Murder Abroad (30 page)

“Hé, hé, the Englishman again, the Englishman who points out where dead men are hidden.”

“You heard that?” Bobby asked.

“I have ears. By the mercy of God, I am not deaf,” retorted the old man. “I can even hear what is in their thoughts, these good men of the police.”

“What is in their thoughts?” Bobby asked.

“That it is easy for those who hide to find.”

“Oh, that's it, is it?” said Bobby grimly, and the old beggar chuckled once more.

“That makes you angry and even a little uneasy,” he said. “Above all, you say to yourself: ‘Very good, very good, presently we shall see about that.'”

“You read a lot into what others say,” Bobby remarked. “Does it ever strike you that you may be wrong?”

“I seldom find it so,” the other answered simply. “When I was young perhaps, but not now. One learns in life.” Bobby grunted, and after a time Père Trouché added: “They were going to confront us with Monsieur Shields apparently, but now it seems that will have to wait, for where is Monsieur Shields?”

“A good many would like to know,” Bobby remarked.

“One disappears a little too frequently just now,” Père Trouché said. “The young Volny, but then he has been found. The young Camion also, but of him one knows nothing?”

“Nothing,” Bobby agreed.

“That one does not like for he is a youngster concerning whom it is not safe to prophecy. He needs always an outlet, he looks within always and then—a something gives way and there are happenings.”

“Yes, I think he needs a vent,” Bobby agreed again.

“There was hatred between them, those young men,” Père Trouché went on. “Now one is dead and one has disappeared. It is a thing these good police will not over-look. But then also Monsieur Shields is missing, and Monsieur Williams—but he, Williams, he is in Paris, isn't he?”

“He was,” Bobby said.

“Difficult to make of it sense that fits,” said the old man. “No wonder you are so puzzled that you scratch your chin.”

“How do you know what I'm doing?” Bobby asked, startled, for indeed he had not known it himself till his companion spoke.

“Psst,” came the contemptuous retort. “Have you shaved so recently that there are no bristles on your chin and I cannot hear your nail scrape on them? Also you are uneasy and even perhaps afraid for your breathing is not as usual. You are longing to do something, you are worried that you have to stand and watch. That is why I hear your foot go: Tap, tap. And you feel that if only these fools of Frenchmen would take you into their confidence, you could help them. That I know because there is in you all the arrogance of the English who always think they can do everything better than any one else.”

“We don't,” exclaimed Bobby, quite indignant at what he felt a most unjust accusation.

“Hé, you are so sure of it, your superiority, that you do not even know your own certainty. But all this I am aware of only by reasoning, in the same way that I know you are furious because you feel they are idiot enough to doubt your good faith. For that, I have not the plain evidence of my ears, as I have for the rest.”

“It's a good thing you aren't deaf as well as blind,” Bobby growled, “or there would be no limit to what you knew.”

Père Trouché considered this thoughtfully.

“No,” he decided, “one must either hear or see. The two, they often cancel out each other so that both are poor and dim, but one or other is needed. And hearing is best, for all men are blind half their lives, in the dark, at night, asleep, but at night, in the dark, asleep, one can still hear—as I hear there is some one coming to you with a message.”

One of the agents of the Sûreté was in fact coming quickly towards them. His quick, purposeful tread explained, Bobby supposed, why Père Trouché guessed he came with a purpose and probably a message. He said:

“Yes, a message, but why for me?”

“Messages are not sent to old blind beggars, they come and go without,” retorted Père Trouché impatiently. “Therefore it is for you.”

The inspector came up and proved the old man right. Monsieur the juge d'instruction would like the privilege of a few words with Monsieur Owen. Bobby obeyed the summons. Alain explained that now it had grown so late and darkness had fallen, further investigation would have to wait till the morning, but he would like to get a full statement from as many concerned as possible, including Monsieur Owen, whose assistance in the discovery of the body of the murdered Volny had been so valuable. But Monsieur Owen was probably needing food, in view of that very sketchy luncheon taken so long ago. Was it too much to ask that Monsieur Owen should consent to spend the night at Barsac? A room would be found for him in one of the hotels where also he could dine. Later they could have a little talk together, when certain points at present a trifle obscure could be cleared up, no doubt.

All this was put very politely, with an air in fact of requesting a favour, but there was also a very clear impression given that a refusal was not expected.

However, Bobby having no desire to make any objection, agreed readily to accept the guidance of one of the Surety inspectors to the hotel suggested. He said good night to Père Trouché, who had been standing near listening with his usual close attention to what the inspector said.

“Me, too,” he answered Bobby now, “they are keeping under watch and guard. Even, they wanted to find me a room to sleep in, as though on such a night as this one might not as well be in a coffin as within four close walls. It is understood, of course, that one can train oneself to anything, even to sleeping indoors on summer nights. But I did not say ‘no' to food and wine.”

Bobby and the inspector moved away and the inspector said crossly:

“That old scamp, he has had it three times over—his food and his wine. One of our men gave him both. Afterwards he persuaded another who knew of the order to take him to a pub near. Finally he found yet a third—and that third,” said the inspector ruefully, “it was me—to carry out yet once again the order to provide him with a bottle of wine and a little something to eat. He is a devil, that old man.”

“Must have had a good appetite to get through three meals,” Bobby remarked.

“What he did not eat, he pocketed,” explained the inspector. “Those rags of his, they are all pockets. As for wine, they say he has bottles of wine hidden everywhere in holes and hollow trees.”

They arrived at the hotel arranged for and Bobby was soon enjoying a good dinner and a rest he found very welcome. Then about ten o'clock another inspector came in a car to say Monsieur Alain would now be happy to receive him. Bobby was accordingly driven to Alain's temporary office and there the interview began with formal questions. Asked for his passport, Bobby explained it was in his bag at the Citry hotel, but judged it prudent to explain both his profession and his errand. Alain did not seem much surprised. Apparently he had either known or guessed the truth.

“Monsieur Williams, too,” he remarked, “the tenant of the Pépin Mill, it appears he claimed to be an officer of your London police.”

“Bit of cheek,” explained Bobby and gave in detail the information he had received about Williams's past, explaining, too, how he had secured it by obtaining a specimen of Williams's finger-prints.

Alain nodded abstractedly.

“It is interesting, that,” he observed. “You connected his departure from Citry and his Paris alibi with the disappearance of Volny?”

“It made me uneasy, I felt there was more than appeared,” Bobby answered. “What we call in England the M.O.—the method of operation—gives a very good hint of what to expect, only this time the dates don't seem to agree. Williams's care to provide proof he was in Paris on one special night suggested something was meant to happen that night, but apparently Volny was killed about the time he was first missed? I gathered that from what I heard the doctors say, but if so, that was before Williams left the Pépin Mill.”

“The medical evidence is a little doubtful as yet,” Alain answered. “They are not very sure of the effect of the artificial manure on the body. Probably preservative. There are to be experiments.”

“Volny had been strangled, hadn't he?” Bobby asked.

“There are heavy bruises on the head, a cord round the neck,” Alain answered. “The assumption is that he was attacked, knocked senseless, strangled. A similar piece of cord was found in the house. It had been used for tying up a box. There is nothing to show what has become of Shields. A general inquiry for him will be made.”

“Nothing has been heard of Camion since this morning?”

“Nothing. I should be glad to hear any observations you can make.”

“I can only give you theories/' Bobby said slowly. “I have not been able to find any material proofs. I think perhaps none were left. I think it certain Mademoiselle Polthwaite was murdered, but murdered with a mingling of cunning and audacity that makes it difficult to find proof of the assassin's identity.

“In Volny's case murder is evident and I think has resulted from the previous murder. One can only reason from probabilities. My belief is that Volny at first thought only of searching for the hoard he believed might still be hidden at the Pépin Mill, grew to entertain suspicions of murder, heard of Williams's vague hints that evidence of some sort had been found in or near the Mill well, associated that story with the gold pencil-case in Williams's possession, knew or guessed that it had originally belonged to Shields, got hold of it somehow from Williams, brought it to show Shields and ask him about it, with the result that Shields, in an outburst of anger or of panic, attacked and killed him. Shields, of course, knew he was not exempt from suspicion, and in face of such an accusation he may have lost his head—innocent or guilty. Quite probably Shields mislaid the pencil on one of his visits to Miss Polthwaite and Williams came across it and thought it might be useful in some way.”

“Volny's body may have been hidden where it was found without the knowledge of Shields, to throw suspicion on him,” Alain remarked. “I may tell you that we have information now that Volny was seen in a small bistro near here soon after he left Citry and that a young man answering the description of Camion inquired for him there. One does not,” he added, “even know if there is any truth in this story of Mademoiselle Polthwaite's store of hidden diamonds.”

“In any case,” Bobby said, “the story was current, and, it seems certain, provided the motive. I have proof that she was obsessed by fear of a world-wide revolution and that she invested her funds in the purchase of jewels, mostly uncut and unset stones easy to dispose of, impossible to identify, easy to carry away. The poor woman, trying to safeguard herself from imaginary dangers of revolution and what she called bolshevism, incurred very real ones. People like her get so used to their orderly, guarded existence, they can't imagine sudden incursions of violence. It simply doesn't happen in their experience.

“Obviously various people were open to suspicion. I believe they were all considered and all questioned by you at the time. Some of the suspects had alibis. Alibis are often suspicious. Shields was here in Barsac. The Abbé Taylour was under the care of a doctor. Eudes was away at a political conference. But the Abbé Taylour might have been shamming. He kept his lantern burning those days anyhow. Eudes might have slipped away from his conference without his political friends noticing it. Shields—I think his alibi was very closely examined?”

“Most carefully,” answered Alain. “It was impossible he could have used a car which indeed he did not possess. Bicycling was equally impossible. The roads were being watched. One does not traverse the Bornay Massif twice during darkness unless one has wings.”

“Camion and Volny, and the Abbé Granges, curé of Citry-sur-l'eau,” continued Bobby, “were all admittedly on the spot. Williams, I presume, did not come under official notice at that time?”

“We had never heard of him,” Alain answered. “His tenancy of the mill was remarked, but there seemed nothing to suggest any connection with the murder. It was known there were rumours that the dead woman had left valuables hidden in the Pepin Mill itself or the garden. A watch was therefore kept. In that connection, we knew also that Shields had spoken to Eudes and suggested there would be a large reward if any jewellery hidden could be found and restored to the family. It seemed to suggest Shields was innocent since he was still eager to find what presumably the unfortunate woman had been murdered to obtain.”

“It was perhaps for that reason,” Bobby answered, “that the suggestion was made. To create an impression of innocence and at the same time to keep up a connection with the village so that he might learn of any developments—as he learned quickly of my own arrival.”

“You suspect then that Shields is the assassin?” Alain asked. “But there is also this Williams, whose appearance has to be explained. His movements at the time must be traced—though that will be difficult after so long an interval.”

“I was inclined to suspect Shields from the first,” Bobby said, “but only vaguely and suspicion is not proof. One oughtn't to suggest anything like that too quickly. It is easier to make mischief than to cure it and innocent people have a right to protection. They mustn't be implicated without good cause. So I held my tongue. But I noticed two things. Mademoiselle Polthwaite had a paint brush clasped in her hand when her body was found. Shields was the most likely person she would be talking to about painting. He gave her lessons and criticized her efforts. It was possible she was asking his advice when struck down. It was possible he was distracting her attention in some way. An indication only and even a faint one, but I noted it. I was told something else. An unfinished letter was found on her desk. It had only just been begun. She had apparently been writing when disturbed by the arrival of her murderer. Only the first sentences were written. They ran: ‘J'en ai des écus jusqu'aux yeux, jusqu'en avoir peur.'”