Chapter TWENTY-EIGHT

Geoffrey lost no time in getting hold of Mme. Bender’s notes, neither of which had been destroyed. The bank manager expressed some astonishment at being asked for the one in his possession, but produced it readily, remarking as he did so:

“Your father has already mentioned this matter to me, Mr. Macadam. Is it possible you think there’s some hanky-panky about it?”

“I trust not. I will let you know what we find out.”

“I observed the usual formalities. It’s hard to see how there could be any fraud.”

“It’s no fault of yours if there was. But knowing something of Mme. Bender’s state of health, it seems to us unlikely for her to have spoken on the telephone at any recent time.”

The manager started slightly.

“I could swear it was her voice. You believe it may have been someone impersonating her?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Ellsworth, a confident man with a smooth round face and pince-nez, looked decidedly perturbed. He fidgeted with a waistcoat button, letting his gaze stray round the room, then as though struck by a bright idea brought his plump hand down on the desk with a bang.

“Surely, my dear fellow, the simplest course to pursue is to ask Mme. Bender straight out whether she did or did not sanction the transaction.”

“It’s less easy than you think. First, we do not want to agitate her, and second, she happens to be in a state where, to put it crudely, one cannot rely upon her word as conclusive evidence.”

The manager’s pale eyebrows shot up.

“Dear me! You mean she is----” He stopped, touching his forehead significantly.

“At least her condition is such that we have to act without her knowledge or consent.” Geoffrey spoke cautiously, as he examined the sheet of grey note-paper. “Typewritten.” He murmured with disappointment. “Still, the signature is distinctive.”

The sloping, spidery hand had the typical character of most French caligraphy. As soon as he was alone he compared it with the letter received from Catherine, only to find his unpractised eye unable to detect any differences. Enclosing the three specimens in an envelope, he despatched them in Henri’s care to the expert, with a request for a speedy opinion.

On Wednesday he motored again to Fontainebleau, where he found Catherine much improved in strength and spirits. However, he had only a few minutes alone with her, and his ardour was damped by the feeling that she was far more interested in what he had to tell her than in himself. An evasive manner and a touch of unexpected shyness depressed him, causing him to wonder if she were trying to prepare him for a definite refusal. Had she thought things over and come to the conclusion that she could not love him? He was ready to swear at himself for fatuously expecting too much.

When he took his departure, it was Elspeth who followed him out to his car.

“Poor old boy,” she murmured as he put his hand on the starter. “Aren’t things going too well for you?”

“What in heaven’s name do you mean?” he demanded, reddening savagely and brushing off her caressing touch.

She laughed with a touch of feminine malice.

“Never mind--it will do you good,” she replied enigmatically. “You’ve had it all your own way far too long. She’s worth a struggle, and I wish you luck. I can’t say more, can I?”

So they all knew he had been captured at last! No wonder, the truth must be written all over him. Desire had laid hold of him so powerfully that he could scarcely eat or sleep, much less take an interest in anything which did not concern the object of his hopes. Life without Catherine--! It was a prospect of slow starvation.

So entirely engrossed was he by his personal problem that the letter received the following day from Bordeaux came as a distinct surprise. He had for the time being forgotten Bernard’s mission, from which, in the light of his recent conclusions, he expected little result.

As he read his face altered. The agent had traced Blom to the Hôtel des Negociants, where he had apparently spent a few days early in February, afterwards moving on successively to several small towns in the district. The quest had been difficult owing to the fact that the _notaire_ had in each case left no address, so that it was only by dint of many inquiries that his movements became known. In each of the towns visited he had passed several days, but it had been impossible to find out how he had filled in his time, except that he appeared to have examined into various local records of births, deaths and marriages--a pursuit legitimately compatible with his profession. So far Bernard had discovered nothing to connect the man with any nefarious dealings, or anything other than a rather aimless pottering about.

“Yet I am not satisfied,” concluded the writer. “I am inclined to think that all this activity among the archives was intended to cover up his real business. If he carried any unframed canvases, he could easily have concealed them in his normal luggage, and my idea is that somewhere in this neighbourhood he has hidden them in a secret _cache_. I have one or two lines of inquiry to follow up, and will let you know if anything develops.”

Geoffrey lit a cigarette and pondered the matter, reflecting that it seemed impossible to catch the _notaire_ at anything shady. What could be farther removed from picture-thieving than this harmless poking into provincial archives? But for the two known facts testifying against him, one would be tempted to declare him a wholly spotless character. However, those facts stood out like black question marks, demanding an answer. The man had undoubtedly held a violent dispute over the contents of Mme. Bender’s picture-gallery, and he had paid a visit to the Macadam office under an assumed name, inquiring into Mme. Bender’s affairs. Plainly he was up to something he wished to keep secret.

“Decidedly a dark horse,” concluded Geoffrey, with annoyance. “Indeed, we should never have known of his existence at all if Catherine had not seen him that first evening and later recognized him as the milliner’s fiancé. Just accident--that’s all. On the surface he seems nothing more than a money-grubbing notary, with a taste for records,” and he recalled what Ballou had said about running across the Alsatian at the Bureau des Archives. How was it Guy had described him? “_I used to think he looked like a white rat nosing about among the files._”

Yes, this record-hunting was probably a blind, at least at Bordeaux. Moreover, for the second time Geoffrey was struck by the man’s pursuit of the widow, Mme. Baron, immediately after his return. Honorine’s reputed savings would furnish the wherewithal for his start in a new field.

“By Jove, I shouldn’t wonder if we’d hit the trail at last. The servants are selling him those pictures, and he is planning to set himself up as a dealer. The thing to do now is to notify the police of Bordeaux, give them a description of Blom, and have all out-going boats carefully watched. I’ll telegraph to Bernard at once.”

It occurred to him that it might be wise to keep both Blom and the milliner under strict surveillance, but that matter could rest until Bernard’s return.

Late Friday afternoon he was hard at work when the office factotum announced M. Bernard. Leaping up in astonishment, Geoffrey beheld the agent, adorned with a bowler hat green with age and a black muffler wrapped round his cavernous neck.

“So you’ve come back! Did you get my telegram?”

“Yes, monsieur. I informed the Bordeaux police, and will forward them a description of our friend, with a photograph, if obtainable. But I regret to state I have not been able to discover anything definite regarding the paintings. He has covered his tracks too well. All I could do was to warn the port authorities.”

Geoffrey was conscious of disappointment.

“Yet you still hold the opinion that he means to take them out of the country?”

“I assume so, monsieur, but I confess there is little to support the theory. All my inquiries led me to was a series of records offices, one after the other. I have spent the past two days interviewing the archives officials in three small towns, trying to ascertain what object Blom had in mind. At last I found it, but I am afraid it will tell you little. It seems that the man was seeking particulars about a family apparently extinct in the district--people by the name of Dieulefit.”

“Dieulefit!”

The young man jumped as though shot.

“You know the name, then?”

“Do I know it!” cried the other excitedly. “Why, it’s the family name of Mme. Bender herself! My God, Bernard, don’t you see what it means? The fellow is searching for an heir to our client’s estate!”

The solemn eyes regarded him with interest.

“Then you think he has not stolen the pictures at all?”

Geoffrey frowned in confusion.

“I can’t say. No--yes.… At any rate, this business has nothing to do with theft. He’s got something quite different up his sleeve.… I’ve got to think this out. I’ll let you know if I shall need you further.”

Indeed, it seemed doubtful whether the agent could supply the missing link in the chain, namely, Blom’s reason for his investigations. There must be some strong motive to take a canny _bourgeois_ on an extensive journey. The _notaire_ was not likely to spend money without hope of an ample return. But in what way could he hope to profit?

Over a solitary meal at a restaurant Geoffrey argued the question out to a tentative conclusion, his legal knowledge providing him with a clue. He knew that when a person of property died intestate it was the custom to look about at once for the next of kin. If the search proved difficult, anyone furnishing information as to the missing heirs invariably received remuneration for his services, based on a percentage system. Where the fortune was a large one, the commission might run to a considerable sum, well worth scheming to obtain.

Undoubtedly, Blom, in his capacity of legal adviser to the Bender servants, was in a position to know certain useful facts. He could easily be aware of Mme. Bender’s former name, of the probability of her dying intestate, and of the precarious state of her health. Armed with his knowledge, he might very naturally wish to locate some remote connections of the ill woman, in order to be first in the field to claim the said commission.

Now at last he began to see daylight. He understood Blom’s anxiety to make sure whether a will had been executed, since if that were the case his hopes vanished automatically. Probably also he suspected Jeanne’s private machinations, and had tried to put a stop to them by the threats Catherine had overheard, knowing they would foil his own scheme. It all fitted in with surprising ease.

Only one point remained obscure. Was Blom acting purely on speculation, or had some rumour of a possible heir reached his ears?

Suddenly Hermione Cushing flashed across his mind. As Mme. Bender’s oldest friend, it was likely that no one better than she would be acquainted with the invalid’s antecedents. Perhaps she had supplied Blom with the necessary facts, meaning to split the commission with him. Or else--and here was a totally new idea--she herself might have French blood in her veins, and unknown to anyone possess some shadowy claim she wished to substantiate. Was she by any remote chance connected with the family of Dieulefit? If so it would explain everything.

Determination seized him. Quitting the restaurant he jumped into a taxi, and in ten minutes was climbing the stairs to the singer’s apartment, bent upon taking the owner unawares and subjecting her to a few blunt questions.

Decidedly brutal, that! His face burned at the thought. Yet he felt he must know once and for all what part Miss Cushing played in the affair, and he was shamelessly taking this course because he believed the lady could not withstand a frontal attack.

The door opening to his ring, he found himself confronting a spectacled grenadier who regarded him severely, a steel thimble on her roughened finger, and a chemise, of dimensions suitable for a baby elephant, draped over one arm.

“_Mademoiselle est sortie_,” he was informed.

He did not know whether he was disappointed or relieved. Under the _bonne’s_ righteous gaze he reluctantly gave his name, realizing that any hope of catching Miss Cushing unawares was now extinguished. The singer, hearing he had called, would be on her guard.

“Monsieur Macadam?” repeated the domestic, her visage softening.

Clearly she knew who he was. Indeed, there was probably little of her mistress’s affairs she did not know. She warmed, becoming communicative. Mademoiselle was dining in the Faubourg St. Germain, after calling on her friend, Mme. Bender. If Monsieur cared to leave a message.… But Geoffrey was already half-way down the stairs.

He felt curiously at a loose end, his brain revolving the new information and burning to impart it to the person most likely to be interested. A glance at his watch told him it was barely nine o’clock. Why not drive to Fontainebleau and talk the thing over with Catherine? He could be there in little more than an hour.

His waiting taxi bore him swiftly to the garage where his car was kept, and presently he was speeding towards the Porte d’Italie, the wind whistling in his wake. In record time he alighted in the broad, quiet street outside his sister’s dwelling, and a second later burst unceremoniously into a somnolent family group lounging before the wood fire.

Elspeth looked up with surprise.

“Geoff! You did give me a start. What’s up?”

He cast a rapid look round the room.

“Where’s Catherine?” he inquired shortly.

“Gone,” she replied composedly.

His jaw dropped.

“Gone? Where? Why?”

“That’s all. She left us, this evening. On the 10.45, to be exact. What’s the excitement about?”

His eyes blazed at her.

“I don’t understand you. She knew I was coming to fetch her to-morrow afternoon. Why this sudden change of plan?”

“Don’t be silly. It was quite unexpected, of course. On the evening’s post she had a letter from some friends of hers who are crossing to Dieppe to-night and arriving in Paris early to-morrow morning. They are only stopping over a couple of hours, and want to see her. She would go.”

Still he stared at her, visibly annoyed.

“I can’t make it out,” he muttered, frowning. “You mean to say you let her go back there--alone?”

“Yes. Why not? We couldn’t stop her, and she refused to let us ring you up.”

“Do the servants expect her?”

“No; but it doesn’t matter, does it?”

Then he realized that both listeners were eyeing him oddly and with a glint of amusement at his concern.