Disappointment was the feeling uppermost in French’s mind after his call on Davenport. He had hoped to obtain proof that the painter was Barke’s murderer, but of this he had discovered no particle of evidence. Indeed, as he thought over the interview, he felt that he might eliminate Davenport from further consideration. Except for that first slight embarrassment—or was it fear?—the artist’s manner had been normal throughout. He had described his association with Buller and his cleaning of the pictures in a straightforward way, and there was no reason whatever to doubt his good faith.
But if he believed Davenport, the whole case he had been trying to build up as to the disappearance of Barke crashed to the ground. If Davenport were an honest man the pictures had been cleaned and not copied, and there was therefore no reason why either he or Buller should be interested in Barke’s silence.
And yet French had felt an instinctive distrust of the man. He could not tell why, nor could he recall any specific look or gesture which had given the suspicion birth. He reminded himself that such a feeling was not evidence and that his reason rather than his emotions must be his guide. Yet he could not but remember that on previous occasions similar impressions had not always proved at fault.
In the end this fact, together with the more pressing consideration that Davenport was his last hope, decided him to put through two more inquiries before coming to a final conclusion. He wired the American police to know if they could trace the artist, and he called on Betty Stanton in the hope that she had met him and to learn her views.
Betty seemed glad to see him and began by asking about his progress. ‘It’s now twelve days since Mr Barke disappeared,’ she said earnestly. ‘Do you think there’s any hope that he may still be alive?’
French did his best to reassure her on those familiar lines which, however well meant, never convince. She smiled in a sickly way and drew her own conclusions.
‘Did you ever hear, Mrs Stanton,’ French went on in due course, ‘of an artist named Davenport?’
‘Yes, of course. He crossed on the Nicarian with Sir Geoffrey, at least so I heard, and he came to lunch one day at Forde.’
‘Were you aware that it was he who had cleaned the pictures?’ Betty’s face registered unqualified surprise. ‘You don’t say so!’ she exclaimed. ‘I had no idea of it.’
‘I can see that,’ French returned with a chuckle. ‘I have therefore wondered whether, since Mr Barke was interested in the cleaning of pictures, the two men had ever come into contact?’
‘Why not ask Mr Davenport?’
‘Naturally,’ French prevaricated. ‘But I should also like your views. You saw Mr Davenport at Forde, you say?’
Betty promptly told of his visit to the Manor. She did not feel called on to mention his sister Joan’s story about his conversation with Buller during the gale, but French’s systematic questioning soon brought it out.
This tale, together with the reply from America, which he received on the following day, made a deep impression on French. Davenport had been traced to Chicago. The Chief of Police in that city reported that he had lived there for six years prior to leaving for Europe some eleven months previously. He was, it was believed, an Englishman who had studied in Italy and Paris, and he had been employed by the Mayor of Chicago to paint a series of panels in the new city library. He had obtained this work in open competition, and had carried it out to the satisfaction of all concerned. Since then he had apparently lived by painting, having rented a studio in the suburbs. He was reputed to be a talented artist, but not to have been too successful financially.
Here it was that the Chief of Police inserted a sentence which interested French more than all that had gone before. ‘Davenport,’ he wrote, ‘was believed to be a close associate of that other man Scotland Yard recently inquired about, Geoffrey Buller.’
Then Mrs Stanton’s sister had been right and there was something between these two, something underhand which needed to be hidden! All French’s suspicions poured back in a flood. He could not now leave the affair as it was. He would have to know more, much more, about Davenport and his relations with the baronet.
The crucial question indeed was reopened: had Davenport murdered Barke in Paris? That must now be answered, and without possibility of error.
On reaching the Yard French dispatched a constable to Eglington Road, telling him to watch No. 27 and ring him up if Davenport went out. An hour later the summons came and French, with Sergeant Carter, hurried to the house.
When, as he had expected, he found there was no one in the studio, he went to the basement and asked to see the landlady, for the constable had found out that the house was not really divided into service flats, but into lodgers’ apartments attended by the owner. Mrs Maine was of the faded gentlewomen type and looked as if the cares of her calling had robbed her of all vitality. French felt that an exaggerated politeness would be his trump card.
He apologized for troubling her, explained who he was, and said he was looking for Mr Davenport in the hope of getting some information as to his whereabouts on 15 February last. ‘These motor accident cases are sometimes very troublesome,’ he added truthfully, if not with complete candour. As Mr Davenport appeared to be out and he didn’t want to have to come back, he wondered if she could possibly help him? Could she tell him if Mr Davenport was at home on the date in question?
Rather to his surprise, she said she could. Going to a fine old bureau, another relic of faded gentility, she opened an exercise book and slowly turned the pages.
‘That was a Friday, wasn’t it?’ she said tonelessly, and when French agreed, she went on. ‘I have to note comings and goings for making out my bills,’ She found a page. ‘Mr Davenport was away from home, so he can’t give you the information you want.’
French wondered what the information was which he was missing. However, she seemed quite satisfied about it, and went on automatically: ‘He went away on Thursday: to Paris, I think he said, and he wasn’t back till after eleven on Friday night.’
A thrill shot through French’s mind. Was this what he had been seeking since the case began? However, he was careful not to betray his jubilation. Thanking Mrs Maine gravely, he took his leave.
Now he and Carter took on themselves the role the constable had borne before their arrival. Strolling up and down Marylebone Road, they watched the end of Eglington Road. It was a considerable time since French had personally done such a job, and though he had lost none of his old cunning, he found his patience was not what it had been. Hanging about indeed grew so irksome, that he could scarcely force himself to remain.
Then, just two hours and ten minutes after he had left the house, he had his reward. He saw Davenport approaching Eglington Road from the opposite direction.
Quickly collecting Carter, who had been strolling about by himself, he walked to No. 27 and put up his hand as if to knock. Glancing round he recognized Davenport with evident surprise and lowered his hand.
‘Good evening, Mr Davenport. Sorry to trouble you, but I was just coming to ask you a question I overlooked yesterday. May we come up for a moment?’
‘Of course, Chief Inspector; though,’ he smiled slightly, ‘if you can think of any question you didn’t ask me yesterday, I’ll admit you’re a clever man.’
French smiled in his turn. ‘I hope I wasn’t as bad as that, sir,’ he protested. ‘But I defy anyone at a first interview to think of all the points that should be covered.’
‘No doubt,’ Davenport returned dryly, throwing open the door. ‘Won’t you come in?’
French kept up a rather inconsequent monologue until they had reached the studio and been accommodated with chairs. Then his manner became grave and official, while Carter ostentatiously produced his notebook.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said, ‘if my question is offensive to you, but I have to ask it, and I have to make it clear that you are not bound to answer it unless you like. In brief, it has been suggested to us that when in Paris on Friday, 15 inst., you met Mr Barke. I should like to ask if you would care to make any comment on this suggestion?’
Once again there flashed into the painter’s eyes that fleeting look which might have been fear. However he quickly registered indignation, though whether it was genuine or assumed French could not decide. ‘None!’ he answered angrily, ‘except that your informant is deliberately lying.’
‘You mean that you didn’t meet Mr Barke?’
‘Of course I mean it. Isn’t that what I say? Who told you such a tale?’
‘“Information received” is the phrase we use,’ French returned smoothly. ‘But you needn’t be upset, Mr Davenport. I’ve not suggested it was true. I’ve simply asked a question. And here’s another. Were you in Paris then, or is that equally false?’
‘No, that part of it’s true enough,’ Davenport answered more mildly. ‘I went over on the Thursday afternoon, and returned by the afternoon service on Friday.’
Then the man was definitely in Paris when Barke arrived. This would require careful handling. French settled down to it.
‘Thank you, sir,’ that’s very satisfactory. Now you must know that in possible murder cases we are forced to test all statements. It’s no reflection on you that we shall have to test this of yours. If you will kindly give us details of what you did on that Friday, particularly during the hour before you left Paris, I shall be grateful.’
Davenport for a moment looked daggers, but presently the expression changed. ‘I was going to say, “Why should I?” but after all I suppose you’ve the authority to ask these questions?’
‘No power to make you answer, sir. But of course a refusal would mean suspicions and a lot of unnecessary work. I hope you’ll save us that.’
Davenport shrugged. ‘I can’t complain of your attitude,’ he said judicially. ‘All the same, you leave me in a difficulty. My business was private, and if it were to become known it might injure me professionally to quite a considerable extent. You know. Before mentioning it I’ll want a guarantee that you’ll respect my confidence.’
‘I can only give you my word,’ French said with sinking heart. This looked as if Davenport’s business was unconnected with his own. ‘I promise that what you tell me will be kept secret, unless it is required as evidence in a criminal case.’
Davenport rubbed his hands. ‘I’ll accept that. The truth is that I wanted advice as to the treatment of that picture.’ He indicated with a gesture the Flinck on the easel. ‘Though it was one of lesser value than others of Sir Geoffrey’s, I still wanted to be sure that what I proposed was the best thing. You know. I took it to my old atelier and consulted my two former masters. It may interest you to know that my diagnosis and proposed treatment met with their approval.’
‘That’s certainly interesting, sir,’ French commented. ‘But I don’t understand your secrecy clause. Why do you think the knowledge that you asked for advice should damage you professionally?’
‘People would say I should have known what to do myself.’
‘I should have thought that a reputation for cautiousness would be even more valuable.’
‘I dare say, but experience has taught me otherwise.’
‘Was it your habit, sir, to consult these people about your cleanings?’
Davenport hesitated. ‘Yes and no,’ he presently returned. ‘I had done so on two previous occasions, but I did twelve other pictures on my own responsibility. You know. I only went over when I was in doubt, either as to the advisability of doing anything, or as to just what should be done.’
‘That’s very clear. Would you mind giving me your friends’ names?’
‘M. Gassot is the principal and M. Guérineau his partner. I consulted them both.’
‘And the atelier?’
‘The Atelier Voges in the rue des Écoles off the Boul’ Mich’.’
‘Thanks,’ said French as Carter made his notes. ‘And when did you see them?’
‘On Friday morning. As I told you I went over on Thursday afternoon. I stayed at the Hôtel du Maréchal Ney in the Boulevard Magenta. It’s rather a huge place, but it’s close to the station.’
‘The Gare du Nord?’
‘Yes. I went over to the atelier at—I don’t know exactly—between nine and ten.’
‘Quite, sir. And then?’
‘We spent a couple of hours discussing the thing and trying one or two experiments; you know. Then I brought the picture back and returned it to the management. I should explain that I had had it put in the hotel strong room the night before.’
‘And you lunched?’
‘I lunched at Les Quatre Plumes in the rue Royale. I had nothing to do, you know, and rather than stay in’ the hotel I strolled down to the restaurant. It’s a fashionable place, as you no doubt know, and the people are always worth looking at.’
French nodded. ‘I’ve been there,’ he declared. ‘Then after lunch?’
‘I don’t know that I can tell you—certainly not exactly. I wasn’t expecting to have to account for my every moment like this. You know. I had a leisurely lunch, strolled about for a bit—it was a day of bright sun and Paris was looking charming. But I was bothered with a rather nasty headache and I presently wandered back to the hotel, went up to my room and lay down on the bed till it was time to start for the station.’
‘Could you tell me when you reached and left the hotel?’
‘I’m afraid not. Perhaps though I could estimate it backwards. I had reserved a seat in the 4.25, so I didn’t go very early to the station. But I had plenty of time to stroll over to a bookstall and choose something to read and to take my place without hurrying. You know. I probably arrived with ten minutes in hand.’
‘Arrived at the station at 4.15. That would mean leaving the hotel—?’
‘It’s only a two or three minutes’ run, but what with waiting for the taxi and getting my picture and so on into it, I think you might say five or six minutes.’
‘Right. Left the hotel about 4.10. And you left your room?’
‘Oh, five or ten minutes before that. I rang down to have my picture ready, but I thought there might be a delay, so I came down a few minutes before it was time to start.’
‘Five, ten, fifteen? I’m sorry, sir, but all this is important.’
‘I appreciate the point,’ Davenport said dryly, rubbing his hands. ‘You mean that I might have been murdering Barke at this time? Well, so I might, I suppose, but I wasn’t.’
‘I am hoping that your statements may close the matter. Can you tell me approximately the hour at which you left your room?’
‘I can’t Chief Inspector. I estimate that I was in the hall about ten minutes, which would make it exactly four o’clock, but this is only an estimate and I can’t say exactly.’
French saw that if the man was guilty, this was all he would get, and if he were innocent it was all he could expect. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Now there’s the one other point. Can you estimate when you returned to the hotel? That is, how long you were in your room?’
Davenport remained silent for some moments. ‘About an hour,’ he said at last. ‘I think I returned shortly before three. But if it’s important I can tell you,’ he brightened up a little, ‘how you may be able to find out—though again I suppose it’s unlikely after so long. When I went into my room the chambermaid was there. She had made up the bed. I told her I was afraid I was going to disarrange it, as I wasn’t feeling well and I was going to lie down till my train. I gave her a few francs. You know. She may remember.’
‘Thank you,’ said French again. ‘That’s all, at last. If you’ll let me have a look at your passport, it’ll complete my business.’
The story, as he later considered it, struck French as satisfactory from Davenport’s point of view, but just the opposite from his own. It was eminently reasonable; in all probability it was what the man had done. Yet equally possibly it might be a partial invention. The question of Davenport’s guilt remained unsettled.
Certainty depended upon confirmation of the statement during that vital period between the arrival of Barke’s train at 3.48 and the departure of Davenport’s at 4.25. All the same, the more French thought over it, the less likely it seemed that Davenport would have had time to commit the murder. And not only the murder: the disposal of the body also. With unlimited time this latter would be difficult; surely in that available to Davenport it would have been utterly impossible?
Yet Davenport was his only suspect. French felt that he could not leave the matter in its present state. He must run over to Paris and check up on that last half-hour of Davenport’s stay.
Having reported to Sir Mortimer Ellison, French that night crossed the Channel and next morning was once again discussing the case over coffee with Inspector Dieulot of the Sûreté.
‘The affair,’ Dieulot summarized his own contribution with an expressive shrug, ‘It does not march.’
‘I’m not getting on too well myself,’ French admitted. ‘I have gone carefully into Barke’s life and I have rejected every solution but murder. Of possible murderers I could find only three: Lorrimer, the artist, Sir Geoffrey Buller, and this man Davenport. Lorrimer we jointly eliminated, Sir Geoffrey was definitely in England on the day in question, which leaves only Davenport. It’s to settle about Davenport that I’ve come over.’
Dieulot made sounds indicative of interest and desire to help. ‘I’m obviously concerned only with the thirty-seven minutes between Barke’s arrival at 3.48 and Davenport’s departure at 4.25,’ French concluded when he had repeated to the Frenchman Davenport’s statement.
Dieulot again expressed his interest. ‘Is it certain,’ he asked, ‘that these men they come and go at the times you say?’
‘Well,’ French answered, taking out his notebook, ‘let’s go into that. First Barke. On the Thursday Barke told his wife and the people in his house that he was crossing next morning to Paris on business. He packed his bag and started off next morning in time to catch the 9.00 from Victoria. He arrived at the Hôtel Vichy near the Place de Lafayette at a minute or two before four: just at the time arrivals by the English boat train were expected. In his suitcase you found his passport, stamped as having entered France at Boulogne on that day, Boulogne being the port of entry for that service. In the suitcase were various objects, such as bedroom slippers and a dressing gown which the maid at his house in London had seen there on the previous evening. He had given his name at the hotel and registered. Admittedly the name was hurriedly written, but then he had been in a hurry. What do you make of that?’
Dieulot shrugged. ‘It is just,’ he admitted with something of sadness in his tone.
‘As to Davenport,’ French continued, ‘we have yet to check his statement, but it is so easy to check that I’m assuming it must be true. He was in Paris on genuine business, and spent the morning of that Friday with two artists on the South Bank. He’d never dare to say that if it wasn’t true. Now when did he return to London? His hotel almost certainly will be able to check the train. He arrived at his flat in London shortly after eleven, just when that 4.25 train gets in.’
‘He wait here for two-three hours, cross then by air, and arrive at the flat as you say? Hein?’ Dieulot suggested.
‘No, he didn’t,’ French answered. ‘I’ve seen his passport. He went out of France on that date through Boulogne.’
‘In the end,’ Dieulot exclaimed with an impressive shrug, ‘that settles it. Only by taking the 16.25 could he pass that day through Boulogne.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
Dieulot shook his head with gravity. ‘Then, my friend, you think no longer of this Davenport. He is innocent of this crime.’
‘I’d like to be sure.’
‘Perfectly. See, monsieur, the affair arranges itself. Barke he comes to the Gare du Nord at 15.48, or as you say, 3.48 pee emm; the train it arrives that day, as you say, on the teek. He walks out, gets a taxi, drives to the Vichy, registers, has his little conversation about his appointment. Is it not? How long does that take him, think you?’
‘Ten to twelve minutes at the least.’
‘At the least,’ Dieulot emphasized. ‘Let us say twelve. That makes it just four o’clock when he leaves the hotel. Is it not?’
‘Correct,’ French nodded.
‘Then this other man, this Davenport, when would he leave his hotel, the Maréchal Ney?’
‘He said about ten minutes past four.’
‘Good. It could not be much later. But, say a quarter past. Now …’
‘Steady a moment,’ French intervened. ‘We’ve overlooked something. Davenport said that he came down from his room about four, or at least that he was in the reception hall for about ten minutes, waiting while his picture was being got out of the strong room.’
Dieulot threw up his hands in despair. ‘But that, it ends the affair!’ he cried. ‘When then could he have met this Barke? Why it take him five minutes to go from one hotel to the other. Is it not?’
‘I feel that too,’ French said despondently.
‘And if they meet, what about the murder? Hein? Does this Davenport shoot him there on the pavement? And the body? Does it vanish itself away into the air? No, my friend, you have not this time hit the oil. If this Davenport voyage at these hours, he is not, as you say, our man.’
French sighed. ‘I’m afraid you’re right. All the same, we must check the statement.’
‘Perfectly. When you like. I am at your disposal.’
After three strenuous hours, every checkable point of Davenport’s story had been checked. He had visited the Atelier Voges and consulted Messrs Gassot and Guérineau on the cleaning of the Flinck. He had returned to the Maréchal Ney between twelve and one, and asked that his picture should again be placed in the strong room. He had gone out for lunch, but had returned later. The precise hour of his return could not be established, but the chambermaid remembered his conversation and tip, and thought it had taken place between half past two and three. Finally the following facts were established. That about four Davenport had telephoned from his room that he was ready to leave for the train’ and asking that the picture be brought from the strong room, that he had claimed it in the hall, and that he had left in reasonable time to catch the train. The exact times of these various operations could not be established, nor could this be expected. But enough was established to prove beyond the slightest doubt that Davenport had acted as he said.
It was a despondent French who that night returned to London. After nearly a fortnight’s intensive work he was precisely as far on as when he had started the case. And in no direction could he see a ray of light. When he reached home he was grumpy even to his Em, though Mrs French recognized the cause and smiled forgivingly.