[music] May Gray and the Spenser by George Simelet, Part 3, Chapter 1 It was still raining the following morning. The rain was soft, cheerless and hopeless, like the widow's tears. It could be felt rather than seen, although it spread over everything like a cold layer of varnish and dotted the sand with countless little vibrant circles. Those starting out for work as late as 9 o'clock might well have imagined that they were in time to catch the milk train, with the gas lamp still alight in the lingering darkness. May Gray, as he reached the top of the stairs at police headquarters, glanced inforontery at the aquarium, it could not shake off the feeling that he would cease a seat sitting there in her usual place, humble and resigned, as she had been on her last visit. An ugly thought had formed in his mind this morning. He could not imagine why. No doubt, as he walked along half asleep, sheltering close to the walls of dripping houses, the girl in the movie house, new she, and Montserge House had flitted like shadows across his consciousness. And now, in a corridor leading to his office, it occurred to him to wonder whether Cecil and Montserge don't to hold. He had no grounds for any such suspicion. It was distasteful to him. It sullied his recollections, and yet the chief superintendent's thoughts kept referring to it. Wait a minute, there's someone. The chief commissioner would like to see you at once. It was the guard who was preventing May Gray from going into his own office. Did you say there was someone in there, he asked? A minute or so later, he was knocking at the chief commissioner's door. Come in, May Gray, feeling better? Look, I've taken the liberty of using your office as a waiting room for a visitor. I couldn't think where else to put him. Besides, it's your pigeon, really. Here, read this. May Gray stared blankly at the proper visiting card, which read, John Tom Chant, Minister of State at the Foreign Office. Back to the chief commissioner of the police judiciary to give every assistance to Montserge Spencer Oates of the Institute of Criminology of Philadelphia, who has been highly recommended to us by the United States Embassy. What does he want to study your methods? And the chief commissioner could not help laughing as he watched May Gray stride away, with shoulders hunched and fists clenched for all the world as if he were bent on pounding the American criminologies to a pub. I'm delighted to meet you, Chief Superintendent. One moment, Montserge Spencer. Hello, Switchboard, May Gray speaking. Any messages from me? He hasn't been found yet. Gaby Bochleren 19. Quite a likable fan of this American, a tall, scholarly-looking young man with red hair and a thin face, wearing a sober suit of good cut and speaking with a slight rather pleasant accent. Is that you, Bergen? Well, nothing, Chief. He bedded down on the divine, fully dressed. I must say, I'm feeling hungry, and there isn't a thing to eat in effect. I don't take the risk of slipping out to buy some croissant. Will you be coming soon? No. He is as good as good. He even went so far as to say he didn't blame you, and that he'd have done the same in your place. He's quite confident that you will soon realize you have made a mistake. May Gray hung up and went across to his stove, which he proceeded to light, much to the surprise of the American. What can I do for you, Monsieur Spencer? He deliberately chose to call him by a Christian name because he had not the least idea how to pronounce oaths. To begin with, Chief Superintendent, I should very much like to hear your views on the psychology of the murderer. May Gray, meanwhile, had picked up his nail from his desk and was open at it. "Which murderer?" he asked, glancing through his letters. "Why, murderous in general, before or after. What do you mean?" May Gray smoked his pipe, read his letters, warmed his back, and seemed to attach no importance to this disjointed interchange. "What I mean is, are you referring to murderers before or after they have committed the crime? Because, needless to say, before they are not yet murdered, for 30, 40, 50 years of their lives, longer sometimes, they are just people like anyone else, aren't they?" Of course. At long last, May Gray looked up and, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, said, "What makes you think, Monsieur Spencer, that just killing one of his own kind should change a man's character from one minute to the next?" He went over to the window, gazed up at the little circles on the set. "So what it really comes down to," said the American, "is that the murderer is a man like any other. There was a knock on the door. Lucas came in, carrying a file of papers, catching sight of the fister. He seemed about to be the retreat." "What is it, my boy?" "Ah, yes, well then. You'd better take the fire cross to the DPP's office. I take it the whole day there's a car. It's still under surveillance." Lucas brought him up to date on the Polish case, but May Gray had not lost the threat of his argument. "Why does a man commit murder, Monsieur Spencer, from no tips of jealousy, greed, hatred, envy, sometimes though more rarely from necessity? In other words, he may be driven by anyone of the human passions. Now, every one of us is subject to these passions to a greater or lesser degree. My neighbor in variability opens his window on summonites and blows his hunting horn. Consequently, I hate him. But I very much doubt if I shall murder him. And yet, only last month, a retired colonial servant, whose temper had been shortened by a recurring bounce of tropical fever, fired a shot at the man who lived in the apartment above him. Because he had a wooden leg and would insist on pacing up and down all night, pounding the floorboards. I can see what you mean, but what about the psychology of the murderer afterward? That's no concern of mine. That's a matter of juries and prison governors and guards. My job is to find a culprit. And for that purpose, all that concerns me is his personality before the end, whether he had it in him to commit that particular murder and how and when he committed it. The Chief Commissioner gave me to understand that you might perhaps allow me to be present, that he wouldn't be the first, so much the worst for him. I know you're working on the Borglar hand case, and I have followed the newspaper reports with great interest. Do you know already who did it? I know who didn't, in any way, all the same. He allowed me to ask you a question, more so expensive. A man believes himself to be a suspect. Rightly or wrongly, he imagines the police are in possession of evidence incriminating him. His wife is expecting a child at any moment. There isn't so much as a penny in the house. This man rampages into his sister's flats like a madman, demanding money. Every penny she's got, his sister gives him 130 frames. What does he do with it? A Maegre pushed the newspaper across the desk to his sister. It was the evening paper of the previous day, with the photograph of Maegre laying his hand on Gerhard Padon's shoulder. Is this the young man? That's him. Last night, from this office, I broadcast his description to all police stations up and down the country, a watch is being kept on all frontiers, 130 frames. Are you saying he's innocent? I'm convinced that he's not guilty of the murder of either of his aunt or his sister. If he had asked for the money earlier in the day, I would have concluded that he wanted it to buy a revolver to shoot himself. But he's innocent. Precisely. Monsieur Spencer. That's the point I'm trying to make. An innocent man may have the seeds of guilt in him, just as a guilty man may be innocent at heart. Luckily, by the time the boy got hold of the 130 frames, the gunsmiths had already put up their shutters. I presume, therefore, that he's on the run. So the question is, how far could he go with 130 frames, just about across the Belgian frontier? He picked up the receiver and asked to be put through to the forensic laboratory. Hello, Megrae here. Who is not speaking? Oh, it's you, Jiminette. I want you to get your gear together and rustle up an assistant. Yes, and wait for me downstairs in the taxi. Then, telling to the American, we may be about to make an arrest. You know who did it? I think so, but I'm not sure. To tell the truth, I'd be inclined to. Would you mind waiting for me here for a few minutes, Monsieur Spencer? Megrae went through to the Palais de Justice, making use of the notorious communicating door, which should have been bricked up years ago. That same door without which Cecile could not have died where she did. It was so convenient. What good had it done to repeat, year after year, for the past 10 or was it 20 years? The chief superintendent not at the examining magistrate's door, but when invited to take a seat shook his head. I can't stay. I've got someone waiting for me. What I came for, Judge, was to ask if you wouldn't mind too much if I were to arrest a man who may turn out to be innocent. I should point out, mind you, that he's a nasty type, with a number of convictions for sexual offenses, and he scarcely had the nerve to launch a complaint. In that case, what's his name? Charles Don de Horn. Ten minutes later, Megrae and Spencer Oates got into the taxi on the quesad of Eiff, in which the two technicians from the forensic laboratory were waiting. It was shortly after ten, when the taxi drew up at Borglerhen. Juliet Boynett's house was shrouded in a scorch mist, so that it looked blurred and much faded, as in an old photograph. "Wait for me upstairs on a fifth-floor landing," said Megrae to the technicians. He ran Don de Horn's bell. Berger, who had dark rings under his eyes from lack of sleep, came to the door. "Heaven't you brought any food?" Monster Charles had taken off his collar. He had the crumbled look for man who had slept in his clothes. He was wearing a pair of old bedroom slippers. "I presume," he began, "I shouldn't presume anything if I were you," Monster Don de Horn. "You're almost sure to get it wrong. I have here a warrant for your arrest, duly signed by the examining magistrate assigned to the case." "Ah, you don't sound surprised." "No, I'm sorry for you, that's all. Have you nothing to say before you leave? You will be kept in custody at the santa. All I have to say is that you are making a mistake." "Aren't you forgetting what you did yesterday?" Juliet Boynett's bathroom, while I was on the telephone here. A bitter smile flickered over the unshaven face of the man. Stay with him, Berger. See that he gets dressed. When he's ready, take him to the pre-vector and book him. Abruptly, he turned around, seized the kid by her thin shoulders and set angrily. "Listen to me, Dushi. If you get under my feet just once more, what will you do to me?" she asked, thrilled. "You'll see, and it will be no joke. Be off with you." He went upstairs and proceeded to open the door of the fifth floor apartment. "Now, this is what I want you fellows to do. Careful, monster Spencer, don't go in there. But we've already fingerprinted the whole apartment, objected the photographer." On the day after the murder, quite right, and only two sets of prints were found in Juliet Boynett's bedroom, her own in the seals. There were no men's fingerprints, none of Gerhard Padon's, and none of that sorry rogue downstairs. But it so happens that last night, while I was speaking on the phone in his study, he came into this room. I'm sure of that because I could hear his footsteps. I don't know what he was up to, but he was taking a grave risk, so he must have had some very compelling reason. I want you to find out what he touched, so get going. Now, do you see why I asked you not to go into that room, monster Spencer? The technicians have set up the apparatus, and were getting down to the job. May Gray, his hands in his pockets, wandered from room to room. It's not a very pretty story, is it? A miserly, crazy old woman, a girl, or rather a somewhat faded young woman, none too generously endowed by nature. Will you come downstairs for a moment? They reached monster Charles apartment just as he was leaving, wearing a hat and coat, in company with Inspector Berger. Don't worry about your things, monster don't. I'll take charge of the key to your apartment. Instantly, you will presumably be appointing a lawyer very shortly to represent you. I shall expect to see him here. Whereupon he shut the door and went not into the study of the former lawyer, but into his bedroom. Take a seat, monster Spencer. Listen. You can hear every word that is set up there. Correct. I don't know what your new houses are like in America, but ours are about as soundproof as cigar boxes. Pay no attention to their footsteps. See if you can make out what they were doing. It sounds as if that's odd. It's much more difficult. I agree with you. There, now, someone is fiddling with a drawer. He's opening it. But can you tell which drawer it is? It's not possible. Right. That settles one point. From his old apartment, Don de Horn could hear every word that was spoken on the floor above. He could judge more or less where everyone in Juliet Whitehead's household happened to be at any given time. On the other hand, the precise details of who was doing what. I only hope that idiot Gerhard hasn't from himself into the Zen. But you say he's innocent. I said I believe he was. Unfortunately, I'm not invaluable. I also pointed out that innocent people often behave as if they were guilty. I hope Berta is still with his wife. At any moment, she may give birth to a bouncing boy. About their heads, furniture was being dragged across the floor. If you are a mice, monster Spencer. There are no mices in the states. Miceliness is a characteristic of a mature civilization. We haven't reached that state yet. In that case, let us oppose that you are an old woman, an old French woman. You are in possession of millions, and yet your lifestyle is no more lavish than that of any widow living on a small fixed income. I find that difficult to imagine. Make an effort. Your only pleasure in life is counting the bills that represent your life savings. That is the problem that has haunted me for the past few days, because you see, a man's life depends upon it. Find where the money is hidden and you find a killer. I suppose began the American. You suppose what? Interrupted maybe? Almost aggressive. If I were such a person as you described, I would keep my money where I could readily lay my hands on at all times. That's exactly what I thought. But wait, although considerably handicapped, Juliet Boyne was never less able to get around in the apartment. She would stay in bed in the mornings until about ten, when her knees would bring in her breakfast and the morning paper. Maybe she hit the money in her bed. I seem to have heard somewhere that it's common practice in front to sow one's savings into one's mattress. The only thing is that, for the rest of the day, until she returned to bed at night, Juliet spent her time in the city room. Just before she died, she had 800,000 francs in the house, and 1,000 franc bills. That many bills would be quite bulky. Now, listen carefully. There are only two people who could have known where that money was hidden. The old woman's needs to see him, who lived with her. She was not in her arms of confidence, but she might accidentally have. Most her daughter, on the other hand, was in the old lady's confidence, wasn't it? Only to some extent. You can take it from me. He didn't know where she kept the money. Women like Juliet Boyman don't trust anybody, not even their guardian angels. Still, as you yourself have noticed, you can't make a sound up there that isn't heard in this room. Let's go up, shall we? If the telephone rings, we shall hear it. It was such a humid day that the banister rail was sticky to the touch. In a piano teacher's apartment, a pupil was playing scales. The Hungarians were quarrelling, and Nushi's shill voice was clearly to be heard. Well, boys, it's amazing, Chief. What is? Are you sure the feather wasn't wearing rubber gloves? I know for certain he wasn't. He walked on the carpet, but up to now we haven't found any sign that he touched anything, apart from the door knob. In fact, the only prints we've found are yours. A powerful spotlight had been plucked into the outlet. The presence of cameras gave a different feel to the room which Juliet Boyman had occupied for so many years. She used a cane, didn't she? The American are suddenly. May Gray whipped around as if he had been stuck. Wait, the thing that... What was the one thing that the old woman could take with her everywhere? From her bedroom into the sitting room, and from there into the dining room at meal times. Her cane, of course, but it would not be possible to hide 800,000 frames in thousand frame bills in a cane, even if it were hollow. The Chief Superintendent took another searching look at the contents of the room. What about this? ER suddenly, pointing to a small, low, box-like object, covered in worn tapestry, which Juliet Boyman had probably used as a footstool. And he prints. Not a thing, Chief. May Gray picked it up and put it on the bed. He felt along the row of brass studs securing the tapestry and was able to raise the top, which formed a kind of lid. The interior was lined with a copper receptacle and had obviously been intended originally as a foot warmer to be filled with charcoal. There was a silence. Everyone was staring at a parcel, wrapped in an old newspaper, which was wedged into the copper liner. "The 800 bills must be in here," said May Gray at last, relighting his pipe. "Look, more suspense, and please don't mention this to your colleagues at the Institute of Criminology. It would be too embarrassing. I had the mattress ripped open and the box spring taken apart. I had the walls tapped and the floorboards and the fireplace, and it never occurred to me that an old woman with swollen legs, having to hobble about on a cane, might have this foot-linked little bit of furniture taken from room to room to rest her feet on. Careful with that newspaper, you fellows had better give it a thorough going over." May Gray, wrapped in his own thoughts, spent the next ten minutes setting all the clocks right as a result of which they all chimed one after another. "Wardan chief, eyes prince on it. They are, as for the bills, there are 810 of them. I shall need envelopes and ceiling wax. When the whole of the little fortune was safely under seal, he telephoned the public prosecutor's office in a range for a senior official to come and collect it. Will you come with me, Moshe Spencer?" Outside in the street, he turned up the call-up of his overcoat. It's a pity we didn't keep the taxi, but believe it or not, if I'm terrifying of anyone. It's those fellows in our council department. I don't know if they're as ferocious over expenses in the United States. How about dropping into that bistro over there for a glass of something while we're waiting for our streetcar? It's where all the local government eats, but you've left your hat behind. I never wear a hat. The chief superintendent stared hard at the shock of red hair spattered with glistening beads of rain. There were no two ways about it. Some things May Gray would never understand. I'll have a Cavados. What about you? Would they have such a thing as a glass of milk, I wonder? Maybe they'd explain how a man of 35 had managed to retain a complexion as rosy as the muscle of a young calf. A large glass, Barnum. Of milk? No. Of Cavados. Painstick, May Gray pushed fresh tobacco into the bulbous pipe. Had that cold blooded scoundrel, Don De Horn returned 800,000 friends to their hiding place in the old woman's footstool, and thereby put his life in jeopardy? May Gray and the Spinster, by George Simmonet. Part 3, Chapter 2 The two men had just left the office of the register. At first, May Gray's inquiries had been met with a curd refusal to divulge information from a clerk with bat teeth. When a chief superintendent had produced his match, however, the man had responded with such feverish seal that it had taken him twice as long as necessary to search through the bulky volumes of the register. The town hall was neither old nor new. It was ugly, ugly as a whole, ugly in every part, ugly in his proportions and in the materials used in his construction. The clock was just striking twelve when May Gray and his American friend, along with most of the town hall staff, emerged from the building. The gentleman with the bulging stomach, three chins and slovenly appearance, whom everyone treated with deference, was presumably none other than the mayor of Berglahine. The chief superintendent and his companion stood for a moment at the top of the four or five steps leading up to the portable, waiting for a lull in the heavy downpour of rain. In the little square, sheltered by skeleton trees, the market was packing up. The stalls were being dismantled. The slimy ground was littered with rubbish. Opposite was a butcher's shop, staying with blood from the carcasses. A fat, rosy, cheeked woman could be seen behind a cash counter. Children from a nearby school were being let out for their midday break. They scampered about shrieking. Many of them were wearing shoes with wooden soles. A green and white bus went by. The atmosphere was needed that of the metropolis, nor that of a small, provincial town or village. May Gray stole the glans at the American and their eyes met. Spencer Oates seemed to read his thoughts, because his mouth twitched in a faint smile. In the rain, his face appeared a little failed, like the scene before them. "We have three replaces like this at home as well," he murdered. The inquiries they had just completed at the town hall could have been entrusted to the most lowly inspector, or indeed to a policeman of the lowest rank. First of all, May Gray had wanted to find out how long Charles Donterholm had lived in his present apartment as a tenant of Juliet Boyden. He had been there just 14 years. Before that, he had occupied a furnished apartment on Houd de Lombre, near Bulvatmore Partners. And the contractor Boyden, Juliet's late husband, had died six months before Donterholm moved in. The two men, sheltering in the porch of the building, were waiting for the rain to subside. Tell me, Master Spencer, do you know why criminals prefer to have dealings with one of us rather than an examining magistrate? I think I'm beginning to get an inkling. I don't deny that we play it rougher times, less so than is generally supposed, but much more so than any examining magistrate or public prosecutor's deputy. On the other hand, it is impossible to conduct a police inquiry without, to some extent, entering into the life of the accused. We visit him in his home. We become familiar with his house, his habits, his family, and his friends. This morning I drew a distinction between the murderer before and after. Well then, you could say that all our efforts are directed toward getting to know the murderer as he was before. Once we hand him over to the examining magistrate, our work is done. All connection with his former life as an ordinary man is severed, usually forever. He is a criminal and nothing but a criminal, and is treated as such by the judiciary. And without the force, Mayberry went on with his side. I'd give a lot to know what Charles Donterholm was doing in Julia's bedroom. Was he putting the bills back in the footstool, or, it seems to be clearing up a little? They emerged from the shelter of the porch. The chief superintendent with his shoulders hunched and his hands in his pockets. The American, as unconcerned as if the sun was shining. Would you mind having lunch at a bistro? On a contrary, I should be delighted. So far, I have been shepherded about by the officials of my embassy and have eaten only in a smartest restaurant. They took a street car to depart the Donterholm, going past the wet-shaped house. It's brick darkened by the rain. The problem is to be able to put oneself into place, to think and feel as they do. This is even harder for a judge, whose life is of necessity remote. The apartment house, where I live, isn't so very different from this one. Here we are. The restaurant chosen by May Gray was in a little side street. It had no frills, just a sink counter, a few marble top tables, and saw dust on the floor. The proprietor, a pleasant man with a florid, somewhat blotchy complexion, wearing a blue denim apron, came and shook hands with the chief superintendent. It's ages since you last came to see us. Wait till my old woman hears about this. Milini, have you got that special for monster May Gray? Milini, Port Bellet, wiping her hands on the apron, emerged from the kitchen. If only you'd call to say you were coming. Oh well, never mind. Here's Koko Van and some quite good cepes, fresh from the country this morning. I hope your friend likes cepes. The place was empty, except for a few regulars. The windows were so steamed up that it was impossible to see out of them. Your usual bougie lei, monster May Gray? May Gray went to bake a telephone call. The American watched him through the glass panes of the cramped little booth as he dialed the number, looking grave and preoccupied. "That idiot your heart hasn't been found yet," he said when he returned to their table, "a look in on his wife tonight. I think you mentioned that they are hard up. That has been attended to, of course. I wonder if that child will ever learn of the circumstances surrounding its birth, but what I should dearly like to know is why the hell child's don't harm. Whatever else he might talk about, it was plain that he was obsessed with this one question. Why did it don't harm? "If he killed the old lady," Fensherd Spencer wrote, "if he killed the old lady, then I'm a bigger fool than you take me for, monster Spencer, and I'll have to start the whole inquiry again from scratch." To begin with, why should he have killed her? She was worth more to him alive than dead. He knew he could expect nothing from her ass. As for stealing the 800,000 friends from her apartment, you saw for yourself that he did it. And besides, how could he have done it? She indicated that their interview was at an end. She saw him to the door, and I'm quite sure she locked it carefully behind him. He says she bolted it, and I believe him. She returned to her bedroom. She undressed. She was sitting on her bed and had already taken off one of her stockings when, no, monster Spencer. It wasn't down the hall. He didn't go back upstairs or open the front door, and yet, four days later, he didn't hesitate, almost in my presence, to bring suspicion on himself by going back into that room. What for? Remember that the old woman's papers, receipts, property deeds, all the documents she kept in the desk in her sitting room. In fact, none of any value to her murderer, since he couldn't make use of them without giving himself away, have vanished. The bills, on the other hand, which, in theory at least, are untraceable, were left in their hiding place. Even if they were removed for a short while, that they were subsequently put back. How do you like these separates, Ella Baudelaz? Your mind must be on other things. If I may say so to you, Superintendent, all you would have noticed that I have already had three helpings. And if I hadn't been promised Koko Ma to follow, as for the Bojolei, all I can say is that if you find me rather a dull companion this afternoon, you'll know why. Wait till you've tasted the Koko Ma. The proprietress worked twenty years as cook for a cabinet minister. He came to Dubious End, but he did appreciate good cooking. Would you believe that Juliet was quite a beauty in her day? There's a photograph of her in the apartment. I wonder if, by any chance, her husband was a jealous man. Having said this, he became once again lost in thought. From which he did not emerge until the proprietress came to the table to inquire whether the Koko Va had been to his liking. Every now and then, Magrae would glance toward the door. Are you expecting someone? I'm expecting a visit from a gentleman who is not one of my favourite characters. Apparently he's done nothing but hang around the Casa Dovair for the past two days. I've arranged for him to meet me here. A few minutes later, a taxi drew up outside, metalaloo, fat and self-important, paid the driver and came into the bistro. I've brought those papers I mentioned, as promised, he announced, putting down his leather briefcase on an unoccupied table. As you will see presently, my valued client, Monsieur Montvie, was not exaggerating when he claimed. The lawyer had probably had no lunch, but the chief superintendent did not invite him to share the meal, nor did he suggest that he should take off his coat. I'll look into all that later. How is the case progressing? Slowly, metalaloo, slowly. May I venture to draw your attention to one point, which may have escaped your notice? Please don't imagine for one moment that I'm criticising the methods for which you are justly famous, but I, for my part, have not been idle. I made it my business to send someone to Fontaine, a thoroughly reliable man, to interview various elderly persons who had known Madam Boynett as a girl, when she was still juliet and cast an offer. May Gray, unimpressed, went on eating. He seemed to take no interest in what was being said. The American watching could not make him out. I learned one or two things which I think would surprise you. At this point, almost under his breath, the chief superintendent married. I very much doubt it. Juliet Casinoff had the reputation of being a rather flighty girl, at least in her contact with men. And she's reputed to have been the mistress of Charles Donte Hall, is that it? Who told you? Nobody told me, but I thought it properly. The Donte Hall was about ten years older than she was. No doubt, even as long ago as that, he had developed a taste for unripe fruit. He created quite a scandal at the time. Not such a scandal, apparently, as to prevent Juliet from marrying her building contractor and moving with him into Paris. None of this is news to me, met at the loon. What do you make of it? I don't make anything of it. It's too soon to jump. Ah, there's a telephone. I bet you it's for me. Wearing an eager expression, he hurried to the phone. The call must have been for him, because he was away for some minutes. He came back looking relieved. Let's have some more of your coquivant, patron. He realized suddenly that up to now he had barely touched his food. He was feeling quite tatish. He drank a whole glass of water lay and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. His eyes sparkled. "They found their heart," he said at last, with a sigh. Poor kid. Why do you say poor kid? Because he's been behaving like an idiot he is. Another bottle of days away. Would you believe it? He tried to get to the Belgian frontier by train. Just as I said he would. When he got there, he found that the carriages were being searched more thoroughly than usual. He lost his head and jumped out of the train on the wrong side. He started running across the fields, stumbling through puddles and mud, with the police force closed at his heels. He made a dash for the first farm he came to. Can you guess where they found him when they caught up with him at last? After searching for an hour. In the laboratory, he resisted so violently that they practically had to knock him out. They're bringing him back to Paris. His train is due in at 350. As he confessed, as metal alone, this ingenuously may greatly taught it. Confessed to what? Good God. I almost forgot the most important thing. I'd be obliged to you, Metta, if you would send a telegram to your client on my behalf in view of the good relations between him and his aunt Boyne. I've been wondering whether she ever put anything in his safekeeping which she would have found embarrassing to keep in her apartment. Don't ask me what? I have no idea. Maybe she used to send impressions. I simply can't wait to hear. At last, they were rid of the pestilential loin. They could save a millenie's coffee and deserays's old almond yak in peace. deserays had come originally from the jazz region and he had kept in touch with his old friends, many of whom owned vineyards. By now, they had the clean, plainly furnished little restaurant with its steamy windows all to themselves. The table had been wiped and was now covered with the documents furnished by the loin. They were all letters, handwritten on the black-edge paper used by Juliet Boyne after she became a widow. My dear cousins, thank you for your good wishes, which I heartily reciprocate. It is a sad state of affairs when an old woman like me finds herself surrounded by ungrateful people. When I think of all I have done for my sisters' children and how, as Magra finished reading each of the letters, he handed it to his companion who glanced through it in his turn. They were all alike, all dated to 2nd or 3rd of January, since each was in reply to morphine's new-year greetings. They can afford to be patient, believing as they do that they will one day inherit all I have, and elsewhere. The Gerhard is a good for nothing who never comes near me except to ask for money, as if it grew on trees. Berta fared no better. It's a great relief to have her off my hands. There was always the risk that she might be put into a condition, and think of the talk that would have caused among the neighbors. A condition echoed Mr. Ode's, puzzled. An interesting condition. It's a delicate way of saying that she feared that her niece might become pregnant. They felt blissfully warm, with the flavor of the Armaniac on their pallets and its aroma in their nostrils. It's a terrible affliction to be alone and helpless, and to realize that all anyone cares about his one's money. I'm haunted by the dread that sooner or later, some misfortune may befall me. You are fortunate to be living in your quite little town, free from all the anxieties which have ruined us to one's health. Cecile makes a show of being devoted to me, but she's always ready to take her brother's part against me. And there is another person who is deeply indebted to me, but whom I cannot wholly trust. Maegre pointed out this passage to his companion. There was no one whom she wholly trusted, he moment. With good reason, surely? Read the rest of it. Luckily for me, I'm not such a fool as they think, and I have taken certain precautions. If anything happens to me, I can promise you they won't profit by it. They, sighed Maegre. As far as she was concerned, they were all tired with the same brush. Everyone who came near her, all those whom she suspected of envying her for her wealth, including Monsieur Donte Hall, are you beginning to see? To see what, Maegre smiled. I don't blame you. I'm beginning to talk in innuendo, just as she did. To see what, indeed, I should have said feel, rather than see. I'm afraid you must be feeling that down live. As you mentioned this morning, you were hoping to learn something from my method of work. I've taken you sloshing through puddles, looking up old records in a dreary town hall, and I've fed you on coke van. How can I explain myself to you? I feel things. Donte Hall recently released from prison, comes to Paris and goes into the furnished lodgings. He seeks out Juliet, who is not yet a widow. What kind of a man was her husband? We have nothing to go on but old photographs. A man of 45, tall, thick set, nondescript. Juliet and Donte Hall resumed their former relationship. No doubt they meet in Donte Hall's rooms on who the longer. The husband dies, and as soon as he decently can, Donte Hall moves into the same house as his mistress, though their relationship remains a well kept secret. I can't see why they should have wanted to keep it secret, demurred in magic. There was a long silence. Maegre said gazing at his glass, at length he sighed, and drank a mouthful of ammonia. Then he said abruptly, "We shall see. It is okay. The check, if you please. If I get no work done this afternoon, I shall have you and your wife is thankful for it." What was that bastard doing in Juliet's bedroom for God's sake amongst your Spencer? Can't you help me? Just think. If we could find the right answer to that question. Spencer, like a model secretary, began gathering up the blank edge letters, which were spread out on table. "Ticking precautions," he fenched. Precautions? Maegre frowned. Now he came to think of it. Had not the old woman, in one of the letters, mentioned taking certain precautions to save out herself against those who were envious of her wealth. She had been mistrustful of everyone, including her former lover. "How did you like the food, Monzo Maegre?" asked the fourth-right Melanie, who treated all her customers, some of whom were celebrities, with motherly familiarity. You remember that recipe I wrote up for Madam Maegre? Has she tried it yet? The chief superintendent was not listening. After putting his change in his trouser pocket, it did not even take up his hand, but sat staring at the papyrus's apron in a state of suspended animation. "At long last," he said, "what I couldn't make out was why Cecile was killed. Do you see, Monzo Spencer?" Everything else could be explained. It was easy, but Cecile is dead. And sorry, Melanie. Thanks for the lunch. We thoroughly enjoyed it. Even if my friend remembers nothing else, I'm sure it would provide him with the topic of conversation when he goes back to Philadelphia. He was in a highly nervous state, and as they walked along the street, he said not a word, and when at last they reached the corner of Avenue, Dorneo, he waved down a taxi. Kid is a verve and hurry. They were almost halfway there when he changed his mind. Take us to the garden or first, intercity arrivals. It's later than I thought. Was it perhaps due to the coco van de Beaujolais, Melanie's homemade coffee cream cake, and deserheis amignet? At any rate, whatever the reason, Spencer Olds was looking at his preoccupied companion with a good deal of affection. In the past few hours, it seemed to him he had been witnessing a series of metamorphosis. The chief superintendent, huddled in his overcoat, his bowler hand on the back of his head and his pipe clenched between his teeth, had been actually living the lives of older characters, to prefer it to miserly, to pitiful in a drama that it was his responsibility to resolve. It may be that, at this very moment, his wife is in labour. His cheeks were flushed, as if he himself were the anxious husband. Maigle was right there on the train, flanked by two guards in Gerhard's place. He was beside Berta, watching over Gerhard's wife. He was in a house in Bockmerhead, resting his feet on old Julius tapestry stool, or on the floor below, in the apartment from which most of the channels could hear everything that went on overhead. Every now and then, when they were held up at a busy crossroads by the white pattern of a traffic policeman in a cave, Maigle could catch sight of the moonlight. The sight of the moonlight face of an electric clock and, haunted by a sense of time lost, would rise half out of his seat, as if to lighten the driver's load and enable him to cover the ground more quickly. They reached the guard gnaw just in the nick of time. In fact, they very nearly didn't make it. A crowd of spectators, a policeman was shouting. They moved along there, then they caught sight of a thin young man in handcuffs, pushed jerkly forward by two policemen, like a horse between the shouts. His trousers were spattered with mud, his raincoat torn, and his feverish, petulade youth, Gerhard, no doubt seemed to the bystanders the very inherent nation of the thwarted criminal. The lips trembled when he saw the chief superintendent. You think you're very clever, I'm sure. Maigle showed a spatched of two policemen and ushered them into the waiting taxi. They'd gone in with electricity. They were in alarm. They had been on edge throughout the train journey for fear that their charge might take it into his head to jump out onto the mark. They don't suppose anyone has bothered to inquire after my wife. In big tears trickled from between his swollen eyelids, which she was unable to wipe away because of the handcuffs. Sloth and the, sloth and the, additive, especially of a person or their appearance, and tidy and dirty, disingenuously, disingenuously, at the, of a person or their behavior, slightly dishonest or not speaking the complete truth. Latha. Latha. Now, state of agitation or nervous excitement.
