Chapter TWENTY-FIVE

Geoffrey earnestly hoped his stupidity about Miss Cushing had passed unnoticed. Seriously concerned over Catherine, his one idea was to get her quickly and safely into his sister’s care, a project easily jeopardized if one introduced her to fresh worries.

Besides, the information recently obtained might prove of no importance, though he had to admit it had given him a jar.

Two hours ago he had had his first talk with the senior clerk since the latter’s illness, and questioning him about Blom’s visit to the office had received a somewhat startling reply.

“I recall the fellow,” the old man had said at once. “Rénier was the name he gave, and he came on a rather delicate mission, respecting one of our clients--in fact Mme. Belmont Bender. He wanted to know if this lady had executed a will.”

“Why should he wish to know that?” Geoffrey had demanded, suspiciously.

“He was acting on behalf of another lady, who, as she is a personal friend of Mme. Bender’s, felt a natural hesitancy in approaching us on the matter. It seems this individual has hopes of inheriting something substantial in the event of Madame’s decease, and was anxious to learn if the bequest had been put into legal form. Rénier also inquired the terms of Mr. Bender’s own will, and as the request appeared a harmless one I informed him that Mr. Bender had left the whole of his property unconditionally to his widow. That was all.”

Geoffrey’s mind had leaped to the conclusion that Jeanne, fearing her mistress had stolen a march on her, had taken this roundabout means of learning the truth.

“I suppose you don’t know who the client was?” he asked.

“Oh, but I do. It seems she is an American lady by the name of Cushing.”

Hermione! Geoffrey had sprung from his chair, all his previous ideas in confusion.

“Yes, Miss Cushing, the singer. I heard her once, at the Salle Erard--a large woman, with a wreath of rosebuds on her hair. No kind of voice, but I believe she has an influential connection.…”

Feeling as though he had doubled on his own tracks, Geoffrey had departed, chagrined and mortified. The revelation that the mysterious Blom was acting for Hermione shocked him curiously. Was it possible that under cover of pretended hatred the singer was in collusion with Mme. Bender’s servants? For a wild moment he asked himself if Miss Cushing herself was concerned in the thefts, using Blom as a go-between. It was a monstrous thought.

Going over the circumstances he felt it could not be true. The singer bore a blameless character, and moreover had herself asked him frankly about this will some time ago. In any case as a _femme de monde_ she would not be likely to employ a common _notaire_. Then, too, it was she who had first dropped hints of the servants’ possible dishonesty, a proceeding manifestly absurd if she was in league with them towards a mercenary end.

The only other explanation was that Blom was representing Jeanne, and had substituted Miss Cushing’s name to hide his client’s identity.

Ah, that must be it! The maid was plotting to establish herself as her mistress’s legatee!

Ambitious, yes--but it was not the first time such a thing had been done. Possibly Jeanne’s protestations were so much dust in the eyes of onlookers, while she played a devious game to obtain her object. To alienate the poor woman from her friends by doubts cast upon their disinterestedness, to work upon her affections by subtle degrees--did it not all point in one certain direction?

This was what he had feared in the beginning, only Catherine’s statement had put him off the track. Now he was filled with a new uneasiness, which was relieved only when he recalled the fact that Jeanne was undoubtedly profiting by her mistress’s present condition. Yes, he had overlooked that point. There was as yet no talk of a will, and whatever the maid’s secret intentions might be she was pocketing all she could lay hands on. He breathed again.

Still--Miss Cushing! Her name stuck in his mind like a burr. Perhaps she did have an obscure connection with Blom, who, innocent of thieving, might be acting in a quite different capacity from the one first suspected.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed in annoyance. “If that is so the man may be trying to protect Mme. Bender instead of defrauding her, in which case I have sent Bernard off on a goose-chase!”

For, although he had not mentioned it to Catherine, he had just instructed the agent to go to Bordeaux, with the idea of making inquiries into the _notaire’s_ visit in that city three months ago. It now began to look as though the mission might lead to nothing.

However, in the main, events were shaping towards the desired end. With Jeanne away, there would be an opportunity for searching the apartment and ascertaining the exact state of affairs. Meanwhile, they would probably be able to frame a definite charge against the two servants and remove them from their posts. Altogether things looked promising.

When he opened the door of his own flat, his father called out to him from the library.

“Come in for a moment, Geoffrey. I’ve something which may interest you.”

Sunlight gilded the book-lined walls, a wood fire burned on the hearth, and a pot of blue hyacinths bore witness to a visit from Elspeth. Macadam Senior, seated in a worn leather chair, was turning over a sheaf of papers, his glasses perched on the tip of his nose.

“It’s this Bender business again. I’ve got hold of Harry Bender’s pass-book and all the details I can assemble regarding his movements prior to his death. There’s no record of a picture-sale, nor any unidentified deposit large enough to correspond with one. If he did dispose of those paintings, he must have received cash, which he failed to pay in to his account.”

“He never sold them,” declared Geoffrey shortly.

“Not so fast. You may be right, but one mustn’t jump to conclusions. Suppose, for example, Bender wanted to make a payment in some quarter in such a way that it could not be traced? In the event, let us say, of such a thing as an entanglement with a woman?”

“Did you ever hear of any entanglement?” demanded his son bluntly.

“I admit not, but my ignorance proves nothing. Mind, I only state a possibility.”

Geoffrey lit a cigarette and threw the match into the fire.

“I don’t believe he would have parted with the Manet. He would have found the money in some other way.”

His father made no comment.

“Well, then, I’ve had a talk with Ellsworth, the manager of Mme. Bender’s bank, to find out if any use has been made of that duplicate key. It was used, only a few days later, by the maid herself.”

“The devil it was!” exclaimed the young man sharply.

“Yes--but everything was quite in order. It seems Ellsworth received a note from Mme Bender saying she wished to exchange her string of pearls, which she felt nervous about keeping in the apartment, for the copy then in the bank, and proposed sending her maid to attend to the matter.”

“Stop a moment--you say the _copy_ was kept at the bank? Surely that’s a bit absurd?”

“She explained that. Apparently no one but herself was aware that the pearls in her possession were the genuine ones, as for safety’s sake she had always pretended they were the copy. She had given up wearing them, because their lustre was suffering from her low state of health, but she wanted the imitations to keep up the deception.”

“I see,” replied Geoffrey rather blankly.

“Foreseeing the chance of a hoax, Ellsworth himself telephoned to Mme. Bender and was assured by her that the maid was completely to be trusted. The next day Laborie appeared, was conducted by one of the clerks into the vaults, made the exchange and went away. The clerk watched her closely and saw nothing amiss. The two strings were identical, the copy having a clasp of real diamonds set in platinum.”

Geoffrey frowned incredulously.

“You say the manager spoke to Mme. Bender herself? He recognized her voice?”

“Certainly--he’s known her for years.”

“I suppose I ought to be satisfied, but it seems odd for all that,” declared Geoffrey, moving about restlessly. For the life of him he could not reconcile Mme. Bender’s action on this occasion with her recent helplessness. His eyes narrowed in thought. “See here,” he said suddenly. “When Miss West asked about that key only last week, her cousin disclaimed all knowledge of it. At least she appeared not to recollect until the maid reminded her. Doesn’t that strike you as queer?”

“And nothing was said about changing the necklace?”

“Not a word.”

The elder man wiped his glasses upon a silk handkerchief, then rubbed the bridge of his nose exasperatedly.

“I give it up,” he said briefly, adding after a moment: “Either her memory is subject to lapses, or she was displaying a sort of cunning in keeping the matter dark. There’s no accounting for the vagaries of neurasthenics.”

Geoffrey was silent. A voice whispered to him that these were the pearls Hermione Cushing considered as hers by right, at least when her friend should die. She had assured him they were safe in the bank.

“Where that woman can’t be tempted by them,” had been her exact words.

For the second time misgivings assailed him. Was the story about the copy a true one? Suppose there was some fraud, with Miss Cushing at the back of it?

“Still, Ellsworth recognized Mme. Bender’s voice, so she evidently approved of the transaction. That much is fairly certain, so why bother?”

At the same time he added to himself that it was a blessing Catherine knew nothing about it.