The Milliner's Hat Mystery

by Basil Thomson

  Goron had drawn conclusions from her accent, though her colloquial French was fluent.

  “You are not a Frenchwoman?”

  “Sir, I have lived here for the greater part of my life; my sympathies are French to the core.”

  “That may be, but you have your card of permission to work in France?”

  “I can show it to you, monsieur: there is not a mark on it against me.”

  “That may be, but let me remind you that a foreigner who declines to give necessary information to the police runs a risk…”

  The woman’s manner changed; she began to cringe. “Will you gentleman give yourselves the trouble of passing into my little room?” She threw open a door at the back of her glazed box and ushered them into a tiny cubicle of a room spotlessly clean and neat. “Doubtless Monsieur has come to make inquiries on the part of some husband, or it may be of some wife.”

  Vincent was about to make a disclaimer when Goron touched him on the sleeve.

  “These two gentlemen did not stay here unaccompanied, I think?”

  “Oh no; each of them brought his wife, or at any rate a lady companion.”

  “Were the ladies known as Madame Lewis and Madame Blake? I presume they had no letters, but they may have received parcels from shops. Were these parcels addressed ‘Madame Lewis’ and ‘Madame Blake’, respectively?”

  “Certainly, monsieur.”

  Vincent had been a little impatient of his colleague’s line of questioning, since the women seemed to him negligible, but now he began to see whither they were leading.

  “Now,” pursued Goron. “Let me have a description of each of these ladies. Madame Lewis, was she a Frenchwoman, smart and well dressed?”

  The woman became voluble and assured them that both ladies were beautiful and very smart; their husbands were generous: that one could judge; probably they were not Frenchwomen, at any rate one of them was reading a Russian newspaper one day.

  “I myself am a Russian, monsieur, and so I know.”

  “When were they last here?”

  “In February.” (She consulted a ledger.) “On February 23rd.”

  “Did you hear where they were going when they left?”

  “No, monsieur, they all went away together in the same taxi. I can give you the address of the taxi driver, it was the man whom I always employ for my lodgers.”

  “Has he a particular rank for his taxi?”

  “No, monsieur; he plies for hire privately and when he is not out with a fare, one finds him at home.”

  Vincent put his first question: “When ladies leave your rooms there are cardboard boxes and wrapping paper to clear away. For example, did these ladies leave hatboxes?”

  “Every kind of box; as I tell you the husbands were generous.”

  “And you put the boxes with the rubbish of the house to be cleared away?”

  “Not all, monsieur. Here is a box superior to the ordinary run and I’ve kept it for storing my papers.” She brought forward a cardboard box.

  Goron took it from her and pointed significantly to the address printed on the lid. Vincent read the words: “Germaine, rue Duphot, Paris.”

  Chapter Seven

  GORON LOOKED at the address of the taxi driver and pronounced it to be within easy walking distance.

  “That interview was not entirely barren, I think,” he said as they walked.

  “Indeed it was not. Either of those women might have been a customer of Madame Germaine and might have abstracted the bill-head of the note for one hundred thousand francs. I suppose that it will be possible to trace them?”

  “If they registered as the law requires, it would be a matter of only a few minutes, but with foreigners engaged in shady business it may not be so easy. Some of them are very clever and we have only the names of their reputed husbands to go upon. If they were not legally married they would have registered under their maiden names which we don’t know.”

  “The next question is whether a taxi driver would remember the address to which he drove people last February; it will be surprising if he does.”

  The taxi driver, as it appeared, lived on the fifth floor of a house without a lift. The concierge explained that orders for his taxi were telephoned to her and that she received a small commission on the fares he charged, for his taxi was to all intents a private carriage which did not ply for hire and was therefore not registered with the police: the proprietor charged what he liked. Fortunately the man was at home and he was gifted with a remarkable memory. He recalled without having to consult any diary that at the beginning of the last week in February he drove the American gentlemen and their wives from the rue Violet to St Lazare Station. They had with them suitcases, but no heavy luggage; he was glad to note this because they had been good clients of his and the absence of heavy luggage implied that they were crossing to England only for a few days.

  “Did they return?” asked Goron.

  “No, monsieur; they talked of returning, but they cannot have come to this district, otherwise they would have employed me.”

  “You say they were good clients?”

  “Yes, monsieur; not a day passed without their telephoning for me; all the shopping by the ladies was done with my vehicle.”

  “They were light-hearted people, then? They dined out every evening. Had they a favourite restaurant?”

  “Yes, monsieur; most frequently they drove to the Restaurant Rusée in the rue St-Honoré.”

  “If they come back to this neighbourhood and employ you again, you would find it worth your while to communicate with me. This is my card. Put it in a safe place and don’t forget.”

  “Very good, monsieur.”

  They ran down the five flights into the street and there Vincent took up the direction of their next move.

  “The time has now come,” he said, “for an inter-view with Madame Germaine, and in order to save time I suggest that we take a taxi as far as the corner of the rue Duphot. There we will pay off our taxi and proceed on foot to the lady’s shop. We will come out into the open and tell her what our mission is. Monsieur Verneuil has already told her about the stolen bill-head so she will not be unprepared.”

  As Goron nodded his agreement, they hailed a taxi and carried out the first part of their plan.

  They entered the shop together; Madame Germaine recognized Goron immediately. She smiled diffidently showing a row of beautiful teeth.

  “Is Madame already disillusioned with her hat?”

  “Not at all: she thinks it charming. But we are come to you on official business. This gentleman is a British colleague from Scotland Yard. I think that Monsieur Verneuil has already seen you about that bill-head printed with your name.”

  “Ah yes! The gentleman called on me this morning. I am shocked that a bill-head of mine should have been stolen and used for criminal purposes.”

  “Criminal purposes?” queried Vincent with a puzzled expression that he could assume at will.

  “Well, when three police officers from two different countries come on the same day to question me, it is natural to assume that it has become a criminal affair.”

  Vincent registered an inward conviction that if the lady proved to be not all that she pretended she was the finest actress off the stage that he had ever encountered. Nothing seemed to disturb her calm serenity.

  “We have called to enquire the addresses of two of your customers, madame,” he said. “Two ladies who are American by marriage, but probably not by birth —Madame Blake and Madame Lewis.”

  “I fear they are no longer in Paris—at any rate they have deserted my shop for some months.”

  “They were good customers of yours?”

  She made a becoming little grimace. “Yes, up to a point they were, but as customers one has to admit that they were exacting, always demanding little alterations in the hats they bought…”

  “But they were willing to pay good prices for them?”

  “Yes, monsieur, they did not quarrel with t
he price, and on my side I was careful to be moderate in my charges.”

  “Will you permit us to enact a little comedy in your shop, madame?” said Goron. “My friend, impersonating you, will go to the window and make believe to take out a hat; I will take the liberty of abstracting one of your bill-heads.” He turned to the desk. “Ah, the stage is not properly set for the comedy. There should be a pile of bill-heads lying on this desk.”

  “They are in the drawer, monsieur, and it is not locked.”

  “Are they always kept in the drawer?”

  “I will not be sure of that, monsieur. It is very possible that on busy days one or two or even more may have been lying on the desk.”

  “Will you put them as they might have been lying?”

  Madame Germaine took out a sheaf of bill-heads and laid them on the desk. Goron, acting as stage manager, signalled to Vincent to go to the window. Then while his companion’s back was turned he snatched up a bill-head which he stuffed into his pocket.

  “Eh bien! my friend. Did you see my felonious act?”

  “I saw it perfectly in the mirror on the right.”

  There was a light laugh from Madame Germaine. “It was a neat little comedy, monsieur. All the properties were in their places and this gentleman was looking in the mirror. Now, if I had been going to the window for a hat I should not have been looking in the mirror; all my attention would have been centred on the hats.”

  “Madame laughs at the antics of two clumsy men in a hat shop,” said Goron. “We must crave pardon for having taken up so much of your time, madame, and take our leave.”

  When they were out of sight of the shop Goron remarked: “Charming woman, that. Don’t you think so?”

  “Clever also,” agreed Vincent; “and that makes it all the stranger that she should not have seen what was taking place under her nose.”

  “You mean?”

  “I mean that I saw you, in the mirror, abstracting a little book as well as a bill-head.”

  Goron laughed. “Yes, I have it here, and I propose that we study it together, but I won’t swear that she didn’t see me take it. Let us go round the corner to the Cafe Veil and look through it together.”

  It was an ordinary address book, not a commercial ledger. When they had given their order to the waiter, Vincent asked leave to look for an address in the book. He turned to the letter H and pointed triumphantly at Hédouin Belfort. “This name convicts Madame Germaine. They are the great manufacturers and exporters of drugs to the East, but their time is nearly up. The French government is on their track.”

  “How do you come to know so much about the drug traffic, my friend?” asked Goron.

  “Because I happen to be the officer at Scotland Yard who is in charge of the drug question, and in consequence of this I am sent as the British representative to these periodical international meetings in Geneva.”

  “Not only on account of your special knowledge of the drug question,” suggested Goron, “but because of your fluency in our language.”

  Vincent dismissed the compliment with a gesture and said: “I cannot speak too highly of the behaviour of the French authorities in Syria, which was one of the plague spots of the world in the matter of narcotics. As soon as your government became aware of what was going on they completely destroyed the new crop of hashish which was coming to maturity, and you know that sixty thousand kilograms of hashish a year were being grown in the Lebanon. The Roessler factory of Mulhouse was not the only offender. A certain Dr Hefti had started a flourishing business in Zurich to manufacture dionyl, which was not against the Swiss law, though it is a derivative of hashish.”

  “I have heard people say that an unnecessary fuss is being made about narcotics; that if the rich choose to indulge in them, no particular harm is done.”

  “That is the trouble. Let me give you a figure. In Egypt it is estimated that out of a population of fourteen millions, over half a million addicts are to be found, not only among the rich but even among the peasants and labourers. Every village in Egypt, if one may accept the statement of Russell Pasha, who ought to know since he is a chief officer of police, has its heroin addicts and they are the youth of the country. It has been calculated that these are as a rule men between twenty and thirty. Happily so far, the women are free from the vice. But this is only a digression from the business in hand; we have to see whether we can trace any of our friends. To me, of course, the most important one is Pitt. Let us turn to the P’s.” He turned the pages and shook his head. “No, the name is not here.”

  “And yet Germaine’s bill-head was found on his premises, I believe you said.”

  “Yes, we found it in the pocket of one of his coats. Then it is evident that Germaine did not deal directly with him, but with an intermediary—probably Blake or Lewis. Let us look for our friend Blake. Why, here he is as large as life, Blake, Hotel Medusa, Cannes. There is no initial: probably it is Madame Blake, acting as a commercial traveller for her husband. Let us see whether Madame Lewis is mentioned?” He fluttered the pages. “Yes, here we are—Lewis, Hotel Medusa, Cannes. They hunt in couples and go to the same nest.”

  “Good! Then we must pursue them without losing a moment.”

  “Not so fast, my friend. It’s the husbands that I am concerned with—not the wives—and I doubt whether the men could have reached Cannes unless they berthed their boat at the nearest Breton port and took a train southward to the Riviera. How does this idea strike you—to send a telegram addressed, Madame Blake, Hotel Medusa, Cannes. ‘Has monsieur arrived? Reply Poste Restante, rue Cambon, Paris. Germaine’?”

  Goron nodded his head. “It can do no harm. If you extract a reply that Blake is there you will follow him up, and if there is no reply I suppose that you will turn the matter over to us and return to England? Is it your intention to apply for a warrant of extradiction for murder? It would make our task easier if we had that.”

  “That was my idea. If I can leave the question of hunting down these men in your hands, I will go back and obtain the necessary warrant.”

  The waiter supplied them with a telegraph form and they wrote out their message on the little marble-topped table, paid their account and crossed the boulevard to the rue Cambon.

  “While we are waiting for a reply, I suggest that we go to Monsieur Verneuil and tell him what we have done,” said Goron.

  “Yes. I confess that the ex-petty officer inspires me with confidence. I don’t know where he picked up his knowledge of police work, but the French navy was his school for knowledge of human nature. He must have had curious experiences in his career.”

  “Yes,” said Goron dryly, “I’ve heard some of them. If you want to lose your appetite for dinner, get him to tell you of his adventures in Saigon.”

  Having sent their telegram, they went on foot to the Exhibition building, along the road that borders the Champs-Élysées as far as the Rond Point. Verneuil received them with a sardonic smile.

  “I see that your case is already solved, gentlemen.”

  “We hope that we are on the way, Monsieur Verneuil; that is, if we may continue to count upon the help you’ve so freely given us.”

  Verneuil’s eyes narrowed to the merest slit; one might almost say that he winked at the compliment.

  “May I assume then,” he said in his guttural Southern accent, “that you have come to ask me for further services?”

  “It is always better to lay one’s cards on the table,” said Vincent. “Your conclusion is correct, monsieur: we have come to ask you for further help. The in-formation you gave us about the two Americans Blake and Lewis was valuable. They had two women living with them, presumably their wives; one was seen reading a Russian newspaper; they were passing under the names of Madame Blake and Madame Lewis. Would it be possible for you to trace them?” Verneuil was toying with a pencil and Vincent was glad to notice that it was no longer being employed in drawing diagrams, but was writing.

  “You may count upon me to do my best, mes
sieurs. If it were not for the tiresome complication of this attack upon the car of our worthy Socialist leader, I should have more time, but you know what it is with the Paris journals. Some of them love to have a stick with which to belabour the police. I will put your enquiry into competent hands and I suggest that you call upon me again tomorrow.”

  “Yes, Monsieur Verneuil, but before we go I have something to give you. This little book contains a number of names and addresses.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “Out of the desk of Madame Germaine of that hat shop.”

  “You mean she didn’t see you take it?”

  “I won’t be sure of that, monsieur. There is not much that misses the lady’s roving eye. But in any case, she must by this time have noticed that the note-book has disappeared. In the meantime we suggest that nothing should be done to alarm her, because she may be acting as a magnet for our two men. But you may care to look through these names and addresses in case they link up with your specialty—the drug traffic. Turn to the page with the letter H, for example, and see whether you recognize a name on that page.”

  Verneuil ran his eye down the page and stiffened suddenly in his chair. “Hédouin of Belfort. Ah! par exemple! Here we have it. The people that I’ve been trying to trip up for months. We have practically all the evidence that is required, but this woman must be watched.”

  “Yes,” observed Vincent; “when she discovers that her notebook has vanished, she may take to flight.”

  “If she fancies that she will escape from my observation of her, she will deceive herself. You will leave this book with me, gentlemen? I may find other names.”

  “Certainly; keep it as long as you think necessary. We do not propose to restore it to the lady.”

  As they left Verneuil’s office Vincent said: “If we go to the rue Cambon on foot would there have been time for a reply to our telegram?”

  “It was marked ‘Priorité’; it’ll be a near thing: we can but try.”

  The magic word ‘Priorité’ had done the trick; they found a telegram in the Poste Restante also marked ‘Priorité’ and addressed to Madame Germaine. Goron asked to see the chief of the telegraph bureau and explained to him that he was in fact, for the moment, Madame Germaine, though the postmaster might find it difficult to believe it. Men charged with the dreary round of postal work are always agog for sensation and here essentially was a case that bristled with drama. Accordingly as soon as he was satisfied about Goron’s identity he allowed him to have a copy of the telegram.