Macrea leaned over and said something to Mr. Lovibond who was taking this cross-examination.
“One last question. I understood that you are by birth an Italian?”
“Yes.”
“Did you come to England direct from Italy?”
“No, I was in France during the whole of the war.”
“In what part of France?”
“Near Angers.”
“I only asked because I thought his Italian sounded a bit odd,” said Macrea to Mr. Rumbold. “The trouble is that it was such an unexpected answer that we weren’t prepared to follow it up.”
“I’ll let Nap know at once,” said Mr. Rumbold.
Chapter Eighteen
After breakfast on Monday morning Nap set out to visit the Rue de Gazomètre. He found that it lay in the lower part of Angers.
As he walked along the cobbled path which skirts the ramparts of the castle and slopes down to the river front, he turned over in his mind the idea which had come to him.
In the light of morning it looked, perhaps, less promising than it had done the evening before but he was convinced that somewhere in it was the hard grain of truth.
When he had called at the Bureau de Lorraine, in London, the directeur had given him the names and addresses of the two householders who had afforded “references” for Monsieur Sainte when the latter came over to England to open his hotel. The first of these “references” had been the brothers Marquis whose farm he had just visited. A coincidence, perhaps, that the brothers Marquis should have sold up their farm and left the district at about the same time that Monsieur Sainte had come to England? Monsieur Sainte’s second “reference” had been Monsieur Gimelet of the Rue de Gazomètre. It now appeared that Monsieur Gimelet was a lawyer employed by the brothers Marquis.
“A crooked attorney,” said Nap. He stopped for a moment to admire the massive chestnut trees in the avenue; their golden brown leaves were just beginning to fall. “A dime to a dollar there’s some shady work going on here, and it looks as if Sainte is mixed up in it.”
As he crossed the bridge he was aware that the character of the streets had deteriorated. He was penetrating the Quartier Ouvrier. The houses here were old, and thin-chested. The paint was off the wood and the ironwork was rusty.
Outside the door of Number 20 Rue de Gazomètre a chipped China plate bore the name Maître Gimelet. All the shutters were closed and the door was fast. He reflected that the corresponding street in an English town would have been alive, the open windows crowded with women, the doorways thronged with children. This street was dead.
He pulled the iron bell-pull and waited. He pulled it again. He became aware that the wicket gate had opened and a small man was peering up at him.
“Maître Gimelet?”
“Yes.”
“Permit me, if I may, to enter. I have business to discuss.”
The man looked undecided.
“It will take a few minutes only.”
The man backed away from the door and Nap followed him into the tiled hall. No motion was made to invite him further.
“It is of Monsieur Honorifique Sainte I would inquire,” said Nap. “He is now living in London—”
He was interrupted.
The door at the end of the hall opened and a huge woman in black advanced toward them. It was an unexpected but none the less an impressive performance. As she advanced she crepitated. Like a snake over sun-warmed tiles; like a razor blade across a leather hone; like the leaves of a linden tree in the faintest breeze of a summer evening. As a ship’s harmony is composed of many notes, so Nap’s careful ear distinguished the different instruments of Madame Gimelet’s orchestra. The rustle of silk, the rumour of starched linen, the flexing of whalebone, the tweaking of elastic.
“Monsieur desires—?” inquired this female mountain coldly.
Nap repeated his request.
“My husband does not know a Monsieur Sainte.”
“Indeed,” said Nap. “It seems, in the circumstances, odd then that he offered his own name as a reference for Monsieur Sainte when he removed to England.”
“As to that,” said Madame, “it may be. One does these things and one forgets.”
“Not, perhaps, quite the spirit in which one should approach an official reference.”
“Perhaps not.”
“Monsieur Sainte—” piped the small man.
“A business acquaintance only,” said the woman. “My husband does business for many people. He cannot answer personally for all of them. What has Monsieur Sainte done?”
“Nothing,” said Nap. “Nothing at all.” He fixed Maître Gimelet with his eye and directed his question pointedly at him.
“As an attorney,” he said, “you can tell me perhaps what was the deposit demanded by the British Government at that time before a Frenchman would be permitted to enter England and to work there.”
“I think—”
“Five hundred pounds,” said the woman, “it may have been a thousand. In different cases, different sums were demanded.”
“Monsieur Sainte was a man of means, then—”
“Oh, yes—” began the man.
“My husband would hardly be expected to know the private circumstances of all his clients.”
Maître Gimelet hastily nodded his agreement with this sentiment.
“God blast the woman,” thought Nap.
He took his courage into both hands and said, directing himself again to the man, “Is it permitted to see Maître Gimelet alone?”
“No,” said Madame.
Nap looked at the attorney. He seemed unaware that anything unusual had been said, but stood quite placidly, his fingers playing with a pair of pince-nez, which were hanging from a broad ribbon; his brown eyes were mild.
“In that case—” said Nap angrily. He was on the point of terminating the interview when common sense came to his aid.
“Why should I walk out on them?” he thought. “That’s just exactly what the old she-mountain wants me to do.” He directed himself again with laborious politeness to the lawyer.
“Do you recollect,” he said, “that you acted for Pierre and André Marquis in the sale of a farm – the Ferme du Grand Puits—?”
No sooner had he spoken the words than Nap realised that he was close to something.
Maître Gimelet stopped playing with his glasses. Madame froze. There was silence in the long hallway.
“I—yes,” said the man.
“One forgets,” said the woman. She said it automatically.
“All right.” Nap spoke with sudden savage authority. “One forgets. I ask you about Monsieur Sainte, a man for whose respectability you have vouched to the British Government. You know nothing of him. I ask whether he is a man of means. You do not know. I inquire about the brothers Marquis, two of your own clients. You have forgotten. What is all this? Is it a farce? Is it a fairy story? I speak of the Ferme du Grand Puits—”
Again it came, strong as the kick of a mine detector when it passes over hidden metal. Keep at it, thought Nap.
“What is there in this Grand Puits—”
This time it was quite unmistakable.
It was the ugly emotion of fear. He could see it in both faces; as plain as death and dissolution.
“You will go,” said the woman at last. “You will go or I will send for the police.”
“We shall see who will be the first to send for the police,” said Nap. This seemed to be quite a good curtain line. He opened the door and let himself out into the empty sunlit street.
When he got back to his hotel he inquired at the desk for letters. There were none. As he was turning away, the manageress said; “Your visitor is waiting for you.”
“My visitor?”
“I put her in the writing room – that is the small room at the end of the passage past the dining room. I trust I did rightly.”
“Oh, you put her in the writing room. Quite right,” said Nap. “I will go along now.�
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In the little writing room he was not entirely surprised to find Madame Delboise.
“I trust you found your child well,” said Nap. “You are tired of Paris so soon.”
“He is a fine boy,” said Madame Delboise. “Just seven. He is in the middle of his first love affair. However, it is not of him that I have come all the way to Angers to speak. I have come to apologise.”
“For what?”
“For mistrusting you in the first place. In the second, for having you followed.”
“I imagined,” said Nap, “that I had managed to—er—spare you the latter embarrassment. Evidently I was wrong.”
“At Dieppe, you mean. It was charmingly done. Really, I appreciated it. That handsome suitcase – the owner came to claim it before we arrived in Paris. He was most indignant.”
“He has all my sympathy. Tell me, was I very clumsy? You mean to say that someone else was following me as well as you?”
“Indeed, there was no need,” said Madame Delboise. “I was aware that the only other train leaving Dieppe was for Rouen. I merely telephoned for you to be met there “
“Ah! The young man with the bicycle?”
“Philippe. Has he not a splendid body?”
“Shattering.”
“So I think. One day, when things are more settled, I shall marry him. Imagine the pleasure. To awaken each morning—”
“Quite so,” said Nap.
“All the same someone did come after me in Dieppe.”
“No doubt they did,” said Madame Delboise. ‘The people I am thinking of have a very good intelligence service. They would be aware that you would land at Dieppe – no doubt you would be picked up as soon as you landed.”
“Look here,” said Nap. “Would you very much mind explaining what all this is about?”
“Of course. First, I should explain that we have a friend in common. Monsieur Bren?”
“You know him?”
“In fact I work for him.”
“My god,” said Nap. “A policewoman.”
“As you say it, it does not sound flattering. But it is the truth nevertheless. My assignment at the moment is to the matter of currency smuggling. It is an international organisation, with its branches in all countries. Two of the strongest and best-organised branches work together on the cross-Channel service. We know a good deal about the French end – it is the English end that we are now studying in co-operation, of course, with your police.”
“And the Société de Lorraine?”
“A perfectly genuine organisation. I was attached there merely for cover.”
“Then why should you have been interested in me?”
“Because we were not quite sure about you. And anyone we are not quite sure about interests us. You are a friend of Major McCann. He was making inquiries about Mrs. Roper – who is the friend of a man we are very interested in indeed. We felt no doubt that when you reached France things might happen. And, indeed, from what I hear, the guess was a good one. They have begun to happen already.”
“You mean that unpleasant piece of work who contacted me at Rouen? How did you know about that, by the way?”
“Philippe saw him come and go.”
“I see. One other thing. You said that you were not sure about me. Has anything happened to make you change your mind?”
“Of course. I had only to mention your name to Monsieur Bren. He gave you the best of characters.”
Nap thought for a moment, and then said, “Do you like American magazines?”
“Certainly.”
“So do I, for the most part. But they have one habit that I find irritating. They start a story, get you really interested in it, and then – what happens? You turn the page and find you are in the middle of quite a different one.”
“I do not quite—”
“That’s exactly what’s happening here, don’t you see? I started out reading a murder story. It seems to have turned into a gold smuggling melodrama. What’s the connection between the death of Major Thoseby last March in the Family Hotel and a large – scale gold smuggling racket?”
“Mrs. Roper.”
“Yes. I know Mrs. Roper is a person who is common to both stories – but does that necessarily mean that the two stories are connected? It might have been the purest coincidence that she had the room next to Thoseby’s.”
“I do not believe in coincidence,” said the girl. “There is a connection. It is even possible that I may be able to help you to find it. The work I am engaged on gives me certain facilities. But, meanwhile, let me warn you. Tread carefully. The state of France is not a very happy one at this moment. Sometimes, indeed, I wish that we were back in the war again. In the Resistance we were all one. Now we have gone in all directions. Some of us – the Trades Unionists chiefly – to the Communists, some of us into the administration and the police—”
“And some,” said Nap, thinking of what he had read in the Courier, “some have gone into—into opposition.”
“Yes. One sees that it was inevitable. The wilder spirits, those who had learned to live by robbing and killing Germans. Now there are no Germans. They fight society.”
“I understand that,” said Nap.
“Understand this, too, then. They are not easy people. Leave them to those who are organised to deal with them. Inquiries have started already. We are hopeful of that lawyer, Gimelet. We may be able to bring pressure on him.”
“If you are going to do anything that will help me,” said Nap, “you realise that you’ll have to work fast. It’s Monday afternoon. I must have all my answers by Wednesday at the latest.”
“I will give you my telephone number in Angers.” She scribbled it on a piece of paper. “If you go out of the hotel, leave word where you can be found.”
“Very well,” said Nap.
He said it with a docility which anyone who knew him might have found suspicious.
Chapter Nineteen
“Your name is Gwendolyne Roper. You have been a resident at the Family Hotel in Pearlyman Street, Euston – for how long?”
“For more than a year.”
“You were there on the night that Major Thoseby was murdered?”
“Yes.”
“Will you give the court an account of your movements on that evening – from dinnertime onward.”
“I finished dinner at about eight o’clock. Colonel Alwright finished his dinner at the same time and we went into the lounge together. I was there, reading and listening to the wireless, for the better part of the next two hours. I looked in at Mr. Sainte’s office for a few minutes at about a quarter to ten, but, so far as I recollect, that was the only time I went out of the room.”
“Did anyone else come in during this time?”
“Yes. Major Thoseby arrived at about half-past eight. He passed through the room on his way to dinner. He came out of the dining room again. At nine o’clock. The nine o’clock news, I remember, was just starting. I think he sat and read for about ten minutes – it may have been a quarter of an hour. Then he went out. I think he was going up to his room.”
“What made you think that?”
“He said good night as he went.”
“I see. That would have been about a quarter past nine, I take it. What happened next?”
“I went up to my room at ten o’clock. I had some letters to write. I thought I would write them upstairs.”
Mr. Summers referred to the plan.
“Your room is Number 33, next to Major Thoseby’s?”
“Yes.”
“In the ordinary way, can you hear from your room what goes on in the next-door room?”
“You cannot hear ordinary conversation. The walls are too thick for that.”
“But you can hear loud or unusual noises.”
“Yes. I was able to hear—”
“I am coming to that,” said Mr. Summers smoothly. ‘There is just one other point first. When you entered your room could you see if there was a li
ght on in Major Thoseby’s room?”
“Yes. There was.”
“What about the other two rooms, on the other side of the passage? Were there people in them?”
“No. The room opposite Major Thoseby’s is a bathroom. The one opposite mine is another bedroom. I don’t think it was occupied that night.”
“You are not sure about that.”
“I think, Mr. Summers,” said the judge, “that was established in Monsieur Sainte’s evidence.”
“With respect,” said Macrea, “I don’t think anything was said—”
“I could have Monsieur Sainte recalled after this witness,” suggested the judge.
“Your lordship is very kind,” said Macrea, “but so far as I am concerned the matter is not in dispute. Of the four rooms in the passage the only two then occupied were Major Thoseby’s and Mrs. Roper’s.”
“I am obliged,” said Mr. Summers. “Now, Mrs. Roper – what did you do next?”
“I was writing my letters and listening to the wireless.”
“To the wireless?”
“Yes. I have a portable set in my room.”
“I see – and then?”
“Well – I suppose it would have been at about a quarter to eleven – I thought that I heard someone go past. I turned down the wireless to listen.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I was afraid it might be someone else going into the bathroom, which would have been annoying as I was just thinking about using it myself.”
“I see. And then?”
“Then I heard a thud from the room next door and a scream – several screams.”
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