The Case of the Dead Diplomat (12 page)

“Good! I shall go down and look at their forms. We can always get such riff-raff expelled from France.”

“But do we want that, M. Verneuil? Would it not be better first to find out why they were visiting Pinet?”

“That would entail arresting them and subjecting them to a close interrogation, but with fellows like these, I doubt whether we should get much. So far we have not made progress. Much was hoped from the finger-prints found in the room of the crime. It is a fatality. The only legible prints were those found on a whisky bottle and glass, and these were the prints of the dead man's fingers; all those found in other parts of the room were blurred and unrecognizable. For the moment we won't trouble M. Bigot with this new development. I will visit the hotel this morning, examine their registration forms, and call on you at your hotel later in the day.”

“On second thoughts perhaps it would be well to give you the names of two of them; the third man I do not know. The leader of the gang called himself Polowski when he was in London. He was never convicted of fraud because the prosecutors were ashamed to come forward. The prize-fighter went by the name of Richard Butler. He was twice convicted of blackmail, and can only just have come out of prison.”

Verneuil screwed up one eye. “You do not seem to have wasted your time, messieurs. Supposing that one of these three men proves to be the third visitor to the flat that night…”

“Or that Butler is blackmailing Pinet.”

W
HEN
R
ICHARDSON
and Cooper reached the Embassy a little before midday they found the staff preoccupied. Everett's parents had arrived from London overnight, and Chubb told them that they were closeted with Carruthers, the first secretary.

“The funeral is to be at Père Lachaise this afternoon. I suppose that you'll be going to it?”

“Is everybody attending it?” asked Richardson.

“Yes, everybody except Mr. Dundas. He's got to stop and mind the baby while we're all away. It's to be a quiet affair, but I'll bet that it's leaked out and we shall have a gang of press photographers who'll worry those poor old people to pose for their photographs, and as likely as not take a snap of His Excellency laying his wreath on the grave. I should go if I were in your place. You never know—the murderer may be there to gloat over his handiwork.”

“Is Mr. Gregory in?”

“Yes, he's in his room, but you'll find him a bit on the snappy side this morning; as like as not he'll want to know how you're getting on with your job. Come along; I'll announce you.”

They hung back in the passage while Chubb went through the formality, and came forward as soon as he beckoned to them. As Chubb had predicted, they found Gregory in a nervous state.

“You've come at a bad moment,” he said. “We are all at sixes and sevens with this funeral.”

“So we've heard, sir. But we want to have an interview with Mr. Everett's father, and he may be leaving Paris to-night. Besides, if the ambassador doesn't mind, we should like to be present at the ceremony.”

“Oh, he won't mind, especially if he knows that you're getting a move on with your investigations. Is it too soon to tell him that?”

“Much too soon, sir. It is impossible to hurry these things, but we hope to have something to tell you when you have more time to hear it. We won't take up any more of your time now.”

“Stop a minute. You want to see Everett's father, don't you? I'll tell Chubb to take you to the waiting-room and bring Mr. Everett to you as soon as Mr. Carruthers has done with him.”

They had not long to wait; in less than three minutes they heard voices in the passage; the first secretary was taking leave of the bereaved parents. Chubb made his appearance and hissed at them, “You'll have to see them both together. The wife is badly upset and the husband says that he dare not leave her.”

“Very well,” assented Richardson; “we'll see them both.”

It was to be a painful interview and Richardson found himself regretting that he had chosen this particular moment for it. The mother was in tears; her husband had to steer her to the chair which Cooper had placed for her. The father was a tall, spare man in the late fifties, a retired schoolmaster who eked out his savings by occasional excursions into journalism. The dead man had been their only child.

“Sit down here, Mr. Everett,” said Richardson, indicating a chair as far away from the mother as he could. “I am an inspector from Scotland Yard; I have come over at the ambassador's request to help the French police in their investigation of the crime. You will be able to help me if you will allow me to put a few questions to you. Had your son any private means beyond his salary?”

“None, except that from time to time—at Christmas and on his birthday—we sent him small presents of money.”

“He told you, I suppose, that the cost of living in France was very high?”

“Yes, he did; he sent me once a table of figures showing that it was the dearest country to live in except Russia.”

“Why did he enter the diplomatic service?”

“Well, he had always a turn for learning foreign languages, and his French was not as good as his German. He was already a journalist; he had gone through the mill as a reporter on the
Manchester Guardian
, and he thought that if his French was perfect he would have a better chance as a journalist in England later on. I happened to have a friend who was attached to the Foreign Office after the war, and it was through him that I heard of this opening of Press attaché. Of course I'm sorry now that I ever heard of it, and the boy's poor mother will never get over it.”

“What we want to get at is a motive for the crime. It couldn't have been robbery because the little money he had in his flat was untouched. Did he mention in any of his letters that he was counting upon getting some special work outside the Embassy?”

“No; he was not a good correspondent—I suppose he was too busy to write letters—but when he did write he seemed to be wrapped up in his work.”

“Did he ever mention having trouble with any French people?”

Mr. Everett pondered. “I remember him writing an amusing letter to me saying that a French M.P. had challenged him to fight a duel, but that didn't seem to worry him in any way; he treated it as a comic incident, and said he had offered to fight the gentleman with his fists.”

“Did he always write in good spirits?”

“Yes, and from what they tell me here he seemed to have been very popular with the French journalists. Tell me, inspector; have you discovered any clue yet?”

“We are following up certain clues, but it is too early yet to say what they will result in.” Richardson glanced at the clock. “I must not keep you a minute longer, Mr. Everett; you have to get your lunch before the funeral, and at the cemetery we shall not have any opportunity of talking. Let me give you one hint that may be useful. The reporters here intend to make the most of this sad business, and they will want to interview you and get Press photographers to take your portraits. You will be perfectly free to refuse, and we shall be quite near at hand to interfere if they annoy you. Your best defence against interviewers is to pretend that you do not understand French; very few of them speak English. Are you going to stay in Paris for long?”

“No, we are crossing by to-night's boat.” Richardson shook hands with the poor man sympathetically, bowed to the lady and left the room, taking Cooper with him. On the way out he asked Chubb at what time the party would leave for the cemetery.

“If you're here at two sharp, inspector, and bring a taxi with you, you can follow the Embassy cars, or if you like it better, why not drive out to the entrance to the cemetery, wait for us there and tack on to the procession. We've had a lot of reporters up here this morning, but I didn't give them any dope about the funeral. I expect we shall find them parked outside at Père Lachaise. Anyway, if you'll make straight for me I'll get you passed in.”

A funeral in France is one of the dreariest ceremonies that anyone can attend. Five minutes after Richardson's arrival at the gate the ambassador's car hove in sight. Everett's body had been brought into the chapel by the undertaker early in the morning. The Embassy chaplain was in attendance. There were more than twenty reporters and camera-men at the gate. Chubb now became a very active official. No one was allowed to pass in without his
fiat
. Mr. and Mrs. Everett were only just in time; the gates were shut behind them, leaving the reporters and camera men gnashing their teeth.

“They'll get in, you'll see,” said Chubb to Richardson; “either they'll bribe this joker here or they'll go round to one of the other gates, which are kept open.”

“I don't suppose it matters very much if they do.”

“No, except that it will enrage our old man until he's ready to bite any of us. Then he'll go to bed for three days and send for the doctor.”

In point of fact Chubb's gloomy prophecy was fulfilled. When the cortege reached the grave-side camera men were streaming up the nearest path, and Chubb could do nothing to stop them. They concentrated upon the ambassador depositing his wreath and upon the father and mother, the chief mourners; but Mr. Everett was quite successful with the reporters after the ceremony. Probably he knew a good deal of French, but he remained gaping and speechless when questions were flung at him.

When the mourners returned to their cars, Ned Gregory fell back to allow Richardson to overtake him.

“How are you going back to Paris?” he asked.

“We'll look for a taxi, sir.”

“Lord only knows when you'll find one in this benighted spot; you'd better come in our car; there's room for you both with a squeeze. We'll drive you to the Embassy, and you can then tell us what you've been doing.”

It was certainly a squeeze. Maynard and the chaplain, fortunately an attenuated person, with Gregory, were fitted into the back seat; the two detectives sat with their backs to the chauffeur. To judge by the groans emitted by Gregory at the Embassy gate, the unpacking was even more painful than the fitting in.

“Give me a hand, one of you; the Padre's hipbone has made a wound in my side. You'll have to throw all your strength into wrenching me free.”

Richardson did what was necessary with a smile, the chaplain remarking, “You know that our friend Mr. Gregory is the chartered jester of the Embassy.”

“Now come along, inspector, and make a clean breast of what you've been doing,” said Gregory; “probably Mr. Carruthers will want to hear you. I'll ask him.”

Carruthers did want to listen, and he joined the party in the attaché's room. Richardson began by narrating their experiences with Bigot which had brought their employment to an end, and then asked Cooper to describe his shadowing of the doubtful characters they had picked up at the café.

“Does this mean that the French police will have nothing further to do with you?” asked Carruthers a little anxiously.

“Not quite that, sir. We are still in close touch with Bigot's second—a M. Verneuil, who does not see eye to eye with his chief. He is making an inquiry for us at the hotel where these swindlers are staying.”

“But judging from what you say, the hunting down of these swindlers scarcely seems a matter for the Foreign Office. You are doing it in the interests of Scotland Yard, are you not?” objected Carruthers.

“We cannot yet say, sir. We do not know the object of their visit to Pinet at le Pecq, and, if you remember, Pinet was one of the last persons, if not actually the last, who visited Mr. Everett on the night of the murder. If you will give me another day, or two days, I have a plan that may clear up that side of the case.”

“I suppose I mustn't ask you what it is, inspector?”

“I would rather not say until the plan has taken shape, sir, but as soon as it has I shall not fail to take you into my confidence. And now, sir, if you have no instructions to give us, I ought to get back to our hotel. We are expecting a visit from our detective friend, M. Verneuil.”

Cooper was silent as they walked back to their hotel.

“What's the matter with you, Cooper? You are very quiet.”

“I'm wondering what you are going to do next. You told those gentlemen at the Embassy that you had a plan for dealing with those rascals? It was the first I'd heard of it.”

“Quite right. It came into my head as we were driving back from the funeral. Did they ever give you a part in theatricals, Cooper?”

“Only once—when I was in the Police Minstrels, years ago.”

“You mean that your performance was so poor that they never employed you again?”

Cooper laughed. “You wouldn't have said so if you had been in the audience. No, it must have been jealousy on the part of the other comics. Why do you ask?”

“Because I've got a part cut and dried for you. Listen. You are a ne'er-do-well spendthrift—that will come easy to you—you look the part.”

“Thank you.”

“The son of a doting mother who can't refuse you anything. Her dead husband—a West-End jeweller—has left her a considerable fortune. That part of the story doesn't fit you so well or you wouldn't be on the pay-roll of the C.I.D.”

“Never mind; I am often throwing money about in my dreams.”

“This distressing habit of yours—throwing money about, grossly over-tipping waiters—is observed at a café by Polowski and his friends. You leave the café just a little unsteady on your pins. The next day you are there at the same hour; a fascinating lady strolls in and sits down at a neighbouring table; you ogle her.”

“My God! What would my wife say?”

“Nothing, because she won't be there to see.”

“But how am I to know what café these blighters frequent? How are we to locate them?”