The Case of Naomi Clynes (23 page)

“Bourges is on the way, sir. There's a good hotel there.”

“Okay! We'll stop at Bourges and send that boy to bed early. He'll have done enough for one day.”

This last reflection was borne out half an hour later, when Godfrey careened over towards Richardson and fell fast asleep. His elders, also, were growing somnolent, and soon silence fell upon the car.

It was not until two hours later, when they were nearing Bourges, that Jim Milsom sprang into wakefulness. “Well, I'm damned!” he exclaimed. “Inspector Richardson asleep on duty! I ought to report this at the Yard.”

Richardson opened his eyes and smiled. “When one has a serious problem to unravel, Mr. Milsom, one always does it better with the eyes closed.”

Little Godfrey rubbed his eyes, sat bolt upright, and stared out of the window.

“You've been dreaming, young man, haven't you?”

“Yes, I've been dreaming about Uncle John.”

“What do you remember about him?” asked Richardson.

“Well, not very much. I remember being in his big house in Liverpool, and his butler, Reynolds, who made me an aeroplane out of bottle-corks and wire. I remember being in a steamer with him, but I didn't enjoy it because I was sick. But I don't know how I got to Clermont-Ferrand. I don't remember going there. I know that Maman told me that I'd been ill.”

“When you got better what did you do?”

“How do you mean, what did I do? The first thing I did was to write a letter to my uncle. Maman bought the stamp when she went out to market and posted the letter for me, but Uncle John never answered it. P'r'aps I ought to have written to Miss Bates.”

“Was Miss Bates your governess?”

“Yes, it was Miss Bates who taught me to write.”

“What did you say in your letter?”

“Oh, I told Uncle John that I didn't like Clermont-Ferrand, and that I wanted to get back to Liverpool. But he never answered it, and when I asked Maman to buy another stamp for me to write to Miss Bates, she said that Papa had told her that I mustn't write any letters to England.”

“Why didn't you like Clermont-Ferrand?” asked Jim Milsom.

“Because I couldn't make anyone understand me at first. Maman always understood me and taught me how to say things in French. I liked Maman and Papa, but not Clermont-Ferrand.”

“Huh!” grunted Mr. Hudson; “that stamp's accounted for then.”

They were now running through a street; they were on the outskirts of the town. Adolphe slowed down a little later and brought the car to a standstill before the Hotel d'Angleterre, where English of a kind was spoken. Mr. Hudson went to the desk to engage the rooms: little Godfrey was to have a room all to himself, and, moreover, he was to have late dinner with the others. It was quite a lively dinner, for Jim Milsom, whom little Godfrey persisted in calling “Uncle Jim,” kept the ball rolling.

“You know that we shall be in Paris to-morrow, Godfrey?”

The name seemed to convey nothing to the boy.

“In Paris! Where's that?”

“It's the capital of France.”

“Oh, I thought Clermont-Ferrand was. Is Paris bigger than Clermont-Ferrand?”

“Much bigger; and shall I tell you what I'm going to do as soon as we get there? I'm going to take you to a tailor for some new clothes. You couldn't go about Paris in clothes like that.”

“Why? Don't you like this ribbon at my neck? Maman was telling me how to tie it myself. I told her that boys never wore bows like that in England— that only little girls wore them—but she wouldn't listen.”

“I'm going to get you a tie like mine and a proper kind of collar, and dress you exactly like an English schoolboy. You'll like that, won't you?”

“Yes, I shall.”

Mr. Hudson broke in.” And while you're away at the tailor's I'm going to do a little shopping. I'm going to get you a proper leather suitcase and then I know a shop where they sell all kinds of things.”

“Do you propose to stay in Paris, sir?” asked Richardson anxiously. “I ask only because I feel that I ought to be getting back to London as soon as possible. In a case of this kind there is never any time to lose. You see, something might appear in a local paper in Clermont. Mr. Maze might get wind of it and clear out. Besides, sir, if you're thinking of buying things for the boy that he won't be wearing on the journey, there's the British customs to think of. If I might suggest you would be doing better by buying them in London.”

“You're right again, Inspector. The toys there would be better and cheaper than in Paris.”

“Now, young man, it's time for bed,” declared Jim Milsom. “I suppose you know how to put yourself to bed.”

“Of course I do, Uncle Jim.”

“Then come along and I'll show you your room.” When Jim Milsom rejoined his companions he found Richardson in deep conversation with Mr. Hudson. “As I was saying, sir, there's no secret about the position. When John Maze brought his nephew over to France he had no thought of any foul play. I fancy that he wanted to be rid of the boy because as an old bachelor he found his nephew a nuisance in the house. It was only when he saw the bodies of those unclaimed children after the accident that he conceived the idea of substituting one of them for his nephew.”

“What was the motive for that?”

“I think that we shall find that there was a very sufficient motive, but now please understand that I'm speaking from conjecture. This little boy is the only son of Mr. Maze's elder brother, and presumably the elder brother's property was left to his son. If the death of the son could be proved, I imagine that this property would go to John Maze as his next of kin. It'll be quite easy to ascertain whether this conjecture is correct as soon as I get to London.”

“Gee! Fate played into that guy's hands. First the boy gets a knock on the head and loses his memory. Second he takes him to three different clinics on plausible excuses and gets three different medical opinions about the loss of memory. Then he advertises and finds that couple to adopt the child right away in the middle of France where no one ever goes.”

“Yes, sir, it must have been a severe shock to Mr. Maze when he got that letter from the boy.”

“Yes, but nothing like the shock that's coming to him when you get back. Now, I gather that you want to get over to-morrow.”

“I feel I ought to, sir.”

“Well, we can't get you to Paris in time for the morning train by Dieppe, nor for Imperial Airways.”

“Look here, Inspector,” said Milsom. “Please understand that I decline to be seen travelling with a nephew in fancy dress. You must give me time to buy a pair of reach-me-downs such as are worn by Christians. That means that we shall stay to-morrow and to-morrow night in Paris.”

“Would you mind very much, sir, if I went on ahead by the night train to-morrow? I should be in London at six next morning and that would give me the whole day for my inquiries.”

“Not a bit. You will find us all at my flat in the evening if you care to come round.”

“Very good, sir, that's settled.” A sudden alarm showed in his eyes. “I hope that we can count upon you, Mr. Milsom, not to do anything rash.”

“Rash! What do you take me for?”

“I mean that I can count upon you to have the boy always where I can find him if he's wanted. You see, there'll be a lot of legal business to go through and the proof of his evidence to be taken if it's wanted.”

“You think I'm going to spirit him away. By Jove! That's an idea. I'd rather like to see what it feels like to be the hare with you after me as the hound. I'd lead you a dance, Inspector.”

“I've no doubt you would, sir, and I sincerely hope that you won't. Of course I know that you're joking and that you're as keen as I am to get to the bottom of this case.”

“You needn't be scared, Inspector,” said Mr. Hudson, “I shall make myself responsible for the boy, and you know when the time comes I shall apply to your people for leave to adopt him as a son or a nephew or something.”

“A nephew, Uncle Jim? You've got me.”

“Well, I've had a failure with one nephew and I should like to see what I can make of this little fellow.”

“You haven't forgotten, sir,” said Richardson, “that we shall probably find that the boy is heir to a big fortune.”

“Well, if he is, I can look after him all the same: I don't want his money.”

“Now, you folks, what about bed if we've got to make an early start?” said Milsom, yawning. “And what about ordering breakfast at eight?—that will get us into Paris by lunch-time.”

The next morning when Jim Milsom went to wake his new-found nephew, he found him already out of bed and half dressed. He looked the picture of health.

“Why, you're not dressed, Uncle Jim; you'll be late for breakfast.”

“What time do you breakfast in Clermont-Ferrand?”

“At seven o'clock, of course.”

“My God!” ejaculated Jim under his breath.

“Now, young man, do you feel up to a busy day in Paris?”

“I feel up to anything.”

“Good, then finish your dressing and I'll tell the waiter to bring my breakfast and yours together and put it on that table.”

Godfrey clapped his hands in ecstasy. “I'm awfully glad I found you, Uncle Jim; or was it you who found me?”

“A little of both—about half and half, I think, but you get on with your dressing and I'll get on with mine.”

An hour later they were well on the road to Paris. After lunching at the Crillon, Jim Milsom carried Godfrey off on a mysterious excursion while Richardson retired to the writing-room to arrange his notes and complete his report. It was arranged that the party should dine early and see Richardson off at the Gare St. Lazare.

The dinner-hour drew on when suddenly a small boy burst into the writing-room alone and ran to Richardson's table. He had had his hair cut; he was clad correctly in grey flannels with a collar and a sports tie. For the moment Richardson could not place him until the youngster addressed him.

“What do you think of my new clothes?”

Having duly admired them, Richardson conducted him to the dining-room where the other two members of the party had sat down.

“When we've seen you off at the station, Inspector,” said Milsom. “I'm going to carry this young man off to see a show.”

“You young scoundrel,” exclaimed the scandalized uncle, “fancy taking a boy of nine to see a show in Paris.”

“Ah, ah!” exclaimed Jim; “I'd always suspected it. When you're in Paris you go to the
Folies Bergère
. I'm going to take Godfrey to the pictures at the Paramount. What have you to say against that?”

Richardson felt that in spite of his habitual banter Jim Milsom could be trusted to keep his word and have the boy at his flat on the evening of their arrival.

A
MAN
does not feel at his best when he arrives in London at 6 a.m. on a wet morning after a stormy night crossing. But Inspector Richardson had the gift of subordinating every discomfort to the business he had in hand. There was no time, he thought, to go out to his lodgings in Forest Gate and get back in time for the hour when the public is admitted to Somerset House. He had a scratch breakfast at Victoria, and a wash and a shave at a shop outside the station. Then, having deposited his luggage in the cloakroom, he made his way to Scotland Yard and sought out Sergeant Williams.

“Back already, Inspector! You have still three days' leave to take.”

“I know, but I've got on to something good that cannot wait. That's why I'm back. What have you been doing while I've been away?”

“I've quite a lot to tell you. You remember that man, Wilfred Bryant? Well, he was here on Tuesday asking for you, and I saw him.”

“What did he want?”

“He'd come to tell you that he remembered something that would prove an alibi for the night of the murder. He had gone, as he told us, into Lyons' shop in Piccadilly to get a bite of supper, but he said that what he forgot to tell us was an incident that he had there with the waitress. When he paid for his meal he handed her one of those new French ten-franc pieces in mistake for a florin. She took it to the desk where the cashier declined to accept it, so back she came to him to put the matter right. He gave her a florin and told her that she could keep the French coin as a souvenir. That's the kind of thing that a Lyons' waitress wouldn't forget. I went round there and dug the girl out. She'd let her tongue run on, for every waitress in the place had heard the story, and said it was Betty. The young lady was summoned, and I took a statement from her. Here it is. It confirms exactly what Bryant told me. Now, I suppose, we shall have to start this blooming case right from the beginning again.”

“No, we shan't. I've come back from France with the goods.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know now who the real murderer was, and if all goes well this morning, he'll be under lock and key to-morrow.”

By the time he had finished telling Williams the story, the clock marked the hour when the public is admitted to Somerset House. Like other Metropolitan detectives, he knew his way about Somerset House. He had to establish the family history of the Mazes of Liverpool. After finding an obliging clerk whom he knew, the quest became easy. He was allowed to take a copy of the will of Godfrey Maze, the founder of the family fortunes, who left the comfortable sum of £182,000 when he departed to another and a better world. The bulk of this property had gone to his elder son, William, and his heirs; failing any heirs to the elder brother, the property was to go to John and his heirs.

Further researches established the fact that William Maze had been twice married; that his first wife had died childless when he was fifty-five; that at the age of fifty-seven he had married again, and his wife had borne him a son, dying in childbirth. This son was named Godfrey, after his grandfather.