The Case of the Dead Diplomat (15 page)

There followed an article, signed by the reporter, deploring the secretiveness of the police, and inviting his readers to await startling revelations when the inquiry was completed.

This was the article which First Secretary Carruthers found lying upon his table, conspicuously marked in blue pencil by Chubb. He rang the bell and Chubb entered himself.

“Did you take a copy of this rag up to His Excellency?”

“I did, sir.”

“Did you mark it in blue pencil as you have marked my copy?”

“No, sir; considering His Excellency's state of health, I thought it better not to.”

“You did well.”

Carruthers carried the paper upstairs to the ambassador's room. He found his chief violently agitated; a copy of
Le Témoin
was lying on the table before him.

“Ah! You've seen this scandalous rag? Something must be done about it immediately. The editor must be seen and warned that any repetition of this offensive stuff will make it necessary for us to apply to the Quai d'Orsay for protection. Hadn't we better send Maynard to see the editor?”

“I should keep Maynard for appealing to the Quai d'Orsay if the editor digs in his heels and talks of the liberty of the Press. The best man for the editor would be Gregory. He knows these Pressmen, and has managed them very well so far.”

“But isn't he too apt to be flippant with them?”

“Only when they require a light touch. He can be stiff enough with them when it's necessary.”

“Very well, send Gregory, and please let me see him when he comes back.”

Ned Gregory took a taxi to the imposing office of
Le Témoin
in the rue Sebastopol and sent in his card to the editor. He was not kept waiting long; a well-groomed young man hurried into the waiting-room and introduced himself as the editor's secretary. He said, “The editor has been called away, monsieur; he will be desolated at not seeing you. Is there anything I can do?”

Gregory drew a mental picture of the editor, either cowering in the editorial chair or seizing his hat and slipping out unobtrusively by a back staircase into the street. His reply seemed to be a facer. “You are very good, monsieur, but my business can only be dealt with by a personal interview with the editor. I feel sure that if an effort is made there will be little difficulty in communicating with him by telephone.” He took out his watch. “If you will allow me I will make a note of the time I am kept waiting for the interview; if it is unduly long it is possible that the British ambassador, whom I am representing, may think it right to mention the fact in his representations to the Quai d'Orsay. In the meantime, with your permission, I will pass the interval in this chair.”

It was a chastened private secretary who received this ultimatum. “Certainly, monsieur. I will at once take steps to communicate with the editor if he can be found; but I may have difficulty. Paris is a large city.”

Gregory amused himself with calculations. What would be the minimum time they would dare to keep him waiting, consistent with saving the face of the secretary, who had asserted that the editor was keeping an appointment in another part of Paris? He decided that from seven to ten minutes would be resolved upon, and that he would then be faced with a gentleman a little breathless with haste, profuse in apologies for the delay which had been forced upon him by circumstances over which he had had no control. If only he had known beforehand…

It was just seven minutes when a quick step in the passage announced the return of the private secretary. He was wreathed in smiles. “I have been lucky, monsieur. After one or two abortive calls on the telephone I got into touch with the editor. He took a taxi at once. He has just arrived. If you will come this way…”

Gregory was ushered into the editorial sanctum—a big room which seemed to be reserved for receiving distinguished visitors or for board meetings, for its only furniture besides the writing-table was a row of handsome, leather-covered chairs against the wall. A cadaverous little man with a complexion like dirty creased paper rose from his chair and came hurrying towards his visitor with outstretched hand. He was a little out of breath.

“I ask a thousand pardons, monsieur, for having unwittingly kept you waiting, but you know what it is. The editor of a great daily newspaper is never allowed to call his time his own.” He scurried away to the row of chairs and brought one up to the table.

“Please give yourself the trouble to sit down and tell me what I can do for you.”

Ned Gregory had assumed an unwonted air of gravity. Towering above the man he had come to see, he took the chair offered him and pulled from his pocket a copy of
Le Témoin
of that morning's date, and opened it out leisurely to bring the offending column, heavily marked in blue pencil, to the front. This he laid on the table before the editor.

“The ambassador has instructed me to call your attention to this article, monsieur.”

“Ah, that! His Excellency, the ambassador, takes exception to it?”

“He takes the strongest exception to it, especially to the headlines.”

“Ah, the headlines… yes… I recognize at once that the headlines, which seem to have slipped through after the article was written, were ill-advised. I wish I had seen them before the paper went to press.”

“It is not only the headlines, though they are bad enough, that the ambassador takes exception to; it is the article itself.”

“
Tiens!
But it was written by Jacques Penaud, one of our best men.”

“But it is not true.”

“You surprise me, monsieur. I was assured that it had all been verified by the police who were in charge of the case; that they said that the murder had been done with a German Nazi dagger. Was that not true?”

“It was, but the dagger had long been the property of Mr. Everett, who used it as a paperknife, and he received it as a gift from an English friend who was on the other side of the German frontier. He showed it to me at the time he was given it.”

“Ah! That throws an entirely different light upon the affair. I can assure you, monsieur, that if the police had told my reporter that, the ambassador would have had no cause to complain. I hope you will assure His Excellency that there will be no further reference to the matter complained of in the columns of my paper…”

Gregory had fulfilled his mission, but he could not resist the temptation to press this compliant gentleman a little further. “I fear, monsieur, that the ambassador will not be content with that assurance. If that is all you can offer it may be difficult to restrain him from applying to the Quai d'Orsay for protection, and I fancy that in these dark days representations from France's strong ally may have repercussions.” If he had doubted whether the important newspapers received subsidies from the French Government, the reaction of the editor convinced him of it.

“What more can I do, monsieur?”

“You can insert a correction to the effect that you have been misinformed; that the dagger used by the murderer of Mr. Everett had been a long time in the possession of the murdered man, who used it as a paper-knife, and that you regret having been misled.
Tenez, monsieur
. I have brought with me a rough draft of the correction which I suggest you should insert.”

He pulled from his pocket-book a slip of paper with a few lines of typescript. The editor read it with knitted brows.

“Very well, monsieur; a correction on these lines will appear in to-morrow's issue.”

“Pardon me, monsieur; it must not be only on these lines, but in these words, and it must appear in the same position and the same type as the original paragraph.”

A noble resignation took charge of the editor's features as he consented.

As Ned Gregory descended the steps into the street he narrowly escaped colliding with Inspector Bigot, who was entering the building in plain clothes. Bigot stopped him, saying, “I am not surprised to see you here, monsieur. Like me, you have been here to protest against that disgraceful article in this morning's paper.”

Ned Gregory's manner was cool. “You think the article disgraceful? Yet the editor tells me that his reporter got his information from you or from one of your subordinates.”

The inspector recoiled as if from a blow in the face. “Impossible! Did he dare say that? Why, I myself have come to protest in the strongest terms. I do not remember ever having seen the man who signs the article.”

“Ah!”

“No, monsieur. I hope that you will assure His Excellency the ambassador that we are maintaining the strictest reserve; that I consider the article disgraceful, and that I have come specially to see the editor to protest against it.”

“I am glad to hear it, monsieur,” replied Gregory, signalling to a taxi. “
Au revoir
, monsieur the inspector.”

Unlike Ned Gregory, Bigot was not made to wait for his interview. He was admitted to the sanctum at once. The editor motioned him to the chair vacated by Gregory without rising.

“Well,” said he, “what is it now?”

“I have come to protest against that article in the paper this morning.”

“What is wrong with it?”

“Wrong with it? Why, it's not true.”

“How do
you
know that it's not true? You were paid for the information you gave me, weren't you? Well, stranger things than what appeared in this morning's paper have proved in the end to be true.”

“Yes, but…listen, monsieur, if you will give a
démenti
to that article, I can promise you exclusive information about the real murderer of the English diplomat, and I can promise you a startling sensation. When my new case is complete, and it involves a deputy, nay more, a Minister, what would you not give for the exclusive information? And I should make no stipulation against allowing my name to appear as the officer who conducted the inquiry.”

“Very well, inspector, if you are successful you can come to me.”

Ned Gregory returned to the Embassy and entered the first secretary's room.

“What, back already? Did you have any luck?” was Carruthers' greeting.

Gregory related his experiences at the office of
Le Témoin
.

“You seem to have greatly exceeded your instructions, young man,” said his senior in mock reproof. “You were never told to frighten the editor into inserting a
démenti
in to-morrow's issue and drafting it yourself.”

“He was badly frightened when I told him that the ambassador contemplated going to the Quai d'Orsay. He saw his Government subsidy melting away.”

“You had better go straight upstairs to H.E. and tell him all about it. He said particularly that he wanted to see you as soon as you came back.”

Gregory ran upstairs and knocked at the ambassador's door. He found his chief in the mood for receiving fresh blows. “Sit down and tell me the worst,” he said.

Gregory's version of his interview lost nothing in the telling. The poor ambassador, who had been sunk in his chair with a fresh access of internal trouble, gradually became sound again, as he did to the stimulus of one of his doctor's remedies. He was even almost jubilant when Gregory related the pressure he had brought to bear upon the editor to insert a
démenti
in the next issue of his paper.

“You drafted the terms of the
démenti
yourself?”

“Yes, sir, I thought it would meet with your approval if I did.”

“You have done very well indeed, Mr. Gregory. If only we could get those detectives from Scotland Yard to get a move on, I should feel that we were accomplishing something. Do you see anything of them?”

“Yes, sir; I think they are doing everything possible under the circumstances. They are following a trail now which promises well. It would not be fair to them to tell anybody what it is, but their policy seems to me likely to end in bringing home the crime to the right person.”

W
HEN
C
OOPER
arrived at the café next evening the three were in their places. They appeared to take no notice of him. He had scarcely given his order when he saw with some concern that Ned Gregory was occupying a table against the window, two or three yards away. For a moment it seemed to spoil his stroke, but that feeling soon gave way to the encouragement which an appreciative audience exercises on the actor. In any case he had no time for reflection, for at that moment the Polowski party was breaking up. The Roumanian and the pugilist were taking a ceremonious leave of Polowski—hats off, bows, handshakes and smiles, as if the trio were destined to be parted for ever. Polowski was now alone; so was Cooper. What more natural than that these two lonely men should be drawn together. It was Polowski's need of a light for his cigarette that did the drawing. Actually Cooper was looking the other way when a soft, insinuating voice accosted him, asking for a match. Cooper, or rather Rivaux, was not one of those travellers who keep their fellow-men at arm's length. On the contrary, he himself struck the light and handed it to Polowski with a flourish.

“Have you been long in Paris?” asked the Pole.

Rivaux motioned him to take the chair beside him. “Several weeks now—quite long enough to be bored stiff. I remember when I came over for my education my dream was to come back to Paris with money in my pocket, and now that my dream is realized I wish I'd stayed at home. Say, are you a Frenchman?”

“No, I'm from Warsaw.”

“I'm glad to hear it. I shouldn't like to belittle Paris to a Frenchman, but it's a dull sort of place.”

“Have you been to the shows?”

“Yes, half a dozen of them, and they're all alike; nothing but half-naked girls kicking up their legs and grinning at you. And the cinemas are nearly as bad. Why, you can't open a paper in this country to read about a nice, brutal crime without having a girl dragged into it.”