Mrs. Vanderstein's jewels

CHAPTER XXII

“What do you think about going over to Boulogne, Mr. Gimblet?”

It was the following morning, and Jennins was sitting in Gimblet’s rooms. He had come round to talk matters over and discuss plans and methods of carrying them out.

“I think I may be more useful if I stay here,” Gimblet said, in answer to his question. “Your fellow, Burford, who is over there, is a good sound man who will, at least, not overlook the obvious, and Bonnot, the French detective, who is said to have been summoned, is a master of his profession. These murders are certainly the work of the same gang, and it may be easier to trace them here in London, if it is, as it appears to be, their starting point, than it will be to do so in a foreign country. There is no more news from Burford, I suppose?”

“Nothing new since last night. And no more than the papers have, anyhow. These reporters are the deuce.”

“They are,” Gimblet agreed. “Let’s see again what they say about it.” He took up a paper, turned to the sinister headline, and read aloud:

“A startling sequel has followed the mysterious disappearance of Mrs. Vanderstein and Miss Turner, who left their home early in the week and whose whereabouts were only yesterday discovered. One of these ladies, Mrs. Vanderstein, who, it will be remembered, we ascertained to be staying at Boulogne, was found dead in her room at the Hôtel de Douvres yesterday afternoon, and foul play is strongly suspected. Traces of violence were plainly to be seen and it is thought likely that the poor lady was strangled to death. A curious feature of the affair is that though Mrs. Vanderstein had with her a large quantity of her valuable jewellery, some of which was actually lying on the table at the time, so far as is at present known none of it has been stolen.

“A page in the service of the hotel reports that he showed a visitor to Mrs. Vanderstein’s room soon after luncheon, and this stranger, who is described as a tall man with a black beard, left the hotel shortly before three o’clock, after delivering a message from the lady to the effect that she did not wish to be disturbed again that day. The order was duly given to the domestics of the hotel, and if a messenger from London had not arrived by the five o’clock boat on important business and insisted on penetrating to Mrs. Vanderstein’s presence, it is probable that the murder would not have been discovered until to-day. The authorities are investigating the affair with the utmost energy, and it is believed that they are on the track of the man with the black beard.”

Gimblet put down the paper. “There are various other paragraphs saying the same thing in different words,” he remarked.

“It certainly looks as if you were right again,” observed Jennins reflectively, “about all this being the work of the same gang, I mean.”

“There’s not a doubt of it,” said Gimblet. “I was sure of it from the first, though I admit that I had not much to go on. A mere whiff of perfume. Let us see how much we know now. To go back to Monday night, Mrs. Vanderstein and Miss Turner voluntarily entered the house in Scholefield Avenue, though whether in response to an invitation from the so-called West or not we do not know, in spite of a theory I have on the subject. They then presumably separated, Miss Turner being imprisoned in the room on the ground floor, very much against her will and to her alarm since she broke a window in the hope of escaping, and when that attempt failed wrote a despairing message on the wall, in which she stated her fear that something dreadful was being done to somebody in the drawing-room. You will, I am sure, agree with me that, though the message says that her alarm was for ‘Mr’ and then stops, an s would have been added if Miss Turner had not been interrupted, and it was her intention to write ‘Mrs.’ But whether this would have referred to the woman who was buried in the flower stand or whether she was thinking of her friend, Mrs. Vanderstein, is not clear.

“Was Mrs. Vanderstein in the drawing-room at the time of the murder, and if so what was her business there, is the next question where our knowledge fails us. We know she was in that room at some time or other – I knew that the moment I smelt her perfume on the powder puff and note – but whether or no she was there at the moment of the crime we cannot tell. In either case her subsequent proceedings are extraordinary. If she was detained in the house against her will and made her escape by some unknown means, why did she fly to Boulogne, instead of to her own house or to the nearest police station? Why, when she got to Boulogne, did she not communicate with her friends until yesterday? It is true she said she had written previously, but it would have been more natural if she had telegraphed, and if she received no reply had telegraphed again. Why did she display no anxiety on Miss Turner’s account? Her actions seem at present to be inexplicable and strange to the last degree. Had she suddenly gone off her head? That is the most probable solution, to my mind. If so, it may well be that it was she who committed the terrible crime I discovered in Scholefield Avenue, and then, with the mixture of cunning and recklessness common to lunatics of a criminal type, retired to Boulogne to wait till the affair should have blown over. There are, however, several drawbacks to such a theory, and one of them is that it does not account for the black-bearded man, unless he was a lover, and indeed it seems most likely that he was.

“We don’t know what was the part he played on Monday night. Perhaps he helped Mrs. Vanderstein to escape more effectually than he did Miss Turner, in spite of his promise to her.

“All we know is that he took the girl out of the house on Tuesday night or Wednesday morning and that they went together to the bank of the canal in Regent’s Park, where Matterson came upon them. We know that ‘black-beard’ carried a heavy spade with him. What for? Not to use it as he did, I think; neither was it to dig a grave with after Miss Turner had been disposed of in some other way. Think, Jennins, there was a cord attached to the handle, and the canal was within a few yards of them. Do those two facts suggest nothing to you? Surely it is obvious that his intention was to throw the young lady into the water, having previously tied the spade to her so as to make sure she would sink. No doubt she guessed what was in his mind, and that was why Matterson saw her defending herself, poor girl, and heard her scream. Such at least is my opinion.”

“I shouldn’t wonder if you’ve hit the nail on the head this time,” agreed the inspector. “The question is, what’s the next thing to be done?”

“It’s high time I followed up a clue contained in the letter purporting to come from Prince Felipe,” replied Gimblet. “I should have done so long ago, if I had not waited for Mrs. Vanderstein’s version of the affair. You remember a Madame Q. is mentioned as the bearer of the note. Well, who is Madame Q.? I telegraphed early yesterday to Mrs. Vanderstein saying, ‘Were you at 13 Scholefield Avenue on Monday night, and who else was present? Letter has been found there apparently addressed to you by Prince F. mentioning Madame Q. Please wire very fully, and give Madame Q.’s full name and address. Very grave matters involved.’ If the lady had replied to my wire we should doubtless have been spared a lot of trouble, though we might not have been able to save her life; but, as things are, I propose to try and sift the question of Madame Q.’s identity for myself.”

Jennins went away; and Gimblet, after being detained by a short visit from Sidney – who was on his way to catch the eleven o’clock train to Boulogne – also took up his hat and left the house.

A quarter of an hour later he was standing on the doorstep of Mrs. Vanderstein’s Grosvenor Street house.

He found, as was natural, a shocked and dislocated household. The cook and Blake were seated in the morning-room, where the cook was flourishing a handkerchief, and reiterating observations to the effect that she had always known something terrible was going to happen ever since the second footman had broken the looking-glass in the pantry; while the young man referred to was standing just outside the door, and putting his head into the room every few minutes to remark defiantly, though with a certain uneasiness, that it wasn’t in nature for so tremendous an event to be brought about by such an insignificant piece of glass as the one he had had the “misfortune” with. From the drawing-room came the penetrating shrillness of Amélie’s voice, apparently filling in the newspaper account of the murder, with all the embellishing detail an unshrinkingly gruesome imagination could suggest, for the benefit of the rest of the maids, whose chorusing groans could also be distinguished. But, on the whole, there was more perturbation as to the effect the tragedy would be likely to have on their own futures than distress at the dreadful fate of their mistress; and Gimblet, if he had to listen to much lamentation, found himself also beset with many anxious questions.

It was some minutes before he was able to introduce his own object in coming there; but at last he drew Blake to one side, and asked him if Mrs. Vanderstein had kept a visiting book with a list of the people she called on.

She had done so, and it was produced, but to Gimblet’s disappointment contained no name beginning with the letter Q. There were, however, the names of two or three French ladies, and he wondered whether Q were merely a cipher for Gerady or Kerigoet. Blake, cross-questioned, could think of no foreign lady with whom Mrs. Vanderstein was on familiar terms.

Gimblet remembered Amélie’s thorough knowledge in the matter of her mistress’ correspondence, and called to her to come and speak to him.

“Had Mrs. Vanderstein a friend of your nationality?” he asked. “Was there any French lady whom she knew well, and whose name, perhaps, began with a Q?”

“A lady? No,” said Amélie. “A friend? Hardly! Il ne manquait plus que cela! But she was acquainted with a French woman, whose name begins with Q. Without doubt, it is of that Justine you speak.”

“Justine?”

“Eh! Yes. Justine Querterot. Madame Querterot, as she calls herself, though, for me, I never saw that she had a husband. It is said that he shot himself, the poor man, and I do not see what he could have done better with a wife like that one! Ah, monsieur, a nasty, bad woman!”

“There are people like that,” Gimblet agreed diplomatically; “but tell me, how did Mrs. Vanderstein know this Madame Querterot?”

“She came for a time to coiffer Madame, and to rejuvenate her complexion, which needed nothing of the kind, I assure you. But she had the idea to be massaged, and for some months that woman was daily in the house. Never did I comprehend how Mrs. Vanderstein could tolerate her. A woman so vulgar, so familiar, and who never ceased to talk and talk and talk!”

Amélie spoke with virtuous indignation, as one to whom the gift of silence has been vouchsafed.

“She is a masseuse, then?”

“Not a real masseuse, though so she calls herself; but, to say the truth, she is just a hairdresser who tries to make people believe she knows something of the care of the skin. For some reason she appeared to amuse Madame, and I think it was chiefly for that reason that she let her come.”

“Did she come every day, and has she been here since Mrs. Vanderstein left home?”

“For two or three months she came every day,” replied Amélie bitterly. “Indeed I thought she was coming always, but only last Monday – the very day Madame went away – I heard la Justine say that it was her final visit; and, in truth, she has not been here since, I am very happy to say it.”

“Ah,” said Gimblet. “Well, I shall have to go and see her. Let me see, you said she is a tall, dark woman, did you not?”

“But no,” cried Amélie, “on the contrary she is short, and has yellow hair in the worst possible taste.”

“What makes you dislike this woman so much? Do you know anything against her, by any chance?”

But it appeared that Amélie knew nothing against Madame Querterot. Vague accusations and dark charges of a general character were all she had to bring; and, after listening to a tirade of this kind for a considerable time, Gimblet cut it short by asking for the masseuse’s address.

“Your mistress left a letter for her,” he said, “which has been sent over to us by the French police. It is of no importance, and contains, I think, only a reference to Madame Querterot’s account, but I am anxious to deliver it; and, as the poor lady had got no further with the address than Madame Q, without your assistance it would have been a matter of some difficulty.”

It was unfortunate that the detective should have hit upon this excuse to explain his interrogations, for the idea that even death had not put a stop to intercourse between Mrs. Vanderstein and her enemy nearly suffocated Amélie, whose jealous suspicions woke again at the challenge.

“This is the address, monsieur,” she said, as she gave it to him, “but I would not count on finding the bird in the nest. It is in the neighbourhood of Boulogne that you should look for that infamous woman. One of her kind is capable of everything; and, in my opinion, nothing is more probable than that it is she who is the real assassin of my poor Madame! A black beard, indeed! Is she not a hairdresser?”

Gimblet fled before the storm of words he had provoked, and hurried to the Pimlico address that he had obtained.

In spite of himself, Amélie’s words echoed in his ears: “Is she not a hairdresser?” A black beard was a simple enough disguise, and fair hair may be covered. But he had been told also that the masseuse was a short woman, and height is not so easily simulated. Such were his thoughts as he turned the handle of the shop door.

There was no one inside, and Gimblet had time to remark the empty shelves and forlorn look of the window – which the waxen lady no longer graced with her presence – before, in answer to the rapping of his hand on the counter and his repeated cry of “Shop, please,” the door leading to the back room opened and Julie Querterot made her appearance.

It was a sad enough figure she presented to him that day: paler, thinner, more tired-looking than ever. There was a scared look in her eyes now, and black lines under them. She came forward slowly, almost timidly.

“Did you want anything?” she said. “I am afraid our stock is nearly all – sold out.”

“Thanks,” said Gimblet. “I called to see Madame Querterot – is it possible that I am speaking to her?”

“Oh no,” said Julie with a little smile. “I am her daughter. But I fear you cannot see my mother just now. She is – out.”

“Never mind,” returned Gimblet. “I will wait. Perhaps she will be in by luncheon-time? I have a message for her.”

“I do not know when she will be back,” said the girl. “Can you not leave the message with me?”

“It is for her own ear,” said Gimblet. “If you don’t mind, I will wait a little.”

He sat down as he spoke, and Julie, after a hesitating glance, went back to the inner room, leaving the door ajar between the two.

Gimblet, left to himself, was surprised to notice again how very few were the articles exposed for sale. Bare as the shop had looked when he first entered, he now saw it to be even emptier than he had thought. A tradesman’s almanack on one wall, a picture from an illustrated paper on the other, two or three bottles of hair-wash and a few packets of hair-pins seemed to constitute the whole stock in trade.

Gimblet was still wondering whether the massage was in as bad a way as the hairdressing side of the Querterot business, when a subdued sound coming from the next room drew his attention.

What was it, that sort of low, muffled panting?

The detective got up softly, and stole to the door.

Peeping shamelessly through the crack, he saw that a chair had been drawn up to the table and that Julie sat there with her head bent and resting on her hands. It was from her that the sound came which had caught his ear, for her whole body was shaking with the sobs which she tried in vain to stifle.

Gimblet opened the door and passed boldly through.

“I am so sorry,” he said, “to have come at a time when you are unhappy. But won’t you tell me all about it? Who knows, I may be able to help you.”

At sight of him the girl started up, with a renewed effort to get the better of her grief; but the kind tone of Gimblet’s voice put the finishing touch to her emotions: losing all attempt at self-control, she laid her head down on the table before her and gave way to unrestrained and passionate tears.

Gimblet let her weep for a while, then he sat down near her and tried to comfort her. He took one of her hands and patted it gently, as if she had been a child.

“There, there,” he said, “don’t cry any more. Tell me what’s the matter and let’s see if something can’t be done about it.”

Gradually her tears came more slowly; the convulsive sobs that had shaken her died away, and she sat up and dried her eyes, looking at him from time to time with furtive shyness.

“You are very kind, sir,” she said at last, succumbing reluctantly to that feeling of confidence which Gimblet always succeeded in inspiring if he tried. “It was – it was only because you asked to see my mother.”

“How’s that?”

“She – she – I don’t know where she is.”

“No? But never mind. You will hear where she has been when she comes home.”

“You don’t understand. She hasn’t been home for four days, and I have no idea when she is coming back. She did not tell me anything.”

“Dear me!” Gimblet looked grave. “When do you say you saw her last?”

“It was on Tuesday morning,” said Julie. “She came and woke me very early; she seemed to have been out, for she still wore her hat, and in her hand she had a black bag. After that she went away. I heard her moving about for some time, till at last she went downstairs and I heard the front door slam. I jumped out of bed and looked out of the window and saw her going down the street with a big bag in each hand. And I haven’t seen or heard anything of her since. But I am sure, oh, I know she did not mean to come back!”

“How do you know that?” Gimblet asked.

“I know it from what she said, and from what she did, before she went.”

“Won’t you tell me?”

Julie looked at him doubtfully.

“Bert – that is a friend of mine – tried to make me promise not to say anything about it, but I told him I should go to the police if I didn’t hear soon. And I feel I must tell some one, for something dreadful may have happened to her,” Julie added, half to herself. “Have you anything to do with the police?” she asked.

“Well, yes, I have, as a matter of fact; in an indirect way.”

“You will know what to do then, if I tell you. Bert doesn’t seem to know what to do; he only rages. Well, I think my mother has gone away for good, because, before she went, she got a man to come to the house and buy nearly every portable thing in it. There is hardly anything left besides these chairs and table, and my bed upstairs. Soon after she had gone they came and took away the things.”

“Did she leave you no money?”

“No, but she left me the house, you see; only the rent is due and I have nothing to pay it with. And she told me to collect any bills that were due for her services, and that she made me a present of the money. So when she was gone I looked in the ledger and found that everything owing to her had been paid up during the last few days, except one account. It was that of Mrs. Vanderstein, the poor lady who was murdered at Boulogne yesterday, as perhaps you have seen in the papers?”

Gimblet inclined his head gravely, and she went on.

“My mother used to go to massage the complexion of Mrs. Vanderstein, and the amount owing was large, over twenty pounds. I was grateful that such a sum should be given to me; but, when I saw the next morning that the lady had disappeared, I made sure it was because she was unable to pay her bills, and it seemed likely that my mother had known this when she was so generous to me. I made sure I should never see a penny of that money, and I was in despair, as I didn’t know what to do about the rent, or even how to live in the meantime. I went up to Mrs. Vanderstein’s house to see if she had really gone, and a kind old gentleman told me the bill would be paid all the same. That was a great comfort, but I knew it would not be for some time, at any rate, and perhaps not till I was starving. It did not really matter so very much,” Julie added loyally, “for I am anxious to enter a religious sisterhood, and they will take me, I am sure, even if I have nothing to bring them. But I can’t bear to go to them as a beggar, and I wish, I wish she hadn’t left me quite destitute without any warning,” she concluded, her eyes filling with tears again.

“Then what did she wake you up to say, early on Tuesday morning?”

“I told you she had a bag in her hand? She took some clothes out of it and gave them to me. She told me to burn them and that she would explain why when she came back. But she said I might keep the linings to make myself petticoats. Such fine petticoats would be no use to me. Still, it was kind of her. And then she took out this and gave it to me to take care of” – Julie put her hand to her neck and pulled out from under her blouse a long string of enormous pearls. “She said that one of her customers had asked her to look after them while she was travelling,” continued the girl, lifting the necklace over her head and holding it out to Gimblet. “I don’t know if they are real, though she told me to be very careful of them and to wear them always. But I think if they had been real she would not have left them.”

Gimblet took the necklace without a word. He was for the moment incapable of speaking.

“That was all my mother said to me,” went on Julie, “but she seemed very pleased about something; and at the same time excited. When I looked out of the window and saw her walking away, she was wearing clothes I had never seen before; they must have been quite new. They were simple, certainly, just a coat and skirt and a small hat; but they were beautifully made and fitted her so well, not at all like what she generally wore. There is something about expensive clothes that makes people look so different. I should hardly have known her if it had not been for a way she has of walking. I could only see the top of her head, but the hat was a very smart one, with a beautiful osprey in it. Somehow she had the air of a person going to a wedding, and I can’t help thinking that perhaps it was her own wedding she was going to. She may have married some one above us in station and not have wanted him to know of my existence. That is what I think, but Bert says not.”

Gimblet cleared his throat. “I wonder,” he said, “if you would mind showing me the clothes you spoke of that your mother gave you before she left.”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” said Julie. “I – you see I had no money – I sold them to a second-hand clothes shop in Victoria Street. Bert wanted to see them too. He thinks my mother must have had some special reason for saying they were to be burnt, but I don’t believe she would have told me I could keep the linings if they had been infectious.”

“What were they like?” Gimblet asked. It needed all his self-control to keep the eagerness out of his voice.

“Two beautiful white evening dresses,” said Julie, “and two opera cloaks of red and mauve silk all covered with lovely embroidery and lace. Of course I could never have worn them and it seemed a pity to cut them up. I simply couldn’t have burned them. The shop only gave me five pounds for the lot, but that will keep me for some time till I have decided what to do. Still, Bert says I ought not to have sold them.”

“By the way,” said Gimblet, “who is Bert?”

The girl flushed. “He’s just a boy I know,” she said. “He used to go to school with me, and he is always good to me. I shouldn’t like to annoy him or to hurt his feelings, and I ought not to have spoken of him, because when he advised me not to go to the police, and I wouldn’t promise, he said that I should see that harm would come of it. And so I told him that if my mother came back and blamed me for having spoken of her absence, as he seems to think she would, I would say that he had urged me not to. And then he got quite angry and told me to do as I pleased, but not to mix him up in it, and so I said of course I’d never mention his name if he didn’t like; but now I’ve done it.” She stopped, breathless.

“Well, give Bert a message from me,” said Gimblet; “tell him I agree with him so far, and think you have no need to go to the police yet awhile. But you had better not tell him I have anything to do with them, as he seems to dislike them so much. Shall you see him soon?”

“Yes, I expect he will come this evening when he leaves off work; he generally does. And I think I shan’t tell him anything about you. Really, it isn’t his business and I don’t like being always lectured.”

“I think you are quite right,” said Gimblet. “Now one question. Have you any idea as to the man with whom you think your mother may have gone off? Had you any suspicion before that she was thinking of marrying again?”

The girl hesitated a moment. “No,” she said, “I have no idea at all who it could be.”