The Cask by Freeman Wills Crofts (feel good novels .txt) 📕

a dull, toneless way, as if the struggle for existence had sapped away all her interest in life.

La Touche took out a five-franc piece and pushed it into her hand.

“You get hold of him for me,” he said, “I want this little job done and he could do it. It’ll get him into no trouble, and I’ll pay him well.”

The woman hesitated. Then, after a few seconds, she said:⁠—

“If I tell you where he is, will you give me away?”

“No, on my honour. We shall have found him by accident.”

“Come this way, then, monsieur.”

She led them down the stairs and out again into the dingy street. Passing along it like a furtive shadow she turned twice, then halted at the corner of a third street.

“Down there, monsieur,” she pointed. “You see that café with the coloured glass windows? He’ll be in there,” and without waiting for an acknowledgment she slipped away, vanishing silently into the gloom.

The two men pushed open the café door and entered a fairly large room dotted with small marble tables, with a bar in one corner and a dancing stage at the back. Seating themselves unostentatiously at a table near the door they called for drinks.

There were some fifteen or twenty men and a few women in the place, some reading the papers, some playing dominoes, but most lounging in groups and talking. As La Touche’s keen eye ran over the faces, he soon spotted his man.

“Is that he, Charcot?” he asked, pointing to a small, unhealthy looking fellow, with a short, untidy, white beard and moustache.

The porter looked cautiously. Then he assented eagerly.

“It’s the man, monsieur, I believe. The beard changes him a bit, but I’m nearly sure it’s he.”

The suspect was one of those on the outskirts of a group, to whom a stout, fussy man with a large nose was holding forth on some socialistic subject. La Touche crossed over and touched the white-haired man on the arm.

“M. Jean Dubois?”

The man started and an expression of fear came into his eyes. But he answered civilly enough.

“Yes, monsieur. But I don’t know you.”

“My name is La Touche. I want a word or two with you. Will you have a drink with me and my friend here?”

He indicated the porter, Charcot, and they moved over. The fear had left Dubois’s eyes, but he still looked uneasy. In silence they sat down.

“Now Dubois, what will you take?”

When the carter’s wants were supplied, La Touche bent towards him and began speaking in a low tone:⁠—

“I dare say, Dubois, you already guess what I want, and I wish to say before anything else that you have nothing to fear if you are straight with me. On the contrary, I will give you one hundred francs if you answer my questions truly. If not⁠—well, I am connected with the police, and we’ll become better acquainted.”

Dubois moved uneasily as he stammered:⁠—

“I don’t know what you mean, monsieur.”

“So that there shall be no mistake, I shall tell you. I want to know who it was engaged you to take the cask to the rue Cardinet goods station.”

La Touche, who was watching the other intently, saw him start, while his face paled and the look of fear returned to his eyes. It was evident he understood the question. That involuntary motion had given him away.

“I assure you, monsieur, I don’t know what you mean. What cask are you referring to?”

La Touche bent closer.

“Tell me, do you know what was in that cask? No? Well, I’ll tell you. There was a body in it⁠—the body of a woman⁠—a murdered woman. Did you not guess that from the papers? Did you not realise that the cask you carried to the station was the one that all the papers have been full of? Now, do you want to be arrested as an accessory after the fact in a murder case?”

The man was ghastly, and beads of perspiration stood on his forehead. In a trembling voice he began again to protest his ignorance. La Touche cut him short.

“Chut, man! You needn’t keep it up. Your part in the thing is known, and if it wasn’t you would soon give it away. Dubois, you haven’t red enough blood for this kind of thing! Be guided by me. Make a clean breast of it, and I’ll give you the hundred francs, and, what’s more, I’ll do my best to help you out of your trouble with your employers. If you don’t, you’ll have to come along now to the Sûreté. Make up your mind quickly what you’re going to do.”

The man, evidently panic stricken, remained silent. La Touche took out his watch.

“I’ll give you five minutes,” he said, and, leaning back in his chair, he lit a cigar.

Before the time was up the man spoke.

“If I tell you everything will you not arrest me?” His fright was pitiable.

“Certainly not. I don’t want to do you any harm. If you give me the information you go free with a hundred francs in your pocket. But if you try to deceive me, you can explain your position tomorrow to the examining magistrate.”

The bluff had its effect.

“I’ll tell you, monsieur. I’ll tell you the whole truth.”

“Good,” said La Touche, “then we had better move to a more private place. We’ll go to my hotel, and you, Charcot”⁠—he turned to the porter⁠—“get away back to the rue de Lyon and tell M. Mallet and your friend the man’s found. Here’s what I owe you and a trifle more.”

Charcot bowed and vanished, while La Touche and the carter, getting out into one of the larger streets, drove to the rue de la Fayette.

“Now, Dubois,” said the detective, when they were seated in his room.

“I’m going to tell you the gospel truth, monsieur,” began the carter, and from his earnest, anxious manner La Touche believed him. “And I’m not going to deny that I was in the wrong, even if I do get the sack over it. But I was fair tempted, and I thought it