The Case of the Dead Diplomat (7 page)

Richardson laughed. “I suppose the canons of female beauty vary for every country. In England the type looks half-starved; here in France it's the other way about; they run to busts. Is the first secretary disengaged?”

“Mr. Carruthers? Oh, he's always busy, you know, but he asked me just now whether you had come in. Stop here and I'll see how the land lies.”

Chubb opened a door, looked in, and beckoned to Richardson; the two detectives entered the room.

Carruthers' first question was, “Well, how did you get on with the French police?”

“Very well indeed, sir. They showed us every-thing—the room where the body was found, every-thing that had been taken to the police station, and a mass of documents, mostly in English, which we had to go through.”

“Did you find anything that threw a light on the mystery?”

“We found material for further investigation, but it did not amount to very much. In the waste-paper-basket there were a number of scraps of torn paper. We pieced them together and showed them to Inspector Bigot. It was a libellous statement about one of the Ministers, written on club paper, apparently by a guest who was lunching with Mr. Everett the day before the murder. Among the papers that had been brought down to the police station was a letter signed ‘P.C.' We have provisionally identified the writer as a certain Paul Chabrol.”

“Paul Chabrol? Why, he's a very well-known journalist who signs his articles. What was in the letter?”

“It was written in a peremptory tone, calling upon Mr. Everett to destroy the note in the writer's presence, and saying that he would call at Mr. Everett's flat that evening to see it done.”

“I wonder why.”

“No reason was given except that the story wasn't true. Probably Paul Chabrol gave his reason to Mr. Everett when he called.”

“Doesn't it strike you as rather suspicious that Chabrol hasn't been round to the police to tell them at what hour he called at the flat?”

“Yes, sir, especially if he had an innocent explanation to give.”

“Was that all you found?”

“No. sir; we found something else; an un-developed Kodak film which may have dropped out of the murderer's pocket during the struggle.”

“Or out of Everett's pocket. I know he had a camera.”

“Yes, sir, we found the camera, but this film was two sizes too large for that make.”

“You're having the film developed, of course?”

“Yes, sir; M. Bigot is having that done.”

“I shall be interested to hear the result.”

“I forgot to say that we've been round to the
Cercle Interallié
, because the address of that club was on the torn-up paper. We found that M. Paul Chabrol had lunched there with Mr. Everett on the day before the murder. Bigot is going to interrogate him.”

“H'm. We don't seem to have got very far, do we? Did you find nothing else suggestive among Everett's papers?”

“No, sir—in that sense we've had a barren after-noon, unless the Chabrol incident develops. In these cases one can never tell what is going to turn into a clue. Generally, there is something to establish a motive for the crime; here, so far, there is nothing, but I don't despair. Luck so often plays into one's hands. M. Bigot seemed very much pleased with our find in the waste-paper-basket and with our discovery of the film, but personally I saw nothing in the note or in the torn-up paper to cause a quarrel which was to end in a murder.”

W
HEN
I
NSPECTOR
Richardson and Sergeant Cooper reached the police station the next morning, Inspector Bigot was waiting for them. He beckoned them into his office.

“You are just in time, gentlemen. In the waiting-room opposite is M. Paul Chabrol, and I would like you to hear his answers to my questions.”

Richardson was quick to see that their friend Bigot prided himself on his skill in examining suspects. It was a very harmless form of vanity, but it might be difficult afterwards to find words for the expected commendation.

Bigot tapped twice on the floor with his heel; the door was thrown open by a constable, and a tall, thin man with sandy hair and moustache was introduced. The constable left the room, shutting the door behind him.

“Have I the honour of speaking to M. Paul Chabrol?” asked Bigot, who had placed his British colleagues on chairs beside him.

“That is my name,” replied the man.

“You are a journalist, I think? You will excuse my ignorance if I ask you for what papers you write?”

“I am special correspondent for a number of provincial papers such as the
Courrier du Midi
, the
Quotidien de Lille
, and a number of others.”

“On what subjects do you write?”

“On political gossip very often; sometimes on financial questions—it all depends.”

“You know, of course, that the English Press attaché, M. Everett, has met with a violent death.”

“Yes, I have read of this in the newspapers.”

“You lunched with him at the
Cercle Interallié
on Monday, did you not?”

“I did.”

“And then you wrote to him on Tuesday, asking him to destroy what you had written, and saying that you would visit him on that evening to see that the note
was
destroyed?”

“That is so.”

“And you did visit him?”

“Yes, at about half-past nine.”

Richardson was watching the man's face while he was being questioned; he could detect no sign of embarrassment or hesitation. The replies seemed to be perfectly frank and open. Cooper, who among his other accomplishments had acquired some practice in shorthand, was taking notes of the interview in English.

“Will you tell me what passed at this interview?” asked Bigot.

“M. Everett was expecting me. He received me in the most friendly manner, and invited me to accept a
consommation
with him. This courtesy I declined. I had a special reason for insisting upon the destruction of the note I had given him during the luncheon of the day before. I gave him the reason quite frankly, and he took the note out of his pocket-book, tore it up in my presence, and threw the pieces into his waste-paper-basket. I was in haste that evening, having occasion to telephone to the editor of one of my journals, and so I left M. Everett within a few minutes.”

“May I ask the reason for desiring him to destroy that note?”

“The reason was purely a private one. The information I had given to Mr. Everett had been furnished by a confrère who had not told me the truth. He had given me much trouble in getting paragraphs that I had sent to my newspapers cancelled just before they went to press. That is a risk that every journalist has to run.”

“Quite so. No one questions your good faith in getting the paragraphs cancelled. It is to be regretted that all journalists do not exercise the same discretion. You parted with M. Everett on friendly terms?”

“Perfectly friendly. You have not asked me what was in the note that M. Everett destroyed.”

Bigot smiled. “I did not ask you that because we have the note itself.” He pulled from a drawer the sheet which Richardson and Cooper had laboriously reconstructed.

“Ha, ha! You took these fragments from the waste-paper-basket in Everett's apartment?”

“We did. How long had you known M. Everett?”

“Only ten days or so. I was told that he was attached to the British Embassy in connection with Press matters and I, who am interested in public affairs in England, got a French colleague to present me to him. The invitation to lunch at the
Cercle Interallié
last Monday followed that introduction.”

“The tone of your note to him, written on Tuesday morning, seemed rather peremptory.”

“Do you think so? You must make allowance for a journalist who is overworked and who was smarting under the disagreeable discovery that a man whom he trusted had deceived him. At any rate Mr. Everett bore me no malice. Did you invite me down here because you suspected me of being guilty of an assassination?”

“I invited you here as I have invited others who visited M. Everett's flat on Tuesday, to give an account of the reason for the visit. As a journalist you will recognize that that is the first duty of a police officer who is charged with the inquiry into a death.”

Chabrol smiled a little sarcastically. “And if their answers do not satisfy you, further steps are taken?”

“Sometimes. I confess to some surprise that when you read of the tragedy in the rue St. Georges you did not at once come to us to give the explanation you have just made.”

“I did not think that was necessary. I was not the last person who saw M. Everett that evening. While I was actually saying good-bye to him on the landing a colleague, M. Pinet, who writes for the
Crédit National
, arrived on the landing and was shaking hands with M. Everett as I went down the stairs. Probably others visited the apartment at a later hour.”

Both Richardson and Cooper were astonished at the next question put by their French colleague. “Have you ever visited the
Jardin Zoologique
in the Bois de Vincennes?”

Chabrol seemed to be equally surprised by the question.

“Yes, in common with all other Parisian journalists, I suppose, I have visited them.”

“Did you take your camera with you?”

“No, monsieur, for the excellent reason that I do not possess one. The articles I write are never illustrated.”

“Did any of your journalist friends ask you to get a film developed for them?”

“No, monsieur. I am curious to know the reason for these last questions.”

Bigot smiled enigmatically. “If you follow the case, monsieur, I have no doubt that your curiosity will be satisfied. I am much obliged to you for coming here and I will not detain you any longer.”

The formal leave-taking between the two was of the usual impressive kind. Bigot went so far as to open the door for his departing guest. He was smiling as he returned to his writing-table.

“No doubt you have guessed why I put those questions about the photographs? I have the developed films found in Mr. Everett's flat in this drawer; they are a disappointment. There are eight of them—all pictures of animals in their enclosures in the Zoological Gardens at Vincennes.”

“Is there no photograph of a person?” asked Cooper.

“Not one. You can see them if you like.”

“We will take your word for it, M. Bigot,” replied Richardson.

“What do you think of M. Chabrol?”

“We both thought that he was telling the truth, monsieur, and we were greatly struck with the skill which you showed in questioning him.”

Bigot purred with satisfaction. “It is the result of long practice combined with a knowledge of human nature. Without that I should be lost. It will be useful to you to have seen how we manage these things in France. I have another witness to interrogate. She ought to be here in a few minutes. I think that you should be present while I question her.”

“Who is the lady?”

“Madame Blanchard—the lady whom the news-papers call Mademoiselle X.”

He opened the door and crossed the passage to the waiting-room. “This way, madame,” the detectives heard him say with a great show of gallantry. He ushered into the room a young woman of striking beauty—of beauty rendered even more striking by the marks of sorrow in her features.

“Take this seat, madame,” said Bigot, bringing the chair a little nearer to the table. “I want to ask you a few questions in the presence of these gentlemen.”

The lady glanced at Richardson inquiringly.

“Who are these gentlemen?” she asked.

“Police officers like myself. You can talk quite openly before them without any fear that what you say will find its way into a newspaper.”

She seemed relieved and turned to Bigot, who began his examination.

“Your name is Elise Blanchard, the wife of M. Edouard Blanchard, a civil servant at present in Algiers. You are living with your parents at 8 rue Chaptal. How long have you been married?”

“We married two years ago.”

“Any children?”

“No, monsieur.”

“There has been no question between your husband and yourself about a separation?”

The young woman flushed, but she replied quite calmly, “No, monsieur.”

“How long have you known Mr. Everett?”

“I met him for the first time about three months ago. He was presented to me by a journalist friend. He made himself very agreeable.”

“And you became attached to one another?”

She flushed again. “We became attached, yes, but our friendship was quite honourable, on his side as well as mine.”

“Did he know that you were married?”

“Not, I think, until about ten days ago, or perhaps it was less. I did wrong in not telling him earlier; I see that now, but you must understand my fear that if I told him he would see me no more. He was not like a Frenchman in those matters, but when he asked me to marry him, of course I had to tell him.”

“The news of his death was a great shock to you, madame?”

Her eyes filled with tears and she stifled a sob; not being able to trust her voice she bowed her head in acquiescence. Mastering her voice at last, she asked, “Tell me, monsieur. Is it possible that he killed himself after learning that I was married? The thought of that haunts me day and night.”

“Then let me remove that fear, madame. The doctors are in agreement that he met his death at the hands of an assassin, and that he could not have killed himself.”

“Thank God for that, but who could have killed him?”

“I was going to ask you if he had any enemy?”

A look of terror came into her eyes. “He told me once that he had one enemy—a deputy, who afterwards became a Minister. The quarrel arose out of quite a trifling incident. Shall I tell you?”