Chapter THIRTY-FOUR

No words can convey Geoffrey’s agony of mind on receiving the butler’s cool denial. In that moment every shred of delusion was swept away, leaving him face to face with a stark reality nothing could cloak or soften. Catherine was gone. Whether she had fallen victim to the rapacity of an unknown assailant, or was at this moment hidden away in some dark corner, silenced for ever by the mongrel confronting him, he was powerless to fathom; both suppositions were possible, both equally appalling.

As on a former occasion, a savage impulse seized him to drive his fingers into Eduardo’s thick neck and throttle him. His desire must have showed in his face, for with a watchful look the man retreated a step. Noting the movement, Geoffrey took an iron grip on himself, recalling the part he had to play.

“Evidently,” he remarked in even tones, “you did not take in what I said to you this morning. The fact is, Miss West left Fontainebleau last night, meaning to return here. Since that time she has not been seen.”

What might have passed for a glimmer of interest showed in the small wary eyes.

“That’s odd,” he replied insolently. “I am sure I don’t know what to say about it. We’ve not seen her, I promise you that,” and he scratched his ear defiantly.

“In any case,” continued Geoffrey, “I have thought best to report the matter to the Commissariat, and they are sending a man here presently to look into the matter. He will want to take a formal statement from you and Jeanne, in order to make certain she did not come home. Also the apartment has got to be searched.”

“Quite so,” replied the Portuguese imperturbably. “Jeanne has been put to bed. She’s come over a bit queer after all this, but I daresay she is well enough to answer questions.”

He turned to walk away, but Geoffrey stopped him.

“That is not all. You and Jeanne will naturally be required to give evidence at the inquest. Until that is over I wish you both to remain here, occupying the uninjured rooms. Your wages will be paid, and you will assist with the inventory and removal of Mme. Bender’s effects.”

The butler gave this a brief consideration.

“I understand,” he agreed casually. “Anything more?”

“Not at the moment,” answered Geoffrey.

He stood watching the thick-set figure move stolidly away towards the bend of the hall, satisfied that he had said nothing to rouse suspicion. Then he pushed open the salon doors and stepped inside.

Not a soul of all the mixed assembly now remained, only the trampled carpet and a litter of cigarette ashes, bearing evidence to the scene of the morning. From the left wall the mediaeval figures in the tapestry looked down upon him with placid indifference, while opposite, above the mantel-mirror, gay ladies and gallants made frivolous love in a sylvan paradise. A pall-like stillness pervaded the place.

Mechanically he moved towards the window and, pushing aside the curtains, stared into the street below. Then, with sudden interest he fixed his eyes on a roughly-clad labourer, at that moment hoisting a ladder against one of the chestnut trees. On the ground beside him lay a canvas bag of implements. An odd time of the year to clip the trees, reflected the watcher. Then it dawned on him that in all likelihood this inconspicuous workman was one of the persons employed to surround the house. If so, the inspector had been prompt.

A step sounded on the carpet behind him and, turning, he saw the little police sergeant approaching with a confidential air.

“About that matter, monsieur,” whispered the Frenchman with a backward jerk of the head. “I regret to say I was not successful. No sooner was your back turned than the fellow put on his hat and--_pszt! Quel trace!_” He swept an expressive gesture.

“Never mind, it was just what I expected. I have made a report to the Commissariat, and they are going to take things in hand.”

The black eyes widened with interest.

“_Ah, mon Dieu!_ So you intend to make a charge?” he whispered.

Before Geoffrey could reply a loud knock shattered the silence, causing both men to jump. They reached the hall to find Eduardo in the act of admitting Inspector Bazin and two supernumeraries.

“Any news, monsieur?” inquired the officer expectantly.

“None. She has not come back.”

The blond countenance expressed surprise.

“I confess that astonishes me. Well, then--we will proceed.”

In a few words he despatched his men on their business of searching the premises, having first demanded the keys to the _cave_, which the butler promptly produced. His manner towards the Portuguese was affable, creating the impression of enlisting assistance.

“One never knows what to expect in these cases,” he remarked to the party at large. “One is obliged to allow for the most unlikely possibilities. As a matter of fact,” and here he addressed Eduardo directly, “although most of this search is a pure formality, I have an idea that the young lady did come home without anyone’s knowing it and went away again soon afterwards. I suppose that has not occurred to you?”

Thus appealed to, the butler was forced to give some sort of reply, which he did in an unresponsive fashion.

“No,” he said shortly. “But I have not thought about it.”

“I see,” assented the inspector, unmoved, and got out his note-book and pencil. “However, as the stairs from the _rez de chaussée_ emerge close to her room, and your room is on the other side of the apartment, would it not be possible for her to come in without your hearing her? Did you, in fact, hear her on the evenings when, for example, she was out late?”

“Not as a rule.”

“Ah!--and now what was your first intimation of last night’s trouble?”

For a second the butler’s glance flickered in the Englishman’s direction. Was there something furtive about it, or had Geoffrey’s imagination become over-acute?

“I waked up with the maid shaking me. She was screaming out that madame’s room was on fire, that she had tried to put it out, but----”

“Never mind the maid’s part. The time is what I want to know.”

“Can’t say exactly. Something after one.”

“And on your way to your mistress’s room did you hear any sort of noise?”

Eduardo hesitated, thought a moment, then to Geoffrey’s surprise said, “A moment later I did.”

In spite of himself the young man leaned forward eagerly, his eyes on the heavy face. The inspector went on calmly:

“Indeed! What did the noise seem to be?”

“There was no seem about it. Someone was beating on this door here, nearly breaking it in. I’ve told all that to M. l’agent here,” he added, motioning towards the little officer. “It was a gentleman from the third floor who was crossing the court, saw the flames through the window, and came up to wake us. While the maid and I tried to get madame out he ran down the avenue and gave the alarm.”

“Ah--so it was he who gave the alarm? I did not know that.”

“Yes--first he had a go at the telephone, but the line was dead.”

“Were the engines quick in getting here?”

“Quick enough, but the fire had made a fair headway. You see, the maid did not wake up till her own room was filled with smoke. She was up with Madame most of the previous night, and slept heavily in consequence.”

“Precisely. Well, that is about all I wanted to know.” The Inspector ran an alert eye over his notes, then added suddenly, “By the way, can you account for a light being seen in the young lady’s room at a quarter-past one this morning? About the time you were attempting the rescue, I should say.”

If this news came as a shock, not a muscle of the swarthy face betrayed the fact. Only the small eyes grew watchful, and it was almost half a minute before their owner answered indifferently.

“It’s the first I’ve heard of it. Maybe one of the women went in the room early in the evening and left the light on.”

“Ah, that seems possible. Still, if mademoiselle took it into her head to go quietly out just then, I take it there was a good chance of her doing so unobserved?”

“I daresay,” returned the man, who was now looking a little puzzled. “A good deal might have happened about then without our knowing.”

“Naturally. That will do, I think. And now if you will conduct us to the maid we will see if she has anything more to suggest.”

For the first time a trace of hesitation appeared in the confident manner.

“I’ll ask the doctor if you can see her,” he muttered, making off to the left. “He is with her now.”

Feeling sure that the fellow was anxious to have a private word with his associate, Geoffrey shot a questioning look at Bazin, but the latter did not heed him. Already he was striding after the Portuguese with long easy steps.

“That is all right, my man: I will speak to the doctor myself. Is this the room?”

They had reached the door at the corner, giving on the largest bedroom, indeed, the one formerly occupied by Mme. Bender. The butler’s thick hand was already on the knob, but with a firmness not at all discourteous, the inspector pushed it aside.

“Allow me,” he said, and the following instant he and Geoffrey stood within, while by the simplest manœuvre Eduardo had been left alone in the passage. Geoffrey fancied he caught a contraction of annoyance in the murky brown eyes as they watched the door close.

The two men paused for a moment, their eyes accustoming themselves to the semi-twilight, for the curtains of apple-green damask were drawn across the windows, excluding every ray of sunlight. The wide, irregular chamber, furnished with a delicate magnificence, had a general look of abandonment and neglect. The panelled walls showed here and there a faded rectangular patch, where at some time a picture had hung; the dressing-table, formed of a beautiful Venetian console, was bare of ornaments, as was the painted eighteenth-century escritoire opposite. The thick neutral-toned carpet showed streaks of dust.

In an alcove stood a wide decorated Italian bed, with a table beside it on which was a telephone instrument and an open medical case. A black-clad, pompous figure straightened up to take a survey of the intruders through thick glasses.

“Ah, monsieur,” murmured the doctor, coming forward as he recognized Geoffrey. “What a truly shocking affair! Who could have foreseen such an event? That poor woman there”--he motioned to the bed--“is completely prostrated! Would not give up, however, until I threatened her with hospital. She has spirit.”

“Badly injured?” asked the Inspector.

“Not physically. Some painful burns about the hands and arms. It is her nervous system which is suffering most, and no wonder. I have given her a small injection of morphia, and presently she will get some sleep. You wish to speak to her?”

“Only to ask her a few questions. I shall not be long.”

The good man nodded. Watching him closely, Geoffrey was confirmed in his former impression, that here was a well-meaning, somewhat old-fashioned muddler--just the sort of physician Jeanne would be likely to choose for her purpose, accurately sizing him up as a complaisant, unsuspecting tool.

“This will prove a severe blow to the poor Mademoiselle West,” went on the doctor, preparing to depart. “I thank God that she was away when it happened.”

Geoffrey did not attempt to undeceive him. He allowed the other to press his hand with kindly solemnity, then shutting the door upon him, turned towards the alcove with a taut feeling of expectancy, letting his eyes rest upon the still figure lying upon the bed.

There was little light in the shadowed recess, and for a moment he could not tell whether the woman’s eyes were open or closed. All he could make out was the outline of her body beneath the satin coverlet, the dark streaks of disordered hair above the sallow forehead, and her two stiff, white-swathed arms. Intense loathing seized him. The apparent fact that she was suffering from nervous collapse stirred in him no compassion, since her very state argued an abominable scheme to extort sympathy and divert suspicion from herself. She had taken everyone else in, but she had no power over him. He told himself that whether or not she had had any hand in spiriting Catherine away, she had at any rate one crime upon her soul, and that a peculiarly cold-blooded, diabolical one.

The inspector had switched on a reading-lamp beside the bed, and its shaded rays fell now upon the drawn and pinched countenance, revealing the expression of dull apathy Geoffrey had noticed earlier in the day. It was impossible to guess the thoughts that lay behind that indifferent stare, or to tell whether or not its owner could be trapped into any damaging admission.

In a few words the inspector explained his business. The prostrate woman let her opaque eyes rest upon his face for a full minute, then slowly turned them upon Geoffrey, her ragged brows contracted with puzzled incredulity.

“But surely monsieur was not serious in what he said this morning?” she murmured. “Even now I cannot understand. You say that mademoiselle came here last night?”

“That is what we have got to find out,” replied Bazin soothingly. “We cannot tell yet what has happened. You were asleep up till the time your room became filled with smoke?”

“Yes, monsieur, I woke up half-suffocated.”

“And before that--was everything as usual?”

She drew a long breath.

“Not quite, monsieur. Madame had a caller, a lady, who remained with her till seven o’clock. This lady had always an exciting effect on madame, and when she had gone last night I had great difficulty in quieting the patient.”

Geoffrey’s thoughts flew to Miss Cushing.

“What did you do?” inquired the inspector.

“I massaged her for a quarter of an hour, and at nine o’clock administered the usual dose of veronal prescribed by the doctor. At half-past ten I looked in and found her just dropping off to sleep. Then I went to bed.”

“Have you any idea as to how the fire started?”

There was a long pause. Geoffrey listened with strained attention for the reply.

“I have, monsieur,” replied the maid slowly. “Indeed, after what I saw when I first opened the door there can be no doubt as to the cause. The curtains of the bed caught in the flame of the candles on the wall.”

“Candles!”

“Yes, monsieur. Madame must have waked up, got out of bed, and lighted the candles before the _prie-dieu_. I saw plainly the streams of melted wax.…”

“But surely it was dangerous to have candles so close to the draperies?”

“Most dangerous. Indeed, when I discovered recently that madame had been burning her candles during the night I took them away, fearing she might do herself an injury.”

“You took them away! Then how----?”

Watching closely, Geoffrey saw the still face darken with a look of accusation.

“That is what I am asking myself, monsieur. It is evident that unknown to me madame had obtained others, as well as matches. Someone must have given them to her secretly. That person, whoever it was, is responsible for madame’s death.…”

The cold deliberation of this statement caused both listeners to stiffen. Here was something totally unexpected.

“But is it possible that anyone knowing madame’s condition could have done so foolish a thing?”

There was the faintest perceptible shrug of the supine shoulders.

“Ah, monsieur, you do not know what I have had to fight against with those who refused to recognize madame’s mental state, and set themselves to humour her whims.…”

“You mean to suggest that the caller yesterday brought candles with her and helped madame to hide them?”

Another pause, while Geoffrey hung breathless upon the next words, which came hesitatingly:

“Ah, no, monsieur, I cannot believe it was the friend I mentioned. She is a lady of a certain age, who though sometimes unfortunate in her speech would, I believe, know better than to commit such an indiscretion. No, monsieur, in my opinion it was someone else--someone younger and less responsible.…”

“You mean?”

“The young lady you tell me is missing… Mademoiselle West.…”

Geoffrey made an angry movement forward, the cool infamy of the suggestion acting on him like the prick of a spur. Catherine responsible for the victim’s death! Even as his lips parted to voice a furious protest he caught a warning glance from the Frenchman’s eye, and subsided, breathing hard.

“That statement implies a serious accusation,” Bazin replied somewhat sternly. “You are aware of what you are saying?”

The lined face remained inscrutable.

“I do not think that mademoiselle realized the gravity of her action, consequently I accuse her of nothing but thoughtlessness. But if I am questioned in court as to the cause of my mistress’s death…” She allowed her sentence to end in ominous silence, and with an air of exhaustion closed her eyes.

Geoffrey’s fingers twitched, but the inspector proceeded, unperturbed.

“Listen to me,” he said, referring to his notes. “If the young lady did reach the apartment last night, she must have done so shortly after midnight. Well, then--at a quarter-past one there was a light in her room.”

The eyes opened abruptly. Geoffrey saw that their dullness had vanished, giving place to a sharp attention. For a tense moment they searched the speaker’s face.

“_En effet!_” The words were muttered under her breath with a mixture of wonderment and cogitation. “Is it true what you are telling me?”

“It is an established fact. This gentleman here was outside in his car, saw the window lit up and a shadow across the blind. Then the light was put out.”

With a jerk Jeanne turned her head and stared at the Englishman in silence. She seemed to be thinking deeply.

“_En effet!_” she repeated slowly, as though some new light began to break over her. “Now I see why you are asking me all these questions. So she was here!… One might almost suppose, monsieur, that she was hiding in her room waiting for a chance to steal away unobserved.…”

“Why unobserved? Have you anything in your mind?”

She did not answer at once, her dark eyes still narrowed with their look of concentrated thought. When she spoke it was with halting deliberation.

“It is difficult to say, monsieur.… But the idea has this moment occurred to me that perhaps--who knows?--mademoiselle discovered the fire before I was aware of it, realized that it was the consequence of her own folly and--you follow me, monsieur?--took herself off in order to avoid the result of an inquiry. Mind, I know nothing, I. But if the unfortunate young lady saw at a glance that it was impossible to save madame…”

Geoffrey never knew how the interview terminated, nor by what exercise of diplomacy Bazin managed to get him out of the bedroom without making a scene. All he recalled was that somehow or other he was outside in the passage, struggling to throw off a firm grasp which detained him by the shoulder. Through a red haze of anger he heard a voice saying:

“Gently, monsieur! There is nothing to be gained by violence. Do not speak now--follow me to the back of the apartment.”

With an effort at control the young man allowed himself to be led along to the left and into an unused room, the door of which the inspector closed. Then his indignation burst its bonds.

“You heard what that devil said?” he cried in stifled accents. “You heard? She has had the audacity to assert that mademoiselle----”

He broke off, dimly aware of a change in his companion’s manner. The blue eyes level with his held a shade of uncertainty, one rough hand upraised itself to twist the ends of the blond moustache.

“Monsieur,” came the reply, hesitatingly and with a slight hint of embarrassment, “either that woman in there is exceedingly resourceful, or else----” he paused.

“Else what?”

“Or else she has hit upon what very possibly may be the true explanation of mademoiselle’s absence.”

Geoffrey’s eyes blazed at him.

“My God! You don’t mean to tell me you believe her story!”

“Monsieur, I do not believe anything till we have absolute proof that the young lady returned last night. Remember our first two theories. But if we find that she was here, then what we have just heard suggests the happiest way out of the difficulty.”

“_Happiest?_”

“Naturally--for in that event she is at this moment perfectly safe, only dreading to come forward.…”

Thunderstruck, Geoffrey stared at him, temporarily deprived of speech.