Collected works of j s f.., p.231
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 231
Such were the surface facts — up to then. I had just mastered them, after reading all the newspapers, when Killingley entered in his usual quiet fashion, and advanced to my side.
“M. Gourgand wishes to see you, sir,” he said. “He says you know him.”
I threw all the newspapers into a wastepaper basket as I nodded assent. I had a premonition that I was going to hear something about the Becker case at first hand.
“Bring him in, Killingley,” I answered.
There walked into my private room, at Killingley’s invitation, a little Frenchman, one Monsieur Leon Gourgand, whom I knew as the proprietor of a very quiet and select restaurant, café, or private hotel, where the cuisine was just about twice as good as you find in much more pretentious establishments, and who had a select clientèle of his own, no member of which was minded to advertise him. M. Gourgand’s establishment, in fact, was of a special nature; there were few such left in London, and those who know of them are not keen about making their whereabouts known, lest fine cooking and absolute retirement should be driven from the face of the town. I was one of M. Gourgand’s customers — a fairly occasional one; I had, moreover, once acted for him in a very difficult and delicate case — a case of honour — and had at that time seen much of him. We were, therefore, no strangers. Accordingly, I welcomed M. Gourgand as an old friend, installed him in the particularly comfortable chair which I kept for my clients, and handed him the cigarettes. And as he sat down and accepted a cigarette I noticed that from one of the pockets of his smart black overcoat there protruded a copy of one of the newspapers which I had just thrown aside.
“Well, Monsieur Gourgand,” I said, “and what can I do for you to-day?”
Monsieur Gourgand looked round him with eyes large with enquiry.
“We are alone?” he whispered. “Safe from observation?”
“As safe, monsieur,” I answered, “as if we were victims of a lettre de cachet and safely bestowed in some oubliette of the never-to-be-forgotten Bastille. You may say or do anything you like in this room — nobody but myself can either see or hear you.”
Monsieur Gourgand once more inspected his surroundings — the door, the walls, the window, the ceiling. Then, with a deep sigh of assurance, he leaned nearer to me, drew out a newspaper from his pocket, laid it before me, tapped a certain headline with his fat forefinger, and said with a glance full of meaning:
“Eh, well, then, monsieur, I — I, Gourgand — I can tell you something of this affair here!”
I had expected that — it was, as I said before, a premonition — but I was not going to say so. I affected interest in the newspaper.
“Oh!” I said presently. “The affair of Shaftesbury Avenue, eh? But I am not engaged in that, Monsieur Gourgand. You should go to the police.”
Monsieur Gourgand waved the fingers of both hands before his nose, and made a grimace.
“No!” he said in his most nasal tones. “It is precisely because I do not wish to go to the police that I come to you, monsieur. You are secret, you are dependable — you are my good friend.”
“I hope I am all those, Monsieur Gourgand,” I responded. “Well, then?”
Monsieur Gourgand once more tapped the newspaper.
“I knew Becker,” he said. “He was a more or less regular patron of mine. He had an excellent taste and discernment; also, he had ideas and a soul. What an end! However, Monsieur Campenhaye, that is not the point.”
“Let us approach it, then,” I suggested.
Monsieur Gourgand waved his cigarette.
“I saw Becker last night,” he said. “It says there in this paper that he was at the Discletion Club last night until nearly eleven. Very good. It was a little before eight that he came to me and took me aside. ‘Gourgand,’ says he, ‘I have important affairs to transact with a friend, a lady, to-night; I wish to entertain her to a little supper in a private apartment. I suggest your little cabinet on the first floor. And,’ he continued, ‘you can give me the key of your side door; it is an affair of the greatest secrecy, Gourgand, and the lady wishes not to be seen. I desire that the supper be ready laid, and all in order, when we arrive at eleven o’clock — there will be no need for attendance. I rely on your discretion, my friend, Gourgand,’ he says. And so, of course, Monsieur Campenhaye — —”
Monsieur Gourgand concluded with an expressive gesture of his hands.
“And so, of course, you humoured him?” I said.
“He was an excellent customer, and free-handed with his money,” replied Monsieur Gourgand. “Well, then, we settled the details of the little supper, which was to be simple, but of a rare delicacy. It was to be placed on the table at precisely eleven o’clock; Mr. Becker and his friend were to enter at one minute past that hour to enjoy complete privacy. And for the wine, Monsieur Campenhaye, there were to be a white wine and red — of the very best — and a bottle of — —”
Monsieur Gourgand paused and tapped the newspaper. His eyes flashed.
“A bottle of dry champagne of this rare vintage specified here, monsieur — here!” he said, with emphasis. “It is this very bottle, mentioned here in the newspaper as having been found on Becker’s table, that I placed in my little cabinet for him last night — I swear it! Yes, monsieur!”
“One bottle of a particular brand of champagne is very much like another bottle, Monsieur Gourgand,” I remarked.
“Listen, then, monsieur! Mr. Becker concluded his arrangements. I prepare the little cabinet myself. I lay the table; at the precise hour I serve the little supper and make myself invisible. But I am not so far away that I do not know what is going on. Mr. Becker returns to the promised moment; he and his companion enter the room; I catch a brief glimpse of them as they do so.”
“You saw the lady, then?” I asked.
“I saw a lady, heavily veiled, who appeared to be young, graceful,” replied Monsieur Gourgand conscientiously. “More I did not see. But now! They remain in the little cabinet scarcely more than twenty minutes — then I hear them depart! I hear the private door into the side street close; I go to where I can look out; I see Mr. Becker and his companion walking away down the street. I think it is strange, and I hurry to the little cabinet. Figure to yourself, Monsieur Campenhaye, scarcely have they eaten! There was a veritable creation — a triumph! — in a chafing-dish — they had trifled with it — trifled, monsieur! And there was — but no matter! And they had but tasted the white wine — the red remained unopened. But, monsieur, the bottle of dry champagne had — vanished!”
“Ah!” said I.
“Vanished, monsieur, disappeared, gone!” exclaimed Monsieur Gourgand. “Becker had taken it with him. Now, Monsieur Campenhaye, do you believe me that this bottle which the police found on his table was that which I served up to him last night, and which he carried off unopened?”
“It certainly seems like it, Monsieur Gourgand,” I answered. “Let me see, now — how long would it take for Becker to walk from your place to his flat?”
“A few minutes — six, eight,” replied Monsieur Gourgand.
“Then it would seem that this meeting was adjourned from your private room to his,” I said, “and that he took the bottle of champagne away with him, reflecting that he had none at home. It would be an interesting thing to search his rooms and see if that is so.”
Monsieur Gourgand nodded, then shrugged his shoulders.
“But that is not the point, monsieur,” he said. “I have no wish to go to the police; I dislike the police in any country; they are officious; they ask questions; they poke long noses into everything; they waste my time; so I come to you as a man of discretion, a man who can, as I, Gourgand, am well aware, since you acted for me before, who can keep counsel. Let us approach the point, Monsieur Campenhaye.”
“I am waiting for the first prick of it, Monsieur Gourgand,” I responded.
My visitor thrust his hand into some mysterious pocket and drew out an envelope. He held it up as if it had been some holy relic; his face became solemn.
“Behold, then!” he said in deep tones. “That which is inside this” — here he broke the seal— “I found in my little cabinet. A small matter, Monsieur Campenhaye — a lady’s handkerchief, of the most delicate.”
And he drew out of the envelope what looked — and was — a mere scrap of unsubstantial lace. A faint, scarcely perceptible odour of some unusual scent clung about it, fragile, delicate as itself.
“That, monsieur, crushed into a little ball, lay beneath the table at the place where, presumably, the lady had sat,” continued Monsieur Gourgand. “I placed it in my private desk, having then, of course, no notion of what was about to happen to Becker. But as soon as I heard of this affair in Shaftesbury Avenue, I took it out and placed it in this envelope, and I came to you. For it seems to me, monsieur — —”
“Speak out, Monsieur Gourgand,” I said.
“It seems to me that there may be a clue in it,” he concluded. “It is a small thing, and yet — —”
He ended with an expressive shrug of his shoulders. I made no answer to him just then; I was examining with interest the little handkerchief.
And suddenly I forgot Monsieur Gourgand, and the dead man Becker, and everything but one fact. In a corner of the delicate thing which I was fingering I saw and stared intently at a tiny bit of embroidery which represented — a butterfly!
I repeat — I forgot Monsieur Gourgand. I even forgot that I was sitting at my own desk, in my own private room. The truth was I had a vision. I was in a crowded theatre — one of those modern variety theatres which have superseded the old-fashioned music-halls. There was hushed excitement, there was music that suggested a springtide day amidst deep woods. And on the stage was a dainty and delicate figure, sylph-like in its slimness, elusive, a seeming creature of the artificial surroundings and suggested atmosphere, a mere girl, and yet a dancer of European fame — La Papillon.
Poor Butterfly!
I came out of that vision with a sudden start, and turned to my visitor.
“Monsieur Gourgand; you want my advice?”
“That is why I came to you, Monsieur Campenhaye. Of a surety — yes!”
“Then keep your own counsel. Say nothing. Leave this little article with me. Let all remembrance of last night and of Becker be buried very deep in your breast until you see me. I shall call on you — it may be before night.”
Monsieur Gourgand picked up his neatly folded umbrella and his hat. He wagged a forefinger before his lips.
“I am dumb, monsieur,” he said. And as if to emphasise the fact, he shook hands in silence and went away. I rang the bell which summoned my clerk, who was an invaluable person in many ways, and possessed a very, very comfortable knowledge of what was what and who was who in the great world of London.
“Killingley,” I said, “you are always au fait with all theatrical and musical matters. What is the real name of the French dancer who has been appearing at the Megathesium under the stage name of La Papillon? You have seen her, of course?”
Killingley answered promptly.
“Mademoiselle Odette de Contanges.”
“Odette de Contanges, of course. And no doubt, you know, Killingley, where mademoiselle has her habitation in London, where she can be found, eh?”
Killingley rubbed his chin.
“She’s had a suite at the Carlton,” he answered. “But her engagement finished on Saturday night, and I expect she’s gone back to Paris. I haven’t heard of it, though.”
“All right, Killingley,” I said, picking up my hat. “I will walk round and see. I have a little business with Mademoiselle de Contanges.”
It was only a mere step from my office in Jermyn Street to the Carlton Hotel, but I thought much as I made it. I have always had a habit of jumping straight at a conclusion, and I felt as sure as assurance can be that the cobwebby bit of stuff which I carried in my pocket-book was the property of La Papillon, otherwise Odette de Contanges. If that were so, it was she who had accompanied Mr. Charles Becker to the private cabinet at Monsieur Gourgand’s restaurant, who had gone away with him and, therefore, might be able to throw some light on the mystery surrounding his death; it might even be that she knew how that death came about. Clearly I must see Mademoiselle de Contanges.
But although mademoiselle had not yet left London, although she was at home, there, in her suite of apartments at the hotel, to see her in private was not as easy a matter as it had been to see her in public. This was no case of throwing down half a guinea at the wicket of a box-office. I sent up my private card and was denied admittance; mademoiselle was seeing no one, no one at all; she was leaving for Paris by the evening train, and was very busy packing. Then I sent up a note: would she give me but a few moments on urgent business? Down to me came a maid: no pert, flighty, young person, but a Frenchwoman who was rapidly approaching middle age, and whose black eyes took stock of me in thorough fashion. She spread out her hands, but spoke in excellent English.
“But it is impossible, sir!” she said. “We leave to-night — we are up to the eyes in packing — mademoiselle can receive no one.”
“You can at least hand your mistress a note?” I suggested. “I will write it.” And I sat down and scribbled a few words on the back of one of my professional cards, which I then fastened up in an envelope. “Give that to mademoiselle and say I wait,” I said.
Five minutes later the maid showed me into a big boudoir, and the presence of the dancer, whose name was famous in half a dozen capitals. Seen under these circumstances, stripped of all the atmosphere and glamour of the stage, she looked nothing more than a mere slip of a girl, and a frightened, anxious, nervous girl at that. Her great eyes, fixed upon me with a great apprehension as I entered, had deep shadows under them; her pretty face was worn and haggard; I knew after one glance at her that little sleep had been hers since the previous day. And as soon as I was sure that the door was closed upon us (and I had noted with satisfaction that it was a double one), I hastened to speak reassuringly to her.
“Do not be afraid,” I said, “I am here for your own good.”
She looked steadily at me from behind the table at which she stood. Then she inclined her head and glanced at my card, which she had crumpled up in her palm in a strenuous grasp.
“You are a detective?” she said, in a hushed voice.
“No!” I made haste to answer. “I am nothing of the sort, mademoiselle. I am a specialist in criminology. But sometimes matters come in my way by accident. This has come in my way by accident. Perhaps it is well for you that it has. Let me explain. I take it that you have read of the affair in Shaftesbury Avenue, mademoiselle?”
It was mere idleness to ask her the question, for there, opened on the table, was a copy of the newspaper in which the fullest account of the affair was given. Watching her closely, I saw her eyelids quiver, and a ripple of something more around the muscles of her mouth. Her throat rose and fell; instead of answering my question, she inclined her head.
“Just so,” I said. “Mademoiselle, let us come to business. Last night you supped with Mr. Becker in a private room at the Café Gourgand.”
She started away from the table on which she was leaning when I said that, and again the look of fear and anxiety came into her eyes, accentuated. I lifted a hand and lowered my voice.
“Once more, mademoiselle, do not be afraid,” I said. “Will you not sit down and listen to me?”
She stood staring at me for a full minute; then she slid into an easy-chair and, clasping her hands on her knees, looked at me as if she believed I could read every thought in her mind.
“You supped — or made pretence to sup — with Becker in a private room at Gourgand’s,” I continued, taking a chair opposite to her, and keeping my voice at a level of little more than a whisper, “and after remaining with him there twenty minutes you went away with him. In fact, mademoiselle” — here, of set purpose, I discharged a bolt at a venture— “in fact, you accompanied him to his flat.”
I saw at once that I had been right in my surmise. She was staring at me now as if fascinated; I knew that I had stated a plain fact. And I made haste to follow up the advantage.
“Now, mademoiselle, trust me! I am not a detective; I have nothing to do with the police; I am what I told you I was. I believe there is some mystery in this affair. I believe that you may have come into danger through your association with it. Trust me and I will help you. Tell me, straight out, do you know who killed Becker?”
She was twisting and intertwining her fingers now, and her head dropped lower and lower over them. Suddenly she spoke — a mere whisper:
“Yes, monsieur, I know!”
“Then trust me further, mademoiselle, and tell me! We are alone.”
Just as suddenly as she had spoken, she looked up, and I saw a quick flash of resolution in her eyes. She faced me bravely.
“It was I, monsieur. I killed him!” she said quietly.
I heard myself gasp. This was an announcement I had not anticipated; it had never even been in my thoughts. What had been in my thoughts was a suspicion that she might possibly have been in collusion with the actual slayer of Becker, and that there might have been a quarrel of which she was a witness, and that she might have left some man with Becker, who subsequently killed him. But that she herself had struck the blow had never occurred to me, and I was so astonished that I sat back in my chair and stared at her in silence. She, too, was silent; staring at me. But it was I who first found a word.
