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

arrived?”

“It was about the time of the dinner-party, in fact, I remember now distinctly. It was that very day.”

“How was it packed?”

“It was in a cask, monsieur. It was left in here that Saturday morning with the top boards loosened for Monsieur to unpack. He never would trust anyone to do that for him.”

“Was he, then, in the habit of getting these casks?”

“Yes, monsieur, a good many of the statues came in casks.”

“I see. And when was this one unpacked?”

“Two days later, monsieur, on Monday evening.”

“And what happened to the cask?”

“It was returned to the shop. Their cart called for it two or three days later.”

“You don’t remember exactly when?”

The butler paused in thought.

“I do not, monsieur. It was on the Wednesday or Thursday following, I believe, but I’m not positive.”

“Thank you, François. There is one other thing I should be greatly obliged if you could do for me. Get me a sample of Madame’s writing.”

François shook his head.

“I haven’t such a thing, monsieur,” he replied, “but I can show you her desk, if you would care to look over it.”

They went into the boudoir, and François pointed out a small davenport finished with some delicate carving and with inlaid panels, a beautiful example of the cabinetmaker’s art. Lefarge seated himself before it and began to go through the papers it contained.

“Somebody’s been before us,” he said. “There’s precious little here.”

He produced a number of old receipted bills and circulars, with some unimportant letters and printed papers, but not a scrap in Madame’s handwriting could he discover.

Suddenly François gave an exclamation.

“I believe I can get you what you want, messieurs, if you will wait a moment.”

“Yes,” he said, as he returned a few seconds later, “this will perhaps do. It was framed in the servants’ hall.”

It was a short document giving the work of the different servants, their hours of duty, and other similar information, and was written in the hand, so far as the detectives could recollect, of the letter of farewell to M. Boirac. Lefarge put it away carefully in his notebook.

“Now let us see Madame’s room.”

They examined the bedroom, looking particularly for old letters, but without success. Next they interviewed the other servants, also fruitlessly.

“All we want now,” said Lefarge to the old butler, “is a list of the guests at that dinner, or at least some of them.”

“I can tell you, I think, all of them, monsieur,” returned François, and Lefarge noted the names in his book.

“What time is M. Boirac likely to return?” asked Burnley, when they had finished.

“He should have been here before this, monsieur. He generally gets back by half-past six.”

It was now nearly seven, and, as they waited, they heard his latchkey in the door.

“Ah, messieurs,” he greeted them, “so you are here already. Any luck?”

“No luck so far, M. Boirac,” replied Lefarge, continuing after a pause: “There is a point on which we should be obliged for some information, monsieur. It is about this marble group.”

“Yes?”

“Could you tell us the circumstances under which you got it, and of its arrival here?”

“Certainly. I am a collector of such articles, as you must have noticed. Some time ago, in passing Dupierre’s in the Boulevard des Capucines, I saw that group and admired it greatly. After some hesitation I ordered it and it arrived⁠—I believe it was the very day of⁠—of the dinner-party, either that or the day before⁠—I am not positive. I had the cask containing it brought into the study to unpack myself⁠—I always enjoy unpacking a new purchase⁠—but I was so upset by what had happened I hadn’t much heart in doing so. However, on the following Monday evening, to try and distract my thoughts, I did unpack it, and there you see the result.”

“Can you tell me, monsieur,” asked Burnley, “was M. Felix also interested in such things?”

“He was. He is an artist and painting is therefore his specialty, but he had a good knowledge of sculpture also.”

“He wasn’t interested in that particular group, I suppose?”

“Well, I can hardly tell you that. I told him about it and described it to him, but, of course, so far as I am aware he had not seen it.”

“Did you happen to mention the price?”

“I did, fourteen hundred francs. That was the thing he specially asked. That, and the shop at which I had bought it. He said he could not afford it then, but that at some time he might try and get another.”

“Well, I think that’s all we want to know. Our best thanks, M. Boirac.”

“Good evening, messieurs.”

They bowed themselves out, and, walking to the top of the Avenue, took the Metro to Concorde, from which they passed up the rue Castiglione to the Grands Boulevards to dine and spend the time until they were due back at the Sûreté.

XVI Inspector Burnley Up Against It

At nine o’clock that evening the usual meeting was held in the Chief’s room at the Sûreté.

“I also have had some news,” said M. Chauvet, when he had heard Burnley’s and Lefarge’s reports. “I sent a man up to that pump manufactory and he found out enough to substantiate entirely Boirac’s statement of the hours at which he arrived there and left on the night of the accident. There is also a despatch from Scotland Yard. On receipt of Mr. Burnley’s wire immediate inquiries were made about the cask sent by Havre and Southampton. It appears it arrived all right at Waterloo on the morning after it was despatched from here. It was booked through, as you know, to an address near Tottenham Court Road, and the railway people would in the ordinary course have delivered it by one of their lorries. But just as it was being removed from the van of the train, a man stepped forward and claimed it, saying he was the consignee, that he wished to take it to another address, and that he had a cart and man there for the purpose. He was a man of about medium height, with dark hair and