CHAPTER XV
THE HOUSE IN THE AVENUE DE L’ALMA
Burnley and Lefarge took the tram along the quais and, dismounting at the Pont Alma, proceeded up the Avenue on foot. The house was a corner one fronting on the Avenue, but with the entrance in the side street. It was set a few feet back from the footpath, and was a Renaissance building of gray rubble masonry, with moulded architraves and enrichments of red sandstone and the usual mansard roof.
The two men mounted the steps leading to the ornate porch. On their right were the windows of a large room which formed the angle between the two streets.
“You can see into that room rather too clearly for my taste,” said Burnley. “Why, if that’s the drawing-room, as it looks to be by the furniture, every caller can see just who’s visiting there as they come up to the door.”
“And conversely, I expect,” returned Lefarge, “the hostess can see her visitors coming and be prepared for them.”
The door was opened by an elderly butler of typical appearance, respectability and propriety oozing out of every pore of his sleek face. Lefarge showed his card.
“I regret M. Boirac is not at home, monsieur,” said the man politely, “but you will probably find him at the works in the rue Championnet.”
“Thanks,” returned Lefarge, “we have just had an interview with Mr. Boirac, and it is really you we wish to see.”
The butler ushered them into a small sitting-room at the back of the hall.
“Yes, messieurs?” he said.
“Did you see an advertisement in this morning’s papers for the identification of a lady’s body?”
“I saw it, monsieur.”
“I am sorry to say it was that of your mistress.”
François shook his head sadly.
“I feared as much, monsieur,” he said in a low tone.
“M. Boirac saw the advertisement also. He came just now to the Sûreté and identified the remains beyond any doubt. It is a painful case, for I regret to tell you she had been murdered in a rather brutal way, and now we are here with M. Boirac’s approval to make some inquiries.”
The old butler’s face paled.
“Murdered!” he repeated in a horrified whisper. “It couldn’t be. No one that knew her could do that. Every one, messieurs, loved Madame. She was just an angel of goodness.”
The man spoke with real feeling in his voice and seemed overcome with emotion.
“Well, messieurs,” he continued, after a pause, “any help I can give you to get your hands on the murderer I’ll give with real delight, and I only hope you’ll succeed soon.”
“I hope so too, François. We’ll do our best anyway. Now, please, will you answer some questions. You remember M. Boirac being called to the works on Saturday the 27th of March, the evening of the dinner party, at about a quarter to nine. That was about the time, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“He went out at once?”
“He did, monsieur.”
“Then he telephoned at about half-past ten that he could not return until later. Was that about the time?”
“Rather earlier than that, I should think, monsieur. I don’t remember exactly, but I should think it was very little, if at all, past ten.”
“About ten, you think? Can you tell me what words he used in that message?”
“He said the accident was serious, and that he would be very late, and possibly might not get back before the morning.”
“You told your mistress, I suppose? Did the guests hear you?”
“No, monsieur, but Madame immediately repeated the message aloud.”
“What happened then?”
“Shortly after that, about 11.0 or 11.15, the guests began to leave.”
“All of them?”
The butler hesitated.
“There was one, a M. Felix, who waited after the others. He was differently situated to them, being a friend of the family. The others were merely acquaintances.”
“And how long did he wait after the others?”
François looked confused and did not immediately reply.
“Well, I don’t know, monsieur,” he said slowly. “You see, it was this way. I happened to have a rather bad headache that evening, and Madame asked me if I was not well—it was just like her to notice such a thing—and she told me to go to bed and not to sit up for Monsieur. She said M. Felix was waiting to get some books and would let himself out.”
“So you went to bed?”
“Yes, monsieur. I thanked her, and went after a little time.”
“About how long?”
“Perhaps half an hour.”
“And had M. Felix gone then?”
“No, monsieur, not at that time.”
“And what happened then?”
“I fell asleep, but woke up suddenly again after about an hour. I felt better and I thought I would see if Monsieur was in and if everything was properly locked up. I got up and went towards the hall, but just as I came to the staircase I heard the front door close. I thought, ‘That’s Monsieur coming in,’ but there was no sound of any one moving in the hall and I went down to see.”
“Yes?”
“There was no one there, so I looked into the different rooms. They were all empty, though lighted up. I thought to myself, ‘This is strange,’ and I went to find Suzanne, Madame’s maid, who was sitting up for her. I asked her had Madame gone to bed, but she said not. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘she’s not downstairs. Better go up and see if she’s in her room.’ She went and came down in a moment looking frightened, and said the room was empty, but that Madame’s hat and fur coat and a pair of walking shoes were gone. Her evening shoes that she had been wearing were lying on the floor, where she had changed them. I went up myself and we searched around, and then I heard the latch of the front door again and went down. Monsieur was just coming in and, as I took his coat and hat, I told him about hearing the door close. He asked where Madame was, and I answered I did not know. He looked himself, and in the study he found a note which I suppose was from her, for after he had read it he asked no more questions, but told me she had had to go to Switzerland to her mother, who was ill. But I knew when he got rid of Suzanne two days later that she wasn’t coming back.”
“What time did M. Boirac come in?”
“About one o’clock, or a few minutes after.”
“Were his hat and coat wet?”
“Not very wet, monsieur, but he had been evidently walking through rain.”
“You didn’t make any further search to see if anything else had been taken, I suppose?”
“Yes, monsieur. Suzanne and I searched the entire house most thoroughly on Sunday.”
“With no result?”
“None, monsieur.”
“I suppose the body could not have been concealed anywhere in the house?”
The butler started as this new idea struck him.
“Why, no, monsieur,” he said, “it would have been absolutely impossible. I myself looked in every spot and opened everything large enough to contain it.”
“Thank you, I think that’s about all I want to know. Can you put me in touch with Suzanne?”
“I believe I can get you her address, monsieur, from one of the parlourmaids with whom she was friends.”
“Please do, and in the meantime we shall have a look through the house.”
“You will not require me, monsieur?”
“No, thanks.”
The plan of the downstairs rooms was simple. The hall, which was long and rather narrow, stretched back from the entrance door in the rue St. Jean to the staircase in a direction parallel to the Avenue de l’Alma. On the right was the drawing-room, a large apartment in the angle between the two streets, with windows looking out on both. Across the hall, with its door facing that of the drawing-room, was the study, another fine room facing on to the rue St. Jean. A small sitting-room, used chiefly by the late Madame Boirac, and the dining-room were situated behind the study and the drawing-room respectively. To the rear of the doors of these latter rooms were the staircase and servants’ quarters.
The detectives examined these respective rooms in detail. The furnishing was luxurious and artistic. The drawing-room furniture was Louis Quatorze, with an Aubusson carpet and some cabinets and tables of buhl. There was just enough of good Sèvres and Ormolu, the whole selection of arrangement reflecting the taste of the connoisseur. The dining-room and boudoir gave the same impression of wealth and culture, and the detectives as they passed from room to room were impressed by the excellent taste everywhere exhibited. Though their search was exhaustive it was unfortunately without result.
The study was a typical man’s room, except in one respect. There was the usual thick carpet on the floor, the customary book-lined walls, the elaborate desk in the window, and the huge leather arm-chairs. But there was also what almost amounted to a collection of statuary—figures, groups, friezes, plaques, and reliefs, in marble and bronze. A valuable lot, numerous enough and of sufficient excellence not to have disgraced the art galleries of a city. M. Boirac had clearly the knowledge, as well as the means, to indulge his hobby to a very full extent.
Burnley took his stand inside the door and looked slowly round the room, taking in its every detail in the rather despairing hope that he would see something helpful to his quest. Twice he looked at the various objects before him, observing in the slow, methodical way in which he had trained himself, making sure that he had a clear mental conception of each before going on to the next. And then his gaze became riveted on an object standing on one of the shelves.
It was a white marble group about two feet high of three garlanded women, two standing and one sitting.
“I say,” he said to Lefarge, in a voice of something approaching triumph, “have you heard of anything like that lately?”
There was no reply, and Burnley, who had not been observing his companion, looked around. Lefarge was on his knees examining with a lens something hidden among the thick pile of the carpet. He was entirely engrossed, and did not appear to have heard Burnley’s remark, but as the latter moved over he rose to his feet with a satisfied little laugh.
“Look here!” he cried. “Look at this!”
Stepping back to the cross wall adjoining the door, he crouched down with his head close to the floor and his eyes fixed on a point on the carpet in a line between himself and the window.
“Do you see anything?” he asked.
Burnley got into the same position, and looked at the carpet.
“No,” he answered slowly, “I do not.”
“You’re not far enough this way. Come here. Now look.”
“Jove!” Burnley cried, with excitement in his tones. “The cask!”
On the carpet, showing up faintly where the light struck it, was a ring-shaped mark about two feet four inches diameter. The pile was slightly depressed below the general surface, as might have been caused by the rim of a heavy cask.
“I thought so too,” said Lefarge, “but this makes it quite certain.” He held out his lens, and indicated the part of the floor he had been scrutinising.
Burnley knelt down and, using the lens, began to push open the interstices of the pile. They were full of a curious kind of dust. He picked out some and examined it on his hand.
“Sawdust!” he exclaimed.
“Sawdust,” returned the other, in a pleased and important tone. “See here,”—he traced a circle on the floor—“sawdust has been spilled over all this, and there’s where the cask stood beside it. I tell you, Burnley, mark my words, we are on to it now. That’s where the cask stood while Felix, or Boirac, or both of them together, packed the body into it.”
“By Jove!” Burnley cried again, as he turned over this new idea in his mind. “I shouldn’t wonder if you are right!”
“Of course I’m right. The thing’s as plain as a pike-staff. A woman disappears and her body is found packed in sawdust in a cask, and here, in the very house where she vanishes, is the mark of the same cask—a very unusual size, mind you—as well as traces of the sawdust.”
“Ay, it’s likely enough. But I don’t see the way of it for all that. If Felix did it, how could he have got the cask here and away again?”
“It was probably Boirac.”
“But the alibi? Boirac’s alibi is complete.”
“It’s complete enough, so far as that goes. But how do we know it’s true? We have had no real confirmation of it so far.”
“Except from François. If either Boirac or Felix did it, François must have been in it, too, and that doesn’t strike me as likely.”
“No, I admit the old chap seems all right. But if they didn’t do it, how do you account for the cask being here?”
“Maybe that had something to do with it,” answered Burnley, pointing to the marble group.
Lefarge started.
“But that’s what was sent to Felix, surely?” he cried, in surprise.
“It looks like it, but don’t say anything. Here’s François. Let us ask him.”
The butler entered the room holding a slip of paper which he gave to Lefarge.
“Suzanne’s address, messieurs.” Lefarge read:—
“Mlle. Suzanne Daudet,
“rue Popeau, 14b,
“Dijon.”
“Look here, François,” said the detective, pointing to the marble group. “When did that come here?”
“Quite recently, monsieur. As you see, Monsieur is a collector of such things, and that is, I think, the latest addition.”
“Can you remember the exact day it arrived?”
“It was about the time of the dinner-party, in fact, I remember now distinctly. It was that very day.”
“How was it packed?”
“It was in a cask, monsieur. It was left in here that Saturday morning with the top boards loosened for Monsieur to unpack. He never would trust any one to do that for him.”
“Was he, then, in the habit of getting these casks?”
“Yes, monsieur, a good many of the statues came in casks.”
“I see. And when was this one unpacked?”
“Two days later, monsieur, on Monday evening.”
“And what happened to the cask?”
“It was returned to the shop. Their cart called for it two or three days later.”
“You don’t remember exactly when?”
The butler paused in thought.
“I do not, monsieur. It was on the Wednesday or Thursday following, I believe, but I’m not positive.”
“Thank you, François. There is one other thing I should be greatly obliged if you could do for me. Get me a sample of Madame’s writing.”
François shook his head.
“I haven’t such a thing, monsieur,” he replied, “but I can show you her desk, if you would care to look over it.”
They went into the boudoir, and François pointed out a small davenport finished with some delicate carving and with inlaid panels, a beautiful example of the cabinetmaker’s art. Lefarge seated himself before it and began to go through the papers it contained.
“Somebody’s been before us,” he said. “There’s precious little here.”
He produced a number of old receipted bills and circulars, with some unimportant letters and printed papers, but not a scrap in Madame’s handwriting could he discover.
Suddenly François gave an exclamation.
“I believe I can get you what you want, messieurs, if you will wait a moment.”
“Yes,” he said, as he returned a few seconds later, “this will perhaps do. It was framed in the servants’ hall.”
It was a short document giving the work of the different servants, their hours of duty, and other similar information, and was written in the hand, so far as the detectives could recollect, of the letter of farewell to M. Boirac. Lefarge put it away carefully in his notebook.
“Now let us see Madame’s room.”
They examined the bedroom, looking particularly for old letters, but without success. Next they interviewed the other servants, also fruitlessly.
“All we want now,” said Lefarge to the old butler, “is a list of the guests at that dinner, or at least some of them.”
“I can tell you, I think, all of them, monsieur,” returned François, and Lefarge noted the names in his book.
“What time is M. Boirac likely to return?” asked Burnley, when they had finished.
“He should have been here before this, monsieur. He generally gets back by half-past six.”
It was now nearly seven, and, as they waited, they heard his latchkey in the door.
“Ah, messieurs,” he greeted them, “so you are here already. Any luck?”
“No luck so far, M. Boirac,” replied Lefarge, continuing after a pause: “There is a point on which we should be obliged for some information, monsieur. It is about this marble group.”
“Yes?”
“Could you tell us the circumstances under which you got it, and of its arrival here?”
“Certainly. I am a collector of such articles, as you must have noticed. Some time ago, in passing Dupierre’s in the Boulevard des Capucines, I saw that group and admired it greatly. After some hesitation I ordered it and it arrived—I believe it was the very day of—of the dinner-party, either that or the day before—I am not positive. I had the cask containing it brought into the study to unpack myself—I always enjoy unpacking a new purchase—but I was so upset by what had happened I hadn’t much heart in doing so. However, on the following Monday evening, to try and distract my thoughts, I did unpack it, and there you see the result.”
“Can you tell me, monsieur,” asked Burnley, “was M. Felix also interested in such things?”
“He was. He is an artist and painting is therefore his specialty, but he had a good knowledge of sculpture also.”
“He wasn’t interested in that particular group, I suppose?”
“Well, I can hardly tell you that. I told him about it and described it to him, but, of course, so far as I am aware he had not seen it.”
“Did you happen to mention the price?”
“I did, fourteen hundred francs. That was the thing he specially asked. That, and the shop at which I had bought it. He said he could not afford it then, but that at some time he might try and get another.”
“Well, I think that’s all we want to know. Our best thanks, M. Boirac.”
“Good-evening, messieurs.”
They bowed themselves out, and, walking to the top of the Avenue, took the Metro to Concorde, from which they passed up the rue Castiglione to the Grands Boulevards to dine and spend the time until they were due back at the Sûreté.