by J. V. Turner
Watson bowed towards the woman, too bewildered to speak. His hands were trembling violently. Amos produced his handkerchief, waved it in the air like a conjurer awaiting applause. For a brief spell the silence was uncomfortable. The little man decided that a short speech might lessen the pressure. He turned to face the strange woman:
‘Delighted we should have met, madame. May I be insolent if I ask whether you divorced your husband?’
A laugh, mirthless, harsh and strident, burst from the English Mrs Reardon. Of all those in the room the woman in black seemed alone unmoved. She shrugged her shoulders as she replied:
‘No, monsieur. He simply did what you call a bunk.’
Amos felt as though he had been hit in the face with a cold fish. Watson gaped, his mouth opened so wide that one wondered whether it could be closed again. The little man came up for a second breath:
‘You don’t mean that Mr Reardon abandoned you, madame?’
‘Is that the word?’ The accent became more definitely Parisian. ‘I mean that my Edgar’—the other woman winced and screwed her lips—‘just ran away from me. He did a bunk. You understand?’
‘Yes,’ announced Petrie too confidently. He was trying to cover his bewilderment. Watson’s mouth was still open.
The Englishwoman came to the rescue of the party with brutal directness. As a housewife might rip down a curtain and let in the light, so she laid the situation bare:
‘She has come to claim her place as my husband’s widow.’
Petrie was too surprised to note the Gilbertian humour of the sentence. The Frenchwoman smiled proudly.
‘Edgar couldn’t have two wives, you know,’ remarked Watson profoundly, and no one tittered over the inadequacy. He had expressed a feeling that was running through Petrie’s mind. The Englishwoman stared mutely at Watson as though sympathising at his clumsy attempt to console her. Then she placed a hand on her breast and paced the floor once again with the tragic poise of Eleanora Duse. Her father eyed her fretfully.
‘Tell me, madame,’ said Petrie, ‘how you came to know that Edgar Reardon was dead.’
‘The newspapers. I read it in them. So I came from Paris.’
‘There’s a mistake here,’ said Watson. No one quite understood what he meant. Probably he didn’t know himself. Again there was a silence before he added lamely: ‘A mistake, I said.’
‘I hope for the sake of everyone that there has been some sort of a mistake,’ said Petrie, ‘and I’m waiting for one of you to tell me where I can look for it.’
His answer came from an unexpected source—from the English widow. She ceased to stride about the floor and faced Amos.
‘There is no mistake about this marriage as far as I can see. How I wish to God there were. This woman seems to be right.’ She breathed deeply, rushed into a torrent of words: ‘The whole thing is ugly, sordid, revolting, terrible, too shameful to think about. Just think of me and my position. Just for a second—’
Her father tried to dam the flow. He held up a restraining hand and his daughter paused for long enough to give him a start. He spoke directly to Petrie:
‘According to our solicitor whom I saw an hour ago there is a very considerable doubt about the validity of this first marriage. There is some issue of law involved. I don’t profess to understand it. Apart from this woman’s opinion there’s no real reason to believe that Edgar committed bigamy. Knowing him as I did I think it will be found that he took advice about it and was informed on high authority that this pretended marriage was not valid in this country.’
His daughter scowled at him and repeated his final words as though they stung her—‘in this country.’ Again she repeated them. Petrie was expecting another outburst. While he waited he glanced round the room. Paling was smiling sardonically. The whole affair seemed to be amusing him. The Frenchwoman actually winked at the man and they grinned together. The English widow was too enraged to notice the action. She repeated again: ‘In this country?’
Sir Clement had obviously tired of the whole affair.
‘I said so,’ he snapped. ‘It’s this country we’re living in, isn’t it? Or have I gone mad with the rest of you and I don’t know where I am living? We know that your feelings are wounded, Lola, and that your pride is hurt. But that’s no reason why you should get annoyed with me. Damn it, I had nothing to do with the business. You’d better make the best of it until you hear the truth. After all, you can’t go back through the years and live your life over again just because something disagreeable has happened. It isn’t as though you’re not protected by the laws of this country so there’s no need to get hysterical. After all, you haven’t got to live as his wife. You’re his widow.’
The Frenchwoman rose from her chair and stared at Sir Clement as though questioning his sanity.
‘His widow? I am his widow. Edgar knew that I was his wife. He has supported me for many years. So I must be his widow. He has sent me money since I found him out about—’ she completed the sentence by nodding towards Lola.
‘Madame,’ said Petrie, ‘I think it is better that you should tell me exactly what did occur between yourself and Reardon. Don’t hurry, tell me in your own way and be sure that you tell the truth. In this country women who tell lies about such things go to prison. Please start.’
‘I was Elaine Peret,’ she commenced, ‘and was drawing for fashions when I met him.’ The story dragged on for five minutes. It was the old, old narrative of young and impetuous people running into matrimony while in the blush of a first love. As Petrie listened the lines on his wizened face became more and more clearly defined. He drew forth his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. As the recital neared its end he slumped into a chair. The woman ceased to speak and everyone in the room looked towards Petrie. He saw that Paling was smiling, that Watson was more bewildered than ever, that Sir Clement looked as though the roof had fallen in on him. Lola was the first to speak:
‘And what do you say about it now?’ she asked Amos.
‘The position is extraordinarily complicated,’ replied the little man. ‘The marriage was undoubtedly French. But it will take a French lawyer, skilled in the law, to say whether the marriage was valid in France. Then it will require an English lawyer to consider whether, on the view of the French lawyer, the marriage can be recognised in this country. Even then the matter would not be beyond dispute. If the issue was contested it might pass from court to court until it reached the infallible judges. Madame, did you by any chance obtain a divorce in France?’
Elaine had not followed the earlier part of his comments. But she understood the question and shook her head emphatically.
‘A lot would depend,’ said Petrie, ‘upon whether Reardon intended to settle in France when he contracted the marriage.’ He waved his hands hopelessly and added: ‘But I’m a criminal lawyer and don’t profess to know the international laws governing marriage. Paling, you seem to know something about this affair and so far we haven’t heard from you. What do you know about this marriage?’
Paling paused before replying. The man was very confident; his hesitation was planned more for effect than reasonable doubt.
‘I knew the lady in Paris before her marriage,’ he announced, ‘and I knew Edgar Reardon. The marriage was valid beyond all question. I can see no cause for argument about it.’
‘No?’ Petrie’s tone changed. ‘You have been friendly with the late Edgar Reardon in this country for the past year. You have visited his house, accepted his hospitality and been on terms of some acquaintance with his English wife. Do you mean to tell me that throughout the whole of that time you knew that he was actually a bigamist and that this unfortunate lady was unwittingly living with him in a state of adultery?’
Paling smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and made no reply. His nerves were functioning with uncanny efficiency.
‘Tell me,’ said Amos, turning to Elaine, ‘why did Edgar Reardon make no attempt to divorce you?’
‘He said that he would
rather pay me than have his name in the newspapers because it would hurt him.’
‘I am told,’ said Sir Clement, ‘that if Edgar did not obtain the consent of his father the marriage may not have been valid even in France, and that’s how it looks to me.’
Lola flung her hands in the air and laughed appallingly.
‘Thank you for nothing, father. That only makes things worse.’
Watson struggled to throw oil on the seething waters and merely succeeded in making matters worse:
‘Was Edgar’s father alive at the time of this French marriage?’
‘We—eh—we have not been able to discover that in the time at our disposal,’ replied Sir Clement. Then he added fuel to the flames in another rescue attempt: ‘But either parent might do.’
Amos, without stopping to consider the effect of his words, expressed the thought that had been in his mind for minutes:
‘This is going to produce some very unusual evidence at the inquest tomorrow. It will be very remarkable.’
Lola’s breast was heaving as she whipped round towards him.
‘We’ve had enough of this humbug. You can’t tell how sick I am of the whole affair. I’ll tell you all one thing. I will not appear at the inquest tomorrow as Edgar’s widow. This woman can give the evidence I should have given. I simply will not do it. If she wants to keep saying that she is the widow she can get along to the inquest and tell them all about it.’
Watson stepped to her side and laid his hand on her arm.
‘But, Lola, that will just mean blazing the scandal abroad.’
‘The scandal is here,’ screamed the woman, flinging an arm out to point to Elaine. ‘We cannot stop it now.’
‘Rubbish!’ said her father. ‘You’re making a fool of yourself.’
Elaine still twisted her mouth as though slightly amused. So also did Paling. Lola started to shout again. Her father raised a hand and checked her:
‘Listen for a moment, my dear, and calm yourself if you can. I’ve told you already that this trouble can be hushed up. You can’t retain the whole thing as a secret if you act like this. Above all we don’t want any scenes at the inquest. These things are much better arranged through solicitors and that is what I suggest should be done. We might arrive at some arrangement without wallowing in filthy publicity.’
Petrie was surprised to see that the Frenchwoman nodded her head, and parted her lips to smile more broadly.
‘I have come here to get my rights,’ she announced.
The little man eyed her closely before firing a bullet:
‘But you have no rights, madame, if Edgar Reardon left his money to somebody else.’
Elaine bent back as though she had been struck. It was Paling who spoke for her:
‘She has very definite rights if the deceased left his entire estate to his wife. She is his legal wife.’
‘I think,’ remarked Amos, ‘that I can see the position insofar as both of you are concerned. How much would you take to settle the whole matter and retire from the scene?’
‘But I want my rights,’ insisted Elaine.
‘I’m asking you what you want for your rights. How much?’
The woman looked at Paling, and he replied for her:
‘Mrs Reardon was being paid twenty thousand francs a year by her husband. If that annual sum were continued I imagine she would make the sacrifice of retiring from the scene.’
‘Rather a wholehearted sacrifice,’ said Amos. ‘What do you say about it, Sir Clement?’
‘I am not satisfied about the affair, but I think it is worth the money to avoid the scandal. I advise you to accept the offer, Lola. We don’t want our names blasted all over England.’
‘All right,’ said Lola wearily. ‘I hate doing it and I don’t think she is entitled to a penny. But I’ll agree to save any more unpleasantness. Twenty thousand francs a year it is.’
‘C’etait un tricheur, mais il etait adorable,’ murmured Elaine, sighing as though it broke her heart to accept the money.
Petrie turned away in order to smile. It seemed a curious epitaph for Edgar Reardon. Watson produced a pen and sketched out a temporary agreement for signature. Amos was amused to note that Paling added his name as a witness.
Elaine left the room like a defeated army. But the smile of a conqueror played round her mouth when she climbed into a taxi.
CHAPTER IX
SUPPER FOR THREE
PETRIE arrived at the corner of Whitehall before the taxi left 11 Downing Street. Luck was with him. A detective was crossing to enter the approach to the Yard. Amos hailed him and gave hurried instructions:
‘Man and woman in taxi just leaving 11 Downing Street. Collect a cab, follow them, and let me know all that happens. Don’t let them lose you. I’ll tell Inspector Ripple what you’re doing. If you can get near enough to hear them talking that will suit me.’
The detective nodded, waved for a taxi, and when Paling and Elaine came round the corner the Yard man was tailing them. Petrie watched the two taxis from the far side of Whitehall, breathed relievedly and walked along to the Yard.
The first taxi entered the roundabout at Charing Cross, turned into Cockspur Street, rounded by the National Gallery and travelled up Charing Cross Road. The second cab followed tamely in its wake. Where Charing Cross Road forms one ray of a star-shaped crossing both were halted by automatic signal. The second taxi glided abreast of the other one in the jam. Madame was sitting stiffly in one corner of the taxi, uncomfortably stiff. If she and Paling were old friends it looked as though the friendship needed some refurbishing. The signals flashed, and the first taxi took a sharp turn along Holborn, and both were stopped again where the four roads meet at the top of Kingsway. The Yard man was so near that he could hear the woman shrilling protests. Paling’s cab moved down Kingsway, and the Yard man was able to pull abreast. Paling was, by now, a little less deferential. The woman was more strenuously voluble than before, but her words were lost in the roar of London’s traffic.
Paling’s taxi went westward along the Strand. The Yard man could no longer get alongside. The driver knew his job. One doesn’t stand on the nearest rank to Scotland Yard without learning things! It seemed that Paling and Elaine were on their way back to Downing Street, but they swung once more into the eddy that swirls round Trafalgar Square. The Yard man smiled. He had followed people like this before. Again they circled to Holborn and down Kingsway. It was then that Paling noticed the following taxi. His driver twice slowed down to let it pass. Each time the effort was unavailing.
‘We’re being followed,’ said Paling. ‘I’ll stop this.’
At Wellington Street, Paling was so annoyed that he complained to the point duty policeman. But he obtained no relief. The constable strolled over to the taxi, looked inside, and returned to report to Paling that a driver was entitled to drive an empty taxi anywhere he pleased.
Opposite St Mary le Strand, Paling opened the near side door, handed the driver ten shillings and led Elaine along the pavement. They did not notice the Yard man alight from the taxi on the far side of the road. Had he been nearer to the walkers he would have heard a whispered conversation that would have interested him. There was a briskness, almost amounting to gaiety, in Elaine’s step. Paling also seemed pleased with life.
‘There is nothing left to negotiate, my friend,’ said Elaine, ‘so we can enjoy ourselves.’ Curiously enough, it seemed that her command of English had strengthened since they had left Downing Street. ‘It is quite finished now without your assistance, eh?’
‘Is that so?’ inquired Paling. ‘Another half million or million francs have no interest for you, Elaine? No attractions at all?’
The woman’s eyes glistened but her reply was firm:
‘I’ll not risk what I’ve got for the sake of what I may not get.’
‘You forget, Elaine, that you get only what I choose. I don’t want to force you to come in with me. But you’ve had no reason to complain in the past, have you? You
got the allowance I promised you in Paris.’
‘But that was from my husband,’ she protested.
‘Out of his pocket. Got by my hand,’ said Paling grimly. ‘If it had not been for me you’d have got precious little.’
The suggestion did not suit Elaine. She shook it off as a cat shakes off water.
‘Well, if you hadn’t got it for me I’d have come over and got it for myself—just as I have now.’
‘Yes? If you’d have done, my dear, you’d have been in prison—or dead by now. I fancy you’d have been dead.’ She shivered a little. ‘Our little Edgar,’ he continued, ‘could be very, very obstinate. I know he’d got some idea of proving that you ceased to exist.’ His tones were low and level, but Elaine could not mistake the menace. She understood the man and pulled her coat closer to her body like someone who has become suddenly susceptible to a draught.
‘Listen, my friend,’ she replied. ‘You went to stay near Edgar so that you could arrange things. You were with him a lot. Poor Edgar died. It was a pity, but it happened so. Now I have no thought or intention of dying. Not me. You understand?’
‘Perfectly. What I am proposing is that you should be prosperous as well as long-lived and happy.’
There was a silent pause before the woman commented:
‘I know, my friend. But I think that to be all these things I must be a little self-reliant. I must not rely so much upon the kindness of other people—yourself, for instance.’
Paling bit his lip and looked at her. She was smiling, smiling without a trace of amusement in her eyes.
‘We stand or fall together, Elaine,’ he said. ‘I told Edgar that a year ago, and I tell you so today.’
‘Let’s talk about that over supper,’ was the evasive reply. They swung through the doors of a fashionable hotel, the Yard man following four or five yards behind. Elaine immediately walked up to her bedroom. Paling strolled into the dining-room, selected a table for two and beckoned to the waiter. The Yard man chose a seat on the other side of the gangway, not more than five feet away, and ordered a meal. The waiter walked away with a pasteboard in his hand. In the bottom left-hand corner were the words ‘New Scotland Yard.’ The detective was more than half-way through his meal and Elaine had not appeared. Paling grew more and more restive. He fingered the menu irritably and constantly glanced towards the swing doors at the entrance. Twice the waiter approached to ascertain his order. Each time Paling told him snappily that he was waiting for a companion.