The Case of the Dead Diplomat (5 page)

“Very good, sir. Shall I warn him to be ready?”

“Not yet. We have to wait for an official letter from the Foreign Office. All I want you to do is to avoid putting Richardson or Cooper on to any new case.”

The official letter was brought over by hand the same afternoon; the train for the night boat carried Richardson and Cooper over to France, each armed with a certificate from the Foreign Office describing the bearer as attached to the Embassy in Paris, in lieu of a passport. Actually, the superintendent had understated Richardson's proficiency in French. Ever since the Maze case the junior inspector in “Central” had devoted all his evenings to a study of the language, and had joined a class in French conversation conducted by a French lady from Tours. His ambition was to burst upon the department as a French interpreter as soon as he felt sure of himself. Only Sergeant Cooper knew this, and he was bound to secrecy. During the waking hours of their journey, Richardson insisted that French should be their only language.

Arrived at St. Lazare, they left their luggage in the cloak-room and swallowed an early breakfast in the café at the end of the Galerie des Pas Perdus, where Cooper studied the columns of Paris-Matin to see what the Paris newspapers were saying about the murder.

“Mr. Morden wasn't far wrong in what he told us about these Paris papers. Listen to this.

“There's a lot more of it, and half a column about the mysterious Mademoiselle X, whose identity, they say, is not yet known. The paper suggests that she is the mistress of one of the Cabinet Ministers, and that he is shielding her.”

“The worst of it is that the readers of the paper swallow all this stuff, and one can never overtake the lies they tell.” Richardson consulted his watch. “If we're going to walk to the Embassy we had better be starting. It is nearly ten.”

Cooper knew the way to the Faubourg St. Honoré. In fifteen minutes they found themselves opposite the imposing front of the British Embassy, and crossed the street to ring the bell. Four or five young men appeared to be on guard at the big iron gate. One of them accosted Cooper as a
confrère
.

“You will pardon me, monsieur, if I ask you what English paper you represent.”

Cooper's expression was a picture of non-comprehension; he shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. The man fell back, and they reached the bell unmolested. The porter examined their papers and opened the gate just wide enough to admit them.

“You are a little early, gentlemen,” he said. “They don't keep early hours here, but if you'll step over to the Chancery and tell them who you are they'll let you in.”

The man who actually received them was Chubb, the incorrigible non-respecter of persons. “Detective officers from Scotland Yard, are you? I don't know that I've ever come across one before except, of course, in the books. Well, you're going to find your work cut out for you here”—he jerked his thumb in the direction of the Chancery—“they've all gone gaga over there from the old man downwards—all except Mr. Gregory; he knows how to tell these reporter chaps where they get off.”

“There's a lot of them waiting outside the gate now,” observed Cooper.

“You bet your life there are. If you let them in and don't tell them anything, they go away and invent lies. That's where Mr. Gregory steps in. He does the innocent child stunt. Instead of letting them interview
him
, he sucks their brains—all in their own lingo—and sends them away happy. Damn it, he'll be glad you've come over! But I oughtn't to keep you standing here. I'll take you along to the waiting-room. Mr. Gregory will be in directly.”

Chubb had three manners—the formal manner of respect which he kept for the ambassador and the first secretary; the manner of the privileged dependant which was reserved for other members of the Embassy staff; and the manner and speech of the sergeants' mess. For detectives he adopted instinctively the second of these; the expeditionary corps from Scotland Yard were destined, at a later stage of their acquaintance, to enjoy the third, which would have struck them as odd coming from the lips of a man whose breast was emblazoned with the ribbons of war medals, for Chubb had been in the South African as well as the Great War, and had greatly distinguished himself in both.

In the waiting-room Richardson proceeded to draw out his new acquaintance.

“What were the duties of the Press attaché?” was his first question.

“Ah, there you have me. I don't believe anyone knew, unless Mr. Carruthers, the first secretary, did. He had a pile of French newspapers to go through every morning, and I had them afterwards for lighting the stove in winter. Then he'd go out, generally for the rest of the day. What he did in the town is more than I can tell you, but it seemed to be a soft job, whatever it was.”

“What kind of a man was he?”

“Oh, a civil-spoken young fellow, always ready to pass the time of day, but not one of the brainy sort, if you know what I mean.”

“Did he have many visitors here?”

“Not one. Any people that he saw he must have met somewhere in the town. The papers are saying that he had a young woman—Miss X, they call her—but in France they always drag a woman into every case you read of. Their public's been brought up to expect it. I believe that they keep a stock of good-looking girls on their staff to pose for their photographs as the mystery woman in the case—Mademoiselle X…hullo, I believe I hear someone. I'll run along and see whether it's Mr. Gregory.”

In less than two minutes Chubb returned, arrayed in his official manners. “If you'll step this way, gentlemen, Mr. Gregory will be pleased to receive you.”

“You've arrived a day before we expected you,” said Gregory. “It was quick work.”

“Yes, sir, we had rather short notice, but we caught last night's boat train.”

“Did you happen to notice when you came in whether any reporters were hanging about the gate?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Cooper; “there were half a dozen or so. They must have been reporters, because one of them claimed me as a
confrère
, and asked me what English newspaper I represented.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I'm afraid that I pretended not to understand him.”

“But you do speak French?”

“Yes, sir, but not well enough to pass for a Frenchman.”

“Sergeant Cooper is too modest, sir; he is our French interpreter at the Yard.”

“Good, then we needn't waste time by discussing the case. I propose to take you both down to the
commissaire
who is in charge of the investigations. You must not let out to him that you are officially sent by the Foreign Office. I shall explain that the ambassador had asked you to come over to act as liaison officers between the Paris police and the Embassy; in fact, to make yourselves generally useful under direction; and you should ask particularly that your presence here should not be divulged to any French reporter. You might hint in the course of conversation that you would be in a position to answer any question that may arise about the official duties of the late Mr. Everett. By the way, I ought to tell you that a post-mortem was made on the body yesterday, and that no trace was found of poison or drugs. The cause of death was a stab in the throat which penetrated the carotid artery. My only other news is that the ambassador has had a telegram from Everett's father that he and the mother are coming over to-day.”

“Very good, sir; we are ready to start whenever you like.”

Gregory went to the door and shouted for Chubb, who came bustling down the passage.

“Look here, Chubb; just run up to the servants' bedroom on the second floor and take a squint at the railings. You might count the blighters who are waiting for the gate to be opened. You have the key of the garden gate, haven't you?”

“Yes, Mr. Gregory. I see what you want; you want to do a bolt into the Champs-Élysées.”

“Only if the coast isn't clear.”

“I can tell you that without busting myself to go up to any second-floor window. There's a regular army of them this morning.”

“Right then, we'll execute a strategic retreat, Chubb.”

Armed with the key of the postern, Chubb led the way through the pleasant Embassy garden to the bolt-hole used by the gardeners. “I won't go out and call a taxi for you, Mr. Gregory, because that would attract attention.”

The three hunted men walked for fifty yards before hailing a passing taxi. Gregory directed the driver to set them down at the junction between the rue de Lafayette and the rue de Châteaudun. From there they walked to the police station of the
arrondissement
, taking care to see that no one was following them and that no journalist was on guard at the door, nor on the opposite side of the street.

“All clear,” said Gregory, after a quick scrutiny. “We'll walk boldly in and ask to see the superintendent in charge of the
arrondissement
.”

The constable on duty at the door seemed a little surprised at their demand and asked the nature of their business. Gregory smiled knowingly and said, “I can assure you that the superintendent will ask for nothing better than to see us. You might show him this card,” he added, tendering a visiting-card bearing the address, “British Embassy.”

In less than a minute they were ushered into the room of the functionary, who rose to receive them.

“Be seated, gentlemen.”

“I come from the British Embassy, monsieur,” said Gregory.

“And these gentlemen, monsieur?”

“They come from Scotland Yard, monsieur. Detective Inspector Richardson and Detective Sergeant Cooper. The ambassador thought that they would be useful to you in the examination of documents in English, and as liaison officers between you and the Embassy. They will put themselves entirely under your orders for any duty that you may care to entrust them with. If you have no need for their services you have only to say so.”

“On the contrary, monsieur, they will be of the greatest use to us, presuming that they understand French.”

“Both officers speak French. They are ready to get to work at once. The ambassador would be glad, however, if you would arrange that nothing should be said to any French reporter about either of these gentlemen coming from Scotland Yard, or being police officers.”

“You may rely upon that, monsieur; they shall be merely interpreters attached to the Embassy.”

The superintendent threw open his door and sent a passing constable for M. Bigot. The three Englishmen had risen.

“This is the officer with whom you will be dealing, messieurs—Inspector Bigot.”

The inspector shook hands with Gregory, saying, “I had the pleasure of meeting this gentleman at the British Embassy on Wednesday.” He looked inquiringly at the other two. “And these gentlemen?”

“Interpreters and translators attached to the Embassy,” said Gregory laconically. “They are prepared to begin their duties at once.”

“Good,” said Bigot; “then I will take them to my room.”

The three shook hands with the superintendent and were conducted along the passage to the little room assigned to the inspector, who threw open the door and invited them to pass him. They found that they were not alone in the room. A sharp-faced young man with a note-book and pencil was sitting half hidden by the door. He was writing, but rose on the irruption of the visitors. Bigot, who brought up the rear, was the last to catch sight of him. He uttered an exclamation of annoyance.

“I beg pardon, monsieur, for having entered your room without ceremony,” said the young man, “but I have several questions to ask you. Let me inquire first, who are these gentlemen?”

“English friends of mine,” replied Bigot shortly.

“Ah, I recognize one of them—the gentleman who receives us journalists at the Embassy. Is it not so, monsieur?” he added, turning to Gregory. “Ah, we are well met on neutral ground here. You can say to me what you would not care to say to a crowd of other journalists”—he sank his voice to the confidential note—“you can tell me, for example, something that will greatly interest my editor. That dagger, now—”

Bigot interrupted brusquely. “I beg your pardon, monsieur. I must remind you that you have no right to walk uninvited into my room, and that I am at present engaged and can answer no questions.”

“But surely you can tell me why these gentlemen are here, monsieur?”

“I can answer no questions at all,” said Bigot sternly.

Gregory advanced a step, and sinking his voice to a confidential manner said, “I can satisfy your curiosity, monsieur. I have brought these gentlemen here to obtain their identity cards.”

“But…!” exclaimed the journalist.

“Not another word, monsieur—I have given you exclusive information that has been given to no other journalist in Paris. More than that, you are quite at liberty to publish this exclusive information. And now, if you will permit me…” He pulled the door open and held it for the journalist to take his departure.

Having expelled the intrusive visitor, Gregory also took his leave. “I can safely leave these gentlemen with you, monsieur, and if they are set upon by journalists in the street outside, I can rely upon you to give them protection.”

Inspector Bigot now conducted the two English detectives into a room lined with cupboards, and brought chairs to the long oak table at which a police officer was digging into an untidy pile of papers. He sent the man away and then planked down upon the table another pile, which had been brought down from the dead man's flat.