Bodies from the Library 5, page 30
‘May we see their flat, Madame? Just a matter of routine investigation.’
The landlady conducted the two officials down the passage, drew out a key and unlocked a door. They passed into a long and lofty room, now as bare as a picked bone. Moreau’s eye suddenly alighted on the big marble fireplace.
‘Has that fireplace been dusted or in any way cleaned, Madame, since September 9th?’
‘I am afraid, M’sieur—’
‘No. No. There is no need to apologise.’
Moreau took out the three photographic enlargements of the uncatalogued fingerprints found in the Ateliers Daubigny. He set them up carefully in a row on the mantelshelf. Then, taking out a bottle of mercury powder, he dusted it lightly along the polished surface of the marble and then carefully blew away the excess. As if by magic, the faint outlines of several fingerprints appeared on the white marble. Taking out a magnifying-glass Moreau eagerly examined them. For nearly fifteen minutes he pored over the prints, constantly referring to the photographs. At the end of that time he pocketed the photographs and thanking the landlady, who had watched the scene in utter bewilderment, he and Morny went out to the car.
For the first few hundred yards Morny controlled his curiosity, then he turned eagerly to his superior.
‘Eh bien, M’sieur?’
Moreau smiled.
‘Morny,’ he said impressively, ‘I am right! One of those three men was present when Lebrun was poisoned. And if one, is it too much to suppose that all three helped our friend Blake in the murder? And what is more, mon ami, there may be just one further little atom of proof waiting for me when I get back to the Sûreté. Let us pray that my lucky star stays exactly where providence has fixed it!’
And in this case Inspector Moreau’s lucky star behaved itself. On the note found in Lebrun’s pocket after his death, purporting to have been written at that little station in Normandy whilst waiting for the Paris train—on that note, the experts had ‘developed’ two sets of prints. One set was unquestionably that of the murdered man. The other corresponded in every detail to the set which Moreau had just ‘lifted’ off the mantelpiece in the deserted studio!
VI
THE MYSTERY OF THE MARIE JEANNE
Now that Moreau had been able to link up Les Trois Mousquetaires with the murder of the dipsomaniac, the case, as he saw it, was not without its humorous side. Here he was faced with the job of discovering the whereabouts of no less than five different individuals. Three of these seemed to have vanished on September 9th; Blake on the night of the 20th, and Prosper some few days later; or, to be precise, on October 2nd. Actually Courteney, Pike and Lemâtre could not have left Paris until the 20th and the chances were that, although these various individuals might have left Paris by different routes, Blake included, they would eventually come together at some prearranged hide-out. Prosper, it seemed, had been left as a sort of rear-guard on the scene of the crime, perhaps to find out which way the wind was blowing and whether it was tinged with the odour of suspicion. The hunchback had made for Brest. Did it mean that the others were also to be found at the famous Breton port?
Early the next morning, October 5th, the eagerly awaited report came through from the police at Brest. Some of the hunchback’s activities had been traced. It had been definitely established that he had stayed a night in a cheap waterside hotel under an assumed name. He had told the proprietor, who naturally had no cause to be suspicious, that he was a commercial traveller. About three o’clock in the morning the landlord had been awakened by his wife, who swore she had heard noises in the courtyard under the window. But after having looked out of the window and seen nothing, the couple imagined they had been mistaken and went to sleep again.
‘Shortly after three o’clock of that morning, October 3rd,’ went on the Inspector, ‘some fishermen who had just put in with a late catch saw our friend skulking about on the quay. The little fellow, they explained, had a pretty wit but he did not seem ready to give any reason for his presence down by the harbour. They naturally imagined that he was off one of the many boats moored to the quayside. And that,’ concluded the Inspector, ‘is all’
‘But it is enough,’ replied Moreau, ‘to bring me down to Brest without a moment’s delay. I want to find out something about the shipping which was lying in the harbour during the night and early morning of the third.’
It was then that Moreau recalled Bonnard’s remark about the boat which the wanted men apparently used for weekend pleasure cruises somewhere down on the coast. Moreau felt certain that they would not have used Brest as the normal harbourage for their boat. Their plan would have been, perhaps, to meander down the coast and pick up the hunchback on the prearranged date, at the prearranged time. Perhaps Blake had been picked up at some other port in the same way, in order to avert suspicion should the police be on their track. Their destination he could only assume—some lonely spot on the Spanish coast, perhaps, where they could get ashore without an examination of the ship’s papers or their own cartes d’identité.
Further than this, Moreau suspected than the boat must be of small tonnage, probably of the small yacht class, such as many people use for pleasure cruises along the coast. An examination of the official harbour records showed that such a boat had put into Brest late on the evening of October 2nd. Furthermore, to Moreau’s enormous delight, this particular boat had put out to sea during the early hours of October 3rd. He turned to the harbour-master.
‘This boat, M’sieur—the Marie Jeanne—it would, of course, be registered?’
‘Ah, of course, M’sieur. As you know, every vessel over fifteen tons must have a certificate of registry before it can put to sea.’
‘You examined the ship’s papers when she put into the harbour here?’
‘A mere formality, M’sieur. I made no special note of the particulars the moment I saw the necessary papers were in order. Might I suggest, M’sieur, that you go into the town and have lunch and then return here? In the meantime I will put through a call to the Ministry of Shipping in Paris and see if they can give me her particulars.’
When Moreau returned to the harbour after an excellent lunch, the harbour-master ran towards him waving a paper excitedly above his head.
‘I have it, M’sieur. She was registered at Boulogne in the autumn of last year. She is here described as a yawl of twenty-two tons and is privately and jointly owned in the names of Messieurs Pike and Courteney.’
Moreau let out an exclamation of pleasure.
‘Pike! Courteney! Mon Dieu! Then I was not barking up the wrong tree.’ He glanced at the perplexed harbour-master. ‘Tell me, mon ami—in your office, have you a time-table? I want to catch the very next train to Boulogne.’
In the train Moreau had plenty of time to put his mind to the various problems which occupied so great a part of his thoughts.
He was convinced that Blake had cleared out because of Lebrun’s death and that he was, at this moment, safe aboard the Marie Jeanne. But not one single jot of information had been obtained to suggest that Blake had had any connection with Lebrun or Prosper before the dipsomaniac had been put away. This was the most puzzling factor in the ease. The murder seemed motiveless, a casual, out-of-the-blue sort of crime like some ghastly practical joke. And why, why had Blake perpetrated this joke with the help of the three men who most hated him?
Pike, Courteney, Blake and Lemâtre could easily board the boat at Boulogne without arousing the least suspicion. Prosper, of course. was a different pair of shoes. The hunchback was distinctive. Should any suspicion arise surrounding Lebrun’s death, it would have been fatal for Prosper to have been seen near the Marie Jeanne. Hence this sly trip down to Brest.
What now? An immediate broadcast to all French ports, a warning to coastguards, a wireless message to all ships in the probable vicinity of the Marie Jeanne.
The harbour authorities at Boulogne, as officials of a big channel port, were familiar with the ways and needs of the police. Sergeant Hirondelle was one good man among many and Moreau realised at once that all information proceeding from that broad and humorous mouth would be perfectly reliable.
‘The Marie Jeanne, eh, M’sieur? Let’s see now—Elmer Pike and John Courteney are the joint owners. Tubby little craft to look at, but seaworthy enough. Twenty tons or so.’
In a few succinct sentences Moreau explained his interest in the Marie Jeanne.
‘But before we talk about the boat, Sergeant, I should very much value your description of Pike and Courteney.’
‘M’sieur Pike, the American—how can I best describe him? Medium height, broad-shouldered, with sandy hair and many freckles, Inspector. Horn-rimmed glasses and very fastidiously dressed. He speaks French well, but with a nasal accent. Courteney, the Englishman, also speaks fluent French and in his case the accent is scarcely noticeable. A great pipe-smoker, M’sieur, with the result that his moustache is stained always with nicotine. Red face, blue eyes, fair hair and an unusually deep voice. He walks—and this may prove invaluable, Inspector—with a slight limp. Both these men, as you probably know, are naturalised Frenchmen. Lemâtre—you have heard of Lemâtre, M’sieur?’ Moreau nodded. ‘Ah, so I imagined, for the three men are inseparable. Tall, dark, rather saturnine expression, with an olive complexion and brown eyes that should have belonged to woman—that is Lemâtre, M’sieur. Does that, more or less, explain what you desire to know?’
‘Perfectly,’ said Moreau. ‘And now to more important matters. When did you last see these three men?’
‘That is difficult, M’sieur—offhand. But wait —I can lay my finger on the exact date without great trouble. It was on the same day that fifty thousand pounds’ worth of bullion was loaded on the night-boat for Folkstone. I and many others were on special duty. M’sieur, whilst the boxes were being loaded into the hold.’ Hirondelle looked up and hailed another official who was crossing the maze of railway lines which spread out like so many fingers pointed towards the sea. ‘Tell me, Gaston—that consignment of gold for Folkestone which was dispatched toward the end of last month—what was the exact date?’
Gaston spat neatly over a bollard and sucked at his cigarette; then: ‘The 20th, Sergeant—September 20th.’
‘The 20th,’ echoed Moreau excitedly. ‘You are sure that this was the night when you last saw the three men?’
‘But certainly, M’sieur—there can be no mistake about it. Except that, to be more accurate, it was the early hours of the 21st—about three or four of the morning.’
‘Surely that was an extraordinary time for them to board their boat, Sergeant?’
‘No! No! They had explained on a previous visit that they would shortly be taking a trip down the coast. It seemed that Courteney, who is a journalist, had to be present at an evening concert in Paris, so they could not travel until he had put in his report at the newspaper office that night.’
‘And they put out of harbour at once?’
‘Shortly after dawn, M’sieur.’
‘Tell me, Sergeant, you are quite sure that there was not a fourth individual on board the boat?’
‘There most decidedly was, M’sieur—they would not put to sea without old Louis Raymond.’
‘He is part of the crew, I take it?’
‘According to old Louis himself, M’sieur, he is the whole crew. Helmsman, deck-hand, master-mariner, cook and chief mate.’
‘And he was on board when the others arrived on the 21st?’
‘Yes. M’sieur. When Pike and Lemâtre came down on their previous visit to victual the boat, Louis had orders to stay aboard until the 21st.’
‘This previous visit,’ asked Moreau incisively, ‘when was it?’
Hirondelle beamed expansively.
‘My birthday, M’sieur—the tenth of September.’
‘And they came down, you say, to put some stores and so forth on board?’
‘Exactly, M’sieur. Pike and Lemâtre drove down from Paris with a large crate of provisions in the back seat. I happened to be present when the excise official made his examination—that is how I know what the crate contained.’
‘Eh bien, Sergeant,’ said Moreau suddenly, extending his hand, ‘this has been a most felicitous task for me. Thanks, mon ami!’
Moreau had to wait exactly twenty-four hours for news of the Marie Jeanne. The broadcast had gone out from the French radio stations shortly after his talk with Hirondelle. At noon on the following day, October 6th, a fishing-boat put into the harbour of La Rochelle with a second, smaller boat in tow. They had found the boat, drifting, so they explained, a few miles out from the shore. It had evidently been abandoned since, when they put out a dinghy and boarded her, they found the yawl deserted. There seemed to be no sign of disorder or no reason for this sudden departure of the crew. Twenty minutes after the boat had been towed into harbour, Inspector Moreau knew that the search for the missing Marie Jeanne had come to a full-stop. But, mon Dieu, of what use was the boat to him without the crew? Where, in heaven’s name, were Pike, Courteney, Lemâtre, Blake, Prosper and old Louis? Drowned? Marooned? Adrift in the ship’s dinghy? Moreau shook his head. Somewhere along the stretch of coastline the whole gang had got ashore (hadn’t the authorities at La Rochelle stated that the ship’s dinghy was missing?) and were now snugly hidden away in some deserted farmhouse or cottage. Pike must have had a wireless set on board and had picked up the broadcast message asking for information concerning the whereabouts of the yawl. Moreau smiled. He was thinking of the detailed descriptions be had obtained from Hirondelle. That evening the radio stations would again carry an appeal from the Sûreté. Wireless had turned the world into a tennis ball—a word could encompass it in a second!
VII
THE LONELY HUT
But for all Moreau’s faith in the wonders of radio, silence alone answered the nightly appeals issued from the police headquarters. The newspapers, too, were doing their part. Moreau himself had gone down to La Rochelle and had spent several hours on the Marie Jeanne. On board he found … nothing! Nothing, that was, of real value. The only thing gained by his careful examination was something which he had always anticipated. Three sets of fingerprints lifted from various objects on the boat corresponded to the three previously uncatalogued sets in Blake’s studio. One set, as to be expected, tallied with the set which Moreau had found on the mantle-piece in the Rue St Jacques. But which set belonged to Pike and which to Lemâtre or Courteney, Moreau was unable to say. One thing only puzzled him—Blake, for some inexplicable reason, seemed to have gone about the Marie Jeanne in rubber-gloves, for nowhere did he appear to have left a single print! The Inspector could only assume that over this point he had been mistaken—Noel Blake was not, after all, one of the men on board. The artist must have slipped away to some refuge of his own, thinking, perhaps, that this was the one case in which safety did not lie in numbers!
It was obvious from the vast array of ‘empties’ scattered about the roomy cabin of the boat that the fugitives had been drinking pretty heavily. The crate, which Hirondelle had mentioned, must have been emptied of all provisions and thrown overboard, for there was no sign of it on the boat.
Moreau had been directing the local operations from La Rochelle for four days, when the first hopeful scrap of news drifted in. A small boy playing on a deserted stretch of the foreshore, some six miles south of the town, had found a small boat wedged in some rocks. There was no name on the boat, but it appeared to be in good condition.
Moreau at once motored down and, after a mile’s walk, came to the spot where the dinghy was wedged. He was not able to satisfy himself, however, that the dinghy was without question that of the Marie Jeanne. All he found by way of a clue were two or three small splinters of blue glass which seemed to have slipped down between the bilgeboards. A perfectly meaningless clue and, on that account, useless.
But, mon Dieu, here was evidence of the right kind! A clutter of footprints on a little sandy path which led up from the shore. The local men could not account for them. The path was never used by the inhabitants of the nearby village.
‘Then ipso facto,’ thought Moreau in triumph. ‘Ipso facto!’
When this jumble of prints reached the top of the cliffs, they were obligingly thinned out into an individual track, which made off in a straight line inland, across a large stretch of arable. Luckily the earth was still moist from fairly recent rains and Moreau was able to get down to some very satisfactory mensuration. For some inexplicable reason, instead of the six sets of prints that he expected to find, there were only four! Eh bien—even allowing for the fact that he was wrong about Blake (witness the lack of fingerprints on the boat), there should have still been five people in that dinghy—Lemâtre, Pike, Courteney, old Louis and the hunchback. He believed, moreover, that the unusually small footprint, which made up one of the four discernible, was that of the hunchback, Prosper. Wasn’t it sensible to suppose that the remaining three must be those of Les Trois Mousquetaires? Wouldn’t they naturally stick together? Then where was Louis? Surely they hadn’t thrown the poor devil overboard in order to ensure his silence? Were these men really capable of such an inhuman act?
He turned to Sergeant Morny, whom he had brought down from Paris as his aide-de-camp, and explained his fears.
Morny said slowly: ‘There is just one other possibility, M’sieur. I have here a fairly large-scale map of this locality. Perhaps, M’sieur, if you glance at it—’ The Inspector took the proffered map and looked at it for some moments. Morny went on, obviously delighted by the puzzled frown on the forehead of his superior. ‘Might I suggest, M’sieur, that you carry your eye out a little from La Rochelle. There is a—ah! You have realised my meaning! The Île de Ré! And a little further south the somewhat larger island of Oléron! Isn’t it possible, M’sieur, that Louis was marooned at some lonely point on one of these islands?’
