Murder Abroad

by E. R. Punshon

  “I see you have ideas,” Bobby said.

  “Monsieur,” replied the old man, “in seventy years on the road, one has time for ideas. But that reminds me, time passes. It is time I got to my work.”

  “I thought you did none,” Bobby said.

  “It would be good for no man,” answered the Père Trouché severely, “to be entirely idle. I, too, should deteriorate like others, if I had nothing to do but sit under a tree and wait for food to come. No, I recognize that it is better for me that I should have to go and ask for it and I do not complain. Fortunately, none refuse the poor blind beggar. They have pity for him and they know well that if they had not, then the good God would punish them. Their poultry would die, their beasts would stray, their secrets become known. Why, I even heard of a man who had no pity for the blind and somehow a goat got loose in his garden one night and ate all the young lettuce, all the young peas, till none were left. The justice of heaven!”

  “I wonder how the goat got loose,” observed Bobby.

  “Probably an angel from heaven freed it.”

  “A blind angel,” Bobby suggested.

  The old man chuckled once more.

  “That, only the good God knows,” he said.

  “But not, for instance, the garde-champêtre?”

  “The garde-champêtre,” the old man repeated disdainfully. “He, he knows nothing, that one. Bah!”

  “There was an English lady died here a little while ago,” Bobby said slowly. “In a well. A cruel death.”

  There was silence for a little. The old man got to his feet. He said, and now his voice was different:

  “A cruel death. Yes. I would not wish to die like that I, who have lived in the sunshine and the open air. A cruel death.”

  “Will you tell me what you know about it?” Bobby asked. “You, who know everything.”

  The Père Trouché answered slowly:

  “I have blasphemed. I said that I and the good God, we knew all that passed in Citry-sur-l’eau. What happened at the Pépin Mill that night, He knows but not I.”

  “Are you sure there is nothing you could tell me?”

  “Ask rather Monsieur and Madame Williams who have gone to live where some would not much care to be.” With that, with no form of farewell, the blind beggar went quickly away, feeling his path with marvellous accuracy and speed, so that it was difficult to believe he could not see.

  Bobby made no attempt to follow him. If he could be got to talk some day, it would be in his own time. It was nearly the lunch hour now and Bobby went back slowly to the hotel. After that, sketch book in hand, he took a walk in the Pépin Mill direction, for he was curious to know what Madame Simone had meant by the remark she had let drop the night before.

  CHAPTER VIII

  GOLD PENCIL CASE

  It was in a spot well hidden among the trees around the Pépin Mill, and yet commanding a clear view of the path that led across the plank bridge to the mill door, that Bobby established himself with his sketching materials. Artistic pursuits, he reflected, provide useful cover, and as he worked away busily he kept a sharp look out.

  Near the mill itself no sign of life appeared. Lazily it drowsed in the warm afternoon sunshine. On the road there was an occasional passer-by, and now and then a vehicle, either a farm wagon or a motor car. About three o’clock he saw Lucille Simone approaching. She turned from the road towards the little plank bridge and when she reached it stood there for a time in the full glare of the sun, apparently hesitating. Then as if suddenly making up her mind she came on briskly.

  Her arrival had evidently been expected, for as she came to the door of the mill it opened to her before she had time to knock. No one appeared. It was just that the door swung back. Perhaps some one called to her to enter but Bobby was too far away to hear any such summons. For a moment or two she stood still, staring at the open door; and then, again with that air of abruptly and resolutely making up her mind, she went forward. The door closed immediately behind her, nor could Bobby tell why there seemed to him something ominous, something of a strange and deadly significance in this quiet, as it were, unseen, reception.

  He began to put away his sketching materials. It was, he supposed, impossible to imagine for a moment that real harm threatened the girl. Her aunt, for instance, would know she contemplated making this visit. Yet what could be its meaning? Why had she had that air of hesitation? Conscious of a distinct uneasiness, certain that Lucille’s presence here must have some significance, Bobby began to draw nearer to the mill. Trees and shrubs afforded shelter of which he took full advantage, and he hoped, too, that those within would be too busy with their own affairs to be on the look out.

  When he was as near as he judged it prudent to attempt to approach, he crouched down behind some bushes and set himself to the old familiar, tedious task of the detective, that of watching and waiting. He would look an awful fool, he supposed, if some one found him there and wanted to know what on earth he was doing, squatting there on the ground behind a clump of bushes. One has to take one’s risks, though, and fortunately artists are supposed to be eccentric. He reflected ruefully that here he had no official standing, no warrant card to produce with a flourish, that here the magic words ‘Scotland Yard’ had no efficacy. Nor any superiors in the background to whom he could go for instruction when he wanted to dodge responsibility.

  For almost the first time in his life he realized, with a touch of astonishment, that after all senior officers really have their uses. A chastening thought!

  It was nearly an hour that he waited there when suddenly the door opened and Lucille appeared. Bobby was conscious of a touch of relief. He had not actually believed she was in any real danger, but all the same one could never tell. Then he saw that her arm was being firmly held in a grip that might be friendly or might not. It was Williams who held her thus, with his huge hand grasping her arm, but even as Bobby watched, on the point of showing himself but anxious, too, to see if anything more definite happened, the girl turned sharply, snatching her arm from Williams’s grip and standing still to face him. She said something. Bobby could not catch the words, though he could see that her attitude was defiant and even challenging, her head held back, her slender form drawn to its full height.

  Williams seemed to mutter some response and then they both began to move down the path, his bulky form towering above her, his long strides keeping pace easily with her hurried walk. When she tried to go straight on towards the bridge, he interposed a huge arm and seemed to make some remark. She shrugged her shoulders and together they turned aside towards the well.

  Bobby was watching them closely, ready to spring and run should the need arise. They reached the well and stood there, the girl erect and quiet and still, Williams appearing to watch her intently. He stooped and lifted the cover, exposing that dark shaft which went down and down to where the dull gleam of the water showed so far below. He seemed to invite the girl to look, but she shrank away. Bobby thought it time to show himself. Williams could hardly contemplate murder—and such a murder—in broad daylight, and yet how easy for that huge man with his powerful muscles to seize the girl and thrust her into those black and horrid depths and then to replace the cover, leaving no sign of what had happened, no possibility of any cry reaching the upper earth.

  Of an incredible audacity, if such a deed were contemplated. Yet something of the sort had already happened here and the possibility of a repetition could not be ignored. It had to be remembered, too, that once the thing was done, and it could be quickly done, once the cover replaced, then rescue in time would be impossible.

  On his feet now, Bobby hurried towards where they stood together by the well, its black chill narrow mouth gaping and grim in the sunlight. They did not at first hear him. Lucille had moved a step or two aside, turning her face away as she did so, and Bobby could see how pale she looked, how terrified. Williams took her by the arm again and pulled her nearer. Bobby began to run.

  They heard him then, a
s indeed he meant them to. They both turned, Lucille evidently astonished by his sudden appearance, but with an air of great relief as well; Williams equally surprised, angry and scowling, too, though hardly, Bobby thought, looking like a man surprised in the act of attempting to commit a murder. Yet what else had he intended and why was relief even plainer than surprise in Lucille’s expression?

  “Oh, how do you do?” Bobby said amiably.

  Lucille began to giggle as if she thought this greeting funny. Williams glared and scowled more formidably still, but said nothing. Bobby heard the door of the mill open, and, looking round, saw the meek little form of Mrs. Williams appear. Apparently she had been watching. Bobby wondered why? Had she also been afraid of what might be going to happen? She began to walk towards them. Lucille said:

  “I must go. My aunt will be expecting me. Good day.”

  She hurried off. Williams did not make any attempt to stop her. It was quite plain that he was controlling his anger with difficulty as he muttered to Bobby:

  “Well, what do you want? Hey? What the devil, snooping round. What’s the game? Heh?”

  “What were you saying to that girl?” Bobby asked.

  “For two pins I would knock your head off,” Williams told him. “For two pins I would give you a sound thrashing, you interfering, meddling fool.”

  He made a threatening movement forward, but Bobby was so obviously unalarmed, so plainly prepared, that he hesitated. Bobby said:

  “What was it I interfered with? What is it I meddle in?” He paused and repeated: “What were you saying to that girl?”

  “Mind your own business,” Williams snarled and then added: “She wanted to see the well where they say some old woman or another drowned herself a while back. Got scared when I took the cover off and told her to look. I thought at first she was going to faint.”

  “Well, I should put the cover back now if I were you,” Bobby suggested. “Once is once too often. We don’t want it to happen again.”

  Mrs. Williams had joined them now. She said:

  “I told you so, I told you not to, Joe. I knew she would get frightened if you let her peep. Morbid, I call it, the way people come and ask if they can see where it happened.” She looked at Bobby. “Did this gentleman want to see the well, too? Morbid, I call it,” she repeated severely. “Morbid.”

  “Curiously enough,” Bobby said, “I’ve been asked to give you a message. About this well. I didn’t mean to, but now I may as well. The message was to ask you to remember that where one had gone, another might follow.” The Williams looked at each other. Then the man spoke, Bobby thought in response to a sign his wife made. He said:

  “Who was it?”

  “I wasn’t asked to give you the name and so I don’t think I will,” answered Bobby. “The message is enough. I never meant to give it you but now I have. I wonder what it means?”

  Williams did not answer. He began to put back the well cover. It was heavy and he seemed to have some difficulty in adjusting it. His wife went to help him and Bobby saw that they exchanged whispers. Williams straightened himself and said once more:

  “What’s your game, hanging about here the way you do?”

  “When I do hang about,” Bobby said slowly, “things seem to happen, don’t they? The other night I thought I heard a shot fired. A mistake, you told me, though there was certainly a window broken. Just now I thought—well, never mind that. Another mistake. They tell me in the village you are from Scotland Yard?”

  “What about it?”

  “Is it true?”

  “What’s it to do with you if it is?”

  “Oh, I was just wondering. Odd, though, if British police are trying to investigate something that happened in another country. No jurisdiction. The French police say what happened here was suicide. Perhaps they are right. Perhaps they are waiting to see if anything else happens. You can never tell with police.”

  Williams was looking now even more puzzled than angry. Mrs. Williams pulled at his sleeve and whispered something. Then she said:

  “Joe, ask the gentleman to come in and have a cup of tea with us. It’s just a misunderstanding, I’m sure the gentleman didn’t mean to trespass. We’ve been so bothered with trespassers, stealing fruit and vegetables and things and peeping in at the windows,” she explained to Bobby, “Mr. Williams wants to complain to the police, only I asked him not to, because it would make such a lot of bother, and then it’s foreign police, so you can’t ever tell, can you? Do come in and have a cup of tea with us.”

  “Please don’t trouble about tea,” Bobby said, “but I should like to have a bit of a talk.”

  They went back to the mill together. Mrs. Williams disappeared into the kitchen. Williams pushed a chair towards Bobby and sat down himself. Bobby noticed that the broken window had not yet been repaired. A piece of paper had been pasted over the hole to keep the wind out. He could see nothing in the barely-furnished room in any way personal, nothing to throw any light on the aims, pursuits, or characters of these two people. Williams was evidently feeling very worried and disturbed. He began to fill his pipe and then laid it aside. He took out a small gold pencil case and began to scribble something on a piece of paper and then changed his mind and tore it up. The gold pencil case attracted Bobby’s attention.

  It was a pretty, dainty thing, incongruous between Williams’s thick, hairy fingers, and the incongruous always interested Bobby. There were initials on it, a monogram, but Bobby could not see what they were. Williams noticed his interest and scowled and pushed back the pencil case into his pocket, somewhat hastily, almost as if he regretted having let Bobby see it.

  “What are you staring at?” he demanded angrily. “What’s the game? I mean to say, you had better look out or you’ll be getting hurt.”

  “You haven’t told me yet,” Bobby said, ignoring this—he had always found it best to ignore threats, “if it is the fact that you are from Scotland Yard.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Williams admitted sulkily, “and what’s more, I never said I was. What I did say in the café one night when I was having a drink there, was that Scotland Yard would have found out fast enough what happened to Miss Polthwaite. When we took this place for a quiet holiday—saw it advertised in the Paris papers—we didn’t know an old girl had been done in here. If we had known, we shouldn’t have come. Not that it matters a lot, only you don’t choose where there’s been a murder for a holiday stay. That goes for us. What about you? You a private detective?”

  “No,” said Bobby, promptly and emphatically, for he did not like private detectives.

  “Well, then,” said Williams. “I take it you can’t be one of the regulars—they couldn’t very well shove in their noses in France. Get told off if they did. So what’s the idea, you hanging round here all the time?”

  “I didn’t know I was,” Bobby said. “I knew about Miss Polthwaite’s death. I read about it at the time. The night I got here I was out for a stroll and just thought I would have a look at the place where it happened. I thought I heard a shot. You say I was mistaken. To-day I came to ask if you had any objection to my making a few sketches here.”

  “Well, we have,” interposed Williams, “a lot of objection.”

  Unheeding this, Bobby went on:

  “I saw you and a girl standing by the well. I thought she looked afraid—upset.”

  “What about it?” interrupted Williams again. “So she did. So she was. Wanted to have a peep where it happened and then got the wind up. Like a girl, little fools, all of them.”

  “There has been one death there already,” Bobby said. “Enough to frighten any girl, fool or not.”

  He noticed a sudden change in Williams’s expression. The truculence went out of it. All at once he seemed uneasy as if for some reason he felt no longer so sure of himself. He began to laugh loudly but not very naturally. Bobby, puzzled, wondered what had brought about this change. Mrs. Williams, tray in hand, was standing just behind him now. He had not heard her
come in. She must have entered, have moved, with extraordinary quietness, and a memory stirred vaguely in Bobby’s mind of how on his first visit to this mill, on the night when he heard a shot fired, he had seemed to be aware of something small and silent and secret creeping softly behind him. Williams stopped laughing and said boisterously:

  “Why, of course, do all the sketching you want to. Why not? All day if you like, all night, too, for that matter. At least, as long as you don’t want us to buy your stuff.”

  He began to laugh again as if he thought this an excellent joke. Mrs. Williams moved forward with her soft prowling step, put down her tray, and began to pour out the tea, chatting amiably as she did so. The conversation grew general, almost genial indeed. Williams appeared to be trying his best now to be friendly. Bobby presently took his leave, receiving again a fresh invitation to return as often and do as much sketching as he liked.

  He felt a good deal puzzled by this sudden change to geniality and very little inclined to believe the plausible stories he had been told. Yet he had no real reason to doubt their declaration that their presence here was entirely accidental and the interest they showed in the Polthwaite case merely a natural result of their chance tenancy of the mill. All the same he was little inclined to dismiss the possibility of some connection existing between their presence and the Polthwaite murder. But surely they themselves could not be guilty, since even the most callous murderers would hardly choose for residence the scene of their secret crime? Or would they? hoping so perhaps to watch or hinder any investigation. Or was it the store of diamonds Miss Polthwaite was believed to have had in her possession, that they had heard of and hoped possibly to secure for themselves? It might be the diamonds were still concealed somewhere about the mill and they hoped to find them?