Complete works of peter.., p.507
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 507
This man, Ragosin, looked very ill. Also, he seemed very angry. I told him that Mr. Vowles was out. He asked when he would be in. I thought it best to say that I did not know. Then I said that I was conversant with all Mr. Vowles' private affairs, and asked if I could help him. He threw the letter on my table, and said, 'When Vowles comes in give him that. He'll know where to find me. I shan't come back here.'
I wanted to find out where he was going, so I asked him if he was certain that Mr. Vowles knew where he could find him. He said, 'Yes, he knows I'm going to The Last House. If Vowles doesn't come whilst I'm there tell him I shall come back for him.'
Then he turned, but, as he was going out of the office, another letter, which he held in his hands when he gave me the first one, slipped from between his fingers. He did not notice it. He was so enraged that he could hardly open the door. I enclose this second letter, and you will see that it appears to have been sent by the lady.
If there is anything more that I can do will you please telephone me. I have got an idea that this office will be closed this afternoon, and that Mr. Vowles will discharge me. If this is so I shall go to the Kings Arms and await instructions from you.
I am,
Faithfully yours,
Ethel Day.
In spite of Duplessis' efforts to control himself some little beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead. He threw aside Miss Day's letter, and scanned the next letter, which, in her careful blue pencil, she had marked '1'. He read it. The letter was dated five days before. It was addressed from the Bealthorpe-Birchgate Estate Office, and it read:
Dear Mr. Ragosin,
With reference to our arrangements with you, we shall be very glad if you will come to England on Thursday next, and, if possible, arrive at this office at eleven o'clock in the morning.
There you will be able to discuss with Mr. Vowles the completion of the documents which will enable you to take over your property—The Last House at Chellingford—and any other facts as arranged between yourself and us.
We sincerely hope that you are better in health. May we advise you to concentrate on keeping in the open air as much as possible? We think this will be necessary to your well-being. Take your own line in this matter, and do not be dissuaded, therefore, by anything you may hear.
Our other friends nave been, and will be, written to in these same terms, and, for our mutual benefit, perhaps it would be wise to destroy this letter.
We are,
Faithfully yours,
pp. The Bealthorpe-Birchgate Estate Co., Ltd., X.L.
In one glance Duplessis saw that the ink of this letter was months old. Also, he was intrigued by the letter. The first part of it was obvious to him, but it was the second part on which he concentrated. But he wasted no further time on scanning this letter. He turned to the other one, and a grim smile played about his lips as he saw that it was dated two days ago from The Alcazar Hotel, and was marked: 'Urgent—By Air Mail.'
Turning over the letter, he saw that it was signed by Anne de Guerrac, and was written in French. He read it quickly:—
My Dear M. Ragosin,
I entreat you not to take any notice of any letter which you may receive asking you to come to England. For your welfare you must stay where you are. Believe me when I tell you that I have this business in hand. We have been fools, and we must pay for our folly. I shall see Vowles, and I shall do my best to see that accounts are squared. Once more I entreat you not to come to England.
Faithfully,
Anne de Guerrac.
Duplessis did not wait. In two minutes he was down the stairs—in four he was in a taxicab, having promised the driver double fare to get to Somerset House quickly.
In twenty minutes he was in the Companies Search room at Somerset House with the complete file of documents relating to the Bealthorpe-Birchgate Estate Company before him. He turned quickly to the agreement dated January, 1931, signed by the proprietors of The Bealthorpe-Birchgate Estate Company, specially allotting the Vicomtesse Anne de Guerrac 'one hundred thousand pounds of shares in consideration of services rendered.'
He looked at the signatures to this agreement. Under a microscope he examined the signature of the witnesses. Then, using the microscope, he examined the letter written to Ragosin—the letter from the Bealthorpe-Birchgate Estate Company, which told, him to come to England. Duplessis knew most of the things that he wanted to know, but there was one thing he did not know.
He folded back the letter so that he could concentrate on the second paragraph:—
We sincerely hope that you are better in health. May we advise yon to concentrate on keeping in the open air as much as possible. We think this will be necessary to your well being. Take your own line in this matter, and do not be dissuaded, therefore, by anything you may hear.
Obviously, this was some form of code. It was certain that this code paragraph had been included in the formal letters written to Nirac and Dupont—the letters which had brought them to England.
Duplessis stared at the handwriting before him. It was certain that this paragraph was in all the letters, for the writer said:—'Our friends have been, or will be, written to in the same terms.'
This letter—the crux of the whole mystery, which, in all probability, the man Ragosin had only kept because in his fury he had disobeyed de Guerrac's injunction not to come to England—was a facsimile of the letters sent to Nirac and Dupont, but they, believing something, had obeyed the writer's injunction to destroy the letter.
Believing something! A shudder run down Duplessis's spine. The mystery of the five men in the fresco was a mystery no longer. Death stalked at Birchgate, it lay in wait by day and by night, and this letter, with its cynical wishes for the health of the recipient—this devilish letter—was the third common denominator.
Five people who were all drug addicts; five houses with the ominous fresco set in the wall of each—the mark of death; and now these letters, each with its paragraph of death.
Duplessis got to his feet. He dashed up the stairs, past the bewildered porter at Somerset House gates, flung himself into his waiting taxi-cab, and ordered the man to drive him to the Alcazar.
With fingers that shook he pressed the bell outside de Guerrac's suites Hortense opened the door.
'Hortense,' said Duplessis, 'I must see the Vicomtesse immediately.'
Hortense regarded him coldly. She had not forgotten the faked telephone message of yesterday.
'Ze Vicomtesse is out, M'sieu,' she said. 'She will not be back till zis evening until eight o'clock.'
'Hortense,' said Duplessis, 'if you don't want to see what the inside of a police station looks like within five minutes tell me what the Vicomtesse has been doing today.'
Hortense shrugged her shoulders.
'I do not understand you, M'sieu,' she said. 'But zere is no reason why you should not know. Ze Vicomtesse is so 'appy. She 'as been successful. Zis morning she telephoned Scotland Yard. She is to go zere tomorrow. She is so pleased.'
In her excitement Hortense forgot that she was angry with Duplessis. 'But, M'sieu,' she continued, 'it is so strange. Alzough Mademoiselle is pleased, she still smokes zose cigarettes. She smokes too many of zose cigarettes.'
Duplessis did not wait. He ran quickly downstairs, out into the street, and found a telephone in a tobacconist's opposite. He put through a trunk call to Hastings at Birchgate, and gave a sigh of relief as he heard the voice of the Leader correspondent on the telephone.
'Thank God you're in, Hastings,' said Duplessis. 'Now, listen to me, and don't make any mistake. Get a car, go over to The Last House at Chellingford, and stand on the doorstep. Don't let anybody go inside. If you find a man called Ragosin in the neighbourhood—Miss Day will give you a description—you'll find her at the King's Arms—hold him, and bring him back to London. Don't let that man out of your sight. Do you understand?'
'OK.,' said Hastings. 'Something happening?'
'You bet,' said Duplessis. 'Something is happening. Telephone me through at my office if you want me, or when you've got Ragosin. I'm going back there now. I'll wait for your call.'
Duplessis went back and steeled himself to the nearest approach to patience that he could manage. He wondered what was happening everywhere—whether Hastings had got to The Last House; where Anne de Guerrac was; what Scotland Yard were doing; where Ragosin was. All these thoughts flitted through his mind, intermingled with mind-pictures of the fresco, the paragraph in the letter and the face of Anne de Guerrac.
Four o'clock... five o'clock... six o'clock... but nothing had happened. The half-a-dozen telephone calls to Hastings's house evinced no reply. Calls to the King's Arms for Miss Day were fruitless, she had gone out with Mr. Hastings. Calls to the Bealthorpe-Birchgate Estate Office resulted in nothing but the noise of the telephone ringing the other end.
At a quarter-past-six Duplessis, who had by this time recovered some of his usual self-control, went out and ordered tea at the café next door to his office, leaving a clerk sitting by the telephone with instructions to run down for Duplessis if anyone came through—but there was no call. At seven o'clock, still wondering, Duplessis returned to the office, and, as he did so, the bell rang. In two strides he was at the instrument.
It was Hastings speaking.
'Is that you, Mr. Duplessis?' said Hastings. 'I've got some pretty bad news for you. After I got your call I went to the King's Arms and picked up Miss Day. I thought I'd take her with me; she'd recognise this Ragosin straight away. But when we got there somebody had been there first. The door was open, and I went in. I went through to the back of the house, and I was just in time to stop Miss Day going in. I'm jolly glad I did. Vowles was there, lying on the floor. The police-surgeon says he must have been strangled half an hour before we got to the house. We found Ragosin afterwards. You remember the overgrown shrubbery that runs by the side of the house? We found him there, lying in the weeds—dead.'
'I see,' said Duplessis. 'Well, that's that. Listen, Hastings, have you looked at Vowles? Had he got anything in his hands?'
'Funny you should ask that,' said Hastings. 'He had a piece of string—at least, we thought it was a piece of string about 12 inches long clutched in one hand. One end of it had been broken. Ragosin had the other end, but he had a longer piece. It was twisted round his left wrist. It was about eight feet long, and on the end of it was a little lead weight. I believe it's what they call a plumb line.'
'I see,' said Duplessis, somewhat wearily. 'Listen, Hastings I'll be down tonight about ten o'clock and you can tell the Chief Constable not to worry his head about this. I know all about it.'
'By Jove!' said Hastings, 'You do? Is it going to be a scoop for us, Mr. Duplessis?'
Duplessis sighed.
'It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good,' he said. 'It wasn't so good for Vowles, or Ragosin. I expect it'll be pretty good for you, Hastings. You'll get your scoop.'
He hung up the receiver. What a fool Ragosin had been. The ways of men are indeed strange, thought Duplessis. He took off the receiver once more, and 'phoned the Alcazar Hotel. A glance at his watch told him that it was ten minutes past eight. Dusk was falling. Hortense answered him, and, in a minute, in reply to his request, he heard Anne de Guerrac's voice on the telephone.
'I can congratulate you, Vicomtesse,' he said. 'You've been successful—but not quite successful enough. But you've made one mistake.'
'And what was that, M'sieu?'
Her voice was brighter than he had heard it before.
'You shouldn't have telephoned Scotland Yard this morning, Mademoiselle,' he said. 'You employed the wrong technique. Why wouldn't you let me help you, even if we did agree to disagree last evening? I could have arranged your business much more quickly for you.'
'I would have asked you, M'sieu,' she replied, 'but I thought you would not be interested.'
'I shall always be interested in you, Vicomtesse,' said Duplessis. 'I'll come straight along to the hotel. If you'll meet me at the entrance I'll keep my cab waiting, and in half an hour I promise you your business in this country will be settled.'
'You are still charming, M'sieu Duplessis,' she replied. 'I will be there.'
'Good.' said Duplessis. 'I'll come right along. He hung up the receiver, and put on his hat. Then he unlocked a drawer in his desk and took from it a bottle of chloroform and ether which Harding had given him and the pad.
XII. — DUPLESSIS PLAYS HIS HAND
The Chronicle , Adelaide, 23 May 1935
AS his cab approached the Alcazar Hotel, Duplessis could see Anne de Guerrac as she stood in the entrance. The brilliant lights above the hotel entrance shone full upon her. She looked, as usual, charming, but more bright, more alert, than she had ever appeared before. The cab stopped, and Duplessis got out, telling the man to wait. He advanced towards de Guerrac, and raised his hat with a smile as charming as her own.
'I congratulate you, Vicomtesse,' he said. 'With your permission we won't discuss this matter at all. Just for a little while let's think about other things.'
'But, M'sieu,' she protested, 'you promised that very soon after you met me here you would have...'
'I always keep my promises, Vicomtesse,' said Duplessis, 'at least, when I can. And in this case I think I shall be able to keep it. I promised you that within half an hour of meeting you here your business in England would be settled. It will be. In the meantime I want you to do me a favour.
'I think you'll agree that, whether or not I displeased you by opening your portfolio last evening, I've done a great deal of work for you.'
She nodded. Her eyes were wondering.
'Therefore,' said Duplessis, 'I consider that I'm entitled to some slight recompense. Don't you think so?'
'But, of course, M'sieu, she said. 'What can I do?'
'Just this,' said Duplessis. 'Would you drink a cocktail with me in the lounge?'
'It is not difficult to accede to such a request, M'sieu Duplessis,' she said, 'except that I do not usually drink cocktails.'
'On this occasion, Vicomtesse,' he said, 'you must.'
He led her to a table, and pushed forward a chair for her, but, instead of summoning the waiter, he walked over to the cocktail bar in the corner.
'I want a whisky and soda for myself,' he said to the cocktail-shaker, 'and in the other glass I want a portion of brandy. But squeeze a little lemon into it so that it looks like a cocktail.'
The man nodded, and prepared the drinks. Duplessis carried them back himself to their table. He handed her the little glass of brandy which, with a few flecks of lemon pulp on the top and the cherry beneath, looked like a cocktail.
'Now, Vicomtesse,' he said, 'as this is my reward for my services, you must do as I tell you. This cocktail is a very special one. It is called 'The Road to Nowhere,' and it must be drunk in one gulp. I would like to see you drink it.'
She smiled.
'You are in a joking mood, M'sieu,' she said, 'but I must pay my debts. Bonne chance!' She raised the glass and drank the brandy; then, put the glass on the table with a grimace.
'I do not like your cocktail, M'sieu,' she said. 'It tastes to me like brandy.'
'It was,' said Duplessis.
She looked at him surprised.
'Why?' she asked.
'Let's get our cab,' said Duplessis, 'and let's settle this business of yours inside. When we're on our way I'll tell you why. I know that you don't want to waste any time.'
He helped her into the taxi. He had already given the driver the destination to which he was to drive. As they sped up Regent street, Duplessis, looking out of the window, compared the bright lights and the happy faces of the passers-by with the death that hovered about Birchgate.
She roused him from his reverie. 'M'sieu Duplessis,' she said, with a smile, 'may I have your explanation about the brandy? I am interested. Also, where are we going? That interests me, too. Do we go to your Commissioner of Police—or where?'
Duplessis smiled in the darkness. His right hand was busy behind him.
'I'll satisfy your curiosity, Vicomtesse,' he said. 'Sometimes people who've been taking drugs have hearts which aren't very strong, and it's not wise to give them the mildest mixture of chloroform until their heart is slightly stimulated. Therefore, I took pains to ensure that you should be in a right condition to receive what I have prepared for you. With regard to your destination, you're going to the house of a friend of mine—a nursing-home. You'll stay there until I say you shall come out.'
Her eyes flashed in the darkness.
'I do not like this joke, M'sieu,' she said.
'I don't, particularly,' said Duplessis, 'but it's a necessary one. Keep quite still, Vicomtesse.'
His left arm went about her shoulders, holding her as in a vice. With his right hand he pressed the chloroform pad over her nose. For a second she struggled—then sank back in the corner of the cab, a limp figure. Duplessis put the pad in his pocket. Then he put his head out of the window.
'Step on it!' he told the driver.
Twenty minutes later two white-coated porters received the inanimate form of Anne de Guerrac, and, as the doors of the private hospital closed behind her, Duplessis jumped back into the cab and drove to the nearest garage. Whilst they were getting ready the car which he ordered, Duplessis telephoned Le Clerq, telling him where he was.
'Come right along, J.L.,' he said. 'I've got the biggest story for you that your papers ever ran, but we've got to get down to Birchgate quickly before the police start spilling the beans to any odd pressmen who may get wind that there's something afoot. Be quick.'
As they sped through the night air in silence, Duplessis pieced together the pieces in his jigsaw puzzle. He could only guess the beginning, although he knew the end. But he could imagine the scene in Paris; he could imagine the sinister figure of Vowles sneaking round the back streets of Montmartre and Montparnasse. He could visualise the pathetic figure of Nirac, the man of business; of Dupont, the unfortunate little journeyman tailor whom fate had swept into this strange net. The wealth of Ragosin did not save him. But, now, at least, Baourdat was saved. Fate had been good to Baourdat.
