Continental Crimes, page 10
Lefant kicked a pebble away from beneath his feet.
‘That is the chief difficulty,’ he admitted. ‘I was rather hoping that Madame Bertrand might have been of use to me there. She has been devoting herself to the admiral for some days, and last night she got a pass from him, allowing the bearer to visit the ship at any time, with access to any part of it. This morning, however, she declares that she must have torn it up with her bridge scores.’
‘I suppose she can get it replaced?’ Mr Freeling Poignton suggested.
Lefant hesitated for a moment.
‘To tell you the truth,’ he declared, ‘my own belief is that the admiral declined to give it to her. Julie hates to admit defeat, however. Hence her little story. That does not trouble me very much, though. My plans are all made in another direction. To-night is the night of the fancy-dress ball here, and the admiral is coming. When he returns to the Magnifique, the drawings of the torpedo will be in my possession.’
Mr Freeling Poignton laid his hand for a moment on Lefant’s shoulder.
‘Marquis,’ he said, ‘I’ve been a little led into this affair by you. Remember, these aren’t my methods, and it’s only because I see just how difficult it is to make a move that I’m standing in. But let this be understood between you and me. The moment those plans are in your possession, a copy of them is to be handed simultaneously to the Government of every civilised Power in the world, so that everyone can build the darned things if they want to.’
‘Naturally,’ Lefant assented. ‘It is already agreed.’
‘No favouritism,’ Mr Freeling Poignton declared vigorously, ‘no priority. We steal those plans, not to give any one nation an advantage over any other, but to put every country on the same footing.’
‘It is already agreed,’ Lefant repeated.
Mr Laxworthy and Mr Forrest Anderson passed along, on their way back to the hotel. Courteous greetings were exchanged between the four men. Lefant watched them with a faint smile: Mr Laxworthy with a grey shawl around his shoulders, his queer little stoop, his steel-rimmed spectacles; Anderson in his well-cut tweeds, brightly polished tan shoes, and neat Homburg hat.
‘That,’ Lefant remarked, inclining his head towards Mr Laxworthy, ‘is exactly the type of English person whom one meets in a place like Hyères, at an hotel like this. One could swear that he lives somewhere near the British Museum, writes heavily upon some dull subject, belongs to a learned society, and has never had to make his own way in the world. He probably hates draughts, has a pet ailment, and talks about his nerves. He makes a friend of that red-faced fellow-countryman of his because he is attracted by his robust health and his sheer lack of intelligence.’
‘I dare say you’re right,’ Mr Freeling Poignton remarked carelessly. ‘What about luncheon?’
It was the night of the great fancy-dress ball at the Paradise Hotel.
Down in the lounge the tumult became more boisterous every minute. Automobiles and carriages were all the time discharging their bevy of visitors from the neighbouring hotels and villas. A large contingent of naval officers arrived from Toulon. The ball-room was already crowded. Admiral Christodor, looking very handsome, led the promenade with Madame Bertrand, concealed under the identity of an Eastern princess. There were many who wondered what it was that he whispered in her ear as he conducted her into the ball-room.
‘It was careless of me,’ she admitted softly, ‘but I am really quite, quite sure that it was destroyed. It was with my bridge scores, and I tore them all up without thinking. You will give me another, perhaps?’
‘Whenever you will,’ he promised.
‘Listen,’ she continued. ‘To-night you must not leave me. There is a young Englishman—you understand?’
‘To-night shall be mine,’ the admiral answered gallantly. ‘I will not quit your side for a second for all the Englishmen who ever left their sad island.’
It was a gallant speech, but if Fritz, the concierge, could have heard it he would have been puzzled, for, barely half an hour later, a gust of wind blew back the cloak of a man who was stepping into a motor-car, and his uniform was certainly the uniform of an admiral in the French navy. Through the windy darkness the motor-car rushed on its way to La Plage. The men who waited in the pinnace rose to the salute. The admiral took his place in silence, and the little petrol-driven boat tore through the water.
‘The admiral takes his pleasure sadly,’ one of them muttered, as their passenger climbed on to the deck.
‘He has returned most devilish early,’ another of them, whose thoughts were in the café at La Plage, grumbled.
The admiral turned his head sharply.
‘I shall return,’ he announced. ‘Await me.’
Most of the officers of the Magnifique were in the ball-room of the Paradise Hotel. The admiral received the salute of the lieutenant on duty, and passed at once to his cabin. Arrived there, he shut the door and listened. There was no sound save the gentle splashing of the water near the porthole. Like lightning he turned to a cabinet set in the wall. He pulled out a drawer and touched a spring. Everything was as he had been told. A roll of papers was pushed back into a corner of this compartment. He drew the sheets out one by one, shut the cabinet quickly, and swung round. Then he stood as though turned to stone. The inner door of the cabin, which led into the sleeping apartment, was open. Seated at the table before him was Mr Laxworthy.
Lefant was a man who had passed through many crises in life. Sheer astonishment, however, on this occasion overmastered him. His savoir-faire had gone. He simply stood still and stared. It was surely a vision, this. It could not be that little old-fashioned man who went about with a grey shawl on his shoulders who was sitting there watching him.
‘What in the devil’s name are you doing there?’ he demanded.
‘I might ask you the same question,’ Mr Laxworthy replied. ‘I imagine we are both—intruders.’
Lefant recovered himself a little. He came nearer to the table.
‘Tell me exactly what you want,’ he insisted.
‘First, let us have an understanding,’ Mr Laxworthy answered, ‘and as quickly as possible. For obvious reasons, the less time we spend here the better. The pinnace which brought you is waiting, I presume, to take you back. In this light you might still pass as an Admiral, but every moment you spend here adds to the risk—for both of us. My foot is on the electric bell, which I presume would bring the admiral’s steward. You perceive, too, that I have a revolver in my hand, to the use of which I am accustomed. Am I in command, or you?’
‘It appears that you are,’ Lefant admitted grimly. ‘Go on.’
‘You hold in your hand,’ Mr Laxworthy continued, ‘the plans of the Macharin torpedo, the torpedo which is to make warfare in the future impossible.’
Then Lefant waited no longer. He flung himself almost bodily upon the little old man, who to all appearance presented such small powers of resistance. His first calculation was correct enough. Mr Laxworthy made no attempt to discharge the revolver which he held in his hand. In other respects, however, a surprise was in store for Lefant. His right hand was suddenly held in a grip of amazing strength. The fingers of Mr Laxworthy’s other hand were upon his throat.
‘If you utter a sound, remember we are both lost,’ the latter whispered.
Lefant set himself grimly to the struggle, but it lasted only a few seconds! Before he realised what had happened, his shoulders and the back of his head were upon the table and Mr Laxworthy’s fingers were like bars of steel upon his throat. He felt his consciousness going.
‘You are content to discuss this matter?’ his assailant asked calmly.
Lefant could only gasp out his answer. Mr Laxworthy released his grasp. Lefant breathed heavily for a minute or two. He was half dazed. The thing seemed impossible, yet it had happened. The breath had very nearly left his body in the grip of this insignificant-looking old man.
‘Now, if you are willing to be reasonable,’ Mr Laxworthy said, ‘remember that for both our sakes it is well we do not waste a single second.’
Lefant’s fingers stiffened upon the roll of papers, which he was still clutching. Mr Laxworthy read his thoughts unerringly.
‘I do not ask you for the plans,’ he continued grimly. ‘You want them for your country. I am not a patriot. My country shall fight her own battles as long as they are fought fairly. These are my terms: put back those papers, or destroy them, and pay me for my silence.’
‘You do not ask, then, for the plans for yourself?’ Lefant demanded.
‘I do not,’ Laxworthy replied. ‘They belong to France. Let France keep them. You have corrupted half the ship with Poignton’s dollars, but it was never in your mind to keep your faith with him. The plans were for Germany. Germany shall not have them. If I forced you to hand them over to me, I dare say I could dispose of them for—what shall we say?—a hundred thousand pounds. You shall put them back in their place and pay me ten thousand for my silence.’
‘So you are an adventurer?’ Lefant muttered.
‘I am one who seeks adventures,’ Laxworthy replied. ‘We will let it go at that, if you please. Remember that you are in my power. The pressure of my foot upon this bell, or my finger upon the trigger of this revolver, and your career is over. Will you restore the plans and pay me ten thousand pounds?’
Lefant sighed.
‘It is agreed,’ he declared.
He turned back to the cabinet, and Laxworthy half rose in his seat to watch him restore the plans. In a few seconds the affair was finished.
‘Monsieur the Admiral returns to the ball?’ Mr Laxworthy remarked smoothly. ‘I will avail myself of his kind offer to accept a seat in the pinnace.’
They left the cabin and made their way to the side of the ship where the pinnace was waiting, and the lieutenant stood with his hand to the salute. Secretly, the latter was a little relieved to see the two together. Once more the pinnace rushed towards the land. The two men walked down the wooden quay, side by side.
‘You will permit me to offer you a lift to the hotel?’ Lefant asked.
‘With much pleasure,’ Laxworthy replied, drawing his grey shawl around him. ‘I find the nights chilly in these open cars, though.’
Smoothly, but at a great pace, they tore along the scented road, through a grove of eucalyptus trees, and into the grounds of the hotel whose lights were twinkling far and wide. Lefant for the first time broke the silence.
‘Mr Laxworthy,’ he said, ‘the honours of this evening rest with you. I do not wish to ask questions that you are not likely to answer, but there is one matter on which if you would enlighten me—’
Mr Laxworthy waved his hand.
‘Proceed,’ he begged.
‘My little enterprise of this evening,’ Lefant continued slowly, ‘was known of and spoken of only between Mr Freeling Poignton and myself. We discussed it in the grounds of the hotel, where we were certainly free from eavesdroppers. I am willing to believe that you are a very remarkable person, but this is not the age of miracles.’
Mr Laxworthy smiled.
‘Nor is it the age,’ he murmured, ‘wherein we have attained sufficient wisdom to be able to define exactly what a miracle is. Ten years ago, what would men have said of flying? Fifty years ago even the telephone was considered incredible. Has it never occurred to you, my dear Lefant, that there may be natural gifts of which one or two of us are possessed, almost as strange?’
Lefant turned in his seat.
‘You mean—’ he began.
Mr Laxworthy held up his hand. ‘I have given you a hint,’ he said; ‘the rest is for you.’
Lefant was silent for a moment.
‘Tell me at least this,’ he begged. ‘How the devil did you get on the Magnifique?’
They were passing along the front by the ball-room. Admiral Christodor and Madame Bertrand were sitting near the window. Laxworthy sighed.
‘The greatest men in the world,’ he said, ‘make fools of themselves when they put pencil to paper for the sake of a woman…Take my advice, Marquis. Destroy that uniform and arrange for an alibi. In a few hours’ time there will be trouble on the Magnifique!’
Lefant nodded. His cocked hat was thrust into the pocket of his overcoat—he was wearing a motor cap and goggles.
‘There will be trouble,’ he remarked dryly, ‘but it will not touch you or me. As regards Madame Bertrand—’
‘She is innocent,’ Laxworthy assured him. ‘Nevertheless, a pass on to the Magnifique is a little too valuable a thing to be left in a lady’s chatelaine bag.’
Lefant sighed.
‘One makes mistakes,’ he remarked.
‘And one pays!’ Laxworthy agreed.
Petit-Jean
Ian Hay
Ian Hay was the pen-name under which schoolteacher and soldier Major General John Hay Beith (1876–1952) became well known as an author of novels, short stories, plays, essays and works of history. His first novel appeared in 1907, and five years later he was able to give up teaching to write full-time. When war broke out, he served as an officer in France, and wrote articles about life as a soldier which were put together to form a best-seller, The First Hundred Thousand (1915; the title refers to Kitchener’s army).
Hay fought in the Battle of Loos, earning the Military Cross, before being sent to Washington D.C. to join the information bureau of the British War Mission. After the war, he became a prolific playwright; in addition to his solo work for the theatre, he collaborated with such notable writers as A.E.W. Mason, Edgar Wallace, and P.G. Wodehouse. He seldom ventured into the crime genre, but wrote this story during the war and chose it for inclusion in an anthology published in 1931 and called My Best Detective Story.
***
I
Upon the Belgian large-scale map the place is described as Fme. du Gde Etang, which being expanded and interpreted means, ‘The Farm by the Big Pond’. But after the War had been in progress for some few months the British Army Ordnance Department took the map in hand and issued a revised version, in which the original imposing title was converted into ‘Cow Corpse Farm’. The cow in question had expired suddenly and rather inconsiderately right outside the door of the outhouse which did duty as Company Headquarters and Officers’ Mess. Unfortunately the current occupants of the billet, being on the eve of departure into other regions, contented themselves with holding an inquest—the verdict was Death by Misadventure, an injudicious repast of jettisoned quartermaster-sergeant’s stores, including a nose-bag and a machine-gun belt, being ascribed as the contributing cause—and left the funeral arrangements to their successors. When these arrived the cow had already lain in state for more than a week, and it became immediately obvious that the obsequies had been all too long delayed. The interment took place the same afternoon, a warm afternoon in May, and was attended by a half-platoon of B Company and about half a million bluebottles. The returning mourners unanimously decided to follow up the funeral with a christening. The baptismal ceremony took place in the estaminet at the cross-roads close by, and the name stuck.
Within the precincts of Cow Corpse Farm resided, at the moment of our story, first, Mme la Fermière, variously referred to as ‘Madame’ by the company commander, ‘the old gel’ by the officers’ mess cook, and ‘the lady of the’ouse’ by the courteous rank and file.
Secondly, Mlles Hélène and Marguérite, Madame’s daughters. The two girls worked unceasingly about the farm or fields. They were a cheerful and friendly pair, and Hélène was pretty, especially upon a Sunday morning, when she donned her best dress and discarded sabots in favour of quite smart boots.
Thirdly, the officer commanding B Company, with four subalterns. Their united ages amounted to about a hundred years.
Fourthly, B Company, two hundred strong.
Fifthly, Henri, of whom more anon.
And, as they say on theatrical posters, sixthly, Petit-Jean.
Truly, Madame’s hands were full. Her husband was almost certainly dead. He and Liège had fallen together, and no news of him had since been obtainable. Her eldest son, Jacques, was somewhere near Dixmude, serving with what was left of the Belgian Artillery. Madame’s sole male prop in the upkeep of the farm, always excepting Petit-Jean, was a shambling, shifty-eyed hobbledehoy of twenty-five or so—one ‘’Nrri’, as Madame called him. ’Nrri was saved from military service by a mysterious disorder connected with ‘ma poitrine, M’sieur le Capitaine’ (a hollow cough). ’Nrri, one learned, was not a member of the family. He was a réfugié. He had arrived one day in the early autumn of nineteen fourteen, hastening with other breathless persons before a tide of Prussian bayonets. Almost immediately afterwards the tide turned, owing to the intervention of French and British bayonets, and Madame and Cow Corpse Farm were left safely above high-water mark, some three miles back from the trench-line.
’Nrri remained on the farm like a piece of particularly unattractive flotsam. Labour was scarce in Belgium in those days, and Madame was glad to keep him. He ploughed, delved, and splashed about from dawn till dusk, and slept in the loft over the cow-house with Petit-Jean.
As for Petit-Jean himself, he was a sturdy youth of uncertain age. In his workaday clothes, as he ordered the cows about or enjoyed himself in the unspeakable morass of manure which filled the yard, he looked a grimy fifteen. On Sundays, when, as a preliminary to attending Mass, he was washed and attired in a tight blue knickerbocker suit with brass buttons, black stockings, buttoned boots, and a species of yachting cap, he looked an angelic twelve.
B Company, who have only been introduced to you, so far, en bloc, were commanded by a veteran of twenty-three, one Crombie. Promotion came quickly upon the Western Front. A year previously Crombie had been leading a platoon round a barrack square at Aldershot. Since then he had seen as much active service as would have sufficed a soldier of the previous generation for a lifetime. This year’s service had enabled him, in the elegant phraseology of the moment, ‘to put up two more pips’—in other words, to achieve the three stars of a captain. He was assisted in the task of ruling, feeding, housing, and leading some two hundred men by his four youthful subalterns and one seasoned warrior of enormous antiquity, Company Sergeant-Major Goffin.
