“I am wondering,” said Dallas, “whether I am of any further use here. When James Oborn is caught you will detain him for a murder committed within your jurisdiction. If you want my corroboration I can always come over again.”
“It is complicated, my friend,” said Goron, “because although we believe them to belong to James Oborn, the newspaper and the note were found in your country in the possession of that ex-convict.”
“Who is now dangerously ill,” put in Pauline.
“I think you are right,” said Goron. “You can really do more good now in your own country by watching over that man and getting his statement as soon as he recovers. I have here many hours of reading in this mass of stuff that came in while we have been away at Cannes.”
“I will telephone to my chief in London and take his instructions.”
Dallas demanded London and gave the number, Whitehall 1212, but had to wait some minutes before the call could be put through. When at last an English voice responded he asked for Mr Richardson of the C.I.D. The response was immediate. Dallas explained as shortly as possible the position of the enquiry in Paris and asked for instructions whether he should continue to wait in Paris until James Oborn was found or return to London. The answer was prompt and clear. He was to remain in Paris and assist in the hunt for James Oborn.
Chapter Twenty-Six
DALLAS RETURNED to Goron’s room. “My tidings may not be altogether to you taste, Monsieur Goron, but the instructions I have received by telephone are clear. I am to remain in Paris to assist you, if required, in tracing that rascal, James Oborn.”
Goron slapped his thigh. “That is good news; after all, you have become one of us. Your colleagues in London can quite well take a statement from the injured butler as soon as he is well enough to be questioned. I am now reading a further account of the life of the Marquis de Crémont. Between us I feel sure that we shall make our coup.”
Pauline Coulon had been silent. She now said, “Listen, messieurs; I recall a conversation that I once had with the dead woman. I had been giving her good advice and telling her how to resist the temptations put in her way by the buyers of American houses and she said, ‘Well, when I’ve had my fling, if they pinch me I can always retire to a convent and make my peace with God.’ ‘In your own country?’ I asked. ‘Oh no,’ she replied. ‘I know of a certain convent in the Gers, the loveliest spot in France, where I can be quite happy milking the cows, plucking the chickens…’ ‘And killing the pigs?’ I said. ‘Well, no; I might draw the line at that: they squeal so dreadfully.’ She went on talking in that strain and I put it down to her love of mischief, but she did say that the chaplain to this convent was a fellow countryman.”
“Tiens!” exclaimed Goron. “There may be something worth following up in those remarks.”
“Where is the Gers?” asked Dallas.
“Between Toulouse and Bayonne. It is truly a Godforsaken country.”
“You mean a desert?”
“No; the land is good if it were cultivated, but the greater part of it has been deserted by the French peasants and left to Italians, who exhaust the land and then drift away to the towns. The French peasant farmers can get no labour and so the soil reverts day by day. The last time I passed through it I talked to one of these peasant farmers about the land and we drank an apéritif at my expense in the village inn. He took me by the arm and pointed to a church in the next village. ‘There,’ he said, ‘you can see the whole church down to its foundations, but when I was a boy you could see nothing lower than the spire; the rains have washed away all the hills between and that is why the soil has become unprofitable.’”
“Are there monasteries there?” asked Dallas.
“Yes, and the monks contrive to make a fat living out of their farms. I know a Trappist brotherhood, mostly English or Irish, who converse only by signs.”
Dallas pricked up his ears. “That sounds a likely hiding place for our man.”
With his usual enthusiasm Goron jumped at this new clue. “To the Gers we will go ourselves and not leave it to my subordinates. Will you come with us, mademoiselle, in case we fall into difficulties with the grim ladies who rule the convents?”
“You must not call the superiors grim. If they rule their convents well no doubt they appear to be severe, but the work they do is of inestimable value,” said Pauline, who was a good Catholic. “But after I have seen Monsieur Henri I will gladly come with you.” Her face fell. “Ah! There may be one difficulty. My expenses?”
Goron laughed. “How like a woman,” he said. “Had you been of our sex, mademoiselle, you would have said nothing about expenses until the day of reckoning. Then you would have bounced into the room, planked a vast account sheet under my nose and demanded instant settlement. As it is, I can see that you would like to have a settlement since human life is always uncertain, but you make no demands; you trust to your charming personality and stand there with open hand. When I have had time to glance through your account it shall be settled without delay.”
“I have it here, monsieur.”
“Good; then tomorrow before we start for the Gers settlement will be made. The expenses of our trip I will be responsible for; our car will leave in the morning at nine-thirty.”
“Then all I have to do is to make my peace with Monsieur Henri. May I soften his heart by restoring to him his fur coat?”
“Certainly. The person who stole it is dead and cannot appear before any French tribunal. Before you go, mademoiselle, you must listen to what I have to tell. As I said, I have been reading a report from a member of my staff who has succeeded in tracing the earlier history of that soi-distant Marquis de Crémont. This is his career. His real name is Edouard Cottin; he was born in the department of the Aisne in the year 1900. From his early childhood he was noted as a liar and a thief and in order to cure him of these propensities he was sent to a priest who kept him by his side for three years, but he could do nothing with him. Then he entered the military school at Fontainebleau whence he graduated as sub-lieutenant. While in garrison he made friends with the monks of a neighbouring monastery and this became a subject of chaff with his comrades. He resolved to desert. He came into touch with a Dominican monk who persuaded him to take the cowl. He entered the monastery and played his cards so well that the prior appointed him quêteur, the brother selected to seek subscriptions for the monastery. Money was a temptation that he could not resist. He returned from his first mission several thousand francs short in his accounts. It was a favourable moment for disappearing. He went to the prior and informed him that he had come into a large fortune but dared not claim it, since technically he was a deserter from his regiment. Would the prior protect him? On this the prior gave him introductions and credentials from the monastery. His first act was to obtain 200,000 francs from the bankers by false pretences and he then threw off his monk’s habit and became the Marquis de Tolosant and by scheming and false pretences was able to gain large sums of money and to pose as a man of fashion. He eluded our police by going to Italy, where he placed himself under the protection of a venerable French priest who vouched for him. He then began to fleece his new friends by wonderful schemes for getting rich quick. Then he decamped from Rome and returned to France as the Marquis de Crémont. Since that time he has been successful in a series of lucrative robberies, but as you know, we have him now lodged safely in prison.”
“He is just the man,” said Dallas, “who would suggest to his confederates the disguise of a monk’s robe. Do you think it worth while visiting the monastery in which this blackguard first took the cowl?”
“That has already been done. In tracing his history backwards my people have interviewed everyone with whom he was ever connected. The prior of that monastery now knows his true history.”
“It was a fine piece of work,” said Dallas.
“It took some time, you understand. For months we have been trying to trace this man’s criminal career.”
“I think, howeve
r,” said Dallas, “that I should like to have an interview with that prior.”
“Oh, you British! You must begin at the beginning and go on to the bitter end in all your cases. Very well, we will see the prior tomorrow morning before going on to the Gers. Meanwhile I will see the people who sent in this report.”
“And I will see Monsieur Henri,” said Pauline, taking up the suitcase in which she had replaced the fur coat.
“And I will go to clear up the arrears of work piled on my table,” said Dallas.
Punctually to the minute the car moved off next morning and took a southerly course.
“The monastery we are bound for lies somewhere between Fontainbleau and St Cyr,” said Goron, “but I have full directions how to get there.” He pulled a paper from his pocket and studied it.
In spite of his boast they had three times lost their way in the maze of roads that radiated in every direction before they finally arrived at the monastery. Built originally as a country house in the reign of Louis XV, it was externally a most unlikely building for a monastery. One expected every vista in the park to be graced by female figures in eighteenth-century costumes, whereas in fact such female figures as there were had dispensed with costumes altogether: marble does not look well in muslin.
Leaving Pauline in the car, the two men sought admittance at the main entrance. The delay seemed interminable, but this was because visitors were expected to knock at a postern gate further along the façade. At last a servitor in monk’s habit answered their summons and after some coming and going permitted them to enter the building.
The prior was a man of between fifty and sixty, hale and hearty for his age and full of worldly wisdom in spite of the narrow circle in which he lived.
“We have come,” said Goron, “on a rather unpleasant duty, namely, to enquire about a man who was for some time a member of your fraternity—a man named Edouard Cottin.” The name produced a shiver from the prior, but he did not interrupt. “You will be able to correct any slips in our information, which says that Cottin was living here in the year 1922.” The prior nodded without speaking. He was waiting to hear how far the information of his visitors went. “I feel sure that we can count upon you to help the ends of justice and to answer such questions as we may put to you that do not affect the religious side of your house.” Still the prior waited. “Our first question is, did this young man leave your fraternity under a cloud?”
“Not exactly.”
“He had appropriated funds given to the Church, I believe.”
“Alas, monsieur, that is so. He was our quéteur and it was not until he had left us that we discovered that his accounts had been falsified.”
“Then you did not expel him?”
“No; he came to me and said that he had been left a fortune by his uncle on certain conditions but that he dared not claim it because he would have to confess that he was a deserter from the army. On this I gave him certain introductions and he left us.”
“You know that since then he has plunged lower and lower into crime?”
“Yes, monsieur; some time after he left us I began to receive complaints from the people to whom I had given him the letters of introduction. Some of them talked of prosecution, but he escaped them by leaving the country.”
“Have you seen or heard of him since?” asked Goron.
The prior hesitated. “It is painful to have to answer such questions, monsieur. We are not made judges of human delinquencies.”
“Quite so, but surely you feel bound to help in keeping your country free from crimes and it is a crime to prey upon honest members of the community.”
After struggling with himself for a moment the prior said, “You must understand, monsieur, that with us it is the soul, even of the most degraded, that counts before all else. The man Edouard Cottin is one who with many good points in his favour is so constituted that he cannot withstand the temptation of money. But I will tell you all I know. About two years ago he came to me, arriving late at night, and begged me to take him in as a penitent. He confessed and I, considering that his penitence was genuine, consented to admit him. He remained with us for some weeks and left of his own accord.”
“Did he leave suddenly?”
The prior reluctantly admitted that he did.
“Did he leave any luggage behind him?”
“Yes.”
“May we examine it?”
“It is no longer with us. Shortly after he left a priest who was a foreigner but came armed with credentials called for his luggage. We discussed Edouard and from what he told me I judged that this time he was really penitent. He was with this reverend father in his monastery.”
“You gave up the luggage?”
“I did.”
“And you know the whereabouts of the monastery?”
“I found afterwards that it was non-existent.”
“What did the luggage consist of?”
“A trunk.”
“Was it heavy?”
“Fairly so.”
“How did the priest take it away?”
“In his car.”
“This gentleman,” said Goron, indicating Dallas, “is a British police officer in search of a criminal who is believed to have been associated with Cottin in various doubtful transactions and it is very probable that the priest who called for Cottin’s luggage is the man in whom he is interested. You are quite sure you can give us no further information? Where was this monastery supposed to be?”
“In the Puy de Dôme, but I have satisfied myself that there is no such monastery in that department.”
“But the credentials that he brought with him. Did you verify these?”
“The credentials purported to be signed by the father abbot of the Monastery of St Gilles in the Gers. I have written to him, but he denies all knowledge of the person in question. I have kept his letter; I will show it to you.” He was gone for two or three minutes and then returned, carrying a letter in his hand, which he handed to Goron, who read it and passed it to Dallas, saying, “The father abbot’s name is Collet—to us a significant coincidence.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
HAVING PUMPED the prior dry by their questions, they thanked him warmly and rejoined Pauline Coulon, who had been waiting in the car outside. They imparted to her the few facts elicited by their questions to the prior.
“It is still mysterious, but something tells me that we are approaching the end,” was her comment. “I suppose that our next port of call will be the monastery at St Gilles.”
“It will,” said Goron.
Each was busy with his own thoughts and there was no conversation during the journey. As they drew nearer to the Gers, Dallas looked about him with renewed interest. Even his untutored eye could mark the signs of depopulation and of deterioration of the land buildings. It was a poverty-stricken country but an excellent resort for anyone who wished to disappear from the world.
After enquiring their way from the few people they met on the road Goron remarked, “It is not surprising that people shrug their shoulders when asked about the Gers. It is quite the last place I could bear to be banished to. I should think that the statistics of insanity were high in this department. The public buildings, no doubt, are chiefly lunatic asylums.”
“Or homes for idiots,” amended Pauline. “Do you think that the Monastery of St Gilles really exists?”
“According to the last directions we got,” said Goron, “we should now be nearing the place. What about that big building away there a little to the left? We’ll try it.”
As they drew near it and noted the fortress-like architecture and the plaster walls defaced with patches from which the covering had peeled off, even Goron began to lose heart. Not a soul was to be seen; the walks were overgrown with grass; there was not a sound from any living thing. The outbuildings, stables and all were in ruins.
“The place is deserted; it is falling into ruin.”
“All the more likely to be what we are i
n search of,” said Dallas.
They had come to the front of the ruined stable and there, staring at them, was a car of the most modern type standing under the ruinous roof of the coach house, which could not be shut because its great doors had rotted on their hinges. It looked like a costly jewel round the neck of a beggar woman.
“Ah!” exclaimed Goron. “This is beginning to look like business. Monks don’t run about in expensive modern cars.”
“Neither do they let their house fall into rack and ruin,” said Pauline.
“Shall we leave the car here and go to the door on foot?” said Dallas.
“I think that will be our best plan,” agreed Goron.
While they were getting out Pauline lowered her voice. “Have you ever seen a religious house with no cross or other indication on it to show what it is?”
“Tiens!” said Goron. “What an eye a woman has for little details of that kind. Come, Mr Dallas, you and I will probe this mystery. You will be quite safe here, mademoiselle; you have always the motor horn with which to sound an alarm.”
The two men made their way towards the front entrance of the rambling château. A rusty bellpull of ancient pattern invited them to ring. The iron creaked as they set the bell in motion; the clapper produced a cracked sound which was loud enough to reach every corner of the property. After a pause of nearly a minute a little spy hole was opened in the heavy oaken door and an eye was brought to the aperture. It was baffling to note that the spy hole was closed again and that nothing further seemed likely to happen. Goron pulled the bell chain fiercely; he had set his teeth now and intended to go on ringing until the tocsin produced somebody; but the second summons was enough: the door was opened a few inches and a burly hirsute monk confronted them.
“Excuse me for disturbing you,” said Goron. “We have come to see Father Collet.”
A Murder is Arranged Page 18
