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

“I’m really very sorry, monsieur, but I don’t think there is. The captain, or one of the officers, might know him; I could not say.”

“Well, just one other question, monsieur. Was he travelling alone?”

“I think so. No, wait a minute, was he? I believe, now that you mention it, there was a lady with him. You will understand I was not noticing particularly, as my mind was occupied with my work, but it’s like a dream to me, I saw him talking to a lady on the promenade deck.”

“You could not describe her?”

“I could not, monsieur. I cannot be even positive she was there at all.”

Seeing there was nothing further to be learnt, they thanked the chief steward courteously. Then, remaining on board, they interviewed everyone they could find, whom they thought might be able to give them information. Of all they spoke to, only one, a waiter, knew Felix, and he had not seen him on the occasion in question.

“That’s no good, I’m afraid,” said Burnley, as they walked to an hotel. “I believe that steward did see a woman, but he would be useless as a witness.”

“Quite. I don’t fancy you’ll get much at Folkestone either.”

“Most unlikely, I should say, but I can but try. I think I’ll probably run up to Glasgow and see that man that travelled in the bus with him. He might know something.

“If not, I’ll see the other⁠—the one who lives in Marseilles.”

A few minutes before twelve next day saw the detectives strolling along the wharf beside the English boat.

“Well,” said Lefarge, “our ways part here. There is no use in my going to Folkestone, and I’ll take the 2:12 back to Paris. We have had a pleasant inquiry, and I’m only sorry we have not had a more definite result.”

“We’re not done with it yet,” returned the Englishman. “I expect we’ll get it pretty square before we stop. But I’m really sorry to say ‘Goodbye,’ and I hope we may be working together again before long.”

They parted with mutual assurances of goodwill, Burnley expressing his appreciation of the kindly treatment he had received in Paris, and Lefarge inviting him back to spend his next holidays in the gay capital.

We may accompany Lefarge on his return journey to Paris, and follow him as he endeavours to trace the movements of M. Boirac from the Saturday night of the dinner-party to the following Thursday evening, when the cask containing the body was despatched to London from the State Railway goods station in the rue Cardinet.

He reached the Gare du Nord at 5:45 p.m., and immediately drove to the Sûreté. M. Chauvet was in his office, and Lefarge reported his movements since they parted.

“I had a telephone call from Scotland Yard yesterday,” said the Chief. “It seems Boirac turned up at eleven as arranged. He definitely identified the body as that of his wife, so that point is settled.”

“Has he returned yet, do you know, monsieur?”

“I have not heard. Why do you ask?”

“I thought if he was still away I might take the opportunity of pumping François about his movements since the murder.”

“A good idea. We can find out at once.”

M. Chauvet turned over the pages of his telephone directory and, having found what he wanted, gave a call.

“Hallo? Is that M. Boirac’s?⁠—Is M. Boirac at home?⁠—About seven o’clock? Ah, thank you. I’ll ring up again later.⁠—No, don’t mind. It’s of no consequence.”

He replaced the receiver.

“He’s crossing by the 11:00 from Charing Cross, and will be home about seven. If you were to call about half-past six, which is the hour at which he usually returns, your visit would not be suspicious, and you could have a chat with François.”

“I shall do that, monsieur,” and with a bow the detective withdrew.

The clocks had just finished chiming the half-hour after six when Lefarge presented himself at the house in the Avenue de l’Alma. François opened the door.

“Good evening, M. François. Is M. Boirac at home?”

“Not yet, monsieur. We expect him in about half an hour. Will you come in and wait?”

Lefarge seemed to consider, and then⁠—

“Thanks. I think I will.”

The butler preceded him to the small sitting-room into which he had shown the two detectives on their first call.

“I heard at the Sûreté that M. Boirac had gone to London to identify the body. You don’t know, I suppose, if he was able to do so?”

“No, monsieur. I knew he had gone to London, but I did not know for what purpose.”

The detective settled himself in a comfortable chair and took out a cigarette case.

“Try one of these. They’re special Brazilian cigarettes. I suppose we may smoke here?”

“Certainly, monsieur. I thank you.”

“It’s a long way over from London. I don’t envy Monsieur his journey. You’ve been, I suppose, monsieur?”

“Twice, monsieur.”

“Once is all right to see the place, but after that⁠—no, thank you. But I suppose M. Boirac is used to it? They say you can get used to anything.”

“I should think he must be. He travels a lot. London, Brussels, Berlin, Vienna⁠—he had been at them all to my knowledge in the last two years.”

“I’m glad it’s he and not I. But I should think this unhappy event would take away his love for travelling. I should imagine he would want to stay quiet in his own home and see no one. What do you think, M. François?”

“Well, he hasn’t anyway, or else he can’t help himself. This is the second journey he’s made since then.”

“You surprise me. Or rather, no, you don’t. I suppose we shouldn’t be talking about what doesn’t concern us, but I would be willing to lay a napoleon I could tell you where the first journey was to and what it was for. It was to see the Wilson Test. Am I not right?”

“The Wilson Test, monsieur? What is that?”

“Have you never heard of the Wilson Test? Wilson is the head of a great firm of English pump manufacturers, and each year a reward of over 10,000 francs is offered by them for any pump