Wimsey 009 - The Nine Tailors

  “You suppose? You do not know? You have had no letter from him?”

  “No, monsieur.”

  “That is strange. What took him to Dixmude?”

  “Monsieur, he had taken the notion that his family lived perhaps at Dixmude. You know, without doubt, that he had lost his memory. Eh, bien! in December, one day, he said to me, ‘Suzanne, put a record on the gramophone.’ I put on the record of a great diseuse, reciting Le Carillon, poem of Verhaeren, to music. C’est un morceau très impressionnant. At that moment, filled with emotion where the carillons are named turn by turn, my husband cried out: ‘Dixmude! there is then a town of Dixmude in Belgium?’ ‘But certainly,’ I replied. He said, ‘But that name says something to me! I am convinced, Suzanne, that I have a beloved mother residing in Dixmude. I shall not rest till I have gone to Belgium to make inquiries about this dear mother.’ M. le commissaire, he would listen to nothing. He went away, taking with him our small savings, and since that time I have heard nothing from him.”

  “Histoire très touchante,” said the commissaire, drily. “You have my sympathy, madame. But I cannot understand that your husband should be a Belgian. There were no Belgian troops engaged at the third Battle of the Marne.”

  “Nevertheless, monsieur, his father may have married a Belgian. He may have Belgian relations.”

  “C’est vrai. He left you no address?”

  “None, monsieur. He said he would write on his arrival.”

  “Ah! And he departed how? By the train?”

  “Oh, yes, monsieur.”

  “And you have made no inquiries? From the mayor of Dixmude, for example?”

  “Monsieur, you understand that I was sufficiently embarrassed. I did not know where to begin with such an inquiry.”

  “Nor of us, the police, who exist for that? You did not address yourself to us?”

  “M. le commissaire, I did not know—I could not imagine—I told myself every day, ‘To-morrow he will write,’ and I waited, et enfin—”

  “Et enfin—it did not occur to you to inform yourself. C’est bien remarquable. What gave you the idea that your husband was in England?”

  “In England, monsieur?”

  “In England, madame. You wrote to him under the name of Paul Taylor, did you not? At the town of Valbesch in the county of Laincollone?” The commissaire excelled himself in the rendering of these barbarian place-names. “At Valbesch in Laincollone you address yourself to him in the name of Paul Taylor—voyons, madame, voyons, and you tell me now that you suppose him to be all the time in Belgium. You will not deny your own handwriting, I suppose? Or the names of your two children? Or the death of the red cow? You do not imagine that you can resurrect the cow?”

  “Monsieur—”

  “Come, madame. During all these years you have been lying to the police, have you not? You knew very well that your husband was not a Belgian but an Englishman? That his name was actually Paul Taylor? That he had not lost his memory at all? Ah! you think that you can trifle with the police in that way? I assure you, madame, that you will find it a serious matter. You have falsified papers, that is a crime!”

  “Monsieur, monsieur—”

  “That is your letter?”

  “Monsieur, since you have found it, I cannot deny it. But—”

  “Good, you admit the letter. Now, what is this about falling into the hands of the military authorities?”

  I do not know, monsieur. My husband—monsieur, I implore you to tell me, where is my husband?”

  The commissaire Rozier paused, and glanced at Wimsey, who said:

  “Madame, we are greatly afraid that your husband is dead.”

  “Ah, mon dieu! je le savais bien. If he had been alive, he would have written to me.”

  “If you will help us by telling us the truth about your husband, we may be able to identify him.”

  The woman stood looking from one to the other. At last she turned to Wimsey. “You, milord, you are not laying a trap for me? You are sure that my husband is dead?”

  “Come, come,” said the commissaire, “that makes no difference. You must tell the truth, or it will be the worse for you.”

  Wimsey took out of the attaché case which he had brought with him the underclothing which had been found upon the corpse. “Madame,” he said, “we do not know whether the man who wore these is your husband, but on my honour, the man who wore these is dead and they were taken from his body.”

  Suzanne Legros turned the garments over, her work-hardened fingers slowly tracing each patch and darn. Then, as though the sight of them had broken down something in her, she dropped into a chair and laid her head down on the mended vest and burst into loud weeping.

  “You recognise the garments?” asked the commissaire presently, in a milder tone.

  “Yes, they are his, I mended these garments myself. I understand that he is dead.”

  “In that case,” said Wimsey, “you can do him no harm by speaking.”

  When Suzanne Legros had recovered herself a little, she made her statement, the commissaire calling in his attendant gendarme to take a shorthand note of it.

  “It is true that my husband was not a Frenchman or a Belgian. He was an Englishman. But it is true also that he was wounded in the retreat of 1918. He came to the farm one night. He had lost much blood and was exhausted. Also his nerves were shattered, but it is not true that he had lost his memory. He implored me to help him and to hide him because he did not want to fight any more. I nursed him till he was well and then we arranged what we should say.”

  “It was shameful, madame, to harbour a deserter.”

  “I acknowledge it, monsieur, but consider my position. My father was dead, my two brothers killed, and I had no one to help me with the farm. Jean-Marie Picard, that was to have married me, was dead also. There were so few men left in France, and the War had gone on so long. And also, monsieur, I grew to love Jean. And his nerves were greatly deranged. He could not face any more fighting.”

  “He should have reported to his unit and applied for sick leave,” said Wimsey. “But then,” said Suzanne, simply, “they would have sent him back to England and separated us. And besides, the English are very strict. They might have thought him a coward and shot him.”

  “It appears, at least, that he made you think so,” said Monsieur Rozier.

  “Yes, monsieur. I thought so and he thought so too. So we arranged that he should pretend to have lost his memory,’ and since his French accent was not good, we decided to make out that his speech was affected by his injury. And I burnt his uniform and papers in the copper.”

  “Who invented the story—you or he?”

  “He did, monsieur. He was very clever. He thought of everything.”

  “And the name also?”

  “The name also.”

  “And what was his real name?”

  She hesitated. “His papers were burnt, and he never told me anything about himself.”

  “You do not know his name. Was it then not Taylor?”

  “No, monsieur. He adopted that name when he went back to England.”

  “Ah! and what did he go to England for?”

  “Monsieur, we were very poor, and Jean said that he had property in England which could be disposed of for a good sum, if only he could get hold of it without making himself known. For, you see, if he were to reveal himself he would be shot as a deserter.”

  “But there was a general amnesty for deserters after the War.”

  “Not in England, monsieur.”

  “He told you that?” said Wimsey.

  “Yes, milord. So it was important that nobody should know him when he went to fetch the property. Also there were difficulties which he did not explain to me, about selling the goods—I do not know what they were—and for that he had to have the help of a friend. So he wrote to this friend and presently he received a reply.”

  “Have you that letter?”

  “No, monsieur. He burnt it without showing it t
o me. This friend asked him for something—I did not quite understand that, but it was some sort of guarantee, I think. Jean shut himself up in his room for several hours the next day to compose his answer to the letter, but he did not show that to me, either. Then the friend wrote back and said he could help him, but it would not do for Jean’s name to appear—neither his own name nor the name of Legros, you understand. So he chose the name of Paul Taylor, and he laughed very much when the idea came to him to call himself so. Then the friend sent him papers made out in the name of Paul Taylor, British subject. I saw those. There was a passport with a photograph; it was not very much like my husband, but he said they would not pay great attention to it. The beard was like his.”

  “Had your husband a beard when you first knew him?”

  “No, he was clean-shaven, like all the English. But of course, he grew his beard when he was ill. It altered him very much, because he had a small chin, and with the beard it looked bigger. Jean took with him no luggage; he said he would buy clothes in England, because then he would again look like an Englishman.”

  “And you know nothing of the nature of this property in England?”

  “Nothing whatever, monsieur.”

  “Was it land, securities, valuables?”

  “I know nothing about it, monsieur. I asked Jean often, but he would never tell me.”

  “And you expect us to believe that you do not know your husband’s real name?”

  Again the hesitation. Then:

  “No, monsieur, I do not know. It is true that I saw it upon his papers, but I burnt those and I do not now remember it. But I think it began with a C, and I should know it if I saw it again.”

  “Was it Cranton?” asked Wimsey.

  “No, I do not think it was that, but I cannot say what it was. As soon as he was able to speak at all, he told me to give him his papers, and I asked him then what his name was, because I could not pronounce it—it was English and difficult—and he said that he would not tell me his name then, but I could call him what I liked. So I called him Jean, which was the name of my fiancé, who was killed.”

  “I see,” said Wimsey. He hunted through his pocketbook and laid the official photograph of Cranton before her. “Is that your husband as you first knew him?”

  “No, milord. That is not my husband. It is not in the least like him.” Her face darkened. “You have deceived me. He is not dead and I have betrayed him.”

  “He is dead,” said Wimsey. “It is this man who is alive.”

  * * *

  “And now,” said Wimsey, “we are no nearer than before to a solution.”

  “Attendez, milord. She has not yet told all she knows. She does not trust us, and she is concealing the name. Only wait, and we shall find means to make her speak. She still thinks that her husband may be alive. But we shall convince her. We shall have this man traced. It is some months old, the trail, but it will not be too difficult. That he started from here by train to go to Belgium I already know, by my inquiries. When he sailed for England, it was doubtless from Ostend—unless, voyons, milord, what resources could this man command?”

  “How can I tell? But we believe that this mysterious property had to do with an emerald necklace of many thousands of pounds value.”

  “Ah, voilà! It would be worth while to spend money, then. But this man, you say he is not the man you thought. If that other man was the thief, how does this one come into it?”

  “There is the difficulty. But look! There were two men concerned in the theft: one, a London cambrioleur, the other, a domestic servant. We do not know which of them had the jewels; it is a long story. But you heard that this Jean Legros wrote to a friend in England, and that friend may have been Cranton, the burglar. Now Legros cannot have been the servant who stole the jewels in the first place, for that man is dead. But before dying, the thief may have communicated to Legros the secret of where the emeralds are hidden, and also the name of Cranton. Legros then writes to Cranton and proposes a partnership to find the jewels. Cranton does not believe, and asks for proof that Legros really knows something. Legros sends a letter which satisfies Cranton, and Cranton in turn procures the necessary papers for Legros. Then Legros goes to England and meets Cranton. Together they go and discover the jewels. Then Cranton kills his confederate, so as to have all for himself. How is that, monsieur? For Cranton also has disappeared.”

  “It is very possible, milord. In that case, both the jewels and the murderer are in England—or wherever this Cranton may be. You think, then, that the other dead man, the servant, communicated the hiding-place of the necklace—to whom?”

  “Perhaps to some fellow-prisoner who was only in gaol for a short term.”

  “And why should he do that?”

  “In order that this fellow-prisoner should provide him with a means to escape. And the proof is that the servant did break prison and escape, and afterwards his dead body was found in a pit many miles from the prison.”

  “Aha! the affair begins to outline itself. And the servant—how did he come to be found dead? Eh?”

  “He is supposed to have fallen over the edge of the pit in the dark. But I begin to think that he was killed by Legros.”

  “Milord, our thoughts chime together. Because, voyez-vous, this story of desertion and military authorities will not hold water. There is more than a desertion behind this change of name and this fear of the British police. But if the man was an old gaol-bird, and had committed a murder into the bargain, the thing understands itself. Twice he changes his name, so that he shall not be traced even to France, because he, Legros, under his English name, had enlisted after his release from prison and the records of your Army might reveal him. Only, if he was in the Army, it is strange that he should have found the leisure to plan a prison-breaking for his comrade and commit murder. No, there are still difficulties, but the outline of the plot is clear and will develop itself more clearly still as we proceed. In the meanwhile, I will undertake inquiries here and in Belgium. I think, milord, we must not confine ourselves to the ordinary passenger-routes, or even to the ports. A motorboat might well make the journey to the coast of Laincollone. Your police, also, will make inquiries on their part. And when we have shown the progress of Legros from the front door of his house to his grave in England, then, I think, Mme. Suzanne will speak a little more. And now, milord, I beg you will honour us by sharing our dinner to-night. My wife is an excellent cook, if you will condescend to a cuisine bourgeoise garnished with a tolerable vin de Bourgogne. Monsieur Delavigne of the Sûreté informs me that you have the reputation of a gourmet, and it is only with a certain diffidence that I make the suggestion, but it would give Mme. Rozier unheard-of delight if you would give her the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”

  “Monsieur,” said Lord Peter, “I am infinitely obliged to you both.”

  THE SEVENTH PART

  PLAIN HUNTING

  First, Lucus Mortis; then Terra Tenebrosa; next, Tartarus; after that. Terra Oblivionis; then Herebus; then Barathrum; then Gehenna; and then Stagnum Ignis.

  SHERIDAN LEFANU: Wylder’s Hand.

  “Well,” said Superintendent Blundell, “if that’s how it is, we’ve got to find Cranton. But it’s a funny thing to me. From what they tell me, I wouldn’t have thought Cranton was the man for that sort of job. He’s never been suspected of killing anyone, and he never looked to me like a killer. And you know, my lord, that it’s very rare for one of them sort of smart burglars to go all off the rails and take to violence. What I mean, it isn’t in them, as a rule, if you get my meaning. It’s true he went for Deacon in the dock but that was more of a scrimmage, as you might say, and I don’t think he meant much harm. Supposing as it was the other chap that killed Cranton? He might have changed clothes with him to prevent identification.”

  “So he might. But what becomes of that old scar on the head? That seems to fit in with the body being this fellow they call Jean Legros. Unless Cranton had a scar too.”

  “He’
d no scar up to last September,” said the Superintendent, thoughtfully. “No, I reckon you’re right, and that won’t work. Some of the measurements seem a bit different, too—though of course, it’s not easy to be as accurate as all that when you’re comparing a live man with a four-months-old corpse. And there were so many teeth gone and busted from the corpse that we’ve not got much out of that, either. No, we’ve got to find Cranton. If he’s alive, he’s lying uncommon low. Looks as though he’d done something pretty bad—I give you that.”

  The conversation took place in the churchyard, where Mr. Blundell had been undertaking an exhaustive search for unspecified clues. The Superintendent thoughtfully decapitated a nettle, and resumed:

  “Then there’s that chap Will Thoday. I can’t make him out at all. I’ll swear he knows something—but what can he know? It’s as certain as anything can be that he was sick in bed when it all happened. He sticks to that, and says he knows nothing. What can you do with a man who says he knows nothing? Why, nothing. And as for his wife, she couldn’t have tied a man up and buried him. She’s not a powerful sort of woman by any means. And I’ve got hold of the children. It went against me to do it, but I did it all the same. And they say their Mother and Dad were both in the house all night. There’s one other person might know something, and that’s James Thoday. Look here, my lord, here’s a queer thing. James Thoday left Fenchurch St. Paul on January 4th, early in the morning, to join his ship. He was seen to go, all right—the station-master saw him. But he never got to Hull that day. I’ve been on to Lampson & Blake, and they say they had a wire from him to say he couldn’t get back in time, but would arrive on the Sunday night—which he did. Had some story of being taken suddenly ill—and they say he looked ill enough when he did arrive. I’ve told them to get in touch with him as quick as they can.”

  “Where was the wire sent from?”

  “London. From a post-office near Liverpool Street. About the time when the train Jim Thoday took at Dykesey would get up there. Looks as though he’d been taken queer on the way up.”