by Nine Tailors
“Step-father, perhaps?” suggested Wimsey.
Mr. Blundell paid no heed. “Spring sowing—since when has Cranton turned farmer? And what’s all that about military authorities? And the War. Cranton never was in the War. There’s something here I can’t make head or tail of. See here, my lord—this can’t be Cranton. It’s silly, that’s what it is. It can’t be Cranton.”
“It begins to look as if it wasn’t,” said Wimsey. “But I still think it was Cranton I met on New Year’s Day.”
“I’d better get on the telephone to London,” said Mr. Blundell. “And then I’ll have to be seeing the Chief Constable about this. Whatever it is, it’s got to be followed up. Driver’s disappeared and we’ve found a body that looks like his and we’ve got to do something about it. But France—well, there! How we’re to find this Suzanne I don’t know, and it’ll cost a mint of money.”
THE SIXTH PART
MONSIEUR ROZIER HUNTS THE TREBLE DOWN
The remaining bell … does nothing but plain hunting, and is therefore said to be “in the hunt with the Treble.”
TROYTE ON CHANGE-RINGING
THERE ARE HARDER JOBS in detective work than searching a couple of French departments for a village ending in “y,” containing a farmer’s wife whose first name is Suzanne whose children are Pierre, aged nine, Marie and a baby of unknown age and sex, and whose husband is an Englishman. All the villages in the Marne district end, indeed, in “y,” and Suzanne, Pierre and Marie are all common names enough, but a foreign husband is rarer. A husband named Paul Taylor would, of course, be easily traced, but both Superintendent Blundell and Lord Peter were pretty sure that “Paul Taylor” would prove to be an alias.
It was about the middle of May when a report came in from the French police which looked more hopeful than anything previously received. It came through the Sûreté, and originated with M. le commissaire Rozier of Château-Thierry in the department of Marne.
It was so exceedingly promising that even the Chief Constable, who was a worried gentleman with an itch for economy, agreed that it ought to be investigated on the spot.
“But I don’t know whom to send,” he grumbled. “Dashed expensive business, anyhow. And then there’s the language. Do you speak French, Blundell?”
The Superintendent grinned sheepishly. “Well, sir, not to say speak it. I could ask for a spot of grub in an estaminet, and maybe swear at the garsong a bit. But examining witnesses—that’s a different question.”
“I can’t go myself,” said the Chief Constable, sharply and hastily, as though anticipating a suggestion that nobody had had the courage to make. “Out of the question.” He tapped his fingers on his study table and stared vaguely over the Superintendent’s head at the rooks wheeling high over the elms at the end of the garden. “You’ve done your best, Blundell, but I think we had better hand the thing over, lock, stock and barrel, to Scotland Yard. Perhaps we ought to have done so earlier.”
Mr. Blundell looked chagrined. Lord Peter Wimsey, who had come with him, ostensibly in case help should be needed to translate the commissaire’s letter, but actually because he was determined not to be left out of anything, coughed gently.
“If you would entrust the inquiry to me, sir,” he murmured, “I could pop over in two ticks—at my own expense, of course,” he added, insinuatingly.
“I’m afraid it would be rather irregular,” said the Chief Constable, with the air of one who only needs to be persuaded.
“I’m more reliable than I look, really I am,” said his lordship. “And my French is my one strong point. Couldn’t you swear me in as a special constable, or something? with a natty little armlet and a truncheon? Or isn’t interrogation part of a special constable’s duties?”
“It is not,” said the Chief Constable. “Still,” he went on, “still—I suppose I might stretch a point. And I suppose”—he looked hard at Wimsey—“I suppose you’ll go in any case.”
“Nothing to prevent me from making a private tour of the battle-fields,” said Wimsey, “and of course, if I met one of my old Scotland Yard pals knocking round there, I might join up with him. But I really think that, in these hard times, we ought to consider the public purse, don’t you, sir?”
The Chief Constable was thoughtful. He had no real wish to call in Scotland Yard. He had an idea that a Yard man might make himself an officious nuisance. He gave way. Within two days, Wimsey was being cordially received by M. le commissaire Rozier. A gentleman who has “des relations intimes” with the Paris Sûreté, and who speaks perfect French, is likely to be well received by country commissaires de police. M. Rozier produced a bottle of very excellent wine, entreated his visitor to make himself at home, and embarked upon his story.
“It does not in any way astonish me, milord, to receive an inquiry concerning the husband of Suzanne Legros. It is evident that there is there a formidable mystery. For ten years I have said to myself, ‘Aristide Rozier, the day will come when your premonitions concerning the so-called Jean Legros will be justified.’ I perceive that the day is at hand, and I congratulate myself upon my foresight.”
“Evidently,” said Wimsey, “M. le commissaire possesses a penetrating intelligence.”
“To lay the matter clearly before you, I am obliged to go back to the summer of 1918. Milord served in the British Army? Ah! then milord will remember the retreat over the Marne in July. Quelle histoire sanglante! On that occasion the retreating armies were swept back across the Marne pell-mell and passed in disorder through the little village of C——y, situated upon the left bank of the river. The village itself, you understand, milord, escaped any violent bombardment, for it was behind the front-line trenches. In that village lived the aged Pierre Legros and his granddaughter Suzanne. The old man was eighty years of age and refused to leave his home. His grandchild, then aged twenty-seven, was a vigorous and industrious girl, who, single-handed, kept the farm in a sort of order throughout the years of conflict. Her father, her brother, her affianced husband had all been killed.
“About ten days after the retreat, it was reported that Suzanne Legros and her grandfather had a visitor at the farm. The neighbours had begun to talk, you understand, and the curé, the reverend Abbé Latouche, now in paradise, thought it his duty to inform the authorities here. I myself, you comprehend, was not here at that time; I was in the Army; but my predecessor, M. Dubois, took steps to investigate the matter. He found that there was a sick and wounded man being kept at the farm. He had suffered a severe blow upon the head and various other injuries. Suzanne Legros, and her grandfather, being interrogated, told a singular story.
“She said that, on the second night after the retreat had passed through the village, she went to a distant outhouse and there found this man lying sick and burning with fever, stripped to his underclothing, with his head roughly bandaged. He was dirty and blood-stained and his clothes were bedaubed with mud and weeds as though he had been in the river. She contrived to carry him home with the old man’s help, washed his wounds and nursed him as best she might. The farm is a couple of kilometres distant from the village itself, and she had no one whom she could send for assistance. At first, she said, the man had raved in French about the incidents of the battle, but afterwards he had fallen into a heavy stupor, from which she could not rouse him. When seen by the curé and by the commissaire he lay inert, breathing heavily and unconscious.
“She showed the clothing in which she had found him—a vest, under-pants, socks, and shirt of regulation army pattern, very much stained and torn. No uniform; no boots; no identity disc; no papers. It seemed evident that he had been in the retreat and had been obliged to swim across the river in making his way back from the front line—this would account for the abandoning of his boots, uniform and kit. He seemed to be a man of some thirty-five or forty years of age, and when first seen by the authorities, he had a dark beard of about a week’s growth.”
“Then he had been clean-shaven?”
“It would seem so, m
ilord. A doctor from the town was found to go out and see him, but he could only say that it appeared to be a severe case of injury to the brain from the wound in the head. He advised ameliorative measures. He was only a young student of small experience, incapacitated from the Army by reason of frail health. He has since died.
“It was at first supposed that they had only to wait till the man came to himself to learn who he was. But when, after three more weeks of coma, he slowly regained consciousness, it was found that his memory, and, for some time, his speech also, was gone. Gradually, the speech was regained, though for some time he could express himself only in a thick and mumbling manner, with many hesitations. It seemed that there were injuries to the locutory centres in the brain. When he was well enough to understand and make himself understood, he was, naturally, interrogated. His replies were simply that his mind was a blank. He remembered nothing of his past—but nothing. He did not know his name, or his place of origin; he had no recollection of the War. For him, his life began in the farm-house at C——y.”
M. Rozier paused impressively, while Wimsey registered amazement.
“Well, milord, you will understand that it was necessary to report the case at once to the Army authorities. He was seen by a number of officers, none of whom could recognize him, and his portrait and measurements were circulated without result. It was thought at first that he might be an Englishman—or even a Boche—and that, you understand, was not agreeable. It was stated, however, that when Suzanne first found him, he had deliriously muttered in French, and the clothes found upon him were undoubtedly French also. Nevertheless, his description was issued to the British Army, again without result, and, when the Armistice was signed, inquires were extended to Germany. But they knew nothing of him there. Naturally, these inquiries took some time, for the Germans had a revolution, as you know, and everything was much disordered. In the meanwhile, the man had to live somewhere. He was taken to hospital—to several hospitals—and examined by psychologists, but they could make nothing of him. They tried—you understand, milord—to set traps for him. They suddenly shouted words of command at him in English, French and German, thinking that he might display an automatic reaction. But it was to no purpose. He seemed to have forgotten the War.”
“Lucky devil!” said Wimsey, with feeling.
“Je suis de votre avis. Nevertheless, a reaction of some kind would have been satisfying. Time passed, and he became no better. They sent him back to us. Now you know, milord, that it is impossible to repatriate a man who has no nationality. No country will receive him. Nobody wanted this unfortunate man except Suzanne Legros and her bon-papa. They needed a man to work on the farm and this fellow, though he had lost his memory, had recovered his physical strength and was well suited for manual labour. Moreover, the girl had taken a fancy to him. You know how it is with women. When they have nursed a man, he is to them in a manner their child. Old Pierre Legros asked leave to adopt this man as his son. There were difficulties—que voulez-vous? But, enfin, since something had to be done with the man, and he was quiet and well-behaved and gave no trouble, the consent was obtained. He was adopted under the name of Jean Legros and papers of identity were made out for him. The neighbours began to be accustomed to him. There was a man—a fellow who had thought of marrying Suzanne—who was his enemy and called him sale Boche—but Jean knocked him down one evening in the estaminet and after that there was no more heard of the word Boche. Then, after a few years, it became known that Suzanne had the wish to marry him. The old curé opposed the match—he said it was not known but that the man was married already. But the old curé died. The new one knew little of the circumstances. Besides, Suzanne had already thrown her bonnet over the windmill. Human nature, milord, is human nature. The civil authorities washed their hands of the matter; it was better to regularize the position. So Suzanne Legros wedded this Jean, and their eldest son is now nine years of age. Since that time there has been no trouble—only Jean still remembers nothing of his origin.”
“You said in your letter,” said Wimsey, “that Jean had now disappeared.”
“Since five months, milord. It is said that he is in Belgium, buying pigs, cattle, or I know not what. But he has not written, and his wife is concerned about him. You think you have some information about him?”
“Well,” said Wimsey, “we have a corpse. And we have a name. But if this Jean Legros has conducted himself in the manner you describe, then the name is not his, though the corpse may be. For the man whose name we have was in prison in 1918 and for some years afterwards.”
“Ah! then you have no further interest in Jean Legros?”
“On the contrary. An interest of the most profound. We still have the corpse.”
“A la bonne heure,” said M. Rozier cheerfully. “A corpse is always something. Have you any photograph? any measurements? any marks of identification?”
“The photograph will assuredly be of little use, since the corpse when found was four months old and the face had been much battered. Moreover, his hands had been removed at the wrists. But we have measurements and two medical reports. From the latest of these, recently received from a London expert, it appears that the scalp bears the mark of an old scar, in addition to those recently inflicted.”
“Aha! that is perhaps some confirmation. He was, then, killed by being beaten on the head, your unknown?”
“No,” said Wimsey. “All the head-injuries were inflicted after death. The expert opinion confirms that of the police-surgeon on this point.”
“He died, then, of what?”
“There is the mystery. There is no sign of fatal wound, or of poison, or of strangling, nor yet of disease. The heart was sound; the intestines show that he had not died of starvation—indeed, he was well-nourished, and had eaten a few hours before his death.”
“Tiens! an apoplexy, then?”
“It is possible. The brain, you understand, was in a somewhat putrefied condition. It is difficult to say with certainty, though there are certain signs that there had been an effusion of blood into the cortex. But you comprehend that, if a thundering apoplexy killed this man, it was not so obliging as to bury him also.”
“Perfectly. You are quite right. Forward, then, to the farm of Jean Legros.”
The farm was a small one, and did not seem to be in too flourishing a state. Broken fences, dilapidated outhouses and ill-weeded fields spoke of straitened means and a lack of the necessary labour. The mistress of the house received them. She was a sturdy, well-muscled woman of some forty years of age, and carried in her arms a nine-months old child. At the sight of the commissaire and his attendant gendarme a look of alarm came unmistakably into her eyes. Another moment, and it had given place to that expression of mulish obstinacy which no one can better assume at will than the French peasant.
“M. le commissaire Rozier?”
“Himself, madame. This gentleman is milord Vainsé, who has voyaged from England to make certain inquiries. It is permitted to enter?”
It was permitted, but at the word “England” the look of alarm had come again; and it was not lost on either of the men.
“Your husband, Mme. Legros,” said the commissaire, coming brusquely to the point, “he is absent from home. Since how long?”
“Since December, M. le commissaire.”
“Where is he?”
“In Belgium.”
“Where, in Belgium?”
“Monsieur, in Dixmude, as I suppose.”
“You suppose? You do not know? You have had no letter from him?”
“No, monsieur.”
“That is strange. What took him to Dixmude?”
“Monsieur, he had taken the notion that his family lived perhaps at Dixmude. You know, without doubt, that he had lost his memory. Eh, bien! in December, one day, he said to me, ‘Suzanne, put a record on the gramophone.’ I put on the record of a great diseuse, reciting Le Carillon, poem of Verhaeren, to music. C’est un morceau très impressionnant. At that momen
t, filled with emotion where the carillons are named turn by turn, my husband cried out: ‘Dixmude! there is then a town of Dixmude in Belgium?’ ‘But certainly,’ I replied. He said, ‘But that name says something to me! I am convinced, Suzanne, that I have a beloved mother residing in Dixmude. I shall not rest till I have gone to Belgium to make inquiries about this dear mother.’ M. le commissaire, he would listen to nothing. He went away, taking with him our small savings, and since that time I have heard nothing from him.”
“Histoire très touchante,” said the commissaire, drily. “You have my sympathy, madame. But I cannot understand that your husband should be a Belgian. There were no Belgian troops engaged at the third Battle of the Marne.”
“Nevertheless, monsieur, his father may have married a Belgian. He may have Belgian relations.”
“C’est vrai. He left you no address?”
“None, monsieur. He said he would write on his arrival.”
“Ah! And he departed how? By the train?”
“Oh, yes, monsieur.”
“And you have made no inquiries? From the mayor of Dixmude, for example?”
“Monsieur, you understand that I was sufficiently embarrassed. I did not know where to begin with such an inquiry.”
“Nor of us, the police, who exist for that? You did not address yourself to us?”
“M. le commissaire, I did not know—I could not imagine—I told myself every day, ‘Tomorrow he will write,’ and I waited, et enfin——”
“Et enfin—it did not occur to you to inform yourself. C’est bien remarquable. What gave you the idea that your husband was in England?”
“In England, monsieur?”
“In England, madame. You wrote to him under the name of Paul Taylor, did you not? At the town of Valbesch in the county of Laincollone?” The commissaire excelled himself in the rendering of these barbarian place-names. “At Valbesch in Laincollone you address yourself to him in the name of Paul Taylorrrr—voyons, madame, voyons, and you tell me now that you suppose him to be all the time in Belgium. You will not deny your own handwriting, I suppose? Or the names of your two children? Or the death of the red cow? You do not imagine that you can resurrect the cow?”