The Milliner's Hat Mystery

by Basil Thomson

  The telegram read: “Monsieur still absent abroad. Blake.”

  “Good,” said Goron; “they have fallen into our trap and think that that telegram was sent by Madame Germaine.”

  “It is possible,” said Vincent; “but we must not forget that Germaine is a very clever woman. She may have missed her little book and, assuming that we stole it, may have spent the afternoon calling up her dubious ‘customers’ on the long-distance telephone, warning them that their addresses are known to the police, who are making inquiries about them.”

  Chapter Eight

  THEY HAD FINISHED dinner; Goron had produced for his guest a bottle of age-old brandy to drink with their coffee. Jacqueline had withdrawn to superintend the woman in the kitchen.

  “To return to a question of shop,” said Vincent, “there is one point that I should like to study from the map. We will assume for the moment that that telegram was genuine and that Madame Germaine had not put these people on their guard. Have you a map?”

  “I have,” said Goron, jumping up and laying a motoring map on the table. “You want the coast towns, no doubt.”

  “Yes,” said Vincent. “We may, I think, rule out all ports east of Cherbourg. These men were crossing in a motorboat from Newquay. You will see from the map that there was not much difference between the voyage to Brest or to Cherbourg. In which of these two towns do you think it would be easier for a motorboat whose papers were not quite in order to make a landing without exciting remark?”

  “Personally, if I were engaged in any illicit business, I should choose Brest. It is a big town traversed by docks and waterways. An idea strikes me. I have a friend who acts as intelligence officer to the customs at Brest and is well in with all the port officials. If you think of going down I will come with you and introduce you to him.”

  “That is certainly an idea. As you see, if I stay on in Paris I shall merely be twiddling my thumbs with nothing to do, and when I get home I shall be asked why I stayed so long in France with nothing to show for my expenses. The port offices in Brest must know something of this mysterious boat if she went there and my reason for being in France is to trace that boat and the people who wire in it.”

  “Then let us have a look at the timetable. There is a morning train…?”

  “I must take the night train this evening. It is imperative that I lose no time, but why should I drag you off to the west?”

  “Oh, that’s all right. I travel free when I’m on duty and this is duty. I am accustomed to night travelling and I can always sleep in the train.”

  The train they chose left them but a bare hour for preparations. Both men were for quick action at all times, nor was their keenness blunted when they alighted on the Brest platform in the early morning.

  In response to a telephone message overnight from Goron, Monsieur Andre Lalage met them on the platform and the introduction was made. Lalage proved to be an alert little man with close-cropped hair standing on end and a huge moustache. He was a Breton born and bred in Brest, who had outshone all his colleagues in the Customs Service by his intelligence and alertness.

  “We have much to ask you,” said Goron, “and we are trusting to you to find us some bistro where we can talk in private.”

  The little man laughed sardonically. “If you don’t mind a bistro frequented by dockers, I know of one where we can engage a private room on the first floor.”

  “Lead on then,” said Goron; “we can drink our morning coffee there, I suppose.”

  “Yes, the coffee is…” he pivoted his hand with fingers outstretched, meaning that he did not answer for the quality of the beverage, “but the bread and the butter are good.”

  Lalage appeared to be a power at the dockside; the groups of dockers made way for him; one or two of them saluted; he had a kindly word for each.

  When the wife of the proprietor of the little café had served them with breakfast and had clumped down the stairs, Goron made a sign to Vincent to explain his business. There was something about the personality of the Englishman that commended itself. He found his French listeners strongly impressed with his manner of relating the story he had to tell. Even Goron, who had heard it all in Paris, was keenly alive and Lalage could scarcely keep still. He made Vincent repeat the description of the motorboat and nodded his head after each sentence.

  “You did well, gentlemen, to come to Brest. It is a port peculiarly adapted to smuggling of all kinds, and as for that motorboat without a name I will tell you how they work. A ship comes in and is examined by the customs officer, who finds the manifest and all the other papers in order. Good! That night a motorboat steals noiselessly up to the seaward side of the ship and throws a parcel or two to the deck hand. Who is to know it, except the deck hand, who of course is in the swim? Some owners employ sworn watchmen, but what is an oath against the flutter of a few notes slipped into his hand on the gangway.”

  “You mean that the motorboat is owned by somebody in Brest?”

  “Yes, there are three or four private motorboats of that kind in the port.”

  “Without names?”

  “Oh, they have a name on their papers, but not always painted on the hulls. A favourite trick is to have alternative names painted on little boards which are hung over the sides and the taffrail.”

  “The boat we are interested in brought two American passengers to France. Supposing that they landed in Brest, could that be done without the knowledge of the port officers?”

  “If it were done at night I think it could. I am speaking to two police officers, so I can speak openly. Money talks and it talks not only to the man who accepts it, but also to his superiors in the Service. That is why I have been busily employed these last few weeks. A customs officer—we will call him ‘A’— is living in a house above his means, or he has purchased a car to give his wife a taste of country air on Sundays. The money must come from somewhere and it is my job to follow the scent of it to its source. Generally I succeed, but it entails trying work, I can tell you.”

  “Then,” said Vincent, “if we examine all the motorboats that you have registered in Brest, we shall come upon the craft that we are in search of. The captain speaks English.”

  Lalage’s eyes narrowed. “I know a shorter way than that, monsieur. I have in my service an intelligent young man who made one false step a year ago which merited dismissal. I did not dismiss him; I did not even report the case. I told him that dismissal still hovered above his head like the sword of Damocles, but that as long as he made himself useful to my department the sword would not be permitted to fall.”

  “He acts then as a spy?”

  “Spy is an ugly word, monsieur; we prefer to call him an informant. I can get in touch with him by telephone and in ten minutes he will be here.”

  The message from the chief of his department had had a nerve-shaking effect upon the informant. Evidently he had feared that another of his sins had found him out. His attitude as he stood in the doorway of that upper room was cringing and his breathing was laboured as if the steep stairs had been too much for him.

  “Jules,” said Lalage, “you never reported to me that on Sunday last two Americans landed from a motorboat.”

  “No, monsieur, I did not report it because their papers were all in order and I told them how to get their passports stamped.”

  “Whose boat did they come in?”

  “The Rosamonde, Captain Duprez’s.”

  “Is the Rosamonde still in the harbour?”

  “She is. The captain lives on board always.”

  “That will do, Jules; if I want you again I’ll send for you.”

  It was with a light-hearted step that Jules descended the stairs from his chief’s presence.

  “It is possible,” said Lalage, “that these two men left the town by train; if they are still in Brest I can find them for you if you will give me the morning for the job. I may even be able to find, if they did leave by train, where they booked to.”

  “That�
��s very good of you. Meanwhile can we interview the captain of the Rosamonde?”

  “I was going to suggest that course myself. I will set my men to work and if you will come with me you shall have an interview with the captain. I know where the boat is tied up.”

  He was as good as his word. In less than a quarter of an hour he returned and conducted them to the quay at which the motorboat was moored.

  “There is the Rosamonde,” he said, pointing to a dark painted motorboat of considerable size. A boy was swabbing down the deck. Lalage hailed him. “Where’s your captain?”

  “He’s gone ashore, monsieur.”

  “So you’re back from England.”

  The boy looked confused and made no answer.

  “Come,” said Lalage sternly, “it’s no good pretending to be dumb. You were in England on Saturday and you brought back two passengers.”

  The boy remained silent.

  “I can tell you more than that: you anchored in Newquay to pick up those passengers. We know all about it, so it’s no good for you to deny it.”

  “It’s not for me to answer; you must ask my captain.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Probably he’s in the market. That’s where he goes for his provisions.”

  “How long does he generally take to do his shopping?”

  “About half an hour.”

  “Then we’ll come on board and wait for him.”

  The three police officers had no desire to advertise their presence. They went down into the cabin and Lalage sat down in a position where he could observe the proceedings of the boy. They had not long to wait. Five minutes later the boy converted himself into a human semaphore, pointing significantly to the cabin. On this Goron ran swiftly up on deck and was in time to see a thickset bearded man stop irresolute on the quay and then turn on his heel and walk away with a seaman’s rolling gait.

  Goron overtook him and tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Good morning, Captain.”

  The man turned savagely upon him. “What do you want with me?”

  “A few minutes’ conversation. We have taken the liberty of going on board your little vessel to wait for you. Two of my friends are in your cabin at this moment.”

  For a couple of seconds the man’s eyes gleamed.

  “Do you want to charter me for a pleasure cruise, or what?”

  “I want to discuss business with you.”

  “Freight?”

  “In a sense, yes.”

  “I don’t run freight for anybody that I don’t know.”

  “But you’ve just been over to England.”

  “How do you know that? And what else do you know?”

  “I know that you picked up a couple of passengers in Newquay on Saturday.”

  “What if I did? Is it any business of yours?”

  “No, but I thought that you might give me an idea of what you charge for a run across the Channel.”

  “I’ll come on board and see your two friends before we talk business.”

  They returned to the spot where the launch was tied up and jumped on board. At the sight of Lalage, the captain gave a sardonic grin.

  “I see that I’ve been honoured,” he said. “I suppose you’ve searched my little craft from stem to stern, Monsieur Lalage? You look a little downcast so I presume that you found nothing compromising. I’m sorry to have disappointed you.”

  “I did not come to search your vessel, but only to ask you a question or two about your late passengers. I have their names, of course, but only you can tell me why they chose to come over in your little vessel instead of by one of the ordinary cross Channel boats.”

  “How can one guess why these eccentric English and Americans choose to cross in a launch; they wanted a new experience, I suppose. But their papers were quite in order.”

  “Yes, but who told you that they wanted to cross the Channel in this way? Did they write to you, or what?”

  “I took them over to England last May, and they enjoyed the voyage so much that they took my address and wrote to me, giving the day for their return passage.”

  “When you were at Newquay,” put in Vincent, “you had no name on your boat. Why was that?”

  The captain laughed. “I see that you know very little about the vagaries of holiday makers. If they have ladies with them it is a game among them to name the boat. Look, monsieur.” He opened a locker and showed little boards with names painted on them. “If a majority of the ladies is in favour of Rosamonde then I hang out these boards and the boat becomes Rosamonde as she is registered, but if they prefer the name of Iris, well, here are the little boards to hang out.”

  Lalage became stern. “Your boat is registered as Rosamonde and you change the name at your own risk. The whims of lady passengers do not count in a matter like this. See to it that the name Rosamonde is painted on the boat or there may be trouble in store for you.”

  “Very good, monsieur,” replied the captain in a surly tone.

  Vincent interposed with another question. “Where is the letter you received from these Americans asking you to meet them at Newquay?”

  “I never keep letters; they go overboard when I’ve read them.”

  “What address did they give at the head of the letter?”

  “None that I remember.”

  “And, of course,” suggested Lalage sarcastically, “you don’t remember the name of the hotel they went to in Brest.”

  “I never knew where they went to. They just took their handbags and walked off.”

  “Well,” said Lalage, rising, “don’t forget my order about the name of this boat: that it is to be painted on her and not on boards to be hung over the side; and see to it that you don’t accept charters for passengers whose papers are not in order.” He lowered his voice. “Remember that you will be held responsible for any prohibited article imported by any of your passengers. Take this warning to heart because if you neglect it and you are prosecuted, it will be brought to the knowledge of the magistrate.”

  When they were on shore again, Lalage remarked: “I never expected to get any admission from that rascal. Clearly, he has been squared by the gang, but this interview may make him think twice before he accepts those Americans as passengers again…” A telegraph boy was approaching. He was scrutinizing the names on the small craft as he went. Lalage stopped him.

  “Who’s your telegram for?”

  “Captain Duprez, of the Rosamonde.”

  “I’ve just come from the Rosamonde. You know me, my lad. I will take charge of this telegram.”

  “Yes, I know you, monsieur, but…”

  “That’s all right. You can tell the postmaster that I took charge of it.”

  The boy handed over the telegram and required Lalage to sign a receipt for it. He went off whistling some kind of tune. As soon as he had turned the corner Lalage tore the confining strip of blue paper and read aloud:

  “BRING BOAT TO ST MALO. URGENT.”

  “Good!” exclaimed Vincent. “We’ll go to St Malo. What’s the quickest way?”

  “If you come to my office the timetable will tell you. I don’t carry all the cross-country trains in my head. We will also see whether my men, who have been out tracing these men, have brought in any report.”

  They found a man in plain clothes waiting in the office.

  “Any news, Henri?”

  “Yes, monsieur, those two Americans were staying at the Hotel des Cloches and left early this morning —in haste. Fortunately their room had not been touched since their departure and in the empty fireplace we found this.” He brought out a piece of blue paper screwed into a tight ball.

  Lalage smoothed it out. “Tiens! Yet another telegram. Ah! You must read this, monsieur: it is in English.” He handed it to Vincent.

  Vincent interpreted the telegram into French. It ran:

  CAUTION. SCENT IS STRONG. GERMAINE.

  “Ah! Madame Germaine assured us that she understood not a word of English, y
et she writes her telegram in that language.”

  Chapter Nine

  “IF I MIGHT make a suggestion,” said Vincent, “I think that the best route for us to St Malo would be by motorboat—the boat of Captain Duprez.”

  Goron threw up his arms and brought his palms heavily down upon his knees. “You’ve hit it, my friend. The sea is calm and during our little voyage there would be time for conversation. Who knows but that our sturdy sea captain may experience a change of heart in the course of the voyage. We could leave it to our English friend here to apply the necessary mental treatment.”

  “Do you suggest that I should give him the telegram?” asked Lalage.

  “On no account,” exclaimed Vincent. “If he had that telegram, he would not take us. But which of us is going to charter the boat?”

  “I think that Monsieur Lalage is the obvious person,” said Goron. “There is no time to lose. Will you go back alone and make the necessary overtures?”

  “I will,” said Lalage, “and I’ll apply pressure if necessary. Give me ten minutes and then you can come along to the boat to hear what is decided. If all goes well I will make an unobtrusive signal to you by lifting my hand to my face and rubbing my right eyebrow.”

  In ten minutes by Vincent’s watch the two police officers sauntered along the quay towards the launch. When they came in sight of the Rosamonde, Goron murmured: “Keep your eye on Lalage.”

  Almost as he spoke both saw Lalage bring his right hand to his eye and begin a vigorous rubbing of his eyebrow.