The End of Her Honeymoon by Marie Belloc Lowndes (books to read now .TXT) 📕

I forget half the time that the tube is there! Picot? Please send me the dossier of an artist-painter called John Dampier,” he spelt the names. “English subject; living in Impasse des Nonnes. I have an impression that we have had that name before us during the last week or so—Have you any recollection of it?”

He put the tube to his ear.

And then the American Senator, looking at the Paris Prefect of Police, was struck by a sudden change which came over the listener’s face. There gathered on Monsieur Beaucourt’s features a look of quick surprise, followed—yes, unmistakably—by a frown of dismay.

Putting his free hand over the tube, he withdrew it from his ear and applied it to his lips. “Yes, yes,” he said rapidly, “enough, enough! I quite understand. It is, as you say, very natural that I should have forgotten.”

And then he looked quickly across at the Senator. “You are right, Monsieur le Sénateur: Mr. Dampier’s name was put before me only yesterday as that of an Englishman who had disappeared from his hotel. But I took him to be a passing visitor. You know quite a number of the tourists brought by the Exhibition disappear, sometimes for two or three days—sometimes—well, for ever! That, of course, means they have left Paris suddenly, having got into what the English call a ‘scrape.’ In such a case a man generally thinks it better to go home—wiser if sadder than when he came.”

There followed a pause.

“Well, Monsieur le Sénateur,” said the Prefect, rising from his chair. “You may rest assured that I will do everything that is in my power to find your friend.”

“But the dossier?” exclaimed Senator Burton. “I thought, Monsieur le Préfet, that I was to see Mr. Dampier’s dossier?”

“Oh, to be sure—yes! I beg your pardon.”

Again he whistled down the tube. “Picot?” he exclaimed, “I still require that dossier! Why am I kept waiting in this way?”

He listened for a few moments to what his invisible subordinate had to say, and then again he spoke down the funnel, and with a certain pettish impatience. “The last entry is of no importance—understand me—no importance at all! The gentleman for whose benefit I require the dossier already knows of this Mr. Dampier’s disappearance.”

A moment later a clerk knocked at the door, and appeared with a blue envelope which he laid with a deep bow on the Prefect’s table.

It was not a very large envelope, and yet Senator Burton was surprised at its size, and at the number of slips of paper the Prefect of Police withdrew from it.

“I do not suppose, Monsieur le Sénateur, that you have ever seen one of our dossiers—in fact I may tell you that very few people outside this building ever do see one. By the way, a great deal of nonsense is talked about them. Roughly speaking, a dossier is not a history of the individual in question; it simply records what is being said of him. For instance, the day that I became Prefect of Police my dossier was brought to me—”

He smiled wearily.

“Your dossier?” repeated the Senator in amazement.

“Yes, my dossier. I have had it bound, and I keep it as a curiosity. Everything that had ever been written about me in the days when I was a Member of the Chamber of Deputies is there. And what really made me feel angry was the fact that I had been confused with more than one of my namesakes, in fact certain misdeeds that these worthy folk had committed were actually registered in my dossier!”

He stopped speaking for a moment, and took up the blue envelope.

“But now let us consider this Mr. John Dampier. You will see that he bears the number ‘16909,’ and that his envelope is blue. Had this gentleman ever had anything to do with the police, were he, to put it plainly, of the criminal class, this envelope would be yellow. As for the white envelopes, they, Monsieur le Sénateur, have to deal with a very different sort of individual. We class them briefly under the general word ‘Morals.’”

As he spoke the Prefect was looking swiftly through the Dampier dossier, and not till he had glanced at every item did he hand the envelope to his American visitor.

Senator Burton could not but admire the intelligent way the dossier had been prepared, and kept up to date.

On the top sheet were carefully gummed various entries from the biographical dictionaries in which mention was made of John Dampier and his career. There followed a eulogistic newspaper article containing an account of the picture which had won the artist his Médaille d’Honneur at the Salon two years before. Then came a piece of foolscap headed “General remarks,” and here were written the following words:—“Lives quietly; is popular with his fellow artists; has few debts; does not frequent the British Colony.”

The Senator looked up quickly. “Well, there is not much to learn from this!” he said. And then, “I notice, Monsieur le Préfet, that there was another entry which has been removed.”

“Yes,” said the Prefect. “That last entry was only added the day before yesterday, and told of Monsieur Dampier’s disappearance. It is being written up now, Monsieur le Sénateur, with a note explaining your kind interest in him, and telling of your visit to-day.”

Senator Burton rose from his chair. He could not have told exactly why, but he had the impression that his courteous host had suddenly become anxious to get rid of him.

But this impression was evidently erroneous. Even after they had cordially shaken hands, the Prefect of Police seemed in no hurry to let him go.

“One moment, Monsieur le Sénateur?” he looked earnestly into the American’s frank face. “I feel bound to tell you that I am convinced there is more in this mysterious disappearance than appears on the surface. I fear—I greatly fear—that this Mr. Dampier has vanished of his own free will,” he spoke with evident reluctance, “and that his poor young wife will never see him again. As I think I said before, the public, especially the vulgar, ignorant public, credit us with powers we are far from possessing. It is possible that this gentleman does not care for the trammels of married life, and that his bride, however charming she may be, has disappointed him. Such cases are commoner than you might think possible, especially among English and American people. You, in your country, if you will forgive my saying so, marry with such reckless haste; and that often means repenting at bitter leisure.” The Prefect’s voice lowered, a look of real distress came over his face. “Ah! what tales I could tell you—what fearful domestic tragedies have been confided to me here, within these four walls! No doubt for an artist this Mr. John Dampier was a very good fellow—what in England they call ‘respectable enough.’ But still, think what painters are like! Think of how Bohemian, how careless is their life, compared with that of the man who has a regular occupation—” Monsieur de Beaucourt shook his head gloomily—“In most of these stories of sudden disappearance there is no crime, as the relations are so apt to think there is. No, Monsieur le Sénateur, there is simply—a woman! Sometimes it is a new friend—but far oftener it is an old friend.”

There was a pause. “God forbid,” said the Prefect suddenly, “that I should accuse this unfortunate man of anything heinous! But—but, Monsieur le Sénateur? You must have learnt through our Press, through those of our newspapers which delight in dragging family scandals to light, the amazing story of Count Bréville.”

The Senator was impressed, in spite of himself, by the other’s manner.

“I don’t remember the name,” he said thoughtfully.

“Count Bréville,” said the Prefect slowly, “was a man of deservedly high reputation, in fact one of the pillars of the Royalist party. He had a wife who adored him, a large family whom he adored, and they all lived an idyllic country life. Well, one day the Count’s coat, his hat, his pocket-book (which was known to have been full of bank-notes, but which was now empty) were found on the parapet of a bridge near his château. It was given out—it was believed that a dastardly crime had been committed. And then, by a mere accident, it was brought to my notice—for there was nothing in the Count’s dossier which could have led me to suspect such a thing—that a charming governess who had been in the employment of his Countess for some four or five years had suddenly left to join her family in the New World, and that her travelling companion was strangely like her late employer!”

“Yes,” said Senator Burton uncomfortably, “I think I do remember something of that story now.”

“All the world was let into the secret,” said the Prefect regretfully, “for the family had confided, from the first, in the Press. They thought—what did they not think, poor, foolish people? Among other things they actually believed that the Count had been murdered for political reasons. But no, the explanation was far more simple. That high-minded man, that Christian gentleman, this father of charming children whom he apparently adored, had gone off under a false name, leaving everything that was dear to him, including his large fortune, to throw in his lot with the governess!”

The Prefect came closer to Senator Burton. He even lowered his voice. “I had the Countess here, Monsieur le Sénateur, in this room. Oh, what a touching, what a moving interview! The poor woman was only anxious to have back her husband with no questions asked, with no cruel reminders. And now he is back—a broken man. But had he been an artist, Monsieur le Sénateur, would the Count have been traced? Of course not! Would he have returned? No, indeed! The Prefect of Police can do many things, Monsieur le Sénateur, but as I said just now, he cannot force an unwilling husband back to his wife, especially if that husband has already crossed the frontier. Come, Monsieur le Sénateur, confess that some such explanation of Mr. Dampier’s disappearance has already occurred to you?”

“Well,” said Senator Burton slowly, “I confess that some such thought has crossed my mind. But in that case what a tragic fate for the poor young wife!”

“Bah! Do you know the saying:—‘Widowhood is the Marshal’s bâton every woman carries in her knapsack!’”

Senator Burton could not help smiling. Then he grew very grave. “But Mrs. Dampier, in the case you suppose, would not be a widow, Monsieur le Préfet: she would be neither maid, wife, nor widow.”

The Prefect looked surprised. “Ah yes! The English divorce laws are very conservative. But I suppose in the end such a marriage would be annulled?”

“I suppose so,” said Senator Burton indifferently.

“I wish I could help you more,” said the Prefect solicitously. He really wished he could, for he liked his kindly visitor. “Can you suggest anything that we could do to help you?”

“Yes,” said the Senator frankly. “My son, Monsieur le Préfet, has not the same trust in the hotel-keeper, Poulain, that I feel. Neither, I am bound to tell you, has Mrs. Dampier. I think it would be a relief to the poor young lady, if the hotel could be searched for some trace of Mr. Dampier’s sojourn there. You see Mrs. Dampier is convinced—or seems to be—that her husband spent a night there.”

“Nothing is easier than to have the place searched,” said the Prefect quickly. “I will arrange for it to be done to-morrow morning at eleven. Perhaps you, Monsieur le Sénateur, will inform the hotel people that a Perquisition is about to take place.”