Spinsters in Jeopardy (12 page)

“To M.P.E. Garbel.”

“Perhaps she thought you imagined ‘M.’ to be the correct abbreviation of Mademoiselle?”

Troy shook her head: “It doesn’t seem to matter much now, but it’s quite incredible. Look: something’s beginning to happen.”

The little town was waking up. Shop doors opened and proprietors came out in their shirt sleeves scratching their elbows. At the far end of the Rue des Violettes there was an eruption of children’s voices and a clatter of shoes on stone. The driver of the police-car outside Number 16 started up his engine and the Commissary came briskly down the steps. He made a crisp signal to the driver, who turned his car, crossed the intersection and finally pulled up in front of Raoul M. Dupont walked across, saluted Troy and addressed himself to Alleyn.

“We commence our search of houses in Roqueville, my dear Inspecteur-en-Chef. The road patrols are installed and a general warning is being issued to my colleagues in the surrounding territory. Between 2:15 by the church clock when you saw your son until the moment when you arrived at these apartments, there was an interval of about ten minutes. If he was removed in an auto it was during those minutes. The patrols were instructed at five minutes to three. Again if he was removed in an auto it has had half an hour’s advance and can in that time have gone at the most no further on our roads than fifty kilometres. Outside every town beyond that radius we have posted a patrol and if they have nothing to report we shall search exhaustively within the radius. Madame, it is most fortunate that you saw the small one from your hotel. Thus have you hurled a screwdriver in the factory.”

The distracted Troy puzzled over the Commissary’s free use of English idiom, but Alleyn gave a sharp exclamation. “
The factory
!” he said. “By the Lord, I wonder.”

“Monsieur?”

“My dear Dupont, you have acted with the greatest expedition and judgment. What do you suggest we do now?”

“I am entirely at your disposal, M. l’Inspecteur. May I suggest that perhaps a fuller understanding of the situation—”

“Yes, indeed. Shall we go to our hotel?”

“Enchanted, Monsieur.”

“I think,” Alleyn said, “that our driver here is very willing to take an active part. He’s been extremely helpful already.”

“He is a good fellow, this Milano,” said Dupont and addressed Raoul in his own language: “See here, my lad, we are making enquiries for the missing boy in Roqueville. If he is anywhere in the town it will be at the house of some associate of the woman Blanche at Number 16. Are you prepared to take a hand?”

Raoul, it appeared, was prepared, “If he is in the town, M. le Commissaire, I shall know it inside an hour.”

“Oh,
là-là.
” M. Dupont remarked, “what a song our cock sings.”

He scowled playfully at Raoul and opened the doors of the car. Troy and Alleyn were ushered ceremoniously into the police-car and the driver took them back to the hotel.

In their bedroom, which had begun to take on a look of half-real familiarity, Troy and Alleyn filled in the details of their adventure from the time of the first incident in the train until Ricky’s disappearance. M. Dupont listened with an air of deference tempered by professional detachment. When they had finished he clapped his knees lightly and made a neat gesture with his thumb and forefinger pressed together.

“Admirable!” he said. “So we are in possession of our facts and now we act in concert, but first I must tell you one little fact that I have in my sleeve. There has been, four weeks ago, a case of child-stealing in the Paysdoux. It was the familiar story. A wealthy family from Lyons. A small one. A flightish nurse. During the afternoon promenade a young man draws the attention of this sexy nurse. The small one gambols in the gardens by our casino. The nurse and the young man are tête-à-tête upon a seat. Automobile pass to and fro, sometimes stopping. In one are the confederates of the young man. Presently the nurse remembers her duty. The small one is vanished and remains so. Also vanished is the young man. A message is thrown through the hotel window. The small one is to be recovered with five hundred mille francs at a certain time and at a place outside St. Céleste. There are the customary threats in the matter of informing the police. Monsieur Papa, under pressure from Madame Maman, obeys. He is driven to within a short distance of the place. He continues on foot. A car appears. Stops. A man with a handkerchief over his face and a weapon in his hand gets out. Monsieur Papa, again following instructions, places the money under a stone by the road and retires with his hands above his head. The man collects and examines the money and returns to the car. The small one gets out. The car drives away. The small one,” said M, Dupont, opening his eyes very wide at Troy, “is not pleased. He wishes to remain with his new acquaintances.”

“Oh,
no
!” Troy cried out.

“But yes. He has found them enchanting. Nevertheless he rejoins his family. And now, having facilitated the escape of the cat. Monsieur Papa attempts to close the bag. He informs the police.” M. Dupont spread his hands in the classic gesture and waited for his audience-reaction.

“The usual story,” Alleyn said.

“M. Dupont,” Troy said, “do you think the same men have taken Ricky?’

“No, Madame. I think we are intended to believe it is the same men.”

“But why? Why should it not be these people?”

“Because,” M. Dupont rejoined, touching his small moustache, “this morning at 7:30 these people were apprehended and are now locked up in the
poste de police
at St. Celeste. Monsieur Papa had the forethought to mark the notes. It was tactfully done. A slight addition to the decor. And the small one gave useful information. The news of the arrest would have appeared in the evening papers but I have forbidden it. The affair was already greatly publicized.”

“So our friends,” Alleyn suggested, “unaware of the arrest, imitate the performance and hope our reactions will be those of Monsieur Papa and Madame Maman and that you will turn our attention to St. Celeste.”

“But can you be so sure—” Troy began desperately. M. Dupont bent at the waist and gazed respectfully at her. “Ah, Madame,” he said, “consider. Consider the facts. At the Château de la Chèvre d’Argent there is a group of persons very highly involved in the drug ‘raquette.’ By a strange accident your husband already officially interested in these persons, is precipitated into their midst. One, perhaps two of the guests, know who he is. The actress Wells, who is an addict, is sent to make sure. She returns and tell them: ‘We entertain, let me inform you, the most distinguished and talented officer of The Scotland Yard. If we do not take some quick steps he will return to enquire for his invalid. It is possible he already suspects.’ And it is agreed he must not return. How can he be prevented from doing so? By the apparent kidnapping of his son. This is effected very adroitly. The woman with the bouquet tells the small Ricketts that his mother awaits him at the house she visited this morning. In the meantime a car is on its way from the Château to take them to St. Céleste. He is to be kept in the apartment of Garbel until it comes. The old Blanche takes him there. She omits to lock the doors on to the balcony. He goes out. You see him. He sees you. Blanche observes. He is removed and before you can reach him there the car arrives and he is removed still further.”

“Where?”

“If, following the precedent, they go to St. Céleste, they will be halted by our patrols, but I think perhaps they will have thought of that and changed their plans and if so it will not be to St. Céleste.”

“I agree,” Alleyn said.

“We shall be wiser when their message arrives, as arrive it assuredly will. There is also the matter of this Mademoiselle Garbel whose name is in the books and who has some communication with the Compagnie Chimique des Alpes Maritimes, which may very well be better named the Compagnie pour l’Elaboration de Diacetylmorphine. She is the ‘raquette,’ no doubt, and you have enquired for her.”

“For him. We thought: ‘him.’ ”

“Darling,” Alleyn said, “can you remember the letters pretty clearlyT’

“No,” said poor Troy, “how should I? I only know they were full of dreary information about buses and roads and houses.”

“Have you ever checked the relationship?”

“No. He — she — talked about distant cousins who I knew had existed but were nearly all dead.”

“Did she ever write about my job?”

“I don’t think, directly. I don’t think she ever wrote things like ‘how awful’ or ‘how lovely’ to be married to a chief detective-inspector. She said things about my showing her letters to my distinguished husband, who would no doubt be interested in their contents.”

“And, unmitigated clod that I am, I wasn’t. My dear Dupont,” Alleyn said, “I’ve been remarkably stupid. I think this lady has been trying to warn me about the activities of the drug racket in the Paysdoux.”

“But I thought,” Troy said, “I thought it was beginning to look as if it was she who had taken Ricky. Weren’t the flowers a means of getting into our rooms while I was at luncheon? Wasn’t the message about being away a blind? Doesn’t it took as if she’s one of the gang? She knew we were coming here. If she wanted to tell you about the drug racket why did she go away?”

“Why indeed? We don’t know why she went away.”

“Rory, I don’t want to be a horror, but — No,” said Troy, “I won’t say it.”

“I’ll say it for you. Why in Heaven’s name can’t we do something about Ricky instead of sitting here gossiping about Miss Garbel?”

“But, dear Madame,” cried M. Dupont, “we
are
doing things about Ricketts. Only—” M. Dupont continued, fortunately mistaking for an agonized sob the snort of hysteria that had escaped Troy —“only by an assemblage of the known facts can we arrive at a rational solution. Moreover, if the former case is to be imitated we shall certainly receive a message and it is important that we are here when it arrives. In the meantime all precautions have been taken. But all!”

“I know,” Troy said, “I’m terribly sorry. I know.”

“You brought Miss Garbel’s last letter, darling. Let’s have a look at it.”

“I’ll get it.”

Troy was not very good at keeping things tidy. She had a complicated rummage in her travelling case and handbag before she unearthed the final Garbel letter, which she handed with an anxious look to Alleyn. It was in a crumpled condition and he spread it out on the arm of his chair. “Here it is,” he said, and read aloud.

“Hell’s boots!” Alleyn said. “Under our very noses!
Pays Dopes
indeed, District of Dopes and Dope pays.” He read on:

“Oh Lord!” Alleyn lamented. “Why didn’t I read this before we left? We have been so bloody superior over this undoubtedly admirable spinster.”

“Please?” said M. Dupont.

“Listen to this, Dupont. Suppose this lady, who is a qualified chemist, was in the hands of the drug racket. Suppose she worked for them. Suppose she wanted to let someone in authority in England know what goes on inside the racket. Now. Do you imagine that there is any reason why she shouldn’t write what she knows to this person and put the letter in the post?”

“There is good reason to suppose she might fear to do so, Mr. Chief,” rejoined Dupont, who no doubt considered that the time had come for a more familiar mode of address. “As an Englishwoman she is perhaps not quite trusted in the ‘raquette.’ Her correspondence may be watched. Someone who can read English at the
bureau-de-poste
may be bribed. Perhaps she merely suspects that this may be so. They are thorough, these blackguards. Their net is fine in the mesh.”

“So she writes her boring letters and every time she writes, she drops a veiled hint, hoping I may see the letter. The Chèvre d’Argent is about thirty kilometres west on the Route Maritime. She tells us by means of tedious phrases, ferocious puns, and used bus tickets that she is a visitor there. How did she address her letters. Troy?”

“To ‘Agatha Troy.’ She said in her first letter that she understood that I would prefer to be addressed by my professional name. Like an actress, she added, though not in other respects. With the usual row of ejaculation marks. I don’t think she ever used your name. You were always my brilliant and distinguished husband!”

“And is my face red!” said Alleyn. M. Dupont’s was puzzled. Alleyn continued reading the letter.