Trent's Own Case

by E. C. Bentley

  It was at this time that M. Dupont had received an offer of engagement, on irresistibly tempting terms, in the service of a London firm. He had accepted it without hesitation, and for two years his more intimate contacts with the life of France had been broken. Then, while taking a brief holiday in Paris, he had visited the Louvre to refresh his memory of the triumphs of his craft housed there. What had been his amazement to find, in the place of honour among the objects of Persian art of the fifth century, B.C., his own chef d’œuvre! It had been expertly treated so as to reproduce the ravages of time; but its creator could swear to every least detail of the Tiara of Megabyzus, as the piece was now officially entitled. It had been presented to the museum, as the inscription showed, by an English benefactor, Mr James M. Randolph.

  M. Dupont had lost no time in making inquiries. He learnt that Mr Randolph’s gift, when offered to the Louvre, had been simply described as what it appeared to be, without any account of how it came into the owner’s possession. The museum authorities knew well enough that objects of art of this kind were often brought to market by persons who preferred not to say how they had been acquired; that the looting of ancient tombs, for example, had enriched many public as well as private collections in Europe. All that concerned the Louvre was the genuineness of the piece; and upon that the museum experts, after the closest examination, were in no doubt. It was assuredly authentic. It was accepted with gratitude; it was placed in the position in which M. Dupont had seen it; and the French government’s sense of the donor’s generosity was manifested by his investment with a commandership of the Legion of Honour.

  ‘Is not that a pretty little history?’ M. Dupont asked of his guest. ‘But wait! Listen! That is only the beginning.’

  M. Dupont’s inquiries in Paris, he continued, had shown further that, at the time of his visit, a spirited squabble over the genuineness of the tiara had only just died down. A certain Dr von Rieseneck—whom M. Dupont described pithily as a saligaud d’Allemand—had raised his voice from the archæological recesses of the Kaiser Friedrich Museum, asserting that the tiara was a forgery; a marvellously clever piece of work, but a forgery. The details of the dispute, said M. Dupont, would not interest Trent. Enough to say that the Louvre experts, and other French archæologists as one man, had leapt to the defence of the Tiara of Megabyzus.

  A furious controversy had raged for months, in the course of which Dr von Rieseneck’s son, a lieutenant in the army, had fought an inconclusive duel with one French savant, and had assaulted another whom he did not consider socially competent to measure swords with him. The whole affair had ended—perhaps one might say fortunately—in the mental breakdown of Dr von Rieseneck. As an expert, he had been formidable. As a lunatic, he was harmless, and the champions of the tiara were left in possession of the field.

  What was M. Dupont to do? As an honest man, he had thought it his duty to inform Mr Randolph that he had been imposed upon.

  On his return to his work in London he had written to Mr Randolph asking, in discreet terms, for an interview. He had seen Mr Randolph, and had told him the plain facts. Mr Randolph had been overwhelmed. ‘I told him, moreover,’ said M. Dupont, again cocking a sideways eye at Trent, ‘that I was not without the inquietude that this dispute over the tiara might be renewed; and I asked him to give me his advice as to the course which I should pursue.’

  Mr Randolph had reflected for some little time. He had looked M. Dupont in the eyes, ‘d’un regard indéchiffrable.’ He had then said that the fact of Dr von Rieseneck’s affliction was not unknown to him; that he had, indeed, received from that personage a number of obviously insane letters, not only abusing him but threatening him in the most violent terms.

  Mr Randolph had then gone on to say, with an appearance of choosing his words carefully, that in his own opinion no good purpose would be served by doing anything at the present time which might have humiliating results for France. That, however, was a view which he could not presume to urge upon M. Dupont, who was the best judge of his own responsibility. Apart from that, he had a proposition to make to M. Dupont. He had given such remarkable proofs, in this affair, of his talent and flair in his own department of art, that Mr Randolph would ask him to become his private adviser in all matters of that particular sort for the future. He hoped that M. Dupont’s other engagements would permit of his acting in that capacity. If so, he would propose M. Dupont’s acceptance of a retaining fee of a certain sum per annum, to be paid quarterly.

  At this point in his narrative, M. Dupont made an artistic pause, and lighted a fresh cigarette.

  ‘I hope,’ Trent said, with a gravity to match that with which M. Dupont had described this dignified transaction, ‘that the amount mentioned was such as you could consider.’

  ‘Since I am still in receipt of it!’ M. Dupont replied simply. ‘It is paid regularly by Mr Randolph’s bankers. So far, he has had no occasion to consult me; but I remain always at his disposal.’

  ‘And the controversy?’ Trent inquired. ‘Has it arisen again as you were led to anticipate?’

  ‘Circumstances intervened to prevent it,’ M. Dupont answered gravely. ‘Shortly after my interview with your amiable compatriot, an object of inestimable value was stolen from the Louvre. One might have imagined that the theft of da Vinci’s superb masterpiece, a few years earlier, would have made the custodians more vigilant. But no! The Tiara of Megabyzus disappeared. Who knows,’ M. Dupont said sadly, finishing his third glass of brandy, ‘if it will ever again be restored to the world?’

  By now the restaurant was nearly empty, and Trent hinted that it was time for a weary traveller’s retirement to his hotel and to bed. M. Dupont vainly urged his guest to join him in taking another little glass; and he took one himself while checking his bill and counting the change. He walked to the door with elaborate steadiness; but once he was outside, the keen air of the mountains began to affect him slightly. ‘I live quite near here, my friend,’ he said, supporting himself with a hand on one of the terrasse tables.

  Trent begged to be allowed the pleasure of accompanying him so far; and M. Dupont gratefully took his arm. ‘Nous sortons,’ he remarked solemnly, ‘des—des portes de Trézène.’ Taking up at that point the very long speech in Phèdre in which Theramenes describes the death of Hippolytus, M. Dupont went on to declaim, with thickening speech but unfailing memory, the noble lines of Racine, as they made their somewhat wavering way to the Rue des Hirondelles. He did not cease, nor let go of Trent’s upholding arm, as they entered the front garden gate of an ugly little house painted dove-colour. Having now reached the couplet—

  Excusez ma douleur; cette image cruelle

  Sera pour moi de pleurs une source éternelle

  —M. Dupont burst into tears. He produced his latch-key, not without difficulty, and Trent obligingly opened the door for him. M. Dupont embraced him, saluted him on either cheek, and stumbled into a lamp-lit passage smelling strongly of furniture polish.

  Trent, as he went his way to the Hôtel des Cascades, wondered how much of the evening’s talk M. Dupont would remember next morning; and how he would feel about what he did remember.

  Such was the unusual story which Trent summarized for the benefit of Inspector Bligh as that officer smoked his pipe in attentive silence in the sitting-room at Newbury Place.

  ‘I didn’t give Randolph all of what I’ve told you,’ he concluded. ‘In fact, I merely mentioned that I happened to know the exact truth about the tiara and the origin of it. I said that if I saw fit to do so I could and would make it public. That was quite enough to shake him badly; I could see that. And what do you think of the pretty little history, as my French friend called it?’

  Mr Bligh took the pipe from his mouth and stopped the tobacco with an outsize forefinger. ‘It goes to show,’ he observed, ‘that I was right when I said the old man didn’t mind compounding a felony. Very interesting! I’ve never come across anything in that line of forgery myself—it’s not up my street at all. But o
f course I know there’s a great deal of it done. I dare say if all the truth was known …’

  At this point he was interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.

  ‘Here!’ shouted Mr Bligh.

  Sergeant Mills appeared. ‘There’s a man at the door, sir,’ he said, ‘wanting to see the officer in charge of the case.’

  ‘Well! Who is he?’

  ‘He sent in this card, sir.’ The sergeant held out a slip of pasteboard about the size of a post card.

  ‘Joshua B. Waters,’ the inspector read aloud. ‘Private cars for hire. Chauffeur driven and self drive. Private ambulances with trained attendants. New car sales, all makes. 146, Kemble Street, Salisbury.’ He looked at Trent. ‘And who the devil is Waters, I wonder?’

  ‘Waters on a starry night are beautiful and fair,’ Trent remarked thoughtfully.

  ‘I wouldn’t say this Waters looked that way—not by daylight,’ the sergeant said, with no trace of expression on his long face. ‘But if you look at the back of the card, sir, you’ll see he’s pencilled another name.’

  Mr Bligh looked at the back of the card.

  ‘Well … I … am … damned!’ he said slowly.

  Trent, catching the card from his outstretched hand, read the name, ‘James Randolph.’

  CHAPTER X

  A MATTER OF TEMPERAMENTS

  TRENT and the inspector caught each other’s eye in a glance of amazement on the entrance of the personage who, at Mr Bligh’s brusque order, was now shown into the room. He was a vigorous man whose age might be guessed at forty, short and compact of figure, and well-dressed in the police rather than the Savile-row sense of that term. His whole appearance bespoke the sturdily independent provincial who had got on in life, and of whom the world was at liberty to think exactly what it chose. But it was the face that had so undisguisably astonished Trent and the police officer; a clean-shaven face, square, hard and ruddy, blunt-nosed, and with eyes glinting shrewdly between narrowed lids.

  The newcomer took note of their surprise with grim amusement; then, glancing from one to the other, made the obvious choice. ‘You are Inspector Bligh?’ he asked; and received the curt reply: ‘That is my name.’

  ‘I carry my credentials in my looks—it’s easy to see that,’ the square-faced man remarked with a faint trace of Northern accent. ‘Yes, gentlemen, I am the old man’s son; the only son who ran away from home.’

  Mr Bligh, his gaze still dwelling on the features of the claimant to the name of Randolph, took hold of the situation. ‘I am very sorry, Mr Randolph,’ he said, ‘you should be returning under such tragic circumstances. When you speak of yourself as the son who ran away, I understand you to mean that you never have returned until now—never made it up with your father, in fact. That must make it all the more painful for you.’

  The hard face betrayed no emotion. ‘No man likes to hear of his own flesh and blood being murdered. As for our not having made it up, that’s right enough. Since I was a lad, my father and I never set eyes on each other, or took any notice of each other’s existence. I heard no more about him than anybody might do who reads the papers, and for all he knew about me I might have been dead and buried years ago. I suppose it would sound well for me to say I never expected to return to his roof under such tragic circumstances, as you put it. But I am no hand at saying what I don’t mean. I have always known there wasn’t likely to be any going back while my father was alive. When I let him know I meant to leave home, he told me I could go if I wanted to, and come back when I had learned some sense, but I needn’t think he would ever send for me. Both of us were pretty hard chaps, so that settled it.’

  James Randolph, while offering this abridgement of a chapter of family history, had placed his hat on the table and serenely seated himself in one of the arm-chairs before the fireplace. Now, with a hand on either knee, he looked from one to the other of his hearers.

  Trent’s knowledge of his friend told him that, for all his expressionless face, Mr Bligh was not unfavourably impressed by the manner of this unusual self-introduction.

  ‘Well, Mr Randolph,’ he said with a trace of a smile, ‘there can’t be much doubt about who your father was, I should say; I never saw such a likeness. Barring a few lines in the face, which you’ll get in time, you’re his living image. Put on one of his square-topped bowlers, and carry that little bag he always took about with him, and anybody would think it was the old gentleman himself. But you say you are in favour of frankness, and you’ve shown that you are; so you won’t object to me speaking frankly too. Your statement that you are the legitimate son of the late Mr Randolph will have to be legally made good, if you are counting on deriving any benefit from your claim. Of course you know that.’

  ‘I do, of course,’ Randolph said. ‘There won’t be any difficulty about that, though. As for my getting any benefit from being my father’s son, the Lord knows I haven’t counted on it; but you never can tell what may happen, so I have always been in a position to prove my identity if I wanted to do so. And from what I hear now,’ James Randolph added coolly, ‘it seems there is a chance of something that you might call benefit coming my way. So here I am, and here I stay, until we’ve got it straightened out about how I stand. I’ve left my business in good hands, and I am in no hurry.’

  Mr Bligh looked at him with pursed lips. ‘What you should do first, Mr Randolph, is to get in touch with your father’s solicitors. I can give you the name and address. Perhaps that was what was in your mind in calling here.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Randolph said, with some hint of a self-satisfied grin that made him for the first time seem quite human and very Yorkshire. ‘That wasn’t in my mind. I’ve learnt to know my way about the world a bit, Inspector. When I read the news in the paper yesterday afternoon, I saw my solicitor in Salisbury, who knows me by the name of Waters. I got him to telephone his London agents to find out who were the late Mr Randolph’s solicitors in London; and I soon got the information. I came up by car yesterday evening, put up at the Woburn Hotel, and called on the firm first thing this morning. When I asked if they could see Mr James Randolph, I hadn’t any difficulty in obtaining an interview.’

  ‘No,’ the inspector said with a grin, ‘I suppose not. Then I take it you have come here to see me about the investigation of the crime, and possibly give me some help.’

  James Randolph nodded briefly, ‘Ay, that’s it. I don’t know about giving help, seeing that it’s twenty-five years since I had anything to do with my father. But I would like to hear about the investigation, if you agree with me that I am entitled to do so; and what prospect there is of bringing the man who did this thing to justice. Any differences there may have been between my father and me were in the family, and nobody else’s business. If I had cause for what I did, it didn’t extend to wishing him any harm in his old age. As my father’s son, I want to see the man who killed him taken, and made to pay the price.’

  Mr Bligh stroked his knees thoughtfully. ‘I should like,’ he said, ‘to know first of all just how we stand—or how you stand, to put it plainly, Mr Randolph. Have you any objection to telling me briefly what I suppose you have been telling Muirhead & Soames this morning? You could speak quite freely before this gentleman, Mr Trent, who is a friend of mine, and sometimes gives me his assistance as confidential adviser.’

  Trent, hearing with suitable gravity this rather ambiguous account of his position, exchanged nods with James Randolph, who said: ‘I don’t mind if I do. I’ve nought to be ashamed of, according to my view, and I don’t worry much about other people’s views. Well, then—I’ll say just this much about my father, that he was never an easy man to live with. He had very strict notions about conduct. He had some fault to find with pretty near everything that anybody did. It was part of his belief that those who did wrong ought to suffer for the good of their own souls, and that it was his Christian duty to see that they did suffer, if he was in a position to do so. Naturally, his own family got the full benefit of that.’


  ‘And they were not grateful?’ Trent suggested.

  ‘They were weak, sir—that is how my father would have put it,’ Randolph returned composedly. ‘His sister, who lived with him until she made a marriage that he strongly disapproved of, must have been a bit like me; she went out of his life and stayed out, and her name was never mentioned in his household. My mother was the best of mothers to me, and it fair gives me the creeps to think what my boyhood would have been without her; but she couldn’t please my father. Her health was not good, and she had a nurse to help look after me. After mother died, my old nurse stayed on, and she was always next door to a mother to me; but it wasn’t long before she married, and then I couldn’t stick it any longer. So there you have the story of why I left home.

  ‘I told nobody where I was going when I went away from Humberstone. What I did was go straight to Salisbury, where my old nurse and her husband were living, to see if they could give me a job. His name was Waters, the same as you’ve seen it on that card I sent in. He had started a small motor-car business, as I knew, and I was a pretty good mechanic after a couple of years in Townrow’s works. Waters was a right good chap, and besides, he would have done anything to please his wife. He agreed to give me a trial, and to say nought about who I was. It was given out that I was a nephew of his, of the same name. I wouldn’t take anything but my keep at the start, but after six months I was getting decent pay, and earning it. Between us, we built up that business. Waters took me into partnership, and when he died I carried on under the old name, as I am doing now.’