The morning of 19 April dawned, and the city of Paris awoke. At the Place Boïeldieu all was quiet as street sweepers brushed away the cigar butts and ticket stubs discarded outside the Opéra Comique by the previous night’s audience. At exactly 7.40 a.m. an office boy named Zinkernagel arrived at the bank opposite the opera house to take over from his colleague. The first office boy, Paul, was bemused. ‘It’s strange,’ he said, ‘when the boss went out during the night he forgot to lock the door.’
And ‘Rivier’ had not yet returned. At opening time there was still no sign of him. The usual stream of customers came and went, depositing and withdrawing their money. Within an hour the cashiers were running out of ready cash. In their chief’s absence, his two deputies decided to open his private safe. Inside all they found was a note, which read, ‘I have been summoned by the police. My state of health and advanced age prevent me from resisting this harassment. I have been grossly insulted. I therefore tender my resignation. I am handing over the cash in my possession to my successor, who will arrive at mid-day.’
The deputies went back to the bank’s offices, white-faced and stunned. ‘Don’t accept any more applications,’ they told the staff. ‘As of this minute, suspend all operations.’ Anxiously they clung to the hope that ‘Rivier’s’ successor would indeed be there at noon. But when no one showed up they contacted the police.
As he made his way to England, Charles Wells could finally take stock of the past twenty-four hours. The interview with Inspector Roux had shaken him more than he cared to admit. There had been no previous inkling that the police were interested in his affairs, and he had expected to squeeze a few more drops out of the scheme before having to leave France. Yet he had handled the interrogation well: he had kept his cool when the stakes were high, just as he had at the tables of Monte Carlo, precisely twenty years ago. The inspector had gone back to report to his superiors, and he, Wells, was still at liberty with the 1.2 million francs (£4.5 million) he had embezzled. And he had learned his lesson well. This time, unlike the Fishing and Trawling scam, and the Touriste Universel debacle, he had got away before he was caught.
During the past six months he had made this journey from France to England at least twenty times. And on each occasion he carried more cash and more gold. Today was no exception. But this would be a one-way trip – the last. The police would soon start looking for him. In fact they had probably already started. Had he left any clue to his identity? No – the Sûreté would ask around, and look into his affairs, but it would be too late. They would blunder around Paris, picking up local crooks at random and putting the screws on them, as likely as not. But ‘Rivier’ had no accomplices – only the one person in the world he trusted and relied on – Jeannette. And she was in England. Anything the police might find would only lead them back to ‘Lucien Rivier’ – and ‘Rivier’ existed no more. When the investigators realised that they had run up against a dead end they would just have to give up.
Wells had pulled off the perfect crime, just as he had once developed an infallible system to win at Monte Carlo. Perhaps now, while in a more reflective mood, he cast his mind back to the time he had spent in prison; the hours spent reading the works of Charles Dickens, and the idea that had come to him while reading Martin Chuzzlewit – an idea about an institution whose offices are ‘newly plastered, newly papered … newly fitted up in every way,’ with a gleaming brass plate on the door. Its director publishes circulars aimed at the public and:
fully proves to you that any connection on your part with that establishment must result in a perpetual Christmas Box and constantly increasing Bonus to yourself, and that nobody can run any risk by the transaction …
He, Charles Deville Wells, had done just that. This time he really had broken the bank. But it was time now to look to the future, not the past. Tomorrow he would begin a new life. It was, on reflection, a most appropriate time for new beginnings. The next day would be his seventieth birthday.
Next morning the collapse of the Rente Bi-mensuelle, and the flight of its director, were splashed across the front pages of the daily newspapers. But by the time they appeared, the headlines were already old hat. News of the bank’s collapse had rapidly spread by word of mouth across Paris, and far beyond:
FINANCIER FLEES LEAVING 3m LIABILITIES
365 PER CENT … HOW COULD RIVIER GUARANTEE SUCH A PROFIT?
When crowds gathered in the Place Boïeldieu, it was usually to queue for the Opéra Comique: this time, however, everyone’s attention was focused on the building opposite, where the Rente Bi-mensuelle was based. The day was chilly and overcast. Grey, rain-laden skies reflected the sombre mood of the crowds of people, who gathered in anxious little huddles:
For the whole of yesterday a veritable procession of distraught people came to the place Boïeldieu: small pensioners, employees of limited means, workmen, priests, all of whom had entrusted their savings to the fraudster. Some came to collect their interest and, learning of the bank’s collapse, cursed the dishonest banker … An air of despondency hung over this great crowd of people, who were more heartbroken than angry.
The litany of complaints and grumbles was broken every so often by a burst of laughter when some unsuspecting dupe who had not read the newspapers came to invest his money, and thought – to everyone’s amusement – that they were all here to deposit their savings, too.
‘That bandit!’ said a big man with a flushed face, and a red rose in his buttonhole. He had the look of a retired military man. ‘If I get my hands on him I’ll shoot him with the six bullets from my revolver – one bullet for every 1,000 f he owes me.’
I shouldn’t have been so trusting – they were far too polite to be honest in that establishment. As soon as you set foot in there, a member of staff would leap out and offer you a comfortable seat in an armchair and enquire about your health. And once the transaction was done he’d accompany you to the door with a great deal of bowing and scraping.
The victims came from all corners of the country: Brittany, Auvergne, Picardie and the Midi. Many of the people in the crowd were unwilling to accept that ‘Rivier’ had done anything wrong:
The big banks stifled it because they couldn’t compete – in six months they wouldn’t have been in existence with him around. This one did the same as the big banks but instead of two or three per cent he gave a large slice of his profits. He’s an honest man.
‘He’ll be back,’ another man said confidently. ‘He’s put our money somewhere safe and he’ll pay us back.’ Others insisted that they had always been well paid: some had tripled their initial capital. ‘He was such a good man,’ they said, ‘so simple, so paternal.’ Another claimed that if ‘Rivier’ came back tomorrow he would trust him with all his savings again.
Shysters and conmen mingled with the crowds, approaching individuals and persuading them to invest whatever money they had left in their own preposterous schemes. A man named Poteau placed an advertisement in Le Temps, headed ‘Stock Exchange Disputes’. He gave the impression that it was an official notice, and urged victims to contact him urgently. Those who did so were persuaded by Poteau to invest in his personal adaptation of the Rente Bi-mensuelle. ‘It’s a really admirable system,’ he enthused. ‘You could make a bank of this kind work perfectly honestly, and that’s why I intend to pick up where Rivier left off, but only with his concept – not his method of implementing it.’ He, too, came under the scrutiny of the Sûreté.
The story of the disappearing banker kept the newspapers busy for days, as new information came to light, a piece at a time. Immediately after the story broke, Le Matin interviewed ‘Rivier’s’ employee, Monsieur Coste, who was adamant that up to now he had never suspected anything was amiss:
He’s a clever scoundrel. Just think, I’m in it for quite a hefty sum – several thousand francs. I met Rivier in September and straight away he made me part of his scheme. The interest rate sounded very high, but Rivier assured me he had teams of experts on the European markets, and there was nothing to worry about. As I earned the money, little by little I made several investments with him, including two lots of 2,000 f, as my wife and I had just received an inheritance. Everything was going well and then – my God! – only yesterday I returned from a trip back home and deposited another 1,000 f, and he gave me a receipt. What a crook!
The cashier, Monsieur Bardin, gave his own version of the story:
We all had absolute confidence in Monsieur Rivier. All of us are his victims. None of the employees, however junior, failed to place their savings with the Director. A new employee who started yesterday brought in 200 f after the lunch-break.
Newspaper reporters jostled to interview ‘Rivier’s’ former landlady at the Avenue de l’Opéra, who told them, ‘He had loads of people come to see him – all kinds of people, especially from the rural areas. One was a man from the North who wanted to invest 10,000 f. It was all the rage and everyone wanted to be part of it.’ Even in the early days of the business, before ‘Rivier’ moved to a larger building, the landlady remembered huge amounts of mail being delivered. ‘Perhaps he would have liked to have me as a client,’ she added. ‘Some time ago I met him in the street and he told me how splendidly his business was going. That it was marvellous that one of his clients was about to sell a property for 100,000 f and invest the proceeds in his fund.’ When the reporter told her that ‘Rivier’ had absconded, she said, ‘My instincts haven’t let me down, then.’
The Petit Parisien described how a woman waved one of ‘Rivier’s’ leaflets in the air. ‘How could you not be taken in by a circular like this?’ she cried. She handed the document to the reporter.
‘It’s a veritable work of art,’ he agreed. ‘The man who produced it must have been a business genius.’
When they had run out of people to interview, the newspapers resorted to pure speculation as a source of material. The biggest puzzle of all was ‘Rivier’s’ true identity. Little was known of his past, but he had told people that he was born in St Pierre, Martinique. (This, of course, was the same ploy that he used in his ‘Louis Servatel’ persona.) It was rumoured that he was really an eminent London jeweller in disguise. Some people believed that he was Belgian; others said he was a parfumier from Nice with a shady past. One thing was already clear – he had ‘a passion for “little ladies”’, and already police were trying to locate a Mademoiselle Clérico, said to have been his mistress in Paris up until the time he skipped the country. Even his longest-serving employees had no real idea who he was. Monsieur Coste told a correspondent:
The man was a mystery. He never spoke to anyone. He didn’t have any friends, male or female. He opened all his mail himself, and kept any money he received to one side. He was out all day – I don’t know where. After signing the mail of an evening he’d have a boiled egg in his quarters and then we wouldn’t see him again till the mail was delivered in the morning. Every Friday evening he went away and regularly returned the next Wednesday. In a very vague sort of way he hinted that he’d been to London. Sometimes he wore a wig, sometimes he didn’t.
Surely Monsieur Coste was suspicious? ‘No, the money kept rolling in from all corners, there were many customers, and none of them ever complained.’
There followed waves of analysis, recrimination and speculation. Le Radical, a socialist journal, felt that the so-called victims were partly responsible for their own fate: ‘[Rivier’s] dupes virtually blame the police for forcing him to flee. They don’t want to view such a generous man as a swindler.’
Another newspaper, La Croix, adopted a ‘told-you-so’ stance:
On many occasions we have warned readers against financiers offering miraculous returns in order to attract a lump sum which is never seen again. In spite of all our advice about taking basic precautions we have also had to say that priests, officers, teachers and widows are often victims of this kind of crash … to seek abnormal rates of interest – quite apart from the moral standpoint – is to expose oneself to almost certain loss.
Interestingly, the Journal des Finances printed a piece comparing the Rente Bi-mensuelle with a casino – a rather apt comparison, as it happens, and one that Wells would later make himself. The only dupes were the latecomers, this article pointed out. Those who complained were simply peeved because the bank collapsed when it did.
And so it went on, the endless finger pointing and apportioning of blame. (Long afterwards, when the British newspapers finally became aware of the case, they used it to mock the ‘gullible French’. ‘Rivier’ had ‘paid a large rent for his premises and decked the place with red carpets and hangings, which are more regarded in Paris as a sign of financial stability than they would be in London’.)
Everyone looked to the press, hoping for at least some good news, but there was none. ‘Rivier’ had vanished without leaving a trace, it seemed. However, not long after his disappearance, Le Matin made an important discovery. The paper claimed that ‘Rivier’ had often visited a ‘sister-in-law’ named Madame Burns, who lived for a time at 1 Rue Cherubini. She was said to be ‘of Belgian origin’, and seldom went out. She had reportedly said that she was homesick for Belgium and was going back there, and had not been seen since. Though it was a rather garbled version of the facts, this would prove to be a more important clue than anyone realised at the time. In fact, the house in the Rue Cherubini was the home of Jeannette’s elder sister, Léonie. Jeannette and Charles had stayed there for a time when he was starting the bank.
As soon as the police became aware of ‘Rivier’s’ disappearance, they had immediately telegraphed his description to all points of the compass. Every frontier station received details of the arrest warrant against him. But it was too late. He had already left the country.
On reaching the bank’s headquarters on the evening of 19 April, the juge d’instruction1, Monsieur Bourdeaux, and the chief of the CID (Criminal Investigation Department), together with their subordinates, had searched the premises. Had ‘Rivier’ left at a time of his own choosing, he would no doubt have removed all of his documents from the bank. But in the event, he had fled in haste and had left behind a good deal of paperwork. Bourdeaux and his team collected together numerous documents, including seventy newly arrived applications for accounts with the bank. This material would take them some considerable time to go through.
The investigators faced another urgent task – to contact all of the victims of the fraud. Worried, exhausted investors were arriving at the bank in a constant stream, and a police inspector was duly stationed behind a little desk at the foot of the stairs. ‘With a grave air he writes on a never-ending list the numbers and amounts that these latecomers entrusted to the crooked financier.’ Bourdeaux himself received many letters from depositors, anxiously enquiring whether their money orders had been cashed before ‘Rivier’s’ disappearance. He also met a luckless wine merchant who had been completely ruined by the bank’s collapse. This individual had invested the whole of his savings, 100,000fr., in the fund, in the belief that he would live like a millionaire for the rest of his life. Now he had finished up penniless.
An expert accountant, Monsieur Alphonse Louis Malétras, was brought in to examine the financial affairs of the bank and return the newly received deposits to the senders. He temporarily based himself at the bank’s headquarters and quickly established that ‘Rivier’s’ daily receipts had reached at least 60,000fr. Indeed, money orders to that value were still arriving in every day’s mail. ‘Rivier’ had been paying out up to 30,000fr. each day in interest. The rest went into his pocket.
As Bourdeaux sifted through the mass of documents he had seized at the bank, he very likely experienced a fleeting sense of satisfaction. He had felt all along that there was something suspicious about ‘Rivier’ and the Rente Bi-mensuelle, and his hunch had been proved absolutely right. But this flicker of self-congratulation quickly passed when he realised the immensity of the task ahead. Although every border crossing and every port had been alerted, not a single sighting of ‘Rivier’ had been reported. Rumours about his identity swirled around like leaves in the wind: many of them were plain nonsense while the rest contradicted one another. The only thing that most people agreed on was that ‘Lucien Rivier’ was not the banker’s real name.
The accountant, Malétras, announced that the missing sum of money could be substantially more than previously thought. French citizens had been defrauded of up to 2 million francs (about £7 million), he asserted. The newspapers were pressing for answers, and everyone looked to the justice system to locate the fugitive banker, punish him for his offence and restore the funds to their rightful owners.
Recent techniques such as fingerprints, photography and an elaborate system for recording information on individual criminals had made life much easier for the police. But the case of the missing banker was clearly going to be a tough nut to crack. Bourdeaux began by sending for the files on any offender with the name ‘Lucien Rivier’. There were none, he was told. ‘Rivier’ was not a very common surname, and the only record of anyone with that name referred not to a perpetrator, but to the victim of a crime committed almost a decade earlier. ‘Let me see it anyway,’ he grunted.
The individual in question was a merchant living on the Rue Oberkampf in Paris. What Bourdeaux read next was an eye-opener. The man had put funds into a company, the Omnium Général de France. He had lost the whole of his investment when its director, ‘Louis Servatel’, had absconded. Letters from ‘Servatel’ to Rivier had been preserved in the folder. Bourdeaux now turned to the many documents he had removed from the offices of the Rente Bi-mensuelle, and found a sample of ‘Lucien Rivier’s’ handwriting. It didn’t need an expert to see that the writing was identical. ‘Rivier’ and ‘Servatel’ were obviously one and the same person. Somehow ‘Rivier’ must have inadvertently taken on the name of one of his former victims of long ago.2
When Bourdeaux read further into the dossier, his excitement quickly evaporated. The papers recorded that ‘Servatel’ had disappeared then, just as ‘Rivier’ had vanished now. It was beginning to seem as if the case defied any solution, when Bourdeaux received a letter from a judge in Lyon, who had read about ‘Rivier’s’ disappearance. The case had jogged his memory and reminded him of ‘Cuvilier’ and the Touriste Universel.
‘Send me a picture of this Rivier,’ the judge in Lyon wrote, ‘so I can compare it with one of Cuvilier.’
Bourdeaux quickly replied that he had no photograph whatsoever of ‘Rivier’. ‘Instead, you send me the picture of your Cuvilier!’ The image was sent post-haste. Bourdeaux showed it to Inspector Roux. ‘There’s no doubt about it,’ said Roux, remembering the recent meeting at the bank. ‘It’s Rivier.’
Perhaps the case was not unsolvable after all. By now, police had also traced ‘Rivier’s’ young ‘niece’ in Paris, Mademoiselle Louise Clérico, who had known him since 1903. Bourdeaux showed her the photograph of ‘Cuvilier’. Same result. It was her lover, the man she knew as Louis Servatel.
’Rivier’, ‘Servatel’ and ‘Cuvilier’ were one and the same. So far, so good. But it was obvious that all of these identities were bogus. Who was this man? Perhaps ‘Rivier’s’ safe deposit box at the Crédit Lyonnais would yield some clue. Bourdeaux ordered it to be opened. But it was empty.
In early May, almost three weeks after ‘Rivier’s’ disappearance, a large number of leaflets were printed, showing a set of his fingerprints and photos of him – with and without wig – from his earlier arrest as ‘Cuvilier’. A full description followed, including a reference to his unusual gait, described as more of a trot than a walk. The document gave his approximate age as 60 (whereas it was actually 70) adding that he had the appearance of ‘an old pensioner’. His previous aliases, ‘Servatel’ and ‘Cuvilier’ were mentioned, as were a number of names he almost certainly had not used: Méjean, Coraly, Levallois, Saguenet-Ripensier. Intriguingly, the police stated as a fact that he was born in Martinique. They evidently had not yet put two and two together and realised that ‘Rivier’ had deliberately chosen Saint-Pierre as his alleged birthplace because the records there had been destroyed.
The leaflet goes on to say:
This fraudster, whose identity it has not been possible to establish, usually has with him a young woman whom he passes off as his niece and to whom he has promised his fortune, which, he claims, is substantial. … Recently, at 100 Rue Lazare, Paris, and later at 1 Rue Cherubini, he was accompanied by Joséphine-Jeannette Burns, who claims Belgian origins.
These circulars were sent far and wide, and the description and photos of ‘Rivier’ were extensively reproduced in the French press. For some reason which remains unclear, aside from ‘Rivier’s’ rumoured visits to England, a copy was sent to the police in Liverpool. As the constabulary in that city knew nothing whatsoever about ‘Rivier’, his aliases or his associates, the paper was forwarded to Scotland Yard after a short delay. The Metropolitan Police clearly did not consider the enquiry to be very important, and only perfunctory efforts were made to find the fugitive. They eventually replied to Monsieur Hamard at the Sûreté, saying, ‘enquiries have been made at hotels, restaurants and other likely places, but no traces of the accused have been found. Informants have been seen and a description of the accused circulated in our printed Information, but no information obtained.’
Towards the end of May, ‘Lucien Rivier’, trading as the Rente Bi-mensuelle, was adjudged bankrupt in his absence by a tribunal in Paris. It was a small step in the right direction for the French justice system, but brought little comfort to the thousands of victims. In all other respects, the authorities were making painfully slow progress in his case, and by now more than a month had elapsed since ‘Rivier’ had vanished. Disappointingly, the British police had been no help at all.
By early June, however, the Sûreté had some possible leads to follow up. Thanks to information from Mademoiselle Clérico, they had connected ‘Rivier’ with the ‘Charles Deville’ who, in 1901–02, had registered patents in France and Belgium, including the speaking clock. A note in the files stated that he had been investigated at the time, though no prosecution had followed. However, the Sûreté was still under the false impression that he was a Frenchman, and incorrectly identified him as a Charles Deville who was born in Paris in 1842. This mistake was subsequently corrected when detectives went even further back and found records of Charles Wells’ arrest at Le Havre in 1892.
This was a crucial watershed for the enquiry, as the police now had a definite suspect for the first time. Hamard sent a letter dated 3 June 1911 to his British counterpart, Assistant Commissioner Macnaghten, containing several facts which the British ought to have known, and which they should have communicated to him much earlier: ‘Rivier, alias Well [sic], is apparently none other than the individual referred to in London in about 1890 as having ‘broken the bank’ at Monte Carlo. He and his so-called niece were the subject of a music-hall song.’ Hamard’s letter goes on to say that ‘Rivier’ is the father of young woman who is an artist. He encloses a sample of Rivier’s handwriting on a small scrap of paper left at the offices of the Rente Bi-mensuelle. Hamard’s letter also asserts that Wells was thought to have connections with various London criminals including a man known as ‘the Italian’ – a snippet of information hardly likely to be of much use to Scotland Yard.
Over three weeks pass before Macnaghten replies. Again, the Metropolitan Police have enquired at ‘hotels, cafés, and other likely places, but no trace of the accused has been found’ (this seems to have been a stock answer). ‘So far there is no indication that he is in the country.’ But they have checked the set of ‘Rivier’s’ fingerprints on the original leaflet – something they presumably could have done some six weeks previously, if they had felt disposed to do so. The prints matched those taken from Wells (masquerading as ‘Davenport’) on his arrest after the Fishing and Trawling scam. No information whatsoever was available about ‘Rivier’s’ alleged associates, but if the Paris Police would care to send photographs the Metropolitan Police would see if they could be identified. Inspectors Knell and Pike, who had worked on the Fishing and Trawling case, had been consulted: Wells had once indicated to them that his intention, ultimately, was to settle down in Canada or Argentina with ‘his paramour’. This last piece of news was, of course, not quite what Hamard had hoped for.
Hamard replied two weeks later, enclosing photographs of two murderous looking denizens of the demi-monde, one of whom apparently was ‘the Italian’. He sends a description of Jeannette Burns (who is, according to the Sûreté, also known as ‘Jeanne Paris [sic] or Périsse’). In particular, Hamard asks for a photograph of Wells (a request Scotland Yard could not comply with, as they did not seem to have one) plus ‘all information in your possession on his past, his marital status, his family, his associates, and his activities – especially in 1893 and 1906 …’
On receiving Hamard’s letter, senior Scotland Yard officers seem to have realised at last that the French police had no intention of letting this matter drop. It was clear that the Metropolitan Police would be involved if Wells really was in Britain, and Superintendent Frank Froest, the CID chief, decided to put one of his top investigators in charge of the operation. Because of the international dimension to the case, one man was the obvious choice: Detective Sergeant George Nicholls, one of the new generation of officers who were changing the public’s perception of the police. The force had moved on since the days of Jack the Ripper and, like their French counterparts, had adopted new, scientific ways to solve crimes. Only recently, for example, they had used forensic science to prove guilt on the part of Dr Crippen, whose subsequent capture was also aided by an up-to-the-minute invention – wireless. Naturally the use of these sophisticated methods required men of education and intellect.
George Robert Nicholls was born in 1877, the son of a nightwatchman. At school he was an outstanding pupil. By the time he left at the age of 14, he had gained a fluent command of French and German. His first job was as a barrister’s clerk, but he yearned to join the police, and he enlisted as a constable with the Metropolitan Police as soon as he had reached the minimum age of 21.
His superiors were so impressed by his intelligence and his linguistic skills that after only two years he was taken off the beat and transferred to the CID. Described as ‘tall and unassuming’, and ‘a man of splendid physique’, he became Scotland Yard’s expert on the many foreign criminals who made their way to London in the 1900s. By the time the ‘Rivier’ case came up he had already collaborated with police in France as well as Germany on several occasions.
He began his new assignment by assembling a detailed biography of Charles Wells, beginning with the patent fraud of the 1890s and the ensuing prosecution. He mentions the appearance at Wells’ Old Bailey trial of Wells’ brother-in-law, Henry Jartoux, who testified that Wells had lived in Marseille until 1879. The résumé continues with an account of the Fishing and Trawling Syndicate, which had much in common with the Rente Bi-mensuelle – ‘Substantial sums out of capital were paid as interest, the investors being induced in this way to sink further and larger sums. The fraud was assuming vast proportions when Wells and Moyle were arrested …’
Nicholls goes on to say, ‘Wells was an exceptionally reserved man, frugal and simple in his habits. He appeared to have no friends or relatives.’ But, as his letter reveals, the British authorities knew no more about Wells’ origins than did the French. ‘To the prison authorities he gave London and Oxford as his birthplace and the years 1833 and 1835 as the date of his birth. He has at times described himself as a French Canadian.’3
Nicholls had gone back to Inspector Pike and had shown him the photographs of ‘the Italian’ and another alleged associate, but Pike recognised neither of them. Besides, Nicholls added, Wells was never believed to have had any accomplices apart from Moyle. The British police had nothing whatsoever on file concerning his daughter. However, on a slightly more hopeful note – at least as far as the French police were concerned – Nicholls mentioned letters sent by Wells to Jeannette in 1905, in which ‘he stated he was looking forward to the time when he would have gained sufficient money to settle down with her at some quiet spot in the South of France. There was also found in his possession a book on extradition law.’
Hamard and his colleagues digested this new information. For all the considerable detail it contained, it was hard to see how it could bring them closer to finding the fugitive ‘Rivier’/Wells. But the reference to Henry Jartoux held out some hope. Hamard’s next move would undoubtedly have been to contact the register office in Marseille, where he could expect to find a record of Wells’ marriage. Perhaps that would yield some further lead. Since every other clue had led them nowhere, it had to be worth a try.
Out of Marseille’s population of around 200,000, more than 1,000 marriages took place annually. The details, including full particulars of the bride and groom, their signatures and those of the witnesses, are recorded in numerous weighty registers. Every ten years an alphabetical index – the Table Décennale – is compiled by a team of clerks. This index shows which volume and page to consult for any individual’s record. But the entry for Wells’ marriage to Marie Thérèse Jartoux is unaccountably missing.4 It seems that Hamard and his team concluded that the marriage had not taken place in Marseille after all, and abandoned that line of enquiry.5
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1 The role of the juge d’instruction is to co-ordinate all investigations leading up to the arrest and prosecution of an offender, and to prepare the indictment prior to the trial, which is presided over by a separate judge, referred to (below) as the ‘trial judge’.
2 In his interview with Dr Francesca Denman, the author asked whether it was possible that Charles Wells might have had some subconscious wish to be caught, causing him to give out a clue to his identity. Dr Denman felt that this sort of thing normally only happens in works of fiction: in reality, it was more probable that he had needed to think of a name, and ‘Rivier’ simply sprang to mind.
3 As mentioned above, the correct information had been published in the newspapers in 1893, shortly after his trial. Evidently, the police had not taken note of these revelations. (Lichfield Mercury, 28 April 1893)
4 Author’s note: I suspect that the usual confusion between the letters ‘W’ and ‘V’ may have been partly to blame for this. Some of the ‘W’s are shown in a separate section (they are very few in number) but most are lumped in with the ‘V’s. Conveniently for Charles Wells, his entry seems to have been omitted from both groups.
5 Birth, marriage and death records in France are archived locally. There is no central register, as in Britain, for example. Having failed to locate entries in Marseille, the police would have faced the almost impossible task of searching in every single commune in France.