The Case of the Climbing Rat: A Ludovic Travers Mystery

by Christopher Bush

  CHAPTER XI

  A CRIME OF PASSION?

  Just after five o’clock: Marthe Fouré, the general maid of Mme Perthus, was entering the room of the examining magistrate, She was what one might call a lumpy woman in the thirties, and looked honest, good tempered, and a competent person altogether. She had been at the Villa Vézac with Mme Perthus for four years, and her evidence was this.

  Mme Perthus was accustomed to go out a good deal when the weather was congenial, and on the Tuesday morning she was out as usual, though Marthe could not say where. Lunch was always at noon, and just before that time Mme Perthus arrived home, and in a state of considerable agitation. She had had news that an aunt was ill and she would have to go at once. She did not say how she had received the news.

  Marthe helped her to pack a bag with enough clothes for at least a fortnight, and this bag Marthe carried— it was all downhill, as she pointed out—to the autobus stop beside the Hôtel de la Plage. Madame told her not to wait, so she returned to the Villa before the bus arrived.

  The instructions she received were that she was to leave the Villa perfectly tidy and then take a holiday. Madame Perthus thought she might have to stay with this relative for some time, but in a few days she would be sending some news. The other instruction was somewhat unusual. If M. Letoque called before Marthe left the Villa he was to be given the news.

  “And her address?” asked Aumade.

  “There was nothing about an address,” she said. “Mme Perthus told me to say she had no idea when she would be back.”

  “You did not have to tell M. Letoque that Mme Perthus was going to write to him?”

  She shook her head. “No, m’sieu, only what I have told you.”

  “Did she tell you where she was actually going?” She had given no idea where she was going except that Marthe had assumed that the autobus she was taking was going in the direction of Furolles, moreover she had never previously heard her mention any living relative at all.

  “And at your home at St. Isare, you received a letter from Mme Perthus?”

  “The letter has not yet arrived,” she said. “But it does not matter. Madame will send for me as soon as she is back.”

  “And M. Letoque called before you left the Villa?”

  “Oh, yes, m’sieu. He called,” she said. “He was very sorry to hear about the relative of Madame and said that doubtless she would write. He was most anxious to know where she was so that he might do something to help.”

  “M. Letoque was a friend of Madame?” asked Aumade almost jocularly.

  “Oh, yes,” she said.

  Aumade’s tone became quite roguish.

  “Did you anticipate any outcome of this friendship? A marriage, for instance?”

  In her smile there was something that showed she had certainly debated the question in her own mind, and she had doubts—unfortunate doubts.

  “M. Letoque was very good-looking,” she said. “Madame was very nice, but—”

  Aumade nodded sympathetically.

  “Well, she might have made him a good wife,” he said. “In very strict confidence now, did you think there was anything serious between them?”

  She hesitated and looked slightly confused. Aumade repeated the question and the assurance of confidence.

  “Well, yes,” she said. “Once I saw M. Letoque embrace Madame. It was in the salon as I went by the door.”

  “And Madame was not objecting?”

  “She was blushing,” said Marthe, and her own round country face was itself one immense blush.

  “May I be permitted to ask a question?” said Gallois gently. Marthe was to get on even better with him than with M. Aumade. Perhaps there was something in the mournful poetic smile that appealed to her, for she was obviously romantic at heart.

  “You are a most excellent witness,” Gallois said, “it is obvious that what you tell us is the truth and that, like ourselves, you have the best interests of your mistress at heart. Now you have assured us that she very often went out, for walks shall we say, or to visit friends.”

  Marthe smilingly admitted it.

  “Then think back to last Thursday week. Was your mistress away that afternoon and did she not return at about six o’clock?”

  Marthe made rather heavy going of the question and at last was able to say she was out. Then she was qualifying it at once by adding that almost every afternoon of late she had been out.

  “Again in very strict confidence,” went on Gallois, “did she ever accompany M. Letoque on those little trips he took in the car to the country?”

  Marthe blushingly admitted it.

  “And now just one other question,” Gallois said. “Madame had a black hat with a white ornament?” He smiled deprecatingly. “Being a man I do not exactly know how to describe this ornament. It was an aigrette perhaps or a flower?”

  Marthe believed there was such a hat, but it was not a new one or else she would have remembered it. Also, as she pointed out, most women would have a hat like that.

  And that completed the examination of Marthe Fouré.

  Aumade announced that the whole party had better proceed at once to the Villa Vézac. He would not have thought of doing so in the absence of Marthe, but said that now she could act on behalf and in the interests of her mistress. Since she had the key she could open the door and discover if any letter had arrived at the Villa.

  “You do not think anything has happened to Madame?” asked Marthe agitatedly.

  “But no,” Aumade assured her. “It is merely that we have some important news for your mistress and naturally we want to discover her whereabouts.”

  The car that had brought her from St. Isare was waiting and she was asked to take the front seat in order to direct the driver.

  The car went almost through the town, then took a sharp right turn and mounted to a quarter that seemed even more select than the Rue des Pins. In less than a minute Marthe was directing the car to halt and there was the Villa Vézac. It seemed a charming little place, its outside spotlessly painted and its little garden beautifully kept.

  “Madame has returned!”

  No sooner had the eyes of Marthe fallen on the front door than she had stared and now she was running along the path. In the house a woman was pushing aside the fly-net and looking out. Aumade was hurrying forward too, his hat in his hand, but from the background the other two could hear little of the excited explanations. Travers was trying to form some impression of Madame herself. She had a good figure, as even Mme Brassier had conceded, and a pleasant face, but she was fifty if a day, and with what looked like a disfigurement of hair at the corners of her lips and on her chin. Then Gallois was suddenly making a move forward. Mme Perthus seemed to be collapsing, and Marthe and Aumade were supporting her and had disappeared behind the fly-net into the house.

  A minute or two and the five were in the salon. Mme Perthus was sobbing quietly with Marthe consoling her. The three men stood uneasily by, and not until the sobs at last became spasmodic did Aumade begin to explain.

  “Unhappily Mme Perthus has not read the papers and it is only at this moment that she has heard of the tragic death of M. Letoque—a friend she has already learned to respect.”

  Another minute and she had calmed herself. With profound apologies Aumade asked if he might put a few questions. The assassination of M. Letoque would be avenged by the law, he said, and every friend of the victim was being asked to throw light on the terrible affair.

  Mme Perthus was uncommonly informative and helpful, though only, one might have said, in the interests of herself. An aunt had been suddenly taken ill in Toulon and she had been there for a few days. However, the aunt had made an unexpectedly quick recovery, and then she herself had felt homesick and so had come back. She had intended sending for Marthe the same night. As for the tragedy, she was too distressed even to think about it, and she was positive she could give the gentlemen no information at all.

  “Then we will intrude no longer,” Auma
de said. “Once more we offer our apologies and condolences. And this excellent Marthe remains?”

  “Of course I remain,” Marthe told him.

  But as the three were at the car again she all at once came running down the path, and once more her honest country face was blushing as she begged them never to reveal the things she had so loquaciously let fall about her mistress.

  Aumade reassured her, and at once she was flying to the house again.

  “Quick!” said Gallois as soon as the three were in the car. “Drive at once to telephone headquarters. It is possible that Mme Perthus is already telephoning to this aunt. The conversation should be overheard.”

  “But if the aunt is not on the ’phone?” asked Aumade, as the car shot on towards the bend.

  “Arrange at once for the Villa Vézac to be observed,” Gallois said. “If a letter is posted it must be examined.”

  It was not till Aumade had completed his arrangements that Gallois was able to explain.

  “How was it,” he said, “that Mme Perthus had heard in Carliens of the illness of a relative in Toulon? She spent the morning out, and it was when she came in that she was suddenly announcing to Marthe that she would have to go at once. Was that announcement made because she had just heard of the death of Rionne? Had she seen one of the photographs that had just been posted? Was there an aunt at all? If so, it seems strange she had never spoken of her to Marthe. Perhaps she had merely been at an hotel and had come back because she had heard of the death of Letoque.”

  “Possibly it was she who killed Letoque,” Aumade said. “She went away to fabricate an alibi.”

  “It is possible,” Gallois said, “but since she has not already telephoned to Toulon there is all the more reason that she should write a letter. If there is a relative she will have to write at once and induce her to agree to that story of a sudden illness.”

  “And in the morning, if you agree,” Gallois went on, “I would like to see the bank manager of Mme Perthus and inquire into her affairs. She looks to me like a woman of too good a heart, and it is possible that Letoque was an adventurer and had designs on her money.”

  Aumade, looking hastily at his watch, said the idea was an excellent one. But Mme Brassier must have been waiting ten minutes already at the Hôtel de Ville.

  “Let her wait,” said Gallois. “She is of the type who is likely to be annoyed at being made to wait, and when one is in a temper there are things which are often let fall.”

  Mme Brassier entered. Aumade was at his desk and he offered no welcoming hand. In the room there was an air of cold legality.

  “Sit there, madame, if you please. We hope we shall not detain you long, but it will naturally depend on yourself.”

  She shrugged her shoulders. Were not the interviews becoming tiresome? Would it not have been possible for them to have asked everything before and got everything over?

  “Alas,” said Aumade. “From hour to hour various facts keep emerging, and new problems, and we apply to you as the only person who is able to help. But first, to refresh your memory, I will read the previous evidence you have been so good as to give.”

  Mme Brassier was most uneasy. While listening with a strained attention to the voice of Aumade, she was all the time darting little looks at the two who sat impassively by.

  “And now to resume,” said Aumade, “On the afternoon of Wednesday, your husband and stepdaughter were bathing. You detest bathing and the noise of the beach, so you remained at the Villa. But you had with you, as usual, the pair of glasses so that you could see the beach and amuse yourself by observing the movements of the bathers.”

  She gave a somewhat nervous, “Yes.”

  “You were not in the habit, by any chance, of using those glasses to make sure that your husband and your stepdaughter were on the beach?”

  Her face flared.

  “I do not understand.”

  Aumade smiled. “Come, madame. Everything said here is in the utmost confidence, and we are all men of the world. I suggest that those glasses were used to make sure that it was perfectly safe for you to visit M. Letoque.”

  She was springing furiously to her feet. “It’s an insult. I demand the protection of my husband.”

  “Certainly,” said Aumade calmly. “If you wish, your husband shall be sent for at once. Meanwhile calm yourself. It is unnecessary to remind you that you are in the presence of the law. But you deny then that you were ever alone with M. Letoque in his villa of an afternoon?”

  She had sat down again, bosom heaving. Aumade repeated the question.

  “Never,” she said. “Again I insist that these are nothing but insults.”

  Aumade made play with taking up a document from the table and running his eyes carefully over it.

  “Nevertheless,” he said, “we have a witness who will swear that you were seen to enter his house on two occasions, in the afternoon. If you wish you may be confronted with this witness, but only, of course, in the presence of your husband.”

  She glared. “It’s a lie! Never, never would I do such a thing.”

  “You wish, then, that we should send for your husband and bring in the witness?”

  “No, no!” She was shaking her head and her hands were trembling too. “All the same it is a lie. I swear it.”

  Once more Aumade shrugged his shoulders.

  “But, madame, there are many things which you have sworn. You have sworn, for instance, that it was from your veranda that you heard those sounds that might have been the shots.”

  There was a quick, wary look at Gallois, then she was moistening her lips.

  “But it was on the veranda. I swear it was on the veranda.”

  Aumade leaned forward.

  “This afternoon, as you are aware, certain experiments were conducted at the Villa Sablons and, with the permission of your husband, in your own garden also. Shots were fired from a gun of the same calibre as that which was used to kill Letoque. The experiments proved, beyond doubt, that it was impossible to hear anything from your veranda.” He leaned forward again, thrusting out a sudden finger. “The truth, then, or it will be necessary to detain you. The law does not let itself be trifled with. The truth at once!”

  She was getting to her feet again. Travers thought she was going to cry, but it was fear that was bringing the shrillness and the hysterics.

  “It is the truth; I swear I’ve told you nothing but the truth.”

  Aumade picked up the receiver, but she was unaware that the buzzer had not been pressed.

  “Hallo! Make immediate arrangements please to take Mme Brassier to Toulon, as arranged. Demand the presence of her husband here at once.”

  There was a shriek as she rushed forward to the table. Aumade rose and confronted her coldly, and his voice had an ironic courtesy.

  “There is something you also would like to say?”

  She shook her head. Her shoulders all at once drooped.

  “You wish to tell the truth?”

  “Yes. I will tell the truth.”

  “Then calm yourself, I beg of you, and sit down.”

  He was again speaking into the receiver. The arrangements were to be temporarily cancelled.

  “So at last we arrive at the truth,” he said blandly, “and this time the truth is—what?”

  She had visited Letoque, she said, but purely out of friendliness, and she would swear by the Blessed Mother of God there had been nothing dishonourable. That Wednesday afternoon she had wondered casually if Letoque were in, and as she walked round the garden, she went out of curiosity through a gap in the hedge, and it was from there she heard shots, though she did not know they were shots. Nevertheless there was something peculiar about them, and at once she went to the back of the Villa to see if anything was happening there. She was just in time to see someone disappearing among the trees above the path, and she thought it was a man.

  “Tell me,” said Aumade, “who was it that you expected to see when you went to the back of the Villa?
”

  Her brain was obviously hunting for some lie, and then as obviously she was deciding to tell the truth.

  “It was Mme Perthus,” she said. “Once before I saw her enter the Villa by that way.”

  “Ah!” said Aumade with his usual gasp of satisfaction. “Perhaps after all we are arriving at the truth. And this man that you saw. What was he like?”

  But she did not see a man, she said. She had seen a movement of undergrowth and glimpsed someone who might have been either man or woman. That was her story and there was no shaking it. Then she had gone back to the veranda, she said, and looked down to the beach. There was no sign of her husband, and he had spoken of returning early, otherwise she would have gone perhaps to the Villa to confront Letoque.

  She seemed surprised when Aumade rose and said the interview was at an end, and there looked like being more hysterics when she refused to sign the statement.

  “Sign, madame, sign. The law insists,” Aumade told her coldly, and she signed.

  “Now you will be conducted back to your house,” he told her. “For the moment all this remains secret. You will continue your life in a perfectly normal way, but, nevertheless, you remain at our disposal. One false step and the consequences for yourself may be terrible.”

  The door closed on her. The room was all at once incredibly empty and incredibly quiet. Aumade leaned back in his chair and mopped his forehead. Travers was shaking his head as he slowly polished his glasses. Never had he heard anything so swift and so terrifying in its deadly coldness.

  Aumade let out a breath, “You believe this story, gentlemen?”

  Gallois made a gesture of indifference. To him the examination with its drama and even hysterics had been nothing more than the workaday.

  “In any case, we are making progress,” said Aumade, getting to his feet. “Now we have something definite with which Mme Perthus can be confronted.”

  “My congratulations,” said Gallois, also rising. “What I begin to see emerging from all this is a drama of these two women, and in my opinion it is Mme Perthus who is likely to prove the more interesting,”