“Oh, no, only if the weather is propitious, and not always then. Sometimes I take the car out into the country and walk for a little in the woods—there are so many lovely places near London—which are quite deserted on a weekday, where one can idle away an hour and yet be back in time for lunch in town. If I had thought, we might have gone this morning.”
Simon shook his head. “Very nice, but difficult for me to get away. I’ve got a lot on just now.”
“Indeed!” De Richleau smiled slightly. “Have you ever stopped to consider, Aron, how many years it will be before the day arrives when you will not have a ‘lot on’?”
“You’re quite right,” Simon laughed into his gloved hand. “We’re awful fools to work as we do, I suppose; but I get abroad a bit now and again.”
“And where do you go to when you go abroad?”
“France mostly. Touquet, Deauville, Monté; but I never get away for very long.”
“France, eh? But that is not France, my friend. France is the wooded meadowlands about Poitiers, the sun-baked olive groves of Provence, the forests of Navarre, where one can still hunt the boar. How I should love to see them all again.”
“Well—I mean, why don’t you, if you’re so free?”
“Yes—I shall go again, but it is always a danger for me. I have to take my precautions before I set foot in France, it is my misfortune to be an exile.”
“Really.” Simon was interested, but he did not like to ask why.
“Yes,” the Duke went on. “I am an exile for many years. Perhaps you may not even know it, but there is still a King of France, that is to say, for us who have preserved the loyalties of our birth. He is known to the world as the Duke de Guise. When I was a young man there were hopes of restoring the monarchy, a hope which I fear is now for ever dead, but in those days it was quite a serious possibility. I was deeply implicated in a political conspiracy to bring about a coup d’état, and I do not grumble at the penalty; it only makes me a little sad at times that I cannot return freely to the places which I love.”
“That’s a rotten muddle,” Simon murmured sympathetically.
“It might have been infinitely worse,” said De Richleau philosophically. “For myself it was not so bad as for some of the other young men who were implicated with me. Such property as my family saved from the Revolution has been in London ever since, so my income was in no way jeopardised by my participation, and that has served to make life tolerable.”
“You do—er—sometimes go back, though?”
“Yes, at long intervals, but it is a risk which I am not prepared to take so readily now that I am an older man. A few months inside a French fortress would make havoc of my constitution; besides, it is impossible for me to stay in the houses of my friends without bringing a certain risk upon them, too. And in the public places where my own world gathers, I should be recognised immediately.”
“That’s rotten, but I suppose you go abroad to other places.”
“Yes, indeed,” the Duke smiled. “I think I would almost as soon face a French fortress as live in London all the year. I have a villa in Italy, and an old castle in Austria, but I do not care to go to Austria much now. Since the war all my friends there have lost their money. Oh, it is pathetic, all those dear, charming people, so hospitable, that I used to know; they never thought of money, and now that they have none—they think of nothing else.”
Simon nodded. “Things are pretty bad out there. I went to Vienna last summer. Of course, I knew they were in a muddle, but I didn’t realise how bad it was, no life in the place, and every other shop to let.”
“Ah, my friend, you should have been in Vienna before the war—a lovely town—be careful—” The Duke’s exclamation was caused by Simon very nearly stepping in front of a taxicab as they crossed the Mall. Having safely negotiated the crossing, Simon asked:
“By the by, did Van Ryn get that report on Sir Gideon, do you know?”
“Yes, he came in to see me last night. It seems that Shoesmith’s resources are extremely slender. His accountancy house does very little regular business, only six clerks are employed. But he acts for several big men in a private capacity, men who don’t wish their business accountants to know about their personal dealings. It’s probable that in this way he has secured the pickings in certain big deals which would be equal in value on the regular profits upon auditing the accounts of a far larger number of firms than he handles in the ordinary way.”
Simon shook his head. “Much more precarious, though. All right in a boom period—but not much fun now.”
“Exactly. I gather from Van Ryn that a good portion of Shoesmith’s time is occupied with the Sheffield and Kingslade Estate Development Company. It seems he is chairman. It is not a big company, only two hundred thousand pounds. They were paying good dividends up to a year ago, but they passed their last dividend, and they paid nothing in the interim either. What results have your inquiries had?”
“Much about the same. I can tell you one thing, though. The S. and K. are under-capitalised. They’re in a muddle, Gideon’s had to take up a lot of shares since last spring, otherwise they wouldn’t have been able to carry on.”
“That,” said the Duke, is very interesting. “Did you find out any more about the pearls?”
“Ner—nothing. Weren’t sold in this country, else I think I would have heard something. But I wonder …?”
“What?” inquired De Richleau curiously.
“You remember he went to Deauville in August? Well, I wonder if he unloaded them there. It would be nice and easy afterwards to explain a big payment into his bank by a run of luck at the tables.”
“That is most certainly a possibility. Have you any news of the deeds?”
“Schatz ‘phoned me—they’re at the bank.”
“I see. We were wrong there, then. All we can say is that Sir Gideon is not quite the solid man of wealth which we had at first assumed him to be; and that, in fact, he had actually been called upon to finance his Development Company to a considerable amount during the last eight months.”
By this time they had arrived at the Piccadilly side of Green Park, and as they came out on to the pavement the Duke pointed with his stick across the road.
“The Park Lane Hotel, my friend. If it is agreeable to you, it’s there today that I propose to give you luncheon.”
“Very nice of you. It’s a place I never go in to in the ordinary way—why, I don’t know.”
De Richleau smiled. “Then, I will tell you. It is because it’s a comparatively new place, and you prefer to go to your old haunts, where you can be quite certain that the maître d’hôtel and waiters know all your little idiosyncrasies. Am I right?”
Simon laughed. “Absolutely. How did you know?”
“Because I’ve never yet been there myself for that very reason. However, today we will experiment. Maybe we shall find the food and service admirable. In which case we can add to our list with confidence for future occasions.”
They crossed the road and passed through the swing doors of the Park Lane Hotel. Having deposited their coats, the Duke led the way to a small table in the lounge. “Would you care to join me in a cocktail?” he inquired. “Or would you prefer to take a chance upon the sherry here?”
“Cocktail, I think, and something with rum in it. I enjoyed the little walk, but I’m a bit chilly.” Simon rubbed his thin hands together.
“A Bacardi, perhaps?” the Duke suggested.
“Ner—I’d rather have Jamaica rum, if you don’t mind, with one third lemon juice and a dash of curaçao.”
De Richleau beckoned a waiter and gave his order.
“Tell me,” he added to the man, “who is the maître d’hôtel here now?”
“Mr. Pirelli, sir.”
“Ah, indeed, well, tell them to keep a table for two near the caisse for luncheon.” He turned to Simon. “Pirelli … I do not know the name, do you?”
Simon shook his head. “Ner—I may know him when I
see him, but I don’t think so.”
“I want to find somebody here that I know, without going to the management. It occurred to me that at a table near the desk we should be able to see all the waiters in turn. I shall be very surprised if there is not one among them who has worked in some place where I have been an habitué in the past.”
“Good plan that,” Simon commented. And so it proved, for they had scarcely taken their seats some quarter of an hour later, when De Richleau tapped Simon’s arm.
“I know that face,” he said, indicating a small, fat waiter who stood some distance away with a large wine carte under his arm.
In another minute the waiter caught sight of them and came hurrying over. “Altesse!” he exclaimed, beaming. “What a pleasure to see you ‘ere in London. You have not come here before; Monsieur Pirelli, ‘e will be so pleased. We will make you so ’appy ’ere, you go nowhere else.”
The Duke smiled and nodded. “It is a long time since I have seen you.”
“Yes, Altesse, I am Jacoby, you remember the Preisling Palais in Munich, 1929. Ah, that was a restaurant. What wines, what food! But it is all very nice ‘ere,” he added hastily. “You ‘ave order your lunch?”
“Yes, we have ordered our lunch, but I would choose a wine—a hock I think—it’s too cold for a Moselle.”
“I have no old wine, Altesse—we cannot get them ‘ere in London—but I ‘ave still some good ‘21, the Löwengrin Furstenberg, 1921. That is a fine wine, a name not much known perhaps but good, very good.”
“Very well, bring a bottle, and later you shall recommend some cognac for us to drink, after we’ve had our luncheon.”
The fat little man retired full of smiles, and with marked deference; very soon Pirelli himself came hastening over to see that they were receiving every attention.
When luncheon was over and Jacoby carefully warming the glasses in which he was about to serve the brandy, De Richleau began to question him.
“Tell me, Jacoby, in addition to the Restaurant and the Grill, you have private parties here, do you not? Dances and banquets?”
“But, yes, Altesse, afterwards, if you permit, it would be a pleasure to show you our grande suite. Reception-room, dining-room, ballroom, we can seat two hundred and fifty persons; and if the dance room is not needed the wall between is made to fall back, then we can seat four hundred and fifty—and we have smaller suites for parties more intime, very comfortable, and everything most modern.”
“Delightful,” murmured the Duke, cutting short the flow. “I believe a friend of mine was at a dinner here last Saturday.”
“Saturday, let me remember,” Jacoby cast back his head. “No, impossible, Altesse. Thursday, perhaps, that was the Corinthian Club dinner, but Saturday that was a dinner only for business men—I do not think …”
“This was a business dinner, Jacoby, to which I refer. Could you, I wonder, produce for me a table plan of the gathering which took place on Saturday?”
“Certainly, Altesse, the office of Monsieur Pirelli will ‘ave a copy. You will excuse—” Jacoby hurried away to return a few moments later with the required plan.
De Richleau studied it in silence for a moment, then he leant towards Simon. “Here you will observe at the top table is our friend Shoesmith, between Sir William Juddkins and Mr. James Ritherdon.”
Simon nodded silently.
“Jacoby,” De Richleau spoke in a low voice, “the waiters who were on duty at this dinner, were they hirelings or a part of your regular staff?”
“The regular brigade, Altesse, we have dinners or dances five nights out of six. The Imperial Room it is booked now for every night till Christmas.”
“Good. Now listen carefully. You see this name, Sir Gideon Shoesmith, I wish all the information you can get about him. What time did he come? What time did he go? What did he eat? What did he drink? And particularly remember this, did he receive any message during the dinner, or did he leave the room for any length of time? Did he make a telephone call from the hotel? Did he seem cheerful and normal after dinner, or did he seem excited and upset? Question every one of these waiters who attended at the banquet, also the hall porter, the cloakroom attendant, and the young woman at the telephone. Neglect nothing. Here is a photograph—taken, it is true, from the papers of a few days ago, but it is a good likeness. I will leave it with you. Come to my flat—Errol House in Curzon Street—tomorrow afternoon at four o’clock; that is a good time for you, is it not?”
“A very good time, Altesse.”
“Excellent. Come, then, at that hour and tell me what you have learnt.” The Duke thrust a crinkly paper into the ready hand of the stooping waiter. “There will be another like that,” he added, “if you can tell me what I want to know.”
Jacoby bowed almost to the table. “Leave it to me, Altesse, all that there is to know you shall ‘ave it.” He bowed again and slipped away.
“We have been fortunate.” De Richleau turned to Simon. “Jacoby is a capable man. If Shoesmith employed an agent in this business, as our latest theory leads us to speculate, he would be almost certain to receive information before he went home that the thing had been done. I think now we may be certain to hear of it, if he received a message or talked to anybody on the telephone.”
“Um,” Aron nodded enthusiastically. “Congratulations upon your staff work.”
“Thank you.” De Richleau laughed as he paid his bill. “And now,” he suggested, “what about another stroll in the park?”
“Good God!” Simon exclaimed aghast. “I don’t know if you know it, but I’ve got some work to do.” And with murmured thanks he hurried away with his head well down, while the Duke lingered to assure the smiling Monsieur Pirelli that his restaurant was excellent and that he would most certainly honour the Park Lane Hotel again.
21
The Duke De Richleau Dabbles in Finance
Upon the following morning the Duke de Richleau drove into the City of London. Unlike the previous day the weather was cold and dreary, with more than a suspicion of fog, which threatened to bring a premature night upon the narrow streets by midday.
Only upon very rare occasions did the Duke go east of Temple Bar. The atmosphere of the commercial world was uncongenial to him, and such business as he had occasion to transact could usually be accomplished by telephone or meetings arranged at his own flat. He felt, however, that on this occasion he had no reasonable excuse for asking the people whom he wished to see to come to him, and therefore, since he urgently wished to secure certain information, he must face the irritation of traffic blocks and the depressing atmosphere of the gloomy streets.
He knew little or nothing of the four men whom he hoped to see, only that all of them had sat either next, or next but one, to Sir Gideon Shoesmith on the previous Saturday night at the London and Sheffield Commercial Association dinner. He had carefully taken a note of their names from the plan which he had seen with Aron at the Park Lane the day before, and in the evening, after some little time spent with various reference books, he had traced their addresses in the city.
His first call was upon James Ritherdon, who had sat upon Sir Gideon’s right. That Ritherdon was a stockbroker De Richleau knew, also he fancied that he had heard his name in connexion with the Turf. He was endeavouring to recall the exact circumstances when the car drew up before a block of offices in Austin Friars.
The Duke gave his name to a smart and civil commissionaire, who led him to a comfortable waiting-room with a bright fire, but he had only had time to glance at the first few pages of the current Punch when, rather to his regret, an exceptionally good-looking secretary arrived and smilingly ushered him into Ritherdon’s private office.
The stockbroker proved to be a big cheerful-looking man. He rose quickly, shook hands with vigour, and pulled up a comfortable chair for the Duke beside his impressive mahogany desk.
“Now, Your Grace,” he said genially, “what can I do for you?”
“I come upon a rather delicate
mission,” the Duke admitted, “and I trust you will accept my word for it that the inquiries I wish to make are not dictated by idle curiosity. I need hardly say that any information which you may be kind enough to give me will be treated with the strictest confidence.”
“Quite so,” said the stockbroker. “Quite so,” but he looked a shade worried. “Of course, you will understand that I can give you no information regarding the accounts of any of my clients.”
“Indeed, no,” De Richleau protested smiling, “this is quite a simple, personal matter. I believe you were at the London and Sheffield dinner last Saturday night?”
Mr. Ritherdon’s face cleared. “Oh yes, and a rotten show it was. I hate functions, lot of prosy old men and Saturday night, too. Why they can’t hold them on a weekday, beats me. I suppose it’s for the sake of the provincial people. Yes, I was there.”
“You sat next to Sir Gideon Shoesmith, I think?”
“Yes, poor chap, the very night his wife was killed, too. Awful thing, must have happened while we were sitting there, as I was saying to my wife afterwards. Is it anything to do with the case?”
“My inquiries might have some bearing upon it. I may say that I am acting for young Richard Eaton, who, as I dare say you know, has been arrested in connexion with the crime.”
“Pretty clear case against him, isn’t it? At least, from what I’ve heard the boy was up to his ears in debt, and I’m told he confesses to having gone off with the pearls.”
De Richleau accepted a cigar from the box that the stockbroker pushed towards him. “There is, of course, a case against Eaton,” he admitted, “but it is by no means conclusive. I happen to have been privileged to hear his story from his own lips, and I personally am quite convinced of his innocence. It’s in the hope of bringing fresh evidence to light that I’m making these inquiries.”
“Well, if he didn’t do it, it must be a ghastly thing for a chap to be accused of murdering his own mother; but I don’t see how I can help you?”
“Do you happen to remember at what time you left the Park Lane Hotel?”
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