The Milliner's Hat Mystery (17 page)

“Ah! Madame Germaine is a
modiste
of talent.”

“I must ask you to step into this room,” he said, politely opening the door for her, “while I see your friend. Your hats will be safe in my keeping.”

He closed the door behind her and put her hats in a cupboard before sending for Mrs Lewis.

Mrs Lewis was a contrast to her friend. She was small and slight and her foreign accent was more pronounced. She said that she had been born in Austria and began a voluble explanation of her reasons for coming into England in a motorboat.

Vincent stemmed the flood by putting up his hand firmly. She seemed to think that he was going to stop her mouth with a large hand and she subsided into a few broken sentences.

“I know exactly what you were going to tell me,” he said. “Your friend has already given the explanation which you made up between you. It is your luggage that interests me. Kindly put it down and remove your hat. Thank you.”

Vincent's rough-and-ready way of dealing with her dried up the springs of eloquence. Tears came into her eyes and here again Vincent opposed the cold douche of brutality which he had assumed.

“If you wish to cry, madam, I would ask you not to do it in this room. You can cry on your friend's shoulder.” He threw open the door and motioned her into the next room. It was as if he had swept her out with a broom.

He opened the door into the passage and called in the inspector. “I have a job here which only a woman can do,” he said. “You see these hats—four of them. I've reason to believe that the trimmings are tubular and contain drugs. Have you anyone who can unpick them carefully and put the contents of each trimming into a separate envelope for analysis?”

The inspector wrinkled his brow. “I doubt whether the police matron would be up to a job like this; she has a fist like a prize fighter, but we'll try her, if you like.”

But when the matron was called she tossed her head at the idea that there had been any doubt about her competence. Any woman, it appeared, could do what was wanted, and she took from her bag the scissors and other tools necessary and then and there began to dissect a hat.

“I'm sure the inspector will provide you with some stout envelopes for the job, if you will take the hats downstairs with you.”

The next task was to interview the two men separately. Blake was called first. He was a stout, thick-set man with a protruding under jaw. His manner proclaimed the fact that he was an American who feared neither man nor devil and who had a contempt for the legal machinery of a foreign country. Vincent knew the type.

“I suppose you haven't come back for your car?” he said.

“What's that?”

Vincent repeated his question, which appeared little to the man's taste.

“Why…”

“You needn't trouble to think out a reply. It would tire your brain to make up a plausible story, but I can save you the trouble. We know what has brought you here; you were bringing merchandise for people in London which would not have passed the customs. Unfortunately for you in landing it like this you have broken the law doubly, but I have a few questions to ask you about the car you left behind on your last visit.”

“You've got the wrong man, mister. I know nothing about a car and I defy you to find anything in my baggage that you can hold me on.”

“No, the contraband was carried by the ladies in their hats, but I must warn you that you may have a more serious charge to answer—a charge of wilful murder. I must caution you that anything you say will be taken down and may be used in subsequent proceedings.”

“See here, boss, you're barking up the wrong tree. I want to save you trouble hereafter. What the women were carrying was no concern of mine. They happen to know the captain of that boat and he offered to run us all over and land us. As to a motorcar and wilful murder, you're talking through your hat.”

“The garagist here in Newquay with whom you left the car and the owner who hired it to you and your friend, Mr Bernard Pitt, will be able to identify you.”

The man proceeded to make the American eagle scream. Vincent cut him short by rising and opening the door. “You can finish the rest of your harangue downstairs. I have no time to listen to it. Inspector,” he called, “take this man downstairs and send up the other.”

The second man, Lewis, was of a different type. He was older and less blatant. Moreover, he had a story to tell at the end of the first five minutes. He did not deny having left the car.

“See here,” he said quietly, “we didn't come back for that car and you know why. There had been murder done in it.”

“I'd better warn you that you are suspected of murder and that anything you say will be taken down and may be used hereafter.”

“Oh, I know all about that. You needn't worry yourself. We didn't commit that murder, but I know we shall have a job in getting you guys to believe it.”

“If you would like to make a statement, I'll call my sergeant and get him to take it down in writing and then you can sign it.”

“O.K. Call him in.”

As soon as Walker was in his place with his note-book and pencil, the man began. As he listened to the story Vincent reflected that it was the most incredible story that he had ever listened to and that it did credit to the imagination of the man who told it.

“I guess that you know a good deal of what I'm going to tell you, but there it is. I'll tell you the truth and you can make what you like of it. It was a week ago last Saturday when my friend Blake and I started off with Bernard Pitt for Newquay in a car that he'd hired for the journey; we were to meet a motorboat belonging to a friend of ours which was to take us over to France. We hadn't gone far out of town when a man jumped out of a car ahead and stuck out his arms to stop us. He was got up to look like a regular bandit as you see in the flicks. Pitt was sitting at the back alone; the bandit got in beside him, fired and jumped out again. It was all so sudden, that we hadn't time to do anything. We didn't realize at first that Pitt had been killed. At that moment a terrific thunderstorm started. It got so bad that we couldn't go on. We saw a barn a little way off the main road and made up our minds to shelter in it, but the car was too big to get in. It was then we discovered that Pitt was dead, and Blake said: ‘It won't do for us to be found with a dead man in the car; we'd better take him out and dump him; nobody will see us in a storm like this.' Then we went on to Newquay.”

“But you stopped on the way to get the broken window taken out.”

“Yes, that was Blake's idea. He's always getting brain waves like that. He nearly lost us the boat through that one.”

“Why didn't you give information to the police at the time? Your story was more likely to be believed then than it is now.”

“I know it, but you see in my country the cops are out to make a bit on every deal and a quick getaway is the safest.”

“Bernard Pitt was escaping from the country with a large sum of stolen money on him. What became of that?”

“It was taken by the bandit I told you of.”

“You said that he was in a car. What sort of car was it?”

“Sure I can't tell you that. I've told you that it all happened so quickly that it took our wits away. I could swear it was a dark colour and that's all.”

“What happened to the bandit?”

“He jumped back into his car and got away. He drove like hell.”

“Well, you are now under arrest for importing narcotics into this country.”

“We were fools to come back here; we were safer in France.”

“In France you had powerful protection.”

“Why, certainly, but the protection was paid for.”

“It was no less a person than a deputy?”

“You mean Monsieur Laurillard? Why yes, but I guess he can do nothing for us in this darned country.”

“Surely you've squared someone over here?”

“We thought we had squared the Newquay coast guard, but they were pulling our legs.”

“Thank you. That's all I have to ask you for the moment. You must consider yourself under arrest. Now, Walker,” he said, as soon as the door was closed, “get this wire sent off to Goron, Ministry of the Interior, Paris. Name of the deputy is Laurillard, and sign it Vincent.”

O
N RECEIVING
Vincent's telegram, Goron looked up the private address of M. Laurillard and decided that seven o'clock at night was an inauspicious hour for a momentous interview with a deputy. It was the dinner hour and a gentleman of that standing would not be found in the bosom of his family at home. Most probably he was dining with his friends either at the Chamber itself or in a restaurant nigh at hand. It would be better to defer the interview until the morning, when he would have the whole day before him for anything that might happen.

It was ten o'clock the following morning when he rang the bell at the Laurillard flat and handed his card to the manservant. He had time to observe that the flat was expensively furnished in the modern style.

He had not long to wait, probably no longer than sufficed for the gentleman to decide upon the replies he was to make if he was questioned about his connection with the drug traffic, because a man who was engaged in risky transactions such as his must always feel that the axe was hanging over his head.

“I have called to give you a hint, monsieur; some friends of yours in this country and in England are in danger and may require you to use all the influence you possess on their behalf.”

The flabby complexion of the deputy took on a sicklier shade. “I do not understand to whom you are referring,” he stammered.

“No? Then let me make things plainer. Persons concerned in illegally introducing narcotics into England and this country have been arrested and they are counting upon you to restore them to liberty.”

“You speak as if I was a Court of Appeal. I have no power to have them released.” He drew himself up with dignity and continued: “Really, this is an outrage. I must bring it to the notice of my friend, the minister. How dare you suggest that I, a deputy in the Chamber, am linked with scoundrelly traffickers in drugs.”

“I fear that you must blame your friends rather than me, and if I may be permitted to give you a word of advice, I suggest that you would be making a mistake in appealing for protection to the minister. I am merely carrying out my duty in calling upon you.”

Laurillard had been doing some rapid thinking; his manner changed. “It is not worth troubling the minister with so trumpery a charge. I will interview these people who dare to abuse my name.”

“Unfortunately two of them named Blake and Lewis have been detained in England by the British authorities.”

“The mistakes made by the British police have nothing to do with me. Who is there in France that I can deal with?”

Goron decided that for the time at least it would be prudent to withhold the name of the mayor of St Malo. “There is a milliner in the rue Duphot named Madame Germaine…”

“A woman? Send her to me and let me deal with her.”

“If you will come with me to the police station at the Grand Palais, I will have her brought to you.”

“I cannot come at once. I have to be at the Chamber.”

“We will make any time you choose convenient. Shall we say this evening at half-past five?”

“Very good; that time will do. I will come to the Grand Palais.”

Goron's next objective was the office of his friend Verneuil. To him he narrated his receipt of the telegram and his interview with Laurillard.

“Ah! So M. Laurillard was the protector and friend of this little gang.” He began to chuckle. The tremor began low down in his anatomy and worked its way upwards until it culminated in laughter. “One finds them everywhere, these eager gentlemen who snatch at illicit profits, but most of all among the politicians, for their harvest may be a short one and they make their hay only when the sun is shining.”

“Have you loosened the tongue of that woman Germaine?”

Verneuil screwed up his eyes. “Not yet, but I think that an interview between M. Laurillard and her may produce something.”

“Then we must contain our curiosity until half past five, when this intriguing interview is to take place.”

Goron spent the next few hours in making confidential enquiries about M. Laurillard and his friends and relations. As it proved, his time was not ill spent; he had gleaned some facts that were likely to be useful when the interview took place.

He arrived at the Grand Palais a few minutes before the appointed hour and climbed the stairs to Verneuil's room. There he found Madame Germaine in her full panoply of make-up, beautifully dressed and groomed and bristling with the self-confidence that women enjoy when they feel themselves to be well turned out. She was feeling, like so many of her sex, that men were soft clay in the hands of the potter.

Verneuil, whose whimsical expression Goron knew so well, observed: “Madame Germaine is looking forward to her interview with her old friend, Monsieur Laurillard.”

“Yes, indeed,” burst out the woman; “now I shall see justice done.”

Verneuil bowed obsequiously. “And we shall make our humble apologies for any inconvenience that Madame has suffered.”

It was at this moment that M. Laurillard was announced. Madame Germaine rose from her chair and approached him with outstretched hand. He drew back.

“I have not the honour of Madame's acquaintance,” he said.

“Oh,” said the lady; “so that is to be the line, is it? It is well to know how we stand. I will give you one chance, monsieur, before laying all my cards on the table before these gentlemen. Is this the first time that we have met?”

There was a cold light in her eye which Laurillard could not fail to see. His instinct was to compromise. He turned to the others, saying: “Can I see this lady alone?”