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

with a charwoman to come in the mornings and make my breakfast. This woman had acted in a similar capacity before. I myself was taking a week’s holidays, and each day I passed in the same manner. I got up about half-past seven, had breakfast, and went to my studio to paint. The charwoman went home after breakfast, and I got my own lunch. Then I painted again in the afternoon, and in the evening went into town for dinner and usually, but not always, a theatre. I generally got back between eleven and twelve. On Saturday, instead of painting all day, I went into town and arranged about meeting the cask.”

“Then at ten o’clock on Wednesday you were painting in your studio?”

“That is so, but why that day and hour?”

“I will tell you later. Now, can you prove that? Did anyone call in the studio, or see you there?”

“No one, I’m afraid.”

“What about the charwoman? What is her name, by the way?”

“Mrs. Bridget Murphy. No, I don’t think she could tell where I was. You see, I practically did not see her at all. My breakfast was ready when I came down, and when I had finished I went direct to the studio. I don’t know when she went home, but I should think it was fairly early.”

“What time did you breakfast?”

“Eight nominally, but I wasn’t always very punctual.”

“Do you remember, and have you any way of proving, what time you had breakfast on this particular Wednesday?”

Felix thought over the question.

“No,” he answered, “I don’t think so. There was nothing to distinguish that morning from the others.”

“The point is important. Perhaps Mrs. Murphy would remember?”

“Possibly, but I hardly think so.”

“No one else could prove it? Were there no callers? No tradesmen’s messengers?”

“None. One or two people rang, but I didn’t bother. I was expecting no one, and I just let them ring.”

“An unfortunate omission. Now, tell me, where did you dine in town and spend the evenings?”

“I’m afraid a different restaurant each night, and naturally a different theatre.”

By dint of further questions Clifford obtained a list of all the places his client had visited during the week, his intention being to go round them in turn in search of material to build up an alibi. He was very disappointed with all he had heard, and the difficulties of his task seemed to be growing. He continued this examination.

“Now, this typewritten letter, signed Le Gautier. Did you believe it was genuine?”

“I did. I thought the whole thing absurd and annoying, but I did not doubt it. You see, I had actually entered for the lottery with Le Gautier, and fifty thousand francs was the sum we would have made, had we been lucky. I did think at first it was a practical joke on Le Gautier’s part, but he is not that kind of man, and I at last concluded it was genuine.”

“Did you write or wire to Le Gautier?”

“No. I got the letter late one evening on my return home. It was too late to do anything then, but I intended to wire next morning that I would go over, and not to send the cask. But next morning’s post brought a card, also typewritten, and signed ‘Le Gautier,’ saying the cask had actually been despatched. I forgot to mention that in my statement.”

Clifford nodded and again referred to his notes.

“Did you write a letter to Messrs. Dupierre of Paris, ordering a statue to be sent to you, to the West Jubb Street address?”

“No.”

“Do you recollect the blotter on your study desk at St. Malo?”

“Why, yes,” returned Felix, with a look of surprise.

“Did you ever let that blotter out of your possession?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Did you ever take it to France?”

“Never.”

“Then how, Mr. Felix,” asked the lawyer slowly, “how do you account for the fact that the blotted impression of such a letter, in your handwriting, was found on the blotter?”

Felix sprang to his feet.

“What?” he cried. “What’s that you say? A letter in my handwriting? I don’t believe it! It’s impossible!”

“I have seen it.”

“You have seen it?” The speaker moved excitedly about the cell, gesticulating freely. “Really, Mr. Clifford, this is too much. I tell you I wrote no such letter. You are making a mistake.”

“I assure you, Mr. Felix, I am making no mistake. I saw not only the impression on your pad, but also the original letter itself, which had been received by Messrs. Dupierre.”

Felix sat down and passed his hand across his brow, as if dazed.

“I cannot understand it. You can’t have seen a letter from me, because no such exists. What you saw must have been a forgery.”

“But the impression on the blotter?”

“Good Heavens, how do I know? I tell you I know nothing about it. See here,” he added, with a change of tone, “there’s some trick in it. When you say you’ve seen these things I’m bound to believe you. But there’s a trick. There must be.”

“Then,” said Clifford, “if so, and I’m inclined to agree with you, who carried out the trick? Someone must have had access to your study, either to write the letter there, or to abstract your blotter or a page of it which could afterwards be replaced. Who could that have been?”

“I don’t know. Nobody⁠—or anybody. I can think of no one who would do such a thing. When was the letter written?”

“It was received by Dupierre on Tuesday morning, 30th March. It bore a London postmark, therefore it must have been posted on Sunday night or Monday. That would be either the day or the day after you returned to London, after the dinner.”

“Anyone could have got into the house while I was away. If what you say is true, someone must have, but I saw no traces.”

“Now, Mr. Felix, who is Emmie?”

Felix stared.

“Emmie?” he said. “I don’t understand. Emmie what?”

Clifford watched the other keenly as he replied⁠—

“Your heartbroken Emmie.”

“My dear Mr. Clifford, I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about. ‘Your heartbroken Emmie?’ What under the sun do you mean?”

“It should be