Chapter TWENTY

Meantime in the rue Auber investigations were going on with commendable thoroughness. Macadam himself telephoned to various well-known picture dealers to inquire first the approximate price a still-life of Manet was likely to fetch in the market, and second, whether at any recent time a Manet belonging to Harry Belmont Bender had passed through their hands. To the former question he received definite figures, quoted from sales, while the answer to the latter was an unequivocal negative. One of the dealers expressed surprise to learn that the painting had changed hands.

“Monsieur Bender made a number of deals through me,” he said. “In 1924 I sold a Renoir for him and got an excellent price for it. At the time he asked me to value his collection, including the Manet you speak of, and it was my impression that nothing was further from his thoughts than to part with it. As a matter of fact I made him an offer, which he refused.”

The dealer went on to say that if M. Bender’s widow had disposed of the picture she must have done so with extraordinary secrecy, for when a work of so great importance changed owners all the world of art connoisseurs got to know about it. As to the possibility of its having left the country, it was rare nowadays that such a thing could happen without being found out. The port authorities were exceedingly strict. Occasionally some canvas slipped through, but each year it became increasingly difficult.

Macadam hung up the receiver and scratched his ear thoughtfully. It began to look as though there were something in the American girl’s story after all, though he must not jump at conclusions. He had yet to hear the junior clerk’s report following his perusal of certain files, and there remained the study of his late client’s pass-book, about which he had written to the bank. If any sum sufficiently large had been deposited during the weeks preceding Bender’s death, it would tell a different tale. However, for the present there was nothing more to be done.

He had no suspicion of the fact that his son was pursuing another line of inquiry, and if he had been aware of it would have censured him severely for quixotic conduct. However, the mysterious Blom was not altogether absent from his thoughts was proved by a remark he made to Geoffrey the following day.

“This notary fellow,” he observed ruminatingly. “Thinking things over, it occurs to me there may be a fairly plausible explanation for his behaviour the other night.”

“What’s that?” inquired the young man sharply.

“Why, blackmail. He may have something on those servants which he’s using to force them to pay up. Have you thought of that?”

Geoffrey’s eyes gleamed.

“Then you admit they are thieves,” he replied shrewdly.

“I’m admitting nothing yet. I only say it’s a possible solution.” Whereupon he detailed for his son’s benefit the result of his conversations with the dealers.

Geoffrey listened with interest.

“Good!” he exclaimed. “I confess that’s what I expected. If you knew Cath--Miss West as well as I do, you’d know she’s not a girl to be easily deceived.”

“Be that as it may, we are still a long way from proving our case, and till we do so we can’t make any arrests. It’s a ticklish business prosecuting servants when their own employer regards them as perfect. We may not be thanked for our pains.”

Alone Geoffrey rejected the blackmail suggestion, holding firmly to his belief that Blom, engineering the thefts, had called his confederates to account for exceeding instructions. He had little doubt that the crafty Alsatian was under cover of his profession a secret _receleur_, and that the visit to Bordeaux was for the purpose of getting the stolen canvasses out of France.

Not till Saturday, however, did he hear from the inquiry agent, and meanwhile, though he was in frequent communication with Catherine, there was nothing to tell her. As soon as Bernard’s message reached him he hurried to the rue Blanche, hoping for news.

“I have made the young person’s acquaintance, monsieur,” his funereal friend informed him. “At first she was inclined to be off-hand and suspicious, but I have persuaded her to come out with me to a café to-morrow evening, and if things go well I may obtain some information from her.”

“How does she appear to regard Blom?” Geoffrey asked.

“Ah, that is difficult to say. But while she does not strike one as a young woman of deep feelings, I fancy she is a little vindictive. If so, she may lead us to the truth.”

On a sudden inspiration Geoffrey made a suggestion, to which the agent agreed.

“If you like, monsieur. There can be no harm in it. But mind, I do not promise anything startling.”

“Ten-thirty, then,” replied Geoffrey, and departed, tingling with anticipation.

Sunday broke warm and cloudless, a dazzling April day. The Bender salon, after the brilliance of outdoors, struck Geoffrey as more than ever depressing, but the girl who rose to greet him appeared the very incarnation of spring. She had put on a frock of _crêpe de Chine_ the colour of young leaves, while her oval face was framed by a small felt hat also delicate green. Round her throat lay the necklace of plaited gold which suited her so well, and her suede gloves matched in tone her slender lizard-skin pumps. The faint fragrance of her garments went to Geoffrey’s head like champagne as he took her hand and gazed in unrestrained admiration.

“How ripping you look!” he exclaimed.

It was the first open compliment he had paid her. The blood swept in a wave to her cheeks.

For a second she caught something in his eyes which unsettled her previous conception of him. There was a self-conscious pause, during which they eyed one another awkwardly.

“I thought we’d lunch in town at Ledoyen, then drive out into the country.”

“Splendid! I was hoping you’d say that. I am longing to get out of Paris.”

In taking her coat to put it over his arm his hand brushed hers. The momentary contact sent an electric shock through him.

“I say,” he remarked, conscious of inner perturbation, “must you get back early? Because I’m going to suggest making a day of it and dining out as well.”

Her eyes shone.

“Oh! you don’t know how I should love it! I only meant to come back and write letters, a most dull proceeding. Let me run and tell Berthe not to expect me in,”--and she vanished on her errand.

She returned directly to say that the cook was enchanted, for now she could have the entire evening off.

“And Mme. Bender? Have you seen anything of her?”

Her face clouded.

“Not for days. There is no good forcing myself on her while she feels towards me as she does. Jeanne has advised me to keep away from her, but I shouldn’t try to go into her room in any case now. I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do.”

He preserved a significant silence, but once they were seated in the car he spoke to her with quiet decision.

“Listen to me, Catherine. I am not at all happy about you. I wish you could be persuaded to leave that place.”

She turned reproachful eyes on him.

“_Et tu, Brute!_” she murmured lightly, though with a catch in her voice.

“Why me, too?”

“Wait. I have something to show you.”

He was a little curious, but said nothing as the car slid into the Avenue Kléber and headed for the Étoile. In the Champs Élysées he halted before a flower-shop and, leaving his companion for a moment, returned with a large cluster of lilies of the valley, crisply fresh in their frame of satiny green leaves.

“They go with your frock,” he remarked shortly, laying the offering in her lap.

Something had happened to Geoffrey. It was like the preliminary melting of ice after a long winter.

He was aware of it when they entered the restaurant half-hidden by flowering chestnuts and made their way to the corner table he had reserved. The sun pouring into the glass-lined room shone no warmer than the glow within him, while the whole festive scene with its popping of corks, subdued chatter and tables garnished with spring blossoms formed a fitting background for his mood.

On a day like this every goose was a swan. The very waiters looked the best fellows in the world, to whom you might confide your heart’s secrets with perfect safety. Every woman present was a miracle of exquisite smartness, every paste brooch flashed like diamonds of the purest water. Best of all not a male eye failed to note Catherine as she passed serene in her little green frock and with that look of fresh naturalness doubly dear to an Englishman’s heart. A moment worth living for, to be recalled long afterwards with a thrill of pride.

“Now, what were you about to tell me?” Geoffrey asked as soon as they had ordered lunch.

He watched her fingers busy themselves, unfastening the glittering brooch on her shoulder in order to transfer the lilies of the valley to its keeping. Then when she had enshrined the nosegay in the V of her frock and surveyed the result with satisfaction, she opened her lizard-skin bag and took out an envelope.

“What do you think of this?” she asked. “Read it.”

She saw his eyebrows go up in astonishment as he recognized the crabbed writing, and an expression of annoyance settle over his face when he had run through the letter’s contents.

“The old devil!” he exclaimed softly. “What’s the meaning of this? He never told me he’d written to you.”

“It was sent off almost immediately,” she said with composure. “Soon after he had talked with Jeanne, I think.”

He looked quickly towards her.

“How did you know she came to see him?”

“I passed her in the street outside. She didn’t see me.”

She could tell that he was not only ruffled but embarrassed. For a moment he avoided her eye.

“Please don’t pay the least attention to this,” he said constrainedly. “I hardly know what to say.”

“I’m not angry,” she answered, “though I was a bit at first. He makes me feel he doesn’t believe a word I said. Not only does he imply that I’m a fool for meddling in what doesn’t concern me, but that I may be doing my cousin actual harm.”

“Rubbish!” he muttered, impatiently.

“It’s not rubbish. There’s a certain amount of truth in what he says--at the moment. She would be upset if I insisted on seeing her, only I am convinced that’s only temporary. Things can’t go on like this. I’m only biding my time.”

“God knows I hope we shall soon know something definite about these thefts,” he remarked after a pause.

“Do you believe we shall?”

“I don’t know. We’ve established the fact that the Manet hasn’t passed through any dealer’s hands, which is something.”

“That’s good!” she cried eagerly. “Oh! I hope we are not trying to hound down innocent people.”

“Don’t bother your head about that. I’m as sure as you are they have a good deal on their consciences.”

She took back the letter and glanced at it.

“Another thing--you see what he says about finding some older, more experienced woman to look after Mme. Bender. Surely he must know that she has no relations?”

He frowned over this information.

“You are certain there is no one?”

“Hermione declares that Germaine has absolutely no family, and she ought to know. Since I have been at the apartment I have not seen or heard of anyone connected with her. I have never known anyone so completely isolated.”

“That does make things extremely difficult,” he observed thoughtfully. “Do you know, I don’t believe I’d grasped that fact before. By the way, what was Mme. Bender’s maiden name?”

She told him, and he repeated it with a curious inflection.

“Dieulefit? Never heard it before. Most uncommon.”

“Very. Hermione says the line is extinct.”

He pondered the matter for a little, then drawing a note-book from his pocket scribbled the single word “_Dieulefit_” on an empty page. She watched him with interest but said nothing, though she noticed that his forehead was still knit with speculation.

The _sole Mornay_ arriving, they attacked it with relish, nor until it was a thing of the past did they recur to any serious topic. Then Geoffrey asked if the doctor had yet settled the matter of Jeanne’s holiday.

“He came yesterday, but so far Jeanne has said nothing. Still, one is bound to know before long.”

It was nearly three o’clock when they again sought the out-of-doors to spin through the Bois, across the gardens of St. Cloud, and penetrate into the open reaches beyond. Larks sang high in the heavens where vague cloudlets drifted like puffs of smoke across an expanse of aquamarine. The whole warm sweet air breathed the fragrance of flowering trees, whose pink, white and yellow bouquets dotted the landscape.

Catherine sighed in utter contentment. April at its loveliest, a well-run car, a companion who all at once had become something rather more interesting than a brother--what more could one ask? Hard to believe that the past week had been spent in a turgid tangle of doubts and fears. At the moment all life was bathed in the same soft sunshine which spread its radiance over the low-lying hills.

At five o’clock they stopped at a place unknown to her, but familiar to Paris pleasure-seekers. An ancient farmhouse nestled beside a narrow stream spanned by an enclosed bridge where in bad weather one might eat under cover. Now a score of motorists in gay attire sat under orange umbrellas at tables with orange cloths, along the side of the brook, whose edges glowed with thickly planted spring flowers, vivid blue and yellow. Gardens like those in a picture-book spread on each side, and a little distance away an outlet from the stream chattered over a rockery to fall into a pool.

Tea in an orange tea-pot, crisp toast, home-made _confiture_, and butter smoothly-moulded into little brown crocks! It was good that the air had given them fresh appetites to do justice to the feast.

When they had lit cigarettes, Catherine suddenly remembered a matter she wished to discuss.

“Geoffrey,” she said. “About this agent you are employing. You understand, of course, that I must insist on paying for him. I can, you know. I don’t want you to think----”

He reddened a little.

“Must we speak of that? I wish you wouldn’t.”

“Well then, I won’t. But before we go any further, you must promise to let me know how much it comes to, otherwise I shall make it unpleasant for you!”

Seeing her determination, he nodded briefly.

“Well then, I promise. Now let’s talk about something else.”

But for a moment both were silent, while the look which passed between them left Catherine a little breathless. Why was Geoffrey so different to-day? She began to wonder if she knew him so well, after all.

They dined late at a small restaurant in the rue Jacob where the food was good, and although Catherine protested that she could not possibly be hungry again, the sight of the oysters Geoffrey ordered and the young duck with delicate _petits pois_ made her change her mind.

“Oh dear!” she sighed, “when I’m with you I do nothing but eat!”

“You need to,” he assured her lightly. “I’m sure that when you are at home you are half-starved!”

It was true that, lovely as she looked to-day, she had grown a bit thinner since their first meeting, while he noticed a faint shadow beneath her eyes which disturbed him, suggesting as it did a constant state of apprehension. Not blind to the absurdity of his action, he heaped her plate high with _fraises de bois_ and piled thick cream upon them till she was obliged to stay his hand.

“I’m not a Strasbourg goose, you know!” she reminded him, laughing.

When with her coffee before her she leaned back in her corner and lazily took out her powder-puff, he studied her carefully.

“Tired?”

She shook her head.

“No--only blissfully content. I can’t bear to think that to-day is over.”

“It isn’t,” he returned, glancing at his watch. “There is something else I want you to do this evening.”

“What is it?” she inquired languidly.

She fancied there was a slight air of secrecy about him as he paid the bill and left a ten-franc note on the saucer. Then with his characteristic caution he answered her question.

“Nothing much. Wait and see. But I hope it may prove worth while.”