The Nine Tailors (22 page)

“Ha, ha!” said Wimsey, rightly supposing this to be irony. “Very good! I must tell my friends about that. Good work, what? Why don’t they refer it to Geneva? Ha, ha!”

“That’s right,” said the sluice-keeper, anxious that the point of the jest should not be lost. “Why don’t they refer it to Geneva? See?”

“Splendid!” said Wimsey. “I won’t forget that. Ha, ha, ha!”

He gently released the clutch. As they moved away, he glanced back and saw the sluice-keeper convulsed by the remembrance of his own wit.

* * *

Lord Peter’s misgivings about the letter were duly confirmed. He honourably submitted it, unopened, to Superintendent Blundell, as soon as the latter returned from attendance at the Quarter Sessions where he had been engaged all day. The Superintendent was alarmed by Wimsey’s unorthodox raid on the post-office, but pleased by his subsequent discretion, and readily allowed him full credit for zeal and intelligence. Together they opened the envelope. The letter, which bore no address, was written on thin paper of the same poor quality as the envelope, and began:

“
Mon cher mari
—”

“Hey!” said Mr. Blundell. “What’s that mean? I’m not much of a French scholar, but doesn’t
mari
mean ‘husband’?”

“Yes. ‘My dear husband,’ it begins.”

“I never knew that Cranton—dash it!” exclaimed Mr. Blundell. “Where does Cranton come into this? I never heard of his having any wife at all, let alone a French one.”

“We don’t know that Cranton comes into it at all. He came to St. Paul and asked for a Mr. Paul Taylor. This presumably, is addressed to the Paul Taylor he asked for.”

“But they said Paul Taylor was a bell.”

“Tailor Paul is a bell, but Paul Taylor may be a person.”

“Who is he, then?”

“God knows. Somebody with a wife in France.”

“And the other chap, Batty Something—is he a person ?”

“No, he’s a bell. But he may be a person, too.”

“They can’t both be persons,” said Mr. Blundell, “it’s not reasonable. And where is this Paul Taylor, anyhow?”

“Perhaps he was the corpse.”

“Then where’s Cranton? They can’t,” added the Superintendent, “both be the corpse. That’s not reasonable, either.”

“Possibly Cranton gave one name to Wilderspin and another to his correspondent.”

“Then what did he mean by asking for Paul Taylor at Fenchurch St. Paul?”

“Perhaps that was the bell, after all.”

“See here,” said Mr. Blundell, “it doesn’t seem reasonable to me. This Paul Taylor or Tailor Paul, can’t be both a bell and a person. At least, not both at once. It sounds kind of, well, kind of batty to me.”

“Why bring Batty into it? Batty is a bell. Tailor Paul is a bell. Paul Taylor is a person, because he gets letters. You can’t send letters to a bell. If you did you’d be batty. Oh, bother!”

“Well, I don’t understand it,” said Mr. Blundell. “Stephen Driver, he’s a person, too. You don’t say he’s a bell, do you? What I want to know is, which of ’em all is Cranton. If he’s been and fixed himself up with a wife in France between this and last September—I mean, between this and January—no, I mean between September and January—I mean—here, dash it all, my lord, let’s read the blooming letter. You might read it out in English would you? My French is a bit off, these days.”

“My dear husband” (Wimsey translated),—You told me not to write to you, without great urgency, but three months are past and I have no news of you. I am very anxious, asking myself if you have not been taken by the military authorities. You have assured me that they could not now have you shot, the War being over so long ago, but it is known that the English are very strict. Write, I beseech you, a little word to say that you are safe. It begins to be very difficult to do the work of the farm alone, and we have had great trouble with the Spring sowing. Also the red cow is dead. I am obliged to carry the fowls to market myself, because Jean is too exigent, and prices are very low. Little Pierre helps me as much as he can, but he is only nine. Little Marie has had the whooping-cough and the Baby also. I beg your pardon if I am indiscreet to write to you, but I am very much troubled. Pierre and Marie send kisses to their papa.

“Your loving wife,

“SUZANNE.”

Superintendent Blundell listened aghast; then snatched the paper from Wimsey, as though he mistrusted his translation and thought to tear out some better meaning from the words by mere force of staring at them. “Little Pierre—nine years old—kisses to their papa—and the red cow’s dead—t’cha!” He did a little arithmetic on his fingers. “Nine years ago, Cranton was in gaol.”

“Step-father, perhaps?” suggested Wimsey. Mr. Blundell paid no heed. “Spring sowing—since when has Cranton turned farmer? And what’s all that about military authorities? And the War. Cranton never was in the War. There’s something here I can’t make head or tail of. See here, my lord—this can’t be Cranton. It’s silly, that’s what it is. It can’t be Cranton.”

“It begins to look as if it wasn’t,” said Wimsey. “But I still think it was Cranton I met on New Year’s Day.”

“I’d better get on the telephone to London,” said Mr. Blundell. “And then I’ll have to be seeing the Chief Constable about this. Whatever it is, it’s got to be followed up. Driver’s disappeared and we’ve found a body that looks like his and we’ve got to do something about it. But France—well, there I How we’re to find this Suzanne I don’t know, and it’ll cost a mint of money.”

MONSIEUR ROZIER HUNTS THE TREBLE DOWN

The remaining bell... does nothing but plain hunting, and is therefore said to be “in the hunt with the Treble.”

TROYTE On Change-Ringing.

There are harder jobs in detective work than searching a couple of French departments for a village ending in “y,” containing a farmer’s wife whose first name is Suzanne whose children are Pierre, aged nine, Marie and a baby of unknown age and sex, and whose husband is an Englishman. All the villages in the Marne district end, indeed, in “y,” and Suzanne, Pierre and Marie are all common names enough, but a foreign husband is rarer. A husband named Paul Taylor would, of course, be easily traced, but both Superintendent Blundell and Lord Peter were pretty sure that “Paul Taylor” would prove to be an alias. It was about the middle of May when a report came in from the French police which looked more hopeful than anything previously received. It came through the Sûreté, and originated with M. le commissaire Rozier of Château-Thierry in the department of Marne.

It was so exceedingly promising that even the Chief Constable, who was a worried gentleman with an itch for economy, agreed that it ought to be investigated on the spot. “But I don’t know whom to send,” he grumbled. “Dashed expensive business, anyhow. And then there’s the language. Do you speak French, Blundell?”

The Superintendent grinned sheepishly. “Well, sir, not to say speak it. I could ask for a spot of grub in an
estaminet,
and maybe swear at the garsong a bit. But examining witnesses—that’s a different question.”

“I can’t go myself,” said the Chief Constable, sharply and hastily, as though anticipating a suggestion that nobody had had the courage to make. “Out of the question.” He tapped his fingers on his study table and stared vaguely over the Superintendent’s head at the rooks wheeling high over the elms at the end of the garden. “You’ve done your best, Blundell, but I think we had better hand the thing over, lock, stock and barrel to Scotland Yard. Perhaps we ought to have done so earlier.”

Mr. Blundell looked chagrined. Lord Peter Wimsey, who had come with him, ostensibly in case help should be needed to translate the commissaire’s letter, but actually because he was determined not to be left out of anything, coughed gently. “If you would entrust the inquiry to me, sir,” he murmured, “I could pop over in two ticks—at my own expense, of course,” he added, insinuatingly.

“I’m afraid it would be rather irregular,” said the Chief Constable, with the air of one who only needs to be persuaded.

“I’m more reliable than I look, really I am,” said his lordship. “And my French is my one strong point. Couldn’t you swear me in as a special constable, or something? with a natty little armlet and a truncheon? Or isn’t interrogation part of a special constable’s duties?”

“It is not,” said the Chief Constable. “Still,” he went on, “still—I suppose I might stretch a point. And I suppose”—he looked hard at Wimsey—“I suppose you’ll go in any case.”

“Nothing to prevent me from making a private tour of the battle-fields,” said Wimsey, “and, of course, if I met one of my old Scotland Yard pals knocking round there, I might join up with him. But I really think that, in these hard times, we ought to consider the public purse, don’t you, sir?”

The Chief Constable was thoughtful. He had no real wish to call in Scotland Yard. He had an idea that a Yard man might make himself an officious nuisance. He gave way. Within two days, Wimsey was being cordially received by M. le commissaire Rozier. A gentleman who has “
des relations intimes
” with the Paris Sûreté, and who speaks perfect French, is likely to be well received by country
commissaires de police.
M. Rozier produced a bottle of very excellent wine, entreated his visitor to make himself at home, and embarked upon his story.

“It does not in any way astonish me, milord, to receive an inquiry concerning the husband of Suzanne Legros. It is evident that there is there a formidable mystery. For ten years I have said to myself, ‘Aristide Rozier, the day will come when your premonitions concerning the so-called Jean Legros will be justified.’ I perceive that the day is at hand, and I congratulate myself upon my foresight.”

“Evidently,” said Wimsey, “M. le commissaire possesses a penetrating intelligence.”

“To lay the matter clearly before you, I am obliged to go back to the summer of 1918. Milord served in the British Army? Ah! then milord will remember the retreat over the Marne in July.
Quelle histoire sanglante!
On that occasion the retreating armies were swept back across the Marne pell-mell and passed in disorder through the little village of C—y, situated upon the left bank of the river. The village itself, you understand, milord, escaped any violent bombardment, for it was behind the front-line trenches. In that village lived the aged Pierre Legros and his granddaughter Suzanne. The old man was eighty years of age and refused to leave his home. His grandchild, then aged twenty-seven, was a vigorous and industrious girl, who, single-handed, kept the farm in a sort of order throughout the years of conflict. Her father, her brother, her affianced husband had all been killed.

“About ten days after the retreat, it was reported that Suzanne Legros and her grandfather had a visitor at the farm. The neighbours had begun to talk, you understand, and the curé, the reverend Abbé Latouche, now in paradise, thought it his duty to inform the authorities here. I myself, you comprehend, was not here at that time; I was in the Army; but my predecessor, M. Dubois, took steps to investigate the matter. He found that there was a sick and wounded man being kept at the farm. He had suffered a severe blow upon the head and various other injuries. Suzanne Legros, and her grandfather, being interrogated, told a singular story.

“She said that, on the second night after the retreat had passed through the village, she went to a distant outhouse and there found this man lying sick and burning with fever, stripped to his underclothing, with his head roughly bandaged. He was dirty and bloodstained and his clothes were bedaubed with mud and weeds as though he had been in the river. She contrived to carry him home with the old man’s help, washed his wounds and nursed him as best she might. The farm is a couple of kilometres distant from the village itself, and she had no one whom she could send for assistance. At first, she said, the man had raved in French about the incidents of the battle, but afterwards he had fallen into a heavy stupor, from which she could not rouse him. When seen by the curé and by the commissaire he lay inert, breathing heavily and unconscious.

“She showed the clothing in which she had found him—a vest, under-pants, socks, and shirt of regulation army pattern, very much stained and torn. No uniform; no boots; no identity disc; no papers. It seemed evident that he had been in the retreat and had been obliged to swim across the river in making his way back from the front line—this would account for the abandoning of his boots, uniform and kit. He seemed to be a man of some thirty-five or forty years of age, and when first seen by the authorities, he had a dark beard of about a week’s growth.”

“Then he had been clean-shaven?”

“It would seem so, milord. A doctor from the town was round to go out and see him, but he could only say that it appeared to be a severe case of injury to the brain from the wound in the head. He advised ameliorative measures. He was only a young student of small experience, incapacitated from the Army by reason of frail health. He has since died.

“It was at first supposed that they had only to wait till the man came to himself to learn who he was. But when, after three more weeks of coma, he slowly regained consciousness, it was found that his memory, and, for some time, his speech also, was gone. Gradually, the speech was regained, though for some time he could express himself only in a thick mumbling manner, with many hesitations. It seemed that there were injuries to the locutory centres in the brain. When he was well enough to understand and make himself understood, he was, naturally, interrogated. His replies were simply that his mind was a blank. He remembered nothing of his past—but nothing. He did not know his name, or his place of origin; he had no recollection of the war. For him, his life began in the farmhouse at C—y.”

M. Rozier paused impressively, while Wimsey registered amazement.

“Well, milord, you will understand that it was necessary to report the case at once to the Army authorities. He was seen by a number of officers, none of whom could recognise him, and his portrait and measurements were circulated without result. It was thought at first that he might be an Englishman—or even a Boche—and that, you understand, was not agreeable. It was stated, however, that when Suzanne first found him, he had deliriously muttered in French, and the clothes found upon him were undoubtedly French also. Nevertheless, his description was issued to the British Army, again without result, and, when the Armistice was signed, inquiries were extended to Germany. But they knew nothing of him there. Naturally, these inquiries took some time, for the Germans had a revolution, as you know, and everything was much disordered. In the meanwhile, the man had to live somewhere. He was taken to hospital—to several hospitals—and examined by psychologists, but they could make nothing of him. They tried—you understand, milord—to set traps for him. They suddenly shouted words of command at him in English, French and German, thinking that he might display an automatic reaction. But it was to no purpose. He seemed to have forgotten the war.”