The Cask, Freeman Wills Crofts [snow like ashes series .txt] 📗

body of a woman, the head and shoulders being wrapped round with sheets of brown paper. It lay all bunched together as it had done in the cask. One dainty hand, with slim, tapered fingers protruded from the paper, and stuck stiffly upwards beside the rounded shoulder.

The men stopped and stood motionless looking down at the still form. Felix was standing rigid, his face blanched, his eyes protruding, horror stamped on his features. The Chief spoke in a low tone⁠—

“Take off the paper.”

Burnley caught the loose corner and gently removed it. As it came away the figure within became revealed to the onlookers.

The body was that of a youngish woman, elegantly clad in an evening gown of pale pink cut low round the throat and shoulders, and trimmed with old lace. Masses of dark hair were coiled round the small head. On the fingers the glint of precious stones caught the light. The feet were cased in silk stockings, but no shoes. Pinned to the dress was an envelope.

But it was on the face and neck the gaze of the men was riveted. Once she had clearly been beautiful, but now the face was terribly black and swollen. The dark eyes were open and protruding, and held an expression of deadly horror and fear. The lips were drawn back showing the white, even teeth. And below, on the throat were two discoloured bruises, side by side, round marks close to the windpipe, thumbprints of the animal who had squeezed out that life with relentless and merciless hands.

When the paper was removed from the dead face, the eyes of Felix seemed to start literally out of his head.

“God!” he shrieked in a thin, shrill tone. “It’s Annette!” He stood for a moment, waved his hands convulsively, and then, slowly turning, pitched forward insensible on the floor.

The chief caught him before his head touched the ground.

“Lend a hand here,” he called.

Burnley and the sergeant sprang forward and, lifting the inanimate form, bore it into an adjoining room and laid it gently on the floor.

“Doctor,” said the Chief shortly, and the sergeant hurried off.

“Bad business, this,” resumed the Chief. “He didn’t know what was coming?”

“I don’t think so, sir. My impression has been all through that he was being fooled by this Frenchman, whoever he is.”

“It’s murder now, anyway. You’ll have to go to Paris, Burnley, and look into it.”

“Yes, sir, very good.” He looked at his watch. “It’s eight o’clock. I shall hardly be able to go tonight. I shall have to take the cask and the clothing, and get some photos and measurements of the corpse and hear the result of the medical examination.”

“Tomorrow will be time enough, but I’d go by the nine o’clock train. I’ll give you a personal note to Chauvet, the chief of the Paris police. You speak French, I think?”

“Enough to get on, sir.”

“You shouldn’t have much difficulty, I think. The Paris men are bound to know if there are any recent disappearances, and if not you have the cask and the clothing to fall back on.”

“Yes, sir, they should be a help.”

Footsteps in the corridor announced the arrival of the doctor. With a hasty greeting to the Chief, he turned to the unconscious man.

“What happened to him?” he asked.

“He has had a shock,” answered the Chief, explaining in a few words what had occurred.

“He’ll have to be removed to hospital at once. Better get a stretcher.”

The sergeant disappeared again and in a few seconds returned with the apparatus and another man. Felix 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’d make an examination of the woman’s body. It seems fairly clear what happened to her, but it would be better to have a postmortem. 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 passersby. 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