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

“Yes, on the Tuesday.”

“And it was on the Friday morning M. Boirac returned?”

“That is so, monsieur.”

Lefarge rose.

“A thousand thanks, monsieur. I am very grateful to you for saving me a long wait.”

He left the office and, walking to the Simplon station of the Metropolitaine, took the train for the centre of the town. He was pleased with his progress. As in the earlier stages of the inquiry, information was coming in rapidly. At first he was inclined to think he had already got enough to confirm the first portion of Boirac’s statement, then his training reasserted itself, and he decided to go back to the house in the Avenue de l’Alma, and if possible get François’ corroboration. He therefore alighted at Châtelet and took the Maillot train to Alma, walking down the Avenue.

“Ah, M. François,” he began, when the butler opened the door. “Here I am back to trouble you again. Can you spare me a couple of minutes?”

“Certainly, monsieur. Come in.”

They went to the same small sitting-room and Lefarge produced his Brazilian cigarettes.

“How do you like them?” he asked, as the butler helped himself. “Some people think they’re too strong, but they suit me down to the ground. Like strong whiffs, only without the cigar flavour. I won’t keep you a moment. It’s just about that bag of M. Boirac’s you took to the Gare du Nord last Tuesday. Tell me, were you followed to the station?”

“Followed, monsieur? I? Why no, certainly not. At least not that I know of.”

“Well, did you observe at the left luggage office a rather tall man, dressed in gray and with a red beard?”

“No,” he answered, “I saw no one answering to the description.”

“At what hour did you leave the bag in?”

“About 3:30, monsieur.”

Lefarge affected to consider.

“Perhaps it’s my mistake,” he said at last. “It was on Tuesday, wasn’t it?”

“On Tuesday. Yes, monsieur.”

“And M. Boirac sent his telephone call about two, did he not? I think he said about two.”

“It was later, monsieur. It was nearer three. But, monsieur, you fill me with curiosity. How, if I may ask, did you know I took Monsieur’s bag to the station?”

“He told me last night. He happened to mention he had unexpectedly gone to Belgium, and that you had taken his bag to the left luggage office.”

“And the man with the red beard?”

Lefarge, having got his information, was not much troubled to justify his little ruse.

“One of our detectives. He has been on a case of theft of valuable luggage. I wondered if you had seen him. By the way, did M. Boirac bring back the bag with him? It wasn’t stolen?”

Lefarge smiled, and the butler, politely presuming this was meant for a joke, smiled also.

“It was not stolen, monsieur. He brought it back all right.”

So far so good. M. Boirac had then, beyond any doubt or question, telephoned about 2:45 on Tuesday and had instructed the butler to take his bag to the Gare du Nord, as he had said. Further, he had called there himself and got the bag. So much was certain. But the statement he made of his movements on Sunday and Monday, and the unpacking of the cask on Monday night still remained to be tested. Lefarge spoke again:⁠—

“While I’m here, M. François, I wonder would you mind checking one or two dates for my report?” He pulled out his notebook. “I will read out and perhaps you would please say if the items are correct. Saturday, 27th March, the day of the dinner-party.”

“Correct, monsieur.”

“Sunday, 28th, nothing special occurred. M. Boirac unpacked the cask in the evening.”

“That’s not right, monsieur. It was on Monday the cask was unpacked.”

“Ah, Monday.” Lefarge pretended to correct his notes. “Monday evening, of course. M. Boirac was at home on Sunday night, but he did not unpack it till Monday. That’s right, I think?”

“That’s right.”

“Then on Tuesday he went to Belgium, and returned home on Thursday evening?”

“Correct, monsieur.”

“Thanks very much. I’m glad you noticed that slip. I’ve got it right now, I think.”

He remained conversing for a few minutes, making himself agreeable to the old man and telling him some of the adventures he had met with during his career. The more he saw of François, the more he came to respect him, and he felt increasingly certain the old man’s statement was to be believed and that he would not lend himself to anything dishonourable.

As if to balance the successes of the morning, during the whole of the afternoon Lefarge drew blank. After leaving the house in the Avenue de l’Alma, he questioned the clerks in the left luggage office at the Gare du Nord. Here he could get no information at all. No one remembered François putting in the bag, nor Boirac claiming it, nor could any record of the bag itself be turned up. Again, in the Place de la Bastille, where he spent some hours interviewing the waiters in the various restaurants, both in the Place itself and close by in the diverging streets, no better luck attended his efforts. He could find no trace of Boirac’s having dined in any of them.

All the same, he was well satisfied with his day’s work. The information he had got was definite and valuable, in fact, he thought it conclusively established the truth of Boirac’s statement, at least in as far as Tuesday was concerned. If he could do as well in connection with the Wednesday and Thursday, he thought the manufacturer’s alibi would stand, and his innocence of the murder must then be admitted.

To carry on the inquiry, he would have to visit Brussels, and he accordingly telephoned to the Gare du Nord engaging a berth on the 11:20 p.m. sleeping car train that night. Then, after calling up the Sûreté, he turned his steps homewards to dine and have a rest till it was time to start.

He made a comfortable journey, and, having breakfasted in one of the cafés in the Place du Nord in Brussels, took an early train to Malines. He presented himself at the post office and