The place was about half full. As La Touche’s quick eye took in the scene, he noticed the typist seated alone at a table three or four from the stage. He walked forward.
‘If mademoiselle permits?’ he murmured, bowing, but hardly looking at her, as he pulled out a chair nearly opposite her and sat down.
He gave his order and then, business being as it were off his mind, he relaxed so far as to look around. He glanced at the girl, seemed suddenly to recognise her, gave a mild start of surprise and leant forward with another bow.
‘Mademoiselle will perhaps pardon if I presume,’ he said, in his best manner, ‘but I think we have met before or, if not quite, almost.’
The girl raised her eyebrows but did not speak.
‘In the office of M. Boirac,’ went on the detective. ‘You would not, of course, notice, but I saw you there busy with a fine typewriter.’
Mademoiselle was not encouraging. She shrugged her shoulders, but made no reply. La Touche had another shot.
‘I am perhaps impertinent in addressing mademoiselle, but I assure her no impertinence is meant. I am the inventor of a new device for typewriters, and I try to get opinion of every expert operator I can find on its utility. Perhaps mademoiselle would permit me to describe it and ask hers?’
‘Why don’t you take it to some of the agents?’ She spoke frigidly.
‘Because, mademoiselle,’ answered La Touche, warming to his subject, ‘I am not quite certain if the device would be sufficiently valuable. It would be costly to attach and no firm would buy unless it could be shown that operators wanted it. That is what I am so anxious to learn.’
She was listening, though not very graciously. La Touche did not wait for a reply, but began sketching on the back of the menu.
‘Here,’ he said, ‘is my idea,’ and he proceeded to draw and describe the latest form of tabulator with which he was acquainted. The girl looked at him with scorn and suspicion.
‘You’re describing the Remington tabulator,’ she said coldly.
‘Oh, but, pardon me, mademoiselle. You surely don’t mean that? I have been told this is quite new.’
‘You have been told wrongly. I ought to know, for I have been using one the very same, as what you say is yours, for several weeks.’
‘You don’t say so, mademoiselle? That means that I have been forestalled and all my work has been wasted.’
La Touche’s disappointment was so obvious that the girl thawed slightly.
‘You’d better call at the Remington depot and ask to see one of their new machines. Then you can compare their tabulator with yours.’
‘Thank you, mademoiselle, I’ll do so tomorrow. Then you use a Remington?’
‘Yes, a No. 10.’
‘Is that an old machine? Pardon my questions, but have you had it long?’
‘I can’t tell you how long it has been at the office. I am only there myself six or seven weeks.’
Six or seven weeks! And the murder took place just over six weeks before! Could there be a connection, or was this mere coincidence?
‘It must be a satisfaction to a man of business,’ La Touche went on conversationally, as he helped himself to wine, ‘when his business grows to the extent of requiring an additional typist. I envy M. Boirac his feelings when he inserted his advertisement nearly as much as I envy him when you applied.’
‘You have wasted your envy then,’ returned the girl in chilly and contemptuous tones, ‘for you are wrong on both points. M. Boirac’s business has not extended, for I replaced a girl who had just left, and no advertisement was inserted as I went to M. Boirac from the Michelin School in the rue Scribe.’
La Touche had got his information; at least, all he had expected from this girl. He continued the somewhat one-sided conversation for some minutes, and then with a courteous bow left the restaurant. He reached his hotel determined to follow the matter up.
Accordingly, next morning saw him repeating his tactics of the previous evening. Taking up his position in the restaurant near the Pump Works shortly before midday, he watched the staff go for dejeuner. First came M. Boirac, then M. Dufresne, and then a crowd of lesser lights—clerks and typists. He saw his friend of the night before with the same two companions, closely followed by the prompt clerk. At last the stream ceased, and in about ten minutes the detective crossed the road and once more entered the office. It was empty except for a junior clerk.
‘Good-morning,’ said La Touche affably. ‘I called to ask whether you would be so good as to do me a favour. I want a piece of information for which, as it may give you some trouble to procure, I will pay twenty francs. Will you help me?’
‘What is the information, monsieur?’ asked the boy—he was little more than a boy.
‘I am manager of a paper works and I am looking for a typist for my office. I am told that a young lady typist left here about six weeks ago?’
‘That is true, monsieur; Mlle Lambert.’
‘Yes, that is the lady’s name,’ returned La Touche, making a mental note of it.
‘Now,’ he continued confidentially, ‘can you tell me why she left?’
‘I think she was dismissed, monsieur, but I never really understood why.’
‘Dismissed?’
‘Yes, monsieur. She had some row with M. Boirac, our managing director. I don’t know—none of us know—what it was about.’
‘I had heard she was dismissed, and that is why I was interested in her. Unfortunately my business is not for the moment as flourishing as I should wish. It occurred to me that if I could find a typist who had some blot on her record, she might be willing to come to me for a smaller salary than she would otherwise expect. It would benefit her as well as me, as it would enable her to regain her position.’
The clerk bowed without comment, and La Touche continued:
‘The information I want is this. Can you put me in touch with this young lady? Do you know her address?’
The other shook his head.
‘I fear not, monsieur. I don’t know where she lives.’
La Touche affected to consider.
‘Now, how am I to get hold of her?’ he said. The clerk making no suggestion, he went on after a pause:
‘I think if you could tell me just when she left it might help me. Could you do that?’
‘About six weeks ago. I can tell you the exact day by looking up the old wages sheets if you don’t mind waiting. Will you take a seat?’
La Touche thanked him and sat down, trusting the search would be concluded before any of the other clerks returned. But he was not delayed long. In three or four minutes the boy returned.
‘She left on Monday, the 5th of April, monsieur.’
‘And was she long with you?’
‘About two years, monsieur.’
‘I am greatly obliged. And her Christian name was?’
‘Eloise, monsieur. Eloise Lambert.’
‘A thousand thanks. And now I have just to beg of you not to mention my visit, as it would injure me if it got out that my business was not too flourishing. Here is my debt to you.’ He handed over the twenty francs.
‘It is too much, monsieur. I am glad to oblige you without payment.’
‘A bargain is a bargain,’ insisted the detective, and, followed by the profuse thanks of the young clerk, he left the office.
‘This grows interesting,’ thought La Touche, as he once more emerged into the street. ‘Boirac dismisses a typist on the very day the cask reaches St Katherine’s Docks. Now, I wonder if that new typewriter made its appearance at the same time. I must get hold of that girl Lambert.’
But how was this to be done? No doubt there would be a record of her address somewhere in the office, but he was anxious that no idea of his suspicions should leak out, and he preferred to leave that source untapped. What, then, was left to him? He could see nothing for it but an advertisement.
Accordingly, he turned into a café and, calling for a bock, drafted out the following:
/> ‘If Mlle Eloise Lambert, stenographer and typist, will apply to M. Georges La Touche, Hôtel Suisse, rue de La Fayette, she will hear something to her advantage.’
He read over the words and then a thought struck him, and he took another sheet of paper and wrote:
‘If Mlle Eloise Lambert, stenographer and typist, will apply to M. Guillaume Faneuil, Hôtel St Antoine, she will hear something to her advantage.’
‘If Boirac should see the thing, there’s no use in my shoving into the limelight,’ he said to himself. ‘I’ll drop Georges La Touche for a day or two and try the St Antoine.’
He sent his advertisement to several papers, then, going to the Hôtel St Antoine, engaged a room in the name of M. Guillaume Faneuil.
‘I shall not require it till tomorrow,’ he said to the clerk, and next day he moved in.
During the morning there was a knock at the door of his private sitting-room, and a tall, graceful girl of about five-and-twenty entered. She was not exactly pretty, but exceedingly pleasant and good-humoured looking. Her tasteful, though quiet, dress showed she was not in need as a result of losing her situation.
La Touche rose and bowed.
‘Mlle Lambert?’ he said with a smile. ‘I am M. Faneuil. Won’t you sit down?’
‘I saw your advertisement in Le Soir, monsieur, and—here I am.’
‘I am much indebted to you for coming so promptly, mademoiselle,’ said La Touche, reseating himself, ‘and I shall not trespass long on your time. But before explaining the matter may I ask if you are the Mlle Lambert who recently acted as typist at the Avrotte Works?’
‘Yes, monsieur. I was there for nearly two years.’
‘Forgive me, but can you give any proof of that? A mere matter of form, of course, but in justice to my employers I am bound to ask the question.’
An expression of surprise passed over the girl’s face.
‘I really don’t know that I can,’ she answered. ‘You see, I was not expecting to be asked such a question.’
It had occurred to La Touche that in spite of his precautions Boirac might have somehow discovered what he was engaged on, and sent this girl with a made up story. But her answer satisfied him. If she had been an impostor she would have come provided with proofs of her identity.
‘Ah, well,’ he rejoined with a smile, ‘I think I may safely take the risk. May I ask you another question? Was a new typewriter purchased while you were at the office?’
The surprise on the pleasant face deepened.
‘Why, yes, monsieur, a No. 10 Remington.’
‘And can you tell me just when?’
‘Easily. I left the office on Monday, 5th April, and the new machine was sent three days earlier—on Friday, the 2nd.’
Here was news indeed! La Touche was now in no doubt about following up the matter. He must get all the information possible out of this girl. And the need for secrecy would make him stick to diplomacy.
He smiled and bowed.
‘You will forgive me, mademoiselle, but I had to satisfy myself you were the lady I wished to meet. I asked you these questions only to ensure that you knew the answers. And now I shall tell you who I am and what is the business at issue. But first, may I ask you to keep all I may tell you secret?’
His visitor looked more and more mystified as she replied:
‘I promise, monsieur.’
‘Then I may say that I am a private detective, employed on behalf of the typewriter company to investigate some very extraordinary—I can only call them frauds, which have recently been taking place. In some way, which up to the present we have been unable to fathom, several of our machines have developed faults which, you understand, do not prevent them working, but which prevent them being quite satisfactory. The altering of tensions and the slight twisting of type to put them out of alignment are the kind of things I mean. We hardly like to suspect rival firms of practising these frauds to get our machines into disfavour, and yet it is hard to account for it otherwise. Now, we think that you can possibly give us some information, and I am authorised by my company to hand you one hundred francs if you will be kind enough to do so.’
The surprise had not left the girl’s face as she answered:
‘I should have been very pleased, monsieur, to tell you all I knew without any payment, had I known anything to tell. But I am afraid I don’t.’
‘I think, mademoiselle, you can help us if you will. May I ask you a few questions?’
‘Certainly.’
‘The first is, can you describe the machine you used prior to the purchase of the new one?’
‘Yes, it was a No. 7 Remington.’
‘I did not mean that,’ answered La Touche, eagerly noting this information, ‘I knew that, of course, as it is this No. 7 machine I am inquiring about. What I meant to ask was, had it any special marks or peculiarities by which it could be distinguished from other No. 7’s?’
‘Why, no, I don’t think so,’ the girl answered thoughtfully. ‘And yet there were. The letter S on the S-key had got twisted round to the right and there were three scratches here’—she indicated the side plate of an imaginary typewriter.
‘You would then be able to identify the machine if you saw it again?’
‘Yes, I certainly should.’
‘Now, mademoiselle, had it any other peculiarities—defective letters or alignment or anything of that kind?
‘No, nothing really bad. It was old and out of date, but quite good enough. M. Boirac, of course, thought otherwise, but I maintain my opinion.’
‘What did M. Boirac say exactly?’
‘He blamed me for it. But there wasn’t anything wrong, and if there had been it wasn’t my fault.’
‘I am sure of that, mademoiselle. But perhaps you would tell me about it from the beginning?’
‘There’s not much to tell. I had a big job to do—typing a long specification of a pumping plant for the Argentine, and when I had finished I left it as usual on M. Boirac’s desk. A few minutes later he sent for me and asked how I came to put such an untidy document before him. I didn’t see anything wrong with it and I asked him what he complained of. He pointed out some very small defects—principally uneven alignment, and one or two letters just a trifle blurred. You really would hardly have seen it. I said that wasn’t my fault, and that the machine wanted adjustment. He said I had been striking while the shift key was partly moved, but, M. Faneuil, I had been doing nothing of the kind. I told M. Boirac so, and he then apologised and said I must have a new machine. He telephoned there and then to the Remington people, and a No. 10 came that afternoon.’
‘And what happened to the old No. 7?’
‘The man that brought the new one took the old away.’
‘And was that all that was said?’
‘That was all, monsieur.’
‘But, pardon me, I understood you left owing to some misunderstanding with M. Boirac?’
The girl shook her head.
‘Oh, no,’ she said, ‘nothing of the sort. M. Boirac told me the following Monday, that is, two days after the typewriter business, that he was reorganising his office and would do with a typist less. As I was the last arrival, I had to go. He said he wished to carry out the alterations immediately so that I might leave at once. He gave me a month’s salary instead of notice, and a good testimonial which I have here. We parted quite friends.’
The document read:
‘I have pleasure in certifying that Mlle Eloise Lambert was engaged as a stenographer and typist in the head office of this company from August, 1910 till 5th April, 1912, during which time she gave every satisfaction to me and my chief clerk. She proved herself diligent and painstaking, thoroughly competent in her work, and of excellent manners and conduct. She leaves the firm through no fault of her own, but because we are reducing staff. I regret her loss and have every confidence in recommending her to those needing her services.
‘(Signed) RAOUL BOIRAC, Managing Director.’
�
�An excellent testimonial, mademoiselle,’ La Touche commented. ‘Pray excuse me for just a moment.’
He stepped into the adjoining bedroom and closed the door. Then taking a sample of Boirac’s writing from his pocket book, he compared the signature with that of the testimonial. After a careful scrutiny he was satisfied the latter was genuine. He returned to the girl and handed her the document.
‘Thank you, mademoiselle. Now, can you recall one other point? Did you, within the last three or four weeks, type a letter about some rather unusual matters—about someone winning a lot of money in the State Lottery and about sending this packed in a cask to England?’
‘Never, monsieur,’ asserted the typist, evidently completely puzzled by the questions she was being asked. La Touche watched her keenly and was satisfied she had no suspicion that his business was other than he had said. But he was nothing if not thorough, and his thoroughness drove him to make provision for suspicions which might arise later. He therefore went on to question her about the No. 7 machine, asking whether she had ever noticed it had been tampered with, and finally saying that he believed there must have been a mistake and that the machine they had discussed was not that in which he was interested. Then, after obtaining her address, he handed her the hundred francs, which, after a protest, she finally accepted.
‘Now, not a word to any one, if you please, mademoiselle,’ he concluded, as they parted.
His discoveries, to say the least of it, were becoming interesting. If Mlle Lambert’s story was true—and he was strongly disposed to believe her—M. Boirac had acted in a way that required some explanation. His finding fault with the typist did not seem genuine. In fact, to La Touche it looked as if the whole episode had been arranged to provide an excuse for getting rid of the typewriter. Again, the manufacturer’s dismissal of his typist at a day’s notice was not explained by his statement that he was about to reorganise his office. Had that been true he would have allowed her to work her month’s notice, and, even more obviously, he would not have immediately engaged her successor. As La Touche paid his bill at the hotel he decided that though there might be nothing in his suspicions, the matter was well worth further investigation. He therefore called a taxi and was driven to the Remington typewriter depot.
The Cask Page 29
