The Double Alibi

by Noel Vindry

  ‘If you wish, my dear fellow. But it’s just make-believe. Allevaire, needless to say, never dreamt that he’d left any traces of the theft, let alone irrefutable evidence such as fingerprints. He did think he might be suspected, however, and felt he needed an alibi. Also, with his criminal record, he wanted to live his life under another name. An opportunity arose to satisfy both needs. A murder had been committed, no doubt a settling of accounts by members of the gang to which he belonged. He merely needed to give the victim the identity of Gustave Allevaire. Thus he would officially die and wouldn’t be hunted any more, either for the theft in Limonest, or for other crimes he would commit in the future.

  ‘His relatives, he calculated, would be only too eager to identify the body: the aunt out of affection, to shelter him; and his cousins to be rid of him once and for all.

  ‘That’s why, on the night of the Limonest theft, someone placed Gustave Allevaire’s papers on the body of an unknown person killed in Aubagne. Allevaire himself arranged the hour of the theft to coincide with the execution in Marseille. There wasn’t a smidgeon of chance in the whole business.’

  ‘My word,’ replied his colleague, ‘there’s a lot in what you say. I might well accept your hypothesis.’

  Just at that moment there was a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in!’ said M. Allou. ‘Ah, it’s you, my dear colleague. What brings you to Marseille?’

  The visitor was Maître Tissot, a lawyer from Bordeaux, whom M. Allou had met during a criminal matter. Although he had been, as they say in the profession, “on the other side of the barricades,” they had established a cordial relationship. Maître Tissot, like M. Allou, was a gourmet, as could be seen from his round, ruddy face and jovial demeanour.

  ‘I’m here for a civil case,’ he explained, ‘and I thought I’d drop by in case you cared for a spot of lunch.’

  ‘Willingly.’

  ‘Are you still very busy?’

  ‘Alas, yes. And this new Allevaire case is likely to deprive me of even more of my leisure time.’

  ‘What about the Allevaire case?’ asked Maître Tissot. ‘You’re dreaming, my friend, or else your zeal has carried you away. Why are you involved?’

  ‘Because it happened in my province.’

  ‘Well then, it must extend farther than I thought,’ said the lawyer, with a chuckle. ‘As far as us, so it seems.’

  ‘What do you mean, as far as you?’

  ‘We’re talking about Gustave Allevaire, are we not?’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  ‘The same Gustave Allevaire who, in the night of May 9th to 10th….’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘… committed, or tried to commit a theft….’

  ‘Yes, a theft.’

  ‘… at one o’clock in the morning….’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘… at the residence of M. Clermon, a merchant in Bordeaux?’

  Chapter V

  THE REVELATIONS OF MAÎTRE TISSOT

  At the sound of that last word, M. Allou had shaken the table by bringing his fist crashing down on it. The deputy, his eyes popping out of his head, muttered:

  ‘That’s the last straw!’

  Maître Tissot also expressed surprise—at the impact of his revelation.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he asked, ‘how can that minor offence affect you to such a degree?’

  M. Allou looked at the stunned faces of the two others, realised that he must have looked just as bemused, and burst out laughing.

  ‘Come now, let’s not beat about the bush. My dear maître, our surprise is due to an extraordinary stroke of chance. It just so happens that the person you spoke of just now has the same name as another miscreant we’re dealing with at the moment.’

  ‘You’re sure it’s not the same person?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Because if you want to be sure, all you have to do is to show me the photograph of your suspect.’

  ‘Do you know this Gustave Allevaire of Bordeaux?’

  ‘Very well. I see him almost every week.’

  ‘My compliments on your relations. You can sniff out potential clients from a long way off, my dear maître. Seriously, they can’t be the same. Here, take a look at our subject’s file, complete with front and side photographs.’

  His friend took the box.

  ‘I hate to contradict you,’ he said, smilingly, ‘but that’s him.’

  ‘It’s the resemblance that’s fooling you.’

  ‘No, he has the same little scar under the eye. I’m as sure of his identity as I am of yours.’

  ‘Listen,’ said M. Allou, affecting a serious tone. ‘If you’re telling me that individual was arrested during that night, either we leave together for the lunatic asylum, or the doctor can choose which one of us he wishes to keep.’

  ‘No,’ replied the lawyer, still smiling. ‘We won’t be reduced to that perilous test, which could cost both of us our liberty. Our Allevaire hasn’t been arrested.’

  M. Allou breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘So, my dear maître, is it only a suspicion?’

  ‘No, it’s a certitude.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He was seen inside the house by M. Clermon’s secretary.’

  ‘And is that young man prone to visions?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Did he look carefully?’

  ‘The man was only a metre away, under the direct light of an electric torch. And he met him practically on a daily basis.’

  ‘Listen, Maître Tissot, there’s something incomprehensible about this whole business. Do you know the exact depositions of the Bordeaux witnesses?’

  ‘Good Lord! Yes, the whole town is talking about it and confirming what I’d read in the newspaper.’

  ‘Well then, if you have the time, would you be good enough to take me through everything, without omitting any detail?’

  ‘Right at this moment, it’s difficult. I have to go back into court. But at lunch, if you like?’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ***

  Impatient though M. Allou was, he didn’t neglect to consult the wine list with his customary thoroughness. Once he’d made his choice, he looked at his friend and said:

  ‘I’m listening. Who is this M. Clermon?’

  ‘A successful wine merchant in his thirties. A very energetic individual, intelligent, and with a shrewd business sense. He started from nothing and is now one of the biggest merchants in town. As you know, that kind of business requires a lot of capital, which he accumulated from his own savings: at his age it’s a remarkable accomplishment.’

  ‘Remarkable,’ agreed M. Allou. ‘Is he honest?’

  ‘Scrupulously. There’s no better reputation than his.’

  ‘Perfect. Continue. Where does he live?’

  ‘He has a townhouse in R… Street. Aside from his domestic staff, his sister and his secretary live there as well.’

  ‘Tell me about them.’

  ‘There’s nothing much to say. Marthe Clermon is a pretty enough young woman, well brought up, very serious and, naturally enough, highly sought after. The secretary, Serge Madras, is twenty-five years old: they say he’s intelligent and hard-working. That’s all I know.’

  ‘And is there anything going on between the two young people?’

  ‘You’re asking too much of me. I’m not at that point in Clermon’s confidences. In any case that has nothing to do with the story.’

  ‘You can never know in advance, my dear maître, what will be of interest and what will not. Anyway, continue. How is Gustave Allevaire involved?’

  ‘Well, monsieur le juge ….’

  ‘Please don’t address me so formally as I’m about to savour a dorade grille, even though I am involved in a criminal case. It ruins the taste. What were you saying?’

  ‘That Gustave Allevaire… that file you showed me this morning doesn’t match my recollection of him. I’d been about to tell you that, up until now, he�
�d been an impeccably honourable man.’

  ‘That must be somewhat of an exaggeration, even for a Bordeaux man talking to a Marseille man.’

  ‘I realise that. But what I can tell you is that, since coming to live in our city a year ago, Allevaire has acquired an excellent reputation.’

  ‘What does he do for a living?’

  ‘Nothing. He was said to be a person of independent means, and he seemed rich enough. I met him often in my circle of friends, and I can assure you I never envisaged him as a client of the magistrate’s court. And, furthermore, he was received in the best families. Obviously his wealth counted for a lot: many of the mothers saw him as a future son-in-law. And his appearance certainly inspired confidence.’

  ‘That’s a pre-requisite for a top-flight swindler,’ observed M. Allou drily.

  ‘True enough. But I’ve never seen a more sincere face in my life. Even in his anthropometric file, where everyone else looks like a brigand, and you or I would look like candidates for the scaffold, he manages to look like a saint.’

  ‘Quite true.’

  ‘And if you’d seen his smile and the ingenuous look in his blue eyes… Anyway, he was received everywhere, and notably chez Clermon. He dined there several nights a week; everything was going swimmingly when, last night—no, excuse me, I slept in the train, which has left me a little disoriented. I meant the night before, the night of May 9th to 10th….’

  ‘Are you quite sure?’

  ‘As sure as I am of your presence here. They talked about nothing else yesterday in Bordeaux. So, as I was saying, at around one o’clock in the morning, the secretary Serge Madras was at work in his office on the first floor.’

  ‘The young man is indeed hard-working.’

  ‘It happens often, it seems. His employer works late and often gives him fresh orders during the evening. He was writing letters, I assume, when, in a nearby room—M. Clermon’s office, in fact—he heard a noise. He happened to have a question he wanted to ask of his employer, and so, assuming that the latter hadn’t gone to bed, he went in to talk to him.

  ‘Imagine his surprise when he saw that the chandelier wasn’t lit and the man standing there was using an electric torch! It was extinguished immediately, but not before Serge Madras had bounded across the room, snatched it from the stranger’s hand and shone it in his face. That’s when he recognised Gustave Allevaire.

  ‘The other, without putting up a fight, rushed out into the corridor, and the secretary pursued him, starting a hue and cry.

  ‘Marthe Clermon was standing at the door of her room just as our man ran by.’

  ‘Was the corridor illuminated?’ asked M. Allou.

  ‘Yes. The lights are only turned off when the secretary goes to bed.’

  ‘So the young woman had no difficulty in identifying the intruder?’

  ‘That’s what one would have assumed, but she claimed he’d gone by too fast, and she was too startled to be sure she recognised him.’

  ‘What did she say, exactly?’

  ‘That it might well have been Gustave Allevaire, and she was almost certain it was—she hadn’t seen anything to cause her to doubt it—but, nevertheless, she wasn’t prepared to swear to it.’

  ‘Fine. And what about Clermon himself?’

  ‘He only arrived after the intruder had left, and didn’t see anything. He was asleep at the time of the theft.’

  ‘Theft? What was stolen?’

  ‘Nothing at all.’

  ‘So the offence doesn’t seem very serious,’ observed M. Allou with a wry smile.

  ‘Not at all, it’s a blatant offence. Two of the desk drawers were forced open. If the fellow didn’t take anything, it’s only because he didn’t find anything of interest. He didn’t get the chance, anyway: there were tens of thousands of francs in the third drawer, but he ran out of time.’

  ‘How did he get into the building?’

  ‘Oh, he had ample time during the past year to make a copy of the key, unless he picked the lock.’

  ‘So there was no inside bolt?’

  ‘Yes, but they neglected to use it.’

  ‘Another detail, if you please. Because Allevaire was invited so often, surely he must have known the secretary’s habits?’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning his habit of working very late. Why was he reckless enough to attempt his burglary before everyone was asleep? And in the room next to the secretary’s office?’

  ‘It wasn’t exactly a habit,’ clarified Maître Tissot. ‘I merely said it happened quite often. The other might not have known it: he left around eleven o’clock when he dined there and probably didn’t know what happened elsewhere in the house.’

  ‘It’s possible. Unlikely, but possible.’

  ‘So what do you make of all that, dear colleague?’

  ‘Well, nothing for now! I’m digesting both your eloquence and this fine cuisine, don’t ask me to think as well.’

  ‘So, still just as mysterious.’

  ‘But I can assure you…. Besides, it’s all very confusing at the moment. Can’t you give me any more details about Serge Madras, the secretary? Where did he come from?’

  ‘He’s from a good Bordeaux family, but he’s an orphan, the sole remaining member. He must have inherited quite a fortune.’

  ‘So why does he do such menial work?’

  ‘Because he’s very young, twenty-five years old at the most, and he’s hoping to become M. Clermon’s partner, and maybe his brother-in-law as well. You know, a fortune one hasn’t worked for is not highly regarded these days.’

  ‘Quite. Well, maître, it only remains for me to thank you for your kindness. You’ve been as clear and precise as you are in court.’

  ‘I’d like to hear the opinion of the tribunal?’

  ‘They’re deliberating, my friend, they’re deliberating. The wheels of justice grind slowly, as I’m sure you’ve come to realise.’

  ‘I’ve never said it of you!’ exclaimed Maître Tissot.

  ‘Well, you’ve been wrong, as you can see. Au revoir, my dear colleague. I must return to my chambers, where other matters far more banal await me. Thank you for your visit.’

  ‘And thank you for your invitation. I hope to return the favour when next you come to Bordeaux.’

  ‘And who knows?’ said M. Allou dreamily. ‘That’s not entirely out of the question.’

  Chapter VI

  M. ALLOU’S TEMPTATION

  M. Allou had only been back in his chambers for a quarter of an hour when he received a visit from the deputy.

  ‘So, my dear colleague, what did you learn in the course of your lunch?’

  ‘Some curious things.’

  And he proceeded to give a detailed account of what he’d been told.

  ‘But that’s fantastic!’ exclaimed the deputy. ‘The man couldn’t have been in Bordeaux and Lyon at the same time!’

  ‘I see there’s no fooling you.’

  ‘So, how do you explain it? There are more than five hundred kilometres between the two cities!’

  ‘Very simply: because he was in Lyon, he wasn’t in Bordeaux.’

  ‘Nevertheless, he was recognised.’

  ‘Yes, someone claimed to have recognised him….’

  ‘Do you think Serge Madras lied?’

  ‘I’m practically sure of it.’

  ‘But why? What was his intention? What was his motive?’

  The deputy, when a question troubled him, was in the habit of repeating it in many forms.

  ‘Why?’ said M. Allou slowly. ‘That is the question.’

  ‘And you haven’t found the answer?’

  ‘If it were only that! The problem is I’ve found two.’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Here’s the first. Serge Madras wants to hurt Allevaire, for a motive yet to be determined. Perhaps he just senses a dangerous rival.’

  ‘Because of the young woman?’

  ‘Precisely. And, at the same time, because o
f the partnership he’s hoping for with Clermon.’

  ‘So he makes a slanderous accusation against him. Or, rather, he takes advantage of a burglary to denounce his rival? Yes, that must be it, without a doubt.’

  M. Allou lit his pipe slowly, and then announced, in a calm voice:

  ‘Unfortunately for him, he runs out of luck. Madras makes his accusation on the same night that Gustave Allaire commits a theft—a real one—five hundred kilometres away.’

  ‘Why do you say that in such a sceptical tone?’

  ‘Because, my dear deputy, my statement contained a word I don’t like: luck.’

  ‘Ah! That again.’

  ‘Yes, it’s my pet subject, I admit. What’s more, the theory of the slanderous accusation, which I dutifully presented to you, may very well contain contradictions.’

  ‘Explain yourself.’

  ‘My dear deputy, if Madras was trying to get rid of Allevaire, he must have considered him to be a rival, for whom Marthe had testified evasively. But, if she did in fact have a soft spot for the miscreant, why not simply denounce the lie? After all, the intruder had passed very close to her. If she hadn’t recognised him, all she had to do was to say so. But, by her equivocation, she appears not to want to contradict the secretary.’

  ‘Maybe, in her emotional state, she really hadn’t seen the man clearly?’

  ‘Perhaps. All I was trying to do was show you the contradictions that arise when you bring luck into the picture. Which leads me to reject—no, let me rephrase that—not to accept automatically my first hypothesis: that of the secretary’s hostility towards Allevaire.’

  ‘So you have a second one,’ said the deputy. ‘Let’s hear it.’

  ‘It’s the exact opposite, in fact: complicity between the two men.’

  ‘Now you’ve lost me completely.’

  ‘Allevaire was planning to rob his cousins in Limonest. It seemed like an easy operation. He was very familiar with the premises and knew that he had nothing to fear from the three old women, who wouldn’t leave their rooms out of fear. He suspected there might be quite a lot of money in the desk, because he’d seen them occasionally open one of the drawers to pay a supplier. There was also the silver. He’d had plenty of time during his visits to copy the key and to observe that—e ach counting on the other—the two sisters frequently neglected to bolt the door.