Unravelled Knots

by Baroness Orczy

  “The Duke, in my opinion, chose that one quarter of an hour when he was alone in the house to cut the picture out of its frame. He then hid the canvas sufficiently skilfully that it was never found. Probably he thought at the time that there the matter would end, but equally probably he never gave the future another thought. His own position was unassailable seeing he was not insured against loss, and it was the present alone that mattered: the fact that a Duc de Rochechouart was trying to sell a spurious picture for half a million dollars. To many French men and women ever since the war, America is a far country, and no doubt the Duc and Duchesse both hoped that the whole transaction, including the Ingres masterpiece, would soon lie buried somewhere at the bottom of the sea.

  “Fate and Lady Polchester proved too strong for them; they ordained that La Fiancée should be brought back to Europe, and that the whole of its exciting history be revived. But fate proved kind in the end, and I think that you will agree with me that two such daring and resourceful adventurers as their Graces deserve the extra half million dollars which, thanks to Lady Polchester’s generosity or ostentation, they got unexpectedly.

  “Soon afterwards you will remember that the Duc and Duchesse de Rochechouart sold their chateau on the Oise together with the bulk of their collection of pictures and furniture.

  “They now live in Sweden, I understand, where the Duchesse has many friends and relations and where the law of libel will not trouble you much if you publish my deductions in your valuable magazine.

  “Think it all out,” the Man in the Corner concluded glibly, “and from every point of view, and you will see that there is not a single flaw in my argument. I have given you the only possible solution of the mystery of the Ingres masterpiece.”

  “You may be right—” I murmured thoughtfully.

  “I know I am,” he answered drily.

  III

  The Mystery of the Pearl Necklace

  I

  The Man in the Corner had a very curious theory about that mysterious affair of the pearl necklace, and though it all occurred a few years ago, I am tempted to put his deductions down on record, because, as far as I know, neither the police of this or any other country, nor the public, have ever found a satisfactory solution for what was undoubtedly a strange and mystifying adventure.

  I remembered the case quite well when first he spoke to me about it one afternoon in what had become my favourite teahaunt in Fleet Street; the only thing I was not quite certain of was the identity of the august personage to whom the pearl necklace was to be presented. I do know, of course, that she belonged to one of the reigning families of Europe, and that she had been an active and somewhat hotheaded and bitter opponent of the communist movement in her own country, in consequence of which both she and her exalted husband had been the object of more than one murderous attack by the other side. It was on the occasion of the august lady’s almost miraculous escape from a peculiarly well-planned and brutal assault that a number of ladies in England subscribed the sum of £15,000 for the purchase of an exquisite pearl necklace to be presented to her as a congratulatory gift.

  Rightly or wrongly, the donors of this princely gift feared that a certain well-known political organisation on the Continent would strive by every means in its power, fair or foul, to prevent this token of English good-win from reaching the recipient, and also, as it chanced to happen, there had been during the past few months a large number of thefts of valuables on continental railways, and it became a question who should be entrusted by the committee of subscribers with the perilous task of taking the necklace over for presentation; the trouble being further enhanced by the fact that in those days the insurance companies barred one or two European countries from their comprehensive policies against theft and petty larceny, and that it was to one of those countries thus barred that the bearer of the £15,000 necklace would have to journey.

  Imagine the excitement, the anxiety, which reigned in the hearts of the thousands of middle-class English women who had subscribed their mite towards the gift! Their committee sat behind closed doors discussing the claims of various volunteers who were ready to undertake the journey: these worthy folk were quite convinced that certain well-known leaders of anarchical organisations would be on the look-out for the booty and would have special facilities for the theft of it at the frontier during the course of those endless customs and passport formalities for which that particular country was ever famous.

  Finally the committee’s choice fell upon a certain Captain Arthur Saunders, nephew of Sir Montague Bowden, who was chairman of the ladies’ committee. Captain Saunders had, it seems, travelled abroad a great deal, and his wife was foreign—Swedish, so it was understood; it was thought that if he went abroad now in the company of his wife, the object of their journey might be thought to be a visit to Mrs. Saunders’s relations, and the conveying of the pearl necklace to its destination might thus remain more or less a secret.

  The choice was approved of by all the subscribers, and it was decided that Captain and Mrs. Saunders should start by the 10 am train for Paris on the 16th of March. Captain Saunders was to call the previous afternoon at a certain bank in Charing Cross where the necklace was deposited, and there receive it as an almost sacred trust from the hands of the manager. Further, it was arranged that Mrs. Saunders should, immediately on arrival in Paris, send a wire to Mrs. Berners, a great friend of hers who was the secretary of the committee, and in fact that she should keep the committee informed of Captain Saunders’s well-being at all the more important points of their journey.

  And thus they started.

  But no news came from Paris on the 16th. At first no anxiety was felt on that score, everyone being ready to surmise that the Calais-Paris train had been late in, and that the Saunderses had perhaps only barely time to clear their luggage at the Customs and catch the train de luxe which would take them on, via Cologne, without a chance of sending the promised telegram. But soon after midday of the 17th, Sir Montague Bowden had a wire from Mrs. Saunders from Paris saying: “Arthur disappeared since last night. Desperately anxious. Please come at once. Save booked room for you here. Mary. Hotel Majestic.”

  The news was terrifying; however Sir Montague Bowden, with commendable zeal, at once wired to Mary announcing his immediate departure for Paris, and as it was then too late for him to catch the afternoon continental train, he started by the evening one, travelling all night and arriving at the Hotel Majestic in the early morning. He had thought it more prudent to say nothing about the matter before he left England. The news, he thought, would travel fast enough when it became necessary for the members of the committee to know what had occurred, and for the present, at any rate, Sir Montague was still hoping that as soon as he arrived in Paris he would find that the whole thing was only an ugly nightmare.

  As soon as he had had a bath and some breakfast he went in search of information. He found that the French police had already the “affaire” in hand, but that they had not so far the slightest clue to the mysterious disappearance of the Capitaine Saunders. He found the management of the Majestic in a state of offended dignity, and Mrs. Saunders in one that verged on hysteria, but fortunately he also found at the hotel a Mr. Haasberg, brother of Mrs. Saunders, a Swedish businessman of remarkable coolness and clearness of judgment, who promptly put him au fait of what had occurred.

  It seems that Mr. Haasberg was settled in business in Paris, and that he had hoped to catch a glimpse of his sister and brother-in-law on the evening of the 16th at the Gare du Nord, on their way through to the East, but that on that very morning he had received a telegram from Mary asking him to book a couple of rooms—a bedroom and a sitting-room—for one night for them at the Hotel Majestic. This Mr. Haasberg did, glad enough that he would see something more of his sister than he had been led to hope.

  On the afternoon of the 16th he was kept late at business and was unable to meet the Saunderses at the station, but towards nine o’clock he walked to the Majestic hoping to
find them in. Their room was on the third floor. Mr. Haasberg went up in the lift, and as soon as he reached No. 301 he became aware of a buzz of conversation coming from within, which, however, ceased as soon as he had pushed open the door. On entering the room he saw that Captain Saunders had a visitor, a tall, thick-set man who wore an old-fashioned heavy moustache, and large, gold-rimmed spectacles. At sight of Mr. Haasberg the man clapped his hat—a bowler—on his head, pulled his coat collar over his ears, and with a hasty: “Well, s’long, old man. I’ll wait till tomorrow!” spoken with a strong foreign accent, he walked rapidly out of the room and down the corridor.

  Haasberg stood for a moment in the doorway to watch the disappearing personage but he did this without any ulterior motive or thought of suspicion; then he turned back into the room and greeted his brother-in-law.

  Saunders seemed to Haasberg to be nervous and ill-at-ease; in response to the latter’s enquiry after Mary, he explained that she had remained in her room as he had a man to see on business. Haasberg made some casual remark about this visitor, and then Mary Saunders came in—she too appeared troubled and agitated and as soon as she had greeted her brother, she turned to her husband and asked very eagerly:

  “Well, has he gone?”

  Saunders, giving a significant glance in Haasberg’s direction, replied with an obvious effort at indifference: “Yes, yes, he’s gone. But he said he would be back tomorrow.”

  At which Mary seemed to give a sigh of relief.

  Scenting some uncomfortable mystery Haasberg questioned her and also Saunders about their visitor, but could not elicit any satisfactory explanation.

  “Oh, there is nothing mysterious about old Pasquier,” was all that either of them would say.

  “He is an old pal of Arthur’s,” Mary added lightly, “but he is such an awful bore that I got Arthur to say that I was out, so that he might get rid of him more quickly.”

  But somehow Haasberg felt that these explanations were very lame. He could not get it out of his head that there was something mysterious about the visitor, and knowing the purpose of the Saunderses’ journey, he thought it as well to give them a very serious word of warning about continental hotels generally and to suggest that they should, after this stay in Paris, go straight through in the train de luxe and never halt again until the £15,000 necklace was safely in the hands of the august lady for whom it was intended. But both Arthur and Mary laughed at these words of warning.

  “My dear fellow,” Arthur said, seemingly rather in a huff, “we are not such mugs as you think us. Mary and I have travelled on the continent at least as much as you have, and are fully alive to the dangers attendant upon our mission. As a matter of fact, the moment we arrived, I gave the necklace in its own padlocked tin box, just as I brought it over from England in charge of the hotel management, who immediately locked it up in their strong room, so even if good old Pasquier had designs on it—which I can assure you he has not—he would stand no chance of getting hold of it. And now do sit down, there’s a good chap, and talk of something else.”

  Only half reassured, Haasberg sat down and had a chat. But he did not stay long. Mary was obviously tired and soon said good night. Arthur offered to accompany his brother-in-law to the latter’s lodgings in the Rue de Moncigny.

  “I would like a walk,” he said, “before going to bed.”

  So the two men walked out together and Haasberg finally said good night to Arthur just outside his own lodgings. It was then close upon ten o’clock. The little party had agreed to spend the next day together, as the train de luxe did not go until the evening and Haasberg had promised to take a holiday from business. Before going to bed he attended to some urgent correspondence, and had just finished a letter when his telephone bell rang. To his horror he heard his sister’s voice speaking in the greatest possible distress and anxiety:

  “Don’t keep Arthur up so late, Herman,” she said. “I am dog tired and can’t go to sleep until he returns.”

  “Arthur?” he replied, “but Arthur left me at my door two hours ago.”

  “He has not returned,” she insisted, “and I am getting anxious.”

  “Of course you are, but he can’t be long now. He must have turned into a café and forgot the time. Do ring me up as soon as he comes in.”

  Unable to rest, however, and once more vaguely anxious, Haasberg went hastily back to the Majestic. He found Mary nearly distracted with anxiety, and as he himself felt anything but reassured, he did not know how to comfort her.

  At one time he went down into the hall to ascertain whether anything was known in the hotel about Saunders’s movements earlier in the evening, but at this hour of the night there were only the night porter and the watchmen about, and they knew nothing of what had occurred before they came on duty.

  There was nothing for it but to await the morning as calmly as possible. This was difficult enough as Mary Saunders was evidently in a terrible state of agitation. She was quite certain that something tragic had happened to her husband, but Haasberg tried in vain to get her to speak of the mysterious visitor who had from the first aroused his own suspicions. Mary persisted in asserting that the visitor was just an old pal of Arthur’s and that no possible suspicion of any kind could possibly rest upon him.

  In the early morning Haasberg went off to the nearest commissariat of police. They took the matter in hand without delay and within the hour had obtained some valuable information from the personnel of the hotel. To begin with it was established that at about ten minutes past ten the previous evening, that is to say a quarter of an hour or so after Haasberg had parted from Arthur Saunders outside his own lodgings, the latter had returned to the Majestic and at once asked for the tin box which he had deposited in the bureau. There was some difficulty in acceding to his request, because the clerk who was in charge of the keys of the strong room could not at once be found. However, M. le Capitaine was so insistent that search was made for the clerk who presently appeared with the keys, and after the usual formalities handed over the tin box to Saunders who signed a receipt for it in the book. Haasberg had since then identified the signature which was quite clear and incontestable.

  Saunders then went upstairs, refusing to take the lift, and five minutes later he had come down again, nodded to the hall porter and went out of the hotel. No one had seen him since, but during the course of the morning the valet on the fourth floor had found an empty tin box in the gentlemen’s cloakroom. This box was produced, and to her unutterable horror Mary Saunders recognised it as the one which had held the pearl necklace.

  The whole of this evidence as it gradually came to light was a staggering blow both to Mary and to Haasberg himself, because until this moment neither of them had thought that the necklace was in jeopardy: they both believed that it was safely locked up in the strong room of the hotel.

  Haasberg now feared the worst. He blamed himself terribly for not having made more certain of the mysterious visitor’s identity. He had not yet come to the point of accusing his brother-in-law, in his mind, of a conspiracy to steal the necklace, but frankly, at this stage, he did not know what to think. Saunders’s conduct had—to say the least—been throughout extremely puzzling. Why had he elected to spend the night in Paris, when all arrangements had been made for him and his wife to travel straight through? Who was the mysterious visitor with the walrus moustache, vaguely referred to by both Arthur and Mary as “old Pasquier”? And above all why had Arthur withdrawn the necklace from the hotel strong room where it was quite safe and, with it in his pocket, walked about the streets of Paris at that hour of the night?

  Haasberg was quite convinced that “old Pasquier” knew something about the whole affair, but, strangely enough, Mary persisted in asserting that he was quite harmless, and an old friend of Arthur’s who was beyond suspicion. When further pressed with questions she declared that she had no idea where the man lodged, and that, in fact, she believed that he had left Paris the self-same evening en route for Brussels wher
e he was settled in business.

  Enquiry amongst the personnel of the hotel revealed the fact that Captain Saunders’s visitor had been seen by the hall porter when he came soon after half-past eight, and asked whether le Capitaine Saunders had finished dinner; his question being answered in the affirmative, he went upstairs, refusing to take the lift. Half an hour or so later he was seen by one of the waiters in the lounge hurriedly crossing the hall, and finally by the two boys in attendance at the swing doors when he went out of the hotel. All agreed that the man was very tall and thick-set, that he wore a heavy moustache and a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. He had on a bowler hat and an overcoat with the collar pulled right up to his ears. The hall porter who himself spoke English fairly well, was under the impression that the man was not English, although he made his enquiries in that language.

  In addition to all these investigations, the commissaire de police, on his second visit to the hotel, was able to assure Haasberg that all the commissariats in and around Paris had been communicated with by telephone so as to ascertain whether any man answering Saunders’s description had been injured during the night in a street accident and taken in somewhere for shelter; also that a description of the necklace had already been sent round to all the Monts de Pieds throughout the country. The police were also sharply on the look-out for the man with the walrus moustache, but so far without success. Whether he had left for Brussels by the last train on the previous night could not be definitely established, nor when or by what route he had arrived in Paris. There are always such crowds at the Gare du Nord for the arrival and departure of important trains that any man can easily—if he wishes—pass unperceived. And Mary Saunders obstinately persisted in her denial of any knowledge about him. “Arthur,” she said, “sometimes saw old Pasquier in London”; but she did not know anything about him, neither what his nationality was, nor where he lodged. She did not know when he had left London, nor where he could be found in Paris. All that she knew, so she said, was that his name was Pasquier, and that he was in business in Brussels; she therefore concluded that he was Belgian. Even to her own brother she would not say more, although he succeeded in making her understand how strange her attitude must appear both to the police and to her friends, and what harm she was doing to her husband, but at this she burst into floods of tears, and swore that she knew nothing about Pasquier’s whereabouts, and that she believed him to be innocent of any attempt to steal the necklace or to injure Arthur.