Murder Abroad (31 page)

“I remember,” Alain agreed. “I remember even the phrase. But what is the importance? ‘Avoir des écus,' it's a common way of saying that a person has more money than he knows what to do with, and apparently that was the case with Mademoiselle Polthwaite. Apparently also she was nervous, afraid, because of it—afraid of revolution, bolsheviks, what not.”

“Monsieur,” said Bobby gravely, “it may mean nothing and it may mean much, but the word ‘écus' is, in English, ‘shields', and Shields is the name of one of those suspected. Was it not perhaps Shields of whom she had had enough and of whom she was afraid that night?”

The juge d'instruction sat silent and thoughtful for some moments. He rose from his chair and walked to the window and then came back and sat down again.

“If only we had known that at the time,” he muttered, half to himself, and then to Bobby he added: “But are you sure? Pardon. It is stupid to ask that. But you understand, I do not know a word of English.”

“I can assure you,” Bobby answered, “that ‘Shields' is the English for ‘écus'.”

“If only we had known that before,” Alain repeated, and went on apologetically: “You understand? There was not one concerned in the inquiry who had knowledge of English.”

“Easy to overlook,” Bobby assured him. “The word conveys the idea of money and one forgets the literal meaning is ‘shield' which has no reference to money in English. Mademoiselle Polthwaite's family never noticed it, though some of them certainly speak French. I expect Mademoiselle Polthwaite meant to add something to make her meaning more plain. I imagine she very likely started to write just before Shields came, or even while he was there.”

He paused. There seemed to rise a clear vision in his mind, a swift succession of vivid pictures as though he sat in a cinema and watched a film. He seemed to see Miss Polthwaite after her quarrel with young Camion hearing a step outside, a knock at the door; rising to open in the quick hope that Camion had understood at last and had returned, or else had sent some one else ready to stay with her through the night; finding herself instead faced there upon the threshold with the man she had begun to dread; concealing her alarm; asking him to enter; smiling a welcome; accepting easily whatever excuse he put forward for his late arrival; understanding that he only wished to assure himself she was alone, but smiling still; begging him to excuse her while she finished a note she was writing, resolute that if she were to die at least she would leave some clue to indicate her murderer; realizing almost at once that her purpose was suspected and for that reason wrapping up her meaning as best she could, so that even if he read it afterwards he might not destroy it; obliged to leave it uncompleted when he began to show a restless and horrible impatience; even then not despairing but beginning to talk of her painting; still striving to gain time; hoping still that Camion might return or another might come in his place; hoping perhaps that in talk of art and painting, their common interest, murder might be forgotten; hoping even that such an appeal to their common search for beauty in expression, which should make good comrades of all who share in it, might in the end turn the assassin from his purpose. Bobby seemed clearly to understand that that firm hope and will had never left her, and that, solitary, alone, and helpless, she had never yielded to despair, but had still fought on, thinking of death and chatting of art, paint brush in hand, till there crashed down upon her from behind the blow that had been the end.

Plainly, as plainly as if he had seen it all recorded on the screen, so clearly that it lives as vividly in his memory as though he had been a witness of the actual scenes, so clearly, plainly, vividly indeed that, remembering, he almost believes there was some mysterious, unknown power at work, conveying to him thus strangely what in fact had been, did Bobby see all this.

It passed. It was as though the series was complete, the reel finished, the message given. He stirred slightly in his chair and moved like a man awakening from sleep. He heard Alain draw in deeply his breath. There came to Bobby a memory of something said to him by the Abbé Taylour—that where the human soul once had fled in anguish and in terror, there the memory still lingered on the earth. The thought came to him that if that were true, then perhaps in some strange and unknown way there had been called up in his mind a recollection of a dreadful hour of the past. In a low and troubled voice, Alain said:

“It was as though just now I saw it all pictured there, like a dream, like a film at the cinema. Yet I was awake.'' To Bobby he said: “I cannot explain. You could not understand unless you, too, had seen.”

“I did,” Bobby said, but Alain shook his head. He said:

“It was like a dream, only more vivid. One does not share another's dream. Also I was awake. It would be impossible to make you understand or anyone. It is very strange for I am not of those who believe. Also,” he added more briskly, “it is not evidence and so it is not of importance. Merely one's imagination at work showing how it might have happened.”

“Yes,” said Bobby. After a time he said again: “Yes.” Then he added but more to himself than aloud: “I wonder.”

Alain was busy, fumbling among his papers, once more the brisk, efficient magistrate. He said:

“All the same, she had courage, that one. She held out to the end. It is that that counts, to hold out to the end, no matter what end.”

“Yes,” said Bobby again. “Go down fighting,” he said.

“All is there,” agreed Alain. “Enough of that, though. What we need is evidence, proof. There are indications, certainly. In effect, good indications. But an advocate defending would ask: ‘Where is the proof?' and a jury might listen. One could invent other explanations and, above all, where is Shields? It may be that once again he will produce an alibi to make us helpless. The night Mademoiselle Polthwaite died, it is proved he was here in the evening, proved he was here the next morning. How is it possible to persuade a jury that he crossed the Bornay Massif, there and back, during a dark winter night, when they could see for themselves that it is impossible? ”

“I don't think it is in fact impossible,” Bobby said. “I think it could be done. I think I know how.”

“Yes. Well?”

“I expect you heard from Monsieur Clauzel that I visited a farm to buy binder twine,” Bobby went on. “Monsieur Clauzel asked why. I did not want to explain then for I felt I had to be more sure of my ground and I wasn't pressed. I expect it didn't seem to matter. It was Volny's disappearance that I was being asked about and there didn't seem any connection. May I remind you of two things? Shields knows French well, he has lived long in this country and he speaks French fluently. It seemed to me odd he should make such a blunder as ordering a huge supply of artificial manure and, further, a bale of binder twine, instead of a ball or two of raffia. Odd things have sometimes explanations even more odd. I noticed that no use had been made of the artificial manure— at least, not until now. But the bale of binder twine had nearly been used up. It struck me that perhaps it was the binder twine that was really wanted and the other stuff only ordered for a blind. Then by a bit of luck I learned that Shields had seemed interested—even oddly interested —in a classical dictionary with illustrations by Gustave Doré.”

He paused and Alain said:

“Monsieur Shields is an artist. It is not strange that he should be interested in Doré's work. It has its merits even though to-day it seems to us a little crude, raw even, without real depth or feeling. But what have Gustave Doré's illustrations of more than fifty years ago to do with murder to-day?”

“Apparently,” Bobby continued without answering this directly, “there was one illustration that had interested Shields particularly, for that special page was thumb- marked and there was even on it a burn from a cigarette end. Naturally Monsieur and Madame Camion were annoyed. It is vexing to see treated so carelessly a book one values, and indeed I think Shields had been even more careless than he knew. Possibly as a request or warning to me to be more careful, the elder Camion showed me that page. You remember, monsieur, the story of Theseus, the Minotaur, the labyrinth, Ariadne? Doré's illustration showed Ariadne offering Theseus the ball of thread by which he was to retrace his steps through the labyrinth after slaying the Minotaur.”

“I remember the story well enough,” Alain said, “but still I do not understand.”

“For Theseus, the hero,” continued Bobby, “read Shields, the assassin. For the Minotaur, the monster, read poor Mademoiselle Polthwaite, who was no monster. For the labyrinth, read the Bornay Massif, almost equally difficult to traverse. For Ariadne's ball of thread, read a bale of binder twine.”

“You mean,” asked Alain looking very puzzled, “that Shields marked out paths across the Massif with binder twine and followed them so in the darkness at night. Is that possible?”

“Why not?” Bobby asked. “He was out all day and many days on the Massif during his supposedly sketching expeditions. He found the paths to follow and to mark them tied binder twine from bush to bush, or even between stakes driven into the ground. Then he had only to pick up the twine in one hand and follow it as Theseus followed Ariadne's thread. I imagine that on his way back Shields picked up the twine, made it into balls and threw them away. I expect a search would find some. I think, too, that is why he persuaded the Abbé Taylour to hang out a lantern each night, it made a most useful, almost a necessary landmark to guide him—a landmark of murder.”

“It is a possible explanation,” Alain admitted thoughtfully. “One had not considered it. Crossing the Bornay Massif at night seemed too impossible to be worth considering. It was intelligent of you, monsieur, to work out the possibility of such a method having been practised.”

“I suppose it was chiefly luck,” Bobby answered, “the luck of young Camion's father showing me that particular page in his dictionary. It was that started me wondering whether possibly Shields was more interested in Ariadne's trick than in Doré's drawing. I remembered Shields told me once he wasn't keen on the old style stuff and went out of his way to refer to Doré as being hopelessly out of date, and yet here he was taking special interest in his work. It didn't seem consistent, and when things don't hang together there's sometimes an explanation if you can find it.”

“That is true,” agreed Alain, “and it was certainly extraordinary good fortune that Camion père had the idea of drawing your attention to that drawing. I only wish that while the Polthwaite inquiry was going on, such a piece of luck had come our way.”

He looked at Bobby enviously; and Bobby found himself suddenly and ruefully wondering if ever he would learn to wrap up his methods in suitable mystery instead of explaining them away. If only he had had the sense to hold his tongue and look profound, his little feat of deduction would have appeared in a light as exaggerated as now diminished.

He reflected that he must learn how to boost himself, though indeed to boost oneself is a gift like another and best not attempted by those to whom it has not been granted. Alain, who had been deep in thought, said abruptly: “But luck is only of value to those who know how to use it. Do not think, monsieur, that I undervalue the intelligence you have shown. It will, however, be necessary to test thoroughly your theory by actual experiment. For one thing, I seem to have heard that the Massif is crossed by a crevasse with steep, indeed precipitous sides. It would be impossible to climb them in the dark and binder twine would be no help?”

“I think,” Bobby answered, “that explains the two rope ladders in the attics here. Unless I am mistaken they still show traces of earth and vegetation to show they have been used out of doors. I called the attention of your inspector to it. Possibly expert analysis would show if the traces I think I made out, correspond to the soil round the crevasse. Such ladders left in position and led up to by the binder twine trail would make it easy to get across, especially for a strong athletic man like Shields who, too, had cultivated a power of seeing in the dark. Shields boasted about that once to me. Possibly he had, too, a small electric torch to help, and certainly the Abbé Taylour's lantern would help to give him his direction. I know one of the police—the brigadier I think—saw his light go out in his bedroom at midnight as if he were retiring, but that could easily be managed by any clockwork appliance. I think it was to get that evidence, to make sure that police should be watching, that Shields manufactured signs of mysterious trespassing in his garden. At that time of the year it is dark early, and he could start by four in the afternoon. Allowing six hours to cross the fifteen miles of the Massif by the paths marked out, he would reach the Pépin Mill by ten. He could spend two or three hours there, leave about midnight, and be back at Barsac by six, before it was light or any risk of any one being up and about to notice his return.”

“It is becoming plain how it could have happened,” Alain agreed. “The proofs accumulate. Yet where is Shields? What has become of him? If he has yet another alibi as ingenious to offer us, our work will begin again. I ask myself, what has become of him?”

“I doubt if we are going to be worried by another alibi,” Bobby said. “At a guess, I should say that probably he has already left France—and with the start he has, it won*t be any too easy to catch up with him. I expect he realized that after Volny's death flight was necessary. The body was certain to be found sooner or later.”

“It might have been much later, even a year or two later, but for your gift of observation, monsieur,” Alain admitted.

Bobby bowed acknowledgements.

“At any rate,” he went on, “Shields could hardly hope this time to pass off what had happened as either suicide or accident. He had had neither time nor opportunity to make the careful preparations he carried out in the Polthwaite case. His only hope was flight and by this time he may be anywhere in Europe—or Africa either, for that matter, or on the way to America.”