“I’m sorry,” said Harrison, with a kindly look. “We can hope for better things tomorrow.”
“You most certainly can,” answered May Rich, cheering up and smiling back at him. “But what do you want me here for?”
“To help me again,” said Harrison; “and it really is frightfully important. M. Manet and I are going to interview an important prisoner and I want you to keep your eyes open while we do it. There is nothing to worry about—except to keep very wide awake.”
“I’m not worried,” answered the girl.
“Then we may as well go straight ahead,” said Harrison, going to the door and speaking to a messenger outside. Very soon M. Manet appeared, followed by Archie Crewe, between two policemen. Another official placed the inked pad and finger-print forms on M. Manet’s desk and departed.
“I’m afraid I can’t get rid of them, M. Harrison,” said Manet, indicating the two policemen.
“That doesn’t matter,” said Harrison. “A few more witnesses won’t be a bad thing. Now, Mr. Archie Crewe, you already know why I am in the South of France. I am looking for the murderer of Wallace Sinclair in a place called Great Crockham in England.”
“I hope you find him,” was the insolent answer.
“I have found him,” said Harrison, looking into the man’s eyes.
“Clever of you,” answered Crewe. “It’s no use trying to trap me, Mr. Detective, I know nothing about it and I’m not talking. Mrs. Crewe told you what happened, didn’t she?”
“She told me you knew a great deal about it,” said Harrison.
“I don’t believe it,” was the reply. “I know what she told you. Don’t try to bluff me. It’s a poor dodge. Like your stink bomb this morning.”
“I should like your version of the actual murder,” said Harrison, patiently.
“I tell you I know nothing about it,” said Crewe, angrily. “I helped a man I thought had done it, that’s all.”
“Is it?”
“Of course it is.”
“Archie Crewe,” said Harrison, sternly, “you murdered Wallace Sinclair.”
“Bluff again, Mr. Detective,” snapped Crewe.
“I can prove it,” answered Harrison.
“Why don’t you, then?” was the reply.
“M. Manet,” asked Harrison, “will you give instructions to have his waistcoat pockets searched?”
A policeman swiftly carried out the order, and the sole object he produced was a bone counter with a “5” stamped upon it. This he handed to M. Manet.
“Take great care of that, M. Manet,” said Harrison, “and I hope a record will be kept of how and where it was found.” M. Manet nodded. “Of course you recognise it?”
“It’s a five-franc counter used at the casinos,” answered Manet.
“Quite right,” said Harrison. “And what do you say to that, Mr. Crewe?”
“Why say anything?” answered Crewe. “I expect I slipped it in my pocket by mistake last night at La Plage.”
“Suppose I suggest that you are superstitious,” said Harrison, “and carry this about to bring you luck.”
“Why not?” answered Crewe. “I’m not ashamed of that. Many men have their own superstitions. That doesn’t prove anything.”
“It wasn’t as lucky as the other one, Mr. Crewe, was it?” asked Harrison, quietly.
Crewe’s face went a shade paler. “I don’t know what you are talking about,” he answered. “What other one?”
“I am going to tell you, Mr. Crewe,” said Harrison. “When an unknown tramp visited Miss Docket’s kitchen the night before the murder of Wallace Sinclair he was unfortunate enough to lie down beside a very expert pick-pocket. This skilful person went through the unknown tramp’s pockets and all he found was an ‘ivory five,’ exactly similar to the one in M. Manet’s hand at this moment. That ‘ivory five’ is carefully preserved at Millhead police station at this moment and will help to identify the murderer. What is more, the night after the murder someone was seen in the lane by Miss Docket’s house searching diligently with a torch for that very same ‘ivory five,’ hoping he had dropped it accidentally. But it was not because he thought it was a material piece of evidence against him, as it will prove to be, but because he was superstitious. He thought his luck has gone for that same someone announced that his luck had gone—with the ‘ivory five’—when I lunched with Mrs. Crewe and her family next day.”
“You can’t hang a man on that,” said Crewe, heavily.
“Of course not,” answered Harrison; “British justice isn’t like that. But that isn’t all I have against you, Mr. Archie Crewe.”
The bravado had gone from the man, and his cowardly nature was beginning to assert itself. “But there can’t be anything more,” he said almost to himself.
“You’re thinking of the gardener’s boots,” said Harrison. “True enough, the gardener’s boots have gone. So has Jules, poor soul, he little thought those boots of his would bring him to Toulon Harbour.”
Archie Crewe said nothing, but it was certain that his nerve was beginning to go. He clutched his hands together tightly and his forehead was wet with perspiration.
“If you have no objection, Mr. Crewe,” said Harrison, “we are going to take your finger-prints.”
“I have no objection,” was Crewe’s reply, with an obvious look of relief.
“So you have never had them taken before?” said Harrison. “Still, it is a little formality I should like you to undergo.”
M. Manet motioned to one of the men to bring Crewe to the desk. “If you have no objection, M. Manet, I should like to do it myself,” said Harrison. “I may not be an official but I rather pride myself on my skill in this direction.”
Manet raised his eyebrows. This English detective was asking the most unusual favours. Still, there was no object in refusing, so he nodded his agreement.
Harrison took Crewe’s left wrist, pushing back the sleeve towards the elbow. M. Manet smiled to himself. Such efficiency, to start with the left hand. He would make a joke about it with M. Harrison when they were alone again. The left hand, almost too good to be true. And then what this detective did next. Perfectly incredible. A bungler indeed. For he saw Harrison press the whole of Crewe’s palm firmly on the pad and hold it up in the air practically covered with ink.
But Manet’s amusement gave place to astonishment when he heard Miss Rich give a little shriek and stare wildly at Crewe’s blackened hand.
“That’s it,” she cried; “that’s the man’s hand. I recognise the scar.”
“You would swear to that?” asked Harrison, solemnly.
“I have no doubt whatever,” answered the girl, firmly.
“Look at this hand, M. Manet,” said Harrison. “Do you notice a thin white line, just under the thumb. An old scar which you would be hardly likely to see in the ordinary way. But it is quite clear now, isn’t?”
“I can see it plainly enough, M. Harrison,” answered Manet.
“That is sufficient,” said Harrison, dropping Crewe’s hand. “Now, Mr. Crewe, to explain just a little further. The man who visited Miss Docket’s kitchen was seen by Miss Rich as he sat in the firelight to have a thin white scar on his left hand—”
Crewe turned towards Harrison, his hands upraised and his eyes gleaming with uncontrolled fury, but the two policemen were too quick for him and were quickly holding him tightly with his arms pressed firmly to his side.
“A trick,” shouted Crewe.
“I apologise,” said Harrison. “But British justice has to be served, Mr. Crewe.”
“You can’t do it,” shrieked Crewe, half demented.
“Take him away,” said Manet to the policeman; “I think M. Harrison has finished with him.”
Archie Crewe was dragged out of the room, shouting and pleading by turns and, as the door closed behind him, Harrison turned to May Rich who was in a state of distress.
“I’m sorry, Miss Rich,” he said gently. “It is hardly fair to inflict s
uch a scene on you, but it had to be.”
“I know, Mr. Harrison,” she answered weakly, “I can’t help it. I shall be all right in a moment.”
“I’ve arranged for Henry to take you back to the villa,” said Harrison. “I expect he’s waiting downstairs now. You are certain you will be all right.”
“Of course I shall,” said May Rich, getting up from her chair and walking firmly to the door. “I’m glad I could help you. Good-bye, M. Manet.”
Manet’s eyes had a gently affectionate look in them as he watched her go. “A splendid young woman,” he said.
“Indeed she is,” answered Harrison. “Clever and courageous. I could not have done without her.”
“And this Crewe?” asked Manet.
“I must get him back to England,” answered Harrison.
“Surely,” said Manet. “And if your court does not convict him—and I hear the English courts are very scrupulous—what then?”
“I shall have done my part,” said Harrison.
“But Manet will want him after that,” was the other’s reply. “Mr. Crewe is also needed by the French police. But I fear we shall have little chance.”
“I trust not,” said Harrison, fervently.
“And now for the other,” said Manet, and he gave an order through the telephone. “We will now talk to the old lady.”
“Good,” answered Harrison.
“And this is my turn,” said Manet. “You played your little surprises on me, now I will have my surprise for you. Ask me no questions for I will not answer them. When I think that I was prepared to mock you for your clumsiness in taking a finger-print. It was you who made a mock of Manet, M. Harrison. I must establish myself again. I am humble. I must regain my dignity.”
The door opened and Mrs. Crewe was ushered in. She walked with the unconscious dignity of age, and bowed graciously to Manet and Harrison. Manet rose from his chair at the desk and gallantly offered it to the old lady, who settled herself comfortably in it.
“It surprises you, Mr. Harrison,” she said sweetly, “that the great M. Manet and I know each other?”
“Numerically, shall we say?” interposed Manet. “You are now known as Mrs. Crewe. To me you were always one twenty-four.”
“It is ungallant to discuss a lady’s past, M. Manet,” said Mrs. Crewe, reprovingly.
“You will recall, M. Harrison,” said Manet, taking no heed of the last remark, “that only a certain class of people were known by figures rather than names during the Great War. Spies, I think they were called.”
“Secret service,” corrected Mrs. Crewe.
“One twenty-four, who was even then of a fair age, if you will pardon me for saying so, madame, was very valuable to France,” continued Manet. “She had brains. She had wit. She had courage. And so she was able to obtain information and keep alive where others failed lamentably, in one direction or the other.”
“Thank you, M. Manet,” said Mrs. Crewe.
“France, as is her custom, was grateful,” said Manet. “Not only was one twenty-four paid well but, at the close of the war, she was held in high esteem.”
“And she knew many secrets,” said Mrs. Crewe.
“That is true,” said Manet. “That the police realised. But one twenty-four was not a good citizen. She came into conflict with the police, and she receive many warnings. We had not heard of her lately until this affair. We had rather hoped we should not.”
“Dead?” queried Mrs. Crewe.
“Possibly a little less drastic transformation than that,” returned M. Manet. “Nevertheless we have heard of one twenty-four again. In circumstances we do not like. Fraud and such crimes we have tried not to notice, madame; we clipped your wings whenever we had the chance and that seemed enough, but murder, that is different.”
“Why pretend, M. Manet?” said Mrs. Crewe. “It was not murder, you know as well as I. In fact, I have been of great help to the law by what I have done. The traitor must be punished, and that is all that happened.”
“Your theory of private justice again, Mrs. Crewe,” said Harrison.
“It is not private justice,” said Mrs. Crewe, sharply. “Natural justice, if you like, but far more effective than the out-of-date system you are bolstering up. That was my main discovery from the war. Society did not give justice. A man, or woman either, did not get his desserts. My organisation gave more scope for initiative, and even for gaining the results of one’s own hard work, than the society I saw around me. So I settled down to build it. And I saw that it all depended on each man getting his rights, fairly and swiftly. That is more than your society does. Oh yes, they talk a lot about rights and, when the politicians want to be elected, they are even able to make others think they have them, but it’s not true. In my community it was different. I saw to that.”
“And that was your only reason for this kind of life?” asked Harrison.
“No, there was something more,” answered the old lady; “I needed excitement, of a kind. Not your night-club, cocktail, thought-drugging kind, but something with action and energy. It may sound queer from an old woman like myself, but life was flat when peace came. I had to do something. Your society didn’t help me. France was kind. She gave me money but she didn’t give me what I wanted most—employment. She laughed at me. There is no work for you in peace time, she said. Sit by the fire and knit baby’s socks, or run round with parcels for the poor; that’s all you’re fit for. But you can see for yourself that wasn’t all I was fit for.”
“I supposed you tried?” asked Harrison.
“I asked all the important people I knew, even M. Manet,” answered Mrs. Crewe. “But I could see by their looks what they thought.”
“And so you organised murder, madame?” said Manet.
“Will you never understand?” asked Mrs. Crewe.
“Never,” said Manet. “Your explanations are beautiful, madame, but the world moves another way. You are merely a criminal, and as such the police must deal with you.”
“The police will not dare,” said Mrs. Crewe, haughtily.
“It is true you know a number of little secrets,” answered M. Manet. “Secrets it would not be good for all to know. It is true, too, that you have been given a freedom rather greater than other criminals because of your past, but here, madame, it must end.”
Mrs. Crewe smiled. “A good bluff, M. Manet,” she said; “but it doesn’t take me in.”
“I have spoken with the Minister about you, madame,” replied Manet. “I am not bluffing. We will not imprison you. That might be breaking our word. But your present liberty is at an end. You have gone too far and we will take no more risks. We have taken too many already. There is an island called Corsica—”
“Most unpleasant,” said Mrs. Crewe.
“It once nurtured a very famous Frenchman,” said Manet. “It is to be your home in future. The police may keep an eye on you, but they will not interfere with you unnecessarily. You will be free to do what you like in the island, but you will not be allowed to return to France.”
“It is worse than imprisonment,” said Mrs. Crewe. “It is a living death.”
“It is decided, madame,” said Manet.
“And if not?”
“Then we will see what arrangements we can make for you to be handed over to M. Harrison.”
Mrs. Crewe looked at both men and reflected.
“Well, madame?” asked Manet. “It is not bluff, I assure you.”
“You are taking unfair advantage of an old woman,” was the reply. “But I choose Corsica.”
“You are wise, madame,” said Manet. “And you must be ready to go with all speed.”
“I am used to such travelling,” answered Mrs. Crewe, with a look at Harrison.
“And what of Archie?”
“He, at any rate, goes to England,” answered Harrison.
“A first-class muddler,” said Mrs. Crewe. “I expect you have all the evidence you need? It struck me that he pointed the way to him
self at every step. But what was I to do?”
“What you could never do,” said Harrison; “and people like you must always fail because of it. Use a clever man and he may betray you. Use a fool and he betrays himself.”
“Very clever, Mr. Harrison,” answered Mrs. Crewe. “We should have made splendid partners.”
Chapter XXIV
Last Look At Madame’s
At the bewitching hour of cocktails, in Garfitt’s phrase, a happy company was assembled at Madame’s. That good lady beamed broadly on a table occupied by the Mallisons, Harrison, Henry, May Rich and Miss Docket. Nearly a week had passed since the arrest of Archie Crewe and the other members of Mrs. Crewe’s “community” and, despite Henry’s gloomy forebodings, the weather had been ideally Mediterranean.
Harrison and Garfitt had been fairly busy, but they had also had a certain amount of time for play, and the whole company had made the most of the glorious conditions. Harrison felt that nature had now been allowed to assert its beauty. The ugly stain had been wiped away and the world was wholesome once more. He had cheerfully reprimanded Miss Docket for daring to come to the South of France without his permission. She, however, had replied that she had been treated with scant consideration. She had provided Harrison with the case. She had even lent him her companion. She was fully entitled to see for herself how things were going. She was surprised at her own forbearance in not arriving before. All this received the mischievous support of Garfitt, and Harrison told them that he now understood Mrs. Crewe’s difficulty in trusting to the loyalty of a “gang.”
Miss Docket had soon won the hearts of the Mallisons and, as if the villa was built like an expanding bookcase, a room was found for her. Soon after her arrival one or two young people mysteriously arrived at the hotel. Nephews and nieces, May Rich explained to Harrison; Miss Docket must have invited them in her usual happy way. As this inundation seemed likely to increase, May Rich began to reassert her common-sense authority over her employer. She did not reassume her “companion-like” garments, those seem to have been shed for ever, but she insisted on a little orderliness in Miss Docket’s affairs. The result was that she was able to get some idea of Miss Docket’s hospitable commitments and to prevent any further developments in that direction.
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