When French settled down to consider his programme in relation to Betty Stanton, he recalled immediately a significant and disquieting fact.
At this first interview with her when Agatha Barke was ill, before ever he had told her anything about Barke’s disappearance, she had seemed apprehensive. With many persons the mere visit of the police produces a certain nervousness, but Mrs Stanton was certainly not of this type. Yet her nervousness had undoubtedly been considerable. What had caused it? Then when he had mentioned Barke’s disappearance she had been powerfully affected. For a moment she had looked as if she were going to faint. At the time he had supposed that this was due to her friendship for the Barkes, but now he thought her emotion had come too quickly, before she could have realized the implications of his statement. If so, once again, what had caused it?
At the time he had been impressed with her personality. She had seemed an extremely estimable type of woman and he had not for a moment supposed she could be involved in anything shady. Now he wondered had he not leaped too quickly to conclusions. After all, her uprightness had been his impression, her emotion was a fact. He now realized that there was here an undoubted case for inquiry, and the sooner he set about it, the sooner he would reach a result.
What should be his first step? Well, the obvious thing was to find out if she had passed any information about Forde Manor on to Vincent. At the time she had been staying at the lodge. Would that help him?
He went down once again to Forde and saw Mrs Relf. ‘I’m still,’ he explained after a little judicious conversation had got her into a friendly mood, ‘working on this affair of Mr Barke’s disappearance and I’m trying to account for all the letters, telegrams and messages of all kinds that he got during the last few days before he went to France. You follow?’
‘Yes, sir,’ she answered with just the bemused reaction he wished for.
‘Quite. Now you didn’t yourself write to him or send him any message?’
She looked shocked. ‘No, sir. I had no message to send.’
‘No, I suppose not. What about your husband? Do you think he did?’
‘I’m quite certain he didn’t.’
‘I didn’t suppose so either, but I had to ask. Now who else is there down here that I ought to see? I have to see Mrs Stanton of course, but perhaps you can tell me about her?’
‘I know nothing of her private affairs, sir.’ There was reproof in her tones.
‘No, of course not,’ French answered easily. ‘I don’t expect it and wouldn’t ask it. But that’s no reason,’ he smiled, ‘why you shouldn’t tell me if she had a caller or sent any telephone message or telegram or urgent letter or anything of that kind.’
‘I understand, sir. She had no callers here, but she had a telegram the night before she left.’
‘Thank you,’ said French, manfully concealing his satisfaction. ‘But I’m afraid that doesn’t interest me. It’s not what she received I want to know of, but what she sent. You don’t know of any message?’
Mrs Relf knew of none, and after a suitable rounding up of the interview, French took his leave.
He was delighted with his success. If Mrs Stanton received a telegram, it might well be in answer to one she had sent. He drove to the local post office and asked to see the postmaster.
The question of seeing telegraph and telephone records was always a matter of delicate negotiation. Postmasters, like other specimens of the human race, varied. Some held strictly to the letter of the law, saying their job was to maintain in inviolable secrecy what had been entrusted to them by the public. Others were willing for the general good to help the officers of justice by disclosing information, knowing that a refusal could be met with a Home Office order which they would have to obey.
Fortunately for French, the present officer belonged to the second category, and after a short search he was reading with thrilled attention: ‘Unexpectedly crossing Paris tomorrow. Have wired Roland to meet me. If you desire will advance him money if satisfied with scheme. You refund me later. Charles.’
‘Thank you,’ French went on, ‘I shall want this message and shall therefore get you the necessary order. Was there by any chance a reply to this?’
The postmaster held out another form: ‘Please do as you suggest. Immensely grateful. Betty.’
Having taken copies, French drove back to London. In spite of his previous cogitations, he was surprised—and strangely, a little disappointed—by what he had found. Mrs Stanton knew more about Barke’s journey than she had admitted; in fact, she had quite deliberately kept her information back. Why? That was a question in which he was going to be much interested.
Wishing he could have avoided an unpleasant job, he called at the Green House and asked to see Betty. She met him with some eagerness.
‘Any news?’ she asked hopefully as she invited him to sit down.
French shook his head. ‘About Mr Barke? None, I am sorry to say. But Mrs Stanton, I have to tell you that some facts have come to my knowledge which will, if I am to be satisfied, require a pretty complete explanation from you. I have also to tell you that you are not legally bound to answer my questions, though of course if you don’t, it may raise unpleasant suspicions in my mind.’
Betty stared at him, her face slowly whitening. He noted it with an added distaste for his job.
‘What do you want to know?’ she asked in a low, troubled voice.
‘Two things,’ he answered. ‘First, I want to know the details of the financial business Mr Barke was doing for you in Paris, and second, I want to know why you kept this back when I asked what Mr Barke had gone for?’
For a moment Betty did not reply. Her face was ghastly and she instinctively moistened her dry lips. ‘I don’t know how you know about this,’ she said at last in a curiously small voice, ‘but it is true that Mr Barke was going to make a payment for me in Paris.’
‘Yes?’ French prompted as she stopped.
She seemed to make an effort to continue. ‘The matter was purely personal and could not possibly have had anything to do with Mr Barke’s disappearance.’
‘You can’t be sure of that.’
‘I think I can. At all events that was one reason why I didn’t feel called on to mention it, and the second was that it was not the business which had taken him over. If you must know, he telegraphed to me to say that he was going over and would I like him to do this small commission which we had talked of earlier. So you see, he was going in any case on business of which I knew nothing—his principal business. So I think I answered you perfectly truly.’
‘Yes,’ French declared, ‘I’m not questioning your good faith. But you cannot ask me to believe, Mrs Stanton, that you did not know that you should have mentioned this commission. A court would take a very serious view of that.’
‘But I assure you it wasn’t what took Mr Barke to France.’
‘I accept that also. But you must be well aware that that didn’t excuse your action. Now what was the commission you gave to Mr Barke?’
He could see that she was extremely upset and also undecided as to her course of action. Though he had told her the absolute truth in saying she was to blame for keeping back her information, he could not even now believe that she had been a party to murder, and he hated causing her this anxiety. However, he could not act otherwise. Presently he went on in a pleasanter tone.
‘Let me try to clear up the situation. You’re not bound to answer my question, but if you don’t do so, I’ll be forced to assume that your commission was connected in some way with Mr Barke’s disappearance, perhaps his murder. If the latter proved true, you would then be arrested as an accessory. So you see, I’m not exaggerating its importance. On the other hand, if you tell me the whole thing, I undertake, unless it proves to be material evidence, to keep it entirely secret.’
Her face remained ghastly and she gave a little moan when he mentioned the word ‘murder’. For Betty indeed it was a horrible situation. She had no idea how much French knew. She longed above everything to keep Roland’s name out of the affair, but she was well aware that if she did so, and French then learnt of his existence, her efforts would have the very opposite effect to that she wished. She would have dearly liked time to think it over, but delay was equally dangerous. Feeling hunted and driven, she came quickly to a decision—right or wrong.
‘I admit, Chief Inspector, that I wanted to keep the matter secret,’ she said, ‘because it is one that is very painful to me, involving, as it does, the failure and disgrace of my twin brother. But I can see now it would be worse for both of us if I kept back the information. I can see that it would cause the very suspicions which I’m most anxious to avoid. I’ve therefore decided to tell you everything.’
French received this with mixed feelings. As he had really all the time believed, there was going to be nothing against Mrs Stanton, for which his personal and human self was glad. At the same time, another promising line of investigation seemed to be going west, which officially was a disaster. He told her gravely that he was sure that she was doing the right thing.
‘It’s my brother, Roland Brand,’ went on Betty. ‘He’s been a failure. He has the artistic temperament and he couldn’t stick regular business.’ She felt her plan was to make the case as black as possible. ‘He had a good banking job, but he lost it through carelessness and inattention. He always loved acting, and he drifted to Paris and got a part in a troupe there. It was a miserable affair, they only did turns in the lowest music halls. For a long time he was practically down and out, then I’m glad to say he began to pull himself together. He worked harder and began to save. Then he discovered that there was an opening in the better class music halls for a superior kind of troupe, and he decided to try to form one. He got the people and the promises of employment, but he couldn’t raise the capital for costumes and properties and so on. His share came to £120, and I thought that, as he had steadied down so much, he should have his chance. I had talked it over with Mr Barke, who took a very kindly interest in my affairs. Before paying the money I wanted him to be satisfied that Roland’s scheme was promising, and I suggested that the next time he went to Paris he should see Roland, have a chat with him, and if he thought it was all right, pass on to him the money I should have already given him. On that Thursday afternoon he telegraphed to me that he was unexpectedly going next morning to Paris, and asked me would I like him to see Roland, saying that as there wasn’t time for me to send him the money, he would advance it himself, and I could refund him later. I agreed thankfully, and that, Chief Inspector, is the entire story without any reservation whatever.’
French believed it absolutely; he had too much experience of witnesses not to know when he was being told the truth. But unhappily for this nice woman, the truth in this case by no means ended the affair. A situation might well have arisen in which this Roland Brand might have murdered Barke for the £120. Suppose Barke had unwisely begun by saying he had the money with him, and then on getting details of the scheme had refused to hand it over, might not the disappointment have led to a fatal assault? And French, in spite of his liking for Betty, was not at all sure that her silence had not been due to fear of this very contingency.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you’ve told me that. You should have done it before, but as you’ve done it now I may tell you that I accept every word of it. All the same, as you probably know, it will be my duty to check it. What is your brother’s address please?’
‘27 rue de Tanger. It’s a little street near the P.L.M. station at Charenton.’
‘And the bank he was in?’
‘Lloyds’ Clayton Street Branch.’
On his way back to the Yard, French called at the bank and found that the manager remembered Brand. He was, he said, a likeable chap, but not cut out for business. He was interested in amateur theatricals and would take endless trouble in making up a character or building a stage set, but he couldn’t bear the monotony and regularity of banking life. His work was below the required standard, and his hot temper created endless difficulties. Eventually they had had to ask him to resign.
French saw that the matter was so important that he dared not leave the inquiry to Dieulot. He therefore rang up the Frenchman and that afternoon once again crossed the Channel.
‘I hope it’s not another Lorrimer,’ he declared when next morning he was once more seated in Dieulot’s room, ‘but this new line strikes me as the most promising we’ve yet struck. You see, the £120 might have made all the difference to Brand. And if he first thought he was going to get it and then found he wasn’t, with his hot temper he might have seen red and lost his self control.’
‘It is just,’ Dieulot returned amicably. ‘But, my friend, we shall soon learn the truth. The rue de Tanger—let us see.’
He crossed the room to where a large map of Paris hung on the wall, then pointed. ‘Behold, it is here.’ His finger moved to the southeast corner and stopped. ‘The Charenton Station; and here,’ the finger moved slightly, ‘is the street. We go there, is it not?’
‘I’m ready,’ French answered, getting up.
Dieulot, having telephoned for a car, led the way. They drove across Paris, and passing outside the fortifications at the Porte de Charenton, ran down the rue de Paris to the crossroads at the rue Gabrielle. A few hundred yards further brought them to the rue de Tanger.
No. 27 was a tall old house, let in apartments. Dieulot inquired from the woman concierge.
‘No. 12, monsieur. On the third floor to the back.’
They knocked at No. 12. A man’s voice called ‘Entrez’ and they pushed open the door.
The room was of fair size, though poor and dilapidated both as to decoration and furnishing. A threadbare rug covered the area of the floor in’ front of an old-fashioned tiled stove and on it were two deck chairs and a small deal table. In one corner was a small folding bedstead, and close by was a rather good wardrobe which, however, had seen better days. On a desk in another corner were a gramophone, a stack of records, and a pile of books and papers.
Lounging in one of the deck chairs was a man whose startling resemblance to Betty Stanton instantly showed his relationship. He was poorly but neatly dressed, was properly shaven, and looked fit and fairly prosperous. In the other chair lay a girl, a pretty dark-complexioned creature, simply dressed and with something of the same air of mild prosperity. Both held what seemed to be the scripts of a play. Brand levered himself out of his chair when he saw his visitors and stood waiting expectantly.
‘Mr Brand?’ said French. ‘I’ve come over from England to see you. I am Chief Inspector French from Scotland Yard, and this is M. Dieulot of the Sûreté.’
French watched keenly the reaction to this. Brand’s expression showed the most acute surprise, but French couldn’t say that it was mingled with fear.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Well, won’t you sit down,’ continuing in French: ‘Give them that chair, will you, Loo? They probably won’t be long. Your business is not private, I presume, gentlemen?’
‘I think it should go no further than yourself, Mr Brand. Perhaps the lady would excuse us for a few moments?’
‘Certainly. You clear out, Loo. Go and fix up those alterations with François: you have to do that in any case.’
The girl got up slowly but without speaking, and with a resentful look at French, passed from the room. Obeying Brand’s gesture the men sat down in the deck chairs, while Brand pulled round the table and perched himself on it.
‘We want your help in an inquiry,’ French went on, still watching his host. ‘It’s about Mr Barke. You knew that he had disappeared?’
‘What?’ Brand exclaimed. ‘Disappeared? No, I didn’t know that.’
If his surprise was not genuine, it was uncommonly well done. But then, thought French, the man was an actor. Then his expression slowly changed. Undoubtedly he was now feeling apprehension.
French said nothing. A silence under such circumstances was often more impressive than speech.
It seemed in this case to produce its effect, for Brand moved uneasily. ‘Tell me about it. I know nothing. What has happened?’
‘Don’t you read the papers, Mr Brand? The case was fully reported.’
‘I’m afraid only by fits and starts. I certainly missed this.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you. But first I should like to ask you a question or two. You knew Mr Barke?’
‘Oh, yes. He was my sister’s friend really: he and his wife. But I’ve met him several times.’
‘Have you seen him recently?’
‘Not very. I suppose not for four or five months.’
‘You used to meet him when he came over to Paris?’
‘Sometimes. He often asked me to dine with him. It was my sister of course. She wanted him to tell her how I was.’
‘I understand. Now Mr Barke was over in Paris three weeks ago: on Friday, the 15th of last month. Do I understand you to say you didn’t see him then?’
‘No, I didn’t see him. I wondered if he had come over.’
‘You wondered? Why was that, Mr Brand?’
‘Because I got a wire from him to hold myself in readiness to meet him.’
‘Oh: have you got it still?’
Brand swung off the table and went over to his desk. ‘I don’t think so, but I haven’t tidied my desk for some time and it may be here.’
He searched rapidly through the accumulation of papers that covered its top. Except for the rustling of the sheets, the silence remained unbroken. Finally just as French was deciding to lend a hand, Brand gave a grunt. ‘Got it, though I didn’t expect to.’
The message had been handed in at a post office near the Green House late on the Thursday evening, and had been delivered early on the Friday. It read: ‘Crossing Paris Friday by nine from Victoria. Anxious to see you. Don’t know movements so stand by telephone in afternoon.’
‘He had your number?’
‘Yes, he had the number of this house. The phone is in Madame Thevenet’s in the basement, and she calls anyone who is wanted.’
‘I follow. And did you stand by that afternoon?’
‘Yes, I waited here for the entire afternoon and evening up till bedtime. But no one rang up.’
‘Do you mean that you got no further message?’
‘None.’
‘And did you not think that rather strange?’
‘Not very. I presumed that Mr Barke had been prevented crossing and that I would hear from him again later.’
‘You’re sure that the message didn’t come to Madame Thevenet?’
Brand shrugged. ‘One has to take the chance of that,’ he answered. ‘I can’t afford a special installation up here.’
‘Did you write to Mr Barke asking what was wrong?’
‘No. Why should I? It was he that was managing the affair and I felt sure I should hear again in due course.’
All this was quite reasonable, but it did not get French much further. It might well be the exact truth. On the other hand, if Brand had murdered Barke, it was exactly the kind of story he would tell. The telegram proved nothing. If it were genuine, as French thought likely, it only meant that there was a confederate in London who had sent it for the precise purpose for which it had been used: perhaps Vincent.
A further possibility occurred to French. Could Brand have murdered Barke, but not for the £120? Could he have done it as the tool of Buller, for some vastly greater sum? Not very probable, perhaps, yet the possibility must be kept in view.
‘You say you were here in this building all the afternoon and evening of that Thursday, Mr Brand. Now I’m not questioning your statement, but can anyone corroborate it?’
There was now no doubt of the man’s apprehension. Indeed, naked fear showed in his eyes. For some moments he did not reply. Then he said in a lower tone, ‘I don’t know that anyone can.’
‘Well,’ French said more cheerily, ‘let’s see what you can do about it. Madame Thevenet will remember about the telephone perhaps?’
Roland looked appraisingly at French. ‘Yes, she may, though I doubt if she’ll remember what day it was. But would that be any use to you?’ Again he paused unhappily. ‘I with you’d tell me what happened, as you said.’
‘Certainly,’ French agreed. ‘Mr Barke came to Paris that day, leaving London at 9.00 a.m. and reaching Paris at 3.48. He went direct to the Hôtel Vichy, booked a room, walked out of the hotel, and was never heard of again.’
Brand stared, his face still further paling. ‘My God!’ he said brokenly. ‘And you think that I—’
‘We think nothing,’ French interrupted decisively. ‘We’re only trying to get information. Tell me, Mr Brand, about the new troupe you propose to get together.’
The fear in his eyes died down. ‘That was Louise Gerard,’ he said, ‘who was here. She would be one of us if the thing came off. She’s absolutely top hole. And there are four others who would join, all first class. But you’ve got your question wrong; “Propose” is not the word.’
‘Then what should I have said?’
‘That I’d like to get it together. I can’t afford the preliminary outlay.’
‘How much would it take?’
‘About a hundred and twenty each.’
‘Have you tried to get it?’
For the first time in the interview Brand smiled. ‘Have I tried to get it?’ he asked scornfully. ‘Well, what do you think, Chief Inspector?’
‘I suppose you have. Did you try to get it from Mr Barke?’
Brand shook his head, again resentful. ‘Not likely. I don’t know him well enough for that. I’ve tried a lot of people over here. Couldn’t get them interested.’
‘Mrs Stanton?’
‘Betty would have helped me if she could have afforded it. But she hadn’t the money to spare. She’s been hard hit herself lately.’
It was evident, French thought after some more questions in the same strain, either that Brand really had no idea that Barke was bringing him the money, or that he was a magnificent actor and a very clever man. Gradually French was coming to the belief that he was innocent, but here again it was his opinion only and there was no proof. That this was the exasperating position in which French so often found himself did nothing to make it more satisfactory.
As a little later they were leaving the house, they met the young woman Louise Gerard returning. French stopped.
‘We’ve been hearing about your proposed troupe, mademoiselle,’ he said politely in English, ‘but we forgot to ask Mr Brand when you are actually starting. Can you tell us?’
She understood and replied in the same language. ‘But it is not finished,’ she said in accents of surprise. ‘Mr Brand, he has not got the money. He cannot get it.’
She patently believed what she was saying and French thought he might take it as the truth. It was unlikely then that the money had passed between Barke and Brand. Though officially it would still be necessary to keep an open mind about the actor, he had little doubt privately. The man was innocent. Dieulot, when later they discussed the affair in detail, held the same view. Disgruntled, though glad for Mrs Stanton’s sake, French once again bade his temporary colleague farewell, returning to London by the afternoon train.