After sending some letters and taking care of some other matters in the town center, he was overtaken by a panting postmaster, who brought him a letter that had just been posted. The writing on the envelope was entirely unknown to Poiret. He tore it open and read, “Request to Mr. Jules Poiret not to mix in business, which doesn’t concern him. The second warning will be the last.” It was signed, “The Communist Committee.”
“Mon Die!” said Poiret, slipping the paper into his pocket. “Happily Poiret, he has nothing more to occupy himself with here. Now it is, how do you say, up to Inspector Watkins!”
Poiret took a long walk along the boulevard. He reached the boardwalk. He seemed to have chased away all worries and took a child’s pleasure in the different aspects of life that characterized the beach in a resort town. He stopped before a restaurant, walked slowly across the sand resting gently on his walking stick, strolled between the other people, tipping his hat left and right. He sat down and ordered a glass of brandy. He looked at the endless water. Everything pleased him this morning. The sound of the waves, the elegance of the women, the young men swimming and the children digging up the sand. Everything enchanted him, even the unfortunate older couples, who in spite of the soft weather, were muffled up in thick coats and scarves. All impressed him favorably. All appeared to him happy, unburdened by worry and anxiety. They forgot yesterday as they forget tomorrow.
Order reigned in the town. The murder attempts on the arms manufacturer had been forgotten or were unknown outside of the mansion. The communists, students, who imagined assassination could accomplish anything in the empire, where the sun never set, should look at these people. They had no more thought for the old attacks than for those now being prepared in the shadows of the dark. Shiny, happy people, full of serenity under the bright sun moved about their affairs and their pleasures in the purest air on earth.
Poiret knew the joy of mere breathing the sea-air, the finest in the world, which gave the body food and drink and entered the bloodstream making one a beast vigorous and joyful and fatalistic. One mocked every of lives challenges in such air, provided one had shillings in one’s pockets, plenty of shillings and that one was not infatuated by reading those extraordinary books that preached the happiness of all humanity to students.
“Ah,” thought Poiret, “these poor little fellows and poor little women, they have their heads, how do you say, done in by the lectures that they cannot digest! That is all the trouble, the digestion. The digestion, it was needed.”
The police station had a small entrance, which wasn’t guarded, a small lobby and one hall with a couple of swinging doors. A few poor creatures were sitting against the walls on benches in front of a desk, where one police officer was writing down their statements.
“Monsieur Poiret!” repeated the clerk after Poiret gave him his name. “Ah, yes. Please be seated. Delighted! Inspector Watkins will be very happy to receive you, but just at this moment he’s at a meeting.”
“Merci,” said Poiret, who tipped his hat to the honorable functionary, who picked up the receiver of the telephone on his desk and talked for a few seconds.
“Permit me to precede you.”
“These functionaries are admirable,” thought Poiret as he was led through the small hallway.
They entered a room and the policeman asked Poiret to be seated. Inspector Watkins was on his way. Soon after he left, Poiret was looking intently at a portrait of King George, Watkins and an aide appeared. Watkins greeted Poiret heartily. He dismissed his aide with a gesture.
“You see,” said Inspector Watkins, smiling, “Scotland Yard is everywhere.” Closing the door, he drew a chair toward Poiret and sat down. “We can talk here without being disturbed.”
“Monsieur,” said Poiret, “Poiret, he has come to give you the report of his commission and to terminate his connection with the case. All that is left for clearing this obscure affair is to arrest the guilty person, with which Poiret, he has nothing to do. That, it only concerns you, Monsieur.” Watkins nodded. Poiret continued, “Someone, he tried to poison Monsieur Hassocks last night by pouring the arsenic into his sleeping medicine, which Poiret, he brings to you in this small bottle.”
Poiret handed over a small bottle, which Watkins took from him carefully. He left the room and soon came back empty handed.
Poiret continued, “The arsenic, it was secured by washing it from the grapes brought to the house of Monsieur Hassocks by Monsieur le Ministre Bromley. They disappeared without anyone being able to say how.”
“Ah, ah, a family affair, a plot within the family,” murmured Watkins.
“The affair, it has happened within the family, c’est vrai, but the murderer, he came from outside. He does not live in the house.”
“Then how does he get in there?” demanded Watkins.
“By the window. He has often used this way. And that is the way he returns also, Poiret, he is convinced. It is there, where you can arrest him, if you act with the intelligence.”
“How do you know he often comes that way?”
“The height of the window above the little roadway, it makes this clear. To reach it he uses the grappling hook. The marks of the grappling hook that he carries with him and he uses to hoist himself to the window, they are visible on the ironwork of the little balcony outside of the window. The marks, they are of different dates.”
“But that window is closed.”
“Someone, he opens it for him.”
“Who?” asked Watkins, leaning forward.
“Poiret, he has no desire to know.”
“Ah, yes. It’s Kimberley. I was sure that the mansion had its viper. I tell you she doesn’t dare leave her nest because she knows she’s watched. Not one of her movements outside escapes us! She knows it. She’s been warned. The last time she ventured outside alone was to go to the boardwalk. Probably she was meeting one of her confederates. And she turned in her tracks without seeing anyone, because she saw that she was followed. The viper!”
“Monsieur Watkins, Mademoiselle Kimberley, she seems to preoccupy you very much. Poiret, he did not come here to talk about Mademoiselle Kimberley. He came to you to point out to you the route, which it is used by the man, who comes to commit the murder.”
“Ah, yes, but it’s she, who opens the way.”
“Poiret, he cannot deny that.”
“The little devil! Why does she take him into her room at night? Do you think perhaps there is some love-affair?”
“Poiret, he is sure it is the opposite.”
“Me too. Kimberley is not lascivious. Kimberley has no heart. She has only a brain. And it doesn’t take long for a brain touched by the pacifism they teach in schools nowadays to get so it won’t hesitate at anything.”
Watkins thought a minute, while Poiret watched him in silence.
“Have we solely to do with politics?” resumed Watkins. “Everything you tell me inclines me more to the idea of a family affair. You know, don’t you, that on Hassocks’s death Kimberley will be immensely rich?”
“Oui, Poiret, he knows,” replied Poiret, in a voice that sounded remarkable to the ear of the inspector and which made him raise his eyebrows.
“What do you know?”
“Poiret? Rien,” replied the consulting detective, this time in a firmer tone. “Poiret, he will, however, say this to you, he is sure that we are dealing with the politics.”
“What makes you believe it?”
“This.”
And Poiret handed Watkins the message he had received that same morning.
“Oh, oh,” cried Watkins. “You are under watch! Look out.”
“Poiret, he has nothing to fear. He will not bother himself with anything further. Yes, we have the affair of the political activism, but not of the usual kind. The way they are working, it is different from the old method.”
“Where do the tracks you traced lead you?”
“To the little mansion of Monsieur le Docteur Adam Ashby and Monsieur Ian S
pencer.”
Watkins sprang from his chair.
“Good job! Now we have them. I see it all now. Spencer, another cracked brain! And he’s engaged to Kimberley. If he plays the part of political activist, this business will sink his career.”
“The mansion,” said Poiret quietly, “it is also occupied by Monsieur Adam Ashby.”
“He’s a doctor.”
“Poiret, he knows that.”
“I’m sure of a man like that, good family, well-connected.”
“No man, he is ever sure of another man, mon ami.”
“What do you say?”
“You can catch the murderer, mon ami. To do this, your policemen, they have to use the brains. They have to watch the mansion at night, without anyone suspecting this. The brains, oui? They have to blend themselves with the ground, with the trees, with the stones in the roadway.”
“My agents are the best.”
“Non! Your agents, they watched the mansion and the window while the assassin, he climbs in and out the window without the problem.”
Watkins turned red. He rose, opened the door, gave an order and returned to his chair.
“Now,” he said, “go ahead and tell me all the details of the poison and the grapes the secretary brought. I’m listening.”
Poiret told him very briefly and without drawing any deductions all that had passed. He ended his account as a man dressed in police uniform was introduced. It was the same man Poiret had met in Hassocks’s drawing room the first day. Watkins closed the door and sat down. Watkins turned toward the policeman.
“Taylor,” he said, “you are here, because you have not done your duty.”
The man’s eyes shrank, but he recovered himself quickly.
“I say, sir,” said Taylor firmly, “that I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean that you allowed a man to get into the Hassocks mansion by night, when you were on guard. You see that there is no use deceiving us any longer.”
“I’m ready to swear on...”
“Don’t perjure yourself.”
“I still don’t know what you mean, sir.”
“Oh, you understand me,” replied Watkins, who visibly held in an anger that threatened to break forth any moment. “A man got into the house while you were watching it.”
“I never saw anything, maybe one of my men.”
“No, Taylor, if anyone is involved it is the man, who makes the decisions where to put who on guard.”
“After all, mistakes are possible. There were some very dark nights. I went back and forth...” He could see Watkins was having none of it. At last he admitted, “I was paid. What will happen with my pension?”
Watkins had not interrupted the man. He looked at him in silence, sadly.
“You know, my man, you will be dishonorably discharged over this?” he said. “After how many years in the force?”
Watkins waved his hand. The policeman left hesitantly.
“What are you going to do with that man?” demanded Poiret.
“Charges for corruption.”
“And then?”
“Then take him before the judges.”
“Monsieur Watkins, the murderer, he must not know, we know. We must keep the silence.”
Watkins looked at Poiret as he had looked at him during the altercation they had on the beach. He decided the same way this time.
“Very well,” he said. “You have my word.”
“You are the brave man, Monsieur Watkins.”
With that Poiret tipped his hat and was gone.
“This guy,” said the inspector aloud to himself, “hasn’t told me a bit of what he knows.”
“And now it is between the two of us, Mademoiselle Kimberley,” murmured Poiret as soon as he was outside.
He hailed the first cab that drove by and gave the address of the mansion. The closer they came to the mansion the more anxious he became. He could not get the image of Kimberley out of his mind. He asked the driver to stop at the beach. Poiret stepped out and immediately felt the cool air on his face. He held his head between his hands. His face burned, his jaws were set. His eyes became dark for a moment with somber thoughts. Then he shook his head, took a cigarette from his pocket and lighted it. He smoked for a while, looking at the horizon.
“Mademoiselle Kimberley, Poiret, he has done everything so it is not too late for you to remain on the side of innocence. Your brain, it has been tainted, but your conscience, it remains innocent. Poiret, he has prevented the attacks from succeeding so you would not cross the line, which once crossed, it cannot be regained again. He can do no more for you. If you take the leap, Mademoiselle, you will have to bear the consequences alone, dreadful as they may be.”
He dried a tear that had doubtless been caused by the smoke coming from his cigarette, which had gone out. He smiled wistfully.
“When they ask why, smoke it gets in your eye,” he thought.
Slowly and with the help of the cool sea breeze he resumed his calm and stopped sentimentalizing. He began walking along the boulevard again.
A quarter of an hour later he had reached the Hassocks mansion. He beheld a charming picture before him. They were all lunching in the garden. He was surprised, however, at not seeing Kimberley with them. Ian Spencer and Adam Ashby were there. Poiret didn’t wish to be seen. He gave a sign to Carswell, who was walking through the garden and who hurried to meet him at the gate.
“The Lady Hassocks,” said the consulting detective, in a low voice and with his finger to his lips to warn the faithful attendant to caution.
In two minutes Lady Hassocks joined Poiret in the cottage.
“Where is Kimberley, Madame?” he demanded hurriedly.
“She has gone away. I didn’t keep her. I didn’t try to hold her back. Her expression frightened me, though. What is it about?”
“Please to give to Poiret the key to the patio. He must be able to get into the house tonight if it becomes necessary.”
She took a key from her gown, gave it to the detective and said a few words to Carswell to demand of him that he obey Mr. Poiret in anything, day or night.
“Now please to tell to Poiret where Kimberley, she has gone.”
“Ian’s parents came to see us, to inquire after my husband. They have taken Kimberley away with them, as they often have done. Kimberley went with them readily enough, Mr. Poiret, as if she was expecting it.”
“Then she has gone to lunch at their house?”
“Doubtless, unless they have gone to a restaurant. I don’t know. Ian’s father likes to have the family lunch at The Red Lion when the weather is fine. What ails you, Mr. Poiret?”
“Non, everything, it is, how do you say, all right. Madame, what is the address of the family of Ian.”
“It’s the house with the thatched roof, about two hundred yards from St. Mary’s Church. You cannot miss it.”
“Bon,” said Poiret, writing down the address in his notebook. “Merci, Madame. Adieu.”
Poiret began for St. Mary’s Church. There he learned from the vicar that the Spencers and Kimberley Hassocks had gone by car for lunch. Poiret decided to lunch at his hotel. After lunch, he went to the concierge and asked, “Please to give to Poiret the address of Mademoiselle Roxy?”
“Roxy? The singer?”
“Oui, Monsieur.”
“She had lunch here. She has just gone away with the lord.”
Without any curiosity as to which lord, Poiret ostentatiously cursed his luck and again asked for her address.
“Why, she lives in an apartment just across the street.”
Poiret crossed the street. On the landing of the first floor he learned that Mademoiselle Roxy was away for the day. He descended and recalling how someone had told him that in Folkestone, a resort town it was always profitable to be generous, he gave five shilling to the concierge of the hotel and asked him for some information about Miss Roxy’s life in Folkestone.
The concierge whispered, “She arrived a
week ago, but has not spent a single night in her apartment over there.” He pointed to the house Poiret had just left and added, “Merely her address for the police.”
“Oui,” said Poiret. “Je comprends. She sings this evening, does she not?”
“Sir, it will be a wonderful debut.”
“Oui, it will be so. Merci, Monsieur.”
Instead of disheartening him, the things he had encountered that day plunged him into deep thinking. He returned, his hand firmly on his cane, whistling softly, to St. Mary’s Church. He walked around the church, keeping an eye on the house at the corner, investigated the monument, went inside, examined all its details, came out marveling and finally went to the residence of the Spencers, where he was told that they had not yet returned from their luncheon. Then he went and shut himself in his room at the hotel, where he smoked a dozen small, perfumed cigarettes. He emerged from his cloud of smoke at dinner-time.
At ten that evening he stepped out of his cab in front of the Avalon. The establishment was neither a theater nor a music-hall nor a cafe nor a restaurant. It was all of these and some other things besides. Everything was combined there that could amuse, charm, lead to the wildest dreams come true or provide those, who never thought of sleep till toward three or four o’clock of a morning a place to await the dawn with patience. The most celebrated bands of the old and the new world played there amid an enthusiasm that was steadily maintained by the foresight of the managers. They relied on dancers and above all on the singing talents of female performers, so long as they were young, bright and elegantly dressed. These young ladies, not paid well, were sure at least to find every evening some older gentleman and often some young man, who willingly paid a couple hundred shilling for the sole pleasure of having her for his companion at the supper-table. After their turn at singing, the young women displayed their graces and their eager smiles in the walks among the tables where the wine-drinkers sat. The headliners, naturally, were not driven to this wearying walkabout, but could go and rest if they were so inclined. However, the management appreciated it if they accepted the invitation of some luminary of the business world, who sought the honor of hearing from the singer in a private room and with a company of friends not disposed to melancholy, a few love songs. They sang, they lolled, they talked and above all they drank. If sometimes the little feast ended rather roughly, it was the friendly and affectionate wine that was to blame, but usually the nights remained quite innocent.
English Rose (A Jules Poiret Mystery Book 13) Page 9
