The Nine Tailors (23 page)

“Lucky devil!” said Wimsey, with feeling.

“
Je suis de votre avis.
Nevertheless, a reaction of some kind would have been satisfying. Time passed, and he became no better. They sent him back to us. Now you know, milord, that it is impossible to repatriate a man who has no nationality. No country will receive him. Nobody wanted this unfortunate man except Suzanne Legros and her
bon-papa.
They needed a man to work on the farm and this fellow, though he had lost his memory, had recovered his physical strength and was well-suited for manual labour. Moreover, the girl had taken a fancy to him. You know how it is with women. When they have nursed a man, he is to them in a manner their child. Old Pierre Legros asked leave to adopt this man as his son. There were difficulties—
que voulez vous?
But,
enfin,
since something had to be done with the man, and he was quiet and well-behaved and no trouble, the consent was obtained. He was adopted under the name of Jean Legros and papers of identity were made out for him. The neighbours began to be accustomed to him. There was a man—a fellow who had thought of marrying Suzanne—who was his enemy and called him
sale Boche
—but Jean knocked him down one evening in the
estaminet
and after that there was no more heard of the word Boche. Then, after a few years it became known that Suzanne had the wish to marry him. The old curé opposed the match—he said it was not known but that the man was married already. But the old curé died. The new one knew little of the circumstances. Besides, Suzanne had already thrown her bonnet over the windmill. Human nature, milord, is human nature. The civil authorities washed their hands of the matter; it was better to regularise the position. So Suzanne Legros wedded this Jean, and their eldest son is now nine years of age. Since that time there has been no trouble—only Jean still remembers nothing of his origin.”

“You said in your letter,” said Wimsey, “that Jean had now disappeared.”

“Since five months, milord. It is said that he is in Belgium, buying pigs, cattle, or I know not what. But he has not written, and his wife is concerned about him. You think you have some information about him?”

“Well,” said Wimsey, “we have a corpse. And we have a name. But if this Jean Legros has conducted himself in the manner you describe, then the name is not his, though the corpse may be. For the man whose name we have was in prison in 1918 and for some years afterwards.”

“Ah! then you have no further interest in Jean Legros?”

“On the contrary. An interest of the most profound. We still have the corpse.”

“
A la bonne heure,
” said M. Rozier cheerfully. “A corpse is always something. Have you any photograph? any measurements? any marks of identification?”

“The photograph will assuredly be of little use, since the corpse when found was four months old and the face had been much battered. Moreover, his hands had been removed at the wrists. But we have measurements and two medical reports. From the latest of these, recently received from a London expert, it appears that the scalp bears the mark of an old scar, in addition to those recently inflicted.”

“Aha! that is perhaps some confirmation. He was, then, killed by being beaten on the head, your unknown?”

“No,” said Wimsey. “All the head-injuries were inflicted after death. The expert opinion confirms that of the police-surgeon on this point.”

“He died, then, of what?”

“There is the mystery. There is no sign of fatal wound, or of poison, or of strangling, nor yet of disease. The heart was sound; the intestines show that he had not died of starvation—indeed, he was well-nourished, and had eaten a few hours before his death.”

“
Tiens!
an apoplexy, then?”

“It is possible. The brain, you understand, was in a somewhat putrefied condition. It is difficult to say with certainty, though there are certain signs that there had been an effusion of blood into the cortex. But you comprehend that, if a thundering apoplexy killed this man, it was not so obliging as to bury him also.”

“Perfectly. You are quite right. Forward, then, to the farm of Jean Legros.”

The farm was a small one, and did not seem to be in too flourishing a state. Broken fences, dilapidated outhouses and ill-weeded fields spoke of straitened means and a lack of the necessary labour. The mistress of the house received them. She was a sturdy, well-muscled woman of some forty years of age, and carried in her arms a nine-months old child. At the sight of the commissaire and his attendant gendarme a look of alarm came unmistakably into her eyes. Another moment, and it had given place to that expression of mulish obstinacy which no one can better assume at will than the French peasant.

“M. le commissaire Rozier?”

“Himself, madame. This gentleman is milord Vainsé, who has voyaged from England to make certain inquiries. It is permitted to enter?”

It was permitted, but at the word “England” the look of alarm had come again; and it was not lost on either of the men.

“Your husband, Mme. Legros,” said the commissaire, coming brusquely to the point, “he is absent from home. Since how long?”

“Since December, M. le commissaire.”

“Where is he?”

“In Belgium.”

“Where, in Belgium?”

“Monsieur, in Dixmude, as I suppose.”

“You suppose? You do not know? You have had no letter from him?”

“No, monsieur.”

“That is strange. What took him to Dixmude?”

“Monsieur, he had taken the notion that his family lived perhaps at Dixmude. You know, without doubt, that he had lost his memory.
Eh, bien!
in December, one day, he said to me, ‘Suzanne, put a record on the gramophone.’ I put on the record of a great
diseuse,
reciting
Le Carillon,
poem of Verhaeren, to music.
C’est un morceau très impressionnant.
At that moment, filled with emotion where the carillons are named turn by turn, my husband cried out: ‘Dixmude! there is then a town of Dixmude in Belgium?’ ‘But certainly,’ I replied. He said, ‘But that name says something to me! I am convinced, Suzanne, that I have a beloved mother residing in Dixmude. I shall not rest till I have gone to Belgium to make inquiries about this dear mother.’ M. le commissaire, he would listen to nothing. He went away, taking with him our small savings, and since that time I have heard nothing from him.”

“
Histoire très touchante,
” said the commissaire, drily. “You have my sympathy, madame. But I cannot understand that your husband should be a Belgian. There were no Belgian troops engaged at the third Battle of the Marne.”

“Nevertheless, monsieur, his father may have married a Belgian. He may have Belgian relations.”

“
C’est vrai.
He left you no address?”

“None, monsieur. He said he would write on his arrival.”

“Ah! And he departed how? By the train?”

“Oh, yes, monsieur.”

“And you have made no inquiries? From the mayor of Dixmude, for example?”

“Monsieur, you understand that I was sufficiently embarrassed. I did not know where to begin with such an inquiry.”

“Nor of us, the police, who exist for that? You did not address yourself to us?”

“M. le commissaire, I did not know—I could not imagine—I told myself every day, ‘To-morrow he will write,’ and I waited,
et enfin
—”

“
Et enfin
—it did not occur to you to inform yourself.
C’est bien remarquable.
What gave you the idea that your husband was in England?”

“In England, monsieur?”

“In England, madame. You wrote to him under the name of Paul Taylor, did you not? At the town of Valbesch in the county of Laincollone?” The commissaire excelled himself in the rendering of these barbarian place-names. “At Valbesch in Laincollone you address yourself to him in the name of Paul Taylor—
voyons, madame, voyons,
and you tell me now that you suppose him to be all the time in Belgium. You will not deny your own handwriting, I suppose? Or the names of your two children? Or the death of the red cow? You do not imagine that you can resurrect the cow?”

“Monsieur—”

“Come, madame. During all these years you have been lying to the police, have you not? You knew very well that your husband was not a Belgian but an Englishman? That his name was actually Paul Taylor? That he had not lost his memory at all? Ah! you think that you can trifle with the police in that way? I assure you, madame, that you will find it a serious matter. You have falsified papers, that is a crime!”

“Monsieur, monsieur—”

“That is your letter?”

“Monsieur, since you have found it, I cannot deny it. But—”

“Good, you admit the letter. Now, what is this about falling into the hands of the military authorities?”

I do not know, monsieur. My husband—monsieur, I implore you to tell me, where is my husband?”

The commissaire Rozier paused, and glanced at Wimsey, who said:

“Madame, we are greatly afraid that your husband is dead.”

“
Ah, mon dieu! je le savais bien.
If he had been alive, he would have written to me.”

“If you will help us by telling us the truth about your husband, we may be able to identify him.”

The woman stood looking from one to the other. At last she turned to Wimsey. “You, milord, you are not laying a trap for me? You are sure that my husband is dead?”

“Come, come,” said the commissaire, “that makes no difference. You must tell the truth, or it will be the worse for you.”

Wimsey took out of the attaché case which he had brought with him the underclothing which had been found upon the corpse. “Madame,” he said, “we do not know whether the man who wore these is your husband, but on my honour, the man who wore these is dead and they were taken from his body.”

Suzanne Legros turned the garments over, her work-hardened fingers slowly tracing each patch and darn. Then, as though the sight of them had broken down something in her, she dropped into a chair and laid her head down on the mended vest and burst into loud weeping.

“You recognise the garments?” asked the commissaire presently, in a milder tone.

“Yes, they are his, I mended these garments myself. I understand that he is dead.”

“In that case,” said Wimsey, “you can do him no harm by speaking.”

When Suzanne Legros had recovered herself a little, she made her statement, the commissaire calling in his attendant gendarme to take a shorthand note of it.

“It is true that my husband was not a Frenchman or a Belgian. He was an Englishman. But it is true also that he was wounded in the retreat of 1918. He came to the farm one night. He had lost much blood and was exhausted. Also his nerves were shattered, but it is not true that he had lost his memory. He implored me to help him and to hide him because he did not want to fight any more. I nursed him till he was well and then we arranged what we should say.”

“It was shameful, madame, to harbour a deserter.”

“I acknowledge it, monsieur, but consider my position. My father was dead, my two brothers killed, and I had no one to help me with the farm. Jean-Marie Picard, that was to have married me, was dead also. There were so few men left in France, and the War had gone on so long. And also, monsieur, I grew to love Jean. And his nerves were greatly deranged. He could not face any more fighting.”

“He should have reported to his unit and applied for sick leave,” said Wimsey. “But then,” said Suzanne, simply, “they would have sent him back to England and separated us. And besides, the English are very strict. They might have thought him a coward and shot him.”

“It appears, at least, that he made you think so,” said Monsieur Rozier.

“Yes, monsieur. I thought so and he thought so too. So we arranged that he should pretend to have lost his memory,’ and since his French accent was not good, we decided to make out that his speech was affected by his injury. And I burnt his uniform and papers in the copper.”

“Who invented the story—you or he?”

“He did, monsieur. He was very clever. He thought of everything.”

“And the name also?”

“The name also.”

“And what was his real name?”

She hesitated. “His papers were burnt, and he never told me anything about himself.”

“You do not know his name. Was it then not Taylor?”

“No, monsieur. He adopted that name when he went back to England.”

“Ah! and what did he go to England for?”

“Monsieur, we were very poor, and Jean said that he had property in England which could be disposed of for a good sum, if only he could get hold of it without making himself known. For, you see, if he were to reveal himself he would be shot as a deserter.”

“But there was a general amnesty for deserters after the War.”

“Not in England, monsieur.”

“He told you that?” said Wimsey.

“Yes, milord. So it was important that nobody should know him when he went to fetch the property. Also there were difficulties which he did not explain to me, about selling the goods—I do not know what they were—and for that he had to have the help of a friend. So he wrote to this friend and presently he received a reply.”

“Have you that letter?”

“No, monsieur. He burnt it without showing it to me. This friend asked him for something—I did not quite understand that, but it was some sort of guarantee, I think. Jean shut himself up in his room for several hours the next day to compose his answer to the letter, but he did not show that to me, either. Then the friend wrote back and said he could help him, but it would not do for Jean’s name to appear—neither his own name nor the name of Legros, you understand. So he chose the name of Paul Taylor, and he laughed very much when the idea came to him to call himself so. Then the friend sent him papers made out in the name of Paul Taylor, British subject. I saw those. There was a passport with a photograph; it was not very much like my husband, but he said they would not pay great attention to it. The beard was like his.”

“Had your husband a beard when you first knew him?”

“No, he was clean-shaven, like all the English. But of course, he grew his beard when he was ill. It altered him very much, because he had a small chin, and with the beard it looked bigger. Jean took with him no luggage; he said he would buy clothes in England, because then he would again look like an Englishman.”