The Murder in Torquay (A Jules Poiret Mystery Book 9)

by Frank Howell Evans

  Poiret smiled. “But that is a fine suggestion,” he cried. “We must think over that,” and he clasped his hands together. “Why did not such a fine idea, it occurs to Poiret, fool that he is? However, we will call the head waiter.” The head waiter was sent for and appeared before them.

  “You knew Lady Charingbridge?” Poiret asked.

  “Yes, Sir—the poor woman! Always left a nice tip.”

  “And you knew her young companion?”

  “Which one?”

  “Mademoiselle Dereham.”

  “Oh yes, Sir. They generally had their meals here. See, at that little table over there! But the gentleman knows well”—and the waiter looked towards Baronet Jack Reece-Jones— “for the gentleman was often with them.”

  “Bon,” said Poiret. “Did Lady Charingbridge dine at the little table last night?”

  “No, Sir. She was not here last night.”

  “We know they were not,” exclaimed Haven. “Reece-Jones and I were here and we didn’t see them.”

  “But perhaps you left early,” objected Poiret.

  “No,” said Haven. “It was ten o’clock when we reached Hotel Chesterfield.”

  “You reached your hotel at ten,” Poiret repeated. “Did you both go there straight from here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you left here around a quarter to ten. And we know that Lady Charingbridge was back at the villa soon after nine. Bon—they could not have been here last night,” Poiret agreed, and sat for a moment silent. Then he turned to the head waiter.

  “Have you noticed any other woman with Lady Charingbridge than Mademoiselle Dereham?”

  “Her maid, Sir. But not lately.”

  “To think! A woman, for instance, with red hair.”

  Baronet Jack Reece-Jones moved forward. Captain Haven raised his finger as if he was back in school.

  “No, Sir. I’ve seen no woman with red hair.”

  “Merci, Monsieur,” said Poiret, and the waiter left.

  “A woman with red hair!” cried Reece-Jones. “But Harriette Carter described it as black.” Poiret turned with a smile to Reece-Jones. “Did Harriette Carter, then, speak the truth?” he asked. “No. And I will tell you more. This woman with the red hair—she is in Southampton.” Reece-Jones stood up then sat slowly down. “But that is wonderful!” he cried. “How did you find that out?”

  Poiret leaned back in his chair and took a pull at his cigarette. He was obviously pleased with Reece-Jones’s admiration. “Yes, how did you find it out?” Haven repeated.

  Poiret smiled. “As to that,” he said, “remember I am like Mademoiselle Dereham. A magician. I do not explain my technique.” Haven was disappointed. Reece-Jones, however, stood up. “We must search Southampton, then,” he cried. “It is there that we should be, not here drinking our coffee at Hotel Bay Torbay.”

  Poiret raised his hand. “The search, it is not being overlooked, Monsieur.” He bowed in the direction of Inspector Edgar. “But Southampton, it is a big city. It is not easy to find a woman, about whom we know nothing, except that her hair, it is red, and that probably a young lady, she was with her last night. It is here in Torquay—that we must keep our eyes wide open.”

  “Here!” cried Reece-Jones in exasperation. He stared at Poiret as though he were mad.

  “Yes, here; at the post office—at the telephone exchange. At the hotels. Suppose that the man, he is in Torquay, he may wish to send a letter, or a telegram, or a message over the telephone to his accomplices. That, Poiret tells to you, is our chance.” Poiret looked at the inspector, who had a determined look on his face and nodded gravely.

  The inspector then looked at a policeman, who was walking towards them. The man handed the inspector an envelope. He saluted and left. Inspector Edgar tore open the envelope and sprang up from his seat. “Lady Charingbridge’s car’s been found,” he cried. “Let us go!”

  The police car stopped a mile away from the casino opposite a villa. A hedge separated the garden of the villa from the road. Above the hedge rose a sign with the words “For sale” on it. At the gate were a policeman and Emerson, Lady Charingbridge’s driver.

  “It’s here,” said Inspector Edgar, as the party stepped out of the car, “In the garage of this empty villa.”

  “Here?” cried Haven in amazement. The discovery upset all his theories. He had expected to hear that it had been found fifty miles away; but here, within a couple of miles of Villa Argyle itself—the idea seemed absurd! Why take it away at all.

  “When was it found?” Poiret asked.

  “This morning. A gardener comes to the villa on two days a week to keep the grounds in order.” He pointed to the “For Sale” sign. “As you see, the owners are selling the villa. He found the garage door forced and the car inside it.”

  They followed the inspector to the garage. “We will have the car brought out?” said Poiret to Emerson. It was a big and powerful machine, luxuriously fitted and painted a dark grey. The car had hardly been brought out into the sunlight before a cry of surprise burst from the lips of Inspector Edgar. “Oh!” he cried, in utter amazement. “I can’t believe this!”

  “What?” Poiret asked, turning sharply as he spoke.

  Inspector Edgar was standing there, his eyes staring and his mouth open. “I’ve seen this car before.”

  “Where?” asked Captain Haven.

  “At four o’clock this morning—at the corner of the road—not fifty yards from the Villa Argyle.”

  “You saw it?” exclaimed Reece-Jones.

  “It was that car. It was that number.”

  “Tell us all.” Poiret encouraged him.

  “It was just after daylight. I was standing outside the gate of the villa. The car appeared at the corner and slowed down. It seemed to me that it was going to turn into the driveway of the villa, but instead the driver put the car in top speed and went on into Torquay.”

  “Who was inside?” asked Baronet Reece-Jones.

  “Only the driver. He wore a broad-brimmed fedora shielding his face, and had a little black moustache, and was dressed in a heavy, blue coat with a white collar.”

  “That’s my coat, Sir,” said Emerson, and as he spoke he lifted it up from the driver’s seat.

  Baronet Reece-Jones groaned aloud. “We’ve lost him. The murderer was within our grasp!”

  “Nonsense, mon ami,” said Poiret, touching the inspector on the shoulder.

  Poiret turned abruptly towards Emerson. “Emerson,” he said, “you know how much petrol was taken from the garage?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Can you tell to me, by the amount which has been used, how far the car was driven last night?” Poiret asked.

  Emerson examined the tank. “From two hundred to two hundred and fifty miles, Sir.”

  “Southampton,” said Poiret. His eyes brightened, and a smile, a rather fierce smile, came to his lips. He opened the door, put on his glasses, and examined the floor of the car, and as he looked, the smile faded from his face. Surprise returned to it. He took the cushions, looked them over and shook them out. Then he smiled again. He took tweezers and an envelope from his pocket. From the crack of the door by the hinge he picked off a tiny piece of pale green fabric.

  “Mademoiselle Rosette travelled in this car.”

  “Rosette?” Said Reece-Jones hopeful.

  Poiret put the fabric in the envelope and put it in his pocket without responding.

  Haven responded for him with the air of a man solving a very difficult problem: “There was a man last night at Villa Argyle. Mademoiselle Rosette and “Evelyn” drove away inside the car with the man.”

  “What a mind!” cried Poiret, now clasping his hands together in admiration. “How quick and how profound!” There was at times something elfish in Poiret’s demeanor, which left Captain Haven at a loss. But he had come to notice that this usually happened, when Poiret had reached an answer to part of the puzzle.

  “Yet there is perhaps an explanation
,” Poiret continued. “However, we will go back to Monsieur Reece-Jones’s suite at Hotel Chesterfield and talk this matter over.” He made a low, ironical bow to Haven and walked quickly down the road.

  Reece-Jones looked at Poiret. “Sometimes Haven, watching this fop widdle waddle to and fro, I miss the freshmen days in college,” Baronet Jack Reece-Jones said to Captain Haven, trying to laugh, without much success.

  Thus he described the great detective. It was Baronet Jack Reece-Jones’s most honest opinion all morning.

  The three men went straight to Baronet Jack Reece-Jones’s suite on the first floor, which consisted of a sitting-room and a bedroom. A balcony ran along both outside. Poiret stepped out on to it, looked around and returned. “It is as well to know that we cannot be overheard,” he said. “Because, mes amis, we are making the progress. The man, the woman with the red hair and Mademoiselle Rosette—they all drove yesterday night to Southampton.” He turned in his chair towards Reece-Jones. “Ah, my poor friend!” he said, when he saw the young man’s distress.

  Baronet Jack Reece-Jones sprang up from his chair with a gesture suggesting irritation. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

  “You have a road map, perhaps?” said Poiret galantly.

  “Yes,” said Reece-Jones, “There it is,” and crossing the room he brought it from a side table and placed it in front of Poiret.

  Poiret took a pencil from his pocket. “Two hundred miles is about the distance which the car has travelled. It has to be a city with a boat connection to the Continent or Asia as they cannot sell the famous jewels here. Measure the distances here, and you will see that Southampton is the likely place. Brighton and London are too far.”

  “And what else do we know?” asked Haven.

  “This,” said Poiret. He paused impressively. He had an eye for dramatic effects. Poiret lit a cigarette and took his time. “The man who drove the car into Southampton drove it back, because—he meant to leave it again in the garage of the Villa Argyle.”

  “Good Heavens!” cried Haven, flinging himself back. The theory so calmly enunciated took his breath away.

  “All through this crime there are two things visible—the great intellect and the daring; clever thinking and extraordinary daring. Would he have dared? He dared to be at the corner close to the Villa Argyle in the morning light. Why else should he have returned except to put back the car?”

  “But why?” asked Reece-Jones.

  “To hide the fact that the car was used.” Then Poiret slowly lit another cigarette.

  “I can’t understand your calmness, Poiret? We must do something,” Captain Haven said.

  “Must?” said Poiret. “You are the amateur, Poiret, he is the professional—that is all.”

  Captain Haven sat back, brooding. “You’re not always right, Mister Poiret.” He said aggrieved. “There are things you don’t know.”

  “Really?” There was no longer any teasing in Poiret’s manner.

  “I’ve driven in my car from Southampton to Torquay,” Haven said. “There is a road block there. Your car is stopped and searched to counter smuggling. And there is no way around it. There you will find out for certain if Lady Charingbridge’s car travelled last night to Southampton.”

  A surprised flush took hold of Poiret’s face. Reece-Jones looked up, his heart was beating audibly. Haven was in Seventh Heaven. He had at last contributed something valuable to the solution of the crime. He had supplied knowledge to the omniscient Poiret. Still Poiret however replied testily: “It is not a clue, Haven. The officials in Southampton, they are well-known for their laxness. There they imagine themselves men of the world working in the city rivaling London or Shanghai. They cannot be bothered with car searches for one carton of cigarettes or two bottles of wine. Non! We will learn nothing from them.” Poiret stood up. “Poiret, he has more important things to attend to.” He put his hand on Reece-Jones’s shoulder. “And you, mon ami, should get some sleep. We may need all our strength tomorrow.”

  Reece-Jones nodded. “I’ll try,” he said.

  “Bon,” said Poiret cheerfully. “You will both stay here this evening; for if there is news, Poiret, he can then ring you up.”

  Both men agreed, and Poiret went away. He left Captain Haven profoundly disturbed. “That man will take advice from nobody,” he said to Reece-Jones. “His vanity is colossal. It is true they are not particularly industrious in Southampton. Still at the road block they would know something.” Neither Haven nor Baronet Jack Reece-Jones heard a word more from Poiret that day.

  The next morning, however, before Captain Haven was out of his bed, Poiret knocked on his door. He came stepping happily into the bedroom, more elfish than ever.

  “Are you alone?” he said. Captain Haven nodded. Poiret produced a newspaper, which he shook in Captain Haven’s face and then dropped into his hands. Haven saw a full description of Rosette Dereham, of her appearance and her dress, coupled with the suggestion a reward of one hundred Pounds would be paid to anyone, who could give information about her whereabouts to Captain Harry Haven, Hotel Chesterfield, Torquay!

  Captain Haven sat up in his bed with a sense of outrage. “I say! You should ask before using someone’s good name. That’s not done in this country,” said Captain Haven acidly.

  “But, mon ami, you have the one hundred Pounds,” protested the detective. “Besides, if Poiret names himself, the very people we are seeking to catch will know that Poiret, the great, the incomparable Poiret, is after them; and he does not want them to know that.”

  Haven grumbled inarticulately, and read through the advertisement again. “Your description is incomplete,” he said. “There is no mention of the diamond earrings.”

  “Ah! So you noticed that!” exclaimed Poiret. “A little more experience and Poiret should be looking very closely for competition. But as for the earrings—Poiret will tell you. Miss Rosette was not wearing them when she went away from the Villa Argyle.”

  “How do you know?” cried Haven. “How could you know?”

  “Because”—and Poiret struck a haughty attitude, like a king in a stage play— “because Poiret, he is the greatest detective in the world.”

  Captain Haven was about to get angry with his insufferable friend. He turned over the newspaper. “But this is yesterday’s paper!” he said.

  “The paper of yesterday evening,” Poiret corrected.

  “Printed in Southampton!”

  “Printed, and published and sold in Southampton,” said Poiret.

  “When did you send the advertisement in, then?”

  “While we were eating our luncheon,” Poiret explained. “The letter was to Inspector Edgar, asking him to telegraph the advertisement at once.”

  “But you never said a word about it to us,” Haven grumbled.

  “No. And was Poiret not wise?” said Poiret teasingly. “For you would have forbidden him to use your name.”

  “Oh, that’s ok,” said Haven reluctantly. His indignation was slowly evaporating as he began to understand that his name in the newspaper linked to the mystery, made him part of the mystery. He did not dislike the idea. Especially not if one of his school friends saw it there.

  “Poiret will give you the time to make your morning toilet, my dear Haven,” said Poiret cheerily and left the bedroom.

  Haven showered and dressed hastily, then joined Poiret. “No calls for the reward money yet?” he asked.

  “This chocolate is very good, Haven; it is better than that which he gets at his hotel.”

  “Good Heavens!” cried Haven.

  At eleven o’clock a bellhop brought a telegram into the room. Haven seized it impatiently. “Calm yourself, mon ami,” said Poiret. With trembling fingers Haven tore it open. Speechless, he handed the telegram to Poiret. It had been sent from Southampton, and it ran thus: “Expect me soon after three.—ROSEMARY BENNINGTON.”

  “I had better send for Reece-Jones?” asked Haven. Poiret shrugged his shoulders. “If you think it bet
ter that your friend should live in torture until Rosemary Bennington, she comes, and then perhaps suffer worse torture from the news she brings, be it so. If, on the other hand, you think it will be best to leave Monsieur Reece-Jones in peace until we know her story, be it so. You shall decide.”

  The solemnity of Poiret’s manner impressed Captain Haven. “Well,” he said, at length, “good news will be none the worse for waiting a few hours. Bad news will be a little the better.”

  “Bon,” said Poiret. He picked a Bradshaw’s Handbook up from a bookshelf in the room. “From Southampton she will come through Exeter. Let us see!” He turned over the pages. “There is the train from Exeter which it reaches Torquay at precisely seven minutes past three. It is by that train she will come. Pick me up in your car at three at my hotel. We will drive down to the station together. Bon? Poiret will now look in on Monsieur Reece-Jones and tell to him that there is as yet no news.”

  He took up his hat and stick, and stood for a moment staring out of the window. Then he roused himself from his reverie with a start. “You look out on the hills. Monsieur Reece-Jones’s view over the garden and the town, it is the better one,” he said, and went out of the room.

  At three o’clock Haven stopped at Poiret’s hotel in his sports car. The two men went to the station. They waited outside the exit while the passengers gave up their tickets. Amongst them a middle-aged, short, heavyset woman, attracted their attention. She was neatly but shabbily dressed in black. She was obviously in a hurry. She asked a station master: “How far is it to Hotel Chesterfield?” The man told her the hotel was at the very top of the town, and the way was steep. “But Milady can go up in the bus.” He pointed to a bus ready to leave.

  “She looks honest,” said Poiret. “Now, if we go back in the car, we shall be all ready for her when she arrives.”

  They reached the hotel in a few minutes. Through a glass window they could see Reece-Jones smoking a cigar over his coffee in the restaurant.