The Milliner's Hat Mystery (10 page)

“You may count upon me to do my best, messieurs. If it were not for the tiresome complication of this attack upon the car of our worthy Socialist leader, I should have more time, but you know what it is with the Paris journals. Some of them love to have a stick with which to belabour the police. I will put your enquiry into competent hands and I suggest that you call upon me again tomorrow.”

“Yes, Monsieur Verneuil, but before we go I have something to give you. This little book contains a number of names and addresses.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Out of the desk of Madame Germaine of that hat shop.”

“You mean she didn't see you take it?”

“I won't be sure of that, monsieur. There is not much that misses the lady's roving eye. But in any case, she must by this time have noticed that the note-book has disappeared. In the meantime we suggest that nothing should be done to alarm her, because she may be acting as a magnet for our two men. But you may care to look through these names and addresses in case they link up with your specialty—the drug traffic. Turn to the page with the letter H, for example, and see whether you recognize a name on that page.”

Verneuil ran his eye down the page and stiffened suddenly in his chair. “Hédouin of Belfort. Ah!
par exemple!
Here we have it. The people that I've been trying to trip up for months. We have practically all the evidence that is required, but this woman must be watched.”

“Yes,” observed Vincent; “when she discovers that her notebook has vanished, she may take to flight.”

“If she fancies that she will escape from my observation of her, she will deceive herself. You will leave this book with me, gentlemen? I may find other names.”

“Certainly; keep it as long as you think necessary. We do not propose to restore it to the lady.”

As they left Verneuil's office Vincent said: “If we go to the rue Cambon on foot would there have been time for a reply to our telegram?”

“It was marked ‘
Priorité
'; it'll be a near thing: we can but try.”

The magic word ‘
Priorité
' had done the trick; they found a telegram in the Poste Restante also marked ‘
Priorité
' and addressed to Madame Germaine. Goron asked to see the chief of the telegraph bureau and explained to him that he was in fact, for the moment, Madame Germaine, though the postmaster might find it difficult to believe it. Men charged with the dreary round of postal work are always agog for sensation and here essentially was a case that bristled with drama. Accordingly as soon as he was satisfied about Goron's identity he allowed him to have a copy of the telegram.

The telegram read: “Monsieur still absent abroad. Blake.”

“Good,” said Goron; “they have fallen into our trap and think that that telegram was sent by Madame Germaine.”

“It is possible,” said Vincent; “but we must not forget that Germaine is a very clever woman. She may have missed her little book and, assuming that we stole it, may have spent the afternoon calling up her dubious ‘customers' on the long-distance telephone, warning them that their addresses are known to the police, who are making inquiries about them.”

T
HEY HAD FINISHED
dinner; Goron had produced for his guest a bottle of age-old brandy to drink with their coffee. Jacqueline had withdrawn to superintend the woman in the kitchen.

“To return to a question of shop,” said Vincent, “there is one point that I should like to study from the map. We will assume for the moment that that telegram was genuine and that Madame Germaine had not put these people on their guard. Have you a map?”

“I have,” said Goron, jumping up and laying a motoring map on the table. “You want the coast towns, no doubt.”

“Yes,” said Vincent. “We may, I think, rule out all ports east of Cherbourg. These men were crossing in a motorboat from Newquay. You will see from the map that there was not much difference between the voyage to Brest or to Cherbourg. In which of these two towns do you think it would be easier for a motorboat whose papers were not quite in order to make a landing without exciting remark?”

“Personally, if I were engaged in any illicit business, I should choose Brest. It is a big town traversed by docks and waterways. An idea strikes me. I have a friend who acts as intelligence officer to the customs at Brest and is well in with all the port officials. If you think of going down I will come with you and introduce you to him.”

“That is certainly an idea. As you see, if I stay on in Paris I shall merely be twiddling my thumbs with nothing to do, and when I get home I shall be asked why I stayed so long in France with nothing to show for my expenses. The port offices in Brest must know something of this mysterious boat if she went there and my reason for being in France is to trace that boat and the people who wire in it.”

“Then let us have a look at the timetable. There is a morning train…?”

“I must take the night train this evening. It is imperative that I lose no time, but why should I drag you off to the west?”

“Oh, that's all right. I travel free when I'm on duty and this is duty. I am accustomed to night travelling and I can always sleep in the train.”

The train they chose left them but a bare hour for preparations. Both men were for quick action at all times, nor was their keenness blunted when they alighted on the Brest platform in the early morning.

In response to a telephone message overnight from Goron, Monsieur Andre Lalage met them on the platform and the introduction was made. Lalage proved to be an alert little man with close-cropped hair standing on end and a huge moustache. He was a Breton born and bred in Brest, who had outshone all his colleagues in the Customs Service by his intelligence and alertness.

“We have much to ask you,” said Goron, “and we are trusting to you to find us some
bistro
where we can talk in private.”

The little man laughed sardonically. “If you don't mind a
bistro
frequented by dockers, I know of one where we can engage a private room on the first floor.”

“Lead on then,” said Goron; “we can drink our morning coffee there, I suppose.”

“Yes, the coffee is…” he pivoted his hand with fingers outstretched, meaning that he did not answer for the quality of the beverage, “but the bread and the butter are good.”

Lalage appeared to be a power at the dockside; the groups of dockers made way for him; one or two of them saluted; he had a kindly word for each.

When the wife of the proprietor of the little café had served them with breakfast and had clumped down the stairs, Goron made a sign to Vincent to explain his business. There was something about the personality of the Englishman that commended itself. He found his French listeners strongly impressed with his manner of relating the story he had to tell. Even Goron, who had heard it all in Paris, was keenly alive and Lalage could scarcely keep still. He made Vincent repeat the description of the motorboat and nodded his head after each sentence.

“You did well, gentlemen, to come to Brest. It is a port peculiarly adapted to smuggling of all kinds, and as for that motorboat without a name I will tell you how they work. A ship comes in and is examined by the customs officer, who finds the manifest and all the other papers in order. Good! That night a motorboat steals noiselessly up to the seaward side of the ship and throws a parcel or two to the deck hand. Who is to know it, except the deck hand, who of course is in the swim? Some owners employ sworn watchmen, but what is an oath against the flutter of a few notes slipped into his hand on the gangway.”

“You mean that the motorboat is owned by somebody in Brest?”

“Yes, there are three or four private motorboats of that kind in the port.”

“Without names?”

“Oh, they have a name on their papers, but not always painted on the hulls. A favourite trick is to have alternative names painted on little boards which are hung over the sides and the taffrail.”

“The boat we are interested in brought two American passengers to France. Supposing that they landed in Brest, could that be done without the knowledge of the port officers?”

“If it were done at night I think it could. I am speaking to two police officers, so I can speak openly. Money talks and it talks not only to the man who accepts it, but also to his superiors in the Service. That is why I have been busily employed these last few weeks. A customs officer—we will call him ‘A'— is living in a house above his means, or he has purchased a car to give his wife a taste of country air on Sundays. The money must come from somewhere and it is my job to follow the scent of it to its source. Generally I succeed, but it entails trying work, I can tell you.”

“Then,” said Vincent, “if we examine all the motorboats that you have registered in Brest, we shall come upon the craft that we are in search of. The captain speaks English.”

Lalage's eyes narrowed. “I know a shorter way than that, monsieur. I have in my service an intelligent young man who made one false step a year ago which merited dismissal. I did not dismiss him; I did not even report the case. I told him that dismissal still hovered above his head like the sword of Damocles, but that as long as he made himself useful to my department the sword would not be permitted to fall.”

“He acts then as a spy?”

“Spy is an ugly word, monsieur; we prefer to call him an informant. I can get in touch with him by telephone and in ten minutes he will be here.”

The message from the chief of his department had had a nerve-shaking effect upon the informant. Evidently he had feared that another of his sins had found him out. His attitude as he stood in the doorway of that upper room was cringing and his breathing was laboured as if the steep stairs had been too much for him.

“Jules,” said Lalage, “you never reported to me that on Sunday last two Americans landed from a motorboat.”

“No, monsieur, I did not report it because their papers were all in order and I told them how to get their passports stamped.”

“Whose boat did they come in?”

“The
Rosamonde
, Captain Duprez's.”

“Is the
Rosamonde
still in the harbour?”

“She is. The captain lives on board always.”

“That will do, Jules; if I want you again I'll send for you.”

It was with a light-hearted step that Jules descended the stairs from his chief's presence.

“It is possible,” said Lalage, “that these two men left the town by train; if they are still in Brest I can find them for you if you will give me the morning for the job. I may even be able to find, if they did leave by train, where they booked to.”

“That's very good of you. Meanwhile can we interview the captain of the
Rosamonde
?”

“I was going to suggest that course myself. I will set my men to work and if you will come with me you shall have an interview with the captain. I know where the boat is tied up.”

He was as good as his word. In less than a quarter of an hour he returned and conducted them to the quay at which the motorboat was moored.

“There is the
Rosamonde
,” he said, pointing to a dark painted motorboat of considerable size. A boy was swabbing down the deck. Lalage hailed him. “Where's your captain?”

“He's gone ashore, monsieur.”

“So you're back from England.”

The boy looked confused and made no answer.

“Come,” said Lalage sternly, “it's no good pretending to be dumb. You were in England on Saturday and you brought back two passengers.”

The boy remained silent.

“I can tell you more than that: you anchored in Newquay to pick up those passengers. We know all about it, so it's no good for you to deny it.”

“It's not for me to answer; you must ask my captain.”

“Where is he?”

“Probably he's in the market. That's where he goes for his provisions.”

“How long does he generally take to do his shopping?”

“About half an hour.”

“Then we'll come on board and wait for him.”

The three police officers had no desire to advertise their presence. They went down into the cabin and Lalage sat down in a position where he could observe the proceedings of the boy. They had not long to wait. Five minutes later the boy converted himself into a human semaphore, pointing significantly to the cabin. On this Goron ran swiftly up on deck and was in time to see a thickset bearded man stop irresolute on the quay and then turn on his heel and walk away with a seaman's rolling gait.

Goron overtook him and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Good morning, Captain.”

The man turned savagely upon him. “What do you want with me?”

“A few minutes' conversation. We have taken the liberty of going on board your little vessel to wait for you. Two of my friends are in your cabin at this moment.”

For a couple of seconds the man's eyes gleamed.

“Do you want to charter me for a pleasure cruise, or what?”

“I want to discuss business with you.”

“Freight?”

“In a sense, yes.”

“I don't run freight for anybody that I don't know.”

“But you've just been over to England.”

“How do you know that? And what else do you know?”

“I know that you picked up a couple of passengers in Newquay on Saturday.”

“What if I did? Is it any business of yours?”

“No, but I thought that you might give me an idea of what you charge for a run across the Channel.”

“I'll come on board and see your two friends before we talk business.”

They returned to the spot where the launch was tied up and jumped on board. At the sight of Lalage, the captain gave a sardonic grin.

“I see that I've been honoured,” he said. “I suppose you've searched my little craft from stem to stern, Monsieur Lalage? You look a little downcast so I presume that you found nothing compromising. I'm sorry to have disappointed you.”