Murder Abroad (18 page)

Rusty, unpainted iron gates admitted to the garden. Bobby passed through them and went on up a weed-grown gravel path to the house. He knocked once or twice and rang the jangling and ancient bell whose echoes he could hear resounding from the interior. But no one came, and after a time he gave up the effort. Annoying, he thought, to have come so far, only to find Shields out. Sketching, perhaps, though Bobby had hoped Sunday would be a good day to catch him at home. Thinking that just possibly some one might be at the back or in the garden, Bobby strolled round. Here there were more signs of care and cultivation, most of the space being given up to vegetables. There were two or three outhouses, too. Bobby walked round the garden, noticed there was a back gate that led straight on to the waste ground of the Massif that came right down to the garden fence, and then wandering back and noticing that one of the outhouses was open he went inside to sit down, out of the sun, smoke a cigarette and wait a little in the hope that some one would appear.

The shed was evidently chiefly used as a receptacle for garden and other odds and ends. Dust was everywhere and cobwebs hung in festoons. Not an inviting place, Bobby thought, but it did offer shade and the sun was hot. Various tools, broken, damaged, rusting, lay about. In one corner was a heap of flower pots and in another some of the small glass frames used for forcing early vegetables. Close by stood the remnants of a bale of binder twine, used presumably for tying up plants, and piled against one wall was a great heap of sacks of artificial manure. Bobby regarded this with mild interest, wondering if Shields was an agent for the sale of the stuff or was taking care of it for some neighbouring farmer, since there seemed to be more of it than a garden of this size would require in half a century or so. He noticed, too, a broken-down bicycle in one place, and then observed that there was another, in better repair, pushed away behind the sacks of artificial manure and so well hidden that only because one sack had slipped had it become visible.

Bobby went across to look at it and noticed that it showed no such ‘plaque' as French regulations demand. But then regulations in France are not always very closely obeyed, and Bobby, noticing that some of the artificial manure sacks seemed much cleaner and freer from dust than most of the surrounding articles, as though they had not been there long, or been recently moved, made himself a seat on them and was enjoying a cigarette when a gruff voice from the door wanted to know who he was and what he was doing there.

The speaker appeared to be a working man in his Sunday clothes. Bobby explained that he had come to visit Mr. Shields, who had promised to show him his paintings, but there was no one at home and so he had decided to wait for a little. He asked if it were known when Mr. Shields would be back, learned that he was probably out painting somewhere, offered the new-comer a cigarette, and was soon on friendly terms. It appeared that his name was Ducane, that he cultivated the garden on a sharing arrangement, Mr. Shields being entitled to such of the produce as he chose to claim for his own use, and Ducane taking the rest, for sale or use, as payment for his work. Ducane explained, too, that he had heard some one was inquiring for Monsieur Shields's house, and as he knew the artist was out and there had been occasional mysterious and mischievous intruders in the garden who had done a certain amount of damage, he had come along to see what was happening.

“Quite right, too,” agreed Bobby. “Your duty both to yourself and to Mr. Shields. But what kind of mischief and what sort of mysterious intruder?”

Ducane shook his head. That, he explained, was a question, a veritable question. Bobby waited patiently. He had soon decided that Ducane was of those whom it is best not to hurry.

“Truly, monsieur,” Ducane said finally, “if we knew that, then there would be much that we should understand better. But as it is, it is beyond comprehension, and so indeed Monsieur the Commissaire of Police said himself, for I, I who am now speaking, I heard him say it aloud.”

Startled as he was by this sudden reference to so important an official as a commissaire of police having been interested in whatever it might be that had happened here, Bobby was careful to show no special sign of interest.

“Bit of mischief by some boys, was it?” he asked, offering Ducane another cigarette. “I daresay your kids here are just as full of devilry as ours are in England. I'm English, you know, but I expect you spotted that from my accent.”

“Monsieur speaks our language admirably,” Ducane assured him. “Like Monsieur Shields almost, one could take him for a true Frenchman.”

Bobby expressed proper appreciation of the compliment and then remarked:

“Probably you sit for Monsieur Shields, don't you? As a model, I mean.”

Ducane looked rather surprised.

“No,” he said, “no, that has never been suggested.”

Bobby looked very surprised.

“I should have thought any artist would have been glad of the chance of getting you to sit,” he remarked. “A countenance so interesting, so—how shall I say it? so different. One can see you have suffered, you have wept, you have understood.”

Ducane smirked, purred, behaved as ninety-nine point nine per cent of us would behave on being told that we looked ‘different'—dearest praise of all in this standardized civilization of ours—and that we had ‘suffered' and had ‘understood'. An Englishman might not quite have liked being told he had wept, but for a Frenchman that was an additional proof of insight and of sympathy.

“Got him eating out of my hand now,” said Bobby to himself with Anglo-Saxon brutality. Aloud he said: “But without doubt Monsieur Shields has found another model. It is remarkable, it is fortunate. Some one in the village?”

“There is young Pierre,” Ducane admitted, somewhat reluctantly. “A youngster, a boy, a child.” He paused there, and Bobby thought it just as well or else probably the young Pierre would have been denied even birth. Ducane continued: “Once or twice he has been up there in the studio. But seldom. In general Monsieur Shields paints in the open air, for his models trees and rocks that cost him nothing. As for me, I have no time to waste sitting still doing nothing.”

“But one pays?” Bobby pointed out.

“Not so much as all that,” retorted Ducane. “It is why the young Pierre would come no longer. All very well to have one's portrait shown the world over but one must gain one's bread as well.”

“That is understood,” agreed Bobby, “and when one has work, one must attend to it. Cabbages and cauliflowers do not grow by accident. But to-day is a Sunday. See now. Suppose you gave me a sitting? For an hour or two merely.” He produced his sketching materials he had fortunately brought with him. “That is all. We talk. We discuss. There are many things two intelligent men can converse upon. You speak to me of your life, of your work, of the village, of what you will. You tell me, for example, of the mischief those boys did in your garden. As for me I work as I listen. At the end there is twenty francs for you. What do you say? Only, remember, I am not an artist of the first rank, like Monsieur Shields, though indeed it is difficult to understand why he has resisted the challenge there is in your features to even the most skilled brush. I shall do my best, but, remember, it is part of the bargain that you are not disappointed if it is a failure. Perhaps then I shall wish to try again.”

Ducane promised gravely to control any disappointment he felt but was evidently determined to be critical.

“Good,” said Bobby cheerfully as he set to work. “Now let us talk. About anything. Go ahead. I am waiting. I listen.” This, of course, as Bobby had expected, reduced Ducane to an embarrassed silence. His mind became blank, which was indeed its normal state, save as regarded growing vegetables, the only subject on which his mental processes had ever troubled to exercise themselves. But then a demand to begin to talk about anything would by the general working of the law of opposites reduce most people to silence.

“For instance,” said Bobby, when he judged the silence had lasted long enough, “about—what was it? Oh, yes, boys doing damage in the garden here.”

“Ah, no,” answered Ducane, finding his tongue now, “it was not boys. The footprints were of a man—enormous. Seven feet high at the least, declared Monsieur the Commissaire, “all over the garden they were and then they vanished—like that—pouf—as if he who made them had turned into thin air.”

“Was that all?” asked Bobby.

“It was enough,” Ducane retorted in a slightly offended tone. “Would monsieur not be disturbed if he found enormous and mysterious footsteps all around his house? But there was worse. It was as though a deliberate purpose had been to walk on my seed beds I had so carefully prepared. Tools had been thrown about. Some I did not find for days. A ladder had been put up against the house near the window. Monsieur Shields did not like that. My seed beds, my tools, all that was nothing. A ladder near a window, that was something to think about.”

“Odd,” said Bobby. “When was all this?”

“Early in March, when the snow had gone and one was beginning one's work.” 

“Nothing else happened?” asked Bobby.

“Nothing. That was what puzzled. Yet it was disconcerting, it was bewildering. As indeed admitted Monsieur the Commissaire of Police himself.”

“You reported it to him?”

“It was hardly an affair for him,” explained Ducane. “These big bonnets, they would not trouble themselves about the destruction of my seed beds or a ladder against a wall. They had indeed the inconceivable stupidity to suggest that I, I myself, had left it there. It was the brigadier to whom I spoke.”

“What did he think?” asked Bobby, who knew that ‘brigadier' corresponded roughly to our local sergeant of police. “I suppose he reported it to Monsieur the Commissaire?”

“It was not altogether that,” Ducane answered. “An old foreign woman had committed suicide and as she was English also and a friend of Monsieur Shields, the commissaire came to ask Monsieur Shields what he knew about her and if he could tell why she had drowned herself. For me, I should choose a more pleasant end than jumping down a well. But everyone to his own taste. As for those gigantic footsteps, the commissaire made nothing of them. He would have sung a different tune if they had been in his garden, on his seedbeds. Monsieur Shields was angry about that, for he, he feared burglary. He arranged that for a time the brigadier should pass by regularly during the night. After that, the footsteps ceased and my seed beds were not again destroyed. That, it was a relief.”

A curious tale, Bobby thought. Was it merely some piece of village spite or mischief or was there some deeper significance? If so, what could it be?

“It was really in connection with poor Miss Polthwaite's death that the commissaire came to make his inquiries?” Bobby remarked. “But what had Monsieur Shields to do with Miss Polthwaite's suicide?”

“It was not altogether plain at first that there had not been an assassination,” Ducane explained. “It was only the inquiry that gave proof of suicide. Before that there had been talk. Nor has it altogether ceased even yet. Naturally at first one thought of Monsieur Shields. He, too, was English. They were friends. It was very possible there had been an affair and that he had grown tired, she had remained persistent, and the affair had ended as such affairs sometimes end when the woman chooses not to understand. But it was clear there had been no affair —when he visited Citry-sur-l'eau he stayed always in the hotel, never with her, and also there was another who was her friend. Besides, he had not visited Citry, or indeed left here, all that week. Also, since he was not her lover, he had no reason to kill.”

“No, I see that,” agreed Bobby, “but one kills sometimes for other reasons than love.”

“Seldom,” pronounced Ducane. “One loves. One kills. That is to be understood. For love, it goes to a young man's head. Inconceivable, incredible, when one is married, that one ever felt like that, but so it is. For money also one kills, or for hate. But who could hate an old foreigner like Miss Polthwaite—name of names, what a word to wrap one's tongue round—and there was no sign of robbery, nothing missing, nothing seemed to have been taken. Certainly there was no quarrel between Monsieur Shields and Mademoiselle Polthwaite and also as Monsieur the Commissaire said himself, as Monsieur Shields was here, he could not have been there.”

“I suppose not,” agreed Bobby, “but how do they know he was here? I was in Citry this morning and now I'm here. It's not so far.”

“But undoubtedly you came by train—in the daytime that is possible but not at night, and that Monsieur Shields was here during the day, all the world knows and I also, for I, I who speak to you, I saw him myself.”

“Well, there are motors, bicycles, one has legs even,” Bobby pointed out. “Look here,” he added, “I'm only talking, you know, I'm not making suggestions. I don't mean I suspect Monsieur Shields of anything. I can t because I don't know anything. So don't go saying things to him.”

“It is understood, my discretion can be perfectly relied on,” answered Ducane gravely. “But all that was carefully considered. In such affairs, Monsieur the Commissaire said to us all, everything must be considered, even the impossible. As for motor-cars, Monsieur Shields has none, none was hired—every garage was asked—and, moreover, it happened that the roads were under special supervision by the gendarmerie because of thefts of cars in Clermont. As for a bicycle, again Monsieur Shields had none for a day or two before his had been broken in an accident and he had not then a new one.”

“He has now?” Bobby asked, “Without doubt,” and Bobby remembered that he had seen in the shed, two bicycles, one a wreck and one pushed out of sight behind the sacks of artificial manure, possibly because it had not yet been provided with the necessary registration ‘plaque'. Ducane continued: “Moreover he could not possibly have cycled all the night there and back without being seen by some one. As for his legs, none on foot could cover the distance in the time. In addition, he was in the garden during the evening, his light was burning in the studio till midnight, his hour for bed, as the brigadier himself testified. In the morning he was there to open the door when arrived Mère Potain who comes each day to do for him.”