the balcony?’

“He stepped into the Round Room. For a few minutes, the four friends remained at the table, gaily discussing the phases of the game. Then they decided to leave the club. After crossing the other two rooms, they warned the watchman dozing in the anteroom:

“‘Monsieur Erstein is still there, Joseph. But he’s sure to be going soon.’

“Then they left, at exactly thirty-five minutes past four. They went back to Maromme in Alfred Auvard’s car, as on most Friday nights. The club servant, Joseph, waited for another hour. Then, tiring of his vigil, he went in search of Paul Erstein, and found him lying in the Round Room, twisted and inert. He was dead.”

Inspector Béchoux paused again. Madame Fougeraie’s head was bowed. Jim Barnett accompanied his friend into the Round Room, cast a searching glance over everything, and spoke:

“Now then, Béchoux, let’s get down to it. What has the inquest revealed?”

“The inquest has revealed,” answered Béchoux, “that Paul Erstein was struck on the left temple with a blunt instrument which must have felled him at a blow. There was no sign of a struggle except that his watch was broken. The hands pointed to five minutes to five, that’s to say, twenty minutes after the departure of the other players. There was no indication of theft; a signet ring and a wad of notes had not been taken; nothing was missing. Finally, there was absolutely no trace of the murderer, who could not have come or gone by way of the anteroom, since Joseph had not moved from his post.”

“Then,” said Barnett, “there is no clue?”

“There is just one.” Béchoux hesitated, then went on: “It’s pretty important. At the inquest, one of my colleagues called the coroner’s attention to the fact that the balcony on the third floor of the next building is very close to the balcony of this room. The magistrates entered the building in question, the third floor of which is the Fougeraies’ flat. They found that Monsieur Fougeraie had left home that morning and had not returned. Madame Fougeraie took the magistrates into her husband’s room. The balcony of that room is the one contiguous to the balcony of the Round Room. Look!”

Barnett stepped out through the open French window.

“The distance is about four feet,” he observed. “Quite easy to get across. But there’s nothing to prove that it was done.”

“Wait a moment,” said Béchoux. “D’you see those flower-boxes at the edge of the Fougeraies’ balcony? They still contain the earth with which they were filled last summer. They’ve been searched. In one of them, just below the surface, with the earth freshly turned above it, we found a knuckle-duster. The coroner has established that the shape of this weapon corresponds exactly to the wound inflicted on Erstein. There were no finger-prints distinguishable, as it had been raining steadily since the morning. But the charge seems pretty well-founded. Monsieur Fougeraie, seeing Paul Erstein in the brilliantly lighted room opposite, must have sprung on to the club balcony; then, after murdering his victim with the knuckle-duster, he hid his weapon in the flower-box.

“But what motive had he for the crime? Did he know Paul Erstein?”

Béchoux shook his head.

“Then why——?”

During Béchoux’s reconstruction of what had happened, Madam Fougeraie had got up and come over to where the two men stood. Her grief-stricken face worked pitifully. She kept back her tears with a visible effort. In answer to Barnett’s question, she said in a voice that trembled:

“It is for me to answer, monsieur. I will be brief and perfectly frank, and then you will understand my fears. No, my husband did not know Paul Erstein. But I knew him. I had met him several times in Paris at a friend’s house, and from the start he made love to me. I am devoted to my husband”—poor Madame Fougeraie gave a choking sob—“I have always been faithful to him. Although I was sensible of Paul Erstein’s attraction, I resisted it. But, weakly, I gave in to the extent of meeting him several times in the country some way out of Rouen.”

“And you wrote to him?”

She nodded miserably.

“And your letters are now in the hands of his family?”

“Of his father.”

“Who, I suppose, is determined the letters shall be read in court so that his son’s death shall be avenged at all costs.”

“Yes. Those letters prove the harmless character of our relations. But—they prove that I met Paul Erstein without my husband’s knowledge. And in one of them I wrote: ‘I beg of you, Paul, do be reasonable. My husband is extremely jealous and very violent. If he should suspect me for an instant, he would be capable of doing almost anything.’ So you see, monsieur, that letter would considerably strengthen the case against my husband. Jealousy would provide the police with the motive they want. It would explain the murder and the discovery of the weapon in the flower-box just outside my husband’s room.”

“Are you yourself sure, madame, that Monsieur Fougeraie suspected nothing?”

She nodded.

“And you believe him innocent?”

“Oh, there can be no doubt—no doubt at all!” she cried impulsively.

Barnett, meeting her steadfast gaze, realized how this woman’s conviction of her husband’s innocence could have influenced Béchoux to the extent of making him her ally despite the public prosecutor and his minions, and despite professional etiquette.

Barnett asked a few more questions, was lost in thought for some moments, and at last announced solemnly:

“Madame, I can hold out no hopes. Logically, your husband must be guilty. It is for me to try to disprove logic.”

“Do see my husband,” Madame Fougeraie besought him. “He will be able to explain——”

“That’s quite useless, madame. I cannot help you unless I first of all put your husband right out of the running in my own mind, and work on the basis of your belief in his innocence.”

The preliminaries were over. Barnett was in the ring at once, and, accompanied by Inspector Béchoux, called on the victim’s father. With Erstein senior he came straight to the point:

“Monsieur, I am looking after Madame Fougeraie’s interests for her. You are turning over your son’s correspondence to the prosecution, aren’t you?”

“To-day, monsieur.”

“You have no hesitation in ruining the life of the woman your son loved so dearly?”

“If that woman’s husband was my son’s murderer, I shall be sorry for her sake, but my son’s death shall be avenged.”

“Wait five days, monsieur. Next Tuesday the murderer shall be unmasked.”

Against his will, Erstein made the concession.

Barnett’s procedure in those five days of grace often disconcerted Inspector Béchoux. He took—and made Béchoux take—the most irregular steps, interviewed and organized a band of helpers, and spent money like water. However, he seemed dissatisfied, and, contrary to habit, was taciturn and inclined to sulk.

On Tuesday morning he had a talk with Madame Fougeraie and told her:

“Béchoux has got the prosecution to agree to a reconstruction of the events of the fatal night, in detail, at the Norman Club, and it’s to take place this afternoon. They have summoned both you and your husband to appear. I implore you to control yourself, whatever happens, and to try to appear almost indifferent.”

She looked at him trustingly, through unshed tears.

“Is there any hope...?” she faltered.

“I don’t know myself. As I told you before, I am simply playing your hunch that Monsieur Fougeraie is innocent. I shall try to prove his innocence by demonstrating a possible theory, but it’s a difficult business. Even admitting that I am on the right track, as I believe I am, the truth may yet elude us up to the very last moment.”

The public prosecutor and the examining magistrate who had investigated the case proved to be a conscientious pair. They put their trust in facts alone and refrained from interpreting these in the light of preconceived theories.

“With such men,” said Béchoux, “I have no fear of your starting a row or employing your usual bright badinage. They have very kindly given me carte blanche to act as I see fit—or rather as you see fit—and don’t you forget it.”

“My dear Béchoux,” replied Barnett, “I never indulge in badinage except when victory is within my grasp, which is not the case to-day.”

The third room at the Norman Club was crowded. The magistrates talked together at the threshold of the Round Room; then they went into it, but came out again in a little while. The manufacturers waited in a group. Policemen and inspectors came and went. Both Paul Erstein’s father and Joseph, the club servant, stood apart from the rest. Monsieur and Madame Fougeraie were together in a corner. He looked gloomy and preoccupied; she was even paler than usual. It was common knowledge now that the police had decided to arrest the engineer.

One of the magistrates addressed the four men who had played baccarat with Paul Erstein:

“Gentlemen, we are about to reconstruct what took place on the fatal Friday night. Will each of you please take up the position in which he sat at this table so that we have the game of baccarat exactly as it was played? Inspector Béchoux, you will hold the bank. Have you asked these gentlemen to bring exactly the same sums in notes as they had with them on the occasion in question?”

Béchoux nodded and sat down in the middle seat, with Alfred Auvard and Raoul Dupin on his left and Louis Batinet and Maxime Tuillier on his right. Six packs of cards were put out. The cards were cut to him and he shuffled.

Then an odd thing happened. Immediately, just as on that tragic night, luck favored the banker. With the same ease as Paul Erstein, Béchoux won. He won steadily, automatically, as it were, in an unbroken run, without any of the fluctuations and turns of fortune which had, after all, characterized the original game. This mechanical continuity gave the scene a strange, cinematographic quality. The game might have been a fantastic “quick motion” picture of what had originally taken place. The atmosphere of the proceedings began to tell on the players. Maxime Tuillier seemed ill at ease and twice made mistakes in his play. Jim Barnett grew irritated by the young man and at last officiously took his place at Béchoux’s right hand.

Ten minutes later—for the film-like speed of the game accelerated unchecked—more than half the banknotes produced for the game by the four friends were stacked on the green cloth in front of Béchoux. Maxime Tuillier, as represented by Jim Barnett, began handing over I.O.U’s.

The pace quickened again. The end of the game came soon. Suddenly Béchoux, as Paul Erstein had done, divided his winnings into four wads of notes, proportionate to the other men’s losses, and subdivided each wad into three, thus leading up to Erstein’s dramatic offer of “double or quits” on three deals.

His opponents’ eyes never left him. The four men were evidently stricken by the memory of that other game.

Three times Béchoux dealt on the two tableaux.

And three times, instead of losing, like Paul Erstein, Béchoux won!

A murmur of surprise rose from the onlookers. The miraculous reconstruction of the original game had been unaccountably flawed. The luck should have turned—but it had remained in the banker’s favor. Supposing—the thought slipped into being—supposing this was indeed a miracle, and this new ending to the game was not new at all?

“I am sorry,” said Béchoux, his words oddly remote as he continued to act his rôle of banker. He stood up, first pocketing all the banknotes.

Then, as Paul Erstein had done, he complained of a headache and expressed his wish that someone would come out on the balcony with him. He went out, lighting a cigarette.

The other men remained motionless, with set faces. The cards lay scattered on the table.

Then, and only then, Jim Barnett rose from his chair. But now, by some wizardry, his face and his general appearance had taken on the outward semblance of Maxime Tuillier, whom he had so lately supplanted in the game of baccarat. Maxime Tuillier, clean-shaven, about thirty, wearing a tight-fitting, double-breasted coat.... Maxime Tuillier, looking morose and dissatisfied.... Jim Barnett was the young man to the life!

He went slowly towards the Round Room, moving like an automaton, his expression an alternating study in callous ruthlessness and frightened indecision—the expression of a man on the verge of doing something terrible, but a man who might yet perhaps take to his heels with the deed unaccomplished.

The players could not see his face, which was turned away from them. But the magistrates saw it. And they forgot Jim Barnett, the skilled impersonator, and thought only of Maxime Tuillier, the ruined gambler, who was going to join his triumphant opponent. His face, which he apparently strove to compose, gave ample indication of his mental turmoil. Was he about to make a plea, a demand, or—a threat? When he opened the door of the Round Room, he was once more master of his emotions; he had regained his self-control.

The door closed behind him.

The staging of the imaginary “reconstruction” of the drama had been so vivid that everyone waited in silence. The other players also waited, staring at that closed door behind which was being repeated what had taken place on the night of the tragedy—behind which it was not Barnett and Béchoux who were playing their respective rôles of murderer and victim, but Maxime Tuillier and Paul Erstein pitted against one another.

After what seemed an eternity, the murderer—there was nothing else to call him—came out. He staggered back to his friends, his eyes wild with horror. In one hand he held the four bundles of notes. One he threw down on the table. The other three he pressed upon the three players, saying in queer, strained tones:

“I’ve been having a talk with Erstein. He asked me to give you back this money. He doesn’t want it. Let’s go home.”

A yard or so away Maxime Tuillier, the real Maxime Tuillier, leaned on a chair for support. His face was pale and drawn. His jaw had fallen. Jim Barnett turned and spoke to him in his normal voice.

“Am I right, Monsieur Tuillier? The scene has been reproduced correctly in all essential details, hasn’t it? My rendering of the part you played the other night was pretty accurate? Don’t you think I’ve reconstructed the crime rather cleverly—your crime?”

Maxime Tuillier seemed not to hear the words. His head was bowed; his arms hung limp. He was a mere husk of a man, all the life gone out of him. He reeled drunkenly, sagged at the knees, and collapsed on the chair.

Barnett was at him at once, jerking him roughly to his feet.

“You admit it? But anyway, nothing can save you. I can prove everything. First, that knuckle-duster—you always carried one. Then, you were ruined by your losses at baccarat that night. Investigations have established the fact that you were in financial straits. You had no money with which to meet your creditors at the end of the month. You were on the verge of bankruptcy. When you followed Erstein into the Round Room, you struck out, murderously. Afterwards, not knowing what to do with your weapon, you climbed over on to the other balcony and hid it in the flower-box. Then you altered the hands of the dead man’s watch to establish your alibi, and joined your friends!”

But Barnett’s eloquent denunciation was unnecessary. Maxime Tuillier made no attempt at denial. Overwhelmed by the terrible burden of crime under which he had labored for weeks, he stammered out the confession of his guilt like a man in delirium.

The onlookers were roused almost to frenzy. The examining magistrates bent over the murderer and took down his involuntary, unprompted confession. Paul Erstein’s father tried to hurl himself upon his son’s slayer. Fougeraie’s voice was raised excitedly. But the most rabid were Maxime Tuillier’s three friends. One in particular, the eldest and most influential, Alfred Auvard, volleyed abuse:

“You unspeakable blackguard! You made us believe that poor Erstein had returned the money to us—when really you had stolen it after murdering him!”

He flung the notes at Maxime Tuillier’s head. The other two, equally indignant, trampled the loathsome money underfoot.