by Noel Vindry
‘No, madam, not this time, at least. And never, if he’s learnt his lesson.
‘Are you wondering, gentlemen, how Allevaire’s fingerprints could have been found on a teaspoon? Nothing could be easier.
‘He came here quite often because, as I’ve said, he loved his aunt. But his visits didn’t sit well with his cousins. They were afraid of having their good reputation besmirched in the village. It wasn’t very charitable, but at least it was more excusable than another motive I suspect. They were probably also thinking of the inheritance which might be coming their aunt’s way, which they would like to keep for themselves, should it happen.’
‘Oh, sir,’ protested Gertrude.
‘Isn’t it true?’
‘Not as far as she’s concerned,’ interjected Hortense. ‘She’s incapable of such calculations. I must confess that I….’
‘Very well. Your frankness will be taken into account. So the ignoble plan was the fruit of your thinking alone, miss: separate your aunt from her nephew by accusing him of the theft of what she held dearest, her silverware.
‘During your cousin’s last visit, which was, I believe, three months ago?’
‘Yes.’
‘During his last visit, you carefully collected one of the spoons he’d used and placed it last amongst the twelve, so that no one would use it. There were never more than four of you at table, so you never used all of the silverware.
‘You were planning to simulate a burglary, but then fear set in: if Allevaire succeeded in proving his innocence and was released, his vengeance might be terrible.
‘So you waited, uncertain as to whether to execute your project or abandon it.
‘But suddenly there was a gift from heaven: your cousin was going to leave France. The risk of imprisonment was causing him great anxiety: one more misdemeanour and he would be deported. He would go to Spain and start a new life. He booked a passage for the tenth of May.
‘And I was surprised that he didn’t make his plans known to his aunt personally.’
‘I was wrong,’ interjected Allevaire. ‘I didn’t have the courage, in the few days remaining, to leave Bordeaux.’
‘Because of Marthe Clermon?’
‘Yes. I was hopelessly in love with her. I wanted to stay with her to the bitter end, because I might not see her again, ever.’
‘So you just wrote a letter.’
‘How did you know I wrote? My aunt told me just now that she never received a letter.’
‘Because it was intercepted. Isn’t that so, Miss Hortense?’
‘But, sir….’
‘Oh, don’t deny it. I could speak to the postman. Madam Dorothée only gets one or two letters a year, and he would certainly remember that one and recognise the handwriting.’
‘How did you guess?’
‘It wasn’t difficult. What followed next suggests that you found out about Allevaire’s departure. Do you admit it?’
‘Yes, sir. I intercepted the letter so as to learn about my cousin’s plans to come here. I thought if I prevented my aunt from replying, he might get vexed and stay away.’
‘I see. And that’s how you found out about his imminent departure?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you took advantage. Allevaire, away from France, wouldn’t be able to defend himself from the accusation of theft, which would have a damning effect on his aunt.’
‘How awful,’ murmured Dorothée.
‘Oh, my aunt, I thought that, once he was out of the country, he wouldn’t be prosecuted because nobody would be able to find him.’
‘And so,’ continued M. Allou, ‘circumstances made possible something you wouldn’t otherwise have dared to do. The only possible time to simulate the theft was the night of the ninth to tenth. Acting any earlier, your cousin could have been arrested while he was boarding and would have defended himself. He would have been found innocent and might well have taken revenge. On the other hand, acting any later would risk failure if it were discovered that he’d left the country before the theft. But that particular night worked like a charm: he would just have had time, after breaking into your home, to drive to Bordeaux and board ship at ten o’clock in the morning. It would all seem to fit together and his departure would look like flight.
‘Nonetheless, being cautious and prudent by nature, you didn’t think that would be enough. You knew of the extraordinary attachment your aunt had for her nephew and her obstinate denial of accusations against him. She could very well refuse to believe you and suspect you of plotting her nephew’s downfall.’
‘Indeed,’ said Dorothée, ‘I never believed, despite appearances, that Gustave had committed the theft. I couldn’t explain it, because my old brain can’t reason any more, but I just sensed that he would never have done that to me.’
‘You’re right, my aunt,’ declared Allevaire under his breath.
‘And yet,’ continued M. Allou, ‘everything was organised to fool you. Your niece Hortense wanted you to hear the break-in whilst she was next to you. That way, she would appear not to be involved.’
‘But how did she do it?’
‘I suspected an accomplice, none other than Epicevieille. In fact, I was planning to question him tomorrow morning, during legal hours, but Allevaire saved me the trouble.’
‘Yes,’ interjected the nephew. ‘I’d worked it all out. I went to retrieve the spoons, in order to return them to my aunt. At the same time, I found five one-thousand franc notes, which I assumed was the money my cousins had pretended I’d stolen from them. I brought them with me to confront the impostor.’
‘I have to admit,’ continued M. Allou, ‘that the trickery was well organised. That night, at dinner, Epicevieille pretended he’d seen Allevaire in the neighbourhood. Then, later that same night, he came back into the house. It wasn’t difficult: Miss Hortense had unlocked the bolt and lent him her key. He took the silverware, making sure that two spoons were left on the floor, including the one with the fingerprint. Needless to say, he wore gloves.
‘And he also took the sisters’ savings. No, that’s not quite accurate: he hid the money elsewhere. Unless it was a payment. Maybe you’d care to comment, M. Epicevieille?’
‘Yes, it was payment. What can I say? I was living in such misery. The only time I ate was here, three times a week. I was never a lawyer and was never able to put any money aside.’
‘The judge will take the extenuating circumstances into account, I feel sure. After depositing the spoons, you made as much noise as possible, until the cries told you that Madam Dorothée had heard you. And then you left, without risk, because the remoteness of the villa guaranteed no cries would be noticed.
‘And that, gentlemen, is the story behind the theft. You’ve noted how Miss Hortense exploited Allevaire’s imminent departure. But she wasn’t the only one to have had the idea, which has complicated things quite a bit.
‘There is, in Bordeaux—or rather was, because he’s now on the way to Marseille in the company of two gendarmes—a sinister scoundrel named Etrillat, nicknamed Le Borgne. You’d have been better off, Allevaire, having nothing to do with him. With such friends, all you can expect is trouble. This time it could have been serious, much worse than you think. You could very well have been killed. I’ll explain in a minute.
‘So, the aforementioned Le Borgne was the member of a gang, to which a certain Fumage belonged. What treason had this fellow committed? We’re bound to find out sooner or later. It doesn’t matter; what’s important is that he’d been condemned to die by the other gang members, and Etrillat had been chosen to perform the executions.
‘And Le Borgne knew of your planned departure, Allevaire.’
‘Yes, I told him about it.’
‘And, which was even better for him, you’d quarrelled publicly with Fumage, even making imprudent threats. The situation was perfect to brand you as the murderer. Etrillat began by stealing a few of the papers you didn’t carry around with you: letters from your aunt, bills and receipts, et
cetera. He then proceeded, in Marseille, in one of the spots the gang used for their rendezvous, to carry out the execution he’d been assigned. Just like Miss Hortense, and for the same reasons, he was careful to pick the night of the ninth to tenth, the only one which was plausible and free of risk.
‘Afterwards, he set the stage very simply: he took the victim’s wallet and replaced it with another containing the papers he’d stolen from you.
‘He could, quite logically, anticipate what would happen. The letters provided the address of the nearest relatives, who would automatically be contacted. Needless to say, they wouldn’t identify the body. The police, surprised, would confirm the identity via fingerprints, and would realise that the victim couldn’t be Allevaire.
‘But, if he wasn’t the victim, could he be the murderer? That would be a natural suspicion. And if, by chance they learnt about the planned boarding the following day, suspicion would turn to certainty. And once he was in Spain, probably under an assumed name, they wouldn’t be able to find him and he wouldn’t be able to defend himself.’
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Dorothée, ‘I fell into the same trap myself. I didn’t believe the tale about the stolen silverware, but I conceded there had been a crime. And so I identified the body as Gustave’s so he wouldn’t be suspected of the other crime. But my efforts were in vain.’
‘So why, then, madam, did you tell me a completely different story this morning? Didn’t you open the door to your nephew yourself on the night of the theft?’ asked Sallent.
‘Because, sir, it seemed as though you were accusing him of murder. In which case, it would be better for him to be accused of a simple theft. I told you all that to provide you with an alibi.’
‘I had no idea.’
Then, turning to M. Allou:
‘You’re going to have trouble pinning the murder on Etrillat,’ he observed.
‘Not as much as you think. An old peasant, Father Grégoire, saw him walking past after the crime, and can readily identify him.’
(That observation was borne out later.)
‘But are you really sure?’ persisted the superintendent. ‘It could just as well have been anyone as well as Le Borgne.’
‘No, I’m certain of it because of the wallet. I’ll return to that later, very soon in fact.
‘Because now, gentlemen, we’re going to stop discussing false accusations and examine Allevaire’s real activities. You don’t look well, M. Clermon. No doubt you find there are too many of us in the room and the atmosphere has become stuffy. You’re right, I’ll attend to it right away.
‘Let Madam. Dorothée and Miss Gertrude go to their rooms, inspectors, and lock Epicevieille and his accomplice up somewhere.’
When the order had been executed, M. Allou continued:
‘You see, Clermon, I’ve sent away all the witnesses; these gentlemen are bound by their profession not to reveal anything. Oh, don’t thank me, I didn’t do it for you. I don’t want anyone to know of your role—I have reasons for that—and nothing will leave this room.’
‘Always the same thing,’ groused Sallent.
‘Please don’t say anything. You were worried stiff this afternoon.’
The inspectors returned.
‘I believe you are aware, gentlemen, of the strange adventures which befell us in Bordeaux?’
‘Yes, Superintendent Sallent told us. The last one is rather strange.’
‘No more than the others, you’ll see.
‘M. Clermon, your rapid ascent in the business world has astonished quite a few people. Without any capital, you’ve managed to create a large business. Even given your obvious intelligence and energy, it’s still a feat I find quite remarkable.
‘Something else struck me. Although there had been vague talk in Bordeaux about a possible marriage of your sister to Serge Madras, you were suddenly seized by an urgent haste to announce the formal engagement to the rich young man who serves as your collaborator. And that coincided with Allevaire’s intrusion into your home, once again on the night of the ninth to tenth.
‘Is it presumptuous of me to think that, up until then, someone had been supplying you with funds, and that same source was about to dry up suddenly?
‘Something had therefore disappeared that night, and that something was of great importance to you. Yet you hadn’t gone to the police about it. What other explanation could there be than that you were in possession of letters or documents which had allowed you to blackmail someone… and that was what Allevaire took from you? Oh, don’t bother denying it, I’m sure we’ll find them in his pocket.’
‘Here they are,’ said Allevaire. ‘They’re letters which he procured somehow. The victim—his name doesn’t matter—charged me specially to get them back. That’s why I moved to Bordeaux and became part of Clermon’s inner circle.
‘At first I thought he kept the letters in his safe. But his secretary had access and, such was my respect for his integrity, I couldn’t believe he could be an accomplice. I eventually discovered that the only piece of furniture to which he didn’t have a key was the large table in the office. There could be little doubt that the letters were there.
‘I made a substitute key and broke in to the townhouse. I thought Clermon wouldn’t discover the theft until late in the morning, by which time I would already be on the boat to Spain, where I was supposed to hand over my package and claim my reward. I was hoping it would allow me to start making an honest living.
‘The letters were already in my pocket when Madras discovered me and shone a light in my face. I ran off.
‘But would Clermon alert the police and have me arrested at the port? It seemed hardly likely, given the nature of the stolen material. Nevertheless, it was a huge risk, given my criminal record. I became afraid and—.’
‘—decided not to take the boat!’ exclaimed M. Allou.
‘Why are you laughing?’
‘It’s nothing. Just a souvenir. That phrase, spoken by chance, suddenly gave me the key to the whole case and allowed me to eliminate the coincidences which had been perplexing me. The plan to leave the country explained all the strange events of that night.
‘But, Allevaire, there was no need for you to be afraid. You hadn’t committed any crime.’
‘How is that possible?’
‘The theft was merely the recovery by a third party of something belonging to him. You can’t say the letters belonged to Clermon. They belonged to the sender and you can’t reproach him for having taken them back.’
‘Ah, sir, if I’d thought that was the case, I would never have led such a miserable existence during those few days. But, because I thought myself guilty, I couldn’t think of denying it because Serge Madras had got such a clear view of me. The only thing in my favour was something which I didn’t understand: Marthe Clermon was less sure about it being me, even though I’d passed right in front of her and she couldn’t have failed to recognise me. Why that indulgence?’
Clermon, who up to that point had not said a word, suddenly stood up.
‘I don’t want my sister compromised,’ he said. ‘If she didn’t denounce Allevaire—.’
‘—it was because of you,’ interrupted M. Allou.
‘How did you know?’
‘It wasn’t difficult. I assume that, disturbed by the noise, you, too had gone to your door and seen Allevaire pass in front of you. Serge Madras, concentrating on the pursuit, didn’t notice you. But your sister did. She noticed that you didn’t intervene; on the contrary, you disappeared as quickly as possible and disavowed all knowledge of the incident afterwards.’
‘How could I do otherwise? Should I have tried to stop Allevaire, who would have told Marthe and Serge everything?’
‘Quite so, it was out of the question,’ replied M. Allou. ‘But the poor child realised that you must have had a powerful reason not to intervene. She therefore chose not to confirm Madras’ account, and hoped that, by making a vague statement, she could pacify both of you. Later, when she di
scovered Allevaire’s past, she assumed you were his accomplice. As a result, she felt that she wasn’t worthy to marry the man she loved, Serge. Then, when you pushed her towards that marriage, she asked me to intervene. What reason could she give other than she didn’t love the young man?
‘And he, not understanding the sudden rejection, assumed it was because of the charge of slanderous accusation levelled against him. So he, in turn, withdrew into his shell. Fortunately, the damage can be repaired.
‘As for you, M. Clermon, you only had three ambitions: to hasten the marriage of your sister, and the formal business association which would come with it; recover “your” letters, because you had encountered unexpected resistance from the youngsters; and prevent the arrest of Allevaire, who was in a position to reveal everything.’
‘That’s exactly right.’
‘You thought first about buying the letters from him. You guessed, correctly, that given the accusations being brought against him, he was more likely to hide than to take flight. And the fact that he’d decided not to take the boat confirmed it.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘You also knew about his secret domicile?’
‘Yes, he had occasionally asked me to phone him at that number. I made a few enquiries and discovered the address.’
‘You took him a letter asking him to meet you?’
‘Yes.’
‘What pretext did you give?’
‘I offered him a large amount of money.’
‘That’s not true,’ exclaimed Allevaire. ‘I wouldn’t have come. When I work for someone I don’t betray them. I kept your letter and here it is. You pretended that your sister was very sad about my departure and wanted to see me for one last time.’
‘You did that…?’ asked M. Allou slowly.
Clermon lowered his eyes.
‘So, naturally, I went,’ continued Allevaire.
‘I know, Sallent and I were watching the house, hidden behind some bushes in the square. Someone opened the door for you, and today I’ve just discovered it was Clermon himself.’
‘Yes, he made me go up to his office, where he made me the offer. I refused, upon which he flung himself on me, in an attempt to take the letters. We fought and I ran off.’
