Part 8
“I want your coöperation, Barnett. I’m at a loss what to do.”
This was unvarnished admission of defeat. The inspector’s surrender was unconditional. Béchoux was making the amende honorable.
Jim Barnett clapped him friendliwise on the back, then took him by the shoulders and rocked him gently to and fro, by sheer geniality sparing the other humiliation. This was no meeting of vanquished and victor. Rather was it a scene of reconciliation between two comrades.
“To tell you the truth, Béchoux, I was awfully cut up about that misunderstanding between us. I couldn’t bear to think of our being enemies. It worried me till I could hardly sleep at nights!”
A frown clouded Béchoux’s brow. His professional conscience pricked him sore for being on friendly terms with Barnett. He cursed the unkind fate that forced him to collaborate with a man he felt sure was a crook, and to incur obligations to the fellow into the bargain. But there are moments and circumstances when even the just man stretches a point. The loss of a dozen valuable African mining shares explained Béchoux’s course of action.
Swallowing his scruples, he whispered:
“It’s the concierge, of course?”
“It is she for the reason, inter alia, that it could not be any one else.”
“But how do you account for a woman who has always been honest and respectable suddenly turning crook?”
“If you had troubled to make a few inquiries about her you would know that the poor creature is afflicted with a son who is a thorough bad hat. He is always sponging on her. It was on his account that she suddenly gave way to temptation.”
Béchoux jumped up.
“Did she manage to give him my shares?” he asked anxiously.
“Of course not! Do you think I should have allowed a thing like that? I regard your Twelve Little Nigger Boys as sacred.”
“Where are they, then?”
“In your own coat-pocket.”
“Please don’t joke about it.”
“But, Béchoux, I’m not joking. I never joke in times of stress. Look for yourself!”
Béchoux’s hand went gingerly to his coat-pocket, felt in it and took out a large envelope which bore the following superscription: “To my friend Béchoux.” With trembling fingers he tore it open. Oh, joy, his Nigger Boys were restored to him, all twelve! Clutching the precious shares to his breast, he turned very pale and closed his eyes. Barnett hastened to revive him with smelling salts held under the nose.
“Sniff hard, Béchoux. This is no time to faint.”
Béchoux did not faint, though he surreptitiously wiped away a few tears of relief. He was inarticulate with emotion. Of course he had no doubt but that Barnett had stuffed the envelope into his pocket the moment he came into the Agency, while they were making up their differences. But anyhow there were the Twelve Little Nigger Boys in his still trembling hands, and Barnett’s virtue was for him untarnished.
Reviving suddenly, he began capering about, dancing a kind of Spanish jig shaking imaginary castanets.
“I’ve got them back! My own little pickaninnies! Bless you, Barnett, for a friend in need. From now on there is only one Barnett—Béchoux’s preserver! You deserve a statue and a drinking fountain. You are one of our truly great men. But how on earth did you bring it off? Tell me all.”
Once again Barnett’s little way was a source of amazement to Inspector Béchoux. His professional curiosity thoroughly aroused, he asked:
“Won’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what?” Barnett’s tone was one of amused indolence.
“How you unravelled everything! Where was the bundle? ‘In the house yet out of it,’ was what you said, I believe?”
“‘And out of the house but in it,’” added Barnett with a laugh.
“What does it mean?”
“D’you give it up?”
“Yes, yes; I give it up. I’ll do anything you ask.”
“Will you promise never again to take up that chilly and reproachful attitude towards my harmless exploits, which almost convinces me at times that I must have wandered from the straight and narrow path?”
“Go on, tell me, Barnett!”
“Ah,” exclaimed the other, “what a story! I’ve never come across anything more neatly done, more unexpected, more spontaneous or more baffling. It was at once human and fantastic. And withal so simple that you, Béchoux, gifted as you are in your profession, were absolutely in the dark.”
“Well, hang it all, come to the point,” said Béchoux in some annoyance. “How did the bundle of securities leave the house?”
“Under your own eyes, my bright lad! And not only did it leave the house, but it came in again. It left the house twice daily, and twice daily it returned! And under your own eyes, Béchoux, under your bright, benignant eyes! And for ten days you bowed to it respectfully. You almost grovelled on your knees before it!”
“I don’t believe you!” cried Béchoux. “It’s absurd. We searched everything.”
“Everything was searched, Béchoux, except that. Parcels, boxes, handbags, pockets, hats, tins, dustbins ... all those, but not that. At the frontier they search all luggage, except the diplomat’s valise. Naturally, you searched everything but that.”
“What is that?” yelled Béchoux frenziedly. “For goodness sake, answer me.”
“The portfolio of the ex-Cabinet Minister!”
Béchoux sprang up in astonishment.
“What do you mean, Barnett? Are you accusing Monsieur Touffémont?”
“Idiot, should I dare accuse a member of parliament? In the first place, that man, an ex-Cabinet Minister, is above suspicion. And among all members of parliament and ex-Cabinet Ministers—and Lord knows their name is legion—I regard Touffémont as the least open to suspicion. All the same, Madame Alain made him a receiver of stolen goods!”
“Then he was her accomplice?”
“Not a bit of it!”
“Then who was?”
“His portfolio!” And, with a broad smile, Barnett proceeded to elucidate. “A minister’s portfolio, Béchoux, has a personality of its own. In this world we have Monsieur Touffémont and we have his portfolio. The two are inseparable, and each is the other’s raison d’être. You can’t imagine Monsieur Touffémont minus his portfolio—nor the portfolio minus Monsieur Touffémont. But it happens that Monsieur Touffémont lays down his portfolio when he eats and sleeps, and on various other occasions through the day. At such times the portfolio assumes a separate identity and may lend itself to actions for which Monsieur Touffémont cannot be held responsible.
“That was what happened on the morning of the theft.”
Béchoux stared at Barnett, wondering what on earth he was getting at.
“That was what happened,” Barnett repeated, “on the morning that your twelve African mining shares vanished away. The concierge, terrified by what she had done, and dreading the consequences of her action, could not think how to get rid of the securities, which were bound to betray her guilt. Suddenly she noticed the providential presence of Monsieur Touffémont’s portfolio on her mantelpiece—the portfolio all by itself! Monsieur Touffémont had come in there to collect his post. He put his portfolio down on the mantelpiece and proceeded to open his letters, while Gassire and you, Béchoux, were telling him about the disappearance of the securities.
“Then Madame Alain had an inspiration of sheer genius. Her room had not yet been searched, but it was bound to be ransacked in a little while, and the securities would be discovered. She had no time to lose. She turned her back on the three of you standing there discussing the theft. With quick, deft fingers she opened the portfolio, emptied one of the flap pockets of all its papers, and slipped the securities into their place. The deed was done, the great bell rung. No one suspected anything. And when Monsieur Touffémont withdrew, he took away in the portfolio under his arm your Twelve Little Nigger Boys and all Gassire’s securities.”
Béchoux never questioned Barnett’s asseverations when they were made on that particular note of absolute conviction. Instead, he bowed his head humbly in the Temple of Truth and believed what he was told.
“Certainly,” he said, “I noticed a sheaf of papers and reports lying about down there that morning, but I paid no attention to it. And surely she must have given those documents back to Monsieur Touffémont?”
“I hardly think so,” answered Barnett. “Rather than incur any suspicion she probably burned them.”
“But he must have asked after them?”
Barnett shook his head and smiled quietly.
“You mean to say he hasn’t noticed the disappearance of a whole sheaf of his papers?”
“Has he noticed the appearance of the bundle of securities?”
“But—but what happened when he opened the portfolio?”
“He didn’t open it. He never opens it. Monsieur Touffémont’s portfolio, like that of many a politician, is only a sham—a dummy—a useful prop on the parliamentary stage. If he had opened it he would have demanded the return of his own papers, and restored the securities. He has done neither.”
“But when he works....”
“He doesn’t work. The mere fact of a man’s carrying a portfolio does not necessarily imply that he works. As a matter of fact, the possession of an ex-minister’s portfolio is in itself a dispensation from work. A portfolio stands for power, authority, omnipotence, and omniscience. Last night, at the Chambre des Députés—I was there myself, by the way—Monsieur Touffémont laid down his portfolio on the rostrum. You can see that his doing this at such a crisis was tantamount to announcing publicly that he was once again a candidate for office. The Cabinet realized that it was lost. The great man’s portfolio must be full of crushing documents crammed with statistics! Monsieur Touffémont even undid it, though he took nothing from its bulging compartments. It was so obvious that he had everything there.... But really, there was nothing there except your twelve African mining shares, Gassire’s securities and some old newspapers. They carried the day, however, and Monsieur Touffémont’s portfolio overthrew the Cabinet.”
“But how do you know all this?”
“Because, when Monsieur Touffémont was strolling home from the House at one o’clock in the morning, a person unknown came into clumsy collision with him and sent him sprawling on the pavement. Another man—an accomplice—snatched up the portfolio and replaced the securities with a bundle of old papers, carrying off the former. Need I tell you the name of the second man?”
Béchoux laughed heartily. Every time his hand felt the twelve shares in his pocket he was struck afresh with the humor of the story and of Monsieur Touffémont’s little adventure.
Barnett, beaming on his friend, concluded:
“That’s all there is to know, and it was in my endeavor to ferret out the truth and collect evidence in the case that I’ve dictated my memoirs and taken lessons on the flute. What a pleasant week it’s been! Flirtations up above and a variety entertainment on the ground floor. Gassire, Béchoux, Madame Alain, Touffémont ... my own little marionettes, dancing when I pulled the strings! The hardest nut I had to crack was that Touffémont could actually be oblivious of his portfolio’s guilty secret, and be taking your Twelve Little Nigger Boys to and fro in blissful ignorance. At first it had me absolutely beat. And how surprised the poor concierge must have been! She must think Touffémont a common crook, since she certainly believes that he has stuck to your Little Nigger Boys and the rest of the bundle. Fancy Touffémont——”
“Hadn’t I better tell him?” broke in Béchoux.
“What’s the good? Let him go on carting his old newspapers about and sleeping with the portfolio under his pillow. Don’t let on about this to anyone, Béchoux.”
“Except Gassire, of course,” said Béchoux. “I shall have to explain to him when I give him back his securities.”
“What securities?” asked Barnett blankly.
“The ones you found in Monsieur Touffémont’s portfolio—they’re his!”
“You must be crazy, Béchoux. You don’t suppose Gassire will ever see his securities again?”
“Naturally I do.”
Barnett brought his fist down on the table and gave vent to a sudden burst of righteous indignation.
“Look here, Béchoux, do you know what sort of man Nicolas Gassire is? He’s a scoundrel like the concierge’s son! He robbed his clients—I can prove it! He gambled with their money. He was even preparing to steal the lot. Look, here is his first-class railway ticket to Brussels. He bought it on the same day that he withdrew the securities from his safe deposit, not to hand them over to another bank as he told you, but to bolt with them! How do you feel about Nicolas Gassire now?”
Béchoux could say nothing. Ever since the theft of his shares his confidence in Nicolas Gassire had been considerably shaken. Still, he raised the obvious objection.
“His clients are all decent people. It’s not fair to ruin them as well.”
“Who ever talked of ruining them? That would be disgraceful. It would upset me terribly!”
Béchoux looked his interrogation.
“Gassire is rich,” observed Barnett.
“He’s broke,” contradicted Béchoux.
“Not at all. I have information that he has enough money to pay back all his clients and then leave something over. You can be quite sure that the reason he didn’t call in the police the very first day was that he didn’t want them meddling in his private affairs. Threaten him with imprisonment, and watch him skip! Why, Nicolas Gassire is a millionaire. It’s up to him to right his client’s wrongs, no business of mine!”
“Which means that you intend keeping the securities?”
“Certainly not! They’re already sold!”
“Yes, but you’ve got the cash.”
Barnett was virtuously indignant and protested that he had kept nothing.
“I’m merely distributing it,” he declared.
“To whom?”
“To friends in distress and to various deserving charities which I supply with funds. You needn’t worry, Béchoux. I’m making good use of Gassire’s money.”
Béchoux did not doubt it. Yet another treasure-hunt in which the prize was forfeit at the finish! Barnett, as usual, walked off with the spoils. He punished the guilty and saved the innocent—and never forgot to line his pockets in the process. Well-ordered charity invariably begins at home.
Inspector Béchoux found himself blushing. If he made no protest, he became Barnett’s accomplice. But, as he felt the precious bundle of shares in his pocket, and realized that without Barnett’s intervention he would have lost them for ever, he cooled down. It was hardly an opportune moment to enter the lists!
“What’s up?” asked Barnett. “Aren’t you pleased?”
“Oh, rather,” said the luckless Béchoux hastily. “Delighted!”
“Then smile, smile, smile!”
Béchoux managed a grimace like a watery sunset.
“That’s better,” cried Barnett. “It’s been a pleasure to do you this small service, and I thank you for giving me the opportunity. And now it’s time for us to part. You must be very busy, and I’m expecting a lady.”
“So long,” said Béchoux, and made for the door.
“To our next merry meeting,” answered Barnett.
Béchoux took his leave, delighted, indeed, but at loggerheads with his conscience and firmly resolved to shun Barnett’s society henceforward.
As he turned the corner of the rue Laborde he noticed the pretty typist from the Invalides hurrying along. Doubtless she was the lady Barnett was expecting!
And, a couple of days later, Béchoux saw Barnett at the cinema, accompanied by the equally charming Mademoiselle Haveline, who played upon the flute....
VII
THE BRIDGE THAT BROKE
It was a Tuesday afternoon in midsummer. Paris was deserted—a city of the dead. Jim Barnett sat in his office with his feet on his desk. He was in his shirt-sleeves. A glass of lager beer stood at his elbow. A green blind shut out the blazing sun. To the prejudiced eye, Barnett’s appearance would have suggested slumber, and this impression would have been strengthened by his rather loud and rhythmical breathing.
A sharp tap on his door made him bring his feet down with a jerk and sit bolt upright.
“No! It can’t be! The heat must be affecting my eyesight.” Barnett affected elaborate astonishment.
Inspector Béchoux, for it was he, closed the door behind him and observed with some distaste his friend’s state of déshabillé. It was a fad with Béchoux to present at all times a perfectly groomed appearance. On this sweltering day he was cool and immaculate, not a hair out of place.
“How do you do it?” Barnett demanded, sinking back wearily into his chair.
“Do what?”
“Look like a fashion-plate off the ice. Damned superior, I call it!”
Béchoux smiled with conscious pride.
“It’s quite simple,” he remarked modestly.
“But I take it the case you are working on is not quite so simple, or you wouldn’t be coming to the enemy camp for assistance, eh Béchoux?”
Béchoux reddened. It was a very sore point with him that in his difficulties he had several times been forced to accept Jim Barnett’s help. For Barnett was helpful—almost uncannily so. The trouble was that he always managed to help himself as well as others. But Béchoux felt profoundly grateful to Barnett for having retrieved these African shares—his precious Twelve Little Nigger Boys.
“What is it this time? I’ve all day to spare—and to-morrow—and the day after. The Barnett Agency doesn’t get many clients at this time of year, though it does guarantee ‘Information Free.’ I hear that they can’t even get deadheads to go to the theatres—pouf!”
“How would you like a trip into the country?”
“Béchoux, you are a blessing, albeit heavily disguised. What is the case, though?”
Inspector Béchoux grimaced involuntarily.
“It’s a real mystery—the sudden death of the famous scientist, Professor Saint-Prix.”
“I know the name, but I haven’t read about his death in the papers. Has he been murdered?”
Inspector Béchoux’s countenance took on a sphinx-like expression.
“That’s what I want you to help me to determine. I have my car at a garage near here. Pack a bag and come right along. I’ll tell you the facts of the case as we go.”
Reluctantly Barnett got up, drained the last of his beer, and made his simple preparations for the trip.
A quarter of an hour later they were spinning out of Paris in Inspector Béchoux’s little two-seater.
“I was called in on the case,” said Béchoux, “by Doctor Desportes of Beauvray—an old friend. He rang up on Monday morning to say there was going to be an inquest at Beauvray—Professor Saint-Prix, the scientist, had been killed by falling into the stream at the bottom of his garden.”
“Nothing very mysterious in that.”
“Ah, but wait. The professor was crossing the stream by a plank bridge, and that bridge gave way under him and precipitated the old man into the water. His head hit a sharp rock and he was killed instantaneously.”
“Was the bridge rotten, then?”
Inspector Béchoux shook his head.
“My doctor friend informed me that though the police had not been called in, they would have to be. The bridge was perfectly sound, but—it had been sawed through!”
Barnett whistled.
“And so you went to Beauvray at once?”
“Yes.”
“And what did you find?”
“A queer situation. The professor had a little house where he lived with his daughter, Thérèse Saint-Prix. Joined on to the house was a very fine laboratory. The garden sloped down, first a lawn and then a dense shrubbery, to a stream, sunk deep between rocky banks. A stout plank bridge was the means of crossing from the Saint-Prix garden to the adjoining property of the Villa Eméraude, the home of a married couple, the Lenormands.
“Louis Lenormand is a young stockbroker. His wife, Cécile, is a delicate, beautiful girl. Last Sunday afternoon, Madame Lenormand was going to have tea with Thérèse Saint-Prix. Louis Lenormand was spending the week-end in Paris with his invalid mother, but was expected back that night.
“Madame Lenormand went through the garden of the Villa Eméraude down to the stream. When she got there, she pulled up short and gave a cry of horror! The plank bridge was broken, and in the water lay the body of Professor Saint-Prix. She rushed back to the house for help, and then fainted.”
“Well, where do I come in?”
“Almost as soon as they had got Madame Lenormand to bed, and were breaking the news of her father’s death to Thérèse Saint-Prix, Louis Lenormand arrived in his car, driving like a fury. He was pale and trembling. The first words he spoke were: ‘Am I in time? Tell me—tell me. My God, I’ve been a fool!’ He was like a madman and rushed upstairs to his wife’s room without waiting for an answer from the astonished servants. His wife’s maid told him what had happened. At first he did not seem to understand. Then he stole to his wife’s bedside and kissed her hands passionately, weeping and murmuring, ‘Cécile, I am a murderer.’”
“Still I confess I don’t understand. You have your murder—you have your murderer, self-confessed. What more do you want?”
“Well, the thing is this. We checked up on Louis Lenormand’s movements while he was away from Beauvray. We know that the bridge was perfectly safe on the Saturday morning, for a gardener crossed by it. Now all Saturday afternoon Lenormand spent at his mother’s bedside. He sat with her again after dinner until eleven o’clock, and then turned into bed himself. Old Madame Lenormand’s maid and cook heard him kicking off his shoes in the room next to theirs. And the maid swears that in the small hours she heard him switch off his light, so she supposes he must have been lying awake reading. All Sunday morning he did not stir out, so it is out of the question that he could possibly have sawed through the bridge between the gardens at Beauvray.”
“What made you establish such a thorough alibi for your suspect?”
“Madame Lenormand, though still weak from the shock, has recovered consciousness. Her belief in her husband’s innocence is absolute. Her one aim is to clear him. She insisted on these investigations being made. He will not say a word in his own defence. It’s all very mystifying.”
“You say that Louis Lenormand was not expected back until Sunday evening. Do you know why he left Paris so much earlier?”
“That,” said Béchoux, “is a curious point. Apparently he was alone in one of the rooms in his mother’s flat, reading a book while the old lady had a nap after her lunch. The servants were both in the kitchen, and testify that suddenly, at about three o’clock, he rushed into them and said he was going home at once but would not disturb his mother to say good-bye.”
“And the motive? What reason could Louis Lenormand have to murder his neighbor?”
Inspector Béchoux shrugged his shoulders.
“I have an idea, and Doctor Desportes is making some investigations on my behalf.”
“Is there no one else who comes under suspicion? What about Madame Lenormand?”
Inspector Béchoux was silent. The car swung off the main road up a shady avenue. They turned into the drive of the Villa Eméraude. They were met outside the house by Doctor Desportes, who announced:
“The Beauvray police have arrested Monsieur Lenormand, but I have been busy on the telephone to headquarters, and you are now officially in charge of the case.”
“But his alibi—he was in Paris all the time—he could not have sawed through the bridge!”
The doctor looked grave.
“Monsieur Lenormand had a latch-key to his mother’s flat. The Paris police have inquired at the garage where he kept his car and they find that he took it out shortly after midnight and told a mechanic that he was unable to sleep because of the heat, and was going to try and get a breath of air in the Bois. He returned after two in the morning.”