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

clear enough, Mr. Felix. Who was the girl that wrote to you recently imploring you not to desert her, and who signed herself, ‘Your heartbroken Emmie’?”

Felix gazed at his visitor in amazement.

“Either you’re mad or I’m mad,” he said slowly. “I have had no letter from any girl asking me not to desert her, and I have had no letter on any subject from anyone signing herself Emmie. Really, I think you might explain yourself.”

“Now tell me something else, Mr. Felix. You possess, I understand, two navy-blue suits?”

The astonishment on the artist’s face did not lessen as he assented.

“I want to know now when you last wore each of those suits.”

“As it happens, I can tell you. One of them I wore on my Paris trip and again on the following Saturday when I went to town to arrange about the cask, as well as on the Monday and following days till I went to hospital. I am wearing it today. The other blue suit is an old one, and I have not had it on for months.”

“I’ll tell you now why I ask. In the coat pocket of one of your blue suits, evidently, from what you tell me, the old one, was found a letter beginning, ‘My dearest Léon,’ and ending, ‘Your heartbroken Emmie,’ and in it the writer said⁠—but here I have a copy of it, and you may read it.”

The artist looked over the paper as if in a dream. Then he turned to the other.

“I can assure you, Mr. Clifford,” he said earnestly, “that I am as much in the dark as you about this. It is not my letter. I never saw it before. I never heard of Emmie. The whole thing is an invention. How it got into my pocket I cannot explain, but I tell you positively I am absolutely ignorant of the whole thing.”

Clifford nodded.

“Very good. Now there is only one other thing I want to ask you. Do you know the round-backed, leather-covered armchair which stood before the plush curtain in your study?”

“Yes.”

“Think carefully, and tell me who was the last lady to occupy it.”

“That doesn’t require much thought. No lady has ever sat in it since I bought it. Very few ladies have been in St. Malo since I took it, and these without exception were interested in art and were in the studio only.”

“Now, don’t be annoyed, Mr. Felix, when I ask you once more, did Madame Boirac ever sit in that chair?”

“I give you my solemn word of honour she never did. She was never in the house, and I believe I am right in saying she was never in London.”

The lawyer nodded.

“Now I have another unpleasant thing to tell you. Caught in the hem of that curtain and hidden by the chair, a pin was found⁠—a diamond safety pin. That pin, Mr. Felix, was attached to the shoulder of Madame Boirac’s dress on the night of the dinner party.”

Felix, unable to speak, sat staring helplessly at the lawyer. His face had gone white, and an expression of horror dawned in his eyes. There was silence in the dull, cheerless cell, whose walls had heard so many tales of misery and suffering. Clifford, watching his client keenly, felt the doubts which had been partly lulled to rest, again rising. Was the man acting? If so, he was doing it extraordinarily well, but.⁠ ⁠… At last Felix moved.

“My God!” he whispered hoarsely. “It’s a nightmare! I feel helpless. I am in a net, and it is drawing close round me. What does it mean, Mr. Clifford? Who has done this thing? I didn’t know anyone hated me, but someone must.” He made a gesture of despair. “I’m done for. What can help me after that? Can you see any hope, Mr. Clifford? Tell me.”

But whatever doubts the lawyer felt he kept to himself.

“It is too soon to come to any conclusion,” he answered in a matter-of-fact tone. “In cases of difficulty such as this, I have frequently known some small fact to come out, perhaps accidentally, which has cleared up the whole affair. You must not despair. We are only at the beginning. Wait for a week or two, and then I’ll tell you what I think.”

“Bless you, Mr. Clifford. You put heart into me. But this matter of the pin. What can it mean? There is some terrible conspiracy against me. Can it ever be unravelled?”

The lawyer arose.

“That’s what we have to try and do, Mr. Felix. I’m afraid I must be off now. Do as I say, keep up your heart, and if you can think of any evidence supporting your statements, let me know.”

Having shaken hands, Mr. Clifford withdrew.

XXIII Clifford Gets to Work

When Clifford had finished dinner that evening, he went to his study, and drawing a large armchair up to the fire, for the evenings were still cold, he lit a cigar and composed himself to master the details of his new case. To say that he was disappointed with Felix’s statement would not be to give a true indication of his state of mind. He was woefully chagrined. He had hoped and expected that his client would tell him something that would instantly indicate the line the defence should take, and instead of that he was puzzled to know where any defence at all was to come from.

And the more he thought over it, the worse the outlook seemed. He went over the facts in order, marshalling them in his mind and weighing the bearing of each on the question of Felix’s innocence or guilt.

There was first of all the fundamental question of what had taken place in the house in the Avenue de l’Alma between 11:00 p.m. and 1:15 a.m. on the night of the dinner party. At 11:00 Annette Boirac was alive and well; at 1:15 she had disappeared. Felix was the last person, so far as was known, to see her alive, and it was not unreasonable to have expected him to have thrown some light on her fate. But