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

this company from August, 1910, till 5th April, 1912, during which time she gave every satisfaction to me and my chief clerk. She proved herself diligent and painstaking, thoroughly competent in her work, and of excellent manners and conduct. She leaves the firm through no fault of her own, but because we are reducing staff. I regret her loss and have every confidence in recommending her to those needing her services.

“(Signed) Raoul Boirac, Managing Director.”

“An excellent testimonial, mademoiselle,” La Touche commented. “Pray excuse me for just a moment.”

He stepped into the adjoining bedroom and closed the door. Then taking a sample of Boirac’s writing from his pocketbook, he compared the signature with that of the testimonial. After a careful scrutiny he was satisfied the latter was genuine. He returned to the girl and handed her the document.

“Thank you, mademoiselle. Now, can you recall one other point? Did you, within the last three or four weeks, type a letter about some rather unusual matters⁠—about someone winning a lot of money in the State Lottery and about sending this packed in a cask to England?”

“Never, monsieur,” asserted the typist, evidently completely puzzled by the questions she was being asked. La Touche watched her keenly and was satisfied she had no suspicion that his business was other than he had said. But he was nothing if not thorough, and his thoroughness drove him to make provision for suspicions which might arise later. He therefore went on to question her about the No. 7 machine, asking whether she had ever noticed it had been tampered with, and finally saying that he believed there must have been a mistake and that the machine they had discussed was not that in which he was interested. Then, after obtaining her address, he handed her the hundred francs, which, after a protest, she finally accepted.

“Now, not a word to anyone, if you please, mademoiselle,” he concluded, as they parted.

His discoveries, to say the least of it, were becoming interesting. If Mlle. Lambert’s story was true⁠—and he was strongly disposed to believe her⁠—M. Boirac had acted in a way that required some explanation. His finding fault with the typist did not seem genuine. In fact, to La Touche it looked as if the whole episode had been arranged to provide an excuse for getting rid of the typewriter. Again, the manufacturer’s dismissal of his typist at a day’s notice was not explained by his statement that he was about to reorganise his office. Had that been true he would have allowed her to work her month’s notice, and, even more obviously, he would not have immediately engaged her successor. As La Touche paid his bill at the hotel he decided that though there might be nothing in his suspicions, the matter was well worth further investigation. He therefore called a taxi and was driven to the Remington typewriter depot.

“I want,” he said to the salesman who came forward, “to buy a secondhand machine. Can you let me see some?”

“Certainly, monsieur. Will you step this way?”

They went to a room at the back of the building where were stored a vast assemblage of typewriters of all sizes and in all states of repair. La Touche, inquiring as to prices and models, moved slowly about, running his quick eye over the machines, looking always for one with a twisted S-key. But, search as he would, he could not find what he wanted. Nor could he find any No. 7’s. These machines were all more modern.

He turned at last to the shopman.

“These are all rather expensive for me. I should explain that I am the principal of a commercial school, and I merely want a machine on which beginners could learn the keys. Any old thing would do, if I could get it cheap. Have you any older machines?”

“Certainly, monsieur, we have several quite good No. 7’s and a few No. 5’s. Come this way, please.”

They went to a room devoted to more antiquated specimens. Here La Touche continued his investigations, searching always for the twisted S.

At last he saw it. Not only was the letter turned to the right, but on the side plate were the three scratches mentioned by Mlle. Lambert.

“I think that one would suit,” he said. “Could you get it down and let me have a look at it?”

He went through the pretence of examining it with care.

“Yes,” he said, “this will do if it works all right. I should like to try it.”

He put in a sheet of paper and typed a few words. Then, drawing out his work, he examined the letters and alignment.

As he looked at it even his long experience scarcely prevented him giving a cry of triumph. For, to the best of his belief, this was the machine on which the Le Gautier letter had been typed!

He turned again to the shopman.

“That seems all right,” he said. “I’ll take the machine, please.”

He paid for it and obtained a receipt. Then he asked to see the manager.

“I’m going to ask you, monsieur,” he said, when he had drawn that gentleman aside, “to do me a rather unusual favour. I have just bought this machine, and I want you to see it before I take it away, and, if you will be so kind, to give me some information about it. I shall tell you in confidence why I ask. I am a detective, employed on behalf of a man charged with a serious crime, but who I believe is innocent. A certain letter, on the authorship of which his guilt largely depends, was written, if I am not mistaken, on this machine. You will forgive me if I do not go into all the particulars. An adequate identification of the typewriter is obviously essential. I would therefore ask you if you would be kind enough to put a private mark on it. Also, if you would tell me how it came into your possession, I should be more than obliged.”

“I shall do what you ask with pleasure, monsieur,”