Trent's Own Case

by E. C. Bentley

  Trent had listened to this savoury chapter of political history with keen attention. ‘I am afraid,’ he now said, ‘your story rather complicates than simplifies my problem. It does not in the least explain why Fairman should have dashed off to the Place de la Chimère. A serious, sober-minded man of science such as he is would be the last person in the world to take part in a drug-orgy or wallow in an artificial paradise.’

  ‘There I fear I cannot help you. I do not know your friend. Was he perhaps one of the countess’s lovers?’

  ‘Assuredly not. He was and is the victim of an unhappy love affair in England.’

  Bibi shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, you understand, after what I have said, that the minister involved in the scandal would be favourably disposed towards any of us here who were by way of knowing the facts, and were willing to assist in keeping them dark. His influence would be at their disposal in any little matter of obtaining that which governments have to bestow. But on the other hand, what would have happened to those modest ambitions I mentioned to you, which mean so much to my good friends, if the scandal had been revived through indiscreet words let fall by any of them? And then, out of the blue, appears your friend Fairman. When Le Joufflu looked out of his window in the morning, he saw him wandering about like a ghost. He came to the inn and ordered coffee, and then he began to ask questions about where the Comte d’Astalys was to be found.’

  As Bibi said the words, Trent struck the table with his open hand. ‘Good!’ he exclaimed. ‘Then that point is definitely settled at least. Fairman came here to find the Comte d’Astalys. He knew him, or he knew about him. You are quite sure that he mentioned d’Astalys’s name?’

  Bibi regarded him open-eyed. ‘But naturally, certainly! Was it not his mentioning that name that caused Le Joufflu, amiable as he is, to treat your friend with so little sympathy? I have heard all about it from his own lips. He told Dr Fairman, not too politely, that the château was shut up, and that he had no idea where the family had gone. As a matter of fact, the count had gone to Paris some time before, and the countess had disappeared, of course, with her marchand de comestibles. It took more than coffee to restore your Englishman, but after a cognac or two, he tottered away. Then the trouble began again. The police arrived later in the day. They questioned everyone in the neighbourhood about the movements of the mysterious stranger; they took notes of what he had said to Le Joufflu, and what Le Joufflu had replied. It looked as if the scandal was being disinterred. However, nothing more happened that day, or the next day. Then, when we are beginning to feel at our ease again, you suddenly appear on the scene and put the wind up us again.’

  Trent, summoning the waiter, gave another order, then turned to his guest with an apologetic smile. ‘I understand now why my curiosity was so unwelcome. I am still, however, as far away as ever from a solution to my difficulty. It is established now that my friend came here with the object of seeing the Count d’Astalys; but why? If they know each other, the count himself might perhaps help me. Is he still in Paris?’

  ‘No, I believe he came back to the Maison de la Chimère this morning. But as you can imagine, he does not receive visitors.’

  ‘I must get hold of him somehow. He is my only hope.’

  Bibi, flushed and important, was now engaged in smelling with manifest satisfaction a glass of old cognac, and he seemed to gain inspiration from its bouquet.

  ‘We of the press,’ he remarked, ‘are not accustomed to be balked of our interviews, and professional solidarity demands that I should help you. I have an idea. The count, when he is in Dieppe, strolls every morning along the Grande Rue before lunch. All through the scandal he kept up that habit, and never seemed to notice that people in the street looked at him curiously. He drops in at Gautier’s shop to look at his books and talk. They have great arguments, he and Hégésippe. Now tomorrow morning I will take you to Gautier’s shop, and if the count is there, you will introduce yourself to him. Of course you will know nothing of what I have told you tonight, but are only occupied with the case of your compatriot. Your tact will do the rest.’

  Trent jumped at the offer, and the rest of the evening was spent in less serious conversation inspired by an excellent dinner.

  That night Trent, in his pot-pourri-scented bedroom, pleasantly haunted by the ghosts of centuries, tried to set his thoughts in order. He sat by the open window, looking out on the Pavillon de l’Ecstase, which wore an ethereal and less desolate appearance in the moonlight. It had been built for pleasure, but for a delight that was fastidious and delicate. Drugs and madness—in a way the scandal of the Pavillon de l’Ecstase was commonplace enough; but it was typical of France that it should have been mixed up with politics, and that private vice and folly such as every country knows should have become a question of state.

  And when all the sordid tale was told, the matter of Randolph’s death and the circumstances surrounding it remained as obscure as ever. Well, perhaps Count d’Astalys might be able to throw some light on it. Trent got into bed and slept.

  There was an atmosphere of peace in the Librairie Gautier. The books of today inhabited the outer precincts of the temple; the latest books from Paris, waiting there to have their pages turned without consideration of purchase. Gautier himself passed lovingly from one to the other with the fastidious taste of the connoisseur, happy to discuss them with any visitor capable of appreciating their merits and shortcomings.

  Thither Bibi led Trent on the morning of the following day. Hégésippe was not pleased to see them, though it was as impossible for him to be discourteous in his own shop as for an Arab chief to forget the law of hospitality. He feared for his coveted violet rosette, for it seemed only too possible that this inconvenient foreigner might rake up the scandal that had been so carefully buried. Yet his wariness vanished like frost under the sun when he found that Trent had an eye for a beautiful book.

  ‘Il pleure dans mon cœur,

  Comme il pleut sur la ville,’

  Trent read from an edition of Verlaine that lay on the counter. ‘And they say that there is no lyric poetry in French! What a joy it is to read such words on a perfect page!’

  The bookseller, with his gentle features transfigured by the love of his life—his expression reminded Trent of the White Knight—led him away to see edition after edition that ranged from a startling Aphrodite of Pierre Louys to a dignified, yet humorous and confidential Montaigne. Hégésippe’s quiet enthusiasm had so far captivated Trent that he started when Bibi touched him on the shoulder and murmured in his ear: ‘Voilà Monsieur le Comte: je me sauve.’ Bibi shook Trent’s hand and shot off; saluting a newcomer, as he went, with a flourish of his hat and ‘Bonjour, Monsieur le Comte.’

  Against the light Trent perceived the outline of a very tall stooping figure. The bookseller darted towards the entrance, muttering phrases of welcome. They came forward together, and there was a moment of awkward silence; for Gautier showed no intention of presenting his English visitor. Trent seized the bull by the horns.

  ‘Monsieur le Comte,’ he said, ‘allow me to introduce myself.’ He held out his card. ‘I believe you may be able to tell me something that is of vital importance to a friend of mine, who is, I have reason to believe, a friend of yours, Dr Bryan Fairman. It may be a matter of life and death.’

  The count had drawn back at first with an involuntary movement of annoyance, but at the name of Fairman his manner changed. Taking Trent’s card, he stretched out his hand to him and said, ‘I am at your disposal, Monsieur. The friends of Fairman are my friends. Let me show you a place where we can speak privately.’

  He led the way to a windowed recess at the back of the shop.

  The count now stood so that the light fell upon his face. Trent, as a painter of human subjects, was fascinated by the lustrous eyes, set deep under shaggy brows above an eagle nose and a long ragged white moustache. They were greyish-green eyes, the pupil neatly bordered with a dark band, and gave an extraordinary impression of gazing not
outwards but inwards. At Trent’s first words there had been a hint of fear, or at least uneasiness, in their regard, as though the soul behind them had peeped out at the external world and disliked the prospect; but almost at once their serenity returned.

  ‘You may possibly have heard,’ Trent said, ‘of the murder of Mr Randolph, a well-known English philanthropist, a few days ago in London. Dr Fairman appears to have been in some way connected with that crime; there is even some danger of his being accused as guilty of it.’

  Count d’Astalys held up his hands. ‘Fairman a murderer! C’est inconcevable! No, Monsieur, I have heard nothing about it. I never read newspapers.’

  ‘I too,’ Trent said, ‘could not believe that he was guilty of such a crime, and that is why I have come to ask your help, since I can get none from Fairman himself. It seems just possible that you may know something which will explain his extraordinary conduct.’

  He proceeded to state briefly the facts of Fairman’s involvement in the crime, though he made no mention of what he had learned in confidence from Inspector Bligh—that the police had Fairman’s own confession in their hands. ‘The night of the murder,’ he went on, ‘he came over to Dieppe. Next morning he was seen in the Impasse de la Chimère, and I have been informed that he was asking for you by name. Finding you to be not at home, he went back to England by the next boat, and on the way he was arrested when on the point of committing suicide by jumping overboard. He refused to give any explanation of his actions, or indeed to say a word of any sort; and at present he is too ill to be seen by his friends.’

  The count shook his head sadly, and pressed his hands over his eyes. ‘I am more deeply grieved than I can express,’ he said, ‘to hear what you tell me. But I fear I can be of very little help. I cannot imagine why he should have come to seek me out in these terrible circumstances. Believe me, Monsieur, I am much attached to our friend. For a year we occupied the same rooms when we were studying in Paris, and I learned to know him as well as one man can know another. I admired above all things his integrity and fearless logic. Anything I could do for him I would do, even though it cost me much; but I am obliged to confess myself at a loss.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Trent hazarded, ‘from your special knowledge of our friend’s character you may be able to lay your hand on the spring of such unaccountable behaviour. I thought I knew him well, but you may know him better.’

  ‘If it comes to that intangible thing, character,’ the count said, ‘all I can say is that I am morally certain he could never be an ordinary murderer; that is, he could never have killed for personal advantage or for passion. But—’ he hesitated a moment—‘it is not altogether impossible that if the cold, hard reason which he had made his god had ordained his own death or that of any other person, he might have carried out its behests, however unwillingly. I must tell you a little about the intellectual footing on which we stood. You know, of course, what sort of philosophy Fairman has always held.’

  ‘I think I understand what you mean,’ Trent said. ‘Science without art or religion, intellect without emotion. It is a hard master. It is apt, also, to betray those who submit to it. Fairman discovered that emotion can make demands which cannot be rejected.’

  The count smiled faintly. ‘That does not surprise me. Upon this matter Fairman and I always differed, though we were the better friends for our differences. There is one truth, and countless reflections of it. Neither of us ever tried to impose his truth on the other. My philosophy has brought me trouble and to spare, but Fairman’s common-sense and materialism seem to have landed him in scarcely less difficulty. Always from the beginning he was a pure scientist, holding that mind was a mere function of body, and believing that it was the visible external which conditioned the invisible within. He had to see and touch things before he could believe in their existence. He never swerved from his principle, and in all the remarkable work he did among the insane he regarded his patients as machines, though all that did not prevent him from being the kindest and most considerate of men.

  ‘I, on the other hand, have always found it harder to believe in the reality of the seen than in that of the unseen. I have never felt sure of the solidity of external objects, but I have no doubts about the existence of my own thoughts and feelings. It was this opposition between our outlooks that made us such great friends and enabled us to do valuable work together …

  ‘I need not speak of Fairman’s career. You will know more of it than I do. My turn of mind, my truth, led me along a different path. All my interest lay in the inner world, and when I was tempted out of it I paid bitterly for the adventure. But I have never lost interest in my old friend, and at rare intervals we have exchanged letters—enough for me to perceive that he had changed in his opinions no more than myself. And there, Monsieur, you have all that I can tell you about Fairman’s ideas and character. It appears to me, and I regret it much, to throw little light upon your enigma of conduct.’

  Trent did not attempt to conceal his disappointment. ‘I thank you, M. le Comte, for listening to my appeal,’ he said. ‘It was no more than a forlorn hope after all; but I could not help building upon it. Unhappily I am now thrown back upon a theory which suggested itself to me at the outset, or rather was suggested to me by the police themselves. I confess that I have fought against accepting it.’

  ‘I understand you too well,’ the count said, ‘though I hesitated to say the word to a friend of my friend’s. You believe he may have lost his reason. The possibility is only too apparent on the facts as you have stated them to me.’

  ‘That is my anxiety,’ Trent said. ‘Well, there is no more for me to say or to do here. Very soon, I hope, I shall receive permission to visit Fairman, and I shall then be able to form a more definite idea of his state of mind. Once again, M. le Comte, many thanks; and good-by. I return to England by the boat which leaves in a few hours from now.’

  CHAPTER XIII

  FELIX POUBELLE 1884

  IT was in a mood of keen disappointment and increased perplexity that Trent returned from Dieppe. Without realizing it fully, he had built much upon the hope of picking up there some clue to Bryan Fairman’s personal involvement in the Randolph case. But neither in the reticence that prevailed at the Hôtel du Petit Univers, in the highly-seasoned gossip of William Rond-de-Cuir, nor in the philosophic frankness of the Comte d’Astalys had he found any help. What the count had had to say had merely added force to the simplest but most tragic explanation of the affair; and if Inspector Bligh, Trent himself at one time, and finally the count—with all his knowledge of Fairman’s character, and attachment to him as a friend—had felt that the idea of Fairman’s madness had to be entertained, the argument for that most unacceptable solution was undeniably a strong one.

  Yet it was still clear to Trent, and perhaps to him alone—since the monstrous suggestion of the prints on the razor-blade was known to no other person—that there was too much simplicity about that solution. There was still the possibility that Fairman had acted as he had done with the purpose of shielding another person. This had been officially considered, and had been set aside for what seemed sound reasons; but Trent, for his part, did not feel so sure. Certainly, it did not account for all the facts; but why should it do so? Trent asked himself the question as one passionately interested in proving the innocence of his friend; a motive which could not be said to actuate Inspector Bligh and the great institution he represented.

  There remained one curiosity about the evidence available in the Randolph affair—not an outstanding challenge to detective ingenuity, by any means; yet still, a detail that from the first Trent had felt to need explaining. This was the champagne cork found among the contents of the dead man’s pockets. One might imagine a dozen ways in which it might have found its way into that random collection; only they would not be plausible ways. One might think of it as a talisman or luck-bringer, kept for just the same reason as moved people like Mrs McOmish, or Verney the secretary, to cherish rusty nails foun
d in the street. But Randolph had, emphatically, not been the sort of man to do that sort of thing. Was it, then, one of the many incongruous objects supposed to have the occult power of warding off lumbago, or catarrh, or epilepsy? Was it a memento of some crapulous orgy of the Association for Moral and Social Hygiene? Or a passport to secret conclaves of the Protestant Truth Society? None of these things seemed to have about them much intrinsic probability; but Trent could think of nothing more simple and satisfying.

  Again, the brand on the cork constituted a small problem in itself. Without aspiring to any height of connoisseurship, Trent had always been interested in wine and the curious lore of it; he numbered some acknowledged experts among his friends; and he knew enough to realize, as soon as Mr Bligh had shown him the cork in question, that ‘Felix Poubelle 1884’ must be something decidedly out of the common at this time of day. Anything strange in this affair was worth looking into, he thought; and there was no difficulty about the first step at least. He would seek counsel from an expert whose knowledge of wines, and therefore of corks, was unrivalled. William Clerihew, the renowned and erudite wine-merchant of Fountain Court, was the obvious man.

  The house of Clerihew Bros. and Co. inspected, purchased and offered rare and ancient wines with a reverent dignity which made precious stones seem commonplace by comparison. The shop was an oasis of peace in the noise and mercenary bustle of the West End. Its panelling and its ancient floors, which dived capriciously in any plane but the horizontal, the collection of quaint historic wine-bottles, and the unequalled excellence of the wines that were tasted within its precincts, made it a place apart. While the rest of London was demolishing the old and masking the beauties of the past under the unsightly dullness of modernity, Mr Clerihew had been quietly busy preserving the traditional simplicity of his premises, and rescuing from the overlay of later bad taste the peculiar charm of the original building.