The Case of Naomi Clynes

by Basil Thomson

  “Say, Inspector, I would like to stand in on this. If a wad of notes would soften the blow for these poor folks, why, they ought to have it, see? You might slip it to them without telling them where it came from.”

  “It’s very good of you, Mr. Hudson, but you’ve done too much for us already. I don’t think that the man wants any more money. His fear was that we should ask him to refund some of what he’s already got, and also that he might get into trouble with the French authorities if he allowed me to destroy that deed. As for the wife, I think that she is genuinely fond of the little boy and will miss him until she has a child. What would really please her would be a photograph of the little boy taken with her—a photograph that she could show to her friends in after years.”

  “I thought that these French peasants were always after money.”

  “Of course you know more about them than I do, Mr. Hudson, but if I can judge at all what is passing through a man’s mind, I should say that a sort of sturdy pride was uppermost in that man’s mind, and that to offer him more money would wound it. I believe that he would refuse to take it.”

  “That’s okay then, Inspector. We’ll take the woman along in the car, and the man, too, if he’d like to come, drive to the best photographer in the town, and get a framed portrait done of the three of them. I wouldn’t have missed this show for all the world.”

  The foster-father and mother came down from the bedroom carrying a cheap little suitcase. There were tears in the woman’s eyes. Adolphe was called in to interpret. Mr. Hudson spoke.

  “Tell them that we are all going down to the photographer to have a picture done of them with the little boy, and that some day, when he’s a grown man, he will come out in a car of his own to visit them.”

  The woman clasped her hands in delight. She ran to the child and kissed him. “Thou hearest, Jean? We are all going to be photographed, and I shall have thy portrait always to look at when thou art far away!”

  The man flew to his workshop to wash his hands and face, comb his hair and put on a coat. Somehow the party was packed into the car, and Adolphe was bidden to find the best photographer in the town. Guided by the cycle-man, he pulled up at a mean-looking little photographer’s shop in the next street, but this did not suit Mr. Hudson.

  “Drive back to the Grand Hotel,” he commanded.

  “They’ll tell us where to find the best man in the town.”

  A few minutes later, when they had been directed to the smartest photographer in the town, and the little couple saw where they had pulled up, they were covered with confusion. Richardson could read in Louise’s face dismay at the thought that she was not wearing her best Sunday frock. The party filled the little shop decorated with specimens of the master’s art—principally wedding groups of the local bourgeoisie.

  Adolphe interpreted to the astonished photographer the desires of his employer. “It is to be a large picture—a sort of exhibition picture—in the handsomest gilt frame you have----”

  The artist pointed mutely to his chef-d’oeuvres displayed on the walls.

  “No, it’s got to be bigger than any of these. Now get on with it.”

  The couple and little Godfrey Maze were conducted to the studio upstairs and were left to the whim of the artist. In five minutes they came clattering down. Godfrey ran to Jim Milsom. “He took us four times, Uncle Jim! And he made us change where we looked at each time. He lifted up my face by my chin,” he added with awe.

  The photographer came in to complete the business arrangements with his eccentric customers. The price was agreed to without demur—another eccentricity—the money was paid over; addresses were exchanged; an unframed copy of each photograph was to be sent to Jim Milsom in London, and the framed copy of the best was to be sent to the cycle-shop.

  “There is one thing that we ought to do, Mr. Hudson, while we have the cycle-man with us. We ought to go to the lawyer who drew up that agreement of adoption which is registered in the Mairie, and ask him whether any legal formalities will be required for cancelling it. A complication may arise from the fact that only one of the parties to the agreement is present, but a French lawyer can generally discover some loophole, and his fee cannot be very large.”

  “You needn’t worry about the fee. That’s my share of the joy-ride. Adolphe, ask that gentleman beside you to show you the way to the lawyer who drew up that agreement.”

  From the little man’s excited gestures they gathered that it was quite near.

  Maître Delage lived on the first floor of a house at least three centuries old. He was a hirsute personage, and between his beard and his spectacles there was little to be seen of his face. Adolphe introduced the party as a distinguished company of English noble-men, who had come on a mission to France to take back with them a young nobleman who had been legally confided to the care of Louise and her husband by mistake. Adolphe felt in his heart that it would cost his employer double the ordinary fee, but that he would submit to the extortion with a glad heart.

  The bearded maître scanned the agreement and nodded his beard over it three times. “Where is the gentleman who signed this agreement? It cannot be abrogated by one party without the other.”

  “Tell him,” murmured Richardson, “that the gentleman in question is a criminal; and that he signed the agreement under a false name.”

  “Then he has committed a crime in this country, and your course is clear. If you can prove that the name he signed was false, you can have him arrested. The agreement, at any rate, is void.”

  He emphasized his verdict by thumping the table with a fat hand.

  They trooped out to the car: the parting was to take place on the pavement. Richardson found himself wondering whether with all this excitement the boy would submit properly to the caresses of his foster-parents, since boys are apt to be callous under such circumstances. He need not have been anxious. Louise was sobbing quietly to herself as she folded him in her arms: the boy hugged and kissed her with real and unaffected warmth: there were tears in his eyes as she gently disengaged herself. The man insisted on kissing him, too, in the French fashion, and he responded no less warmly.

  It was now nearly five o’clock, and there was still one formality to be complied with before they left the town. Richardson asked to be driven back to the Gendarmerie station to report to the Brigadier, and to thank him for what he had done for them.

  “You are taking the boy back with you to England, monsieur?”

  “Yes. monsieur. His evidence is likely to be very important in the case I mentioned to you. I shall not fail to report to my préfet the great service you have rendered to the cause of justice.”

  The man purred with satisfaction as they shook hands.

  The question now arose where they were to pass the night. “Paris is only just over three hundred and eighty kilometres from here,” observed Adolphe.

  “We could get in by half-past ten,” said Milsom, who was dying to get on.

  “We could—if we didn’t stop to dine,” retorted his uncle, who was old enough to remember his creature-comforts. “Where could we stop on the way to dine and sleep?”

  “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 drea
ming, 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.

&nb
sp; “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.