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

the Place de la Monnaie. The box office of the theatre was open, and he interviewed the clerk, learning that Berlioz’s Les Troyens was given on the Wednesday night in question, as stated by M. Boirac. But a search for that gentleman’s name through the list of that evening’s bookings was unproductive, though, as the clerk pointed out, this did not mean that he was not present, but only that he had not reserved a seat.

Lefarge’s next visit was to be the Hôtel Maximilian. It was a large modern building occupying a complete block of the Boulevard Waterloo, not far from the Porte Louise. A polite clerk came to the bureau window to attend to him.

“I am expecting to meet a M. Boirac here,” Lefarge began. “Can you tell me if he is in the hotel?”

“M. Boirac?” repeated the clerk, doubtfully, “I do not think we have anyone of that name here at present.” He turned over a card index on the desk. “No, monsieur, he has not come yet.”

Lefarge took out a photograph.

“That is he,” he said, “a M. Raoul Boirac, of Paris.”

“Oh, to be sure,” returned the clerk, “I know that gentleman. He has frequently stayed with us, but he is not here at present.”

The detective began to turn over the leaves of his pocketbook as if looking for something.

“I hope I haven’t made a mistake in the date,” he said. “He wasn’t here recently by any chance, was he?”

“He was here, monsieur, quite lately⁠—last week in fact. He spent one night.”

Lefarge made a gesture of annoyance.

“I’ve missed him!” he exclaimed. “As sure as fate I’ve missed him. Can you tell me what night he was here?”

“Certainly, monsieur.” He turned up some papers. “He was here on Wednesday night, the 31st March.”

“I’ve missed him. Now, isn’t that too bad? I must have mistaken the date.” The detective stood apparently considering.

“Did he mention my name⁠—Pascal, Jules Pascal?”

The clerk shook his head.

“Not to me, monsieur.”

Lefarge continued, as if to himself:⁠—

“He must have come through from Paris that night.” And then to the clerk: “You don’t remember, I suppose, what time he arrived?”

“Yes, I do. It was late in the evening, about eleven, I should think.”

“Rather a chance coming at that hour, wasn’t it? He might easily have found you full?”

“Oh, he had reserved his room. Earlier in the evening he telephoned up from a restaurant in the Boulevard Anspach that he was coming.”

“Was that before five? I was to meet him about five.”

“Not so early, I think. More like half-past seven or even eight, as well as I can remember.”

“Well, I can’t understand it at all. But I mustn’t be wasting your time. I’ll write a note and, if he should turn up again, perhaps you would be kind enough to give it to him? I’m much obliged to you, I’m sure.”

Lefarge was an artist in his profession. He never made an impersonation without carrying through the details in the most thorough manner possible. He therefore wrote a note to M. Boirac in an assumed hand, regretting having missed him and carefully explaining some quite imaginary business. Having signed it “Jules Pascal” with a flourish, and left it with the clerk, he took his leave.

As he passed out of the Boulevard Waterloo to return to the old town, the clocks were striking six. He had completed his errand and he was tired, though well satisfied with its result. He would rest in a picture house for an hour or two, then have a leisurely dinner and catch the midnight train for Paris.

Sitting over his coffee in a quiet corner of one of the large restaurants in the Boulevard du Nord, he reviewed once more M. Boirac’s statement, ticking off in his mind the various items he had been able to check. On Saturday night Madame had disappeared. On Sunday and Sunday night Boirac was at his home. Monday he spent at his office, and that night he was again at home. On that same Monday evening he had unpacked the statue from the cask. Tuesday morning saw him in his office at the usual hour, but he had left again between nine o’clock and half-past. About 1:30 that same day he had lunched at Charenton, and shortly after 2:30 had telephoned to François and to his office. François had taken his bag to the Gare du Nord about 3:30, and Boirac had got it from there, as he had brought it back with him from Belgium. He had telephoned to the Hôtel Maximilian about 7:30 or 8:00 on the Wednesday, and had slept there that night. Next day he had returned to Paris, reaching his house in the evening. Further, it was true that his brother lived at Malines and that his house had been shut up on the Wednesday in question, also that Berlioz’s Les Troyens was given on the night he said.

So much was absolute bedrock fact, proved beyond any doubt or question. Lefarge then turned his mind to the portions of Boirac’s statement which he had not been able to verify.

He could not tell whether the manufacturer had walked in the Bois de Vincennes before lunching at Charenton, nor if he had gone up the Seine after it. He could not trace his having dined in any of the cafés of the Place de la Bastille. He had not proved that he went to Malines or called at his brother’s house, nor did he know if he had been present at the opera in Brussels.

As he considered the matter, he came to the conclusion that in the nature of things he could hardly have expected to confirm these points, and he also decided they were not essential to the statement. All the essentials⁠—Boirac’s presence at Charenton and in Brussels⁠—particularly in Brussels⁠—he had proved up to the hilt. He therefore came to the deliberate conclusion that the pump manufacturer’s statement was true. And if it was true M. Boirac was innocent of the murder, and if he was innocent⁠—Felix⁠ ⁠…

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