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

casks. How did you come to notice this one so specially?”

“Ah, monsieur,” replied one of the men, “had monsieur had to lift it himself he also would have noticed it. The weight was remarkable, extraordinary. The shape also was peculiar. In the middle there was no bulge.”

“At what time did it arrive here?”

“Just after six in the evening, monsieur, between five and ten minutes past.”

“It is a good while since then. How do you come to remember the time so exactly?”

“Because, monsieur,” the man smiled, “we were going off duty at half-past six, and we were watching the time.”

“Can you tell me who brought it to the yard?”

The men shrugged their shoulders.

“Alas! monsieur, we do not know,” the spokesman answered. “The carter we would recognise if we saw him again, but neither of us know where he lives nor the name of his employers.”

“Can you describe him?”

“But certainly, monsieur. He was a small man, thin and sickly looking, with white hair and a clean-shaven face.

“Well, keep a good lookout, and if you see him again find out who he is and let me know. Here is my address. If you do that there will be fifty francs for you.”

Lefarge handed over a couple of five-franc pieces and the detectives left, followed by the promises and thanks of the men.

“I suppose an advertisement for the carter is the next scheme,” said Burnley, as they walked back in the Clichy direction.

“We had better report to headquarters, I think,” replied Lefarge, “and see what the Chief advises. If he approves, we might get our advertisement into tonight’s papers.”

Burnley agreed, and when they had had some lunch they rang up the Sûreté from the nearest call office.

“That Lefarge?” was the answer. “The Chief wants you to return immediately. He’s got some news.”

They took the Metro from Clichy to Châtelet and reached the Sûreté as the clocks were striking two. M. Chauvet was in.

“Ah,” he said, as they entered, “we’ve had a reply to the dress advertisement. Madame Clothilde’s people near the Palais Royal rang up about eleven saying they believed they had supplied the dress. We got hold of Mlle. Lecoq, who was working it, and sent her over, and she returned here about an hour ago. The dress was sold in February to Madame Annette Boirac, at the corner of Avenue de l’Alma and rue St. Jean, not far from the American Church. You’d better go round there now and make some inquiries.”

“Yes, monsieur,” said Lefarge, “but before we go there is this question of the cask,” and he told what they had learned, and suggested the advertisement about the carter.

M. Chauvet had just begun his reply when a knock came to the door and a boy entered with a card.

“The gentleman’s waiting to see you on urgent business monsieur,” he said.

“Hallo!” said the Chief, with a gesture of surprise. “Listen to this.” He read out the words, “ ‘M. Raoul Boirac, rue St. Jean, 1, Avenue de l’Alma.’ This will be Mme. Annette B.’s husband, I presume. These advertisements are doing well. You had better stop, both of you,” and then to the boy, “Wait a moment.”

He picked up the telephone, pressing one of the buttons on the stand.

“Send Mlle. Joubert here immediately.”

In a few moments a girl stenographer entered. M. Chauvet pointed to a corner of the room where Burnley had noticed a screen, set back as if to be out of the way.

“I want every word of this conversation, mademoiselle,” said the Chief. “Please be careful to miss none of it, and also to keep quiet.”

The girl bowed and, having seen her settled behind the screen, the Chief turned to the messenger.

“I’ll see him now.”

In a few seconds M. Boirac entered the room. He was a strongly built man of rather under middle age, with thick black hair and a large moustache. On his face was an expression of strain, as if he was passing through a period of acute bodily or mental pain. He was dressed entirely in black and his manner was quiet and repressed.

He looked round the room and then, as M. Chauvet rose to greet him, he bowed ceremoniously.

“M. le Chef de la Sûreté?” he asked, and, as M. Chauvet bowed him to a chair, continued⁠—

“I have called to see you, monsieur, on a very painful matter. I had hoped to have been able to do so alone,” he paused slightly, “but these gentlemen, I presume, are completely in your confidence?” He spoke slowly with a deliberate pronunciation of each word, as if he had thought out whether that was the best possible he could use and had come to the conclusion that it was.

“If, monsieur,” returned M. Chauvet, “your business is in connection with the recent unfortunate disappearance of your wife, these gentlemen are the officers who are in charge of the case, and their presence would be, I think, to the advantage of all of us.”

M. Boirac sprang from his chair, deep emotion showing under his iron control.

“Then it is she?” he asked, in a suppressed voice. “You know? It seemed possible from the advertisement, but I wasn’t sure. I hoped⁠—that perhaps⁠—There is no doubt, I suppose?”

“I shall tell you all we know, M. Boirac, and you can form your own conclusions. First, here is a photograph of the body found.”

M. Boirac took the slip of card and looked at it earnestly.

“It is she,” he murmured hoarsely, “it is she without a doubt.”

He paused, overcome, and, the others respecting his feelings, there was silence for some moments. Then with a strenuous effort he continued, speaking hardly above a whisper⁠—

“Tell me,” his voice shook as he pronounced the words with difficulty, “what makes her look so terrible? And those awful marks at her throat? What are they?”

“It is with the utmost regret I have to tell you, M. Boirac, that your wife was undoubtedly murdered by strangulation. Further, you must know that she had been dead several days when that photograph was taken.”

M. Boirac dropped into his chair, and sunk his head in his hands.

“My God!” he panted. “My poor Annette! Though I had