The Cask

by Freeman Wills Crofts

  ‘Yes, thank you. If, then, I may wait here for you, I would be glad to do so.’

  ‘Then come into the study. You’ll perhaps find something to read in these book-cases.’

  ‘I thank you, monsieur.’

  The hands of the clock on the study chimney-piece were pointing to half-past eight when M. Boirac re-entered. Sinking into an easy chair, he said:

  ‘Now, monsieur, I am at your service.’

  ‘The matter is a somewhat difficult one for me to approach, monsieur,’ began Lefarge, ‘in case it might seem to you that we had suspicions which we do not really entertain. But, as a man of the world, you will recognise that the position of the husband in unhappy affairs such as this must inevitably be made clear. It is a matter of necessary routine. My chief, M. Chauvet, has therefore placed on me the purely formal, but extremely unpleasant duty of asking you some questions about your own movements since the unhappy event.’

  ‘That’s rather roundabout. Do you mean that you suspect me of murdering my wife?’

  ‘Certainly not, monsieur. It is simply that the movements of everyone in a case like this must be gone into. It is our ordinary routine, and we cannot consult our inclination in carrying it out.’

  ‘Oh, well, go ahead. You must, of course, do your duty.’

  ‘The information my Chief requires is a statement from you of how you passed your time from the night of the dinner-party until the evening of the following Thursday.’

  M. Boirac looked distressed. He paused before replying, and then said in an altered tone:

  ‘I don’t like to think of that time. I passed through a rather terrible experience. I think I was temporarily insane.’

  ‘I still more regret that I must persevere in my question.’

  ‘Oh, I will tell you. The seizure, or whatever it was, is over and I am myself again. What happened to me was this.

  ‘From the Saturday night, or rather Sunday morning, when I learnt that my wife had left me, I was in a kind of dream. My brain felt numb, and I had the curious feeling of existing in some way outside of and apart from myself. I went as usual to my office on Monday, returning home at my ordinary time in the evening. After dinner, in the hope of rousing myself, I unpacked the cask, but even that failed to excite my interest or lighten my depression. On the following morning, Tuesday, I again went to the office at my customary time, but after an hour of effort I found I could no longer concentrate my mind on my work. I felt that at all costs I must be alone so as to relax the strain of pretending nothing had happened. Still like a man in a dream, I left the office and, going down into the street, entered a Metro station. On the wall my eye caught sight of the notice, “Direction Vincennes,” and it occurred to me that the Bois de Vincennes would be the very place for me to go. There I could walk without fear of meeting any of my acquaintances. I accordingly took the train there, and spent the morning pacing the more sequestered paths. The physical exercise helped me, but as I grew tired my mood changed. A great longing for human sympathy took possession of me, and I felt I must confide in some one, or go mad. I thought of my brother Armande, and felt sure I would get the sympathy I wanted from him. He lived not far from Malines, in Belgium, and I determined to go and see him at once. I lunched at a little café at Charenton, and from there telephoned to the office and to my house that I was going to Belgium for a couple of days. I instructed François to pack a handbag of necessaries and leave it immediately at the cloak room at the Gare du Nord, where I should call for it. While sitting at lunch it occurred to me that if I went by the 4.05 p.m. train—the first I could get—I would not arrive at my destination till the middle of the night, so I decided I would wait till the evening train and see my brother the following day. Accordingly, I went for a long walk up the Seine, returning by a local train to the Gare du Lyon. I dined at a café in the Place de la Bastille, and finally went to the Gare du Nord, got my bag, and left by the 11.20 for Brussels. I slept well in the train and breakfasted in one of the cafés off the Place du Nord. About eleven I left for Malines, walking the four miles to my brother’s house for the sake of the exercise. But when I reached it I found it empty, and then I recollected, what had entirely slipped my memory, that my brother had spoken of a business trip to Stockholm, on which he was going to take his wife. I cursed my forgetfulness, but my mind was in such a state I hardly realised my loss of time and money. Walking slowly back to Malines, I considered returning to Paris that evening. Then I thought I had had enough travelling for one day. It was pleasant in the afternoon sun, and I let the time slip away, returning to Brussels about six. I dined at a café in the Boulevard Anspach, and then, thinking I would try and distract my thoughts, decided I would turn in for a couple of hours to a theatre. I telephoned to the Hôtel Maximilian, where I usually stayed, to reserve a room, and then I went to Berlioz’s Les Troyens at the Théâtre de la Monnaie, getting to my hotel about eleven. That night I slept well and next day my brain seemed saner and better. I left Brussels by the 12.50 from the Gare du Midi, arriving at Paris about five. Looking back on that abortive journey is like remembering a nightmare, but I think the solitude and the exercise really helped me.’

  When M. Boirac ceased speaking, there was silence for a few moments, while Lefarge, in just the same painstaking way that Burnley would have adopted, went over in his mind what he had heard. He did not wish to question M. Boirac too closely lest, in the unlikely event of that gentleman proving guilty, he should put him on his guard; but he was anxious to miss no detail of the statement, so that he might as far as possible check it by independent testimony. On the whole, he thought the story reasonable, and, so far, he could see no internal reason for doubting it. He would, therefore, get a few details made clearer and take his leave.

  ‘Thank you, M. Boirac. Might I ask a few supplementary questions? At what time did you leave your office on Tuesday?’

  ‘About nine-thirty.’

  ‘What café did you lunch at in Charenton?’

  ‘I don’t remember. It was in a street about half-way between the station and the steamboat wharf, a rather poor place with an overhanging, half-timbered front.’

  ‘And what time was that?’

  ‘About one-thirty, I think. I am not sure.’

  ‘And from where did you telephone to your house and office?’

  ‘From the same café.’

  ‘About what time?’

  ‘About an hour later, say half-past two.’

  ‘Now, the café in the Place de la Bastille. Which one was it?’

  ‘I am not very certain. I think it was at the corner of the rue St Antoine. At all events it faced up the rue de Lyon.’

  ‘And you were there about what time?’

  ‘Eight-thirty, I should say.’

  ‘Did you get your bag at the Gare du Nord?’

  ‘Yes, it was waiting for me at the left luggage office.’

  ‘Did you have a sleeping berth on the train?’

  ‘No, I travelled in an ordinary first-class compartment.’

  ‘Was there any one else in it?’

  ‘Three other men. I did not know any of them.’

  ‘Now, all that day, Tuesday, did you meet any one who knew you, or who could confirm your statement?’

  ‘Not that I can remember, unless the waiters at the cafés could do so.’

  ‘On the next day, Wednesday, from where did you telephone to the Hôtel Maximilian?’

  ‘From the café where I dined. It was in the Boulevard Anspach, just before it opens into the Place Brouckère. I don’t recall the name.’

  ‘What time was the message sent?’

  ‘Just before dinner, about seven, I should say.’

  The detective stood up and bowed.

  ‘Well, M. Boirac, accept my thanks for your courtesy. That is all I want to know. Good-night, monsieur.’

  The night being fine, Lefarge walked slowly to his home near the Place de la Bastille. As he paced along he thought over the statement he had just lis
tened to. If it was true, it appeared at first sight entirely to clear M. Boirac from suspicion. If he was in Paris on Monday he could not have sent the letter to Dupierre ordering the statue. That was received on Tuesday morning, and must therefore have been posted in London the previous day. If he was at Brussels and Malines, he obviously could not have met the cask in London. The first thing would therefore be to test the statement by independent inquiries. He reviewed it again in detail, taking a mental note of all the points on which confirmation should be obtainable.

  First of all, it should be easy to find out whether he really was in Paris up till Tuesday evening. François and the other servants could tell him this with regard to Sunday, Sunday night, and Monday night, and the office staff at the pump manufactory could testify to Monday and Tuesday morning. The servants could also tell whether he unpacked the statue on Monday evening. There was then the question of the time he left his office on Tuesday; that could easily be ascertained. With regard to the restaurant at Charenton, M. Boirac would be a well-dressed and striking luncher at a place in such a locality, and would therefore undoubtedly have been specially noticed. If he really did lunch there, confirmation should be easily obtainable, particularly as the episode of the telephone would further call attention to the visit. The receipt of these telephone messages should also be easy to substantiate, as well as the leaving of the luggage at the Gare du Nord. Confirmation from the Gare du Nord cloak-room attendant, as well as from the waiters in the restaurant in the Place de la Bastille, could hardly be expected, owing to the larger number of strangers these men served, but both places would be worth trying. Inquiries at Malines might prove Boirac’s visit, and certainly would show whether he had a brother there, as well as whether the house was locked up on the day in question. The staff in the Hôtel Maximilian in Brussels would know whether or not he was there on the Wednesday night, and could tell about the receipt of the telephone message booking the room. Finally, it would be worth finding out if Berlioz’s Les Troyens was really given on that evening at the Théâtre de la Monnaie.

  As Lefarge thought over the matter, he saw that the statement was one which admitted of a good many tests, and he felt that, if it stood those he had enumerated, it might be fully accepted.

  CHAPTER XIX

  THE TESTING OF AN ALIBI

  THE Seine was looking its best on the following morning, as Lefarge boarded an east-bound steamer at the Pont des Artes, behind the Louvre. The day was charming, the air having some of the warmth and colouring of summer, without having lost the clear freshness of spring. As the boat swung out into the current, the detective recalled the last occasion on which he had embarked at this same pier—that on which he and Burnley had gone downstream to Grenelle to call on M. Thévenet at the statuary works. This time the same quest took him in the opposite direction, and they passed round the Ile de la Cité, along the quais, whose walls are topped by the stalls of the book-vendors of the Latin Quarter, past the stately twin towers of Notre Dame, and under the bridge of the Metropolitaine opposite the Gare d’Austerlitz. As they steamed up the broad river the buildings became less and less imposing, till before they had covered the four miles to the suburb of Charenton, where the Marne pours its waters into the Seine, trees and patches of green had begun to appear.

  Landing at Charenton, which was as far as the steamer went, Lefarge strolled up the street in the direction of the station, looking for a restaurant with an overhanging, half-timbered front. He had not to make a long search. The largest and most pretentious café in the street answered the description and, when he saw telephone wires leading to it, he felt it was indeed the one he sought. Entering, he sat down at one of the small marble-topped tables and called for a bock.

  The room was fair-sized, with a bar at one corner, and a small dancing stage facing the door. But for the detective, it was untenanted. An elderly, white-moustached waiter passed back and forward from some room in the rear.

  ‘Pleasant day,’ said Lefarge, when this man came over with his bock. ‘I suppose you don’t get busy till later on?’

  The man admitted it.

  ‘Well, I hear you give a very good lunch, anyway,’ continued the detective. ‘A friend of mine lunched here some days ago and was much pleased. And he’s not so easy to satisfy either.’

  The waiter smiled and bowed.

  ‘We try to do our best, monsieur. It is very gratifying to learn that your friend was satisfied.’

  ‘Did he not tell you so? He generally says what he thinks.’

  ‘I am not sure that I know your friend, monsieur. When was he here?’

  ‘Oh, you’d remember him right enough if you saw him. There he is.’ Lefarge took a photograph of Boirac from his pocket and handed it over.

  ‘But yes, monsieur. Quite well I remember your friend. But,’ he hesitated slightly, ‘he did not strike me as being so much pleased with the lunch as you suggest. I thought indeed he considered the restaurant not quite—’ He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘He was not very well, but he was pleased right enough. It was last Thursday he was here, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Last Thursday, monsieur? No, I think it was earlier. Let me see, I think it was Monday.’

  ‘I made a mistake. It was not Thursday. I remember now it was Tuesday he said. Was it not Tuesday?’

  ‘Perhaps it was, monsieur, I am not certain; though I rather think it was Monday.’

  ‘He telephoned to me that day from Charenton—I think he said from here. Did he telephone from here?’

  ‘Yes, monsieur, he made two calls. See, there is the telephone. We allow all our patrons to use it.’

  ‘An excellent idea. I am sure it is much appreciated. But there was an unfortunate mistake about the message he sent me. It was making an appointment, and he did not turn up. I am afraid I misunderstood what he said. Could you hear the message? Perhaps, if so, you would tell me if he spoke of an appointment on last Tuesday?’

  The waiter, who up to then had been all smiles and amiability, flashed a suspicious little glance at the detective. He continued to smile politely, but Lefarge felt he had closed up like an oyster in his shell, and when he replied: ‘I could not hear, monsieur. I was engaged with the service,’ the other suspected he was lying.

  He determined to try a bluff. Changing his manner and speaking authoritatively, though in a lower tone, he said:

  ‘Now, look here, garçon. I am a detective officer. I want to find out about those telephone messages, and I don’t want to have the trouble of taking you to the Sûreté to interrogate you.’ He took out a five-franc piece. ‘If you can tell me what he said, this will be yours.’

  A look of alarm came into the man’s eyes.

  ‘But, monsieur—’ he began.

  ‘Come now, I am certain you know, and you’ve got to tell. You may as well do it now and get your five francs, as later on at the Sûreté and for nothing. What do you say now? Which is it to be?’

  The waiter remained silent, and it was obvious to Lefarge that he was weighing his course of action. His hesitation convinced the detective that he really did know the messages, and he determined to strike again.

  ‘Perhaps you are doubtful whether I really am from the Sûreté,’ he suggested. ‘Look at that.’

  He displayed his detective’s credentials, and the sight seemed to bring the other to a decision.

  ‘I will tell you, monsieur. He first called up someone that I took to be his valet, and said he was going unexpectedly to Belgium, and that he wanted something left at the Gare du Nord for him—I did not catch what it was. Then he called up some other place and gave the same message, simply that he was going to Belgium for a couple of days. That was all, monsieur.’

  ‘That’s all right, garçon. Here’s your five francs.’

  ‘A good beginning,’ thought the detective, as he left the café and, turning his back on the river, passed on up the street. There could be no doubt that Boirac really had lunched at Charenton as he said. It was true the w
aiter thought he had been there on Monday, whereas Boirac had said Tuesday, but the waiter was not certain, and, in any case, the mistake would be a very easy one to make. Besides, the point could be checked. He could find out from M. Boirac’s chief clerk and butler on what day they received their messages.

  He walked to Charenton Station, and took a train to the Gare du Lyon. Hailing a taxi, he was driven to the end of the rue Championnet, the street in which was situated the pump factory of which M. Boirac was managing director. As he left the motor and began strolling down the footpath, he heard the clocks chiming the half-hour after eleven.

  The pump factory had not a very long frontage on the street, but, glancing in through an open gateway, Lefarge saw that it stretched a long way back. At one side of the gate was a four-storey block of buildings, the door of which bore the legend, ‘Bureau au Deuxième Étage.’ The detective strolled past with his head averted, looking round only to make sure there was no other entrance to the works.

  Some fifty yards or more beyond the factory, on the opposite side of the street, there stood a café. Entering in a leisurely way, Lefarge seated himself at a small marble-topped table in the window, from where he had a good view of the office door and yard gate of the works. Ordering another bock, he drew a newspaper from his pocket and, leaning back in his chair, began to read. He held it carefully at such a level that he could keep an eye over it on the works entrance, while at any moment raising it by a slight and natural movement would screen him from observation from without. So, for a considerable time he sipped his bock and waited.

  Several persons entered and left the works, but it was not till the detective had sat there nearly an hour and had consumed two more bocks, that he saw what he had hoped for. M. Boirac stepped out of the office door and, turning in the opposite direction, walked down the street towards the city. Lefarge waited for five minutes longer, then, slowly folding up his paper and lighting a cigarette, he left the café.

  He strolled a hundred yards farther from the works, then crossed and turning, retraced his steps and passed in through the door from which the managing director had emerged. Handing in his private card, he asked for M. Boirac.