So I would not object, lad, were you to pick up an acquaintanceship with her around Redcliffe Square—and perhaps through confidential association with her, obtain an inkling—(for that is the most, I think, that you will ever be able to secure!) as to what she has—or thinks she has; in short, what she fears—to reveal to me.
Though my—or let us say “your”!—ascertainment of this matter can prove, at best, to be of but “academic utility” at the most, in solving the Marceau Case. That I think I can say with positive assurance, in view of certain points I already possess—and certain phases I have already worked out.
For your complete enlightenment—in case this small commission intrigues you—I have no objection to stating that I obtained Jane Trotter’s present whereabouts—and “alias”—though indirectly, from an old address book of Marceau’s which I found in a desk that had once reputedly belonged to him—in a secret compartment thereof—and which book was the original cause of my asking that I might borrow the famous “unofficial dossier” for study in my spare hours. For this notebook gave me the base for a certain reductional structure based, strange as it may sound to you, upon a theory of four dimensions.
At any rate, amongst several names and addresses in it—and none of whom, I have no objection to saying, are involved criminally in anything!—was an entry of “The Bayswater Road Employment Agency” in London; and, after the entry, and in Marceau’s handwriting, of course—just the notation “Furnished Jane.”
Since, however, Jane had more or less completely vanished during the long year and two-thirds since Marceau met his death—and desiring to check up some relatively unimportant details—important, to be sure, only in connection with my own deductive theories, and quite unimportant, I fear, from anyone else’s angle!—I endeavored to look Jane up. By way of this employment agency, of course. But I found no Jane Trotter entered there! Either today—or in the past. And then it occurred to me that Jane might have had a secret “in” with the former owner—a woman named Maida Vinlay—who had in the meantime sold the agency—and gone somewhere in South America; and that Jane had since been placed out somewhere under a new and different name—probably with forged credentials, or perhaps only with verbal references from the Vinlay woman.
Well, girls of Jane Trotter’s type, when they require a pseudonym, frequently—if not always—use the name of some character in some book they like. And, talking with Mattie Tullivant, the other maid in the Marceau home (at the time he met his death, I mean), I found that Jane had had one favorite book which she read and re-read, again and again. It was called “The Shadow of a Sin, or Lady Ethel’s Revenge”—and was by, so Mattie Tullivant said, some woman writer.
I got hold of a copy without any trouble—at Sylving’s paper-novel store on the Strand. The novel—it was Number 49 or 50 in a series written by some prolific authoress, Angela Audrey Thainway, now dead—had been printed a sufficient number of years ago that it was now not only down to paper covers—but down to tuppence. A most saccharo-melodramatic monstrosity, to say the least—with one character—i.e., the sympathetic, gracious and beautiful one!—moving amidst a whole congeries of villains, villainesses, and weaklings. This character was named Dora Riverton.
And sure enough—this agency, while being run by the Vinlay woman, had placed a “Dora Riverton.” With this Mrs. Stuyves-Cherryvant—of 15, Redcliffe Square. And when I investigated, lo—Miss “Dora” was Jane Trotter.
The explanation of all this was very simple, however—and held water entirely. Jane made no attempt, indeed, so far as I can see, to cover anything up—particularly when I assured her that I had no intention of revealing her true identity to her employer. This Maida Vinlay, the former owner of that agency, she said, had been an old friend of her mother’s, now dead—in another city in England—and was deeply obligated to her, and her mother. I will not take occasion to state here in what way. But anyway, Jane had lost her berth prior to going to work for Marceau—by protecting a young man—her employer’s son—by assuming a theft he’d committed in his own father’s home. In love with him, see? And Marceau had been so vociferous—so almost explosive!—in damning all references, the day he wandered in off the street to Miss Vinlay’s employment agency, that she subsequently sent Jane to him by her right name. But, when Jane went back to her—after the Marceau ménage was broken up by Marceau’s passing—they had to do something to cover up that unfortunate episode which had occurred in Jane’s second previous berth. Hence—the “Dora Riverton”!
And that, Gerald, is positively all there is to that!
But, lad, Jane has—back in her head—her sandy-haired head!—some strange bit of knowledge concerning something that occurred in Marceau Manor the night Marceau met his death. Or, possibly, something that occurred a night or two before. My intuition is, alas, not very objective, is it?
So—if you can establish a sort of casual friendship with Jane—as one, that is, entirely on her own level, socially and intellectually—you may be able to catch, as I have said, an “inkling” of what she is concealing—through which “inkling” we might get further by a bit of shrewd “surmising”! If you could do this, it would aid in clarifying matters for me—though, be assured of this: Jane Trotter herself is not involved in anything other than working under a false name.
I will suggest, however, that if you do come here—and do succeed in establishing this acquaintanceship with Jane—that you make exceedingly sure that some young man—some exceedingly well-built young “Limey,” let us say!—with whom she may be in love, or whatnot!—does not, at her request, follow you some night, unknown to yourself, straight to the apartment of one, X. Jones, at 136 Grey’s Inn Road! And then subsequently—either alone, or with, say, a “pal” from Limehouse!—give you the beating of your life! In short, lad—suppose we handle this matter as carefully as we would were we watching the world’s greatest band of criminals—and you report to me only in writing. What say?
Sincerely,
X. Jones.
DOCUMENT XIV
A photograph, one of 5 in a packet marked “B,” received at Chicago, Illinois, November 3, 1936, on the back of which is written:
“This cute little ‘girl,’ as seen by the English inscription above, is not a little girl at all—but a little boy, none other than the Oliver Edward Marceau who, when a grown man, qualified as an heir to the Marceau Estate—the only American heir, in fact—by virtue of being Théophile Marceau’s grandson by his first wife, Julie. This picture must have been sent to Théophile Marceau years and years ago by, possibly, Oliver Edward Marceau’s father, Henri Filomenon Marceau—or perhaps by the latter’s American wife, Jenny Robson, to ‘melt’ Théophile—for the latter was, to say the least, extremely bitter towards Julie Aillaud—and all her descendants and relatives.
X. J.”
DOCUMENT XV
A photograph, one of 5 in a packet marked “B,” received at Chicago, Illinois, November 3, 1936, on the back of which is written:
“This is Joe Scarnisi, the Sicilo-Italian Chicago gangster and rum-runner (that is, my understanding is that he ‘flew’ whiskey down himself by plane from Canada to a city near Chicago called Gary, Indiana!) who might have been one of the Marceau Estate heirs by way of Aristide Marceau’s ‘sister’ Fanchon, who married an Italian named Bartoli, and whose daughter Marie married a Sicilian, Pasquale Scarnisi—except that Joe’s father not only neglected to divorce a previous wife, Venita, before marrying Joe’s mother—but it was also found that Fanchon herself had been but a ‘bound-out’ girl accepted as a ‘sister’ amongst the brothers and sisters of Aristide Marceau—but not in actuality a Marceau. Scarnisi came forward, as you may know, with a claim to the estate via Aristide—and was one of the most vociferous ‘heirs’ against the early proposition of granting André from 10 to 20 times the allowance of any other heir because of the latter’s more dangerous claims. After Joe was ‘knocked out,’ two ways running, as a Marceau heir, he accepted 50 pounds sterling �
�pay-off’—though, so it was said, still resentful. A year before André died, Scarnisi’s body was found in a ditch in Indiana, features burned a bit with acids, etc.—at least it was identified as ‘Joseph Scarnisi’—and thus ‘out’ as a suspect. He joins the Marceau Tribe here more as a Would-Be Marceau! André evidently sent for the picture from Scarnisi’s lawyers in Chicago—and kept it after Scarnisi’s claim failed.
X. J.”
DOCUMENT XVI
A photograph, one of 5 in a packet marked “B,” received at Chicago, Illinois, November 3, 1936, on the back of which is written:
“Here, again, we find reference to the ‘scandal’ in the Marceau family, for it says, you’ll note: ‘Poor Aristide! As he was at the age of 46—for he never married again, perhaps because of—“The Scandal”.’ The Scandal being, as I have remarked on the back of a previous photo, hopelessly buried by the Sands of Time—buried more deeply, in fact, than the Sphinx of Egypt used to be banked with the real sand. My guess, as to how this photo got into André’s possession, is that it must have belonged to an uncle or aunt of his father’s who was still alive when André was a young man—almost certainly, therefore, Louis, the bachelor, who lived to an exceedingly ripe old age. Louis was, it seems, on the ‘outs’ with André’s father for the last 50 years of his own life because of some boyhood prank Théophile had played on him, but he is said to have always visited with André, at his hotel, when he came off and on to London. If Louis sent—or privately gave—this photo to André before his own death, he undoubtedly passed on to André the explanation of those cryptic words. About all one can comment here, as to ‘Poor Aristide,’ is that he does look rather deeply hurt. And that like his son, Théophile, he seems to be a finer type of man than André. In both picking out foundling asylum inmates for wives, he chose more selectively than did his own son—for André, the product of ‘Margot LaFarge,’ foundling—and a Marceau, is certainly not as high-class an individual as Théophile, the product of ‘Henriette de Fontnouvelle,’ foundling—and a Marceau!
DOCUMENT XVII
A photograph, one of 5 in a packet marked “B,” received at Chicago, Illinois, November 3, 1936, on the back of which is written:
“This picture is a real curio—for it is the oldest of the lot—and so old that it must have been taken by one of the very first direct photographic processes in which but one print was possible. It shows, as will be seen by the notations on it, André Marceau’s grandmother—Théophile Marceau’s mother)—Aristide Marceau’s wife!—as a small girl. Though which of the two small girls shown in it she is, cannot be determined by the notations on it, as you yourself will readily see. It was taken, as is stated—and as is somewhat evident!—at the Foundling Asylum of the Sister of St. Agatha at Versailles, France—for she was a Paris doorstep foundling. You will also note that it says: ‘As will be seen by that photograph of her leaning with arms folded on a chair, and taken on June 15, 1838, 3 days after I married her, my darling grew to become a very beautiful woman.’ Those words, plainly, were written by Aristide, her husband. The photo mentioned and described in them, however, was not among this lot, and never has been owned or seen by anyone—so far as I have been able to find out. The name ‘Henriette’ she of course got in the convent-asylum; while the name ‘DeFontnouvelle’ was, it seems, just the name of a couple who took her—but did not legally adopt her—from the age of 12 up to when Aristide Marceau married her.
X. J.”
DOCUMENT XVIII
A photograph, one of 5 in a packet marked “B,” received at Chicago, Illinois, November 3, 1936, on the back of which is written:
“This charming and self-possessed young man (though he could well be in his early 30’s!), dressed in the habiliments of the early 19th century (and American habiliments, if I guess right!)—is—or was—evidently the cause of ‘The Scandal’—for you can see that the French notation, in an utterly strange handwriting, says: ‘Sauve lui—pas de Tache!,’ meaning, of course, ‘But for him, no scandal!’ Who he is, I have no idea whatsoever. Nor does anyone else, I fancy. My guess is that the handwriting is that of some sister or brother of Louis’, that the picture wound up with him because he outlived them all, and that it was finally given by him to André, years after, together with the photograph of André’s grandfather, and with, doubtlessly, an explanation of sorts.
X. J.”
DOCUMENT XIX
Typewritten transcript of telephone conversation held November 3, 1936, between one, “Gilbert Whittimore” calling “from London,” and X. Jones, at Little Ivington, Kent, England, taken down stenographically from an extension phone in the Blue Boar Inn by Radranath Sepoona, assistant—and at-times-secretary!—to X. Jones.
Mr. Jones: Yes, speaking, Mr.—who did you say?
Voice: Gilbert Whittimore, Mr. Jones. London correspondent for the All-America News Service. Our offices are on Ludgate Circus, you know.
Mr. Jones: Oh yes. Yes.
Mr. Whittimore: Mr. Jones, information has come to me—rather shall I say us?—in a—well—somewhat roundabout manner, that you have the solution of the Marceau Murder Case virtually in your possession.
Mr. Jones: Indeed? And might I ask—whence all this information emanated?
Mr. Whittimore: Well now—I couldn’t exactly, you know, divulge that.
Mr. Jones: I presume not. However, I believe I know. Servant gossip, most likely—from breakfast table conversation held between a friend of mine—on the Yard—and his wife.
Mr. Whittimore: Well, is the rumor true, Mr. Jones?
Mr. Jones: We-ell—so long as you’re standing on its tail, so to speak, let me at least correct it. I anticipate—yes—holding the solution of the Marceau Case entirely and completely within my hands within the next few weeks. In fact, it was—indeed is—my intention to render tomorrow an anticipatory release to the press to this effect, for—well—November 13th.
Mr. Whittimore: That is, Mr. Jones, you don’t, by any chance, mean by that that you intend to release your solution on that day?
Mr. Jones: Oh no, no! I mean that this anticipatory statement that I shall give out tomorrow will itself be releasable on that date.
Mr. Whittimore: Yes, so I got it from—well—from the way the rumor was couched. Well, Mr. Jones, I called you up here—you see I learned at the Yard that this was your “off” day, and that you were in Little Ivington, checking up some detail or other—and when I failed to get hold of you at—well, the people now occupying Marceau Manor said you positively weren’t there—so I took a chance and tried the one inn in the town—the Blue Boar—and so, as I started a while back to say, I called you up in order to put a straight American proposition to you.
Mr. Jones: Indeed? And what is the proposition, Mr. Whittimore?
Mr. Whittimore: Mr. Jones, we—the All-America News Service—offer you—understand me, please, that I am empowered to offer you this by virtue of actual cabled instructions from our General Manager in New York—Mr. Gus Erks—to offer you, Mr. Jones, $10,000 to release that solution exclusively to the All-America News Service. The payment to be made, of course, upon verification of the solution by confession on the part of any or all guilty parties—or conviction thereof—or, in the event that certain individuals involved have died in the meantime, by corroboration of the underlying facts.
Mr. Jones: Of course, of course! I should hardly release anything that was not 100 per cent confirmable. However, my dear fellow, though not an American like yourself, I will endeavor to be just as businesslike. My answer is no!
Mr. Whittimore: No?
Mr. Jones: Yes, no.
Mr. Whittimore: Ah—that’s better! Yes, eh?
Mr. Jones: No. N—O!
Mr. Whittimore: Oh, yes—I see. Well—would a larger sum—be in order?
Mr. Jones: No. I have made certain commitments, in certain directions, such that my solution—if and when I have it 100 per cent complete!—would have to be given to all news services, with free rights to use it in
any way.
Mr. Whittimore: Hm! Well, tell you what, Mr. Jones. Suppose I change that offer. Suppose I tell you we’ll give you $5000 for your solution—if verified, as I said, by arrests, confessions, convictions, etc.— providing you give the All-America News Service a secret waiver giving it the right to release the story one day ahead of the other syndicates and papers. Or even—say—10 hours ahead. Or here, Mr. Jones—I’ll make it just 6 hours ahead.
Mr. Jones: Thus achieving just as much of a “scoop,” as it’s called, as though released a month ahead? Sorry, old man, but that is quite “out.” Were I interested in secret treaties, etc.— I’d just take your larger offer—and hand you the completed story exclusively.
Mr. Whittimore: You absolutely refuse then, Mr. Jones—to play ball?
Mr. Jones: Play ball? Play—oh I think I get your meaning. On the contrary—I’m trying as much as possible—to play cricket!
Mr. Whittimore: I get you! Well when—you say tomorrow?—you’re to give out that statement?
Mr. Jones: Yes. At my flat, at 136 Grey’s Inn Road. At noon. Though—if you’re not able to be on hand to receive it, I don’t mind releasing it to you sort of—well—sub-officially—now. For November 13th printing, that is, you understand?
Mr. Whittimore: Oh, no—it isn’t that. That I can’t get there. In fact, I’ll be there with bells on! But I was wondering—now you know this case lies far back enough to be, as I understand it, very much of a cause célèbre. I myself was aboard a boat coming from Australia to the U.S.A. when the Marceau Case broke, and I—however, we’ll skip it! And what occurs to me is that—well—a big feature “rehash” might be made on that case, and—however, I suppose if I suggested that to Erks, he’d turn thumbs down on it—while if I played dumb, he’d probably see the feasibility of it, and—excuse me, Mr. Jones, for thinking aloud! But let me ask one question: in case the A-A Service should want to play up this old case—in a big feature “rehash”—well—do you think you could slip me a bigger handout than the others?
X. Jones—Of Scotland Yard Page 3