The Cask

by Freeman Wills Crofts

  ‘I reached the Boiracs’ house at the appointed hour, but I did not see Annette. As I entered, M. Boirac was passing through the hall, and, seeing me, he invited me into his study to look at an engraving which had been sent him on approval. Naturally, I could not refuse. We went to the study and examined the picture. But there was another object in the study which I also saw and commented on. Standing on the carpet was a large cask, and, Mr Clifford, you will hardly believe me when I tell you it was either the identical cask which was sent me containing poor Annette’s body, or else one so similar as to be indistinguishable!’

  Felix paused to let this significant statement, as he evidently considered it, sink into the lawyer’s mind. But the latter only bowed and said:

  ‘Pray proceed, Mr Felix, with your statement.’

  ‘I was interested in the cask, as it seemed an unusual object to find in a study. I asked Boirac about it, and he explained that he had just purchased a piece of statuary, and that the cask was simply the special kind of packing case in which it had been sent home.’

  ‘Did he describe the statue?’ asked the lawyer, interrupting for the first time.

  ‘No, except to say it was a fine group. He promised to show it to me on my next visit.’

  ‘Did he tell you from whom he had purchased it, or what price he had paid?’

  ‘Neither; the matter was only referred to incidentally as we were leaving the room.’

  ‘Thank you. Pray continue.’

  ‘We then went to the salon, but, as several visitors had already arrived, I could not, at that time, get a private word with Annette.

  ‘The dinner was an important social affair, the Spanish Ambassador being the principal guest. Before it was over M. Boirac was called from the house, owing to an accident having taken place at his works. He apologised for leaving, promising to return speedily, but after a time a telephone message came to say the accident had been more serious than he had supposed, and he would be detained till very late or even all night. The guests began to leave about eleven, but, in obedience to a sign from Annette, I remained till all had gone. Then she told me she had received a letter from Bonchose which had much upset her. She did not mind his having got into difficulties—indeed, she thought a fright would do him good; but she was really troubled lest he might become a confirmed gambler. She wished for my candid opinion of him.

  ‘I told her exactly what I thought; that there wasn’t a bit of real harm in him, but that he had got into a bad set and that his only chance was to break with it. She agreed with me, saying he should not be helped until this breach had actually been made. We then discussed where the money was to come from. She, it appeared, could lay her hands on only £300, and, as she felt M. Boirac would disapprove, she did not wish to ask him for the remainder. She therefore proposed to sell a couple of her jewels—her own private property—and she asked me to undertake the matter for her. But I could not bring myself to agree to this, and I said that if she would advance the £300 she had, I would find the balance. At first she would not hear of it, and we had quite a heated argument. Finally I carried my point, and she went upstairs and brought down the money. I took my leave immediately afterwards, promising to let her know how the matter ended. She was much affected, for she was sincerely attached to him. The next day, Sunday, I returned to London.’

  ‘I think you said, Mr Felix,’ interrupted Clifford, ‘that the last of the guests left at eleven?’

  ‘Yes, about then.’

  ‘And at what time did you yourself leave?’

  ‘About quarter to twelve.’

  ‘Then your conversation lasted about three-quarters of an hour. Now, did any one see you leave?’

  ‘No one except Annette. She came to the door with me.’

  ‘You returned to your hotel, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘At what hour did you reach it?’

  ‘About half-past one, I should say.’

  ‘From Madame’s house to the Hotel Continental is about fifteen minutes’ walk. What, then, did you do in the interval?’

  ‘I felt wakeful, and thought a stroll would be pleasant. I walked across Paris; to the Place de la Bastille by the Rue de Rivoli, and back to the hotel by the Grands Boulevards.’

  ‘Did you meet any one you knew?’

  ‘No, not that I can recall.’

  ‘I am afraid this is important, Mr Felix. Think again. Is there no one that could testify to meeting you on this walk? No waiter or other official, for example?’

  ‘No,’ said Felix, after a pause, ‘I don’t think I spoke to a soul, and I certainly did not enter a café.’

  ‘You say you returned to London next day. Did you meet any one on the journey you knew?’

  ‘Yes, but it will be no help to me. I met Miss Gladys Devine on the Folkestone boat. But she cannot confirm this. As you must know, she died suddenly a week later.’

  ‘Miss Gladys Devine? Not the celebrated Miss Devine, the actress?’

  ‘The same. I have met her at supper parties in Paris.’

  ‘But you must be able to get confirmation of that? So well known a lady would be recognised wherever she went. But perhaps you visited her private cabin?’

  ‘No, I saw her on the boat deck. She was sitting in the shelter of one of the funnels. I joined her for about half an hour.’

  ‘But somebody must have seen you?’

  ‘Possibly, but possibly not. You see, it was horribly rough. Almost every one was sick. People, anyway, weren’t walking about.’

  ‘What about her maids?’

  ‘I did not see them.’

  ‘Now, Mr Felix, what you must think over when I leave you is, first, what evidence can we get confirming your statement of how you spent your time between 11.00 and 1.30 on the Saturday night? and second, who saw you with Miss Devine on the Folkestone boat? In the meantime, please continue your statement.’

  ‘Bonchose met me at Charing Cross. He was keen to know how I had fared. We drove to his rooms, where I told him the whole thing. I said I would hand him the £600 on condition he broke finally with his gambling friends. He assured me the breach had already been effected, and I therefore gave him the money. We then drove to the Savoy and, after a rather early dinner, I left him and went home.’

  ‘At what hour?’

  ‘About 8.30.’

  ‘How did you go?’

  ‘I took a taxi.’

  ‘From where?’

  ‘The Savoy commissionaire called it.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The next thing was I received an astonishing letter,’ and Felix went on to tell the lawyer about the typewritten letter signed ‘Le Gautier,’ his preparations to obtain the cask, his visit to St Katherine’s Docks, his interviews with the clerk, Broughton, and the manager of the dock office, his ruse to get the I. and C.’s notepaper, the forging of the letter to Harkness, the removal of the cask to St Malo, his dining at Dr Martin’s, the midnight interview with Burnley, the disappearance of the cask, its final recovery, its unpacking, and the discovery of its terrible contents. ‘That, Mr Clifford,’ he ended up, ‘is every single thing I know about the affair, good, bad, or indifferent.’

  ‘I congratulate you on the clear way you have made your statement,’ returned the solicitor. ‘Now, excuse me while I think if there is anything further I want to ask you.’

  He slowly turned over the rather voluminous notes he had taken.

  ‘The first point,’ he went on at length, ‘is the question of your intimacy with Madame Boirac. Can you tell me how many times you saw her since her marriage?’

  Felix considered.

  ‘About half a dozen, I should say, or perhaps eight or even nine. Not more than nine certainly.’

  ‘Excepting on the night of the dinner, was her husband present on all these occasions?’

  ‘Not all. At least twice I called in the afternoon and saw her alone.’

  ‘I think I need hardly ask you, but answer me fully all the same.
Were there at any time any tender or confidential passages between you and Madame?’

  ‘Absolutely none. I state most positively that nothing passed between us which Boirac might not have seen or heard.’

  Again Clifford paused in thought.

  ‘I want you now to tell me, and with the utmost detail, exactly how you spent the time between your leaving Bonchose after dinner on the Sunday night of your return from Paris, and your meeting the cask at St Katherine’s Docks on the following Monday week.’

  ‘I can do so easily. After leaving Bonchose I drove out to St Malo, as I told you, arriving about 9.30. My housekeeper was on holidays, so I went straight over to Brent village and arranged with a charwoman to come in the mornings and make my breakfast. This woman had acted in a similar capacity before. I myself was taking a week’s holidays, and each day I passed in the same manner. I got up about half-past seven, had breakfast, and went to my studio to paint. The charwoman went home after breakfast, and I got my own lunch. Then I painted again in the afternoon, and in the evening went into town for dinner and usually, but not always, a theatre. I generally got back between eleven and twelve. On Saturday, instead of painting all day, I went into town and arranged about meeting the cask.’

  ‘Then at ten o’clock on Wednesday you were painting in your studio?’

  ‘That is so, but why that day and hour?’

  ‘I will tell you later. Now, can you prove that? Did any one call in the studio, or see you there?’

  ‘No one, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What about the charwoman? What is her name, by the way?’

  ‘Mrs Bridget Murphy. No, I don’t think she could tell where I was. You see, I practically did not see her at all. My breakfast was ready when I came down, and when I had finished I went direct to the studio. I don’t know when she went home, but I should think it was fairly early.’

  ‘What time did you breakfast?’

  ‘Eight nominally, but I wasn’t always very punctual.’

  ‘Do you remember, and have you any way of proving, what time you had breakfast on this particular Wednesday?’

  Felix thought over the question.

  ‘No,’ he answered, ‘I don’t think so. There was nothing to distinguish that morning from the others.’

  ‘The point is important. Perhaps Mrs Murphy would remember?’

  ‘Possibly, but I hardly think so.’

  ‘No one else could prove it? Were there no callers? No tradesmen’s messengers?’

  ‘None. One or two people rang, but I didn’t bother. I was expecting no one, and I just let them ring.’

  ‘An unfortunate omission. Now, tell me, where did you dine in town and spend the evenings?’

  ‘I’m afraid a different restaurant each night, and naturally a different theatre.’

  By dint of further questions Clifford obtained a list of all the places his client had visited during the week, his intention being to go round them in turn in search of material to build up an alibi. He was very disappointed with all he had heard, and the difficulties of his task seemed to be growing. He continued his examination.

  ‘Now, this typewritten letter, signed Le Gautier. Did you believe it was genuine?’

  ‘I did. I thought the whole thing absurd and annoying, but I did not doubt it. You see, I had actually entered for the lottery with Le Gautier, and fifty thousand francs was the sum we would have made, had we been lucky. I did think at first it was a practical joke on Le Gautier’s part, but he is not that kind of man, and I at last concluded it was genuine.’

  ‘Did you write or wire to Le Gautier?’

  ‘No. I got the letter late one evening on my return home. It was too late to do anything then, but I intended to wire next morning that I would go over, and not to send the cask. But next morning’s post brought a card, also typewritten, and signed “Le Gautier,” saying the cask had actually been despatched. I forgot to mention that in my statement.’

  Clifford nodded and again referred to his notes.

  ‘Did you write a letter to Messrs Dupierre of Paris, ordering a statue to be sent to you, to the West Jubb Street address?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you recollect the blotter on your study desk at St Malo?’

  ‘Why, yes,’ returned Felix, with a look of surprise.

  ‘Did you ever let that blotter out of your possession?

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’

  ‘Did you ever take it to France?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Then how, Mr Felix,’ asked the lawyer slowly, ‘how do you account for the fact that the blotted impression of such a letter, in your handwriting, was found on the blotter?’

  Felix sprang to his feet.

  ‘What?’ he cried. ‘What’s that you say? A letter in my handwriting? I don’t believe it! It’s impossible!’

  ‘I have seen it.’

  ‘You have seen it?’ The speaker moved excitedly about the cell, gesticulating freely. ‘Really, Mr Clifford, this is too much. I tell you I wrote no such letter. You are making a mistake.’

  ‘I assure you, Mr Felix, I am making no mistake. I saw not only the impression on your pad, but also the original letter itself, which had been received by Messrs Dupierre.’

  Felix sat down and passed his hand across his brow, as if dazed.

  ‘I cannot understand it. You can’t have seen a letter from me, because no such exists. What you saw must have been a forgery.’

  ‘But the impression on the blotter?’

  ‘Good Heavens, how do I know? I tell you I know nothing about it. See here,’ he added, with a change of tone, ‘there’s some trick in it. When you say you’ve seen these things I’m bound to believe you. But there’s a trick. There must be.’

  ‘Then,’ said Clifford, ‘if so, and I’m inclined to agree with you, who carried out the trick? Someone must have had access to your study, either to write the letter there, or to abstract your blotter or a page of it which could afterwards be replaced. Who could that have been?’

  ‘I don’t know. Nobody—or anybody. I can think of no one who would do such a thing. When was the letter written?’

  ‘It was received by Dupierre on Tuesday morning, 30th March. It bore a London postmark, therefore it must have been posted on Sunday night or Monday. That would be either the day or the day after you returned to London, after the dinner.’

  ‘Any one could have got into the house while I was away. If what you say is true, someone must have, but I saw no traces.’

  ‘Now, Mr Felix, who is Emmie?’

  Felix stared.

  ‘Emmie?’ he said. ‘I don’t understand. Emmie what?’

  Clifford watched the other keenly as he replied:

  ‘Your heartbroken Emmie.’

  ‘My dear Mr Clifford, I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about. “Your heartbroken Emmie?” What under the sun do you mean?’

  ‘It should be clear enough, Mr Felix. Who was the girl that wrote to you recently imploring you not to desert her, and who signed herself, “ Your heartbroken Emmie”?’

  Felix gazed at his visitor in amazement.

  ‘Either you’re mad or I’m mad,’ he said slowly. ‘I have had no letter from any girl asking me not to desert her, and I have had no letter on any subject from anyone signing herself Emmie. Really, I think you might explain yourself.’

  ‘Now tell me something else, Mr Felix. You possess, I understand, two navy-blue suits?’

  The astonishment on the artist’s face did not lessen as he assented.

  ‘I want to know now when you last wore each of those suits.’

  ‘As it happens, I can tell you. One of them I wore on my Paris trip and again on the following Saturday when I went to town to arrange about the cask, as well as on the Monday and following days till I went to hospital. I am wearing it today. The other blue suit is an old one, and I have not had it on for months.’

  ‘I’ll tell you now why I ask. In the coat pocket of one of your
blue suits, evidently, from what you tell me, the old one, was found a letter beginning, “My dearest Léon,” and ending, “Your heartbroken Emmie,” and in it the writer said—but here, I have a copy of it, and you may read it.’

  The artist looked over the paper as if in a dream. Then he turned to the other.

  ‘I can assure you, Mr Clifford,’ he said earnestly, ‘that I am as much in the dark as you about this. It is not my letter. I never saw it before. I never heard of Emmie. The whole thing is an invention. How it got into my pocket I cannot explain, but I tell you positively I am absolutely ignorant of the whole thing.’

  Clifford nodded.

  ‘Very good. Now there is only one other thing I want to ask you. Do you know the round-backed, leather-covered arm-chair which stood before the plush curtain in your study?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Think carefully, and tell me who was the last lady to occupy it.’

  ‘That doesn’t require much thought. No lady has ever sat in it since I bought it. Very few ladies have been in St Malo since I took it, and these without exception were interested in art and were in the studio only.’

  ‘Now, don’t be annoyed, Mr Felix, when I ask you once more, did Madame Boirac ever sit in that chair?’

  ‘I give you my solemn word of honour she never did. She was never in the house, and I believe I am right in saying she was never in London.’

  The lawyer nodded.

  ‘Now I have another unpleasant thing to tell you. Caught in the hem of that curtain and hidden by the chair, a pin was found—a diamond safety pin. That pin, Mr Felix, was attached to the shoulder of Madame Boirac’s dress on the night of the dinner party.’

  Felix, unable to speak, sat staring helplessly at the lawyer. His face had gone white, and an expression of horror dawned in his eyes. There was silence in the dull, cheerless cell, whose walls had heard so many tales of misery and suffering. Clifford, watching his client keenly, felt the doubts which had been partly lulled to rest, again rising. Was the man acting? If so, he was doing it extraordinarily well, but … At last Felix moved.

  ‘My God!’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘It’s a nightmare! I feel helpless. I am in a net, and it is drawing close round me. What does it mean, Mr Clifford? Who has done this thing? I didn’t know any one hated me, but some one must.’ He made a gesture of despair. ‘I’m done for. What can help me after that? Can you see any hope, Mr Clifford? Tell me.’