The Case of the Dead Diplomat (20 page)

“You believed her story about drink being the cause of her illness?”

“With a woman like that, what does it matter whether her story be true or false? She drinks—yes —you can see that in her face. And for her morals, they are no concern of ours, but rather of the
curé
. As for suicide, the world would not be either better or worse if she were out of it. Yet why should a woman with five thousand francs in her pocket want to leave the world before it was spent?”

“You think that the doctor was wrong in his diagnosis?”

“Yes, that's what I think. You, comrade, are a man after my own heart. Your reasoning is sound; you do not run about seeking for commendation from those above you, nor pushing your way into the
couloirs
of the Chamber in search of sensation. No. You, like myself, try to establish the truth without fear and without favour.”

They had turned into the rue Chapelle and made for Number 8. From the
concierge
they learned that Madame Blanchard was lodging with her parents, Monsieur and Madame Cogny, on the first floor; Madame Blanchard went up to their flat only ten minutes before. It was the door on the left of the lift on the second floor.

A little
bonne
answered the door bell. “Yes, messieurs; Madame Blanchard is at home. What name shall I give?”

Verneuil took out a well-thumbed visiting-card and said that he would not
déranger
either Monsieur or Madame Cogny if he could have a few words with Madame Blanchard.

While the maid retired to her mistress, they stood their ground in the little entrance hall. “You, comrade, will do the questioning here. I will be at hand as your interpreter.” He had scarce spoken when Madame Blanchard fluttered in, her quick-coming breath betraying her apprehensions. Verneuil set clumsily to work to restore her composure.

“Good morning, madame; you have already met my friend from the British Embassy. He wishes to put to you a few questions which will not be difficult for you to answer.”

“Will you give yourselves the trouble to come into the
salon
, messieurs; there we can sit down.”

She conducted them into a miniature drawing-room, furnished with good taste, and drew up chairs for them.

“I shall not detain you long, madame,” said Richardson in his halting French. “My first question is whether Mr. Everett at any time led you to suppose that he would shortly have money, either by inheritance or through some business that had been offered to him.”

The young woman knit her brow, thinking. “We talked of so many things, monsieur. I do not remember hearing him say that he would be rich. Stay, I do remember now, that, on one occasion, when we talked about going on a holiday to Italy, he said, ‘It may be sooner than you think. I, too, want to visit Italy, and as soon as I have secured the money for our journey I shall ask you to come with me.'”

“Secured the money? What did you understand by that?”

“I did not ask him what he meant. I thought that perhaps money was owing to him in his own country, or again, that it had been left to him by some relative.”

“He spoke of it as a certainty?”

“No, monsieur, rather as a possibility. I felt that it would be indelicate to question him. I preferred to wait until he told me plainly what he meant.”

“Did he ever tell you that three foreigners had been trying to induce him to join them in a speculation?”

“Three foreigners? No, monsieur; if he had told me that I am sure I should have remembered it.”

Richardson rose as an intimation that he had come to the end of his questions, but Verneuil was not disposed to let her off quite so easily.

“You've had no journalists to see you, I hope, madame?”

The young woman flushed and replied readily, “No, monsieur, and I hope that now there will not be any.” She hesitated, and then in a tremulous voice asked them whether they were likely to trace the murderer.

“Not yet, madame, but I will not hide from you that we are pursuing lines of inquiry which may at any moment result in an arrest.”

Richardson left the flat feeling haunted by the tragic eyes of this young married woman who had buried her heart in Père la Chaise, and had a life before her with a man she could not love.

“One has to eat, M. Verneuil,” he said. “Will you become my guest at the Restaurant des Gourmets which M. Bigot discovered for us? If we talk ‘shop' no one can find fault with us.”

Verneuil accepted with enthusiasm; it seemed that the viands of such an establishment did not come his way very often.

“I suppose,” said Richardson, when they had given their order, “that you are not feeling optimistic about this case of ours?”

“One never knows how a case may turn out,” mumbled Verneuil as he munched his beefsteak.

“Certainly one never knows. I wake in the night sometimes, feeling that I am on the verge of a discovery,” said Richardson.

“You will forgive me for saying that when once your head has touched the pillow you should dismiss all thoughts of your cases. That is a golden rule which I have always followed.”

“Whether I think of it at night or in the daytime, it all comes to the same—we are not getting on. I thought that something might come out of those Russian swindlers, who are trying to victimize my comrade Cooper, but even that is hanging fire.”

“What will you, if my inspector will not sanction the arrest of those men? I would soon have got from them the real reason why they called on Pinet at le Pecq. Ah! Comrade, you should cultivate the optimism of our friend Bigot, who thinks, God pity him! that he is on the eve of bringing the crime home to the new Radical Minister of Education, M. Quesnay.”

Richardson made no reply; an idea had occurred to him. “What are your duties this afternoon, M. Verneuil?”

“To sit in my office like a spider in wait for a fly.”

“Because I was wondering whether something might turn up if we visited the Zoological Gardens in the Bois de Vincennes. M. Bigot told me that the film which we found in the dead man's rooms consisted of wild animals in cages, but he did not show it to me.”

“I can show you something better than the film—the prints that were taken from it.”

Verneuil dragged forth from his pocket a well-worn note-case and drew from it eight Kodak prints for Richardson to examine. They consisted of studies of lions, tigers, giraffes, bears and baboons, all marred as pictures by the intervening iron railings. They were clearly the work of an inexperienced amateur, for no trouble had been taken to take the subjects in a favourable light with the proper diaphragm and exposure.

“These prints have given me an idea, M. Verneuil. Why should we not go out there this afternoon? A conversation with the keepers might produce something new.”

The generous wine which Verneuil had imbibed freely made it possible for him to agree to any proposal. He helped himself to another glass of it, and screwing up his eyes with a whimsical smile he said, “A very excellent suggestion!”

Regardless of expense, Richardson pronounced in favour of a taxi drive all the way, salving his conscience in the matter of petty cash by the reflection that it would not be the police fund that would have to pay for the jaunt, and that if they were to see the principal men they must not arrive at the gardens too late. His companion seemed disposed to sleep. This did not suit so keen a man as Richardson. He tapped the back of his knotted hand.

“Probably you know the principal men of the gardens, M. Verneuil? I should like to put a few questions to them.”

Verneuil winked languidly. It was no affair of his and he was strongly inclined to a post-prandial nap; in fact his eyelids were unblushingly closed when they drew up at the entrance to the garden. Even when Richardson was paying their fare he was sleeping as peacefully as an infant.

“We have arrived,” bellowed Richardson, plucking at his sleeve and helping him out of the taxi.

Richardson found it curious to be the leader of the expedition, but he reflected that it was very good for his French. The man at the turnstile gave him clear directions to the superintendent's office. With his arm linked through that of Verneuil, Inspector Richardson found his way thither, and was informed that the superintendent was at that moment patrolling the gardens and would probably be found in or about the lion enclosure. There they found him, and Verneuil was by this time alert enough to present his British comrade.

The superintendent seemed young to be in that responsible position. He had learned his wild-beast lore in the French African colonies, and he was in such close touch with lions as to be able to enter their enclosure unarmed and single-handed to train them, but on this particular afternoon, as he explained, the lion standing royally facing the gate was in no mood for entertaining visitors and he had beaten a hasty retreat, locking the gate behind him. He was at pains to do the honours of his establishment to his visitors. These were, to take them into every part of the cages that were not open to the public; for example, behind every tier of cages ran a passage used by the keepers for cleaning the cages and providing their occupants with food. A miniature tramway ran along these passages, with trucks loaded with raw meat for the carnivora. Richardson became keenly interested. He asked Verneuil to lend him the photographs again. They had arrived at the wolves. Three of these animals were circling their cage persistently; it was a sign that dinner-time was near. A few adults and children could be seen standing on the opposite side of the cage where the light was strongest. Running through the prints Richardson slipped out one, evidently taken from this very spot, but the wolves had been full-fed and somnolent when the lens was snapped. He knew enough about photography to see that the hand which snapped the shutter had been that of a tyro, for no experienced Kodak fiend would have thought of taking a picture with the strong light facing the lens; indeed the photograph had been a very poor one.

The superintendent turned round to see why his guests had halted, and Richardson showed him the print.

“
Tiens!
” said the superintendent. “This must have been taken from this very spot.”

“I suppose that no one but you brings people into this gallery?”

“According to my orders that is so, but I have little doubt that when I am otherwise engaged, some of my men usurp the privilege in the hope of earning
pourboires
.”

“Do you bring round visitors every day?”

“Oh, no, monsieur; I make the privilege as rare as I can. It is only distinguished visitors that are invited behind the cages, for example, deputies or members of the Press who are preparing articles for their paper.”

“Ah!” interrupted Verneuil. “Deputies? M. Quesnay, for example?”

The superintendent laughed. “You seem to know a great deal about the gardens,
monsieur le commissaire
, but since you cite M. Quesnay, I admit that I took him round less than three weeks ago.”

“And he took photographs?”

“He did, and very good they were. He sent me prints of them afterwards.”

“What sort of a camera did he use?”

“Ah! That was the trouble. None of your Kodaks for that gentleman. He had a big studio camera, and the difficulty was how to get a firm stand for it when its lens was pushed through the bars. In the end we had to lend him a stool high enough to bring the camera well above the floor. You know, messieurs, one has to be careful whom one brings into this passage. Only the other day a journalist presented his card and I took him round. He was accompanied by a lady whom I supposed to be a person of good sense, but I caught her just in time thrusting her hand into the hyena's cage to stroke its neck. If the beast had once got his teeth into her hand she would have lost her arm, and there would have been a public outcry against me; I stopped her just in time.
Tiens!
That might have been the very person who took those photographs. I remember now that she had a camera with her, and that the journalist who brought her laughed at the way she was photographing everything against the light.”

“Do you remember what kind of a woman she was?

The superintendent shook his head doubtfully. “I remember that she was tall and dressed like a
femme du monde
, with that dyed hair that fashionable women are now wearing—platinum blonde, I think they call it.”

Richardson caught Verneuil's eye. “Do you remember the name of the journalist?”

The superintendent shook his head.

“Or the name of the paper he represented?”

“No, monsieur; so many journalists come here and show their cards that one confuses them.”

Probably the superintendent had never conducted so absent-minded a couple round his garden. After all, since he was in too conspicuous a place to be tipped, the least that visitors could do was to appear interested. After their visit to the hyena's cage, where the lady with tinted hair had so nearly lost an arm, all three men, acting as if by common impulse, glanced at their watches. Each had remembered an engagement. They shook hands warmly; the two visitors even asked leave to come to the gardens again, but they parted on this occasion, it must be confessed, with relief.

The two police officers made for the nearest Metro station, discussing what they had heard as they went.

“It seems to me,” said Richardson, “that wherever we go we run into that platinum blonde lady of Pinet's.”

“Many ladies are platinum blondes in Paris just now; it has become the rage to tint their hair with chemicals.”

“Yes, but a platinum blonde lady who photographs wolves from the passage behind the cages, and whose photographs are found lying undeveloped in the room of a murder; whose husband or protector swears that he has no camera of that particular size—it sets one thinking. One can understand his motive for lying when once he had denied possession of the camera, but—”