The Cask

by Freeman Wills Crofts

  He picked it up.

  ‘That’s rather a fine thing even for a natty boy like Felix,’ he said as he showed it to Kelvin. And then he stood quite still as it flashed across his mind that here, perhaps, was another link in the chain that was being forged about Felix—a link possibly even more important than any of the foregoing. What if it did not belong to Felix at all? It looked too dainty and delicate for a man’s use. What if it was a lady’s? And, most important question of all, what if that lady was Mme. Boirac? If this proved true, his case was complete.

  Dropping into the arm-chair he had occupied on the occasion of his midnight interview with Felix, he considered the possibilities opened up by this new discovery, endeavouring to evolve some theory of how a pin or brooch belonging to the deceased lady could have been dropped where he found this one. As he did so, a picture of what might have happened gradually grew in his mind. Firstly, he thought it likely that a lady in evening dress would wear such a pin, and it might easily be at her neck or shoulder. And if she had sat in that chair with her back to the curtain, and any one had caught her by the throat and forced her head backwards, what could be more likely than that the pin should be pulled out in the struggle? And if it were pulled out it almost certainly would drop where or whereabouts he found it.

  The Inspector recognised again that this was all surmise, but it was strengthened by the fact that the pin was undoubtedly bent as if it had been pulled out of something without being unhooked. The more he thought over it the more likely his idea seemed. At all events it would be easy to test it. Two points suggested themselves to his mind which would settle it conclusively. First, if the pin was Madame’s, the maid Suzanne would recognise it. The arrangement of the diamonds made it quite distinctive. The girl would also know if Madame wore it on the night of the dinner-party. Secondly, if it was pulled out of Madame’s dress, the latter would probably be torn or at least marked. Both these points could easily be ascertained, and he decided he would write to Paris about them that night.

  He put the brooch into a pocket case, and, getting up, resumed his search of the study. For a time he pursued his labours without result, and then he made another discovery which struck him as being of even greater importance than that of the pin. He had completed his examination of the furniture, and now, for over an hour, had been seated at Felix’s desk going through drawer after drawer, reading old letters and examining the watermarks of papers and the alignment of typewritten documents. Felix evidently had some of the defects of the artistic temperament, for his papers were jumbled together without any attempt at filing or classification—accounts, receipts, invitations, engagements, business letters—all were thrust higgledy-piggledy into the first drawer that came handy. But Burnley had methodically gone through every one without finding anything of interest. None of the papers had the watermark of that ordering the statue from Dupierre, none of the typewriting had the defective letters of that ostensibly from Le Gautier to Felix. The Inspector had just reflected that he had only to go through the half-dozen shelves of books and his work would be done, when he made his third find.

  On the desk lay a number of sheets of blotting paper folded pamphlet-wise, it being evidently Felix’s custom to blot his wet papers between two of the leaves. Following his usual routine, the Inspector fetched a mirror from the bathroom, and with its aid examined the sheets from each edge in turn. At the fourth of these sheets he stopped suddenly with a little gesture of triumph, for there, clearly revealed in the mirror, were some words he had seen before:

  .s .. .s th..… s. c. .. … l … .. t … … ..

  .le … fo.wa.. .. med.… ly to .. e .. ove .dd.ess.

  I do ..t kn. w th. e.a.t pric., but .. der. t.. d .t is about 1500 francs. I therefore enclose notes for that

  It was the bottom of the first page of the letter ordering the statue from Dupierre! Here was certainty: here, at last, proofs of the most complete kind! Felix had ordered the statue and like a fool had blotted his letter and omitted to destroy the blotsheet!

  The Inspector chuckled with content at his find. Felix had ordered the statue. That was now certain. And if he had done so he was responsible for its first journey, and therefore undoubtedly for its second and third. In fact, it was now evident he had arranged all the movements of the cask, and, if so, he must unquestionably have put in the body, and if he put in the body he must be the murderer.

  Then there was the further point about the paper. The paper on which this letter had been written was the same as that on which the letter about the lottery and the bet was typed. Felix had stated he had received this letter by post, but at the discussion in M. Chauvet’s office the probability that he himself was the author had been recognised. This probability was now strengthened by finding he had had in his possession the peculiar French paper which had been used.

  Truly these three discoveries, the letter signed ‘Your heartbroken Emmie,’ the bent brooch on the curtain, and the tell-tale impression on the blotting paper seemed to the Inspector entirely to settle the question of Felix’s guilt.

  On the other hand he had failed to find any trace of the unpacking of the cask, and his search had been so thorough that he almost felt impelled to the conclusion that it had not been there at all. And then a possible explanation struck him. Suppose Felix had got a cart and brought the cask to St Malo intending to remove it again the following morning. Where would he put it for the night? It was too heavy to move by himself, and he would not want to have a helper. What then would he do? Why, leave it on the cart, of course! His obvious plan would be to stable the horse and open the cask where it stood—on the cart. And if he dropped some sawdust in the process, the wind would see to that. There would be none left now.

  He felt sure he was on the right track, and then he had a further idea. If a horse was stabled at the villa all night, some traces should surely be visible. He went to the yard again and began a new quest. But this time he had no luck. He was forced to conclude no horse had been kept.

  The possibility that the carter might have left his vehicle and taken the horse away with him for the night next occurred to him, but he thought that unlikely, and left the question undecided in the meantime.

  On his return to Scotland Yard, the Chief heard his story with close attention, and was much impressed by his discoveries. He gave his views at some length, ending up:

  ‘We shall send the pin over to Paris and see if that girl identifies it. Indeed, whether or not, I think we have a sufficient case against Felix to go into court. By the way, I don’t think I told you I sent a man to his firm, the poster people, and found that he was absent on holidays during the week the cask was travelling backwards and forwards to Paris. This, of course, is not evidence against him, but it works in with our theory.’

  Two days later a wire came from M. Chauvet:

  ‘Suzanne Daudet identifies pin as Madame’s property.’

  ‘That settles it,’ said the Chief, and a warrant was made out for Felix’s arrest, so soon as he should be well enough to leave the hospital.

  PART III

  LONDON AND PARIS

  CHAPTER XXI

  A NEW POINT OF VIEW

  OF the millions who unfolded their papers a few mornings after the events described in the last chapter, there were few but felt a thrill of excitement as their eyes fell on the headlines, ‘The Cask Mystery. Arrest of Léon Felix.’ Though by no means all the facts discovered by the police had become public, enough had leaked out to arouse a keen and general interest. The tragic circumstances of the case, no less than the baffling mystery in which it was shrouded, intrigued the popular imagination and, though the police were early credited with having the usual clue and the customary arrest was stated to be imminent, none outside the official ranks had any real idea in what direction suspicion was tending.

  But to none of those millions did the news come with such a sense of personal shock and affront as to our old acquaintance, Dr William Martin, of The Elms, near Brent villa
ge, on the Great North Road. Dr Martin, it will be remembered, was the man who, on the night on which Constable Walker watched from behind his tree, called at St Malo and insisted on Felix accompanying him home to play bridge. The two men were close friends. Many an afternoon they had spent together on the banks of a neighbouring trout stream, many an evening had slipped rapidly away round the doctor’s billiard table. And with Martin’s family also Felix was a favourite. No member of it but was pleased to welcome the Frenchman to the house, or but had some special confidence to share with him.

  At first Dr Martin could hardly believe his eyes as they rested on the fatal headlines. That Felix, his friend, his trusted companion, should be arrested! And for murder! The thought was so incredible, so utterly horrible, he could not take it in. But, unlike the nightmare to which he compared it, the idea had permanence. Though his thoughts might wander, it was always there, grim and terribly definite, for them to return to.

  He began to think over his friend’s circumstances. Felix had always been reticent about his life, but to the doctor he had seemed a lonely man. He lived alone, and Martin had never known him to have visitors staying in the house. Nor could the doctor recall the Frenchman’s ever having spoken of relatives. ‘Who,’ he wondered, ‘will help him now?’

  But with so kindly and warm-hearted a man as Dr Martin, such a question could not long remain unanswered. ‘I must go and see him,’ he thought. ‘I must find out who is going to act for him. If he has no one, then I must do the best I can myself.’

  But a practical difficulty arose. How were orders to visit prisoners obtained? The doctor did not know. For a man of his age and standing he was singularly ignorant of legal matters. But when such came his way he invariably adopted the same simple expedient. He ‘saw Clifford.’ This difficulty he would meet in the same way. He would ‘see Clifford.’

  ‘Clifford’—otherwise John Wakefield Clifford, senior partner of Messrs Clifford and Lewisham, Solicitors, Grey’s Inn—was Martin’s man of business, friend, and crony. The chance that they took the same weekly half-holiday had thrown them together on the links, and they had followed up the acquaintanceship by occasional visits at each other’s houses. Mr Clifford was an almost startling contrast to the breezy doctor. Small, elderly, and rather wizened, with white hair and moustache, and dressed always with meticulous care, he seemed the embodiment of conventional propriety. His manner was precise and dry, but the fortunate gift of a sense of humour saved him from becoming dull.

  He was a fine lawyer. His admirers, who were many, held that an opinion from him was as good as Counsel’s any day, and knew that, beneath the keenness which made him so formidable an opponent, there lay a deep vein of very real human kindness.

  A press of unavoidable business kept Martin at work till the afternoon, but three o’clock saw him ascending the stairs of Messrs Clifford and Lewisham’s office.

  ‘How are you, Martin?’ the senior partner greeted him. ‘I am glad to see you. This is an unexpected pleasure.’

  ‘Thanks, old chap,’ returned the doctor, accepting the cigarette the other offered, and sinking back into a deep, leather-lined arm-chair. ‘But I’m afraid there won’t be much pleasure about my visit. It’s business, and nasty business at that. Have you a few minutes to spare?’

  The little man bowed gravely.

  ‘Certainly,’ he said, ‘I am at your service.’

  ‘It’s about that neighbour of mine, Léon Felix,’ went on the doctor, plunging without further preamble into his subject. ‘You saw he was arrested last night on a charge of murdering the woman whose body was found in the cask? You know about it?’

  ‘I read the account in this morning’s paper. And so Felix was a neighbour of yours?’

  ‘Yes, and a close friend. He was in and out of the house like one of the family.’

  ‘Indeed? I am sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Yes. I thought a good deal of him and I’m naturally upset. We all are, as a matter of fact. I wanted your advice as to what could be done for him.’

  ‘You mean with regard to his defence?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you seen him since his arrest?’

  ‘No. That’s one of the things I wanted to ask you about. I am not quite sure how you get an order.’

  ‘That can be obtained where a sufficient reason for its application can be shown. I understand, then, that you are unaware of his own plans for his defence?’

  ‘Yes. My idea was to see him and talk the thing over, and, unless he has made some other arrangement, to ask you to undertake it.’

  The lawyer nodded slowly. Martin’s suggestion was eminently satisfactory to him. Apart from the mere money involved, this case, from its unusual and dramatic nature, promised to be at least one of the most famous of the year. He decided that if it came his way he would attend to it personally, and see that no stone was left unturned to secure an acquittal.

  ‘If you put the case in our hands,’ he replied at length, ‘quite apart from our personal friendship, you may depend on our doing our utmost for your friend. But I am afraid it will be an expensive business. We shall have to retain counsel, perhaps two or even three men, and their fees are not negligible. Then, as you can imagine’—Mr Clifford gave a wintry little smile—‘we also have to live, or at all events we think so. There will unquestionably be expense in hunting up witnesses, a private detective may have to be employed, in short, the defence of a big case means heavy outlay. Now, can your friend meet this? What are his circumstances financially?’

  ‘I think he is all right,’ answered Martin, ‘but, in any case, the money will be my affair. Felix may pay what he can. I shall be responsible for the rest.’

  Clifford looked at the speaker keenly.

  ‘Very handsome of you, Martin, I’m sure.’ He hesitated a moment as if about to continue the subject, then, with a change of manner, he went on:

  ‘I think, in that case, you should see Felix and ascertain his plans. If you can spare the time now, I shall go with you to Bow Street and try and procure for you an immediate visiting order. If, after your conversation, you find you require our assistance, we shall be very pleased to take up the case; if not, you are perfectly free to go elsewhere. Is that agreed?’

  ‘Thank you, Clifford. That’s all right. Nothing could be better.’

  After introducing his prospective client to the authorities at the famous police station, the lawyer excused himself on the ground of another engagement, while Martin sat down to await the order. The formalities took some time, and it was not till nearly five that the door of Felix’s cell opened to admit his friend.

  ‘Martin!’ cried the unhappy inmate, springing up and seizing his visitor’s hand in both his own. ‘But this is good of you! I hardly dared to expect you.’

  ‘Couldn’t see a pal in a hole without butting in,’ answered the doctor gruffly, somewhat affected by the warmth of the other’s welcome. ‘You’re a nice one, getting yourself into such a mess, eh? What have you been up to that’s raised this dust?’

  Felix passed his hand wearily over his forehead.

  ‘My God, Martin,’ he groaned, ‘I don’t know. I’m absolutely at sea. I know no more about the wretched business than you do. The proceedings today were purely formal, so that the evidence against me—whatever it can be—did not come out. I can’t conceive what they have got hold of, that has made them suspect me.’

  ‘I’ve heard nothing about the case at all. I just came along to see you when I saw what had happened.’

  ‘Martin, I can never thank you! I can never repay you! I thought of writing to you today to ask your help, and I should probably have done it tomorrow. But you can’t think what it means to me, your coming without being asked. It means, for one thing, that you don’t believe this abominable charge? Doesn’t it?’

  ‘Well, naturally. You keep your heart up and don’t get flustered. You’ve got some friends left still. All the family are upset about the thing. The mater’s shocke
d, and so are the boys. They all say for you to cheer up, and that the mistake is sure to be put right soon.’

  ‘God bless them for that,’ cried Felix, rising and pacing the cell in evident emotion. ‘Tell them—how much I appreciate—what all their thought means to me.’

  ‘Rot!’ said the doctor shortly. ‘What would you expect? But now, I have only a minute or two here, and what I want to ask you is this, what plans have you made for your defence?’

  ‘Defence? None, I fear. I just haven’t been able to think about it. I haven’t an idea who to turn to, or what to do. What would you advise?’

  ‘Clifford.’

  ‘Eh? What? I don’t follow.’

  ‘Employ Clifford, of Clifford and Lewisham. He’s a dry stick, but as clever as they’re made, and a good sort. He’s your man.’

  ‘I don’t know him. Do you think he would take up the case?’

  ‘Sure. Fact is, I went round to ask him how I could get an order to see you—I know him pretty well—and I pumped him. The firm would take it on if they were asked, but that means himself, and you couldn’t have a better man.’

  ‘Martin, you put new life into me! God bless you for all you’re doing! Will you arrange it with him? But, wait a minute, can I afford it? Are his fees very high?’

  ‘What can you afford?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Say a thousand pounds.’

  ‘More than enough. I shall arrange it with him at once.’

  The friends conversed for some minutes, and then a warder opened the door of the cell. Martin’s time was up. He left Felix cheered by the promise of a further visit, and with tears of thankfulness glistening in his eyes.

  Determined to lose no time in completing his work, Martin returned direct to the offices of Messrs Clifford and Lewisham. But there the day’s work was over, and all but one or two junior clerks had already left. The doctor therefore made an appointment for the next day and, with a glow of righteous self-satisfaction, went home to tell his family what he had done.