He went on to the Mairie, where a curious group of spectators had collected, for to-day work in the village was very much at a standstill. His appearance and his admission by the gendarme placed at the door to keep out the unauthorized was watched with much interest. He was shown into a large, empty, sparsely-furnished waiting-room, its white-washed walls adorned with various notices and proclamations—including the latest speech delivered by the deputy for the district. Almost at once Eudes appeared from an inner room. He looked flushed and excited. He said indignantly:
“They are a pack of imbeciles, these officials. No wonder the republic is in danger when she is served by such a crew. For myself, I care nothing. My innocence proclaims itself. But when they seek to accuse others of the village, our cure for example, it is too much. Those black crows, it is the mind they seek to enslave and I resist them to the death. Corrupters of the mind, a thousand times, yes. Assassins in secret of the body, to think that is mere folly, and I say it, I, who have watched and fought the subtle trickeries of the church all my life. Bah!”
Whether this last angry ejaculation was aimed at the church or at the police, Bobby was not sure and had no time to inquire for he was hurriedly summoned to the presence of the commissaire. He found Monsieur Clauzel delivering an indignant harangue to an unfortunate official evidently held responsible for permitting a departing witness to meet and talk to one not yet examined. Bobby waited by the window till the storm should be over, and from it he could see at a distance down the street where Eudes and the curé were standing and talking together with every appearance of a mutual sympathy and understanding.
“You shall hear of it later,” Clauzel was saying in low angry tones to his guilty assistant, “and in the interval, see that it does not happen again.”
“I assure you, monsieur the commissaire,” Bobby interposed, “no harm was done. Monsieur Eudes said only that for himself he was innocent and that none but”—Bobby hesitated, looked more embarrassed than he felt, went on—“imbeciles was, I believe, the word thoughtlessly used, only they could imagine for a moment that a curé could be also an assassin. It is an opinion, for Monsieur Eudes is, I believe, strongly anti-clerical.”
Clauzel grunted and did not look either very impressed or much placated.
“Altogether irregular,” he repeated, voicing an official’s severest condemnation. “For that matter, priests have been also murderers before to-day, and I have known, too, the guilty protest furiously the innocence of others in order to impose a conviction of their own innocence.” He grunted again and looked at some papers on the table before him. “As for that,” he said, “the Abbé Granges was not far from threatening us with excommunication when we questioned him about the schoolmaster. Yet it seems they are bitter enemies and rivals, as indeed is only natural since it is war to the knife between them for control of the minds of the children.”
“Enemies, perhaps, but loyal enemies,” suggested Bobby.
“It may be,” agreed Clauzel, “yet it would seem that both or either may be implicated, and indeed I thought we were to be faced with a confession when the good abbé began to speak of his guilt. But it seems merely that his conscience troubles him because he heard quarrelling and threats one night by the Pepin Mill and yet because he thought it of little importance, and also because he had come far and was fatigued and it was late at night, he did not stop. Because of that he seems to think he is responsible in a way for the woman’s death, since had he stopped to inquire, he might have prevented what was to happen. A sensitive conscience perhaps? One does not know. He admits, too, that he has in his possession uncut diamonds which he says, but has no proof, were given him by the unfortunate Mademoiselle Polthwaite. Then it seems the schoolmaster was trying to secure possession of the Pépin Mill garden. Was that to hinder investigation, to destroy any evidence that might still exist? Again, one does not know. Is it possible, one wonders, that these two enemies in public are accomplices in private? There is so much to be considered. For yourself, monsieur—”
He waved Bobby, who had been standing till now, towards a chair that Bobby had already noticed with some amusement was so placed that its occupant sat with his face in full light, while Clauzel himself, sitting at his table, had his back to the window. Routine, of course, in police work all over the world, but the first time, Bobby reflected, that he had been passive in it and not active. The only other occupant of the room was a clerk—the ‘greffier’—sitting unobtrusively at a smaller table in one corner, in readiness to take down question and answer.
Bobby being seated, Monsieur Clauzel began on a most apologetic, friendly note. Infinitely did he regret that his duty compelled him to trouble a visitor, a guest of France, involved in these unfortunate affairs by the merest accident. All the same it was quite plain that a good many inquiries had been made about Bobby and his recent activities.
Clauzel, for instance, knew all about Bobby’s recent long solitary days on the Bornay Massif, and had even heard of his chats with various farmers of the district and of his purchase of binder twine, which had evidently amused the commissaire almost as much as it had done the farmer himself. Not that he made much effort to question Bobby closely. He merely let it be seen that he knew a lot about him and he expressed once or twice his conviction that Monsieur Owen would realize how important it was in such an ‘enquête’ as this, that nothing should be over-looked. The tiniest detail had its importance, it might be its overwhelming importance. Unfortunately the affair of the young Volny was taking on an aspect of increasing seriousness. True, it might well turn out in the end to be no more than a youthful escapade, but still, there it was, the days passed, the uneasiness of the family increased, nothing was heard of the missing lad. So far as was known, he had only a little money with him. It was certain he had not his papers of identity, for all of them, including his ‘carnet militaire’, had been found in his room in his father’s house.
Monsieur Clauzel paused to let this sink in, and Bobby understood how serious it was, for he knew that while sometimes it is possible to live without money, no one can exist for long in France without papers. It is of course possible to obtain false ones, but it is not easy; it requires time and knowledge. It was not very probable that a young countryman in Volny’s position would have had much opportunity of getting hold of such forgeries. Nor was there, as Clauzel pointed out, any reason to suppose that Volny had been contemplating flight for any length of time.
“He may, of course,” Clauzel admitted, “have found shelter with friends. It is a possible explanation, though we have made inquiries in every known direction without success. Comprehensible then that his family are very seriously alarmed. They have indeed,” added Clauzel somewhat resentfully, “communicated direct with Monsieur the Deputy, as though we needed such pressure to carry out our duties.”
“One must allow for the anxiety of a father,” Bobby remarked. “Natural for parents to worry about their youngsters. Boys and girls generally turn up again, I know, when they get tired of playing around, but sometimes they don’t. One’s got to remember that.”
Monsieur Clauzel agreed. He was happy indeed that Monsieur Owen understood so well, and then Bobby cut short further polite preliminaries by dropping his own little bombshell.
“I was in fact,” he said, “about to ask for an interview. I thought you might perhaps find these worth attention.” As he spoke he put on the commissaire’s table the fingerprint photographs Olive had sent him, and the good man fairly goggled—an ugly word, perhaps, but expressive.
“But these, these are finger-prints,” he stuttered. “I do not understand. Where do they come from? Whose are they?”
“As for whose they are, I do not know,” Bobby answered. “They come from wineglasses taken from the studio of Monsieur Basil Shields, of whom you have heard. You will remember he was a friend of Mademoiselle Polthwaite’s. He used to give her lessons in painting.”
The commissaire continued to goggle. Never in all his official
career had he been quite so utterly taken aback. He stared at the photographs, at Bobby, from one to the other and back again. He said finally:
“Yes. Of course, one remembers well. There were hints, there were suspicions. I considered them. There was no evidence. There was a strong alibi.”
“You were not, however, fully satisfied?”
“One is never satisfied till justice has been done,” answered Clauzel gravely. “But there was proof against no one and in the end a ‘non-lieu’ was returned.” He was silent a moment and then said: “None the less we have continued to watch. It was said Mademoiselle Polthwaite had invested her funds in diamonds and other jewels. None were found after her death. If one of those concerned begins to show signs of possessing money not accounted for, or if we hear of attempts by such a one to sell unset or uncut diamonds, then there will be questions to be answered. We understand, for example, that Monsieur Shields will be visiting New York soon. We shall see that his baggage is examined with special care and in New York they will be warned of his arrival.”
“Very wise,” Bobby agreed, “but somehow if Shields is guilty and if he has the diamonds, I don’t think he will be quite so simple as to carry them about with him.”
“The most cunning criminal makes his mistakes, especially when he has begun to think himself safe,” answered Clauzel, “but what has this to do with the Volny case? It is that we are concerned with at the moment. These photographs of finger-prints, whose are they?”
“I have no means of knowing,” Bobby answered quietly. “I was hoping you might be able to identify them. I have told you where they come from.”
Monsieur Clauzel set himself to examine them under a powerful magnifying glass he produced. With a muttered word of apology he left the room for a moment or two and when he came back he consulted with his clerk. Their heads were bent together over some papers Bobby could not see. Presently Clauzel turned to Bobby and said: “It cannot be considered fully established without a more complete technical examination. But there appears to be correspondence, as to one set of prints, with those Monsieur Shields was good enough to allow to be taken at the time of the inquiry into Mademoiselle Polthwaite’s death. The second set appears to agree with those found in the bedroom occupied by the missing Volny. You expected that?”
“Yes,” said Bobby. “It tends to confirm certain ideas of mine.”
The commissaire was looking at him with a puzzled and, Bobby felt, slightly suspicious air. He said:
“Monsieur, will you perhaps be good enough to explain more fully?”
“It is quite simple,” Bobby said. “You are aware that I knew there had been a quarrel, and even talk of a duel, between the two youngsters, Volny and Camion, and you heard how Père Trouché, the old blind beggar who seems a bit of an institution round here, hauled me out of bed to try to stop it. It was partly something I said that helped to start the row. Also he wanted it all kept as quiet as possible and I suppose he thought that as a stranger I should be less likely to gossip.”
“I understand you yourself had been involved with Volny in a dispute of a serious nature?” Clauzel said.
“Well, hardly serious, but we did have a row. He seemed to think I had been spying on him and threatened me with a pistol. I managed to trip him up and got the pistol away.”
“What did you do with it?”
“Threw it away, down a bit of a ravine near by,” Bobby answered. He added after a moment’s hesitation: “Perhaps I ought to say I saw it, or one like it, later on, together with a cap with bloodstains on it, in a drawer in the presbytery.”
“Ah, it was you who saw it,” murmured Clauzel, and Bobby knew very well he was thinking that perhaps Bobby had seen it there because it was he who had placed it there. “Unusual, perhaps, to find a pistol in a presbytery. Have you any theory to account for its presence?”
Bobby felt much inclined to retort that the curé was the person to question on that point. But he thought it more prudent to try to explain:
“It is only a theory,” he said, “but Volny was friendly with the Abbé Taylour. I believe that he had even made his confession to him once or twice, and I don’t think the curé here liked that one little bit. Poaching on his preserves. I expect he spoke to Volny père, and Volny fils had to promise to make his confession in the proper quarter for the future. If that was it, then the curé may have got out of him about his having threatened me with a pistol and may have insisted on the thing being handed over to him. As for the bloodstained cap—well,” said Bobby, trying to keep every trace of satisfaction out of his voice, “I believe the chap’s nose did bleed a bit.”
“It is very plausible, it is very well thought out,” agreed Clauzel with doubt in every syllable he uttered. “Proceed, monsieur.”
Bobby felt his story was being accorded a somewhat sceptical reception. He had a vision of himself on trial for his life in a French court, and he made up his mind hurriedly that if he managed to get out of this business safely, never again would he undertake any kind of private mission. He knew very well that even an arrest, even though it never came to a trial, would put a very complete end to his career. After such a contretemps, the utmost he could hope for would be a transfer to the uniform branch, at the very best with permission to keep his rank as sergeant, but with all hope of further promotion for ever gone. However, he let nothing of that appear and continued quietly:
“Naturally, I heard, like every one else, that Volny had disappeared. At first I thought it was probably that he had thought the duel business rather silly and had decided to end it by going away for a time.”
“I understand when you were out that morning you heard a single shot fired?”
“That is true,” Bobby agreed.
“You attached no importance to it?”
“I could see no reason to.”
“Camion’s explanation is that he fired one shot to make sure his pistol was in working order.”
“I may point out,” Bobby said, “that if that pistol shot we heard, meant he had murdered Volny, the body must have been lying somewhere very near. There was no sign of it.”
“The point has not been overlooked,” observed Clauzel drily. “It might have been concealed and removed later. Proceed, monsieur.”
“It seemed strange,” Bobby continued, “that Volny did not let his friends know where he was. I knew there was a general feeling of uneasiness and I began to think there might be some ground for it. Monsieur Eudes told me he believed Volny had gone to visit the Abbé Taylour in that solitary hut up on the hill. But Eudes said he had gone off on his bicycle, and you don’t use a bicycle to climb steep hills with no roads up them. I concluded Volny had meant to go somewhere else, and somewhere not far away, since it was within bicycle ride. I knew he was interesting himself in the Polthwaite tragedy. I knew he had been trying to get the Williamses away from the Pépin Mill. I supposed that was because he wanted a chance to visit it himself. That meant that either he hoped to find something to show who was guilty or that he had heard of the diamonds Miss Polthwaite was supposed to have had by her, and wanted to have a try himself to find them. I knew, too, for Eudes told me, that he was talking about the Polthwaite affair the night of his disappearance. I guessed the duel business might have made him keener on discovering something. Probably he believed Camion was the murderer—it seems the general idea in the village—and if he could find out anything to prove it, he would have got rid of a rival, since both he and Camion are trying to win Mademoiselle Simone’s favour, and also any idea of a duel would have been put an end to. So I thought he might for both those reasons be specially anxious just now to do a bit of investigating on his own. But the only person in bicycle-ride distance, who could tell him anything about the Polthwaite affair, was Shields. It seemed a fair guess that Volny had intended to ride over to Barsac to see Shields with the idea of questioning him further.”
“Volny is known in Barsac, there are relatives of his there,” Clauzel interrupted. “We ha
ve made inquiries. He has not been seen.”
“I wondered about that, too,” Bobby said. “I took it for granted you had made such inquiries. I thought he might have slipped in without being seen, but not that he could be staying there without its getting known. That also I found disquieting. Shields had asked me to pay him a visit to see his work. I thought it would be a good time to accept his invitation. At Barsac I found Shields was out. I determined to wait and I got chatting to a man named Ducane who seems to work in the garden.”
“He has been questioned,” Clauzel remarked. “He spoke of your visit. You did his portrait, didn’t you? An admirable piece of work, if I may say so.”
“You are most kind,” said Bobby, very pleased, though he knew quite well the portrait had been admirable only in a very special sense. “Of course, I pretend to be no more than a highly incompetent amateur. Ducane told me a few things I thought interesting. For example, that Shields was always reluctant to spend money. Therefore he was either miserly or hard up. He didn’t strike me as the miserly type, so I concluded he was hard up. Yet the first time I saw him he boasted of his prosperity. I wondered why he wished to give that impression. I noticed there was a bicycle pushed out of sight behind some sacks of artificial manure in a shed where I sat for shelter out of the sun while I was waiting for Shields’s return. Ducane’s story was that Shields had blundered in giving an order for garden stuff over the ’phone, and had in consequence had delivered to him enough artificial manure for half a dozen farms and a whole bale of binder twine, instead of the raffia he wanted. Curious mistakes to make, I thought, but curious mistakes can be made over the ’phone, especially when one is talking a foreign language. I was interested though, and interested to see that the mistakes hadn’t been put right. Instead the bale of binder twine had fairly well been used up so apparently some use had been made of it. I noticed, too, that the bicycle was not new and that the identification plaque was missing. Ducane mentioned that Shields had had his bicycle smashed up in an accident about the time of the Polthwaite affair and afterwards had bought a new one. He said, too, that Shields had gone into Clermont that morning on his bicycle. I concluded therefore that the bicycle pushed almost out of sight I had noticed in one of the outhouses was not his. For one thing, it was not new, and I did not think a man so careful of his money as Shields seemed to be would have bought two.”
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