The Case of the Dead Diplomat (8 page)

“Please do.”

“You must know that M. Everett went out to the Place de la Concorde on February 6th, and was present when the
Garde Republicaine
fired on the demonstrators. He told me that he was only there as a private observer to see all that passed, and he was quite close to the bridge when the order was given to fire and men were shot down; that a deputy who was one of the Ministers at the time made his escape from the Chamber in an omnibus. He was recognized by the crowd, and when the omnibus stopped in a traffic block in the rue Royale, they tried to drag him out of the vehicle with the intention of lynching him, but he took refuge in a café. Mr. Everett told this story to a journalist friend, who published it without Mr. Everett's permission.”

“I remember reading the story in one of the newspapers, madame,” said Bigot. “Did the deputy in question get to know from whom it came?”

“Yes, monsieur. The deputy found out from the newspaper office the name of the correspondent who had supplied the paragraph, and he sent a friend to tax him with it. The gentleman replied that he had reported only what Mr. Everett had told him, and that Mr. Everett had said that he had witnessed the incident. Thereupon the deputy sent his seconds to Mr. Everett to challenge him to a duel, and Mr. Everett laughed at them and said that Englishmen did not fight duels, but if the gentleman still felt aggrieved he was quite ready to meet him with his fists. This infuriated the deputy, who could not bear to be laughed at. Ever since that day he has been Mr. Everett's enemy—indeed he tried to move the Quai d'Orsay to tell the British Foreign Office that he was a
persona non grata
(is that how you say it?), but the Quai d'Orsay told him that this was impossible.”

“And the name of the deputy?”

“Must I say the name?”

“I fear that you must, but your name will not be divulged. You need have no fear on that score.”

“It was M. Quesnay, the deputy for the Bouches du Rhône.”

“I remember now that that was the name given, madame. And M. Everett did not tell you of any other enemy?”

The young woman shook her head. “Mr. Everett was not a man to make enemies. He was a lover of France, and made friends, but never enemies.”

“Have you written to your husband to tell him what has happened?”

It was an unwelcome question, as Richardson divined from the expression on her face when she thought of her husband.

“No, monsieur,” she said at last; “he will hear of it quite soon enough when the newspapers discover me. I do beg of you not to betray me.”

“Have no fear of that, madame. But had you not better quit Paris until this affair is forgotten?”

“I have nowhere else to go, monsieur. My parents live in Paris. They can spare no money for me to go into the country. I am living with them now.”

Bigot swung round in his chair to whisper to Richardson, “Have you any question you would like to ask her?”

Richardson shook his head. “You have her address, monsieur. If anything fresh comes to light you can always send for her again.”

“Good. Madame, I will not detain you any longer. Go home to your parents and try to forget what the newspapers say about you.”

The young woman rose, bowed comprehensively to her three interrogators, and left the room.

Bigot beamed on his English colleagues as who should say, “I did that rather well, don't you think?”

Richardson could do no less than congratulate him on eliciting the story of the deputy who had so narrowly escaped the lamp-post on February 6th. “He certainly must have been an enemy of Mr. Everett's.”

“Yes, my friend; a very bitter enemy, because no deputy can afford to become a laughing-stock, and for Mr. Everett to laugh when challenged to a duel was a deadly insult.”

“You will invite this M. Quesnay to an interview?” asked Richardson, not knowing how far the powers of a police superintendent extended.

“Interrogate a deputy who has now become a Minister?” exclaimed Bigot, his eyebrows rising to meet his hair. “He would not come. He would go and complain to the
Prefet
, and I should be called to account. A Minister? No!”

“Will that young lady's name get into the news-papers? I should be sorry if it did.”

“If she's prudent and abstains from running about to cafés, she'll be safe enough from the Press in Paris. So far, all that the reporters know is that a certain unmarried lady, whom they call ‘Mademoiselle X,' was in some mysterious way mixed up with the case. They do not know her name or where she lives, nor do they know that she has a husband. That does not mean that her photograph will not appear in the newspapers.”

“Her photograph?” exclaimed Richardson. “If they have her photograph…”

Bigot laughed at this innocence. “It will not be the photograph of the lady who has just left us; it will be that of the best-looking among the young typists in the editor's office, and the account of her and the interview with her will be written by one of these newspaper gentlemen. It will not lack sensation, I can promise you.”

“Oh, is that the way it's done?”

“Don't they do that in your country—the newspapers?”

“No, they would be afraid of being exposed by rival editors.”

“Ah! Here in Paris they are safe, because they all do it. The feeling of a rival newspaper would be regret that they hadn't got in first with a better-looking girl. The girls themselves enjoy seeing their photographs in the newspapers, and a little
douceur
in good French money keeps their mouths shut. I haven't asked you what you thought of the young lady?”

“We thought that she was telling the truth.”

“You were right. She was telling us the exact truth, for it coincided with much that I already knew. It does not help us very far in pinning the crime to a particular person, but it does supply a motive.”

Cooper ventured to intervene. “It need not have been the deputy himself; one of his seconds might have felt insulted.”

“Quite so. Fortunately I have means for obtaining precisions in the lives of deputies, and I shall avail myself of these.” It was evident that he was still athirst for praise. “You did not think that I pressed the lady unduly hard?”

“On the contrary, M. Bigot, we both thought that your restraint and tact were admirable.”

“You haven't yet heard me examining a rascal with a dozen convictions to his account. Ah! Then it is another affair. I take off my gloves and let my claws peep out. It may take time to obtain a confession, but in the end I succeed. You may ask any of the habitual criminals, and you will hear that Bigot of the ninth
arrondissement
is a man to keep clear of. And now, messieurs, you must be as hungry as I am. Let us adjourn for lunch, and when you come back I will send one of my men with you on the trail of M. Pinet.”

W
HEN
R
ICHARDSON
and his companion returned to the office they learned from the doorkeeper that M. Bigot had gone out and it was not known when he would return. “I believe that M. Verneuil is to put himself at your disposal. I will call him.”

Charles Verneuil, as the British detectives came to know later, had been a petty officer in the French navy. He was a man on the wrong side of forty, with a rather rolling gait when he walked, and a broad chest. He was as little like a detective as it is possible to imagine. His eyes were shrewd and humorous; a sarcastic twist of the lips might convert his humour into winged darts of satire. He greeted his British colleagues warmly, though not without a hint that he expected them to provide him with an afternoon of entertainment. He came from the west of Brittany.

“I have instructions from M. Bigot,” he said, “that the first thing to do is to find a M. Pinet, a journalist who writes for the
Crédit National
. With your permission we will go straight to the office of that journal in the rue Réaumur.”

They took the Metro. When they reached the modest office of the journal, Verneuil stopped an old acquaintance who came running down the stairs, and asked him whether M. Pinet was in the building.

“No, monsieur; he has been absent for four or five days. He had an accident.”

“Then I will write to him if you can give me his address, monsieur.”

“
Hélas!
I do not know it. I only know that he has lately changed it.” The young man stopped a colleague who was making for the door. “These gentlemen are asking for Richard's address. You who know everything that goes on in the world can tell me.”

“Richard is leading a monastic existence at le Pecq, they say.”

“Monastic?” queried his friend.

“Monastic as far as his latest platinum blonde will let him, but I cannot give the name of his villa; le Pecq is a small place; any tradesman there could direct you.”

That seemed to be sufficient for Verneuil, who hurried his companions back to the Metro and changed at the Opera for St. Lazare. They booked for le Pecq, the last station before St. Germain, and crossed to a garage opposite the station. There M. Richard Pinet appeared to be well known. A garage hand was good enough to come out into the road and point out the Villa Mariette. “You can't miss it,” he said; “the name is on the gate.”

The party walked for about three hundred yards along the road to Croissy before they found it. It was a small villa with a neatly clipped hedge that gave privacy to the garden. One had to ring the bell at the gate, which was locked. “Monastic seclusion,” observed Verneuil. The bell sent a peal through the house; the front door opened and a lady with platinum blonde hair and painted finger-nails came tripping down the steps in shoes with inordinately high heels.

“You desire, messieurs?”

“We have come to see M. Pinet,” explained Verneuil archly; his tone betokened that he had little desire to discuss his business with this charmer who smelt powerfully of scent, and whose daily
toilette
apparently consumed a good deal of the morning.

The lady was not to be put off. “On what business, messieurs?”

“That we shall explain to monsieur in person when we see him.”

“M. Pinet can see nobody; he is recovering from a serious accident on his motor-bicycle and his doctor has prescribed complete rest.”

“I regret it, madame, but we must see him. We are police officers. If he cannot come down to us, we will go up to his bedroom. Even if it takes him the rest of the afternoon to rise and come down to us, we shall stay here. We can always occupy our leisure time by making a search of the house—the drawers and cupboards—if madame will be so good as to replace everything after we have left.” He screwed up one eye with a grin.

“I cannot see by what right you come here to disturb a sick-room; it is scandalous,” protested the lady, but Richardson observed that she was backing towards the stairs.

Verneuil took advantage of her retreat to enter the dining-room. His British companions followed him. Verneuil cocked his ear to listen to sounds from above which were brought to them through the ceiling. He held up his finger. They heard the murmur of the platinum blonde and responses in a male voice, then a bump overhead suggested that someone was tumbling out of bed and collecting dressing-gown and slippers. There followed footsteps on the stairs and presently a man in pyjamas, dressing-gown and slippers blocked the doorway.

“To whom have I the honour of speaking?” he said, as the police officers rose from their chairs.

Verneuil took from his pocket-book a card and presented it.

“And these gentlemen?”

“Colleagues of mine. Shall we be seated?” asked Verneuil. “I understand that you are suffering from an accident, and that your doctor has prescribed rest and quiet.”

“I say that your intrusion is unwarrantable,” began Pinet in a high-pitched voice. “What right have you to force your way into my house when you knew that I was ill in bed?”

Richardson and Cooper were looking keenly at the man, who belonged to a type that they had never met before. He was sallow and thin, about thirty years of age, and looked as if he were on wires; his temperament made him beat down every question with a flood of nervous eloquence. The detectives noticed that Verneuil threw himself back in his chair with an air of resignation whenever the flood-gates were opened; it was useless to try to close them before the waters ceased to gush. Richardson rallied his French colleague about this later in the afternoon. The reply was that Pinet's accent betrayed him as a Bordelais, and you might as well try to stop a thunderstorm as a man from Bordeaux.

Shorn of three-quarters of its verbiage, Pinet's account of his movements on the previous Tuesday evening was as follows. Yes, he had visited the flat of the British attaché that evening by appointment. His editor desired to know how the British equalization fund was being administered, and M. Everett was in a position to enlighten him. He could not remember how long he had known M. Everett—how can a busy journalist remember such data as these when he is seeing different people at every hour of the day? It was not reasonable to expect it. At any rate he had known him for some months and had always found him a charming man, who gave in-formation to his French colleagues frankly and without hesitation or reserve. That was why he applied to him. The hour was late? Not for a journalist, it was barely ten o'clock, and besides, M. Everett could not have received him earlier because he had another visitor, and he was expecting yet another when he (Pinet) had left.

“Was your interview with him a pleasant one?”

“Most pleasant, monsieur. He was a charming host and, if I may mention it, he offered to his French visitors the most delicious whisky to be obtained in Paris. He whispered to his intimates, of whom I was proud to be one, that it came over from London in the diplomatic pouch.”

Richardson intervened in his foreign-sounding French which seemed to startle Pinet, who almost bounded in his chair. “Did you drink any whisky with Mr. Everett that evening?”