Complete works of peter.., p.502
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 502
'You've either got to be logical—that is, truthful—or you've got to be a liar, but the devil of it is that if you're a liar you've got to be clever, and you're not clever, Vowles. I'll tell you why. I don't care whether you know anything about what happened to Nirac before he died. I don't care whether you had anything to do with this new death. But I do know this—if you didn't, in both cases it looks as if you did. And if you did, it's going to be pretty hard for you to prove you didn't. So; what hope have you got, anyway? I don't want to bore you, but here, briefly, is the situation as far as you're concerned.
'Anne de Guerrac says you were the last person to see Nirac alive. You retaliate by saying that she was the last person to see him alive. But you can't say that about this fellow. I had a man watching your office after I left. This fellow, who's dead, actually asked him where your place was. You were seen handing him an envelope, and he went straight away to Smugglers' Rest and found whatever was waiting for him. But the point is this, Vowles—did you know what was waiting for that man at Smugglers' Rest? Now, be careful, you've told me a lot of lies today. You said this afternoon that you were prepared to allow me to believe that you had received that package from Nirac rather than I should go and see Sardonin's solicitors and hear that the package came from them. You poor fool. Hadn't you got enough brains to realise that they would be the first people I'd go and see? Then, when I came back this evening, you've got another pretty story you tell me. But, because I saw you were frightened this afternoon, you thought that I would believe it was the truth. Now, let's have no more lies, Vowles. Because, if I believe you're lying, I'll take you straight round to the station now, and get a charge made. The police'll be jolly glad to hold somebody, even if it's only on suspicion, and, to tell you the truth, I don't particularly want to do that, Vowles. I don't want you arrested.'
'What d'yer mean?' said Vowles, passing his tongue over his lips, which were dry and almost white. 'What d'yer mean—you don't want me arrested?'
'I'll tell you what I mean,' said Duplessis with a grin. 'I want you so that I can come and worry you. I want you here so that I can confront you with fact after fact, and add up and subtract your poor, silly lies, and so get at the truth. You're no good to me in a cell; but, take the tip from me, Vowles. I want the truth tonight, or that's where you're going to be.
'Now, first of all, this fellow who died tonight. Where is his passport? Don't worry to tell me you've not got it. I suppose you're going to tell me that he got into England without one, or that he threw it away after he had arrived. There was nothing on that man when they found him, except a few pounds in English money. You've got his passport, haven't you?'
'Have I, Mr. Clever?' sneered Vowles. 'Well, I haven't. He didn't have a passport. He came over on a day trip from Boulogne. You don't need a passport for that.'
'I see,' said Duplessis. 'So you knew he was coming over did you? You expected him? You knew he wouldn't have a passport? So that's how Nirac got over. Is it? Day trip from Boulogne? I see. That's a pretty good idea. These visitors of yours aren't going to stay in England? They come over on day trips? A very good idea. Clever, Vowles. It's so much easier to kill a man when he hasn't got a passport on him, isn't it? Then nobody knows who he is.'
Vowles glared at Duplessis, and his fingers, holding the half-smoked, cigarette shook.
'Well, I don't know anythin' about it,' he said stubbornly, 'and, what's more, I don't care; I'm entitled to do my business. If people come to my office I'm entitled to see 'em. What 'appens to 'em when they get outside I don't know, and I don't care. What do I care if you go to the-police? What can they prove? Although I might be able to tell 'em somethin', I don't know anythin' about this feller. I know 'is name—Dupont—but I know somebody who might know somethin' about it...' Vowles grinned viciously... 'What about Mademoiselle de Guerrac?' he said. 'It might be a good thing to see if she was in the neighbour'ood of the Smugglers' Rest tonight. It might be a good thing to find out just what she's been doin' today. That's all I've got to say. Now, you get out. I'm sick of you.'
Duplessis smiled, 'We'll go when we want to, Vowles,' he said. 'Anyhow, I know what your attitude is. I don't want to do it, but I'm going to do it. I'm going to the police. The dead can't be brought to life, Vowles, but it's an extraordinary coincidence that these people—these strange individuals who come over on day trips—should die after they've met you. I'm going to make it my business to see that the others don't die when they come over.'
Vowles' face turned grey. Duplessis's eyes gleamed, and he continued quickly. 'So there are some others are there, you lousy little liar? There are some more coming over, and you're waiting for them like a spider? I'm going to know something more about this Bealthorpe-Birchgate Estate Company. There's something foul going on, Vowles, and you're in it—in it up to the neck, and if you won't speak here you'll speak somewhere else—somewhere where they'll make you speak. You look to me just like the sort of fellow who ought to stand on a six foot drop with a really nice piece of manila rope round his neck, and I've got an idea that that's where you'll end.'
Vowles tried to speak, but the sound that came from between his lips was a gasp.
'Now, look,' he said, 'I'll tell yer I don't know anythin' about this—I don't know 'ow these fellers died. If I knew I'd tell yer. I'd do anythin' to get rid of yer with yer damn, sneakin' pryin' questions.'
'That's all right,' said Duplessis. 'Don't get excited. I don't want to know how those fellers died. I just want to know what this man, Dupont, came to see you about. You expected him, didn't you? How do you know his name? The same way that you knew Nirac's, for the very simple reason that you had had communication with him before. You're a fool, Vowles. You've got some game on—probably some low-down, sneaking game. You're not a big enough man to commit murder—you haven't got the guts. But fate has been a little bit unkind to you, and on two occasions your little plans have been rather upset by the fact that the central character in each case has died. Take a tip from me, Vowles, you get ahead with the story. What did Nirac come over for? What did Dupont come over for?'
Vowles got up and walked to the sideboard where a bottle of whisky stood. He helped himself liberally and gulped down the spirit neat. Then he turned round and faced Duplessis.
'Look 'ere,' he said, 'it's no good beatin' about the bush; I'll tell yer what I know about Nirac, and I'll tell yer what I know about Dupont. I haven't done anythin'—only what's legitimate business. We've got some 'ouses round 'ere. The Bungalow at Birchgate is one of them—Smugglers' Rest is another. Now then, these 'ouses were built for some clients that Sardonin got—French' people.
'When Sardonin went to quod I 'ad a bit of a row with 'is lawyers about this business—'e's 'alf-partner with me yer see. They don't like me. They said I'd got to be jolly careful 'ow I ran that business while 'e was in quod.
'Well, as yer know, Sardonin's done me down. 'E 'ad the only money I've got, and I don't see why I shouldn't try and get a bit of it back. I wanted to get the premiums on these places, so I wrote to the people, and told 'em if they liked to come over and see the places now that they're finished, I'd pay their fares. Nirac came over. Sardonin told me 'e was a French business man. 'E was going to buy The Bungalow at Birchgate.
'I went over there and met 'im, and showed 'im the place. But I'll tell you something'. I'll take my dyin' oath that I left Nirac outside that place at Birchgate, and the door was locked... when she comes along—de Guerrac. I want to know 'ow Nirac got back into The Bungalow. There's only one way 'e would 'ave got back. She let 'im in, and 'ow did she let 'im in? Well, she must 'ave a key. It's easy enough for 'er to have one. She's Sardonin's girl—'e was supposed to marry 'er, and she's probably up against me for sellin' the places while Sardonin's in quod. But what do I care about that?
'Now then, this feller, Dupont, arrives. Funny little feller. Where the devil 'e was goin' to get the money to pay for Smugglers' Rest I don't know. Six 'undred quid we want for that place, and 'e don't look worth tuppence to me. Any'ow, it was Sardonin's business, and as long as the money was paid, what did I care? Dupont said 'e wanted to see the 'ouse, and I gave 'im the key in an envelope. 'E went off. Well, now yer say 'e's dead, but I don't know why 'e's dead. 'Ow should I know ?'
Duplessis lit another cigarette.
'All right, Vowles. Just let's imagine, for the sake of argument, that your story's true. Isn't it rather a coincidence that these two men should die, and that they should both elect to die in one of your houses?'
Vowles pondered. 'Look 'ere, Mr. Duplessis,' he said. 'There's somethin' funny about this—somethin' that I don't understand. You take this feller, Dupont. All the time 'e was in my office this afternoon 'e was shakin' and tremblin'. 'E couldn't keep still. The eyes were all funny. I noticed it, and d'yer know why I noticed it? 'Cause Nirac looked just the same. Both of 'em looked to me as if they was damned ill, but I can't tell yer why.'
Duplessis thought for a moment. 'Well, the police surgeon will have something to say about that, I expect.' he said. 'But, tell me, Vowles, who are the other people who are coming over? And where are their houses?'
'There's two more,' said Vowles. 'A feller with a funny name, Baourdat, and another feller called Ragosin. Ragosin is supposed to take a fairly big place we've got. It's called 'The Last House.' It's over at Chellingford—six miles away. It's called 'The Last House' 'cause it's the last 'ouse in the village, see?
'Well, that was Ragosin. Baourdat—'e's takin' a good place, too. 'E's takin' The Priory Lodge at Birchgate—about two miles from The Bungalow. Then we've got another place—The Old Mill Cottage at Eastgate. That's on the other side of Birchgate—about nine miles from 'ere. Now, there's been trouble about that place. Sardonin's lawyers say that I'm not to sell it or dispose of it in any way. You see, Sardonin built that place for 'imself . 'E was goin' to live there with de Guerrac when they got married.... If they ever did get married,' added Vowles with a sneer. 'Anyway, they served me with a notice that said that Sardonin 'ad paid a deposit on the property, and I wasn't to dispose of it—and it's true enough, 'e 'ad paid a deposit, and, apparently, I can't get rid of the place—it's got to stay there until 'e comes out.'
'You know, Vowles,' said Duplessis, 'I'm beginning to like you. You're becoming quite intelligent. I actually believe you're telling the truth. Now, you can prove your still further intelligence by taking me to see these places tomorrow. We wont worry about the Smugglers' Rest—the police will be too interested in that at the moment, although they probably won't connect Dupont's death with that in any way. But we'll go and see The Bungalow at Birchgate. Well see the Chellingford House, The Priory Lodge, and we might even look at The Old Mill Cottage at Eastgate. I'm rather interested in these houses of yours, Vowles.'
'I don't care,' said Vowles. 'You can' see 'em with pleasure. I've got nothing to be afraid or ashamed of.'
'All right,' said Duplessis. 'We'll let you continue with your beauty sleep. I'll come round in the morning to your office at eleven o'clock, and we'll make a little tour of inspection. Good-night, Vowles.'
Duplessis got up, and, followed by Le Clerq, walked to the sitting-room door. He had his hand on the door-handle when Vowles spoke.
'Look 'ere, guv'ner,' said Vowles. 'I don't understand you. You were supposed to be in this business to try and prove that Sardonin didn't twist me for nearly five thousand quid. Well, your interest don't seem to stop there. You seem interested in all sorts of things that aren't any concern of Sardonin's. 'E's in quod, and I think 'e'll stay there, and I'll tell you what think. Sardonin is pretty well known in Paris—so is du Guerrac. Dupont didn't like the pair of 'em, neither did Nirac. It seems to me there's somethin' on—somethin' between these people, who come over to see these places which Sardonin 'ad arranged to sell 'em, and this woman of 'is. I believe de Guerrac could tell yer a great deal more than I can. I believe she knows what's behind all this. I wouldn't be surprised if it wasn't her 'erself.'
Duplessis considered, for a moment before he spoke. 'Do you know, Vowles,' he said eventually, 'I shouldn't be surprised if you weren't right. I don't think I like Anne de Guerrac.'
VI. — FIVE FRESCOES
The Chronicle , Adelaide, 11 April 1935
LE CLERQ and Duplessis were seated at breakfast on the following morning when Hastings appeared. Hastings was one of those men who are quite unable to prevent their faces from showing their state of mind, and, obviously, he was excited.
'I think I've pulled a break, Mr. Duplessis,' he said. 'You remember you asked me to find out what the police-surgeon thought about this fellows death up at Smugglers' Rest. Well, he's coming round to talk to you about it. He should be here in a few minutes. You see, he's not a bad sort of surgeon. As a matter of fact, he's rather keen on anything that's a bit mysterious, and I told him about Mr. Le Clerq being on the staff of a good London paper, and I rather fancy that he thinks there's a chance of seeing his name in print. Anyhow, he said he'd come round and tell you what he thought about it. Maybe he'll be able to tell you something about Nirac too.'
Duplessis nodded. 'Good work, Hastings,' he said. 'Now, I want you to do something else for me, only be careful, and don't be too obvious.
'Vowles told me last night that the Bealthorpe-Birchgate Estate Company was owned by himself and Sardonin, who, of course is, and has been for some time, in prison. Now this may or may not be true, but if it's true its more or less certain that Sardonin would have been seen round about the different places where these properties are situated at some time or other. It would be most natural for both him and Vowles to inspect the places together. Find out, if you can, whether this is so. Find out exactly what sort of man Sardonin was. When you've done that, do something else for me. Hire a car, or get a fast train—whichever is most convenient—go up to town, go down to Somerset House, and search for all information that you can find about the Bealthorpe-Birchgate Estate Company. The names of the Directors, and any agreements made with reference to the formation of this company must be shown. Try and get back so as to be here about dinner-time tonight. In fact, you might as well dine with us here. We ought to be back by then from a little tour of Inspection we're making.'
'Right ho!' said Hastings, who was, obviously, pleased at being given something further to do on a case which, to him, was assuming universal importance. 'I can hear the doctor's car—there's a knock in that engine which I'd recognise anywhere. I'll bring him up, and then clear off quickly.'
Duplessis and Le Clerq were agreeably surprised by the appearance of the county police-surgeon, whose name was Massingham. He wasted no time in irrelevant chatter, but came to the point at once.
'Well, Mr. Le Clerq,' he said, 'Hastings, whom I know very well, tells me that your paper is very interested in these two deaths. Candidly, so am I. In fact, I'm rather sorry in one way that the inquest on the first man—the man who was found over at Birchgate—is closed, because, although I haven't got enough new facts sufficiently strong for me to ask the coroner to re-open the Birchgate inquest, having regard to this second death, I wish I could do so.'
Massingham drew a chair up to the table, and accepted the cup of coffee which Le Clerq had poured out for him.
'You see,' he continued, 'a police surgeon's got to be pretty careful—coroners are always inclined to believe the worst—and if I'd made any suggestion of foul play as regards the Birchgate death we should have had the whole country police turned inside out looking for a possible murderer... and,' continued the Doctor, with a smile, 'I've no doubt the imagination of the inhabitants round here would have quickly produced half a dozen potential criminals.
'There's something strange about these two deaths. Unfortunately, I only feel that. I have no definite medical evidence to support my feeling.'
Duplessis passed the Doctor a cigarette—he was becoming interested.
'Let's deal with the Birchgate case first, Doctor,' he said. 'Give us your unofficial opinion. Needless to say, none of this is going into print. Mr. Le Clerq will give you his word about that. But we are rather interested personally. What do you think about the Birchgate death?'
'To tell you the truth,' said the Doctor, 'I've got two lines of thought—one official and one unofficial. Officially—and here I'm speaking simply on what I found after my examination as a police-surgeon—and a police surgeon's examination is, unfortunately restricted to certain definite angles of thought—my business was to tell the coroner what I considered to be the cause of death, and there's not the slightest doubt that the man who was found in the Birchgate bungalow died in a paralytic fit and, in point of fact, it seems fairly obvious that the actual cause of death would be shock, causing heart failure. Unfortunately, it was quite impossible for me to get any previous medical history of this man. No one knew who he was, what he was, or where he came from. It was really a most amazing case. The man's body was fairly well nourished. But the thing which aroused my suspicion was this—the man was obviously a drug addict, and had been for some considerable time. I've made rather a study of drugs, and I should think that this man had been taking hashish for quite a period. On the right arm were a large number of marks which showed me that a syringe had been used. These marks extended almost down to the wrist, and the bottom one, which was on the inside of the right wrist, almost on the side of the fleshy part of the hand, was, obviously, a recent one. Now, I don't suggest that these injection marks had anything to do with the hashish-taking—drug addicts who use hashish take it by the mouth or inhale it. They don't inject it. But the after-effects of this drug are so bad that one invariably finds that the hashish-taker will use some other form of drug such as morphine or cocaine in order to escape these after-effects. Now, it seems that this last injection-mark right down on the right wrist must have been made within an hour of the man's death, and it seems very peculiar to me that a man who had had an injection of any sedative could die so soon afterwards in a paralytic fit. You see, it's simply a matter of theory, because there's no doubt that the man actually did die of a fit.
