Dieulot was waiting for French when next morning he reached the Sûreté. ‘It is the ill wind that blows you here, is it not?’ he beamed with the most polite intention.
‘More than an ill wind, monsieur,’ French smiled back. ‘There’s a spot of work that I’d like to get done over this side.’
‘A spot? A small area? A place? Work in a small place? Hein?’ French continued smiling. ‘I’m afraid it’s only a way of speaking,’ he explained, ‘like your ill wind.’
The puzzled Dieulot stared, then nodded his head several times. ‘Ah, yes,’ he declared, ‘it is clevair, is that one. What?’
‘Quite,’ French made the only reply he could think of, then decided that a business discussion would be less of a strain. ‘I’ve got some information for you, M. Dieulot, and I want some from you in return. I’ve discovered,’ and he went on to tell about the suitcases sent by Sir Geoffrey to Roland Brand. ‘I’d like to find out if Brand received those suitcases, and if so, what he did with them.’
Dieulot nodded with evident anxiety to oblige. ‘Perfectly,’ he declared. ‘The affair arranges itself. We go first to Le Bourget and then to the house of Brand. Is it not?’
It was just what French wanted. Though Dieulot’s English was at times a little difficult, he was a fine collaborator.
They were received with courtesy at the aerodrome, which became obsequiousness when Dieulot explained his position. ‘The matter,’ he went on, ‘is a small one. My English colleague wishes to trace two suitcases sent here from Croydon by the twelve o’clock Air France plane on Friday, fifteenth March. Can you tell us what became of them?’
The answer was. quickly forthcoming. The suitcases in question had been addressed to a M. Roland Brand, to be called for at La Bourget. The incident was not remembered: that could scarcely be expected, but it was evident that M. Brand had received them, for behold, here was his signature on the waybill.
French beheld the signature, first with his naked eye and secondly with the aid of a lens. It undoubtedly read Roland Brand, but his suspicious mind was ever seeking for flaws and frauds and forgeries. This time he thought he had found all three. Practice had made him an acute judge of handwriting and this looked as if it had been written slowly and painfully, instead of with careless ease. It was backhand to start with. There was of course nothing intrinsically suspicious in backhand—many perfectly honourable people habitually use it—but French could not but remember that it is the inexperienced forger’s first choice. Backhand however was not the only peculiarity of this writing. It was irregular. Some down strokes had been leant on more heavily than others, while the degree of curvature of the letters varied. These appearances were not conclusive evidence, but they were extraordinarily suggestive.
‘How does that writing strike you, M. Dieulot?’ he asked.
Dieulot, not to be outdone, produced another lens and subjected the signature to an even more profound scrutiny. Then he shook his head and shrugged, throwing up his hands. The action expressed exactly French’s own view. The signature was questionable, but no more.
‘Can we take it along?’ French asked, and as soon as a copy was made and attested by Dieulot, they left the aerodrome.
‘Now for Friend Brand,’ said French as he climbed into the waiting car. They drove practically across Paris, turning off the main road at the Charenton Station. Brand was in his room, alone this time, but once more immersed in the script of a play.
‘Sorry to trouble you again, Mr Brand,’ French began, ‘but one or two questions have arisen since we met. I hope you’ll answer them for us, but it’s my duty to warn you that you needn’t do so unless you like.’
This had curiously divergent effects on French’s hearers. While Brand paled and grew obviously anxious, Dieulot’s eyes goggled in amazement. Then he shrugged as if to indicate that for so great a madness as French’s nothing could be done. Neither spoke and French presently went on, ‘Perhaps one question will be enough. Can you tell me where you were at a quarter past one on Friday, 15 March, the day of Mr Barke’s visit which we have already discussed?’
As he spoke, French carefully watched the actor. Once again he could see no special signs of guilt, but only of nervousness and mystification.
‘But—but,’ Brand hesitated, ‘I understood you to say that Mr Barke did not reach Paris till nearly 4.00?’
‘I didn’t say my question was connected with Mr Barke,’ French returned gravely.
Brand showed some confusion as well as relief. ‘No, no, of course not. But I supposed that you had come on the same business as before.’
‘Can you answer the question, Mr Brand?’
Brand hesitated still longer. ‘I don’t know that I can, Chief Inspector. It’s a good while ago: nearly a month, I suppose.’
‘It was the day you got the telegram from Mr Barke,’ French prompted. ‘Perhaps that will help you. What time did it come?’
‘Oh early: about 9.00 or 9.30. It must have been sent the night before.’
‘Then you waited in for Mr Barke’s telephone?’
‘Yes, but not until nearly 4.00.’
French was very patient and very persistent, and Roland was obviously anxious to help. But he declared he could not remember how he had filled the morning. He had almost certainly rehearsed and lunched at his usual restaurant, Perosi’s, in the main street. But he couldn’t prove this, and neither could any of his friends nor the staff of the restaurant, which Dieulot presently interrogated.
French felt exasperated. He had come all the way from London to settle this point, and now it was not settled. Yet his impression was that the man was innocent. Brand denied absolutely having ever seen or communicated with Buller, Vincent or Davenport, adding that he had never even heard of the latter pair. He had shown no reaction other than surprise when French had asked if he had recently been to La Bourget, and the idea of calling there for suitcases seemed to touch no answering chord of memory. Of course, once again, the man was an actor.
French thought that on the whole he must assume him innocent. Certainly he could prove nothing against him. And the fact that he had no alibi actually counted in his favour. If Brand had met the suitcases, he would certainly have worked out some answer to the questions he would naturally expect.
Dieulot, though less convinced than French, agreed that the probabilities were in Brand’s favour and that French would have to look elsewhere for his man.
‘I wanted that business of Brand cleared out of the way,’ French declared as they reached the Sûreté, ‘before we took up the next point. Has it occurred to you that from Davenport’s statement he could very well have met the suitcases?’
‘But yes! That had occurred to me also, my friend. It is that we next address ourselves to the matter, is it not?’
‘Let us see just what he said.’ French turned the leaves of his notebook. ‘And first let’s get the times in connection with the plane. It leaves Croydon at 12.00 noon and reaches La Bourget at 1.15. A bus—for another plane—leaves the Place Lafayette at 12.30, reaching Le Bourget, I suppose, in a quarter of an hour. The bus connecting with our plane arrives back at the Place Lafayette at 1.45.’
Dieulot nodded. ‘Correct, monsieur. To leave the Place Lafayette, collect the suitcases and return to the Place would take an hour and a quarter: from 12.30 to 1.45. Is it not?’
‘That’s right. Now let’s check up the statement. Davenport went to the Atelier Voges between 9.00 and 10.00 and stayed a couple of hours. Then he brought his picture back to the Hôtel du Maréchal Ney. From his own statement therefore he should have reached the hotel about 12.00 or a little later, and you remember this was confirmed by the hotel people, who said he arrived between 12.00 and 1.00. The hotel is quite close to the Place Lafayette, so he could have returned his picture and caught that bus at 12.30.’
‘He could have left even later by taxi.’
‘Of course he could, or if he wanted to cover his traces, he could have hired a car. Well, Davenport stated he lunched at Les Quatre Plumes in the rue Royale, strolled about, and returned to the hotel about 3.00. We neither proved nor could expect to prove that, and we have to consider whether this failure isn’t suggestive. At all events he would have ample time to go to La Bourget and collect the suitcases.’
‘And to dispose of them,’ added Dieulot, ‘for it is evident that he didn’t take them to the hotel.’
‘I suppose not,’ French admitted. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
They continued discussing the affair till French, feeling they had exhausted it, changed the subject. ‘What about a spot of lunch?’ he suggested.
‘A spot! A little place for lunch. Ah! that is good.’ Dieulot laughed, then suddenly grew serious again. ‘But, my friend, I am desolated! Already I have a lunch engagement. I did not know that you were coming, otherwise it should not be so.’
‘That’s all right. Don’t apologize. But I should like to see you again before I go back.’
‘I shall be busy till four o’clock, then at your service.’
French strolled down the boulevards till he came to Les Quatre Plumes. He knew it as a first class restaurant and turned in with pleasant anticipations about lunch. He chose a table in an alcove with an excellent view of all that went on. There he sat, alone for the most part, entertained by the unfamiliar scene, and there while the place gradually emptied he remained on, slowly sipping his coffee and smoking French cigarettes with proper British contempt.
For a time he had banished his case from his mind, but now it once again filled his thoughts. Had Davenport met the suitcases? If so, what had he done with them? These were the questions. If he could solve them they might throw light on the entire affair.
He sat pondering till the place was nearly empty and to justify himself he called for more coffee. Those suitcases! What could have been in them? Their weight gave him no hint: the clerk had assured him it was normal. He racked his brains, but without result. He could make nothing of the suitcases and presently he turned to another point.
It was one he had thought of before leaving London, but he had not time to consider it in detail. It was the question of Buller’s car mileages, and he had dropped a road map into his bag, intending to study the matter if circumstances permitted.
Buller had taken out his hired car twice. On the first occasion, when on the Friday morning he had called at Croydon, he had done fifty-eight miles, and on the second, when that night he had visited Ockley Common, he had done fifty-three. Could anything be deduced from that?
There was little to be learnt in the case of the Friday night, except that Buller must have gone fairly directly to and from the Common. French worked out the distance. He made it about twenty-five miles. There and back would therefore be about fifty miles, and as the car had only been out for fifty-three, slight deviations from the direct route would alone have been possible. Buller could, of course, have gone on to Forde Manor within the mileage, but French couldn’t see why he should have done so.
On the Friday morning, however, some movements, still undisclosed, must have taken place. The car travelled fifty-eight miles that morning, but from the garage to and from Croydon was only, according to his map, twenty-one or twenty-two. How were the other thirty-six to be accounted for?
For a solid hour French sat puzzling his brains over this smaller problem and then over the equally baffling main conundrum. His second lot of coffee grew as cold as that it had replaced. The waiter looked more and more pointedly at him and then with a flourish produced his bill, but still French sat on. Then just as he began to feel that he really could not occupy his corner any longer, an idea shot into his mind.
He sat motionless considering it, weighing its implications, following out its ramifications. As he did so he found that facts which had hitherto been contradictory, began slipping one by one into place. A delightful excitement slowly grew in his mind. At long last he was on to something satisfactory. He could now see why Buller drove secretly to Croydon and sent those suitcases to Paris. He could even tell what was in them. But he still couldn’t explain the Ockley Common incident—or, yes, he could! He saw it now! He realized why Buller must spend those hours of darkness in his car, but not asleep: no, he would wager the man was not asleep. But he would simulate sleep to avoid embarrassing questions should a police patrol pass.
French could scarcely sit still. It seemed too good to be true, but at last he realized that he had solved his problem! Admittedly certain details still remained obscure, but of the main facts there could no longer be any doubt. Now for the first time he saw the sequence of events from Buller’s arrival in England right up to the disappearance of Barke.
Proof? No, not yet. But one thing at a time. When you know just what to look for and where it is likely to be, inquiries become short and effective. He would return to Lon—
His train of thought ceased abruptly, while the bottom seemed slowly to drop out of his world. No: he was wrong after all! One point he had overlooked, but it was vital. One small point, but it upset his entire case.
Calling for still more coffee, he concentrated on that single obstacle. Everything else fitted so perfectly that it must be possible to harmonize it also.
The third lot of coffee grew cold in its turn while French continued racking his brains on the devastating problem. But he could obtain no light on it, and unless it were somehow cleared up, he would remain as far from a solution as ever.
Then he wondered if still another inquiry would help him. As there was nothing to keep him in Paris, the sooner he got back to the Yard the better. He could ask his question on the way home. It concerned the stamping of Barke’s passport at Boulogne, and if he went by the 4.25 train, there might be time to see the officials and catch the connecting boat.
He was waiting at the Sûreté when Dieulot came in at about a quarter to four.
‘I’d like to go by this 4.25 train,’ he announced, ‘and I want a word with the passport officers at Boulogne on the way. Will you do two things for me? Will you ring up the officers to introduce me, and will you lend me Barke’s passport?’
Dieulot was delighted to render any assistance, and French was presently in the train with the passport and assured of prompt and courteous attention when he reached the port. He received it, but he found that the officers were too busy to attend to him till the boat had left.
‘I want you,’ he explained when at last he was seated with the senior officer in his office, ‘to have a look at this passport. You will see that the holder entered France at Boulogne on Friday 15 March last.’
The officer turned the pages and came on the Boulogne stamp. He glanced at it, nodded, then examined it more carefully, as if struck by some doubt. Finally he nodded again. ‘That is correct, monsieur,’ he agreed in admirable English, but still with apparent reserve.
‘Now,’ French bluffed smoothly, ‘there is reason to suppose that stamp is a forgery. Have you any way of testing it?’
The official stared, first at French, then again at the passport. He grew obviously uneasy. ‘I thought it looked a little strange,’ he said with hesitation. ‘You see? It is—what you call “rough”. Not quite so—perfect? Well finished?—as it might be. But then these roughnesses: they were so little. I thought again that it was all right.’
‘I agree with you, monsieur,’ declared French. ‘But is there any absolute test?’
‘There is a test, yes,’ the official admitted with a shrug, ‘but it is only partial. If this impression is a fraud, it might prove it, but then again it might not.’
‘Perhaps, monsieur, you would apply the test and let me know the result?’
‘But certainly. This stamp, you see, is a ring with “Commissariat Spécial” above and “Débarquement” below in a curve following the shape of the ring. Beneath the upper curved letters is the name “Boulogne-s/Mer”, printed horizontally. Beneath that, across the centre of the circle, is the date “15 Mars 1939”, also printed horizontally and between two horizontal lines. All these printings are correct. See for yourself.’
He seized a stamp and made an impression. Save for the almost microscopic irregularities, it seemed identical with the other.
‘But,’ he went on, demonstrating with his finger, ‘there is another marking, a number, below the date. This may or may not give what we want. You see, my stamp is No.14, that in the passport is No. 6. What that number stands for is confidential. I will tell you in confidence if you wish, but it may not be necessary. Excuse me while I look up our records.’
A brief search produced an astonishing change in the officer’s expression and manner. From doubtful it had grown horror stricken. ‘I can’t understand it,’ he exclaimed. ‘It is beyond comprehension, but you are right. This stamp was not affixed on the date in question. No. 6 was not in use on that day.’
A wave of overwhelming delight swept over French. He had hoped that this indeed might be the fact, but he had never expected to be able to prove it.
‘Nothing like coming to the fountain head, monsieur,’ he said diplomatically. ‘In Paris we all looked at it and assumed it was all right. Then we take it to you and you find the flaw. I can’t say how grateful I am.’
The official looked as if he resented the diplomacy. ‘This, monsieur,’ he explained anxiously, ‘is an extremely serious matter. Our stamp appears to have been copied. And our officer passed the copy. A very serious matter for us.’
French felt he should be sympathetic. ‘That side of it needn’t come out,’ he declared. ‘It will be enough if you will testify that the stamp is a forgery. The copy will not be used again and we’re not interested as to how it was obtained.’
‘My superiors will be,’ the man pointed out grimly. French, anxious to be alone, made encouraging murmurs and took his leave. It was with the most profound satisfaction that he strolled up to the Town Station to inquire if he could get to Dunkerque that night. He had succeeded better than he could have hoped. The snag in an otherwise almost perfect case had been overcome! Once again he was going to triumph over an ugly problem! Once again he would maintain his own high reputation at the Yard!
There was a train at 9.12, and French filled up his time by dining at the Station restaurant. He caught the ferry at Dunkerque and next morning was in London.