Chapter THIRTY-SEVEN

Geoffrey’s father had read Catherine’s message before sending it on, consequently at dinner there was little to discuss. The meal passed in strained silence, Geoffrey consuming food mechanically, while the other scanned with a gloomy frown the evening papers’ accounts of the fire.

Through the open windows a breath of sun-drenched air stole in from across the Luxembourg Gardens; the tall candles flickering on the table filled the young man’s mind with an uneasy suggestion, driving home the fact that while his worst fears were allayed, he was still restless and dissatisfied.

If only Catherine had told him where she was! For the life of him he could not regard the omission as accidental. At one moment he imagined sensitively that she shrank from seeing him for some personal reason, at another attributed her motive to a desire for concealment. The occasional probing glances directed at him by his father goaded him to irritability, for it was not difficult to read their cause.

The coffee arriving, Macadam pushed back his chair and thrust a cigar into his mouth at an irascible angle.

“Whatever Miss West’s reasons may be for her behaviour,” he pronounced gratingly, “she has given us a deuced deal of trouble and made us look a couple of fools as well. If you enjoy this sort of thing, it’s more than I do.”

The sarcasm flicked Geoffrey on the raw.

“We may as well reserve comment till we know the facts,” he retorted curtly.

With a shrug the old man wadded the newspapers into a ball and strode from the room, reappearing for a moment to toss an envelope in his son’s direction.

“There’s your report about the handwriting. The notes were forgeries right enough--though much good it does to know it now! The next thing will be the discovery that the pearls are missing, so we can arrest that woman for theft, whether or not there’s any foundation for a more serious charge.”

It was with feelings bordering on complete indifference that Geoffrey read the enclosure. Indeed, so absorbed was he in his own contradictory emotions, he did not realize to what extent his father’s ill temper was occasioned by a sense of failure in averting a calamity.

Much as he wished to ignore Jeanne’s detestable theory, he could not deny that Catherine’s present conduct was strange. The idea that a cloud of doubt might for ever hang over the past twenty-four hours was loathsome to him. Then the thought of her fearless eyes and frank honesty rushed before him as a reproach, and he tried resolutely to postpone all conjecture till to-morrow.

To-morrow----!

All at once, with a pang, he understood why he was so disturbed. Was he really going to see her? The vagueness of her message held something elusive, a quality summed up in a repetition of the phrase, “not like Catherine.” That was it--it was not like her. What was it she had said?

Taking the telegram from his pocket, he studied it closely, once more trying to discover some hidden meaning.

“_Overcome by frightful news unable to go out but will telephone you to-morrow to explain my absence do not trouble yourself all goes well with me…_”

Awkwardly put, that. He wondered now why she had employed the expression, “do not trouble yourself.” Much more natural to have said “Don’t worry.” The reflexive verb sounded oddly un-English. He pondered it, then passed on to the following sentence.

Suddenly he frowned, staring hard. Here was a combination of words he would not have expected an American to use. Surely the obvious thing to say was, “Don’t worry, I’m all right.”

“All goes well with me.” He repeated the stilted form, annoyed and exasperated. What did it suggest? At first the significance escaped him, then in a flash he knew. Why--it was pure French construction! Of course! Its equivalent was the phrase “_tout va bien_.”

For a few seconds he remained stupefied, his brain in confusion. Then out of chaos emerged an awful, crashing truth. This telegram was not composed by Catherine at all. It was the concoction of some foreigner--someone with an imperfect knowledge of English idioms. It bore two glaring marks of falsity.

The revelation stunned him. How had he been such an unmitigated ass? Catherine would not, could not, construct sentences like those, the thing was impossible.

His fatuous security tumbled about him like a house of cards. Catherine might or might not be alive, but instinct warned him that all hope of recovering her was lost unless immediate action were taken. His chair clattered to the parquet behind him as, leaping to his feet, he made a bolt for the door.

He was still cursing his blindness when, at the rue Mesnil, he met the inspector just setting forth for his night’s vigil.

“So you are coming with me after all, monsieur? I promise you it may prove a boring affair. Why--has anything new occurred?” he ended in surprise as he took in the Englishman’s distraught bearing.

“Look at this again!” cried Geoffrey, thrusting the telegram under his eyes. “It is worded in such a way that it could not possibly have been written by Mademoiselle West. I don’t know how I was such a fool as not to spot it at once,” and he hastily attempted to explain the two paradoxes contained in the message.

Bazin listened with an altered face.

“You are sure of this? The English language is a sealed book to me. Perhaps you had better compare that paper with the original, which I obtained an hour ago from the Hôtel des Postes,” he added, producing a pencil-written form. “None of the employés could recall who handed it in, but you will probably know if it is in the young lady’s hand.”

Eagerly Geoffrey seized the form, only to see what at first glance appeared to be Catherine’s writing. He stared nonplussed, then hunting through his pockets, found the note sent him several days ago from Fontainebleau. Examining the two specimens, he decided that one was a creditable but faulty imitation of the other.

“They are not the same,” he pronounced positively. “See, all her own o’s are separated from the other letters, while in the telegram they are joined on. Besides, there is an angularity about this writing which is distinctively Continental.”

Bazin’s blue eyes had a hard brightness.

“I agree. They were never written by the same person.” He fingered the slip with manifest excitement. “You are right, monsieur. This telegram is the work of someone anxious to put us off the scent, and for to-night, mind--since the deception would surely have been revealed when you failed to hear anything further.”

“Then you think that whatever is planned will take place before morning?”

“I do. I was wiser than I knew when I arranged to have that house watched.”

His face was grave as he got into the waiting car and motioned to Geoffrey to take the seat beside him. In another second they were circling the Place Victor Hugo.

“I have some more news for you, monsieur. I have now heard from the taxi-driver who brought mademoiselle home from the Gare. He declares that he set her down at the private entrance at about ten minutes past twelve last night, and as he is able to furnish a satisfactory account of himself for several hours afterwards, we can safely eliminate him from the inquiry. So far no other driver has come forward, which leads us to assume that while your friend arrived at the apartment, she did not leave again in the way that has been suggested.”

As Geoffrey listened to this confirmation of his worst fears, dread lay like a leaden weight at the pit of his stomach.

“Furthermore, I have instituted a search at some thirty hotels in the rue de Rivoli district, and while there may still remain some small place we have overlooked, it begins to appear a useless quest.”

“Who do you suppose sent the telegram? Was it Blom?”

“Not in person, certainly, for he has been under strict surveillance all the afternoon, and I have my man’s word for the fact that he has gone nowhere, except across the court to his fiancée’s apartment.”

“He may have sent it by one of Honorine’s work-girls.”

“A risk, in case of embarrassing inquiries. Your name is sufficiently unusual to impress itself on a French person’s memory. I am inclined to believe he employed a public messenger.”

Geoffrey considered this.

“He would be bound to take some risk in order to telegraph at all, but from his point of view it would be a small one. Remember, he has not the slightest reason up till now to think that any of us is aware of his existence.”

“Ah, in that case he may well consider himself safe. Certainly, if you had not had the good fortune to discover his connection with the affair, last night’s happening would have been regarded as a tragic accident, with blame attaching to no one, least of all to him. As things stand, what with mademoiselle’s disappearance and this deliberate attempt to make it appear a voluntary withdrawal, I now see that the situation looks distinctly serious.”

Geoffrey forced himself to utter the question which was gnawing into him like a canker.

“You believe, then, that mademoiselle may be dead?”

The inspector bit his lip.

“It may be as well to accustom oneself to the idea, monsieur,” he said in a low voice. “It seems extremely probable that she has been murdered because she is a dangerous witness, and that the criminals are merely waiting till a suitable moment to dispose of her body.”

They had slowed down in turning off the Avenue Henri Martin. The rays of an arc-light shone full on the young man’s face, revealing its ghastly pallor.

“I suppose we can doing nothing but watch?” he suggested, his tone deadened with repression.

“Not for to-night. If nothing occurs, then to-morrow we shall have to take definite action, but so long as a bare hope remains of the young lady’s being alive we must tread warily.”

Leading the way, he turned into a narrow passage squeezed between the rows of buildings, passed through a doorway and began to ascend a winding stair, lit by a dim wall-bracket.

“This is the rear entrance to the house we want, monsieur. It is better not to use the front way, for fear of being seen.”

On the first floor he tapped upon a door, which was opened by a middle-aged _femme de chambre_.

“Will you kindly inform M. le Commandant that Inspector Bazin is here?”

The woman nodded.

“If you will come this way, messieurs, I will conduct you to the room monsieur has placed at your disposal.”

Following her along a passage, they found themselves in a small study, the walls of which, above compactly filled bookshelves, were ornamented by a collection of arms arranged in a coruscating pattern--spears, poniards and scimitars of an interesting variety. Brown velvet curtains covered the window, while deep chairs and a sofa were grouped about a low table bearing smoking materials, among which were a narghileh and a Turkish chibouk.

When the servant withdrew, Bazin informed his companion that they were the guests of M. le Commandant Jules Heller, well known as an authority on modern warfare. Geoffrey recognized the name, one frequently seen signed to articles in _le Gaulois_ and similar journals. As he looked restlessly round at the weapon-hung walls a clock somewhere in the flat struck a single metallic _ping_. A glance at his watch told him it was half-past eight.

The door opened to admit their host, a small, bald-headed man, one-armed and with a glass eye. His spare body was attired in a velvet jacket, the lapel of which bore the tiny red ribbon of the _Légion d’Honneur_.

“Good evening, messieurs!” The Commandant bowed with exquisite courtesy, his lone eye beaming with welcome. “I trust this study is suitable for your purpose? It is near the corner and commands a view of both entrances opposite, although unfortunately the trees are in full leaf and may obstruct the vision.”

The inspector declared the position excellent, adding that he trusted they were not causing inconvenience.

“Not in the least! I confess I would like nothing better than to share your watch, but alas, I am suffering from migraine, and my wife insists on an early retirement. However, I have given orders for refreshments to be brought you, and if you require anything further you have only to ring.”

He seated himself, offered them liqueurs and cigars, and for a short time discoursed with a charm and fluency which, at another time, would have delighted both listeners. As matters were, it was a relief to Geoffrey’s nerves when at the stroke of nine he rose to bid them good night. In the doorway he paused, his manner suddenly altering.

“That maid across the way,” he remarked with serious thoughtfulness, “I have watched her going about her duties for eleven years--respectful, efficient, but, messieurs, hard--as hard as those,”--and he pointed a finger at the polished blades on the wall. “I know her accent; she is from the Vosges. The butler I cannot place, he is probably of no nationality, but I know what I am saying when I tell you that there is bad blood _chez lui_. If you wish to trap those two, messieurs, you will need to be like our friend the fly--all eyes, below, above and in the backs of your heads! _Bon soir, messieurs--et bonne chance!_”

The door closed. The two men exchanged glances.

“He is right,” muttered the inspector shortly.

He turned off the lights, then cautiously drew aside the curtains. The room was saved from complete darkness by the street lights and the silver radiance of the moon, just risen above the house-tops.

“Too much illumination. We must be careful not to show ourselves.”

Yet it was a point in their favour that no one could possibly issue from either of the entrances over the way without being plainly seen. The avenue was quiet except for an occasional car whizzing past, but from all around came the staccato honking of motor-horns pitched in various keys. On a level with the eyes stretched the double row of chestnuts, their waxen blossoms stiffly upright like candles on a Christmas tree, while above the odour of warm asphalt and petrol rose the fragrance of the spring night, fresh and thrilling. To Geoffrey it was like a knife turned in a wound.

Opposite, the wide doors gaped open, with a thin blade of light from the loge lying athwart the pavement. On the _entresol_ floor all was gloom save for a slender thread of radiance round the edge of the corner window.

A woman’s figure, flamboyantly dressed and with a scarlet hat perched on her blond hair, emerged from the gates and stood looking up and down the street. As she turned her rouged face towards the light Geoffrey recognized Berthe. Presently she was joined by a coarse, thickset man, and the two went off arm-in-arm, discoursing volubly.

“The cook, setting out with her friend,” whispered Bazin. “That is good; the others will feel freer.”

Seating himself in the shadow of the curtains, he offered a packet of Marylands to his companion, masking the lighted match with his hands.

During an interminable interval the two puffed in silence. Ever and again Geoffrey’s cigarette went out and had to be re-lit. His muscles twitched, his features in the tempered gloom showed blanched and drawn. He chafed helplessly at the tediousness of the vigil, haunted by the fear that while they sat here idle, elsewhere events might be moving forward with fatal rapidity.

The unseen clock struck ten. A groan escaped him. The night had barely begun!

A moment afterwards he stiffened and laid a hand on the inspector’s arm.

On the narrow balcony of the corner room Eduardo had appeared, his squat shoulders silhouetted against the glow within. He stood with his right hand resting against the railing, and Geoffrey saw that the sling had been abandoned. Slowly, indifferently, it seemed, his bullet head turned, surveying the avenue in both directions, then, throwing back his chin, he stared up at the night sky. A cloud of pale smoke wafted out over the chestnuts from the cigarette between his lips.

For several minutes he remained thus, then withdrew, closing the casement. All was quiet once more, though the light inside the room was still visible.

Silence and another endless wait. Would nothing ever happen?

Then suddenly out of the soft night rose the thin notes of a violin. The tune, charged with poignant associations, clutched at Geoffrey’s heart. It was the Albeniz Tango.…

He shut his eyes. Across velvet blackness swayed two white figures like glittering frost-flowers, accented here and there with spots that were crimson as drops of blood.

Then the vision melted kaleidoscopically into another, and he sensed around him a different darkness, with the odour of lilies of the valley filling his nostrils. He could all but feel the pliant body close against him and the pressure of those lips which for two weeks had been a constant memory. Acute anguish shot through him. His nails dug into his palms.