A Murder is Arranged (22 page)

“He is just the man,” said Dallas, “who would suggest to his confederates the disguise of a monk's robe. Do you think it worth while visiting the monastery in which this blackguard first took the cowl?”

“That has already been done. In tracing his history backwards my people have interviewed everyone with whom he was ever connected. The prior of that monastery now knows his true history.”

“It was a fine piece of work,” said Dallas.

“It took some time, you understand. For months we have been trying to trace this man's criminal career.”

“I think, however,” said Dallas, “that I should like to have an interview with that prior.”

“Oh, you British! You must begin at the beginning and go on to the bitter end in all your cases. Very well, we will see the prior tomorrow morning before going on to the Gers. Meanwhile I will see the people who sent in this report.”

“And I will see Monsieur Henri,” said Pauline, taking up the suitcase in which she had replaced the fur coat.

“And I will go to clear up the arrears of work piled on my table,” said Dallas.

Punctually to the minute the car moved off next morning and took a southerly course.

“The monastery we are bound for lies somewhere between Fontainbleau and St Cyr,” said Goron, “but I have full directions how to get there.” He pulled a paper from his pocket and studied it.

In spite of his boast they had three times lost their way in the maze of roads that radiated in every direction before they finally arrived at the monastery. Built originally as a country house in the reign of Louis XV, it was externally a most unlikely building for a monastery. One expected every vista in the park to be graced by female figures in eighteenth-century costumes, whereas in fact such female figures as there were had dispensed with costumes altogether: marble does not look well in muslin.

Leaving Pauline in the car, the two men sought admittance at the main entrance. The delay seemed interminable, but this was because visitors were expected to knock at a postern gate further along the façade. At last a servitor in monk's habit answered their summons and after some coming and going permitted them to enter the building.

The prior was a man of between fifty and sixty, hale and hearty for his age and full of worldly wisdom in spite of the narrow circle in which he lived.

“We have come,” said Goron, “on a rather unpleasant duty, namely, to enquire about a man who was for some time a member of your fraternity—a man named Edouard Cottin.” The name produced a shiver from the prior, but he did not interrupt. “You will be able to correct any slips in our information, which says that Cottin was living here in the year 1922.” The prior nodded without speaking. He was waiting to hear how far the information of his visitors went. “I feel sure that we can count upon you to help the ends of justice and to answer such questions as we may put to you that do not affect the religious side of your house.” Still the prior waited. “Our first question is, did this young man leave your fraternity under a cloud?”

“Not exactly.”

“He had appropriated funds given to the Church, I believe.”

“Alas, monsieur, that is so. He was our quéteur and it was not until he had left us that we discovered that his accounts had been falsified.” 

“Then you did not expel him?”

“No; he came to me and said that he had been left a fortune by his uncle on certain conditions but that he dared not claim it because he would have to confess that he was a deserter from the army. On this I gave him certain introductions and he left us.”

“You know that since then he has plunged lower and lower into crime?”

“Yes, monsieur; some time after he left us I began to receive complaints from the people to whom I had given him the letters of introduction. Some of them talked of prosecution, but he escaped them by leaving the country.”

“Have you seen or heard of him since?” asked Goron.

The prior hesitated. “It is painful to have to answer such questions, monsieur. We are not made judges of human delinquencies.”

“Quite so, but surely you feel bound to help in keeping your country free from crimes and it is a crime to prey upon honest members of the community.”

After struggling with himself for a moment the prior said, “You must understand, monsieur, that with us it is the soul, even of the most degraded, that counts before all else. The man Edouard Cottin is one who with many good points in his favour is so constituted that he cannot withstand the temptation of money. But I will tell you all I know. About two years ago he came to me, arriving late at night, and begged me to take him in as a penitent. He confessed and I, considering that his penitence was genuine, consented to admit him. He remained with us for some weeks and left of his own accord.”

“Did he leave suddenly?”

The prior reluctantly admitted that he did.

“Did he leave any luggage behind him?”

“Yes.”

“May we examine it?”

“It is no longer with us. Shortly after he left a priest who was a foreigner but came armed with credentials called for his luggage. We discussed Edouard and from what he told me I judged that this time he was really penitent. He was with this reverend father in his monastery.”

“You gave up the luggage?”

“I did.”

“And you know the whereabouts of the monastery?”

“I found afterwards that it was non-existent.”

“What did the luggage consist of?”

“A trunk.”

“Was it heavy?”

“Fairly so.”

“How did the priest take it away?”

“In his car.”

“This gentleman,” said Goron, indicating Dallas, “is a British police officer in search of a criminal who is believed to have been associated with Cottin in various doubtful transactions and it is very probable that the priest who called for Cottin's luggage is the man in whom he is interested. You are quite sure you can give us no further information? Where was this monastery supposed to be?”

“In the Puy de Dôme, but I have satisfied myself that there is no such monastery in that department.”

“But the credentials that he brought with him. Did you verify these?”

“The credentials purported to be signed by the father abbot of the Monastery of St Gilles in the Gers. I have written to him, but he denies all knowledge of the person in question. I have kept his letter; I will show it to you.” He was gone for two or three minutes and then returned, carrying a letter in his hand, which he handed to Goron, who read it and passed it to Dallas, saying, “The father abbot's name is Collet—to us a significant coincidence.”

H
AVING PUMPED
the prior dry by their questions, they thanked him warmly and rejoined Pauline Coulon, who had been waiting in the car outside. They imparted to her the few facts elicited by their questions to the prior.

“It is still mysterious, but something tells me that we are approaching the end,” was her comment. “I suppose that our next port of call will be the monastery at St Gilles.”

“It will,” said Goron.

Each was busy with his own thoughts and there was no conversation during the journey. As they drew nearer to the Gers, Dallas looked about him with renewed interest. Even his untutored eye could mark the signs of depopulation and of deterioration of the land buildings. It was a poverty-stricken country but an excellent resort for anyone who wished to disappear from the world.

After enquiring their way from the few people they met on the road Goron remarked, “It is not surprising that people shrug their shoulders when asked about the Gers. It is quite the last place I could bear to be banished to. I should think that the statistics of insanity were high in this department. The public buildings, no doubt, are chiefly lunatic asylums.”

“Or homes for idiots,” amended Pauline. “Do you think that the Monastery of St Gilles really exists?”

“According to the last directions we got,” said Goron, “we should now be nearing the place. What about that big building away there a little to the left? We'll try it.”

As they drew near it and noted the fortress-like architecture and the plaster walls defaced with patches from which the covering had peeled off, even Goron began to lose heart. Not a soul was to be seen; the walks were overgrown with grass; there was not a sound from any living thing. The outbuildings, stables and all were in ruins.

“The place is deserted; it is falling into ruin.”

“All the more likely to be what we are in search of,” said Dallas.

They had come to the front of the ruined stable and there, staring at them, was a car of the most modern type standing under the ruinous roof of the coach house, which could not be shut because its great doors had rotted on their hinges. It looked like a costly jewel round the neck of a beggar woman.

“Ah!” exclaimed Goron. “This is beginning to look like business. Monks don't run about in expensive modern cars.”

“Neither do they let their house fall into rack and ruin,” said Pauline.

“Shall we leave the car here and go to the door on foot?” said Dallas.

“I think that will be our best plan,” agreed Goron.

While they were getting out Pauline lowered her voice. “Have you ever seen a religious house with no cross or other indication on it to show what it is?”

“Tiens!” said Goron. “What an eye a woman has for little details of that kind. Come, Mr Dallas, you and I will probe this mystery. You will be quite safe here, mademoiselle; you have always the motor horn with which to sound an alarm.”

The two men made their way towards the front entrance of the rambling château. A rusty bellpull of ancient pattern invited them to ring. The iron creaked as they set the bell in motion; the clapper produced a cracked sound which was loud enough to reach every corner of the property. After a pause of nearly a minute a little spy hole was opened in the heavy oaken door and an eye was brought to the aperture. It was baffling to note that the spy hole was closed again and that nothing further seemed likely to happen. Goron pulled the bell chain fiercely; he had set his teeth now and intended to go on ringing until the tocsin produced somebody; but the second summons was enough: the door was opened a few inches and a burly hirsute monk confronted them.

“Excuse me for disturbing you,” said Goron. “We have come to see Father Collet.”

“The reverend father is away.”

“I'm sorry for that, because it will entail our waiting here until his return; but in a big property like this you can no doubt give us hospitality.”

“Pardon, monsieur, but our fraternity is debarred by rule from giving hospitality to visitors.”

Being a man of action, Goron unobtrusively slipped his foot against the door to prevent it from being shut upon them.

“You will excuse us for coming in,” he said. “We have some questions to ask about Father Collet.”

The man's shifty eyes glanced from one to the other: he was measuring the chances of being able to shut the door in their faces. “It is against the rule of our fraternity to admit laymen.”

Goron felt that the moment had come for displaying the iron hand that had been concealed in velvet. “Stand back,” he commanded Shifty Eyes. “I belong to a fraternity, too—the fraternity responsible for law and order in this country and I mean to search this building from roof to basement.”

“I must call my senior,” said the monk. Finding it impossible to shut the door in their faces, he shuffled off down the passage.

“Have you a pistol?” whispered Goron to Dallas.

“No; I never carry one.”

“
Mon Dieu!
You English! Follow me.”

He started in pursuit of the monk with Dallas at his heels—Dallas, who had not attended the evening boxing class at Scotland Yard for nothing. They caught up with Shifty Eyes as he was opening a door on the left of the gallery. It gave upon what was obviously the kitchen of the old château and there they found a group of some half-dozen men in monks' habit.

“Hands up!” rapped out Goron, whipping out a pistol and covering the group. Thus taken by surprise, the men obeyed. They had been engaged in the innocent pursuit of cooking a meal; the table was covered with dishes and food. A little rat-faced man rushed forward as bold as brass.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded in French.

“It means that I represent the law and I intend to search this building from garret to cellar.”

“What are you looking for?”

“We are looking for a fugitive from justice—an Englishman.”

“You won't find him here,” sneered Rat Face.

Dallas had been staring hard at one of the monks. He now signed to him to come forward. “You are James Oborn,” he said in English. “I recognise you from the photograph on your card of identity.”

“I am James Oborn, but I am not a fugitive from justice.”

“At any rate there are matters in your life these last weeks which you will find it difficult to explain away.” He turned to Goron and said in French, “This is our man.”

Goron made a rapid survey of the monks; they were a ruffianly-looking crowd and they numbered seven to two. He whispered to Dallas, “Quick! Hurry to Mademoiselle and ask her to find the nearest constabulary station and get them to send up a reinforcement for us: fortunately she can drive a car.”

When Dallas returned from his errand he found the ecclesiastics seated in a row along one side of the refectory table. His eyes had never beheld a more forbidding collection.

“Let us lock these men in and take our friend into another room to answer questions,” said Goron.

It was not to be accomplished without protest. At first Oborn refused doggedly to move. “You can ask as many questions as you like in the presence of my friends here. They don't understand English.”