The Seine was looking its best on the following morning, as Lefarge boarded an east-bound steamer at the Pont des Artes, behind the Louvre. The day was charming, the air having some of the warmth and colouring of summer, without having lost the clear freshness of spring. As the boat swung out into the current, the detective recalled the last occasion on which he had embarked at this same pier—that on which he and Burnley had gone downstream to Grenelle to call on M. Thévenet at the statuary works. This time the same quest took him in the opposite direction, and they passed round the Ile de la Cité, along the quais, whose walls are topped by the stalls of the book-vendors of the Latin Quarter, past the stately twin towers of Notre Dame, and under the bridge of the Metropolitaine opposite the Gare d’Austerlitz. As they steamed up the broad river the buildings became less and less imposing, till before they had covered the four miles to the suburb of Charenton, where the Marne pours its waters into the Seine, trees and patches of green had begun to appear. Landing at Charenton, which was as far as the steamer went, Lefarge strolled up the street in the direction of the station, looking for a restaurant with an overhanging, half-timbered front. He had not to make a long search. The largest and most pretentious café in the street answered the description and, when he saw telephone wires leading to it, he felt it was indeed the one he sought. Entering, he sat down at one of the small marble-topped tables and called for a bock.
The room was fair sized, with a bar at one corner, and a small dancing stage facing the door. But for the detective, it was untenanted. An elderly, white-moustached waiter passed back and forward from some room in the rear.
‘Pleasant day,’ said Lefarge, when this man came over with his bock. ‘I suppose you don’t get busy till later on?’
The man admitted it.
‘Well, I hear you give a very good lunch, anyway,’ continued the detective. ‘A friend of mine lunched here some days ago and was much pleased. And he’s not so easy to satisfy either.’
The waiter smiled and bowed.
‘We try to do our best, monsieur. It is very gratifying to learn that your friend was satisfied.’
‘Did he not tell you so? He generally says what he thinks.’
‘I am not sure that I know your friend, monsieur. When was he here?’
‘Oh, you’d remember him right enough if you saw him. There he is.’ Lefarge took a photograph of Boirac from his pocket and handed it over.
‘But yes, monsieur. Quite well I remember your friend. But,’ he hesitated slightly, ‘he did not strike me as being so much pleased with the lunch as you suggest. I thought indeed he considered the restaurant not quite——’ He shrugged his shoulders.
‘He was not very well, but he was pleased right enough. It was last Thursday he was here, wasn’t it?’
‘Last Thursday, monsieur? No, I think it was earlier. Let me see, I think it was Monday.’
‘I made a mistake. It was not Thursday. I remember now it was Tuesday he said. Was it not Tuesday?’
‘Perhaps it was, monsieur, I am not certain; though I rather think it was Monday.’
‘He telephoned to me that day from Charenton—I think he said from here. Did he telephone from here?’
‘Yes, monsieur, he made two calls. See, there is the telephone. We allow all our patrons to use it.’
‘An excellent idea. I am sure it is much appreciated. But there was an unfortunate mistake about the message he sent me. It was making an appointment, and he did not turn up. I am afraid I misunderstood what he said. Could you hear the message? Perhaps, if so, you would tell me if he spoke of an appointment on last Tuesday?’
The waiter, who up to then had been all smiles and amiability, flashed a suspicious little glance at the detective. He continued to smile politely, but Lefarge felt he had closed up like an oyster in his shell, and when he replied: ‘I could not hear, monsieur. I was engaged with the service,’ the other suspected he was lying.
He determined to try a bluff. Changing his manner and speaking authoritatively, though in a lower tone, he said:—
‘Now, look here, gar?on. I am a detective officer. I want to find out about those telephone messages, and I don’t want to have the trouble of taking you to the S?reté to interrogate you.’ He took out a five-franc piece. ‘If you can tell me what he said, this will be yours.’
A look of alarm came into the man’s eyes.
‘But, monsieur——’ he began.
‘Come now, I am certain you know, and you’ve got to tell. You may as well do it now and get your five francs, as later on at the S?reté and for nothing. What do you say now? Which is it to be?’
The waiter remained silent, and it was obvious to Lefarge that he was weighing his course of action. His hesitation convinced the detective that he really did know the messages, and he determined to strike again.
‘Perhaps you are doubtful whether I really am from the S?reté,’ he suggested. ‘Look at that.’
He displayed his detective’s credentials, and the sight seemed to bring the other to a decision.
‘I will tell you, monsieur. He first called up some one that I took to be his valet, and said he was going unexpectedly to Belgium, and that he wanted something left at the Gare du Nord for him—I did not catch what it was. Then he called up some other place and gave the same message, simply that he was going to Belgium for a couple of days. That was all, monsieur.’
‘That’s all right, gar?on. Here’s your five francs.’
‘A good beginning,’ thought the detective, as he left the café and, turning his back on the river, passed on up the street. There could be no doubt that Boirac really had lunched at Charenton as he said. It was true the waiter thought he had been there on Monday, whereas Boirac had said Tuesday, but the waiter was not certain, and, in any case, the mistake would be a very easy one to make. Besides, the point could be checked. He could find out from M. Boirac’s chief clerk and butler on what day they received their messages.
He walked to Charenton Station, and took a train to the Gare du Lyon. Hailing a taxi, he was driven to the end of the rue Championnet, the street in which was situated the pump factory of which M. Boirac was managing director. As he left the motor and began strolling down the footpath, he heard the clocks chiming the half-hour after eleven.
The pump factory had not a very long frontage on the street, but, glancing in through an open gateway, Lefarge saw that it stretched a long way back. At one side of the gate was a four-story block of buildings, the door of which bore the legend, ‘Bureau au Deuxième étage.’ The detective strolled past with his head averted, looking round only to make sure there was no other entrance to the works.
Some fifty yards or more beyond the factory, on the opposite side of the street, there stood a café. Entering in a leisurely way, Lefarge seated himself at a small marble-topped table in the window, from where he had a good view of the office door and yard gate of the works. Ordering another bock, he drew a newspaper from his pocket and, leaning back in his chair, began to read. He held it carefully at such a level that he could keep an eye over it on the works entrance, while at any moment raising it by a slight and natural movement would screen him from observation from without. So, for a considerable time he sipped his bock and waited.
Several persons entered and left the works, but it was not till the detective had sat there nearly an hour and had consumed two more bocks, that he saw what he had hoped for. M. Boirac stepped out of the office door and, turning in the opposite direction, walked down the street towards the city. Lefarge waited for five minutes longer, then, slowly folding up his paper and lighting a cigarette, he left the café.
He strolled a hundred yards farther from the works, then crossed and turning, retraced his steps and passed in through the door from which the managing director had emerged. Handing in his private card, he asked for M. Boirac.
‘I’m sorry, monsieur,’ replied the clerk who had come forward, ‘but he has just gone out. I wonder you didn’t meet him.’
‘No,’ said Lefarge, ‘I must have missed him. But if his confidential clerk is in, perhaps he could see me instead? Is he here at present?’
‘I believe so, monsieur. If you will take a seat, I’ll inquire.’
In a few moments the clerk returned to say that M. Dufresne was in, and he was shown into the presence of a small, elderly man, who was evidently just about to leave for lunch.
‘I rather wanted to see M. Boirac himself, monsieur,’ said Lefarge, when the customary greetings had passed. ‘It is on a private matter, but I think I need hardly wait for M. Boirac, as you can probably tell me what I want to know, if you will be so kind. I am, monsieur, a detective officer from the S?reté’—here he produced his official card—‘and my visit is in connection with some business about which we are in communication with M. Boirac. You will readily understand I am not at liberty to discuss its details, but in connection with it he called recently at the S?reté and made a statement. There were, unfortunately, two points which he omitted to tell us and which we, not then understanding they were relevant, omitted to ask. The matter is in connection with his recent visit to Belgium, and the two points I wanted to ask him are, first, the hour he left the office here on that Tuesday, and second, the hour at which he telephoned to you from Charenton that he was making the journey. Perhaps you can tell me, or would you prefer I should wait and see M. Boirac himself?’
The chief clerk did not immediately reply, and Lefarge could see he was uncertain what line he should take. The detective therefore continued:—
‘Pray do not answer me if you feel the slightest hesitation. I can easily wait, if you would rather.’
This had the desired effect and the clerk answered:—
‘Certainly not, monsieur, if you do not wish to do so yourself. I can answer your questions, or at least one of them. The other I am not so sure of. I received the telephone message from M. Boirac from Charenton at about quarter before three. That I am sure of as I particularly noted the time. As to when M. Boirac left here that morning, I cannot be so definite. He asked me at nine o’clock to draft a rather difficult reply to a letter and to take it in to him when ready. It took me half an hour to compose, as several figures had to be got out to make the matter clear. I took it in at 9.30 and he had then gone.’
‘That was on the Tuesday, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, on the Tuesday.’
‘And it was on the Friday morning M. Boirac returned?’
‘That is so, monsieur.’
Lefarge rose.
‘A thousand thanks, monsieur. I am very grateful to you for saving me a long wait.’
He left the office and, walking to the Simplon station of the Metropolitaine, took the train for the centre of the town. He was pleased with his progress. As in the earlier stages of the inquiry, information was coming in rapidly. At first he was inclined to think he had already got enough to confirm the first portion of Boirac’s statement, then his training re-asserted itself, and he decided to go back to the house in the Avenue de l’Alma, and if possible get Fran?ois’ corroboration. He therefore alighted at Chatelet and took the Maillot train to Alma, walking down the Avenue.
‘Ah, M. Fran?ois,’ he began, when the butler opened the door. ‘Here I am back to trouble you again. Can you spare me a couple of minutes?’
‘Certainly, monsieur. Come in.’
They went to the same small sitting-room and Lefarge produced his Brazilian cigarettes.
‘How do you like them?’ he asked, as the butler helped himself. ‘Some people think they’re too strong, but they suit me down to the ground. Like strong whiffs, only without the cigar flavour. I won’t keep you a moment. It’s just about that bag of M. Boirac’s you took to the Gare du Nord last Tuesday. Tell me, were you followed to the station?’
‘Followed, monsieur? I? Why no, certainly not. At least not that I know of.’
‘Well, did you observe at the left luggage office a rather tall man, dressed in gray and with a red beard?’
‘No,’ he answered, ‘I saw no one answering to the description.’
‘At what hour did you leave the bag in?’
‘About 3.30, monsieur.’
Lefarge affected to consider.
‘Perhaps it’s my mistake,’ he said at last. ‘It was on Tuesday, wasn’t it?’
‘On Tuesday. Yes, monsieur.’
‘And M. Boirac sent his telephone call about two, did he not? I think he said about two.’
‘It was later, monsieur. It was nearer three. But, monsieur, you fill me with curiosity. How, if I may ask, did you know I took Monsieur’s bag to the station?’
‘He told me last night. He happened to mention he had unexpectedly gone to Belgium, and that you had taken his bag to the left luggage office.’
‘And the man with the red beard?’
Lefarge, having got his information, was not much troubled to justify his little ruse.
‘One of our detectives. He has been on a case of theft of valuable luggage. I wondered if you had seen him. By the way, did M. Boirac bring back the bag with him? It wasn’t stolen?’
Lefarge smiled, and the butler, politely presuming this was meant for a joke, smiled also.
‘It was not stolen, monsieur. He brought it back all right.’
So far so good. M. Boirac had then, beyond any doubt or question, telephoned about 2.45 on Tuesday and had instructed the butler to take his bag to the Gare du Nord, as he had said. Further, he had called there himself and got the bag. So much was certain. But the statement he made of his movements on Sunday and Monday, and the unpacking of the cask on Monday night still remained to be tested. Lefarge spoke again:—
‘While I’m here, M. Fran?ois, I wonder would you mind checking one or two dates for my report?’ He pulled out his notebook. ‘I will read out and perhaps you would please say if the items are correct. Saturday, 27th March, ............