Artes, behind the Louvre. The day was charming, the air having some of the warmth and colouring of summer, without having lost the clear freshness of spring. As the boat swung out into the current, the detective recalled the last occasion on which he had embarked at this same pier—that on which he and Burnley had gone downstream to Grenelle to call on M. Thévenet at the statuary works. This time the same quest took him in the opposite direction, and they passed round the Ile de la Cité, along the quais, whose walls are topped by the stalls of the book-vendors of the Latin Quarter, past the stately twin towers of Notre Dame, and under the bridge of the Metropolitaine opposite the Gare d’Austerlitz. As they steamed up the broad river the buildings became less and less imposing, till before they had covered the four miles to the suburb of Charenton, where the Marne pours its waters into the Seine, trees and patches of green had begun to appear.
Landing at Charenton, which was as far as the steamer went, Lefarge strolled up the street in the direction of the station, looking for a restaurant with an overhanging, half-timbered front. He had not to make a long search. The largest and most pretentious café in the street answered the description and, when he saw telephone wires leading to it, he felt it was indeed the one he sought. Entering, he sat down at one of the small marble-topped tables and called for a bock.
The room was fair sized, with a bar at one corner, and a small dancing stage facing the door. But for the detective, it was untenanted. An elderly, white-moustached waiter passed back and forward from some room in the rear.
‘Pleasant day,’ said Lefarge, when this man came over with his bock. ‘I suppose you don’t get busy till later on?’
The man admitted it.
‘Well, I hear you give a very good lunch, anyway,’ continued the detective. ‘A friend of mine lunched here some days ago and was much pleased. And he’s not so easy to satisfy either.’
The waiter smiled and bowed.
‘We try to do our best, monsieur. It is very gratifying to learn that your friend was satisfied.’
‘Did he not tell you so? He generally says what he thinks.’
‘I am not sure that I know your friend, monsieur. When was he here?’
‘Oh, you’d remember him right enough if you saw him. There he is.’ Lefarge took a photograph of Boirac from his pocket and handed it over.
‘But yes, monsieur. Quite well I remember your friend. But,’ he hesitated slightly, ‘he did not strike me as being so much pleased with the lunch as you suggest. I thought indeed he considered the restaurant not quite——’ He shrugged his shoulders.
‘He was not very well, but he was pleased right enough. It was last Thursday he was here, wasn’t it?’
‘Last Thursday, monsieur? No, I think it was earlier. Let me see, I think it was Monday.’
‘I made a mistake. It was not Thursday. I remember now it was Tuesday he said. Was it not Tuesday?’
‘Perhaps it was, monsieur, I am not certain; though I rather think it was Monday.’
‘He telephoned to me that day from Charenton—I think he said from here. Did he telephone from here?’
‘Yes, monsieur, he made two calls. See, there is the telephone. We allow all our patrons to use it.’
‘An excellent idea. I am sure it is much appreciated. But there was an unfortunate mistake about the message he sent me. It was making an appointment, and he did not turn up. I am afraid I misunderstood what he said. Could you hear the message? Perhaps, if so, you would tell me if he spoke of an appointment on last Tuesday?’
The waiter, who up to then had been all smiles and amiability, flashed a suspicious little glance at the detective. He continued to smile politely, but Lefarge felt he had closed up like an oyster in his shell, and when he replied: ‘I could not hear, monsieur. I was engaged with the service,’ the other suspected he was lying.
He determined to try a bluff. Changing his manner and speaking authoritatively, though in a lower tone, he said:—
‘Now, look here, garçon. I am a detective officer. I want to find out about those telephone messages, and I don’t want to have the trouble of taking you to the Sûreté to interrogate you.’ He took out a five-franc piece. ‘If you can tell me what he said, this will be yours.’
A look of alarm came into the man’s eyes.
‘But, monsieur——’ he began.
‘Come now, I am certain you know, and you’ve got to tell. You may as well do it now and get your five francs, as later on at the Sûreté and for nothing. What do you say now? Which is it to be?’
The waiter remained silent, and it was obvious to Lefarge that he was weighing his course of action. His hesitation convinced the detective that he really did know the messages, and he determined to strike again.
‘Perhaps you are doubtful whether I really am from the Sûreté,’ he suggested. ‘Look at that.’
He displayed his detective’s credentials, and the sight seemed to bring the other to a decision.
‘I will tell you, monsieur. He first called up some one that I took to be his valet, and said he was going unexpectedly to Belgium, and that he wanted something left at the Gare du Nord for him—I did not catch what it was. Then he called up some other place and gave the same message, simply that he was going to Belgium for a couple of days. That was all, monsieur.’
‘That’s all right, garçon. Here’s your five francs.’
‘A good beginning,’ thought the detective, as he left the café and, turning his back on the river, passed on up the street. There could be no doubt that Boirac really had lunched at Charenton as he said. It was true the waiter thought he had been there on Monday, whereas Boirac had said Tuesday, but the waiter was not certain, and, in any case, the mistake would be a very easy one to make. Besides, the point could be checked. He could find out from M. Boirac’s chief clerk and butler on what day they received their messages.
He walked to Charenton Station, and took a train to the Gare du Lyon. Hailing a taxi, he was driven to the end of the rue Championnet, the street in which was situated the pump factory of which M. Boirac was managing director. As he left the motor and began strolling down the footpath, he heard the clocks chiming the half-hour after eleven.
The pump factory had not a very long frontage on the street, but, glancing in through an open gateway, Lefarge saw that it stretched a long way back. At one side of the gate was a four-story block of buildings, the door of which bore the legend, ‘Bureau au Deuxième Étage.’ The detective strolled past with his head averted, looking round only to make sure there was no other entrance to the works.
Some fifty yards or more beyond the factory, on the opposite side of the street, there stood a café. Entering in a leisurely way, Lefarge seated himself at a small marble-topped table in the window, from where he had a good view of the office door and yard gate of the works. Ordering another bock, he drew a newspaper from his pocket and, leaning back in his chair, began to read. He held it carefully at such a level that he could keep an eye over it on the works entrance, while at any moment raising it by a slight and natural movement would screen him from observation from without. So, for a considerable time he sipped his bock and waited.
Several
