London Murder Mysteries - Boxed Set. Freeman Wills Crofts
was lifted on to it and borne off.
‘Doctor,’ said the Chief, as the former was about to follow, ‘as soon as you are through with him I wish you’ld make an examination of the woman’s body. It seems fairly clear what happened to her, but it would be better to have a post-mortem. Poison may have been used also. Burnley, here, is going to Paris by the nine o’clock in the morning to make inquiries, and he will want a copy of your report with him.’
‘I shall have it ready,’ said the doctor as, with a bow, he hurried after his patient.
‘Now, let’s have a look at that letter.’
They returned to the courtyard and Burnley unpinned the envelope from the dead woman’s gown. It was unaddressed, but the Chief slit it open and drew out a sheet of folded paper. It bore a single line of typing:—
‘Your £50 loan returned herewith with £2 10s. 0d. interest.’
That was all. No date, address, salutation, or signature. Nothing to indicate who had sent it, or whose was the body that had accompanied it.
‘Allow me, sir,’ said Burnley.
He took the paper and scrutinised it carefully. Then he held it up to the light.
‘This is from Le Gautier also,’ he continued. ‘See the watermark. It is the same paper as Felix’s letter. Look also at the typing. Here are the crooked n’s and r’s, the defective l’s and the t’s and e’s below alignment. It was typed on the same machine.’
‘Looks like it certainly.’ Then, after a pause: ‘Come to my room for that letter to M. Chauvet.’
They traversed the corridors and the Inspector got his introduction to the Paris police. Then returning to the little yard, he began the preparations for his journey.
First he picked up and counted the money. There was £31 10s. in English gold and, having made a note of the amount, he slipped it into his pocket as a precaution against chance passers-by. With the £21 handed by Broughton to Mr. Avery, this made the £52 10s. referred to in the typewritten slip. Then he had the body moved to the dissecting-room and photographed from several points of view, after which it was stripped by a female assistant. The clothes he went through with great care, examining every inch of the material for maker’s names, initials, or other marks. Only on the delicate cambric handkerchief was his search rewarded, a small A. B. being embroidered amid the tracery of one corner. Having attached a label to each garment separately, as well as to the rings from the fingers and a diamond comb from the luxuriant hair, he packed them carefully in a small portmanteau, ready for transport to France.
Sending for the carpenter, he had the end boards of the cask replaced, and the whole thing wrapped in sacking and corded. Labelling it to himself at the Gare du Nord, he had it despatched to Charing Cross with instructions to get it away without delay.
It was past ten when his preparations were complete, and he was not sorry when he was free to go home to supper and bed.
PART II—PARIS
CHAPTER IX
M. LE CHEF DE LA SÛRETÉ
At 9.00 a.m. next morning the Continental express moved slowly out of Charing Cross station, bearing in the corner of a first-class smoking compartment, Inspector Burnley. The glorious weather of the past few days had not held, and the sky was clouded over, giving a promise of rain. The river showed dark and gloomy as they drew over it, and the houses on the south side had resumed their normal dull and grimy appearance. A gentle breeze blew from the south-west, and Burnley, who was a bad sailor, hoped it would not be very much worse at Dover. He lit one of his strong-smelling cigars and puffed at it thoughtfully as the train ran with ever-increasing speed through the extraordinary tangle of lines south of London Bridge.
He was glad to be taking this journey. He liked Paris and he had not been there for four years, not indeed since the great Marcelle murder case, which attracted so much attention in both countries. M. Lefarge, the genial French detective with whom he had then collaborated, had become a real friend and he hoped to run across him again.
They had reached the outer suburbs and occasional fields began to replace the lines of little villas which lie closer to the city. He watched the flying objects idly for a few minutes, and then with a little sigh turned his attention to his case, as a barrister makes up his brief before going into court.
He considered first his object in making the journey. He had to find out who the murdered woman was, if she was murdered, though there appeared little doubt about that. He had to discover and get convicting evidence against the murderer, and lastly, he had to learn the explanation of the extraordinary business of the cask.
He then reviewed the data he already had, turning first to the medical report which up till then he had not had an opportunity of reading. There was first a note about Felix. That unhappy man was entirely prostrated from the shock and his life was in serious danger.
The Inspector had already known this, for he had gone to the ward before seven that morning in the hope of getting a statement from the sick man, only to find him semi-conscious and delirious. The identity of the dead woman could not, therefore, be ascertained from him. He, Burnley, must rely on his own efforts.
The report then dealt with the woman. She was aged about five-and-twenty, five feet seven in height and apparently gracefully built, and weighing a little over eight stone. She had dark hair of great length and luxuriance, and eyes with long lashes and delicately pencilled brows. Her mouth was small and regular, her nose slightly retroussé and her face a true oval. She had a broad, low forehead, and her complexion appeared to have been very clear, though dark. There was no distinguishing mark on the body.
‘Surely,’ thought Burnley, ‘with such a description it should be easy to identify her.’
The report continued:—
‘There are ten marks about her neck, apparently finger marks. Of these eight are together at the back of the neck and not strongly marked. The remaining two are situated in front of the throat, close together and one on each side of the windpipe. The skin at these points is much bruised and blackened, and the pressure must therefore have been very great.
‘It seemed clear the marks were caused by some individual standing in front of her and squeezing her throat with both hands, the thumbs on the windpipe and the fingers round the neck. From the strength necessary to produce such bruises, it looks as if this individual were a man.
‘An autopsy revealed the fact that all the organs were sound, and there was no trace of poison or other cause of death. The conclusion is therefore unavoidable that the woman was murdered by strangulation. She appears to have been dead about a week or slightly longer.’
‘That’s definite, anyway,’ mused Burnley. ‘Let’s see what else we have.’
There was the woman’s rank in life. She was clearly well off if not rich, and probably well born. Her fingers suggested culture; they were those of the artist or musician. The wedding ring on her right hand showed that she was married and living in France. ‘Surely,’ thought the Inspector again, ‘the Chief is right. It would be impossible for a woman of this kind to disappear without the knowledge of the French police. My job will be done when I have seen them.’
But supposing they did not know. What then?
There was first of all the letter to Felix. The signatory, M. Le Gautier, assuming such a man existed, should be able to give a clue. The waiters in the Toisson d’Or Café might know something. The typewriter with the defective letters was surely traceable.
The clothes in which the corpse