Chapter THIRTY-ONE: What could it mean?

For the moment every other consideration was submerged in the wave of staggering doubt which swept over him.

He stared hard into the Portuguese’s bloodshot eyes, trying to read the thoughts that lurked behind, then shifted his scrutiny to Jeanne’s sallow countenance. The two faces were like a blank wall. Neither servant treated his agitation seriously, or showed any particular concern. He saw the maid’s eyes close with spent fatigue, as though to shut out wearisome discussion.

He became aware that the onlookers were eyeing him queerly, that Miss Cushing was gathering her forces to bombard him with questions. He strode out of the room, just managing to elude an American reporter who was sidling towards him, pad in hand.

Quickly he gained the corridor and make for the passage leading to Catherine’s bedroom.

Although the court side of the apartment had been gutted by fire, the exterior portion was untouched. He reached the familiar chamber, threw open the door, and cast a searching glance round.

The bed was smooth beneath its _toile de Jouy_ cover, the dressing-table bare save for a few stray bottles and scattered oddments. There was no sign of luggage, nor anything to indicate the girl’s return. Opening the cupboard he descried Catherine’s grey squirrel coat, an evening wrap, and several frocks, none of which he had seen her wear at Fontainebleau. Most of the hangers pendent from the steel rod were empty. Three or four pairs of shoes were ranged on the floor beneath, while upon the shelf lay a couple of felt hats beside an oval hat-box covered in flowered paper.

He stared blankly, his brain revolving possibilities.

If she had meant to spend the night elsewhere, she would certainly have told Elspeth her intention. Besides, what of the light he had seen in the window, the shadow on the blind? Only a few hours ago the feeling of her presence here had been an overwhelming reality.

As he looked about him a sickening fear crept into his mind. _She did come home._ Whatever Jeanne and Eduardo might declare to the contrary, she reached here at midnight. Inconceivable for her to have slept through the clamour and excitement. No one, unless heavily drugged, could have done so. Did this mean that for some reason she had removed her belongings and gone quietly away, unnoticed? Such an explanation was manifestly absurd!

Rapidly the suspicion grew upon him that something sinister lurked behind this. Terror clutched at his heart as he made his way back to the front, while the thought hammered in his brain that somewhere, close at hand, Catherine was concealed. He must find her without loss of a moment.

The sight of the police sergeant brought him to his senses. Drawing the man aside, he pinioned him by the arm, and poured forth an incoherent story. His auditor, stolidly inattentive, began at last to realize that the young Englishman was in earnest, whereupon he brought his eyes to bear upon him with a faintly incredulous smile.

“Young lady? Disappeared from here? No, no, monsieur, you must be dreaming! There was no young lady in the apartment, as I told you just now--only two servants, whom you have seen. Look--there is the cook, who slept on the top floor, and was roused by the fire-engines. She will confirm what I say.”

He motioned towards Berthe, who now loomed on the scene, eyes swollen with weeping, her vacuous face full of self-importance. Geoffrey seized her arm.

“Have you seen anything of mademoiselle?” he demanded fiercely. “I know that she returned last night.”

The china-blue eyes opened wide in amazement.

“But no, assuredly not, monsieur! What makes you say that? It is to-day, Saturday, that we expect her, but now, of course, she will not come!”

Geoffrey turned away with an exasperated cry.

“You see,” remarked the sergeant in triumph, and glancing towards the astonished Berthe, raised his brows slightly.

“But I tell you I know what I’m saying. She has been spending the week at my sister’s in Fontainebleau. I was there last evening, and she had just left by the 10.45 train!”

The sergeant drew a toothpick from his pocket and used it discreetly. The smile in his black eyes grew more pronounced.

“Perhaps, monsieur, your sister was having a game with you. No doubt the young lady was there all the time and did not wish you to know. Take my advice, make sure of this before you upset yourself.”

Game? The childish suggestion offered a ray of hope. It was true that Elspeth, long ago, used to indulge in practical jokes.…

“I don’t believe it for a moment,” he rejoined shortly, “but I will put through a trunk call to find out.”

Without pausing for a reply, he took a couple of strides towards the study, throwing wide the door. Instantly the sergeant bounded upon him.

“Not in there, I beg of you, monsieur! No one is allowed in that room!”

No need to ask why. In full view confronting him loomed a long shapeless form shrouded in a sheet. The curtains were drawn, the room in semi-darkness, out of which the stark mass met the eye, placed on stretchers beneath the painting of the race-horse.

Geoffrey drew in his breath sharply.

At his elbow the sergeant spoke, pulling him back.

“In any case, this instrument has been put out of commission by the fire. I would try the one in the loge below.”

Geoffrey waved him aside.

“I want to know first what time the fire started. Can you tell me?”

“I understand the alarm was given in at one-thirty this morning.”

One-thirty! It was a quarter of an hour earlier that he had stopped his car outside.

“And the cause?”

“Candles, before a prie-Dieu, monsieur, or that is the maid’s opinion. The flames caught the bed-draperies. It is said that the poor lady was a bit touched here”--and he tapped his forehead significantly. “She was trapped. The fire spread in a ring, the body was found collapsed beneath the crucifix. The servants dragged her out and wrapped her in blankets, but----” He shrugged.

“She was badly burned?”

“Frightfully, monsieur. Recognizable, of course. If you would care to take a look…”

For a second he drew back a corner of the sheet, disclosing the grisly remains. Geoffrey cast a glance at the body, then averted his eyes. Devoutly he hoped that Catherine had been spared this sight. Tormented by indecision, he asked himself which course of action to follow first--telephone his sister, or go over the apartment on the chance of lighting upon some trace of the missing girl. He resolved upon the latter.

“Sergeant, I want you to accompany me while I make a thorough search of this floor and the one below. I must inspect everything--even the damaged portion.”

The officer appeared somewhat surprised, then a gleam of intelligence showed in his face.

“Willingly, monsieur--but if you have the least fear of the young lady’s having fallen a victim to the fire, let me set your mind at rest. I can assure you positively no other remains were found.”

Geoffrey did not trouble to explain that so far it had not even remotely occurred to him that Catherine, too, had been burned to death. Such an idea was grotesquely unthinkable. No, whatever had happened, he felt positive it was something quite different; but find her he must, without delay. Other investigations could wait.

The puzzled expression in the sergeant’s eyes increased when his companion briefly requested him to fetch all the keys to the apartment.

“The butler will give them to you. I will wait for you here.”

“But, monsieur, this seems somewhat irregular. I do not know by what authority----”

“Never mind the authority, he won’t refuse. If he objects, tell him I intend to make a demand for a search-warrant.”

Impressed at last, the man departed, to return a few minutes later with a bunch of keys which he handed to Geoffrey. Together the two set out on their tour of inspection, the sergeant in the rear, mystified and a trifle bored. What was this mad Englishman getting at? Surely he had a bee in his bonnet.

Beginning with the _rez de chaussée_, they explored everything--picture-gallery, billiard-room, small salon, guests’ cloak-room, lavatory, cupboards--all empty and thick with dust. Apparently no one had entered them for months. Then proceeding to the _entresol_ they inspected one after another a series of bedrooms, baths, housemaids’ cupboards, linen-rooms, not overlooking a single hiding-place large enough to secrete a cat. The search revealed nothing whatever. The girl was simply not there, nor was there any indication of her return.

In spite of Geoffrey’s previous conviction, doubts began to creep into his mind. Had the servants spoken the truth? He caught the little sergeant’s eyes upon him sharp with inquiry.

“Have you thought to ask the concierge whether or not the lady passed the loge?”

“That would be useless, as mademoiselle came in by the private entrance.”

“Ah, indeed! You are satisfied, however, that you were mistaken?”

Geoffrey shook his head. He was satisfied of nothing beyond the obvious fact that she was not here now. With each step of the way the problem had grown more momentous, his mind more seriously disturbed. For a second he had the wild feeling that he might indeed be going mad.…

They were standing now at the rear end of the passage leading past the ruined portion. In front the way was blocked by wreckage, the floor at their feet an irregular cavern barred across by blackened beams. Over heaps of charred debris and sodden plaster great holes gaped in walls and ceiling, the whole saturated with water. Of the dead woman’s own room little was left, but through a jagged opening at the side one could see the bathroom, the bath itself intact in the midst of a litter of twisted pipes and shattered appliances. Ten hours ago the place must have been a roaring furnace. It spoke well for the fire department that they had managed to check the flames so quickly.

The sergeant pointed at a spot against the outer wall.

“There, monsieur, is where she was found. The bed was to the right, I’m told, but naturally nothing remains of it.”

Geoffrey looked, but the sight told him nothing he wanted to know. Meanwhile precious minutes were slipping away.

“Sergeant,” he said rapidly, but with caution, “I am now going to telephone to Fontainebleau, but if I obtain no news of Mademoiselle I intend to make a report at once to the Commissariat. However, I have one more question to ask. Has any person from outside been here to talk with either of these servants during the morning? I am particularly interested in a small blond man with a thin moustache and eyes which are not mates.”

The sergeant considered, and shook his head.

“No, monsieur, I have seen no one of that description. The doctor of Mme. Bender has come, and one or two officials, but I am positive the servants have seen no one alone.”

“Good. It is private interviews I wish to prevent. Can I look to you to keep an eye on things, report to me anything out of the ordinary, and if possible try to keep the butler from going out?”

“But, monsieur,”--in evident astonishment,--“I have no right to restrain anyone’s movements!”

“I can only beg you to do your best. I may tell this much, that very probably I shall have to place those two under arrest. Until that occurs they must not be allowed to suspect our intentions.”

He had exploded a bombshell.

“Arrest! but this man and woman are regarded as heroes! They have risked their lives to----”

“Never mind that. Do as I say. It is of the utmost importance.”

As he spoke he took a hundred-franc note from his pocket and thrust it into the sergeant’s hand, then without further explanation retraced his steps by way of the uninjured passages to the front door. As he was going out the American reporter’s eagle eye fastened itself upon him.

“Pardon me, Mr. Macadam, but could you oblige me with a few facts about the deceased? That woman in there is too dazed to say much, and I want to prepare my story.”

“Not now,” returned Geoffrey in desperation. “I have urgent business to attend to. Some other time.”

“One moment, please! What about this American lady I heard you mention? Did you say her name is Miss West?”--and with undaunted persistence he linked his arm through the other’s and followed him to the landing.

“Yes, Miss West, of Boston, a cousin of the late Mr. Bender. She has been visiting here, but I find she has gone away.”

It seemed the wisest thing to say.

A moment later in the concierge’s abode he assailed the difficulties of establishing a connection with Fontainebleau, and, fuming with impatience, waiting for what seemed an æon of time. Finally to his relief he heard the sound of his sister’s voice.

“Elspeth--this is Geoffrey. Tell me at once--were you joking or is it true that Catherine left you last night? No nonsense, I’ve got to know.”

The reply came fraught with amazement.

“But of course she left. What on earth do you mean?”

His heart sank as he nerved himself to go on.

“Simply this: Mme. Bender is dead--burned to death in her room last night--and the servants swear they have not seen anything of Catherine.”

“Not seen her? Impossible! Why, she must have reached there about midnight.”

“Apparently she didn’t. Is there any other place she might have gone? Any friend’s house, or----”

“Certainly not! There must be some mistake. Geoffrey--this is too frightful! I’ll take the next train up to Paris. I----”

He waited for no more. Staring him in the face was the concierge’s big clock, the hands pointing to one. An hour gone, and nothing accomplished.

Instinct warned him not to lose sight of Jeanne and Eduardo, but whatever happened he must not delay his visit to the police, who should be informed at once of Catherine’s disappearance. Unfortunately he could attend to only one thing at a time.

As he quitted the archway he saw at the corner of the street a man’s figure in the act of diving into an open taxi-cab. A glance was enough. The heavy shoulders, the rakish angle of the hat, to say nothing of the injured arm, revealed the person of the butler. In short, one of his suspects was even now making off, probably on secret business.

Where was he going? Faced with a fresh dilemma, Geoffrey decided that the Commissariat must wait.

Luckily a second cab approached, unoccupied. He flung himself into it, pointing towards the Place du Trocadero and shouting. “You see that red taxi just ahead? A hundred francs if you keep it in sight!”

French chauffeurs are quick-witted. With a comprehending grunt the man jammed down the accelerator, and they were off, even as the quarry turned the corner of the Avenue Kléber heading towards the Étoile. Ten seconds more and they caught sight of it again, one of a score of swiftly moving cars.

Round the vast circle of the Arc de Triomphe sped the red taxi like a crimson streak, the other in hot pursuit. Along the Avenue Wagram, past the Place des Ternes, then with a lightning swerve into the Boulevard de Courcelles. So far no hitch. A glance told Geoffrey that the prey was still within sight, though a hundred yards ahead.

From the Place des Ternes to the Place de Clichy is a straight run, the thoroughfare altering its name midway and becoming the Boulevard des Batignolles. The way ahead was clear.

_Pszt!_ Without warning came a grinding of brakes, and the cab stopped with such violence that Geoffrey was thrown off the seat, his head crashing against the glass. Then he saw what had happened. They had struck the mudguard of a large Mercédès incautiously rounding the entrance to a side-street.

Forseeing the inevitable altercation, Geoffrey got out, paid the driver his hundred francs, and leaving the two infuriated Frenchmen to exchange volleys of profanity gazed up the boulevard. In the open space of the Place de Clichy he could just make out a spot of red negotiating a rapid right-turn to plunge down a narrow street.

No good continuing the chase, the butler was gone. Besides, Geoffrey knew beyond doubt his destination, for the street which had swallowed him up was the rue d’Amsterdam.