CHAPTER XIV
M. BOIRAC MAKES A STATEMENT
‘MY name and address you know,’ began M. Boirac. ‘In business I am the managing director of the Avrotte Pump Construction Co., whose works are situated off the rue Championnet, not far from the Omnibus Co.’s depot. I am fairly well off, and we lived comfortably, my wife going a good deal into society.
‘On Saturday, the 27th ult., this day fortnight, we had a dinner party at the Avenue de l’Alma. Our principal guest was the Spanish ambassador, at whose house my wife had visited when in Madrid the previous year. Among the others was a M. Léon Felix, an old friend of my wife’s, who lived in London, and was in some business there. The guests arrived and we sat down to dinner, but unfortunately before the meal was concluded a telephone message came for me from the works to say that a serious accident had happened, and requiring my immediate presence. There was nothing for it but to apologise to my guests and go off at once, which I did, though I promised to return at the earliest possible moment.
‘When I reached the works I found that the main bed casting of a new 200-h.p. engine which was being put in during the week-end, had slipped and slewed sideways while being got into place, killing one man and seriously injuring two others. One of the cylinders was fractured, and the whole casting had jammed between the wall and the flywheel pit and could not be got out.
‘As soon as I saw how serious things were, I telephoned home to say I would be very late, and that there would be no chance of my returning in time to see my guests. However, we got on much better than I expected, and it was barely eleven when I turned out of the works. Not seeing a taxi, I walked to the Simplon station of the Metro. My route, as you will understand, involved a change of trains at Châtelet and I accordingly alighted there. I had hardly done so when I was clapped on the back by some one, and turning, found an American acquaintance called Myron H. Burton, with whom I had stayed in the same hotel in New York and with whom I had become friendly. We stood in talk for some time, and then I asked him where he was staying, inviting him to put up at my house instead of returning to his hotel. He declined, saying he was going to Orleans by the 12.35 from the Quai d’Orsay, and asked me to go and see him off and have a drink at the station. I hesitated, but remembering I was not expected at home, I agreed and we set off. The night being mild and pleasant we walked along the quais, but when we reached the Pont Royal it was barely a quarter to twelve. Burton suggested continuing our stroll, which we did, going round the Place de la Concorde and the end of the Champs Élysées. Interested in our talk, we forgot the passage of time, and arrived at the Gare Quai d’Orsay with only a minute to spare for my friend to catch his train and, therefore, to his apparent great chagrin, missing the drinks to which he had wished to treat me. I felt wakeful, and began to walk home, but when I had gone about half-way, rain began to fall. I looked for a taxi, but could not see one, and therefore continued my journey on foot, arriving home about one o’clock.
‘François, the butler, met me in the hall. He seemed uneasy.
‘“I heard the front door bang not ten minutes ago, monsieur,” he said, as I took off my wet coat. “I got up to see if anything was wrong.”
‘“Got up?” I said. “How had you come to go to bed before I returned?’
‘“Madame told me to, monsieur, about half-past eleven. She said you would be very late and that she would be sitting up.”
‘“All right,” I said, “where is Madame?” He hesitated.
‘“I don’t know, monsieur,” he said at length.
‘“Don’t know?” I said. I was growing angry. “Has she gone to bed?”
‘“She has not gone to bed, monsieur,” he answered.
‘I am not, M. le Chef, an imaginative man, but suddenly a feeling of foreboding swept over me. I hurried into the drawing-room and from that to my wife’s small sitting-room. They were both empty. I ran to her bedroom. There was no one there. Then I recollected she had frequently waited for me in my study. I went there to find it also untenanted, and I was just about to withdraw when I saw on my desk a letter which had not been there earlier in the evening. It was addressed to me in my wife’s handwriting, and, with a terrible sinking of the heart, I opened it. Here, M. le Chef, it is.’
It was a short note, written on a sheet of cream-laid note-paper in a woman’s hand and without date or address. It read:
‘I do not ask you to forgive me for what I am doing tonight, Raoul, for I feel it would be quite too much to expect, but I do ask you to believe that the thought of the pain and annoyance it will be bound to give you cuts me to the heart. You have always been just and kind according to your lights, but you know, Raoul, as well as I do, that we have never loved each other. You have loved your business and your art collection, and I have loved—Léon Felix, and now I am going to him. I shall just disappear, and you will never hear of me again. You, I hope, will get your divorce, and be happy with some more worthy woman.
‘Good-bye, Raoul, and do not think worse of me than you can help.
ANNETTE.’
M. Boirac bowed his head while the others read this unhappy note. He seemed overcome with emotion, and there was silence in the Chief’s room for a few seconds. The sun shone gaily in with never a hint of tragedy, lighting up that bent figure in the arm-chair, and bringing into pitiless prominence details that should have been cloaked decently in shadow, from the drops of moisture on the drawn brow to the hands clenched white beneath the edge of the desk. Then, as they waited, he pulled himself together with an effort and continued:
‘I was almost beside myself from the blow, and yet I instinctively felt I must act as if nothing had happened. I steadied myself and called to François, who was still in the hall:
‘“It’s all right, François. I’ve had a note from Madame. She was obliged to go out at a moment’s notice to catch the Swiss train. She had a message that her mother is dying.”
‘He replied in his ordinary tone, but I could see that he did not believe one word. The understanding and the pity in his eyes almost drove me frantic. I spoke again as carelessly as I could:
‘“I wonder had she time to call Suzanne and get properly dressed. You might send her here and then you can get back to bed.”
‘Suzanne was my wife’s maid, and when she came into the study I saw from her startled and embarrassed air that she knew.
‘“Suzanne,” I said, “Madame has had to go to Switzerland suddenly and unexpectedly. She had to rush off to catch the train without proper time for packing, still, I hope she was able to take enough for the journey?”
‘The girl answered at once in a nervous, frightened tone. “I have just been to her room, monsieur. She has taken her fur coat and hat and a pair of walking shoes. The evening shoes she was wearing tonight are there where she changed them. She did not ring for me and I did not hear her go to her room.”
‘I had become somewhat calmer by this time, and I was thinking rapidly while she spoke.
‘“Ah, well,” I answered, “you had better pack some of her things tomorrow so that I can send them after her. She will be staying with her mother, and will no doubt be able to borrow what she wants till her own things arrive.”
‘François was still hanging about the corridor. I sent them both to bed and sat down to try and realise what had taken place.
‘I need hardly trouble you with my thoughts. For some days I was half crazed, then I pulled myself together. Suzanne I sent home, saying I had heard from Madame that she was employing one of her mother’s maids.’
M. Boirac paused.
‘That,’ he said at length, ‘I think is all I have to tell you, M. le Chef. From that awful evening until I saw your advertisement in the Figaro a couple of hours ago, I have not heard a syllable from either my wife or Felix.’
M. Boirac had told his story simply and directly, and his manner seemed to bear the impress of truth. The statement carried conviction to his hearers, who felt their sympathy going out to this man who had
acted so loyally to the wife who had betrayed him. M. Chauvet spoke:
‘Permit me to express to you, M. Boirac, our deep regret for what has happened and particularly for your having had to come here and make this painful statement. Still more we regret that the terrible dénouement should make it almost impossible to keep the matter hushed up. Our search for the murderer has, of course, begun. We shall not detain you any longer, except to ask you to repeat a few names and hours so that we may note them to make your statement complete.’
M. Boirac bowed.
‘I thank you for your courtesy, M. le Chef.’
The Chief continued:
‘There is first of all your address. That we have on your card. Next—I shall put it in question form—What time was dinner?’
‘Quarter to eight.’
‘And what time did the message come for you from your works?’
‘About a quarter to nine.’
‘And you arrived there?’
‘About nine-fifteen, I should think, I did not look. I walked to the Champs Élysées and took a taxi.’
‘You said, I think, that you telephoned home then informing your wife that you could not return until very late?’
‘I believe I did say that, but it is not strictly correct. I went to see the damage immediately on arrival, and was occupied there for some time. I should say I telephoned about ten o’clock.’
‘But you unexpectedly got away about eleven?’
‘That is so.’
‘So that you must have met your friend at Châtelet about twenty past eleven?’
‘About that, I should think.’
‘Now your friend. I should like a note of his name and address.’
‘His name I have already given you, Myron H. Burton. His address I unfortunately cannot, as I do not know it.’
‘His home address, then?’
‘I don’t know that, either. I met him in an hotel in New York. We played billiards together a few times and became friendly enough, but not to the extent of exchanging our family histories.’
‘When was that, M. Boirac?’
‘In the summer of 1908, no, 1909, three years ago.’
‘And the hotel?’
‘The Hudson View, the one that was burnt out last Christmas.’
‘I remember, a terrible business, that. Your friend went by the 12.35 to Orleans. He was staying there I suppose?’
‘No, he was changing there and going on, though where he was going to I do not know. He told me this because I remarked on his choosing such a train—it does not get in until about 4.30—instead of sleeping in Paris and going by an early express that would do the journey in two hours.’
‘Oh, well, it is not of much importance. The only other thing, I think, is the name and address of your wife’s maid.’
M. Boirac shook his head.
‘I’m sorry I can’t give you that either. I only know her as Suzanne. But I dare say François or some of the other servants would know it.’
‘I shall have, with your permission, to send a man to look over the house, and he can make inquiries. I am sure, M. Boirac, we are extremely obliged to you for your information. And now, what about the formal identification of the body? I have no doubt from what you say it is indeed that of your wife, but I fear the law will require a personal identification from you. Would it be convenient for you to run over to London and see it? Interment has not yet, I understand, taken place.’
M. Boirac moved uneasily. The suggestion was clearly most unwelcome to him.
‘I needn’t say I would infinitely prefer not to go. However, if you assure me it is necessary, I can have no choice in the matter.’
‘I am exceedingly sorry, but I fear it is quite necessary. A personal examination is required in evidence of identification. And if I might make a suggestion, I think that the visit should be made as soon as convenient to you.’
The visitor shrugged his shoulders.
‘If I have to go, I may as well do it at once. I will cross tonight and be at Scotland Yard at, say, 11 a.m. tomorrow. It is Scotland Yard, I suppose?’
‘It is, monsieur. Very good. I will telephone to the authorities there to expect you.’
The Chief rose and shook hands, and M. Boirac took his leave. When he had gone, M. Chauvet jumped up and went to the screen.
‘Get half a dozen copies of that statement and the questions and answers typed at once, mademoiselle. You can get a couple of the other girls to help you.’
He turned to the two detectives.
‘Well, gentlemen, we have heard an interesting story, and, whatever we may think of it, our first business will be to check it as far as we can. I think you had better get away immediately to the Avenue de l’Alma and see this François, if possible before Boirac gets back. Go through the house and get anything you can, especially a sample of the wife’s handwriting. Try also and trace the maid. In the meantime, I will set some other inquiries on foot. You might call in about nine tonight to report progress.’
CHAPTER XV
THE HOUSE IN THE AVENUE DE L’ALMA
BURNLEY and Lefarge took the tram along the quais and, dismounting at the Pont Alma, proceeded up the Avenue on foot. The house was a corner one fronting on the Avenue, but with the entrance in the side street. It was set a few feet back from the footpath, and was a Renaissance building of grey rubble masonry, with moulded architraves and enrichments of red sandstone and the usual mansard roof.
The two men mounted the steps leading to the ornate porch. On their right were the windows of a large room which formed the angle between the two streets.
‘You can see into that room rather too clearly for my taste,’ said Burnley. ‘Why, if that’s the drawing-room, as it looks to be by the furniture, every caller can see just who’s visiting there as they come up to the door.’
‘And conversely, I expect,’ returned Lefarge, ‘the hostess can see her visitors coming and be prepared for them.’
The door was opened by an elderly butler of typical appearance, respectability and propriety oozing out of every pore of his sleek face. Lefarge showed his card.
‘I regret M. Boirac is not at home, monsieur,’ said the man politely, ‘but you will probably find him at the works in the rue Championnet.’
‘Thanks,’ returned Lefarge, ‘we have just had an interview with M. Boirac, and it is really you we wish to see.’
The butler ushered them into a small sitting-room at the back of the hall.
‘Yes, messieurs?’ he said.
‘Did you see an advertisement in this morning’s papers for the identification of a lady’s body?’
‘I saw it, monsieur.’
‘I am sorry to say it was that of your mistress.’
François shook his head sadly.
‘I feared as much, monsieur,’ he said in a low tone.
‘M. Boirac saw the advertisement also. He came just now to the Sûreté and identified the remains beyond any doubt. It is a painful case, for I regret to tell you she had been murdered in a rather brutal way, and now we are here with M. Boirac’s approval to make some inquiries.’
The old butler’s face paled.
‘Murdered!’ he repeated in a horrified whisper. ‘It couldn’t be. No one that knew her could do that. Every one, messieurs, loved Madame. She was just an angel of goodness.’
The man spoke with real feeling in his voice and seemed overcome with emotion.
‘Well, messieurs,’ he continued, after a pause, ‘any help I can give you to get your hands on the murderer I’ll give with real delight, and I only hope you’ll succeed soon.’
‘I hope so too, François. We’ll do our best anyway. Now, please, will you answer some questions. You remember M. Boirac being called to the works on Saturday the 27th of March, the evening of the dinner party, at about a quarter to nine. That was about the time, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, monsieur.’
‘He went out at once?’
‘He did, monsieur.�
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‘Then he telephoned at about half-past ten that he could not return until later. Was that about the time?’
‘Rather earlier than that, I should think, monsieur. I don’t remember exactly, but I should think it was very little, if at all, past ten.’
‘About ten, you think? Can you tell me what words he used in that message?’
‘He said the accident was serious, and that he would be very late, and possibly might not get back before the morning.’
‘You told your mistress, I suppose? Did the guests hear you?’
‘No, monsieur, but Madame immediately repeated the message aloud.’
‘What happened then?’
‘Shortly after that, about 11 or 11.15, the guests began to leave.’
‘All of them?’
The butler hesitated.
‘There was one, a M. Felix, who waited after the others. He was differently situated to them, being a friend of the family. The others were merely acquaintances.’
‘And how long did he wait after the others?’
François looked confused and did not immediately reply.
‘Well, I don’t know, monsieur,’ he said slowly. ‘You see, it was this way. I happened to have a rather bad headache that evening, and Madame asked me if I was not well—it was just like her to notice such a thing—and she told me to go to bed and not to sit up for Monsieur. She said M. Felix was waiting to get some books and would let himself out.’
‘So you went to bed?’
‘Yes, monsieur. I thanked her, and went after a little time.’
‘About how long?’
‘Perhaps half an hour.’
‘And had M. Felix gone then?’
‘No, monsieur, not at that time.’
‘And what happened then?’
‘I fell asleep, but woke up suddenly again after about an hour, I felt better and I thought I would see if Monsieur was in and if everything was properly locked up. I got up and went towards the hall, but just as I came to the staircase I heard the front door close. I thought, “That’s Monsieur coming in,” but there was no sound of any one moving in the hall and I went down to see.’
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