Her voice died away. She had seen the light again, and this time so had I. Then it vanished for good. We heard the stairs creak, creak, and then cease for good. We neither saw nor heard any more, though we stood waiting in front of the door for fifteen minutes.
“I’m going in,” said Donna at last, and added rather softly, “I don’t believe he saw us. I wish he had.”
Donna proceeded to take out a pane with a diamond, a pot of molasses, and a sheet of brown paper, which she took from her handbag. I gave her assistance, though she accepted it as instinctively as it was offered. In any case it was my fingers that helped to spread the molasses on the brown paper, and pressed it to the glass until the diamond on her ring had completed its circuit and the pane fell gently back into my hands.
Donna now inserted her hand, turned the key in the lock, and, by making a long arm, succeeded in drawing the bolt. It was the only one, and she opened the door, though not very wide.
“What’s that?” said Donna, as something broke beneath her feet on the threshold.
“A pair of glasses,” I whispered, picking them up. I was still touching the crushed spectacles, when Donna tripped and almost fell, with a gasping cry that she made no effort to restrain.
“Hush!” I begged under my breath. “He’ll hear you!”
I heard her fumbling with her matches. “No, Oscar, he won’t hear us,” whispered Donna, and she rose from her knees and turned on the light as the match burnt down.
Howard Halliwell was lying on his own floor, dead, with his gray hairs glued together by his blood. Near him was a poker with the black end glistening. In a corner his desk stood, ransacked, littered. A clock ticked softly on the mantelpiece. For perhaps a minute there was no other sound. Donna stood still, staring down at her dead husband. Her breath came audibly through her nostrils. Her lips seemed sealed.
“That light we saw!” said I, hoarsely.
With a start she turned to me.
“The murderer! He must be upstairs still!”
“If he is I’ll soon rout him out. Wait here!” I said and picked up the poker.”
“Monsieur, that was the mistake.”
“I know that now, but I needed something to defend myself. She laid a hand on my arm, imploring me to reflect, her husband was dead now, that we could never be separated now, that now or never was our time to escape.
“Come back tomorrow,” she whispered.
I shook her off in a sudden fury. I turned my back on her. I had forgotten on what errand we ourselves were there. I was determined that this night should end in disaster. In a moment the stairs were creaking under my feet, as just before they had creaked under those of the murderer. Donna’s answer was to bound up the creaking stairs and to overhaul me on the landing.
Three doors presented themselves. The first opened into a bedroom with the bed turned down but undisturbed. The second room was totally empty. The third door was locked.
Donna turned on the light.
“He’s in there,” she said.
I answered, “Here goes!”
My shoulder crashed against the door. The lock gave, the door flew open, and standing in the sudden cold air, I saw a fixed bath, two bath-towels and an open window. I was struck aghast on the threshold.”
Oscar stopped talking and looked at the empty glass in his hand. Haven noticed this and with a “Sorry, old boy,” he filled it again. Poiret remained seated, silently, behind his desk. Suddenly he said, “Poiret, he asks the commission for the work.”
The young man, nervously, emptied his pockets on the desk and pulled three hundred and seventy-seven pounds out of his wallet.
“Take it all, sir, as far as I’m concerned.”
Poiret stood up and took the wallet instead of the money. He slowly emptied everything inside on the desk.
“When was Madame Donna arrested, Monsieur?”
“She asked me to leave and not long after that I heard the police sirens. What I told you is the truth, sir, the whole truth!”
Poiret pointed at the money, “From where do you have this money, Monsieur?”
“I work at a department store.”
Poiret struck the desk with his hand. “Non, Monsieur, not the lies. They will only convict you.”
“I told you the truth!” came the anguished answer.
“Non, Monsieur, a thousand times, non! The truth, Monsieur! Maybe there is still the hope.”
“I stole a ring from the store and Donna pawned it. Her husband gave her five hundred for it.”
Poiret sat down again and lit a small cigarette. “Monsieur,” he said, “if Poiret, he was to ask Madame Donna, what has happened, what will she say?”
“I don’t know! The truth, maybe, lies, probably. For all I know she did it and lured me to her house to blame it all on me.”
“The cold jail cell,” said Poiret, “it has the tendency to end the everlasting love affairs.”
“Jail?” asked Oscar.
“Oui, Monsieur,” said Poiret, turning to the other man he said, “Haven, please to call Inspector Watkins and ask him to come here.”
“You can’t do that, Mr. Poiret! I’m here, because I trusted you.”
“Monsieur,” said Poiret, putting his hands on the arms of the much taller man, “if you put your life in the hands of Poiret, when you did not know Poiret, please to trust Poiret, now that you know him.”
The anxious young man looked in the eyes of the older gentleman. His big moustache, his somewhat foppish appearance, and nodded. A weight seemed to fall from his shoulders.
“Bien!” said Poiret and smiled. “Monsieur, coming to Poiret immediately, it has saved you from the gallows.”
“I say, why?” Haven asked.
“Because mon ami, I believe Monsieur Oscar when he says that he has not murdered the husband of the woman he has the love affair with.”
“But, Poiret, that means that the wife did it?”
“I knew it,” cried Oscar. “I knew she was trying to put it on me.”
“Unless, Monsieur, she is also telling the truth.”
“But if they both had nothing to do with his murder, then who would do such a thing? And on the night they made plans to murder him.”
“She made the plans. I did not,” said the young man angrily.
They heard police sirens outside. Not long after followed by a knock on the door and the appearance of Inspector Watkins.
“Whenever there’s a murder, you seem to be around, Poiret. Maybe if I put you in a nice warm jail cell all murders will mysteriously end.”
“Inspector, this is not the time for the joking,” said Poiret, rather angrily.
“Is this young man the accomplice?” he asked, as fear struck the young man, like lightning.
“Why, Monsieur, has Madame Donna told you so?”
“No, she’s some piece of work altogether. Planning to murder your husband with your lover and then finding him murdered?”
“I say, Oscar said the same,” Haven said.
Poiret looked at Haven angrily and he soon found out why.
“So, that’s interesting. What did he tell you?” the inspector asked.
“Mon ami,” said Poiret, “you will be looking in the direction that is wrong, if you look in the direction of Monsieur Oscar.”
“Really!” said Watkins, looking at the money on the table. “Is the jewelry and the money that was stolen here?”
“No!” said Oscar.
“Monsieur,” said Poiret, taking the money. “This money, it was given to Poiret as the fee.”
“Don’t you try any of those detective tricks on me, Poiret,” said the inspector, tersely. “I’ll have both of them charged with murder and burglary.”
“Poiret!” cried the young man, shrieking back.
“Monsieur Watkins, Poiret, he does not know who the murderer is, but he knows it is not Monsieur Oscar.”
“Oh, so you think she offed her husband earlier this evening and then collected Oscar, here
, as a sort of fall guy? No, Poiret, coincidences don’t exist. It was a well laid plan.”
“If that is true, Monsieur, then why did it go horribly wrong?”
“Who says it went wrong? The husband is dead, isn’t he? That was what this was about?”
Poiret suddenly froze. “Mais, non! Mon Dieu! Poiret, he is blind. Monsieur Watkins, please to send your men into the streets and to look for Monsieur Bobby Stevens, of whom my client, he will provide to the police the description.”
“What?” asked the inspector, dumbfounded.
“Vite, mon ami! We must find Monsieur Stevens with the stolen money and the ring Madame Donna, she pawned today, on him, otherwise it is too late for the two and the culprit, he will never be convicted.”
“I cannot just send a hundred men on a wild goose chase, Poiret!”
“But you can just send two innocent persons to the gallows, Monsieur?” asked Poiret furious.
“At least tell me why?”
“Do you not see, Inspector, that it was the well planned murder? Do you not see that if the house, it was burglarized and the owner murdered on the same day, it would be too much of the coincidence? Unless you look at the information. Monsieur Halliwell, he suspects something and follows his wife to the apartment of Monsieur Oscar. He is very angry and wishes to know who is this man. On the street, on their way to the night club, they are followed, but they also see Monsieur Bobby Stevens, whom they greet as the friend. Is it not natural for the husband to ask this man, who knows the man with his wife for more information?”
“But why would that result in murder?”
“Because Monsieur Stevens, he is the addict of the drugs, who borrows the money from his friends and here he has the perfect source of the money. The wife of the man, who is, how do you say, fooling with his friend, Oscar. With the story, he lures him to the house and there he murders and robs him.”
Watkins was silent for a moment, and so was our young client.
“Hmm!” said the inspector. “Well, we’ll look for him. But he comes along in case we can’t make the case stick on this Bobby fellow.”
Poiret took Oscar by the arm and pulled him to the door.
“Courage, Monsieur!” said Poiret.
It was the day after this eventful night that Poiret received yet another visitor. Haven let him into Poiret’s office, where the master detective was having a late luncheon. The newcomer was dressed in a policeman’s uniform and took off his hat the moment he saw Poiret.
“Monsieur, please to sit down,” said the little man, courteously.
“Thank you, sir, but I’d feel more comfortable standing.”
“How can Poiret help you, Monsieur?”
“Thank you for clearing my son of murder, sir. His mother and I are grateful to you for your help. Please allow me to shake your hand, sir.”
Poiret stood up and the policeman shook his hand.
“Well, that’s it!” He turned and walked to the door, then turned. “You know, sir, I never believed the stories doing the round in the precinct. Now I do.”
He put his hat on, turned and left
“You see, Haven,” Poiret said, his face beaming with pride, “even the police, they know Poiret, he is the best!”
He took his knife in one hand, the fork in the other and continued eating.
THE END
Jules Poiret Mystery Series
The Duel
The Jersey Mystery
The Alcester Emeralds
Two Murders (A Jules Poiret Mystery Book 36) Page 2
