Complete works of peter.., p.499
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 499
His mouth twisted in a wry smile.
The notes were counterfeit!
II. — NIRAC
The Chronicle, Adelaide, 14 March 1935
LE CLERQ examined carefully the cigarette which he held between his fingers.
'It doesn't make any difference to me,' he said, 'and I don't see how it's going to make any difference to the police. It was pretty lucky that our fellow at Birchgate is intelligent—although newspaper-men are supposed to be intelligent .'
Duplessis crumbled his bread, and amused himself by taking pot-shots at an adjacent fern with the breadcrumbs.
'Just tell me again exactly what happened, J.L.,' he said. 'I want to get the sequence right in my mind. It's an extraordinary coincidence.'
'That's what struck me,' said Le Clerq. 'You telephoned me at half past twelve, and asked for that information about the Sardonin case. That was the exact time, I know, because every enquiry put through our library is time-marked. It was about forty minutes after that that our Birchgate man got through. Probably we were the first people to get the story, and I could have run it as a 'scoop,' but I didn't think I'd run the whole of the story until I'd seen you. Hastings, our Birchgate man is a friend—naturally—of the local police sergeant. This sergeant, passing this empty bungalow on the Birchgate road at about a quarter past twelve, stood up in the porch because it had started to rain. Idle curiosity made him flash his bullseye through the window, and there, inside, lying in the room, was Nirac. The sergeant didn't know he was dead, and, being a pal of Hastings, and thinking that Nirac was dead, he dashed to a telephone box about two hundred yards from the bungalow, phoned up Hastings—who was in bed—and told him to come along. Hastings arrived quickly on his motor-bike, and he and the sergeant forced the door. They looked at Nirac, and agreed that he was dead. Then the sergeant left Hastings with the body while he went off once more to telephone the Chief Constable's office at Gafield, ten miles away. He hadn't been gone more than a couple of minutes before Nirac began to move. Hastings says that he seemed to be in a sort of paralytic fit, and that he had a length of string in his hands, which he had twisted round his fingers. Anyhow, thinking that Nirac might say something which would give him a clue, Hastings knelt down by his side and listened. Sure enough, Nirac tried to mumble something, and Hastings distinctly heard him mutter—not once, but two or three times... "Sardonin"... "Sardonin." A couple of minutes after Nirac actually did die.'
'Now Hastings is a clever fellow. When the sergeant came back he didn't say a word about Nirac not having been dead before, or about having mentioned this name, because he knew that if he had, every reporter on every local rag would have had it the next day. Hastings's idea was to phone me through and give me the story so that we could come out this morning with some really startling front-page stuff. He telephoned the stuff through at ten past one, and, of course, the first thing that struck me was the fact that here is a fellow, dying in some strange way down at a little seaside place in a newly-built unlet bungalow, mumbling the name of a man about whom you telephoned forty minutes previously. Now it struck me that you might know something about this Sardonin—something more than we knew—so I ran the story of the death in the ordinary way just on the chance that we might come out with a better story a little later. We've said nothing about Sardonin at all.'
'I'm glad you didn't,' said Duplessis, 'because if looks to me as if you're going to get a pretty big story before this is through. There's something funny going on, J.L. What connection is there between the Nirac who died murmuring Sardonin's name, the woman who comes to me, and hands me five thousand pounds worth of counterfeit money in order to get Sardonin out of prison, and this little swine Vowles who says that Sardonin's a crook, and that the woman's a crook? Interesting little problem.'
'Got any ideas at all?' said Le Clerq.
'I've got several,' answered Duplessis, 'but before I discuss those with you I want to put to you what I consider to be a rather amusing viewpoint on this thing generally.
'Supposing that this case, as we know it up to the moment, had been the opening of a detective story. If this was so, we should find that there would be several methods of investigation, several clues waiting to be followed up; or else I should be able to phone Detective Inspector Somebody-or-Other at Scotland Yard—an old friend of mine—who would promptly give me a great deal of information about Sardonin, Mademoiselle de Guerrac, Vowles, or anybody else. This is where all detective fiction fails, it's never really true to life, inasmuch as the intelligence of the reader is invariably insulted by having some surprise sprung upon him in the last chapter which the solver of the mystery knew right from the beginning, but about which he kept silent simply so that the reader might be trapped.
'But how different is my situation! I can't go to the police and ask them about Sardonin. We know all that they know about him. At the moment we haven't any means of checking up on Mademoiselle de Guerrac or the Vicomtesse Anne de Guerrac, or whatever she calls herself. The only fact that we do know about her is that she handed me £5,000 worth of stumer banknotes.'
Le Clerq whistled. 'By Jove!' he said. 'Then Vowles is right—she's a crook.'
'Just a minute,' said Duplessis. 'Don't you realise that you're doing exactly what the mystery-story writer wants his reader to do?—you, a hardened pressman, too!'
Le Clerq grinned.
'Well, I suppose pressmen are as big fools as other people,' he said. 'But I'll be glad to know just why I'm like the mystery-story reader in coming to the conclusion that Mademoiselle is a crook because she's given you £5,000 worth of bad notes!'
'The reason is perfectly simple,' said Duplessis. 'You're jumping to a conclusion. When all is said and done the only thing that matters in life is truth and the best way to arrive at truth is logic. If some of our professional detectives knew a little more about mathematics, algebra, and geometry, there might be less murders unsolved. Just because you are taking a superficial view of this fact the mathematical equation in your mind is something like this.'
Duplessis pulled his notebook from his pocket, wrote swiftly, and passed it to Le Clerq, who read:
de Guerrac + £5,000 (counterfeit) = a crook.
'Well, what's the matter with that?' laughed Le Clerq. 'That seems to me to be a perfectly good equation.'
'Does it really?' said Duplessis. 'Well, let me give you a few more.'
He took the notebook from Le Clerq's hand, and wrote for a few seconds. He then threw it across the table, and Le Clerq read:
de Guerrac + £5,000 (counterfeit) = X. (x.d. X = (x.i. (x.e.
'Well, P.D., what does this mean?' he said.
'Just this,' said Duplessis. 'We agree that de Guerrac + £5,000 (counterfeit) = a crook. We agree that a crook = X. But X. may equal one of three things—x.d., a deliberate crook, i.e., one who has deliberately endeavoured to buy my services with false money—x.i., an innocent crook; innocent because she doesn't know the money is counterfeit, and that somebody had palmed it on her—or, x.e., an enquiring crook who has deliberately handed me counterfeit notes in order to find out whether I was honest enough to take back the money to her today when it was arranged that I should see her to inform her whether I would handle this case or not, or whether I would endeavour to pay the money into my bank, or make some use of it before seeing her.
'Now,' continued Duplessis, 'I think we may eliminate two of these queries. This woman, if she meant what she said when she told me her original story, wouldn't have given me counterfeit money. That cancels x.d.—the deliberate crook.
'The woman is obviously intelligent, and we know that she didn't come to me until she had made full enquiries about me from Romanes. That cancels x.e.. Therefore, the only thing we have left is x.i.. And what does that mean? It means that somebody else has planted on this unfortunate woman—who probably knows little about high denomination English bank-notes—£5,000 of bad notes.
'Now,' continued. Duplessis, with a grin, 'can you think of a good reason for someone doing such a thing, because it seems quite simple and obvious to me.'
Le Clerq considered.
'No, I can't,' he said eventually. 'What's the reason?'
Duplessis lit another cigarette, and grinned at Le Clerq across the table.
'Just this, my old fathead,' he said. 'Whoever gave that money to Anne de Guerrac gave it to her because they knew she was going to give it to me, and because they thought when I discovered it was counterfeit I would tell her to go to blazes and refuse to have anything further to do with this business. And, don't you see she must have got it from somebody else? She didn't get it from a bank, did she? Banks don't issue counterfeit money.'
Le Clerq nodded. 'You're right, P.D.,' he said. 'It's funny how one never sees the obvious. What else have you got up your sleeve?'
'Well,' said Duplessis, 'there's one other point which also seems rather obvious to me. Is there anybody whom we might justifiably consider to know that Anne de Guerrac was coming to see me? Yes, there's Mr. John X. Vowles—for the very simple reason that he arrived shortly after she had left. He knew that she was coming to see me, and he suggested to my mind by telling me that she was known to every copper in Paris that she was a crook.'
'Now,' said Duplessis, 'why did he make that remark? He made it because he knew that directly he said "crook" I should think of the money she'd given me. I played into his hands. I promptly told him, as a proof of my idea of her integrity, that she'd given me in advance a large sum on account of expenses. And what does Mr. Vowles say then? Promptly he says: "If she's given you a cheque clear it before you consider the money to be yours." And here, Mr. Vowles, knowing what he does know, gives himself right away. And what is it that he does know? He admitted to me that he had been having this woman watched since she arrived in England. She's been in England only three days. You bet Vowles has been able to find out what I was able to find out this morning by a simple enquiry to my bank manager—that she has not got a bank account in this country. In other words, Vowles knew that she'd given me notes, but he said cheque just so that I should think he knew nothing about the bank-notes. Whereas I believe that Mr. Vowles knew all about the bank-notes for the very simple reason that I am firmly convinced that he gave them to de Guerrac to give to me.'
Le Clerq whistled.
'This is getting interesting, P.D.,' he said.
'Very interesting,' agreed Duplessis, 'and even, more interesting when we come to consider the fact that Anne de Guerrac informed me that Vowles was a horrible man, and Vowles, on his part, informed me that Anne de Guerrac is a crook. Does it not rather look to you as if there is some sort of partnership between our lady and our gentleman friend?'
'That's all very well,' protested le Clerq, 'but if that's so why should not she have known that the notes were counterfeit when she gave them to you?'
Duplessis sighed.
'Because, my dear fathead, if she had known they were counterfeit she would know also that the fact must be discovered within a few days. One of those notes, no matter how many people changed it, would have been presented at a bank within three or four days. It would have been traced back to me, and I should have known. If the woman's a crook she'd be clever enough to know that.'
'That's all very well,' said Le Clerq, 'but if there's some partnership between Vowles and Anne de Guerrac, why should he give her the counterfeit notes to give you?'
'I don't know,' said Duplessis. 'There are lots of things I don't know. But, now. J.L., let's be constructive. From the few facts we've got, let's work out a plan of campaign. I rely on you for your assistance. You know jolly well that behind all this business is a big newspaper story, and, in return for getting the inside stuff on that story and getting a scoop that will make every other paper sit up. You've got to help me.'
'I'm at your disposal, P.D.,' said Le Clerq. 'As a matter of fact, I had a confidential talk with the Editor this morning, and told him what had happened. He's given me a free hand. We want a big story; we want to boost our circulation. The late edition of The Echo is running us too close at the moment. This may put us ahead. What do you want me to do?'
'The first thing you might do,' said. Duplessis, 'is to do something, which, had you been a really intelligent man, you'd have done already. Look at a map, and what will you find? You will find another fact which is amusing—that the bungalow where Nirac was murdered happens, purely by coincidence one imagines, to be only seven miles from Bealthorpe where Vowles has his office. Your correspondent, Hastings, covers the whole of that area. He'll probably know lots of people in Bealthorpe just as he knows everybody in Birchgate. You've got to go down and see him.
'Hastings has got to do this. He's got to find out if Mr. John X. Vowles employs a secretary or a typist, and if he does, Hastings—without arousing suspicion in the girl's mind—has got to make it worth her while to give up her job with Vowles. Simultaneously if he doesn't already know Vowles he must scrape an acquaintanceship with him, which is easy enough—and suggest to Vowles just at the right moment that he knows of a secretary or typist, who is very intelligent, very cheap, and knows how to keep her mouth shut. If Vowles falls for it, by a strange coincidence my own typist will be this paragon of virtues. We've got to get her into Vowles' office somehow, and once she's there—with Hastings in the neighbourhood—we shall have a pretty good combination working in that part of the world. Can you fix that?'
'That's easy,' said Le Clerq. 'I'll telephone Hastings to come up and see me this evening. He's a good man, and he'll love this. It's the sort of job he likes.'
Duplessis signalled the waiter for the bill.
'To my mind,' said he, 'the most interesting part of the whole business is this—there must be some connection between the dead Nirac, Vowles, and Anne de Guerrac. There must be—even if it's only the fact that the three of them know Sardonin's name. We've got to work from that angle.'
'But how can you?' asked Le Clerq. 'Even if the three of them did know Sardonin's name, or actually knew him, how is that fact going to enable you to do anything?'
Duplessis sighed once more.
'Listen, my lad,' he said. 'Don't you realise this? De Guerrac has come to see me about Sardonin to tell me that he's innocent. Vowles, either accidentally, or somehow in connection with de Guerrac, comes to tell me that Sardonin is a crook and that de Guerrac is a crook. Nirac, dying in some lonely bungalow, finds Sardonin's name to be the last word he wants to utter. Do you mean to tell me that, whether there's any connection or not between de Guerrac and Vowles, they're not going to meet to discuss this death? If neither of them knew Nirac each of them will believe the other did. If they both knew Nirac they will certainly want to discuss it, even if they're sworn enemies. That's why I want to get Miss Day into Vowles' office. I've got an idea that Anne de Guerrac is going to call on Mr. Vowles shortly—or vice versa—and, as I want to see Vowles myself, I'd rather like to time my visit so that we three meet together.'
Le Clerq nodded. 'May I be allowed to ask what you want to see Vowles for?' he said.
Once more Duplessis sighed, the largest sigh of all.
'My dear old J.L.,' he said, 'once again you missed the whole crux of the situation. Now, at the moment, nobody—with the exception of Hastings, yourself and myself—knows that Nirac died after mentioning Sardonin's name. Even Mr. Vowles doesn't know. It seems to me to be the obvious thing for me to do to wander down and see Mr. Vowles to point out to him that it is rather a coincidence that, on the night when Anne de Guerrac has come to me and talked Sardonin, when he has followed her and talked Sardonin, at the very time he is in my office this Nirac is lying in a lonely bungalow also talking Sardonin. I'm going to suggest to Mr. Vowles just this—that, whilst the police don't know that Nirac said "Sardonin," they're not going to be in the remotest degree interested in Mr. Vowles, but if I tell them that Nirac used the word before he died, they're going to be very interested in anybody who knows anything about Sardonin. In other words, they may find that they want to question Mr. Vowles. Now, it may very easily be that Mr. Vowles doesn't want to attract the attention of the police at this moment. If he's an innocent man and doesn't care he's going to tell me to go to blazes, but If he's not he's going to tell me what I want to know.'
Le Clerq nodded.
'There are moments,' he said, 'when I really believe you've got a brain. What Is it you want to know from Vowles?'
Duplessis threw his cigarette end into an ash tray.
'I want to ask him,' he said, 'just how Nirac died, and who killed him, because I believe that Vowles or de Guerrac—or both of them—know.'
III. — VOWLES TALKS
The Chronicle , Adelaide, 21 March 1935
EXACTLY one fortnight after his interview with Mlle. de Guerrac in the Shoe Lane office at midnight, Duplessis, carefully dressed in brown, and with a smile which was almost too nonchalant, wandered down the High street at Bealthorpe, and looked for the office of Mr. John X. Vowles. He found it. Standing on the corner opposite an old church, the estate office—the facia of which proclaimed 'The Bealthorpe-Birchgate Estate Co., Ltd.'—was bathed in the last rays of a sun which had, for once, worked overtime. And the beauty of the day pleased Duplessis; he found it in keeping with the interview which he anticipated. Duplessis had an idea that Mr. Vowles was going to talk.
He pushed open the door, and found himself in an outer office. In the corner, seated before a typewriter, was Miss Day. She looked up, but gave no sign of recognition.
