CHAPTER XXVI
A CLUE AT LAST
La Touche, having finished his report, put on his hat and sallied forth into the rue de la Fayette. He intended after posting his letter to cross to the south side and spend the evening with some friends. He was not in an agreeable frame of mind. The conclusion to which he was apparently being forced would be a disappointment to Clifford, and, if the theory of Boirac’s guilt broke down, he saw no better than the solicitor what defence remained.
He sauntered slowly along the pavement, his mind brooding almost subconsciously on the case. Then, noticing a letter-box on the opposite side of the street, he turned to cross over. But as he stepped off the sidewalk an idea flashed into his mind and he stopped as if shot. That typewriter the pretty girl in Boirac’s office had been using was a new machine. La Touche was an observant man, and he had noted the fact, as he habitually noted small details about the objects he saw. But not until this moment did he realise the tremendously suggestive deduction which might be made from the fact. Lefarge, in his search for the machine on which the Le Gautier letter had been typed, had obtained samples from all the typewriters to which Boirac, so far as he could ascertain, had access. But what if that new machine replaced an old? What if that old machine had typed the Le Gautier letter and had been then got rid of so that samples taken by suspicious detective might be supplied from some other typewriter? Here was food for thought. If he could prove anything of this kind he need have no fear of disappointing his employer. He put the report back in his pocket till he could adjust himself to this new point of view.
And then he had a revulsion of feeling. After all, offices must necessarily procure new typewriters, and there was no reason in this case to suppose a machine had been purchased otherwise than in the ordinary course of business. And yet—the idea was attractive.
He decided he might as well make some inquiries before forwarding his report. It would be a simple matter to find out when the new machine was purchased, and, if the date was not suspicious, the matter could be dropped.
He considered the best way of ascertaining his information. His first idea was to meet the typist and ask her the direct question. Then he saw that if her answer supported his theory, not only would further inquiries be necessary, but no hint that these were being made must reach Boirac. It might therefore be better to try diplomacy.
To La Touche diplomatic dealing was second nature, and he was not long in devising a plan. He looked at his watch. It was 5.15. If he hurried he might reach the pump works before the pretty typist left.
From the window of the café which had so often served in a similar capacity, he watched the office staff take their departure. For a long time his victim did not appear, and he had almost come to the conclusion she must have gone, when he saw her. She was with two other girls, and the three, after glancing round the street, tripped off daintily citywards.
When they had gone a fair distance La Touche followed. The girls stood for a moment at the Simplon Station of the Metro, then the pretty typist vanished down the steps, while the others moved on along he pavement. La Touche sprinted to the entrance and was in time to see the gray dress of the quarry disappearing down the passage labelled Porte d’Orléans. He got his ticket and followed to the platform. There was a fairly dense crowd, and, after locating mademoiselle he mingled with it, keeping well back out of sight.
A train soon drew up and the girl got in. La Touche entered the next carriage. Standing at the end of his vehicle he could see her through the glass between the coaches without, he felt sure, being himself visible. One, two, five stations passed, and then she got up and moved towards the door ready to alight. La Touche did the same, observing from the map in the carriage that the next station was not a junction. As the train jerked and groaned to a standstill he leaped out and hurried to the street. Crossing rapidly, he stopped at a kiosk and asked for an evening paper. Bending over the counter of the stall, he saw her emerge up the steps and start off down the street. He remained on the opposite side, cautiously following until, after about two blocks, she entered a small, unpretentious restaurant.
“If she is going to dine alone,” thought La Touche, “I am in luck.”
He waited till she would have probably reached her second or third course and then entered the building.
The room was narrow, corresponding to the frontage, but stretched a long way back, the far end being lighted with electric lamps. A row of marble-topped tables stretched down each side, with six cane chairs at each. Mirrors framed in dingy white and gold lined the walls. At the extreme back was a tiny stage on which an orchestra of three girls was performing.
The place was about half full. As La Touche’s quick eye took in the scene, he noticed the typist seated alone at a table three or four from the stage. He walked forward.
“If mademoiselle permits?” he murmured, bowing, but hardly looking at her, as he pulled out a chair nearly opposite her and sat down.
He gave his order and then, business being as it were off his mind, he relaxed so far as to look around. He glanced at the girl, seemed suddenly to recognise her, gave a mild start of surprise and leant forward with another bow.
“Mademoiselle will perhaps pardon if I presume,” he said, in his best manner, “but I think we have met before or, if not quite, almost.”
The girl raised her eyebrows but did not speak.
“In the office of M. Boirac,” went on the detective. “You would not, of course, notice, but I saw you there busy with a fine typewriter.”
Mademoiselle was not encouraging. She shrugged her shoulders, but made no reply. La Touche had another shot.
“I am perhaps impertinent in addressing mademoiselle, but I assure her no impertinence is meant. I am the inventor of a new device for typewriters, and I try to get opinion of every expert operator I can find on its utility. Perhaps mademoiselle would permit me to describe it and ask hers?”
“Why don’t you take it to some of the agents?” She spoke frigidly.
“Because, mademoiselle,” answered La Touche, warming to his subject, “I am not quite certain if the device would be sufficiently valuable. It would be costly to attach and no firm would buy unless it could be shown that operators wanted it. That is what I am so anxious to learn.”
She was listening, though not very graciously. La Touche did not wait for a reply, but began sketching on the back of the menu.
“Here,” he said, “is my idea,” and he proceeded to draw and describe the latest form of tabulator with which he was acquainted. The girl look at him with scorn and suspicion.
“You’re describing the Remington tabulator,” she said coldly.
“Oh, but, pardon me, mademoiselle. You surely don’t mean that? I have been told this is quite new.”
“You have been told wrongly. I ought to know, for I have been using one the very same, as what you say is yours, for several weeks.”
“You don’t say so, mademoiselle? That means that I have been forestalled and all my work has been wasted.”
La Touche’s disappointment was so obvious that the girl thawed slightly.
“You’d better call at the Remington depot and ask to see one of their new machines. Then you can compare their tabulator with yours.”
“Thank you, mademoiselle, I’ll do so to-morrow. Then you use a Remington?”
“Yes, a No. 10.”
“Is that an old machine? Pardon my questions, but have you had it long?”
“I can’t tell you how long it has been at the office. I am only there myself six or seven weeks.”
Six or seven weeks! And the murder took place just over six weeks before! Could there be a connection, or was this mere coincidence?
“It must be a satisfaction to a man of business,” La Touche went on conversationally, as he helped himself to wine, “when his business grows to the extent of requiring an additional typist. I envy M. Boirac his feelings when he inserted his advertisement nearly as much as I envy him when you applied.”
“You have wasted your envy then,” returned the girl in chilly and contemptuous tones, “for you are wrong on both points. M. Boirac’s business has not extended, for I replaced a girl who had just left, and no advertisement was inserted as I went to M. Boirac from the Michelin School in the rue Scribe.”
La Touche had got his information; at least, all he had expected from this girl. He continued the somewhat one-sided conversation for some minutes, and then with a courteous bow left the restaurant. He reached his hotel determined to follow the matter up.
Accordingly, next morning saw him repeating his tactics of the previous evening. Taking up his position in the restaurant near the Pump Works shortly before midday, he watched the staff go for déjeuner. First came M. Boirac, then M. Dufresne, and then a crowd of lesser lights—clerks and typists. He saw his friend of the night before with the same two companions, closely followed by the prompt clerk. At last the stream ceased, and in about ten minutes the detective crossed the road and once more entered the office. It was empty except for a junior clerk.
“Good-morning,” said La Touche affably. “I called to ask whether you would be so good as to do me a favour. I want a piece of information for which, as it may give you some trouble to procure, I will pay twenty francs. Will you help me?”
“What is the information, monsieur?” asked the boy—he was little more than a boy.
“I am manager of a paper works and I am looking for a typist for my office. I am told that a young lady typist left here about six weeks ago?”
“That is true, monsieur; Mlle. Lambert.”
“Yes, that is the lady’s name,” returned La Touche, making a mental note of it.
“Now,” he continued confidentially, “can you tell me why she left?”
“I think she was dismissed, monsieur, but I never really understood why.”
“Dismissed?”
“Yes, monsieur. She had some row with M. Boirac, our managing director. I don’t know—none of us know—what it was about.”
“I had heard she was dismissed, and that is why I was interested in her. Unfortunately my business is not for the moment as flourishing as I should wish. It occurred to me that if I could find a typist who had some blot on her record, she might be willing to come to me for a smaller salary than she would otherwise expect. It would benefit her as well as me, as it would enable her to regain her position.”
The clerk bowed without comment, and La Touche continued:—
“The information I want is this. Can you put me in touch with this young lady? Do you know her address?”
The other shook his head.
“I fear not, monsieur. I don’t know where she lives.”
La Touche affected to consider.
“Now, how am I to get hold of her?” he said. The clerk making no suggestion, he went on after a pause:—
“I think if you could tell me just when she left it might help me. Could you do that?”
“About six weeks ago. I can tell you the exact day by looking up the old wages sheets if you don’t mind waiting. Will you take a seat?”
La Touche thanked him and sat down, trusting the search would be concluded before any of the other clerks returned. But he was not delayed long. In three or four minutes the boy returned.
“She left on Monday, the 5th of April, monsieur.”
“And was she long with you?”
“About two years, monsieur.”
“I am greatly obliged. And her Christian name was?”
“Éloise, monsieur. Éloise Lambert.”
“A thousand thanks. And now I have just to beg of you not to mention my visit, as it would injure me if it got out that my business was not too flourishing. Here is my debt to you.” He handed over the twenty francs.
“It is too much, monsieur. I am glad to oblige you without payment.”
“A bargain is a bargain,” insisted the detective, and, followed by the profuse thanks of the young clerk, he left the office.
“This grows interesting,” thought La Touche, as he once more emerged into the street. “Boirac dismisses a typist on the very day the cask reaches St. Katherine’s Docks. Now, I wonder if the new typewriter made its appearance at the same time. I must get hold of that girl Lambert.”
But how was this to be done? No doubt there would be a record of her address somewhere in the office, but he was anxious that no idea of his suspicions should leak out, and he preferred to leave that source untapped. What, then, was left to him? He could see nothing for it but an advertisement.
Accordingly, he turned into a café and, calling for a bock, drafted out the following:—
“If Mlle. Éloise Lambert, stenographer and typist, will apply to M. Georges La Touche, Hôtel Suisse, rue de La Fayette, she will hear something to her advantage.”
He read ever the words and then a thought struck him, and he took another sheet of paper and wrote:—
“If Mlle. Éloise Lambert, stenographer and typist, will apply to M. Guillaume Faneuil, Hôtel St. Antoine, she will hear something to her advantage.”
“If Boirac should see the thing, there’s no use in my shoving into the limelight,” he said to himself. “I’ll drop Georges La Touche for a day or two and try the St. Antoine.”
He sent his advertisement to several papers, then, going to the Hôtel St. Antoine, engaged a room in the name of M. Guillaume Faneuil.
“I shall not require it till to-morrow,” he said to the clerk, and next day he moved in.
During the morning there was a knock at the door of his private sitting-room, and a tall, graceful girl of about five-and-twenty entered. She was not exactly pretty, but exceedingly pleasant and good-humoured looking. Her tasteful, though quiet, dress showed she was not in need as a result of losing her situation.
La Touche rose and bowed.
“Mlle. Lambert?” he said with a smile. “I am M. Faneuil. Won’t you sit down?”
“I saw your advertisement in Le Soir, monsieur, and—here I am.”
“I am much indebted to you for coming so promptly, mademoiselle,” said La Touche, reseating himself, “and I shall not trespass long on your time. But before explaining the matter may I ask if you are the Mlle. Lambert who recently acted as typist at the Avrotte Works?”
“Yes, monsieur. I was there for nearly two years.”
“Forgive me, but can you give any proof of that? A mere matter of form, of course, but in justice to my employers I am bound to ask the question.”
An expression of surprise passed over the girl’s face.
“I really don’t know that I can,” she answered. “You see, I was not expecting to be asked such a question.”
It had occurred to La Touche that in spite of his precautions Boirac might have somehow discovered what he was engaged on, and sent this girl with a made up story. But her answer satisfied him. If she had been an impostor she would have come provided with proofs of her identity.
“Ah, well,” he rejoined with a smile, “I think I may safely take the risk. May I ask you another question? Was a new typewriter purchased while you were at the office?”
The surprise on the pleasant face deepened.
“Why, yes, monsieur, a No. 10 Remington.”
“And can you tell me just when?”
“Easily. I left the office on Monday, 5th April, and the new machine was sent three days earlier—on Friday, the 2nd.”
Here was news indeed! La Touche was now in no doubt about following up the matter. He must get all the information possible out of this girl. And the need for secrecy would make him stick to diplomacy.
He smiled and bowed.
“You will forgive me, mademoiselle, but I had to satisfy myself you were the lady I wished to meet. I asked you these questions only to ensure that you knew the answers. And now I shall tell you who I am and what is the business at issue. But first, may I ask you to keep all I may tell you secret?”
His visitor looked more and more mystified as she replied:—
“I promise, monsieur.”
“Then I may say that I am a private detective, employed on behalf of the typewriter company to investigate some very extraordinary—I can only call them frauds, which have recently been taking place. In some way, which up to the present we have been unable to fathom, several of our machines have developed faults which, you understand, do not prevent them working, but which prevent them being quite satisfactory. The altering of tensions and the slight twisting of type to put them out of alignment are the kind of things I mean. We hardly like to suspect rival firms of practising these frauds to get our machines into disfavour, and yet it is hard to account for it otherwise. Now, we think that you can possibly give us some information, and I am authorised by my company to hand you one hundred francs if you will be kind enough to do so.”
The surprise had not left the girl’s face as she answered:—
“I should have been very pleased, monsieur, to tell you all I knew without any payment, had I known anything to tell. But I am afraid I don’t.”
“I think, mademoiselle, you can help us if you will. May I ask you a few questions?”
“Certainly.”
“The first is, can you describe the machine you used prior to the purchase of the new one?”
“Yes, it was a No. 7 Remington.”
“I did not mean that,” answered La Touche, eagerly noting this information, “I knew that, of course, as it is this No. 7 machine I am inquiring about. What I meant to ask was, had it any special marks or peculiarities by which it could be distinguished from other No. 7’s?”
“Why, no, I don’t think so,” the girl answered thoughtfully. “And yet there were. The letter S on the S-key had got twisted round to the right and there were three scratches here”—she indicated the side plate of an imaginary typewriter.
“You would then be able to identify the machine if you saw it again?”
“Yes, I certainly should.”
“Now, mademoiselle, had it any other peculiarities—defective letters or alignment or anything of that kind?”
“No, nothing really bad. It was old and out of date, but quite good enough. M. Boirac, of course, thought otherwise, but I maintain my opinion.”
“What did M. Boirac say exactly?”
“He blamed me for it. But there wasn’t anything wrong, and if there had been it wasn’t my fault.”
“I am sure of that, mademoiselle. But perhaps you would tell me about it from the beginning?”
“There’s not much to tell. I had a big job to do—typing a long specification of a pumping plant for the Argentine, and when I had finished I left it as usual on M. Boirac’s desk. A few minutes later he sent for me and asked how I came to put such an untidy document before him. I didn’t see anything wrong with it and I asked him what he complained of. He pointed out some very small defects—principally uneven alignment, and one or two letters just a trifle blurred. You really would hardly have seen it. I said that wasn’t my fault, and that the machine wanted adjustment. He said I had been striking while the shift key was partly moved, but, M. Faneuil, I had been doing nothing of the kind. I told M. Boirac so, and he then apologised and said I must have a new machine. He telephoned there and then to the Remington people, and a No. 10 came that afternoon.”
“And what happened to the old No. 7?”
“The man that brought the new one took the old away.”
“And was that all that was said?”
“That was all, monsieur.”
“But, pardon me, I understood you left owing to some misunderstanding with M. Boirac?”
The girl shook her head.
“Oh, no,” she said, “nothing of the sort. M. Boirac told me the following Monday, that is, two days after the typewriter business, that he was reorganising his office and would do with a typist less. As I was the last arrival, I had to go. He said he wished to carry out the alterations immediately so that I might leave at once. He gave me a month’s salary instead of notice, and a good testimonial which I have here. We parted quite friends.”
The document read:—
“I have pleasure in certifying that Mlle. Éloise Lambert was engaged as a stenographer and typist in the head office of this company from August, 1910, till 5th April, 1912, during which time she gave every satisfaction to me and my chief clerk. She proved herself diligent and painstaking, thoroughly competent in her work, and of excellent manners and conduct. She leaves the firm through no fault of her own, but because we are reducing staff. I regret her loss and have every confidence in recommending her to those needing her services.
“(Signed) Raoul Boirac, Managing Director.”
“An excellent testimonial, mademoiselle,” La Touche commented. “Pray excuse me for just a moment.”
He stepped into the adjoining bedroom and closed the door. Then taking a sample of Boirac’s writing from his pocket-book, he compared the signature with that of the testimonial. After a careful scrutiny he was satisfied the latter was genuine. He returned to the girl and handed her the document.
“Thank you, mademoiselle. Now, can you recall one other point? Did you, within the last three or four weeks, type a letter about some rather unusual matters—about some one winning a lot of money in the State Lottery and about sending this packed in a cask to England?”
“Never, monsieur,” asserted the typist, evidently completely puzzled by the questions she was being asked. La Touche watched her keenly and was satisfied she had no suspicion that his business was other than he had said. But he was nothing if not thorough, and his thoroughness drove him to make provision for suspicions which might arise later. He therefore went on to question her about the No. 7 machine, asking whether she had ever noticed it had been tampered with, and finally saying that he believed there must have been a mistake and that the machine they had discussed was not that in which he was interested. Then, after obtaining her address, he handed her the hundred francs, which, after a protest, she finally accepted.
“Now, not a word to any one, if you please, mademoiselle,” he concluded, as they parted.
His discoveries, to say the least of it, were becoming interesting. If Mlle. Lambert’s story was true—and he was strongly disposed to believe her—M. Boirac had acted in a way that required some explanation. His finding fault with the typist did not seem genuine. In fact, to La Touche it looked as if the whole episode had been arranged to provide an excuse for getting rid of the typewriter. Again, the manufacturer’s dismissal of his typist at a day’s notice was not explained by his statement that he was about to reorganise his office. Had that been true he would have allowed her to work her month’s notice, and, even more obviously, he would not have immediately engaged her successor. As La Touche paid his bill at the hotel he decided that though there might be nothing in his suspicions, the matter was well worth further investigation. He therefore called a taxi and was driven to the Remington typewriter depot.
“I want,” he said to the salesman who came forward, “to buy a second-hand machine. Can you let me see some?”
“Certainly, monsieur. Will you step this way?”
They went to a room at the back of the building where were stored a vast assemblage of typewriters of all sizes and in all states of repair. La Touche, inquiring as to prices and models, moved slowly about, running his quick eye over the machines, looking always for one with a twisted S-key. But, search as he would, he could not find what he wanted. Nor could he find any No. 7’s. These machines were all more modern.
He turned at last to the shopman.
“These are all rather expensive for me. I should explain that I am the principal of a commercial school, and I merely want a machine on which beginners could learn the keys. Any old thing would do, if I could get it cheap. Have you any older machines?”
“Certainly, monsieur, we have several quite good No. 7’s and a few No. 5’s. Come this way, please.”
They went to a room devoted to more antiquated specimens. Here La Touche continued his investigations, searching always for the twisted S.
At last he saw it. Not only was the letter turned to the right, but on the side plate were the three scratches mentioned by Mlle. Lambert.
“I think that one would suit,” he said. “Could you get it down and let me have a look at it?”
He went through the pretence of examining it with care.
“Yes,” he said, “this will do if it works all right. I should like to try it.”
He put in a sheet of paper and typed a few words. Then, drawing out his work, he examined the letters and alignment.
As he looked at it even his long experience scarcely prevented him giving a cry of triumph. For, to the best of his belief, this was the machine on which the Le Gautier letter had been typed!
He turned again to the shopman.
“That seems all right,” he said. “I’ll take the machine, please.”
He paid for it and obtained a receipt. Then he asked to see the manager.
“I’m going to ask you, monsieur,” he said, when he had drawn that gentleman aside, “to do me a rather unusual favour. I have just bought this machine, and I want you to see it before I take it away, and, if you will be so kind, to give me some information about it. I shall tell you in confidence why I ask. I am a detective, employed on behalf of a man charged with a serious crime, but who I believe is innocent. A certain letter, on the authorship of which his guilt largely depends, was written, if I am not mistaken, on this machine. You will forgive me if I do not go into all the particulars. An adequate identification of the typewriter is obviously essential. I would therefore ask you if you would be kind enough to put a private mark on it. Also, if you would tell me how it came into your possession, I should be more than obliged.”
“I shall do what you ask with pleasure, monsieur,” returned the manager, “but I trust I shall not be required to give evidence.”
“I do not think so, monsieur. I feel sure the identity of the machine will not be questioned. I make my request simply as a matter of precaution.”
The manager, with a small centre punch, put a few ‘spots’ on the main frame, noting the machine’s number at the same time.
“Now you want to know where we got it,” he went on to La Touche. “Excuse me a moment.”
He disappeared to his office, returning in a few minutes with a slip of paper in his hand.
“The machine was received from the Avrotte Pump Construction office”—he referred to the paper—“on 2nd April last. It was supplied to the firm several years earlier, and on the date mentioned they exchanged it for a more up-to-date machine, a No. 10.”
“I am extremely obliged, monsieur. You may trust me to keep you out of the business if at all possible.”
Calling a taxi, La Touche took the machine to his hotel in the rue de La Fayette. There he typed another sample, and, using a powerful lens, compared the letters with the photographic enlargements he had obtained of the Le Gautier type. He was satisfied. The machine before him was that for which he had been in search.
He was delighted at his success. The more he thought of it, the more certain he felt that Boirac’s fault-finding was merely an excuse to get rid of the typewriter. And the manufacturer had dismissed Mlle. Lambert simply because she knew too much. If inquiries were made in the office, he would be safer with her out of the way.
And as to Boirac’s deeper object. So far as the detective could see, there could be only one explanation. Boirac knew the Le Gautier letter was done on that machine. And if he knew, did it not follow that he had sent the letter to Felix? And if he had sent the letter, must he not be guilty? To La Touche it began to look like it.
Then a further point struck him. If Boirac were guilty, what about the alibi? The alibi seemed so conclusive. And yet, if he were innocent, what about the typewriter? There seemed to be no escape from the dilemma, and La Touche was horribly puzzled.
But as he thought over the matter he began to see that the discovery of the typewriter did not so greatly help his client after all. Though at first sight it had seemed to indicate Boirac’s guilt, second thoughts showed him that the manufacturer could make a very good case for himself. He could stick to the story told by Mlle. Lambert—that the type was in point of fact not good enough for his work. He could say plausibly enough that for some time he had wanted a machine with a tabulator, and that the bad alignment had only brought the matter to a head. Then, with regard to the typist. Though the girl seemed quiet and truthful, goodness only knew what she might not be holding back. On her own showing she had had exchanges of opinion with her employer, and she might have been very impertinent. At all events, Boirac could give his own version of what took place and no one would know the truth. Further, he could account for his testimonial by saying that while he disliked the girl and wished to be rid of her, he did not want to injure her permanently. He might even admit falsely telling the girl he was going to reorganise his office in order to smooth over her leaving.
With regard to the Le Gautier letter, Boirac could simply deny knowledge, and La Touche did not see how he could be contradicted. It could even be argued that Felix might have bribed a clerk to copy the letter for him on that machine so as to throw suspicion on Boirac. If Felix were guilty, it would be a likely enough move.
At last La Touche came to the definite conclusion that he had not enough evidence either to convict Boirac or clear Felix. He must do better. He must break the alibi and find the carter.