The Case of the Dead Diplomat (27 page)

They were just in time; they met Ned Gregory coming down the stairs from his flat, attired in a dinner jacket. On seeing them he looked at his watch. “Anything urgent?” he asked.

“I only want five minutes, Mr. Gregory, but we mustn't make you late for your engagement.”

“If it's only five minutes and I take a taxi instead of walking, all will be well. Come along; we'll run ourselves up in the lift.”

Richardson wasted no time in putting his question. “You remember that I showed you a note-book we found in Mr. Everett's desk at the Embassy? The last entry was a set of figures. Do you think it possible that it was the number of a lottery ticket?”

“H'm! If it was a lottery ticket the thing was highly irregular. At the Embassy everybody is on his honour not to take tickets in any kind of lottery, because the Embassy is by way of being British soil, and lotteries are illegal in Great Britain. But I won't say that no member of the staff has ever been known to infringe this unwritten rule; indeed, I should be surprised if in a fit of absence of mind I had not broken the rule myself.”

“Well, sir, we are taking steps to get the numbers of all the winners of big prizes in the last lottery. I hope to have them to-morrow morning.”

“Do you mean that the number of a lottery ticket may become a clue?” asked Gregory incredulously.

“I mean, sir, that if Mr. Everett had been lucky and had drawn out a considerable sum of money from the lottery, it would supply the thing which has always been lacking in the case—a motive for the murder.”

“I wish I could stop to thrash this out, inspector, but I shan't forget what you've said. Let me know as early as possible whether those figures in the notebook fit any of the winning tickets. And now I must be off.”

When the two police officers were in the street together Cooper remarked, “I think we ought to celebrate to-night, inspector. Think of it. I've been a Canadian millionaire for four days, watching my step all the time, and to-night I'm back as plain Detective Sergeant Cooper. Let us do ourselves well, if only to make the transition a little more gradual.”

“Very well; we'll walk along the Boulevard until we see a likely looking place for getting good cooking at a reasonable figure. You know, Cooper, we've had ups and downs in this case, and it is only this evening that I feel that we may be turning the corner.”

“Turning the corner, you call it? Bless you, I know when you turned the corner. It was two days ago,” responded Cooper. “But you're quite right. We won't discuss it until we're sure.”

They dined at an establishment of Cooper's choice, not wisely nor too well, but Richardson could cheer-fully have lived on a convict diet that evening—the future had taken on a rose colour in the near horizon. They both slept soundly that night.

It was barely nine o'clock when they presented themselves at the police headquarters of the ninth
arrondissement
. Their two friends, Bigot and Verneuil, were already at work. They had before them the ticket numbers of the first twenty-one prizes—the first prize of five millions and the twenty prizes of one million each. Richardson had brought with him the little note-book in which the figures 070564/18 was the last entry. There was scarcely need to take seats around the table, for at the head of Bigot's list were the figures 070564Sie18.

“And that was the ticket presented by the woman Thérèse Volny when she drew the money,” said Bigot.

“Yes,” said Cooper, “and she drew that money for Pinet.”

Richardson sat silent, thinking. “Before you bring M. Pinet down for examination, M. Bigot, could we not trace the person who sold this winning ticket?”

“That has already been done, monsieur. It was a tobacconist in the Place de la Madeleine.”

“I know the place; it is next door to Cook's travel agency. I have bought cigarettes there,” said Richardson. “If you will allow me, I should like to visit that shop with you or the Brigadier Verneuil at once. They may remember to whom they sold that winning ticket.”

Bigot, being the senior of the two officers, elected to go with them to the tobacconist, while Verneuil, taking two officers with him, would go down to le Pecq to bring back the occupants of the Villa Mariette, and would search the premises for a camera or any other object of interest in the case.

Arrived in the Place de la Madeleine, Bigot led the way into the tobacconist's. In the shop they found the elderly manageress and two or three young assistants, who seemed to have been selected for their looks as well as their intelligence. There being other customers in the shop, Bigot drew the manageress aside and explained to her the nature of his visit. The lady beamed.

“Yes, monsieur, it was we who sold the winning ticket in the second
tranche
. One of my assistants, Mademoiselle Madeleine, will tell you about the purchaser. I will call her. Mademoiselle Madeleine!”

“Coming, madame.” She was engaged at the moment with a customer. And then a young woman of vivacity and charm stood before them. “Ah!” she exclaimed, “I wondered when someone would come. You've brought my little present, monsieur?”

“Your present?”

“Yes. The English gentleman who bought from me the winning ticket promised me a present if he won. He said that I was to give the number my blessing and then he would be sure to win, and I, knowing that Englishmen never break their word, kept the number of his ticket always. Imagine, then, my astonishment and my delight when I saw that this was the number that had won the five million prize.”

“Does mademoiselle remember the gentleman who bought it?”

“I remember him very well. He used to come here nearly every day, but he hasn't been for quite a long time now.”

“He never told you his name, I suppose?”

“Oh, no, monsieur, but he was an Englishman. He spoke French fluently, but with an English accent that was unmistakable.”

“Can you describe him?” asked Richardson.

“Yes, monsieur. I can see him now. He had fair hair and blue eyes, and a light moustache which was clipped short. He was about your own height and build.”

“How much did the Englishman promise you if he won?” asked Bigot.

“He did not mention the exact sum, monsieur, but it was to be something substantial out of his winnings. Naturally, he did not count upon winning the first prize.”

“Have no fear, mademoiselle; you can leave that matter in my hands. There will be quite a nice little sum in his present to you.”

As the three officers walked back towards the station, Richardson said, “Have you a reward fund on which you can draw, monsieur?”

“A reward fund? I do not understand.”

“You led that young lady to expect a substantial reward out of the Englishman's winnings.”

“Ah! Now I understand. No, it is not the police who will pay the reward; that will come from the money we find in M. Pinet's house when we search it, for you see what has happened. We don't know the whole story as yet, but if M. Pinet and the Englishman shared this ticket between them and Pinet has chosen to collect the whole sum, he cannot complain if we take some of it to pay what was promised to that young lady.”

“I confess that I do not yet understand the system on which the lottery is drawn,” said Richardson.

“The lottery is drawn in public and the newspapers are free to publish the winning numbers.”

“And the names and addresses of the winners?”

“Ah, no. If that were done many people would refrain from buying tickets. Think, monsieur, what would happen to them if their names and addresses were published. There would be an unending procession to their houses. Every business firm that sold yachts and motor-cars and wireless apparatus and ingenious toys for washing dishes and making ice and sweeping floors would send travellers to give demonstrations; every impecunious man who had failed in every attempt to make a living would call to ask for some of the money. The postman would collapse under the weight of letters he would have to carry every morning. No; whatever else is published it must not be the name or address.”

“But I remember paragraphs about winners in the lottery.”

“Yes, monsieur, but those paragraphs were communicated by foolish persons who took pride in winning and did not guess at the punishment they were bringing on themselves.”

“Then you mean that if I buy a ticket which wins the first prize, there is no official record of my name as the purchaser as there is in lotteries in some other countries.”

“That is so, monsieur.”

“And if the ticket is stolen from me I have no redress?”

Bigot laughed. “You must not let it be stolen from you, monsieur, since whoever brings your ticket to the Pavilion Flore will receive the money.”

T
HEY TURNED
into the police station; an orderly came forward with a telephone message. “From Brigadier Verneuil,” he said.

Bigot read it and handed it to Richardson. It ran:

“Have arrested the two persons. Coming by next train; premises searched; missing camera found.”

“Now, messieurs, we have to make our plans. Pinet and his woman should be here in an hour; it is now close upon eleven. I propose that we break off now until a quarter to one before we begin the interrogation.”

“And let the prisoners have their
déjeuner
?” inquired Richardson.

Bigot waved a derisive forefinger before his face. “If you want a prisoner to make confidences, never fill his stomach before you begin. His memory is more active on an empty stomach; it is a golden rule.”

Richardson made no comment upon this cynical remark. He and Cooper turned to go, saying that they would come back at a quarter to one.

“If you'd been in his place,” said Cooper, “you wouldn't have broken off the inquiry just at this point.”

“I should not, but since the interrogation of prisoners is not allowed with us it is difficult to criticize the system.”

“I wonder whether these interrogations, as they call them, help the police in getting at the truth?”

“Occasionally, as in this case, they may, but on the whole I wouldn't exchange the French system for ours,” replied Richardson. “Now this may prove to be your last luncheon in Paris.”

“Our last
déjeuner
? Aren't you a bit over-sanguine?”

“I feel that we are on the verge of clearing up the case. Where shall we go?”

“What about trying one of those snack lunches they advertise at the Café Weber? They seem to serve them at any hour.”

“Very well, but I can't pretend to have an appetite at 11.30 a.m. I'll do my best. It's a good way of killing time.”

They contrived to kill time so very agreeably that they were surprised when they found that they were due to start for the police station.

Verneuil met them as they came in and followed them into the big room. His eyes were twinkling with satisfaction. He shut the door behind them with care and then proceeded to unfold his tale.

“You have the two prisoners here?” asked Richardson.

The other nodded, pointing downward towards the cells.

“Have they told you anything since you arrested them?”

“They've been too busy quarrelling between themselves for me to do anything but listen. And look you! They are frightened, and fear is apt to loose the tongue. Each blames the other.”

“You found the camera that fitted those films?”

“I found more than that. I found a coat stiff with dried blood. I showed it to the gentleman, saying, ‘Whose blood is that?' He turned as white as that sheet of paper and said, ‘I got that injury when I fell off my motor-bicycle in the Place de la Concorde.' ‘Oh!' said I, ‘you told us then that your nose had bled, but never have I seen nose-bleeding as profuse as this must have been. This coat must be shown to the surgeons; they will be able to say whether the blood came from the nose.' That depressed him, I can tell you, for the blood is all over the front of the coat. He is now in a very promising state for blurting out the truth.”

“And the woman?” inquired Richardson.

“Oh! She is a very different proposition. She will talk—yes—but if she came within speaking distance of the truth you would never get it. It is the man we must tackle while he's frightened.”

“The two are not together?”

“No; they won't see one another until Pinet has coughed up the truth.”

“When are you going to interrogate them?”

“Ah! That decision rests with the Great Chief,” replied Verneuil with a wry smile. “I will go and tell him that the two have arrived, and that you also are waiting upon his pleasure.”

He stumped out of the room and returned almost immediately with Bigot, who seemed pathetically anxious to create an impression upon his British colleagues, and gave them seats of honour on either side of him. Pinet was sent for.

Verneuil's demeanour to his captive did not err on the side of gentleness. He held the man by his arm and shook him as he forced him to take the chair opposite to Bigot. Richardson expected a protest, but none came. The man was cowed; he cast a furtive glance at the two British officers and seemed to commend his protection to Providence.

“Your name?” rapped out Bigot.

“Henri Pinet.”

“You are a journalist?”

“Yes; I write for the
Crédit National
.”

“In that capacity you knew M. Everett, the Press attaché to the British Embassy in Paris?”

“Yes.”

“And you visited him in his apartment on the evening of his death. Why?”

“I went to ask him for some information on British finance for my paper.”

“While you were there you dropped an un-developed film containing pictures of animals at Vincennes.”

“No, monsieur.”

“Now, come. I warned you to tell the truth, and now you tell the same falsehood as you did when you were questioned at your house in le Pecq. How can you say no when a camera which the film fits has been found in your house, and the film was exposed by a lady who was living with you at le Pecq, and you were with her when she exposed it? You see, we know a good deal more about your movements and hers than you think we do.”