The Nine Tailors (24 page)

“And you know nothing of the nature of this property in England?”

“Nothing whatever, monsieur.”

“Was it land, securities, valuables?”

“I know nothing about it, monsieur. I asked Jean often, but he would never tell me.”

“And you expect us to believe that you do not know your husband’s real name?”

Again the hesitation. Then:

“No, monsieur, I do not know. It is true that I saw it upon his papers, but I burnt those and I do not now remember it. But I think it began with a C, and I should know it if I saw it again.”

“Was it Cranton?” asked Wimsey.

“No, I do not think it was that, but I cannot say what it was. As soon as he was able to speak at all, he told me to give him his papers, and I asked him then what his name was, because I could not pronounce it—it was English and difficult—and he said that he would not tell me his name then, but I could call him what I liked. So I called him Jean, which was the name of my
fiancé,
who was killed.”

“I see,” said Wimsey. He hunted through his pocketbook and laid the official photograph of Cranton before her. “Is that your husband as you first knew him?”

“No, milord. That is not my husband. It is not in the least like him.” Her face darkened. “You have deceived me. He is not dead and I have betrayed him.”

“He is dead,” said Wimsey. “It is this man who is alive.”

* * *

“And now,” said Wimsey, “we are no nearer than before to a solution.”

“
Attendez,
milord. She has not yet told all she knows. She does not trust us, and she is concealing the name. Only wait, and we shall find means to make her speak. She still thinks that her husband may be alive. But we shall convince her. We shall have this man traced. It is some months old, the trail, but it will not be too difficult. That he started from here by train to go to Belgium I already know, by my inquiries. When he sailed for England, it was doubtless from Ostend—unless,
voyons,
milord, what resources could this man command?”

“How can I tell? But we believe that this mysterious property had to do with an emerald necklace of many thousands of pounds value.”

“
Ah, voilà!
It would be worth while to spend money, then. But this man, you say he is not the man you thought. If that other man was the thief, how does this one come into it?”

“There is the difficulty. But look! There were two men concerned in the theft: one, a London
cambrioleur,
the other, a domestic servant. We do not know which of them had the jewels; it is a long story. But you heard that this Jean Legros wrote to a friend in England, and that friend may have been Cranton, the burglar. Now Legros cannot have been the servant who stole the jewels in the first place, for that man is dead. But before dying, the thief may have communicated to Legros the secret of where the emeralds are hidden, and also the name of Cranton. Legros then writes to Cranton and proposes a partnership to find the jewels. Cranton does not believe, and asks for proof that Legros really knows something. Legros sends a letter which satisfies Cranton, and Cranton in turn procures the necessary papers for Legros. Then Legros goes to England and meets Cranton. Together they go and discover the jewels. Then Cranton kills his confederate, so as to have all for himself. How is that, monsieur? For Cranton also has disappeared.”

“It is very possible, milord. In that case, both the jewels and the murderer are in England—or wherever this Cranton may be. You think, then, that the other dead man, the servant, communicated the hiding-place of the necklace—to whom?”

“Perhaps to some fellow-prisoner who was only in gaol for a short term.”

“And why should he do that?”

“In order that this fellow-prisoner should provide him with a means to escape. And the proof is that the servant did break prison and escape, and afterwards his dead body was found in a pit many miles from the prison.”

“Aha! the affair begins to outline itself. And the servant—how did he come to be found dead? Eh?”

“He is supposed to have fallen over the edge of the pit in the dark. But I begin to think that he was killed by Legros.”

“Milord, our thoughts chime together. Because,
voyez-vous,
this story of desertion and military authorities will not hold water. There is more than a desertion behind this change of name and this fear of the British police. But if the man was an old gaol-bird, and had committed a murder into the bargain, the thing understands itself. Twice he changes his name, so that he shall not be traced even to France, because he, Legros, under his English name, had enlisted after his release from prison and the records of your Army might reveal him. Only, if he was in the Army, it is strange that he should have found the leisure to plan a prison-breaking for his comrade and commit murder. No, there are still difficulties, but the outline of the plot is clear and will develop itself more clearly still as we proceed. In the meanwhile, I will undertake inquiries here and in Belgium. I think, milord, we must not confine ourselves to the ordinary passenger-routes, or even to the ports. A motorboat might well make the journey to the coast of Laincollone. Your police, also, will make inquiries on their part. And when we have shown the progress of Legros from the front door of his house to his grave in England, then, I think, Mme. Suzanne will speak a little more. And now, milord, I beg you will honour us by sharing our dinner to-night. My wife is an excellent cook, if you will condescend to a
cuisine bourgeoise
garnished with a tolerable
vin de Bourgogne.
Monsieur Delavigne of the Sûreté informs me that you have the reputation of a gourmet, and it is only with a certain diffidence that I make the suggestion, but it would give Mme. Rozier unheard-of delight if you would give her the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”

“Monsieur,” said Lord Peter, “I am infinitely obliged to you both.”

PLAIN HUNTING

First, Lucus Mortis; then Terra Tenebrosa; next, Tartarus; after that. Terra Oblivionis; then Herebus; then Barathrum; then Gehenna; and then Stagnum Ignis.

SHERIDAN LEFANU: Wylder’s Hand.

“Well,” said Superintendent Blundell, “if that’s how it is, we’ve got to find Cranton. But it’s a funny thing to me. From what they tell me, I wouldn’t have thought Cranton was the man for that sort of job. He’s never been suspected of killing anyone, and he never looked to me like a killer. And you know, my lord, that it’s very rare for one of them sort of smart burglars to go all off the rails and take to violence. What I mean, it isn’t in them, as a rule, if you get my meaning. It’s true he went for Deacon in the dock but that was more of a scrimmage, as you might say, and I don’t think he meant much harm. Supposing as it was the other chap that killed Cranton? He might have changed clothes with him to prevent identification.”

“So he might. But what becomes of that old scar on the head? That seems to fit in with the body being this fellow they call Jean Legros. Unless Cranton had a scar too.”

“He’d no scar up to last September,” said the Superintendent, thoughtfully. “No, I reckon you’re right, and that won’t work. Some of the measurements seem a bit different, too—though of course, it’s not easy to be as accurate as all that when you’re comparing a live man with a four-months-old corpse. And there were so many teeth gone and busted from the corpse that we’ve not got much out of that, either. No, we’ve got to find Cranton. If he’s alive, he’s lying uncommon low. Looks as though he’d done something pretty bad—I give you that.”

The conversation took place in the churchyard, where Mr. Blundell had been undertaking an exhaustive search for unspecified clues. The Superintendent thoughtfully decapitated a nettle, and resumed:

“Then there’s that chap Will Thoday. I can’t make him out at all. I’ll swear he knows something—but what
can
he know? It’s as certain as anything can be that he was sick in bed when it all happened. He sticks to that, and says he knows nothing. What can you do with a man who says he knows nothing? Why, nothing. And as for his wife, she couldn’t have tied a man up and buried him. She’s not a powerful sort of woman by any means. And I’ve got hold of the children. It went against me to do it, but I did it all the same. And they say their Mother and Dad were both in the house all night. There’s one other person might know something, and that’s James Thoday. Look here, my lord, here’s a queer thing. James Thoday left Fenchurch St. Paul on January 4th, early in the morning, to join his ship. He was seen to go, all right—the station-master saw him. But he never got to Hull that day. I’ve been on to Lampson & Blake, and they say they had a wire from him to say he couldn’t get back in time, but would arrive on the Sunday night—which he did. Had some story of being taken suddenly ill—and they say he looked ill enough when he did arrive. I’ve told them to get in touch with him as quick as they can.”

“Where was the wire sent from?”

“London. From a post-office near Liverpool Street. About the time when the train Jim Thoday took at Dykesey would get up there. Looks as though he’d been taken queer on the way up.”

“He might have picked up influenza from his brother.”

“So he might. Still, he was fit to sail the next day, and it looks funny, don’t you think? He’d have had plenty of time to go up to London and come down here again. He wouldn’t come to Dykesey, of course, but he might have come part of the way by train and done the rest by car or motor-bike or whatnot.”

Wimsey whistled. “You think he was in with Will over the thing. Yes, I see. Will is in a conspiracy with Legros to set the emeralds—is that it? And he gets ’flu and can’t do the job himself, so he arranges with Brother Jim to do it for him. Then Jim meets Legros and kills him and buries him and vamooses with the emeralds to Hong Kong. Well, that would explain one thing, and that is, why those infernal stones haven’t been put on the European market. He could easily get rid of them over in the East. But look here, Super—how did Will Thoday get into touch with Legros in the first place? It was easy enough when we put it all on Cranton, because he could have got the papers and things made out for Legros by one of his pals in Town. But you can’t imagine that Thoday produced forged papers and provided Legros with his passage facilities and all that. How would a fellow like that know how to set about it?”

Mr. Blundell shook his head.

“But there’s that two hundred pounds,” he said.

“So there is, but that was after Legros had started.”

“And when Legros was killed, the money was returned to the bank.”

“Was it?”

“Oh, yes. I had a word with Thoday. He made no difficulties. He said he had an idea of purchasing a bit of land and starting to farm again on his own, but that, after his illness, he gave up the idea, thinking that for some time he wouldn’t be strong enough. He gave me permission to go over his bank account. It was all in order—no suspicious withdrawals of money up to that £200 on December 3ist, and that was paid in again in January, as soon as he was able to get about. And it’s true about the land, too. He did think of buying it. All the same, £200 all in one-pound notes—”

The Superintendent broke off, and made a sudden dive behind a tall tombstone. There was a squeak and a scuffle. Mr. Blundell emerged, rather flustered. His large hand held Potty Peake’s coat-collar in a firm grip.

“Now, you clear off,” said the Superintendent, giving his captive a rough, but not unkindly, shake. “You’ll get yourself into trouble, my lad, hanging round the churchyard and listening to private conversations. See?”

“Ar!” said Potty, “you needn’t choke a fellow. You needn’t choke poor Potty. If you knowed what Potty knows—”

“What do you know?”

Potty’s eyes gleamed cunningly. “I seen him—Number Nine—I seen him a-talking to Will in the church. But the Tailors was too much for him. Him with the rope—he got him, and he’ll get you too. Potty knows. Potty ain’t lived all these years, in and out of the church, for nothing.”

“Who was talking to Will in the church?”

“Why, him!” Potty jerked his head towards the Thorpe grave. “Him they found over there. The black-bearded man. There’s eight in the belfry and one in the grave. That makes nine. You think Potty can’t count, but he can. But him as calls the peal—you won’t get him, oh, no!”

“See here,” said Wimsey, “you’re a clever fellow, Potty. When did you see Will Thoday talking to the black-bearded man? See if you can count that far.”

Potty Peake grinned at him. “Potty can count all right,” he said, with great satisfaction. “Oh, yes.” He began an elaborate calculation on his fingers. “Ah! it was a Monday night, that’s when it was. There was cold pork and beans for dinner—that’s good, cold pork and beans. Ah! Parson he preached about thankfulness. Be thankful for Christmas, he says. There was roast fowl, Christmas Day and boiled pork and greens Sunday and be thankful, that’s what Parson says. So Potty slips out at night, for to be thankful again. You got to go to church to be thankful proper, ain’t you, sir? And there was the church door standing open. So Potty creeps in, careful-like, see? And there’s a light in the vestry. Potty was frightened. There’s things hanging in the vestry. Ah! So Potty hides behind ole Batty Thomas, and then Will Thoday comes in, and Potty hears them talking in the vestry. ‘Money,’ Will says. ’Tis a great wickedness, is money. And then Will Thoday he cries out—he fetches a rope from the chest and—Ah! Potty’s afraid. He thinks about hanging. Potty don’t want to see no one hanged. Potty runs away. He looks in at the vestry window, and there’s the black-bearded man a-laying on the floor, and Will a-standing over him with the rope. Ah, dear! oh, dear! Potty don’t like ropes. Potty’s allus a-dreamin’ of ropes. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight—and this one’s nine. Potty seen him a-hangin’ there. Ooh!”

“I think you was a-dreaming all the time,” said the Superintendent. “There’s nobody been hanged that I know of.”

“I see him a-hanging,” persisted Potty. “Terrible it were. But don’t you pay no attention. ’Tis only one o’ poor Potty’s dreams.” His face changed. “You lemme go, mister. I gotter feed my pigs.”