His way took him along the main road as far as Les Essards. Here he turned into a small, twisting, side road which climbed and dipped toward Avrillé-les-Ponceaux through the northern fringes of the Forêt de Rochecotte. It was a wild district of sandy uplands alternating with uncleared wood. After half an hour of industrious pedaling Nap saw the signpost he had been warned to look for and turned again. He found an unmetalled track, deeply rutted by cartwheels in the mud of winter, but now dried into an infernal tramway along which he skidded and bumped. The track was still climbing, and suddenly he came out from the trees and saw the farmstead in front of him. It lay cupped in the side of the hill, hull down to the crest, hidden from the world by the woods which surrounded it, but watchful and dominant in its own upland clearing.
The buildings were massive. Fifty yards downhill from the farm Nap saw the mansard roof and the winding handle of the well which no doubt served to give the farm its name. “Grand” must mean “deep,” he thought. You would have to go at least a hundred feet down into the chalk to get a water supply at a height like that.
He dismounted from his bicycle and stood for a moment surveying the steading. There was plenty of life about this farm. Chickens picking over the chaff at the barn door, a cat dozing beside the manure heap and keeping an eye on a gang of young turkeys braggarting up and down the yard.
A woman at one of the windows called something in a shrill voice and a moment later a fat man came out and stood in the doorway.
“Monsieur Marquis?” said Nap.
The fat man did not answer him directly.
“You are a stranger here,” he said. “It is evident from your speech. You are from Paris?”
“Monsieur has a discriminating ear,” said Nap.
“It is a facility,” said the man. “You were asking after Monsieur Pierre Marquis. He is no longer here. I purchased the farm from him and his brother, André. It belonged to them jointly, you understand.”
“That would be his younger brother?”
“On the contrary. Older. Much older. Seeing them together you would scarcely have said that they were brothers. I believe, however, that it was so. I see no reason to doubt it.”
“Oh, quite,” said Nap.
“As so often in these partnerships it was the younger who had the brain and the initiative. Or so it seemed to me.”
“I suppose,” said Nap, “you have no idea where they moved to. I have come a long way to find them—”
“I regret,” said the man. “It was three – nearly four years ago. Just after the war.”
“I see.”
“Wait, though, an instant. Jeanne! Jeanne!” He had a thin piping voice for so large a man. The woman whom Nap had already seen came to the door. “What was the name of the advocate? You recollect. The one who negotiated the sale.”
“Gimelet,” said the woman. “Of Rue de Gazomètre at Angers.”
“Why,” said Nap. “But that – yes. Thank you.”
“If Monsieur finds himself at Angers he might inquire. An advocate usually has the address of his client.”
“If only to pester him with bills,” said the woman, who seemed to be a realist.
“Thank you,” said Nap. “Should I be in Angers I will certainly visit Monsieur Gimelet, and pursue my inquiries.”
At the edge of the wood he paused and looked back. He found it difficult to account to himself for the powerful impression that the place had made on him. It was not the people. The fat self-satisfied man and his small dark wife: they were commonplace enough. It was not even the buildings, which were solid and well made, yet in no way remarkable. Was it, perhaps, the setting? The air of enclave; the suggestion of being the centre of a maze; the heart, as it were, of its own private mystery?
As he was about to get on to his bicycle Nap noticed something else. But for his personal experience of such things he might very easily have missed it. At the point where the shoulder of the wood overlooked the approach to the farm someone had, at some time, constructed a camouflaged shelter. Nap could still see the trench and the step, overgrown but unmistakable. When he looked more closely he could see where small trees had been cut down to give a clear field of vision, and looking backward in the direction of the farm he could still make out the crawl trench which would have served a sentry for inconspicuous access and a sudden retreat.
So the Ferme du Grand Puits had been a Maquis post too, in its time.
As Nap bicycled slowly back toward Pont Boutard and a late lunch, as he bounced in the bus which whirled back to Langeais, as he sat in the train which trundled him down the Loire Valley toward the town of Angers, the first very feint beginning of an idea was sown and planted its long roots in his mind.
Chapter Seventeen
On Tuesday morning before the proceedings opened Macrea found time for a word with Mr. Rumbold.
“Any word yet from that son of yours?” he asked.
“Not a thing,” said Mr. Rumbold.
“Have we any means of letting him know what’s happening at this end?” ’
“I’ve got a hotel address in Angers,” said Mr. Rumbold. “He ought to be there by now. If he isn’t I’ve wasted a lot of money.”
Macrea cocked a tufted eyebrow at him.
“I sat up half last night,” explained Mr. Rumbold, “cabling him a summary of all the evidence we’ve had so far – particularly Monsieur Sainte. It was a very compressed version but it seemed to add up to an awful lot of words when I came to paying for it.”
“I hope we get something from him,” said Macrea. “What about Major McCann?”
“He was in Winchester yesterday. He’s in Salisbury today. He says he may be on to something.”
Macrea looked thoughtful.
“I don’t want to hurry your lieutenants unduly,” he said, “but at the present rate this trial won’t run much beyond Thursday midday.”
“Your name is Adrian Arthur Crispin Trevor Alwright. You were a colonel on the general list in His Majesty’s Army, now retired.”
“Quite so.”
“You have been resident since September of last year at the Family Hotel in Pearlyman Street and were resident there on March fourteenth of this year?”
“Just so.”
“Now, Colonel Alwright, I would like you to direct your attention to the evening of March fourteenth.”
“The night that poor fellow got killed.”
“Yes.”
“Shocking thing. Shocking. Well now, let me think. I had dinner at seven o’clock. I think we were only five at table that night – Mrs. Roper, the three Radletts and myself. The Radletts went out as soon as dinner was over.”
‘That would have been – when?”
“Oh. Just about eight – perhaps a little before.”
“Thank you. What did you do next?”
“I went up to my room to see to one or two things. Came back to the lounge and settled down for the evening.”
“Can you remember where you sat?” Mr. Summers moved over to the plan.
“Yes. My usual chair, between the window and the fireplace.”
“About here?”
“That’s about it.”
“The point I had in mind is that you could see out through the door into the hall. Could you see the reception desk?”
“Yes.”
“And the person in it.”
“I could keep an eye on old Camino most of the time, if that’s what you’re getting at,” said the colonel with soldierly directness.
“Well – yes. Most of the time, you say.”
“If he moved to the back of the reception office, he went out of view. But he was there all right, I’m fairly sure of that.”
“What reason have you got for saying that?”
“Well, he cantered up whenever I whistled for him – to fetch a drink, you know. That sort of thing.”
“I see. Well, now, apart from Camino who did you see, in or near the lounge, that evening?”
“Are you
talking about poor old Thoseby?”
“Yes. If you saw him. Just tell us who you saw.”
“Of course I saw him. He had to come through the lounge to get to the dining room, I expect I said good evening. It seemed the friendly thing to do.”
“What time would this have been?”
“I didn’t keep looking at my watch. About half an hour after I’d settled down.”
“The approximate time is all that we want. Now can you give us any idea of what Major Thoseby’s demeanor was at this time. Did he look quite normal, or did he seem to you upset or nervous?”
“What had he got to be nervous about?” said the colonel reasonably. “He didn’t know then that he was going to be murdered.”
“Then he seemed perfectly normal.”
“Quite normal.”
“When did you see him next?”
“About half an hour later, when he’d finished his meal.”
“He came back into the lounge.”
“Yes.”
“Did he say anything?”
“We exchanged a few sentences. I think I asked him whether he was stopping long in the hotel. He said no, just for the one night as far as he knew.”
“As far as he knew – you’re sure that’s what he said.”
“No. I’m not sure. How can anyone be sure about a conversation with a complete stranger in a hotel lounge six months ago?”
“But you remember that it was quite a short conversation?”
“Yes. Quite a short conversation. He then settled down to read the papers and shortly after that he went out. I understood him to say he was going upstairs to his room.”
“Can you give us any idea what time this would be?”
“Let me see—between a quarter – and half-past nine.”
“Was there anyone else with you in the lounge?”
“Yes. Mrs. Roper was in the lounge with me all this time. She was there from after dinner until she went up to her room at ten o’clock.”
“I see. Then what happened?”
“I must have been alone then, until I went to bed. I left the lounge at half-past ten. I ran into Mademoiselle —I mean—” The gallant colonel plainly boggled at the idea of saying “the prisoner” and concluded with a vague gesture in the direction of the dock.
“You encountered the prisoner?”
“Yes. I gathered that she had just returned from her evening out. I may have said good night. I really forget. I then went up to my room.”
“What happened next?”
“Nothing happened next. I undressed, went to bed, and woke up the next morning.”
“Your room, of course, is not in the annex with Major Thoseby’s. Your room is in the main corridor?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, Colonel Alwright.”
“Colonel Trevor Alwright,” said Macrea. “Are you an accurate observer?”
“Am I—yes. I think I may say so. The Army teaches accurate observation.”
“Then you will not object if I test your memory.”
“Certainly not.”
“Particularly as at one point in my learned friend’s examination you indicated that you were not quite sure, after this lapse of time, exactly what did take place.”
“I said that I couldn’t remember exactly what was said.”
“But your recollection of who was there that night, and at approximately what time they came and went – you are quite clear on that?”
“Oh, quite. Not to a minute, you know. I didn’t have my watch in my hand.”
“So you told us. Might I direct your attention to a statement you made in examination. You say ‘Mrs. Roper was in the lounge with me all this time’ – the time actually referred to was half-past nine, when Major Thoseby left to go up to his room – you go on to say: ‘She was there from after dinner until she went up to her room at ten o’clock.”
“Quite so.”
“I do not particularly refer to the early part of the evening but that is a definite statement that Mrs. Roper was in the room with you from, let us say, nine-thirty until ten o’clock?”
“Yes.”
“Is that true?”
“Really, sir. I hardly know how to answer you.”
“Then try answering the question.”
“It is my recollection of what happened.”
“Your clear recollection?”
“I suppose so.”
“You said, a moment ago, that your recollection of comings and goings was clear.”
“Yes. I am sure that is correct.”
“I see. I just mention it, because Monsieur Sainte, in his evidence, states that Mrs. Roper went in to see him in his office for a few minutes at a quarter to ten.”
“In that case – yes. Well, she may have slipped out of the room for a few moments.”
“I trust that you are bearing in mind,” said Macrea screwing his glass into his eye and giving the colonel a stare of concentrated loathing, “that you are giving evidence upon oath?”
“Quite so.”
“Evidence upon the accuracy of which the life of the prisoner may depend.”
“Oh, quite,” said the colonel unhappily.
“Later in your evidence you state that you went to bed, undressed and went to sleep. Can you give the court some idea of how long those—er—operations would normally take – approximately?”
“Well, about half an hour, possibly a little more.”
“And you reached your room just after ten o’clock?”
“Yes.”
“So that by a quarter to eleven you would not have been in bed for more than five, or at the most, ten minutes?”
“Yes.”
“Your room is in the main corridor directly over Monsieur Sainte’s office.” Macrea demonstrated on the plan. “And being on the first floor is actually closer to Major Thoseby’s room than Monsieur Sainte’s office?”
“Certainly not. To get from my room to Major Thoseby’s room would mean going back down the stairs—”
“If you would listen to my questions we should save the court’s time. I did not ask if you could reach Major Thoseby’s room more quickly than Monsieur Sainte could. I stated, as a mathematical fact, that your room is nearer to Major Thoseby’s room.”
“Yes. I expect that is so.”
“Do you sleep with your window shut or open?”
“Open, of course.”
“Then is it not odd that shouts – screams, I should say – that were loud enough to fetch Monsieur Sainte instantly to his feet, in a more distant room, with the window shut, made no impression on you, although you had only been in bed approximately five minutes?”
“I was asleep.”
“Deeply asleep?”
“Yes, I sleep very soundly.”
“You went to sleep at once?”
“I usually fall asleep as soon as my head touches the pillow.”
“A very soldierly trait,” commented Macrea. “May I revert for a moment to an earlier part of the evening? When my learned friend was pressing you to state definitely that the waiter, Camino, was in the reception desk, you said – I am paraphrasing your answer – that when he was at the front of the desk you could actually see him, and when he was occupied at the back of the desk, you were confident he was there, because he always responded to your summons. Is that right?”
“Yes. That is correct. The fellow always appeared immediately I called for him,”
“And how many times did you call for him?”
“Well – perhaps half a dozen times.”
“That would be six times in the period of about two hours. You are sure it was six times.”
“I couldn’t swear to the precise number. It might have been six or eight.”
“I see. And what did he do for you on these six or eight occasions?”
“Well – it might have been an evening paper – or a drink.”
“He will be giving evidence himself and will no doubt be able to
assist us. Would you say that you sent six times for a drink?”
“Perhaps.”
“And what were you drinking – no doubt you will remember that?”
“Whisky.”
“Six orders of whisky. Single or doubles?”
“Really, I—singles. The first may have been a double.”
“Well, I expect we shall be able to ask the next witness about that, too. You did say that you were an accurate observer, Colonel?”
“I did.”
Macrea appeared to refer to a note in his brief.
“Is it correct that at the Kirkee Hospital in 1933, you called the attention of one of the medical officers to a cobra in a bathing suit and a fez which was tobogganing down the wall beside your bed?”
“I do not remember.”
“I will not press the question. It would be true, however, to say that after six or seven glasses of whisky your observations might tend to be a little less reliable than they normally are.”
The witness made no reply to this.
Mr. Summers, in re-examination asked, “When you were in Kirkee Hospital on the occasion to which my learned friend refers, were you suffering from malaria?”
“Yes.”
“And that is a disease in which hallucinations are sometimes observed by the patient?”
“Certainly, why once in East Africa I saw—”
Thank you,” said Mr. Summers hastily.
Camino’s evidence was given to the court through an interpreter and for this reason, and also because it tended chiefly to substantiate Colonel Alwright’s, it is not offered verbatim.
The following is a short summary of the points elicited.
Camino was on duty at the reception desk from eight o’clock until ten-thirty. During this time he took four telephone calls and fetched Colonel Trevor Alwright seven single whiskies, one double whisky and a copy of the Evening Standard. He was quite certain that the colonel was at no time intoxicated. Had the colonel been intoxicated he would not have served him with further drinks. Cheerful, yes. At the end, possibly sleepy. But not intoxicated. He had been relieved at the desk by the prisoner on her return to the hotel at half-past ten. This was the normal arrangement. He had many duties to perform before going to bed – such as setting the breakfast, preparing early morning tea-trays. He went straight into the kitchen and was working between the kitchen and the dining room for the next forty-five minutes. He was in the kitchen at a quarter to eleven when he heard the screams. He ran through the service door and up the stairs. Monsieur Sainte was running just ahead of him. After the discovery of the body Monsieur Sainte had instructed him to telephone for the police and a doctor. In the excitement he had misunderstood and had telephoned only for the police. Afterward he had summoned the doctor as well. He had been working with Monsieur Sainte in the hotel ever since the hotel opened.
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