see him now.’
In a few seconds M. Boirac entered the room. He was a strongly built man of rather under middle age, with thick black hair and a large moustache. On his face was an expression of strain, as if he was passing through a period of acute bodily or mental pain. He was dressed entirely in black and his manner was quiet and repressed.
He looked round the room and then, as M. Chauvet rose to greet him, he bowed ceremoniously.
‘M. le Chef de la Sûreté?’ he asked, and, as M. Chauvet bowed him to a chair, continued,—
‘I have called to see you, monsieur, on a very painful matter. I had hoped to have been able to do so alone,’ he paused slightly, ‘but these gentlemen, I presume, are completely in your confidence?’ He spoke slowly with a deliberate pronunciation of each word, as if he had thought out whether that was the best possible he could use and had come to the conclusion that it was.
‘If, monsieur,’ returned M. Chauvet, ‘your business is in connection with the recent unfortunate disappearance of your wife, these gentlemen are the officers who are in charge of the case, and their presence would be, I think, to the advantage of all of us.’
M. Boirac sprang from his chair, deep emotion showing under his iron control.
‘Then it is she?’ he asked, in a suppressed voice. ‘You know? It seemed possible from the advertisement, but I wasn’t sure. I hoped—that perhaps—— There is no doubt, I suppose?’
‘I shall tell you all we know, M. Boirac, and you can form your own conclusions. First, here is a photograph of the body found.’
M. Boirac took the slip of card and looked at it earnestly.
‘It is she,’ he murmured hoarsely, ‘it is she without a doubt.’
He paused, overcome, and, the others respecting his feelings, there was silence for some moments. Then with a strenuous effort he continued, speaking hardly above a whisper,—
‘Tell me,’ his voice shook as he pronounced the words with difficulty, ‘what makes her look so terrible? And those awful marks at her throat? What are they?’
‘It is with the utmost regret I have to tell you, M. Boirac, that your wife was undoubtedly murdered by strangulation. Further, you must know that she had been dead several days when that photograph was taken.’
M. Boirac dropped into his chair, and sunk his head in his hands.
‘My God!’ he panted. ‘My poor Annette! Though I had no cause to love her, I did, God help me, in spite of everything, I did. I know it now when I have lost her. Tell me,’ he continued in a low tone after another pause, ‘tell me the details.’
‘I fear they are rather harrowing, monsieur,’ said the Chief, with sympathetic sorrow in his tone. ‘A certain cask was noticed by the London police, a detail, with which I need hardly trouble you, having aroused their suspicions. The cask was seized and opened, and the body was found inside.’
The visitor remained with his face buried in his hands. After a few seconds he raised himself and looked at M. Chauvet.
‘Any clue?’ he asked, in a choking tone. ‘Have you any clue to the villain who has done this?’
‘We have a number of clues,’ returned the Chief, ‘but have not yet had time to work them. I have no doubt that we will have our hands on the murderer shortly. In the meantime, M. Boirac, to make assurance doubly sure, I would be glad if you would see if you can identify these clothes.’
‘Her clothes? Oh, spare me that. But there, I understand it is necessary.’
M. Chauvet picked up his telephone and gave directions for the clothes to be sent in. The jewellery was not available, as Mlle. Blaise had taken it in her round of the shops.
‘Alas! Yes,’ cried M. Boirac sadly, when he saw the dress, ‘it is hers, it is hers. She wore it the evening she left. There can be no further doubt. My poor, mistaken Annette!’
‘I am afraid, M. Boirac, at the risk of giving you pain, I must ask you to be good enough to tell us all you can about the circumstances of your wife’s disappearance. These gentlemen are Mr. Burnley of the London police, and M. Lefarge of our own staff, and they are collaborating in the matter. You may speak before them with complete freedom.’
M. Boirac bowed.
‘I will tell you everything, monsieur, but you must pardon me if I seem a little incoherent. I am not myself.’
M. Chauvet stepped to a press and took from it a flask of brandy.
‘Monsieur,’ he said, ‘you have our fullest sympathy. Allow me to offer you a little of this.’ He poured out a stiff glass.
‘I thank you, monsieur,’ returned the visitor, as he drank the cordial. It pulled him together, and he became once more the unemotional man of business. He kept himself well in hand and did not, during the telling of his story, allow his emotion to overcome him, though at times it was clear all his powers of self-control were needed. In a stronger voice he began his statement, and his three companions settled themselves more comfortably in their chairs to listen.
CHAPTER XIV
M. BOIRAC MAKES A STATEMENT
‘My name and address you know,’ began M. Boirac. ‘In business I am the managing director of the Avrotte Pump Construction Co., whose works are situated off the rue Championnet, not far from the Omnibus Co.’s depot. I am fairly well off, and we lived comfortably, my wife going a good deal into society.
‘On Saturday, the 27th ult., this day fortnight, we had a dinner party at the Avenue de l’Alma. Our principal guest was the Spanish ambassador, at whose house my wife had visited when in Madrid the previous year. Among the others was a M. Léon Felix, an old friend of my wife’s, who lived in London, and was in some business there. The guests arrived and we sat down to dinner, but unfortunately before the meal was concluded a telephone message came for me from the works to say that a serious accident had happened, and requiring my immediate presence. There was nothing for it but to apologise to my guests and go off at once, which I did, though I promised to return at the earliest possible moment.
‘When I reached the works I found that the main bed casting of a new 200-h.p. engine which was being put in during the week-end, had slipped and slewed sideways while being got into place, killing one man and seriously injuring two others. One of the cylinders was fractured, and the whole casting had jammed between the wall and the flywheel pit and could not be got out.
‘As soon as I saw how serious things were, I telephoned home to say I would be very late, and that there would be no chance of my returning in time to see my guests. However, we got on much better than I expected, and it was barely eleven when I turned out of the works. Not seeing a taxi, I walked to the Simplon station of the Metro. My route, as you will understand, involved a change of trains at Châtelet and I accordingly alighted there. I had hardly done so when I was clapped on the back by some one, and turning, found an American acquaintance called Myron H. Burton, with whom I had stayed in the same hotel in New York and with whom I had
