The de Bercy Affair. Tracy Louis

The de Bercy Affair

      CHAPTER I

      SOME PHASES OF THE PROBLEM

      CHIEF INSPECTOR WINTER sat in his private office at New Scotland Yard, while a constable in uniform, bare-headed, stood near the door in the alert attitude of one who awaits the nod of a superior. Nevertheless, Mr. Winter, half-turning from a desk littered with documents, eyed the man as though he had just said something outrageous, something so opposed to the tenets of the Police Manual that the Chief Commissioner alone could deal with the offense.

      "Have you been to Mr. Furneaux's residence?" he snapped, nibbling one end of a mustache already clipped or chewed so short that his strong white teeth could barely seize one refractory bristle.

      "Yes, sir."

      "Have you telephoned to any of the district stations?"

      "Oh, yes, sir – to Vine Street, Marlborough Street, Cannon Row, Tottenham Court Road, and half-a-dozen others."

      "No news of Mr. Furneaux anywhere? The earth must have opened and swallowed him!"

      "The station-sergeant at Finchley Road thought he saw Mr. Furneaux jump on to a 'bus at St. John's Wood about six o'clock yesterday evening, sir; but he could not be sure."

      "No, he wouldn't. I know that station-sergeant. He is a fat-head… When did you telegraph to Kenterstone?"

      "At 6.30, sir."

      Mr. Winter whisked a pink telegraphic slip from off the blotting-pad, and read:

      Inspector Furneaux not here to my knowledge.

      Police Superintendent, Kenterstone.

      "Another legal quibbler – fat, too, I'll be bound," he growled. Then he laughed a little in a vein of irritated perplexity, and said:

      "Thank you, Johnson. You, at least, seem to have done everything possible. Try again in the morning. I must see Mr. Furneaux at the earliest moment! Kindly bring me the latest editions of the evening papers, and, by the way, help yourself to a cigar."

      The gift of a cigar was a sign of the great man's favor, and it was always an extraordinarily good one, of which none but himself knew the exact brand. Left alone for a few minutes, he glanced through a written telephone message which he had thrust under the blotting-pad when Police Constable Johnson had entered. It was from Paris, and announced that two notorious Anarchists were en route to England by the afternoon train, due at Charing Cross at 9.15 p.m.

      "Anarchists!" growled the Chief Inspector – "Pooh! Antoine Descartes and Émile Janoc – Soho for them – absinthe and French cigarettes – green and black poison. Poor devils! they will do themselves more harm than his Imperial Majesty. Now, where the deuce is Furneaux? This Feldisham Mansions affair is just in his line – Clarke will ruin it."

      Johnson came back with a batch of evening papers. Understanding his duties – above all, understanding Mr. Winter – he placed them on the table, saluted, and withdrew without a word. Soon the floor was littered with discarded news-sheets, those quick-moving eyes ever seeking one definite item – "The Murder in the West End – Latest" – or some such headline, and once only was his attention held by a double-leaded paragraph at the top of a column:

      A correspondent writes: – "I saw the deceased lady in company with a certain popular American millionaire at the International Horse Show in June, and was struck by her remarkable resemblance to a girl of great beauty resident in Jersey some eight years ago. The then village maid was elected Rose Queen at a rural fête, I photographed her, and comparison of the photograph with the portrait of Mademoiselle de Bercy exhibited in this year's Academy served to confirm me in my opinion that she and the Jersey Rose Queen were one and the same person. I may add that my accidental discovery was made long before the commission of the shocking crime of yesterday."

      Under present circumstances, of course, we withhold from publication the name of the Jersey Rose Queen, but the line of inquiry thus indicated may prove illuminative should there be any doubt as to the earlier history of the hapless lady whose lively wit and personal charm have brought London society to her feet since she left the Paris stage last year.

      Winter did not hurry. Tucking the cigar comfortably into a corner of his mouth, he read each sentence with a quiet deliberation; then he sought a telephone number among the editorial announcements, and soon was speaking into a transmitter.

      "Is that the Daily Gazette?.. Put me on to the editorial department, please… That you, Arbuthnot? Well, I'm Winter, of Scotland Yard. Your evening edition, referring to the Feldisham Mansions tragedy, contains an item… Oh, you expected to hear from me, did you? Well, what is the lady's name, and who is your correspondent?.. What? Spell it. A-r-m-a-u-d. All right; if you feel you must write to the man first, save time by asking him to send me the photograph. I will pass it on to you exclusively, of course. Thanks. Good-by."

      Before the receiver was on its hook, the Chief Inspector was taking a notebook from his breast pocket, and he made the following entry:

      Mirabel Armaud, Rose Queen, village near St. Heliers, summer of 1900.

      A knock sounded on the door.

      "Oh, if this could only be Furneaux!" groaned Winter. "Come in! Ah! Glad to see you, Mr. Clarke. I was hoping you would turn up. Any news?"

      "Nothing much, sir – that is to say, nothing really definite. The maid-servant is still delirious, and keeps on screaming out that Mr. Osborne killed her mistress. I am beginning to believe there is something in it – "

      Winter's prominent steel blue eyes dwelt on Clarke musingly.

      "But haven't we the clearest testimony as to Osborne's movements?" he asked. "He quitted Miss de Bercy's flat at 6.25, drove in his motor to the Ritz, attended a committee meeting of the International Polo Club at 6.30, occupied the chair, dined with the committee, and they all went to the Empire at nine o'clock. Unless a chauffeur, a hall-porter, a head-waiter, two under-waiters, five polo celebrities, a box-office clerk, and several other persons, are mixed up in an amazing conspiracy to shield Mr. Rupert Osborne, he certainly could not have murdered a woman who was alive in Feldisham Mansions at half-past seven."

      Clarke pursed his lips sagely. As a study in opposites, no two men could manifest more contrasts. Clarke might have had the words "Detective Inspector" branded on his forehead: his features sharp, cadaverous, eyes deep-set and suspicious, his nose and chin inquisitive, his lips fixed as a rat-trap. Wide cheek-bones, low-placed ears, and narrow brows gave him a sinister aspect. In his own special department, the hunting out of "confidence men," card-sharpers, and similar hawklike pluckers of the provincial pigeon fluttering through London's streets, he was unrivaled. But Winter more resembled an intellectual prizefighter than the typical detective of fiction. His round head, cropped hair, wide-open eyes, joined to a powerful physique and singular alertness of glance and movement, suggested that he varied the healthy monotony of a gentleman farmer's life by attendance at the National Sporting Club and other haunts of pugilism. A terror to wrongdoers, he was never disliked by them, whereas Clarke was hated. In a word, Winter was a sharp brain, Clarke a sharp nose, and that is why Winter groaned inwardly at being compelled to intrust the Feldisham Mansions crime to Clarke.

      "What is your theory of this affair?" he said, rather by way of making conversation than from any hope of being enlightened.

      "It is simple enough," said Clarke, his solemn glance resting for a moment on the box of cigars. Winter nodded in the same direction. His cigars were sometimes burnt offerings as well as rewards.

      "Light up," he said, "and tell me what you think."

      "Mademoiselle de Bercy was killed by either a disappointed lover or a discarded husband. All these foreign actresses marry early, but grow tired of matrimony within a year. If, then, there is no chance of upsetting Mr. Osborne's alibi, we must get the Paris police to look into Miss de Bercy's history. Her husband will probably turn out to be some third-rate actor or broken-down manager. Let us find him, and see if he is as sure of his whereabouts last evening as Mr. Rupert Osborne professes to be."

      "You seem to harp on Osborne's connection with the affair?"

      "And why not, sir?