The White Cottage Mystery Read online

  ‘Goodness only knows,’ he said. ‘There’s something very odd about this case, Jerry.’

  6 The Explanation of M. le Gris

  ‘If messieurs would permit …’ The tall fair-haired young Frenchman with the irreproachable English accent bowed deferentially as he spoke, and wafted rather than led the detective and his son into the sleek black car drawn up against the kerb outside the Gare du Nord.

  He had met their train, and singling them out immediately from the other passengers, presented his card – M. Maurice Barthés, 18 rue des Soldats.

  ‘I am Monsieur le Gris’ private secretary,’ he explained. ‘He sends you this letter and begs that you will excuse him that he does not meet you himself.’

  Old W.T. took the note and opened it, passing it immediately afterwards to Jerry.

  My dear Mr Challoner, Would you be so good as to accompany my secretary to my house, where I shall await you? Please excuse this informality, but there are circumstances in the business on which you are come which make an unofficial meeting between us imperative.

  René le Gris.

  During the drive, which carried them through the heart of the city to the quiet squares on the other side of the river, M. Barthés talked continually upon trivial subjects. From his behaviour he might quite easily have been escorting two English business men to a house-party at the home of a member of an allied firm.

  W.T. was not surprised. The boy was afraid of questions, he realized; he had been warned to say nothing, no doubt. This was understandable, but yet mystifying; and the old man sat silent, his hands folded.

  Jerry therefore was left to bear the brunt of M. Barthés’ small-talk, and the two young men chatted dutifully together for some fifteen minutes, until the car turned suddenly out of a noisy thoroughfare into a quiet old-fashioned avenue where the trees, green and dusty in the heat, nodded together before tall brown houses.

  They came to a standstill before a house whose windows were hung with old-fashioned looped plush curtains and showed the gleam of polished mahogany in their shadowed depths.

  A sedate manservant admitted them, leading them upstairs to a room on the first floor. Here M. Barthés paused and bowed.

  ‘Monsieur le Gris awaits you, messieurs,’ he said, and turning, left them on the threshold.

  Jerry followed his father into a cool dim room whose atmosphere was redolent of leather and the faint dusty smell of books.

  A slight figure rose from the shadows behind a desk as they came in, and moved towards them with outstretched hand.

  M. René le Gris was a Frenchman of the dapper type. He was scarcely five feet six in height, with a grey vandyke beard, iron-grey hair, and black-brown eyes.

  He smiled affably as he greeted the two, showing his perfect teeth, and reseated himself as soon as they sat down, drawing his chair nearer to theirs.

  There was something about him, however, which made Jerry vaguely uncomfortable. There was a hint of restraint in his manner in spite of all his apparent friendliness.

  W.T. noticed it also, and the faintly puzzled expression that had been lurking at the back of his eyes ever since he first set foot in Paris grew momentarily more intense.

  The Frenchman was the first to touch on the business in hand.

  ‘Monsieur,’ he said, in his quiet, well-modulated voice, ‘I understand from a letter I have received from London that you have come to France to find an Italian called Latte Cellini.’

  W.T. nodded.

  ‘I have come to arrest him, monsieur,’ he said simply. ‘We want him in England on a charge of murder.’

  ‘So I understand,’ said le Gris, and was silent for a moment or so, evidently deliberating his next remark.

  ‘This is a very difficult matter,’ he said at last. ‘Monsieur knows, of course, that the French police are always most anxious to assist their colleagues over the Channel – ’

  W.T. bowed and was silent. This was all very well, but it was not to the point.

  The little Frenchman folded his hands and smiled.

  ‘This must all seem very extraordinary to you,’ he said suddenly – ‘asking you to come here unofficially like this.’

  The old detective looked at him squarely.

  ‘To be truthful, it does,’ he said. ‘I don’t understand it at all. We hear from you that a man wanted on a charge of murder has been located in your city. Why can’t we proceed in the ordinary way – as in the case of Chalmers – Ruth Buller – Dorrington, and many others?’

  The Frenchman paused, and when at last he spoke there was an air of hesitancy in his manner, as if he were feeling his way very cautiously.

  ‘Chalmers was a man in an ordinary position,’ he said at last. ‘So was the woman Ruth Buller – so was Dorrington. But Latte Cellini is not so ordinary. That is – I mean, monsieur, there are circumstances …’ And again he paused and looked at the Englishman questioningly.

  W.T. remained stolid, however, his eyes fixed on the Frenchman’s face. After a while the man continued.

  ‘Monsieur,’ he said, ‘Latte Cellini is not unknown to us. He left France seven years ago, and since then all trace of him has been lost. Before that time, however, he was a subject of great interest to us. As soon as he entered France two days ago he was recognized by our men and a note made of his return. That is why we were able to reply to your inquiries about him so soon.’

  W.T. nodded. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘But really, monsieur, I fail to see why the fact that seven years ago he was known to your police should prevent me from arresting him now.’

  ‘Oh, my dear Monsieur Challoner, you misunderstand me.’ M. le Gris was loud in his protest. ‘We do not object at all to your arresting Cellini – even hanging him if you see fit; on the contrary, if you have sufficient evidence to bring him to justice there is nothing that would suit us more admirably. That is why – to be frank – we replied so promptly to your inquiries.’

  W.T. stirred uneasily in his chair.

  ‘Monsieur le Gris,’ he said simply, ‘I am an Englishman, and we like our facts like our food – without subtlety. If you will honour me with your trust you will find that I shall respect your confidence.’

  The Frenchman coloured faintly.

  ‘The affair is not easy,’ he murmured. ‘The facts, monsieur, are these – we know where Cellini is at the moment, but he is in a place where you cannot be permitted to arrest him. I can only suggest that you remain in Paris until we are able to give you more satisfactory information.’

  W.T.’s eyes narrowed for an instant, but the next moment he was smiling, benign as ever.

  ‘Monsieur,’ he said gently, ‘we are both servants of the established order. Let us work together. It seems to me that here is a man an offender against the public. If by cooperation we can bring him to justice, surely we ought to do so. In plain words, monsieur, let us each tell all we know.’

  René le Gris frowned.

  ‘Monsieur will understand the extremely confidential nature of the information for which he asks?’ he said at last.

  ‘My dear sir’ – W.T.’s tone was eloquent – ‘every police force in the world has its secrets. There are times when a strict adherence to the letter of the law is not advisable in the law’s own interests.’

  A faint smile spread over the little Frenchman’s face. ‘Monsieur comprehends,’ he said, and then, turning, looked pointedly at Jerry.

  ‘My son is my most valued assistant,’ said old W.T. quickly. ‘Please regard him as trustworthy as myself – I will answer for him.’

  Le Gris shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘As monsieur wishes,’ he said, and leaning forward he began to speak, his elbows resting on his chair-arms, his white fingers meeting across his breast.

  ‘As monsieur has said,’ he began, ‘every police force in the world has its secrets – information which it is not politic to use.’ His bright eyes rested upon W.T.’s stolid face questioningly.

  The old detective nodded emphatical
ly and the Frenchman continued. ‘We are not exceptions to the general rule. There has been for many years in this city the headquarters of a society of thieves. The police know of it, naturally, but always their hands have been tied.’ Again he paused and looked at the Englishman shrewdly, and again the older man nodded gravely.

  ‘The difficulty is a peculiar one,’ le Gris went on. ‘This “society” is composed of several American millionaires, one English nobleman, an Austrian whose name is famous all over the world, three Frenchmen, and one woman, whose names are so illustrious that even among friends it would be unwise to mention them. Besides – even we do not know the entire member roll.’

  W.T. nodded imperturbably. ‘I understand perfectly, monsieur,’ he said. ‘Please go on.’

  ‘This society has one great peculiarity,’ le Gris continued slowly. ‘It never steals anything that can be bought.’

  Jerry looked up in surprise, not grasping his meaning at first.

  ‘Nothing that money will buy,’ the Frenchman repeated. ‘The members are all collectors of rare jewellery and pictures. If the object desired by any one of them is on the market, then he is bound to buy it, paying whatever may be asked for it without question; but if, on the other hand, the treasure is not to be got by just means and he is still anxious to get it, he calls in the help of this society and it is obtained for him.’

  ‘Stolen?’

  Le Gris shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Acquired,’ he murmured gently. ‘Wherever it is – the Imperial Palace of China or a back attic in your Mile End Road – it is found and removed. Nothing can save it.’

  ‘The society has good servants,’ remarked W.T.

  The Frenchman nodded.

  ‘All the experts of the world,’ he said with something akin to regret in his tone. ‘Every criminal who is at the height of his or her particular line is sought out and employed by them. Cracksmen – confidence men – pickpockets – besides a small army of jewellers and picture experts.’

  The English detective looked up.

  ‘I begin to understand,’ he said. ‘Latte Cellini was at one time in the employ of this society?’

  Le Gris bowed. ‘Monsieur is right,’ he said. ‘Latte Cellini is a jeweller – probably the most expert setter of precious stones in the world. He has been of great use to the society in the past…’ He paused and smiled faintly, as if he were remembering something. ‘There is today,’ he said at last, ‘amongst the Crown Jewels of a great Royal House a single false stone. The original lies in the collection of a famous American beside its only peer – a stone of the same colour, quality and weight. No one in the Royal household dreams of the exchange, since no one but an expert with a glass could tell the difference between the false stone and the real one. But twelve years ago all the jewellery was cleaned, and one night an old jeweller from Prague sat up late at the work – or so it was thought. The following morning the change had been effected. That was the work of Latte Cellini. But we could never prove it against him.’

  ‘A worthy successor of his great namesake,’ remarked W.T., who seemed to have relished the story.

  Jerry frowned. ‘Did he impersonate the jeweller from Prague, then?’ he said.

  Le Gris nodded.

  ‘Gustav Buder of Prague did not receive his summons from the Royal Treasury,’ he said. ‘To this day he does not know that it was despatched.’

  There was silence for a moment or so after the Frenchman’s voice had died away. Then W.T. spoke.

  ‘I understand the powers of this society, monsieur,’ he said, ‘but surely even it cannot protect a man wanted for murder.’

  ‘But no, certainly not, monsieur.’ Le Gris spoke emphatically. ‘Besides, the society does not defend its servants. That is part of the agreement under which they are employed. They are paid enormous salaries on the condition that they take the full responsibility of their own actions. Besides, the society has its own methods of dealing with unsatisfactory servants.’

  W.T. looked up sharply, for the first time a flicker of surprise passing over his face.

  ‘How do you mean?’ he said.

  Le Gris shrugged his shoulders eloquently. ‘They disappear, monsieur,’ he said simply. ‘For seven years we thought that some such fate had overtaken Latte Cellini, but two days ago he reappeared in Paris with the English police on his heels. Can you offer us any explanation?’

  ‘Very little,’ W.T. admitted. ‘All we know for certain about Cellini is that for the last seven years he has been living with an Englishman in a Kentish village in the capacity of private secretary or confidential servant.’

  ‘Impossible!’

  W.T. smiled dourly. ‘It doesn’t sound true, I admit,’ he said, ‘especially after your most valuable information concerning his past, but these, as far as we know them, are the facts. The Englishman – Crowther – was murdered two days ago, and the evidence, although not absolutely conclusive, points very strongly to the Italian. You know where he is?’

  Le Gris nodded.

  ‘Yes, monsieur, I do,’ he said. ‘That is the trouble of it. I know where he is, but I cannot take you to him.’

  W.T. frowned. ‘I am afraid I misunderstand you,’ he said a little stiffly.

  Le Gris leant back in his chair, and his pale finely chiselled face looked like an ivory carving in the dusk.

  ‘When Cellini returned to France, monsieur, I feel sure that he had no idea that he would be followed,’ he said slowly, ‘for his first move was to go straight to the house of the head of the society – a man whose name I beg you will not ask me to divulge. But believe me, an arrest in that house is an impossibility. For political as well as social reasons, monsieur, it would be unwise in the extreme. We have made our plans. To disturb anything now would be to impede the course of justice in the future. As long as Cellini remains actually under the protection of this society – under its roof – we can do nothing.’

  W.T. hesitated.

  ‘But surely, monsieur, if I might venture to suggest it, a word to the – ah – distinguished member of the society would result in the expulsion of Cellini from the household, and we could then proceed in the ordinary way.’

  Le Gris sighed.

  ‘That could be done,’ he said, ‘but we prefer not. The police like to assume, even in private, a complete ignorance of the society. When a man is in this particular house of which I speak he is to all intents and purposes out of the world altogether; monsieur must understand the situation.’

  ‘I do,’ said the old man. ‘I do indeed, and I thank you, Monsieur le Gris, for your very valuable assistance; but what am I to do?’

  ‘I was coming to that, monsieur.’ Le Gris sat forward in his chair. ‘There is in the Rue d’Aramis a little jeweller’s shop kept by an old relative of Cellini’s. The man is sure to return there. We will have the place watched, and as soon as he enters the doorway you shall be informed.’

  W.T. bowed, but his eyes had by no means a satisfied expression in their depths.

  ‘Meanwhile, I wait in Paris,’ he said at last.

  Le Gris smiled.

  ‘Yes, monsieur,’ he said. ‘That is all I can suggest. But you will not have long to wait,’ he went on, ‘and at the earliest opportunity you can rely on us to assist you to our utmost ability.’

  The two men shook hands.

  ‘Monsieur, I am so much in your debt already,’ said W.T. gravely, ‘that I cannot fully express my deep appreciation of your courtesy. You can rely upon our respect for your confidence.’

  Le Gris bowed. ‘As soon as the necessary information comes through, monsieur, you shall be informed,’ he said.

  ‘How extraordinary!’ said W.T., as he and Jerry walked down the leafy avenue together.

  ‘What?’ said Jerry.

  Old W.T. sighed.

  ‘The society,’ he said. ‘It’s known to every police force in Europe, of course, though professional etiquette forbids one to admit it. Nothing can be done to end it. The police
of the world are powerless against it. We can only get proof against the servants of the society – not the members themselves. Even the French Intelligence Department can do nothing. We shall have to wait for our man, my boy.’

  7 No. 28 Rue d’Aramis

  After ten days in Paris Jerry had not forgotten Norah Bayliss. On the contrary, he thought about her more often every succeeding day that he was away from her – wondered what was happening to her, if she had stayed by her sister, if he would ever see her again.

  He was absorbed with this last question when he turned into the foyer of the hotel and walked through into the lounge. W.T. was seated in the far corner of the room looking offensively English, with a litter of tea-things on the table before him.

  He looked up as Jerry came in and began to grumble before the boy had reached his side.

  ‘I thought you were never coming,’ he said peevishly. ‘Have a cigarette.’

  Jerry took the rebuke and the peace-offering.

  ‘Any luck?’

  ‘At last. ‘Pon my soul, Jerry, I was thinking of sending home for my winter vests and digging in here for the rest of the year. But young Barthés was down here half an hour ago – Cellini is abroad again and they expect him to sleep at the jeweller’s in the Rue d’Aramis tonight. At ten o’clock, therefore, you, I, and an agent de police will go and get him. I thought I’d have you with us. Heaven knows, you’re better with your fists than your head.’

  Jerry grinned.

  ‘Why,’ he said, ‘d’you expect a rough-house?’

  W.T. shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Probably,’ he said. ‘No one likes being hanged, you know most of ’em make a fight for it. Le Gris seems to expect trouble, anyway. It may be only his politeness, of course, but as far as I can hear, half the police force is going to surround that shop tonight – gendarmes in every doorway – gendarmes on each window-sill – gendarmes sticking out of every chimney-pot.’

  Jerry laughed.

  ‘Oh, well,’ said the boy, ‘it’s a blessing we’re getting a move on at last. What I want to know is why Cellini killed Crowther in Christensen’s house?’