Campion sat on the edge of the table and digested this alarming information.
‘Did M. Gerard get any other calls?’
‘Oh yes, I was forgetting. A little girl phoned every two or three hours yesterday and today she came round. They put her off. She was very young, the clerk said, and she said she was Gerard’s daughter, but he was a Frenchman, you see, and she was so obviously English – not a trace of accent. Somehow we didn’t altogether believe her.’
Campion laughed abruptly.
‘Poor child!’ he said. ‘That’s one of the disadvantages of a really good education, Bloomer: no one allows for it. I say, this is very odd.’
‘I don’t like it.’ The old man shook his head. ‘But what can you do? If a guest books a suite in advance and leaves his luggage in it there’s nothing to stop him. His firm hasn’t found him yet because they keep phoning, but they still say it’s okay for us to wait. We don’t want a fuss. He may have three or four unofficial families to see over here, for all we know.’
‘That’s unlikely,’ murmured Campion. ‘I’d like to see those rooms of his. What about it?’
‘Oh, I couldn’t do that, sir! You didn’t ought to ask me.’ The old man was honestly scandalised, so that it was a tribute to his visitor’s powers of persuasion that ten minutes later they entered the deserted suite together.
The two rooms with the adjoining bathroom showed no signs of occupation whatever, apart from the two neat hide cases standing on the luggage bench. Nothing was unpacked. The soap in the bathroom was still a fresh cake. Clearly the visitor had merely seen his luggage safely deposited before walking out again. Mr Campion regarded the suitcases wistfully.
‘No, sir, we couldn’t. It’s more than my job and my pension are worth,’ Bloomer sounded adamant this time, and his visitor sighed.
‘You hold things up so,’ he said. ‘Think of that poor child waiting downstairs.’
It took him another five minutes’ hard persuasion, and when he finally discovered that the cases were unlocked Bloomer was standing with his back against the door, listening for footsteps, with the sweat standing out on his forehead.
‘Hurry, for Pete’s sake,’ he whispered huskily. ‘You frighten me, you do. Found anything yet?’
‘Cut-up corpse,’ said his colleague, sepulchrally.
‘No!’ ejaculated Bloomer, deserting his post.
‘No,’ agreed Campion, turning over a pile of white shirts with deft fingers. ‘No, not even a bundle of Government plans. Not even a dirty collar.’
He closed the second case and went over to the soiled-linen basket. Its yield seemed to interest him. It contained one pair of crumpled grey cotton gloves and no more.
He stood looking at the gloves, which he spread out side by side on the bed.
‘That’s very curious,’ he said at last. ‘Don’t you think so?’
‘Well, no, Mr Campion, I can’t say I do, since you ask me.’
‘This basket would have been cleared before M. Gerard took possession of the room?’
‘I should hope so.’
‘Well then, since this suite hasn’t been occupied by anyone else, presumably he left these.’
‘Very likely. Why not?’
‘Nothing. Except that it’s very odd that these should be all he left. Don’t you see, Bloomer, the old boy didn’t even change his shirt. Think of it: he’s come from Paris, travelled all night, come up from Southampton on the early train, and yet he doesn’t bath, doesn’t shave, doesn’t even change his collar. I admit there are men who are above such trifles as soot round the cuff-band, but this lad wasn’t one of these. He’s only over here for four days and yet he’s brought three suits, eight shirts, and a neat little soiled-linen bag embroidered with his monogram, to say nothing of a nest of collars. Why didn’t he change? And what, in the name of goodness, does he look like by this time?’
Bloomer frowned.
‘Does seem funny when you put it like that,’ he said. ‘What about the gloves? They don’t look like part of a smart gentleman’s outfit to me. Grey cotton … that’s not very natty.’
‘Not so much natty as necessary,’ said Campion. ‘On the Continent, that home of iniquity, my good Bloomer, the trains are so inclement that the intelligent native traveller always provides himself with a pair of these to keep his hands clean. That’s what makes it all so infernally fishy. Apparently the eminent M. Gerard rushed up here, tore off his gloves and rushed down again. Besides, there’s something curious about the gloves, don’t you think?’
Bloomer looked at them steadily for a long time.
‘They’re dirty,’ he said at last.
‘So they are, indeed,’ agreed Campion, and put them in his pocket. ‘Don’t worry about trifles,’ he insisted, brushing aside the detective’s protest. ‘We’ve got to get a move on. I want a cab and my poor patient Felicity.’
Bloomer gaped at him.
‘Here,’ he said, ‘you don’t think there’s something criminally serious up, do you?’
‘I hope not,’ said Campion.
He repeated the same sentiment five minutes later to Felicity as he helped her into a taxi. ‘Now you know what you have to do?’ he said, leaning in at the door. ‘Mr Bloomer will be waiting here for you both. After that, go straight on to Scotland Yard and ask for Superintendent Stanislaus Oates.’
‘All right.’ Felicity was scared but game, and her round eyes were anxious. ‘Madeleine’s going to be frightfully nervous; I suppose you realise that? It’s not only about the luncheons. She’s terribly fond of her father. I haven’t made that clear, I’m afraid.’
‘I detected that,’ said Campion, grinning at her cheerfully. ‘Don’t worry. Stick to the instructions on the bottle and we’ll all go to the party. You take the high road and I’ll take the low and I’ll be on the Embankment before you. That’s a bet.’
As he stepped back and nodded to the driver his smile faded, and by the time he had captured another taxi and was on his way to Hatton Garden he was frowning, yet he was as good as his word. When Miss Felicity Carrington and Mlle Madeleine Gerard were conducted up to Superintendent Stanislaus Oates’s office a little over half an hour later he was there to introduce them.
The Superintendent rose as they appeared. His grey face was even more lugubrious than usual, but he brightened up a little at the sight of Felicity. Oates had an avuncular spot in his heart for what he privately described as ‘a County blonde’.
Madeleine was a surprise to Mr Campion. He had imagined, for some reason or other, a little dark seventeen-year-old, so that the tall, willowy young woman with the sleek ash-blonde hair and the indescribable air of chic about her was unexpected. She was trembling with nervousness and her first remark explained much that had puzzled Campion.
‘I ought not to come to the police. My father will be so angry. He hates any sort of interference. Yet nothing could have happened to him, could it?’
The Superintendent smiled disarmingly.
‘Suppose we sit down,’ he said. ‘I think we can consider this an unofficial talk for the time being. We can get a bit forrader without Mr Gerard ever knowing anything about it, if it all turns out to be normal.’
‘The signature wasn’t normal,’ cut in Felicity. ‘We did what you said, Albert. We went to the hotel and Mr Bloomer showed us the register. Madeleine was startled by the signature; it was so shaky.’
‘It’s my father’s writing, but it’s so unsteady,’ murmured Madeleine. ‘I’m so afraid he’s been taken ill. What can we do?’
Oates glanced at Campion.
‘According to Bloomer, Bergère Frères are taking care of that end,’ he said. ‘I think, somehow, we ought to have them represented at this little conference. You got nothing out of them, you say?’
Campion shrugged his shoulders.
‘I was not exactly pitched out,’ he admitted. ‘But the visit was not productive. I never met people who were so anxious not to talk to me.’
‘Th
at was a change for you, wasn’t it?’ said Oates with relish. ‘If I may say so, it’s authority you lack, my lad.’
‘Which is why I’m here, of course,’ agreed Mr Campion cheerfully. ‘With my brains and your authority what could we two not accomplish? I don’t want to hurry you, Superintendent, but these offices in Hatton Garden sometimes shut. As it is, I very much doubt if you’ll get anyone to come down here.’
Oates took the hint.
‘I’ll phone them from the other room,’ he said, rising. ‘We’ll see what my not-so-celebrated charm will do.’
He returned in five minutes, grave but secretly pleased with himself.
‘Mr Kenway will be with us,’ he announced, eyeing Campion with a faint gleam in his eyes. ‘He said you’d called. It seems he couldn’t see you. He’s the manager. Do you know him, Miss Gerard?’
‘I? Oh no. I’m afraid I don’t know anything about my father’s affairs. I wish I did. Has this man seen Daddy?’
‘Yes. Apparently he called on Tuesday afternoon. Since then they haven’t heard from him.’
‘But where is he? This is terrifying.’ The girl was obviously frightened and the Superintendent’s manner became heavily kind.
‘Don’t worry too much, young lady,’ he said. ‘He’s not in hospital. Mr Kenway seems to have made certain of that. As a matter of fact, I thought Bergère’s were relieved to hear from me. I couldn’t understand why they hadn’t been here themselves, but apparently they have the same ideas about your father that you have yourself. He’s a little autocratic, is he? Likes to go his own way?’
‘He doesn’t like interference at all,’ murmured Madeleine Gerard, and sounded as though she knew what she was talking about.
Oates pulled a pad towards him.
‘Could you give me a description of your father?’ he inquired. ‘Don’t be alarmed. This is only routine. Now, what age would he be, please?’
Mr Campion read the pencilled note over the Superintendent’s grey-tweed shoulder.
Age: 61. Height: 5 ft. 7 in. approx.
Hair: Greyish white.
Weight: She doesn’t know at all.
Fattish, Complexion, pale.
Eyes: Grey-blue. Clean-shaven.
Wears no rings. No distinguishing marks she can think of. Probably smartly dressed.
As the policeman finished writing he glanced up at Campion.
‘Any comments?’
‘I was wondering …’ The younger man’s tone was diffident. ‘Mademoiselle Gerard, what are your father’s recreations? Is he keen on any sports?’
‘No.’ Madeleine looked puzzled and so, to do her justice, did the Superintendent. ‘He spends all his time in his study and in the strong-room in the little château at Vaux. I don’t think he has any recreation at all, unless you count his violin.’
‘His violin?’ There was an inflection in Campion’s voice which made Oates stare at him. ‘He still plays, you say?’
‘Yes. Only to amuse himself, of course. He’s a recluse, Mr Campion. He likes to be alone. He lives alone. He travels alone. He hates to give any account of himself and loathes any intrusion on his privacy. That’s why I’m so afraid I ought not to be here. And yet I’m so frightened he may have been taken ill.’
There was a charming honesty in her manner which made Campion like her, and he made a mental note of the fact that young Henry Roundel was a lucky youngster.
‘Don’t get alarmed, Miss Gerard. There’s no need for that.’ Oates turned away from Campion, whom he had been watching with terrier-like curiosity, to make the reassurance. ‘That’s very interesting, but I’m afraid it’s not going to help us much. Ah, here’s the man we want.’
Richard Kenway came hurrying into the room, past the helmetless constable who had announced him, like a very small train shunting into a station. He was a short, plump person, dark in the hair and pale in the face and at the moment he was breathless and startled out of his wits. He shook hands with Oates, nodded coldly to Campion, and pounced on Madeleine with relief.
‘I had no idea that M. Gerard had a daughter over here or I’d have got in touch with you at once,’ he said earnestly. ‘This is terrible. Haven’t you seen your father at all? Didn’t you meet him at the station?’
‘Oh no, he’d never have forgiven me.’ Madeleine spoke with deep conviction. ‘He doesn’t like what he calls being fussed. Don’t you find that?’
Mr Kenway passed a plump white hand over his hair. He coughed.
‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘that was the private information which we received from our Paris house. That was how it all happened. Dear me, this is terrible! Our hands have been tied, and we’ve been sitting about doing nothing, while anything may have happened to him, anything!’
‘Oh, I hope not, sir, I hope not.’ Oates spoke firmly and raised his eyebrows at the visitor. ‘Suppose you tell us about M. Gerard’s visit to you? He called about half-past four in the afternoon, I understand?’
‘Yes, he did.’ Mr Kenway hesitated. ‘I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing. This is an impossible situation. I really think I’d better tell you the whole story. If it proves to be indiscreet I must take the consequences. First of all I must disclose a trade secret. Although the firm of Bergère Brothers is now virtually owned by M. Gerard, he doesn’t bother himself with business; in fact, he affects to know little or nothing about it and is even celebrated for his casualness and unconventionality in these affairs. May I say that, mademoiselle?’
Madeleine nodded. ‘I believe that is his reputation,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard he’s rather terrifying. He wanders about with stones loose in his waistcoat pocket. That’s the kind of thing you mean, isn’t it, Mr Kenway?’
The jewel-broker wiped his forehead.
‘That is the kind of thing,’ he agreed dryly. ‘Added to that there is this dislike of ceremony, any sort of interference, or – er – any friendliness; I had almost said any ordinary business civility. Our Paris manager warned me, in so many words, not to ask him to lunch, or even to make any effort at conversation. Well, there we were on Tuesday morning, all very much aware that our principal was due at any moment. We had a very fine collection of unset rubies which we knew he was interested to see, and the whole staff was hanging about on tenterhooks, myself included, until four-thirty in the afternoon. We had almost given him up when he walked in, produced his credentials, and asked to see the rubies. It was just like that; as formal and peremptory as if he had nothing to do with the firm at all.’
He paused and shook his head over the experience.
‘Frankly, I saw at a glance that he was not faintly interested in me, even as another human being, so I imitated his own manner. I studied his credentials, handed them back to him and opened the safe. He sat down at the table and began to examine the tray of stones which I set before him. After a while he glanced up and said in French: “Don’t disturb me for half an hour.” Naturally I left him. I waited in the outer office for nearly an hour. When at last I did go back the door from my room to the corridor was open and he had gone. I haven’t seen him since. He had evidently finished his examination and not bothered to summon me. The lift-boy who had brought him up naturally took him down again and he walked out of the building.’
‘I see. Not an easy gentleman to entertain,’ said Oates in a valiant attempt at tact. ‘Then you rang up the hotel?’
‘Yes. Yes, I did.’ Mr Kenway seemed to be struggling with himself. Finally his anxiety prevailed. ‘There is one thing I haven’t made clear,’ he said huskily. ‘When M. Gerard went out he took the rubies with him.’
Oates smothered an exclamation. ‘And yet you didn’t report the matter?’ he demanded.
‘My dear sir, how dared I?’ Mr Kenway was almost weeping. ‘They were his own stones. The whole firm belongs to him. I had express instructions from Paris, from M. Bergère himself, that M. Gerard was to be treated with the utmost care. He was to have anything he wanted. I was to do anything, absolutely
anything he told me. M. Bergère himself is something of an autocrat. He does not tolerate failure in a subordinate. I have not dared to report the affair to him yet. I gave myself until tonight, hoping against hope that M. Gerard would return. Now I must phone Paris and, frankly, I might as well hand in my own resignation at the same time.’
‘Don’t be too hasty, sir.’ The Superintendent sounded genuinely sorry for the little man. ‘Give us a chance to do what we can. This was the first time you’d met Mr Gerard, was it?’
‘Yes. No one on this side knows him. He hasn’t been in England for a great many years. He hardly ever leaves his home. The news of his visit was a great surprise to us.’
‘I see. Here’s Miss Gerard’s description of her father. Can you add anything to it?’
Mr Kenway took the slip of paper and read it carefully.
‘No,’ he said at last. ‘No, that’s accurate as far as it goes. He wore a grey suit and a soft hat, ordinary but very good. He spoke French all the time. No, I don’t think I noticed anything else.’
‘Did he gesticulate when he talked?’
Mr Campion’s mild question sounded a trifle silly and even Oates stared at him, while Mr Kenway chose to be irritated.
‘He did not, sir,’ he said. ‘As far as I remember he was very quiet. He stood with his left hand in his pocket, and his glove and stick in the other most of the time I was with him!’
‘Really?’ Mr Campion’s vacant expression had misled many a shrewder man than Mr Kenway; and when the angry little broker had turned away in disgust Campion wandered towards the door. ‘I think I’ll go down and see Pleyel, if you don’t mind, Superintendent,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll call you on the house phone. I fancy we might have to hurry, don’t you?’
Oates stood looking at the door for a moment, an expression of incredulity growing in his eyes. The mention of the name had started a train of thought in his mind which was enlightening.
Inspector Pleyel spent most of his days looking over the Rogues’ Gallery, now that his more active career was past, and in that department he was known disrespectfully as The Elephant. Since he was a slender, somewhat shrivelled man the name seemed pointless until one had once seen him at work. After that, however, its appositeness was obvious. Inspector Pleyel and the great beasts had one important attribute in common: like them, he never forgot.
Mr Campion & Others Page 16