Chapter SEVENTEEN

When Berthe sauntered in with the breakfast-tray Catherine was already partially dressed.

“Mademoiselle is up early,” declared the massive blonde with engaging candour.

She herself looked half asleep, her hair untouched by the comb.

“Ah, well, what it is to be energetic,” she sighed with a luxurious yawn and, craning her neck towards the mirror, examined a pimple on her chin. “As for me, I could have slept all day. My young man took me to the Pastry-cooks’ Ball in Montmartre. I have not danced so much since _Mi-Carême_, and my feet are so swollen I can’t get on my shoes. I daresay mademoiselle is fond of dancing?”

“Very,” replied Catherine, pouring her coffee.

Difficult as it was to resent Berthe’s placid familiarity, she was in no mood to encourage it this morning. However, the cook meandered on undisturbed.

“You are right. Enjoy yourself while you are young, I say, for when you are old, what man will look at you? That is what I am always preaching to Jeanne, but she--bah!--is all for being serious, and would die rather than spend a sou on a good dress. She will not even wear the beautiful clothes madame gives her, but sells them to the wardrobe dealers. Such stupidity! She might at least keep an occasional one for herself and make a decent appearance.” She paused, then added with a change of tone: “By the by, that is a nice frock mademoiselle had sent home the other day--the green and silver. It looks as though it had come from one of the Grandes Couturières. If mademoiselle tires of it, she might care to sell it to me.”

In spite of her preoccupation Catherine could not repress a smile at the thought of Berthe’s buxom form compressed into her slender garments.

“Certainly, Berthe--but I intend to wear it for a long time.”

“She’s a sober one and no mistake, that Jeanne,” continued Berthe, resuming her former theme. “Slave, slave, from morning till night, never a thought of pleasure. No doubt there will be a fine seat for her in heaven one day, but as for me, it is not of the hereafter I’m thinking! Nor Eduardo either, let me tell you,”--and she winked broadly. “He likes his bit of fun, though he has to be sly about it. It is she who wears the trousers in that _ménage_, and she keeps a tight rein on him, poor man!”

Impatient though she was to be rid of the chatterer, Catherine gleaned something from the random remarks. Whatever manœuvres Jeanne might be engaged in, she kept them well hidden from other eyes. Even to Berthe she was a model of rectitude.

As soon as she was alone she finished her breakfast hurriedly and went along to the study, passing no one on the way. Then, with the door closed and keeping her voice low, she rang up the Macadam office and asked to speak to Geoffrey. A second later the familiar accents answered her.

“Geoffrey--it’s I, Catherine. I want to see you at once. No, I can’t tell you what it’s about, but it’s important. Are you very busy?”

“Of course not. But you sound upset. Is anything wrong?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I must see you. I’ll be with you in half an hour.”

As she was about to ring off, her ear caught a faint but distinct click. Several times before she had heard that noise, which sounded like another receiver being replaced, but up till the present moment she had paid little attention to it. Now the idea came to her that some person might be listening-in to her conversation, perhaps close at hand.

Was there a second instrument in the apartment? She had never seen one, but she felt certain that formerly at least there must have been an extension, probably in her cousin’s bedroom. She walked back to her own quarters, filled with a fresh apprehension. If someone had taken the trouble to listen, that meant that her movements were regarded with suspicion. Only how could she make sure?

As she passed the corner bedroom, until recently Mme. Bender’s own, the door opened and Jeanne came out. Something in her face told the girl that her surmise was correct. Thank goodness she had said nothing definite, for she was sure the woman had overheard every word. The maid must have seen her go into the study, and had hastened to eavesdrop, as no doubt she had done on other occasions.

Returning after putting on her coat and hat, she tried the bedroom door, to find it locked. Yes, she was right. There was surely another telephone in there. In future she must not forget the fact.

Much as she now dreaded the moments spent with her cousin, she nerved herself to go and say good morning, partly to keep up the illusion that nothing was altered between them, and partly to make the inquiry about the safety-deposit key, a matter she felt must not be neglected. Now that she was going to report to Geoffrey, she wanted to tell him as much as possible.

Mme. Bender was alone, propped against pillows, her face shadowed by the white bed-curtains. After a single timid glance of reproach she averted her eyes so pointedly that Catherine, cut to the heart, found it hard to proceed. Yet in pursuance of her policy she ignored the tacit rebuff, making her usual inquiries as cheerfully as she could.

Presently she broached the difficult subject.

“By the way, Germaine,” she ventured, “Mr. Macadam wanted me to find out if the bank had sent you the key you asked for. Did it reach you safely?”

She was met by an uncomprehending stare.

“Key?” faltered the poor woman in a puzzled tone.

“Yes--don’t you remember? It was some weeks ago, I think. You lost the key to your safety-deposit, and had a duplicate made.”

There was no mistaking the blankness of the bewildered gaze.

“Did I? I--I don’t know. I can’t seem to recall. I--perhaps you are right.…”

The muddled brain was making an effort to capture an elusive memory. Catherine took pity on its confusion.

“Why not ask Jeanne? She will know,” she suggested casually. At the same time she was perfectly sure that this was the first time Germaine had heard the matter mentioned.

“Jeanne--yes. That is a good idea,” assented the invalid with obvious reluctance. “I will speak to her. She----”

But at that moment the ever-watchful maid appeared in the doorway. Without a glance at Catherine she went at once to the chest of drawers and, picking up a tortoiseshell box, rattled it crossly.

“_Le voilà, madame!_” she exclaimed in annoyance. “What is all this fuss about? Have you so soon forgotten the trouble you put me to, turning out everything to search for that wretched key? You mislaid it, and sent me to get another made. There! You see?”--and she produced the small object, tied with pink tape, and dangled it accusingly before the fascinated eyes of her mistress. “It came by special messenger from the bank. Is it possible you have no recollection of it?”

Mme. Bender gazed as though hypnotized.

“How stupid I am,” she apologized weakly. “Of course--it all comes back to me.”

But the maid was not content. Shaking her head as one might at a tiresome child, she spoke with exasperated patience.

“Really it is too much!” she scolded. “You would forget your head, if it were not fastened to your shoulders! And you try to tell me your memory is improving!”

Replacing the box with a shrug, she went out, leaving the patient overcome with shame.

Indignation swept over Catherine. Jeanne might or might not be telling the truth--it was impossible to say--but the manner in which she had put the poor woman in the wrong called only for condemnation. While she was wondering what she could say to relieve matters, she caught a sudden piteous expression in her cousin’s eyes, which could have but one interpretation. It was the craving for affection.

For a second she hesitated, then with a swift impulse ran to the bedside and put her arms round the emaciated figure. For a second she fancied the embrace was faintly returned. Then she felt herself pushed away, and before she could ask the reason was dismayed utterly to find that Mme. Bender had burst into a flood of tears. There was no word of reproach, no explanation, but none was needed. That silent, miserable weeping told her plainly that any advance of hers was unwelcome. For once she was almost relieved when Jeanne reappeared and with a single glance took in the situation.

“Leave madame to me,” she said with her quick air of authority. “I am afraid, mademoiselle, you can do little for her.”

The significant emphasis on the pronoun left nothing to the imagination. Catherine flushed and departed, a last glimpse of the room showing her the maid at the weeper’s side, ministering to her with prompt efficiency. Even as she tingled with resentment, the girl heard Germaine’s emotion subside under the influence of the cajoling voice, and told herself that Jeanne had done her work well. The unfortunate woman was firm in the belief that no one really cared for her except this single, humble companion.

Half an hour later in the office of Macadam Senior she sat facing the solicitors, father and son. Something severely sceptical in the older man’s bearing intimidated her, but, thrusting her fears aside, she set forth in as few words as possible the event of the night before.

“It is perfectly evident there is something afoot between those three,” she finished, her voice trembling a little from nervousness. “But what it is, or how it may affect Mme. Bender, I haven’t an idea. What do you make of it all?”

The senior partner, who had listened gravely, leaned back in his swivelled chair and thrust out his lower lip. He glanced at his son and drummed on the desk beside him.

“Would you mind repeating word for word, Miss West, exactly what you heard these people say?” he requested after a pause.

She did so.

“I could catch very little. Most of the time they were whispering.”

“And your impression was that this fellow, who appears to be their man of business, was put out with them over something, and that the dispute in some way related to the picture-gallery?”

“I was sure of that much. When the man was leaving he said, ‘Mind, this is the last time. Do this sort of thing again, and you will find yourself in the soup. Remember, I am the master here.’”

“That looks as though he had got wind of their tampering with the paintings, and was warning them not to continue.”

“Or else,” put in Geoffrey, “he had arranged that they were to dispose of certain things together, and had just discovered the servants were going ahead on their own.”

His father waved him aside.

“So far we can’t be sure that the woman was lying when she said that Bender sold the paintings himself. It is possible he did so.”

Catherine agreed doubtfully.

“You must realize, Miss West,” he went on, “that your own prejudice against these people does not constitute evidence of guilt. Before we can establish any case we shall have to get track of those missing pictures, discover the dates and circumstances of the sales, and so on. We can’t arrest the servants on suspicion. Exactly what paintings have disappeared?”

“The Manet is the only one I am sure about. Three more are gone, but I can’t say what they were. Then there is the Aubusson carpet, and all the tapestries off the furniture.”

Macadam made notes on a pad, then sat silent with wrinkled brow. The girl’s spirits sank as she watched him. Less imaginative than his son, he presented a familiar type of dry and hard lawyer, impeccably just, but difficult to impress. Her recital had left him so little moved that she began to wonder if she herself were not attaching undue importance to what had happened. Only the knowledge that Geoffrey did not discount her suspicions saved her from utter despondency.

“Do you think you can trace the pictures?” she inquired.

Macadam cleared his throat.

“I trust we can. We must get to work at once. If your cousin sold them, we may hope for quick results; otherwise the purchasers will not readily come forward, of that you may be sure. I take it you have not mentioned the affair to Mme. Bender herself?”

“No,” confessed the girl, more than ever ill at ease. “Besides, I doubt if she knows anything about them.”

“Still, unless her mind is entirely gone, she can’t be wholly unaware of anything so important as the disposal of a Manet.”

Catherine looked at Geoffrey.

“She refuses to trust her memory,” she said. “I had the most complete proof of that fact only this morning,”--and she went on to describe what had happened about the key. “I’m convinced she remembered nothing herself, but she was quite ready to accept Jeanne’s word for it.”

The old man glanced at his son in sharp inquiry.

“I asked Miss West to find out about the key the bank sent Mme. Bender. I admit I haven’t felt comfortable about it.”

“And you could swear that your relative had never heard of this matter?” demanded the solicitor.

“I can’t swear anything. I can only tell you my belief. That is the great trouble,” she added distractedly, “one can’t be absolutely sure of anything!”

Macadam looked annoyed, rubbing his unruly hair the wrong way. Finally he spoke:

“The position is this, Miss West. Unless Mme. Bender is certified as mentally incompetent, which I understand is not the case, then we have no authority to act for her. We cannot check her expenditures, nor enter her apartment to make any sort of investigation. As things are we can only hold a watching brief--not, I admit, a very satisfactory method of solving the difficulty.”

“I was afraid you’d say that,” replied Catherine despairingly. “And yet--this man, Blom. Can’t one get hold of him and find out what he’s up to?”

“As a matter of fact, Catherine,” Geoffrey put in, “I have been making some inquiries about him. I was only waiting for a chance to tell you.”

“You don’t mean it! What have you found out?” asked the girl eagerly.

“Nothing that’s the least use, I fear,” Geoffrey answered regretfully. “He appears to be a decent, hard-working fellow of unimpeachable reputation, though naturally that’s not final. We may yet discover something.”

“How?”

“Why, by employing a private agent to shadow him. It could be done.”

Macadam senior tapped the arm of his chair. Who did the boy think was going to defray the expense? Not the firm, certainly. Geoffrey had no difficulty in interpreting the disparaging silence.

“If it were proved that this person was defrauding her,” he said calmly, “Mme. Bender would be only too glad to bear the cost of an investigation.”

Macadam raised his brows, but said nothing. There was an awkward pause during which Catherine rose.

“Anyhow,” she said desperately, “something must be done to get that woman away. I am already pulling wires to remove her, but if my plan doesn’t succeed we must try something else.”

“You?” inquired Geoffrey, with sudden interest. “What have you been doing?”

“I’ve seen the doctor and have got him on our side. He’s going to insist on Jeanne’s taking a rest.”

Admiration shone in the younger man’s eyes.

“I say, that was clever of you!”

She blushed, less at his open praise than because of the shrewd look directed at her from beneath the old man’s bushy brows.

“Miss Cushing went with me. She feels about it just as I do.”

Macadam turned on her suddenly.

“Miss Cushing is in this?” he asked a little sharply. “Miss Cushing, the singing-teacher?”

She was disconcerted by the abruptness of the question, feeling vaguely that she had suddenly weakened her case, though she did not know why.

“Yes. She is an old friend of my cousin’s.”

She said good-bye hastily, relieved to find herself in the corridor with Geoffrey beside her.

“Your father makes me feel not only a fool but a mischief-maker!” she confided with a half-laugh. “Am I really being stupid about all this?”

“Good God, no!”

He looked at her with concern. Although she had told her story with the utmost composure, it was easy to see that she was unnerved by last night’s experience.

“You mustn’t mind him,” he said quickly. “That manner of his is purely superficial. He means to take things in hand, never fear; but what is more to the point, I intend to have Blom shadowed. If there’s anything queer about him, we’ll run it to earth.”

“But you can’t do that,” she objected, recalling the elder man’s meaning silence.

“Of course I can. We’ll discuss details later. Meanwhile, keep in mind what I said yesterday, that as long as these rogues are profiting by your cousin’s condition she can’t possibly come to serious harm. I say--what about lunching with me on Sunday? By that time I may have something to report.”

She assented with a grateful look. It was comforting to know that she could rely upon his help, that he took a really personal interest in her difficulties. The memory of his shy and steady grey eyes dwelt with her reassuringly as the descending lift hid him from sight.

Outside the American Express a woman passed her with rapid, nervous steps, and vanished into the building she had just quitted. With a start Catherine turned to look after the disappearing figure.

It was Jeanne herself.