The Case of Naomi Clynes (21 page)

“Oh, you needn't worry about my uncle. Whatever you suggest to him goes. In your hands he's like an infant in a kindergarten. You can take it from me that we'll start to-morrow morning at eight o'clock.”

A
DOLPHE BROUGHT
the car round, spick and span, at five minutes to eight and ran upstairs for his passengers' baggage. He found his employer in low spirits, which was always his wont in the early morning when coffee had to be swallowed at half-past seven.

“This is a ghastly hour to be starting, Adolphe. How far are we to go?”

“About two hundred and forty kilometres, sir—not a very long run.”

“And we average sixty an hour with this car. Why, it's only a four hours' run. Why should we have to get away so early?”

“It was Mr. Milsom's order, sir. I fancy that he and the inspector hope to find out something important at Clermont during the afternoon.”

“Oh, if that's the case I've nothing to say. Let's get on with it. Here's my grip-sack.”

During the four hours' drive it became evident to Mr. Hudson's companions that he was making heroic efforts to restrain his curiosity. At last he made a timid move towards drawing Richardson out. “I don't know why we're going to this place, Clermont-Ferrand, but it's not for the beauty of the scenery, I guess, Inspector. You two boys got at something last night?”

Milsom squeezed Richardson's knee, but Richardson was too grateful to his benefactor to take the hint and join his nephew in what he called “guying” him. “Yes, Mr. Hudson, we found a letter and an advertisement in a French newspaper which showed that this Mr. Godfrey—the man we are following—was advertising for people to come forward and provide a home for a young English boy, no doubt the boy he had taken to three separate clinics. But I must warn you that this journey to Clermont-Ferrand may turn out to be a sheer waste of time and money.”

“I don't mind that so long as we get at something in the end, and I've seen enough of your methods of working, Inspector, to feel sure now that we shall.”

“I ought to warn you, sir, that we are going to Clermont-Ferrand on nothing stronger than a postage-stamp and a postmark which I found among the trinkets of that poor dead woman in London. Here they are.”

Mr. Hudson adjusted his glasses and pored over the postage-stamp. “Waal, if this leads to anything I shall tell the world that you are its greatest sleuth! To get a murderer on a postage-stamp—why, it's just wonderful.” He rubbed his fat hands together with the anticipation of a schoolboy.

“Don't build too much upon it, Mr. Hudson. In every difficult case there are a dozen false clues which end in a dead wall, but the point is that one can't afford to neglect any of them.”

But Hudson had so touching a confidence in his fellow-traveller's
flair
that he refused to be discouraged. In his imagination the boy had already been found. “We'll put the little fella between us here on the back seat,” he muttered, shifting himself into the corner to make room. “Gee! But he'll have a lot to tell us.”

As the morning went on all became hungry. They passed through many towns and villages, but Adolphe ignored all the placards restricting the speed of cars to ten kilometres an hour and tore through them all. Once indeed Milsom ventured to call his uncle's attention to a promising-looking restaurant by the wayside, and suggested a halt for lunch, but the old man shook his head. “We'll get lunch at this place with the double name,” he said; “we've gotta push on.”

And now they began the long ascent to the central massif on the crest of which lay Clermont-Ferrand. The car took it in its stride without changing speed, even at the sharp turns of the road, without any perceptible anxiety in the features of its owner. When Adolphe shaved a two-horse hay-wagon which was imprudently taking the middle of the road and a wisp of hay was scraped off through the open window on to their knees, Milsom observed to the roof of the car, “I wonder what my Uncle James would have said if that had happened when I was at the wheel,” but Mr. Hudson took no notice. The demon of speed had him in its grip. “We've gotta get on.”

And now they were approaching the town. Adolphe turned in his seat to ask where they would stop for lunch.

“Any place,” shouted his employer.

As Richardson expected, Adolphe took this to be an intimation that he was free to choose the best hotel in the place, and he pulled up at the Grand where the meals cost thirty-five francs and the garage ten.

So keen was Mr. Hudson on the quest of the postage-stamp that his nephew declared that he would have skipped his lunch if Adolphe had not assured him that nothing could be done in French towns during the hours sacred to the midday meal.

During lunch Richardson broke it to his hosts that he must visit the local office of the Sûreté Générate alone, with Adolphe as his interpreter. “You see, sir,” he explained to Mr. Hudson, “I shall have to introduce myself as a police colleague from London, and if there are four of us the police commissaire may take you for journalists and shut up like an oyster, but there is no reason why you should not wait outside in the car. Besides, it may all lead to nothing.”

“Is that so?” commented Mr. Hudson dryly. “I guess that you'll come out waving an address in our faces; Adolphe will drive us to the house and you'll come out leading a little English boy by the hand.”

Milsom pronounced half-past one to be the magic hour when French officials might be trusted to receive inquisitive foreigners with a tolerant eye. “Besides, their men, who have to go off on cycles to make their inquiries, will be found in the office, full-fed and at peace with the world.”

Armed with the address and a plan of the town, Adolphe drove them straight to the door of the commissariat, and he and Richardson went in and asked the Sûreté officer in the outer room to take Richardson's card to his chief. “You might tell him that I have come straight from Scotland Yard, the head-quarters of the London police, to ask for the aid of the Sûreté in bringing a murderer to justice,” added Richardson. The officer returned and beckoned to the two to follow him.

They found themselves in a little room in which the floor space was restricted by cupboards and a large writing-table encumbered with papers. The officer at the table rose and came forward to shake hands with Richardson as a colleague. He brought two chairs up to the table for his guests and asked what he could do for them.

“You do not speak French, monsieur? You have brought your chauffeur to interpret for you?”

Richardson assented, regretting more than ever that he lacked the linguistic accomplishments of his colleagues in the Special Branch. Adolphe interpreted what he said, sentence by sentence.

“The President of Police in London has sent me out to France in connection with the murder of a lady in London, monsieur, and one branch of the inquiry concerns an English boy who was injured in the accident at Lagny on Christmas Eve. There is some reason for believing that he may be in Clermont-Ferrand.”

“What was his age?”

“About nine.”

“Then he cannot be alone here.”

“No, monsieur. If he is here he must be in some French family. This advertisement that appeared in the
Paris-Soir
of January 6th produced this reply from a Frenchman living in a different part of the country, but the advertiser had already left his hotel when this letter arrived for him.”

“You think that he may have had another reply from Clermont-Ferrand?”

“Yes, monsieur, that is why we are here.”

The officer pursed his lips doubtfully. “Sit still, gentlemen, while I make inquiries of my subordinates whether any of them have heard of an English boy being in the town.”

In less than five minutes he returned with a young, smart-looking police officer in breeches and gaiters, who was about to start off on his bicycle.

“Happily, messieurs, I was just in time. This officer was already on his bicycle when I stopped him. He will be able to tell you something of interest. Speak, Commissaire Bigot.”

Bigot stood to attention while he rattled off his report. “A bicycle repairer in rue de Serbie has an English boy living with him. One day I stopped to inquire how he came by him. He told me that an English milord had advertised for a family to take charge of the boy and he replied to the advertisement; that the English milord brought the boy in a large touring car, but the boy was ill and the man hesitated to accept him in that condition. The boy had bandage round his head. A month later I was passing the shop and I stopped to ask whether the boy had recovered, whether he had an identity card, and whether he was attending school. While I was putting these questions the boy himself ran out of the workshop. Already he could speak a few words of French.”

“Would you allow this officer to guide us to the shop?” asked Richardson.

“Certainly; he can go ahead on his bicycle and your car can follow him. Do you propose to leave the boy here or to take him back with you?”

“Probably we shall take him back to England if his evidence proves to be of any value, monsieur.”

Richardson took his leave with the feeling that fortune was smiling on him and with warm appreciation of the efficiency of the Sûreté Générate.

“Well, what luck?” asked Milsom, when he returned to the car; “and who's this brigand armed to the teeth on a bicycle?”

“Hush, Mr. Milsom; he may understand English. He's to act as our guide.”

“What's that?” inquired his uncle. “You mean to say that we've found that boy?”

“I hope, sir, that you will be talking to him in five minutes.”

The “brigand” in blue breeches mounted his cycle and Adolphe followed him, towards the north-west part of the town. He rode fast and made a signal to Adolphe at each corner. They came soon to a tramway crossing and a narrow ill-paved street. This was the rue de Serbie. The officer slowed down, holding up his hand to Adolphe, swung his leg over the saddle of his machine and entered the door of the little two-storeyed cycle shop. Richardson and Adolphe were close upon his heels. The cycle repairer, an alert little man with grubby hands, came forward to meet them.

“Where's that English boy?” asked the commissaire.

“He's at school, monsieur. He won't be back until after five. Which school? Why, the school in the Avenue des États Unis.”

“I want you to tell these gentlemen how the boy came to you. It is the Brigadier's orders that you tell them everything. And now, messieurs, if you will excuse me, I will leave you and attend to my other duties. You will no doubt report to my Brigadier what steps you have taken as regards the boy.” He saluted and rode away on his bicycle.

The little cycle-repairer scratched his head. “Did I do wrong in accepting the boy, monsieur? I read the advertisement and talked things over with my wife. With your leave I will call her. She knows more about the little boy than I do.” He stamped on the lowest step of the staircase and shouted, “Louise.”

“
J'arrive
,” came the reply from the upper regions.

“You see, messieurs, we have no children of our own and you know what women are—always they want children.” Louise, a buxom lass in the early twenties, made her appearance and stood smiling at her husband's side.

“You are talking about little Jean. He is getting on well now, but of course at first he was lonely. He could not speak our language, poor boy, and no one could understand him, but now he is beginning and he has boys to play with at school.”

“After you replied to the advertisement what happened?” asked Richardson.

“Two days later a big car drove up to the door and a milord, who spoke French very well, lifted the little boy out of the car and carried him into this workshop. Louise insisted on taking him into her kitchen where it was clean and there were chairs to sit on. There the Englishman told us the little boy's story. His father had been condemned in England and was in prison; that they did not want little Jean ever to know of this and so they brought him to France to be brought up as a French child. I do not hide the truth from you, monsieur, the gentleman made us a very generous offer—an offer that will enable me to move into a larger workshop and engage hands to extend my business. It was a great temptation to a poor mechanic like myself. I told him that I would accept the charge of the boy and adopt him as my son, but that it would be necessary for us both to sign an agreement as regards the adoption and have it certified at the Mairie. If you will wait a moment I will go and fetch my copy of the agreement.”

While he was gone, Richardson asked his wife whether she had grown fond of the boy.

“It was difficult at first, monsieur. The poor child was ailing, and we could not understand each other's language. He seemed to be suffering with his head. He talked in his sleep a great deal. He must have had terrible dreams, poor child, but gradually he got better. Since he has been at school and mixing with other children he has made great progress in French.”

The husband returned with the deed of adoption. Adolphe ran his eye over it. “This must have been drafted by a lawyer,” he said.

“Yes,” replied the husband; “it was drafted by Maître Delage in the Avenue Maréchal Joffre, and as you see we both signed it before the mayor. You will observe the stamp of the Maine.”

Adolphe handed it back to him and Richardson asked, “Can I see the little boy?”

The man turned to his wife. “Run up to the school, Louise, and tell them that some English people are passing through the town and desire to see Jean. Bring him back with you.”

The woman trotted off without a hat, and Richardson turned to Adolphe. “I'm going off to consult my friends in the car. While I'm gone will you find out from the husband whether he and his wife would mind very much if we took the boy away with us?”