(soft music) - May Gray and the Spinster by George Symonon. Part three, chapter three. - Where have you come from? Fania, Chief Superintendent. You could catch the five seven train back unless you'd prefer to spend a night in Paris. Let's have you expand sheets, boys. - May Gray stopped the taxi on the corner of Hula Vite. It was such a squally day that people were having difficulty in holding the umbrellas upright. At a site for taxi full of police, the passersby stopped instead. The Chief Superintendent spread the expense sheets on his knee and signed them. The two policemen got out and disappeared into a bar. May Gray slid back the glass panel and in an undertone murmured something to the driver. Then as soon as the taxi was in motion again, he took a small key from his pocket and relieved Gerhard Padon of his handcuffs. I expect you to behave yourself if you don't mind. A few dozen blameless citizens like you and we would have to travel the personnel of the police duty CA. Gerhard gave a start. He had been gazing out at the streets of Paris as if he had not set eyes on them for years. Now he turned his permanently mistrustful gaze upon the Chief Superintendent. What makes you say blameless? May Gray had difficulty in suppressing a smile. You're surely not telling me that you are guilty. If you believed I was innocent, why did you have me arrested? If you really are innocent, why did you run away? Why did you bolt like a frightened horse at the site of a couple of policemen? And why did you go to Brown in a little cubby hole which could hardly have been conducive to comfort? Spencer Olds, leaning back in his seat, was blissfully digesting his lunch. He was smiling faintly as people do when, after a good dinner, they are sitting in a theater, indulgently watching the twists and turns of an exciting play. The light inside the taxi was greenish as though filtered through the frosted glass panes of a lantern. Through the cab windows, everything looked distorted. The people, the buildings, and umbrellas colliding at strange angles. Sometimes, when the traffic was held up, they could see a bus with all its passengers in frozen attitudes like waxworks. Look, my boy, I know who killed your aunt. Not really, I know who killed your aunt, and I will prove it to you shortly. It's impossible. Protested Gerhard stubbornly. Shaking his head, no one could possibly know. Except you, do you mean? And yet, I am as sure as I am of anything that you slept through at all. This really did shake Cecile's brother. He looked at Megrae in horrified amazement, as if he could not believe his ears. There you see. But where he going? Everything was shrouded in his squash mist. And Padon had only just realized that they were near Plast de la Bastille. The driver was approaching Plasti Vorsh by way of who's on top one. Now, just you listen to me. There is a reward of 20,000 friends for information leading to the apprehension of the killer. For reasons which don't concern you, the police duty CA won't know part of their money. But you must know that I just you keep your mouth shut. To the best of my knowledge, your wife is still at home, and your sister Berta is with her. As you appear to have some objection to the maternity ward, here is something on account, which you can set against the 20,000 friends you will be receiving shortly. Go on up, be as quick as you can. We'll wait for you in the can. What clinic did you have in mind when you asked Cecile for the money? St. Joseph's. Very well, Berta can take your wife there now, and you can join them later on. The American looked from one to the other and some bewildered. Don't do anything foolish now. The taxi had stopped, but Gerhard dazed in perhaps still a little mistrustful, hesitated. Be up with you, you silly fool. For the next 10 minutes, May Grace smoked his pipe in silence, and when presently, Berta on reappeared, wiping his eyes, immediately exchanged glances with Spencer Rhodes. Kittens of air of driver, by the way Gerhard, when did you last have anything to eat? There you gave me a sandwich on a train, but really, I'm not hungry. I am thirsty though. The, I, he was so overcome that he could hardly speak. They stopped once again outside a bar. May Grace was thankful for the chance to order a glass of beer to help him digest the coco van, not to mention the coffee cream cake. 10 minutes later, he was stuffing his stove with all the view it could take. After he had lit it and switched on the green shaded table line on his desk, he said to Gerhard, "Sit down, take off your raincoat, it's soaking. Come near the fire. Your trousers will soon be dry. You must have been out of your mind to get yourself into such a state." It was not yet quite dark. Through the window could be seen strings of faintly glimmering lights all along the banks of the set. It was the busiest time of the day at police headquarters. Doors could be heard opening and shutting. Footsteps hurried to and fro in the corridor, telephone's rain, typewriters chatted. Torrance, "That list you made out for me of officers to this building on the morning of the 7th of October. Bring it here, will you?" At long last, May Grace sat down, picked up the biggest of the many pipes arranged on his desk and began. What did you have to drink that night at your own apartment? Wait, let me help you. You were at the end of your tether. Weren't you? You knew that your child was due any moment and you hadn't so much as a stitch of clothing for it. You were in the habit of going to your sister's seat for money. Come now. You needn't look so sheepish. Unfortunately, Cecile hadn't much to give. Only what she could save out of the housekeeping and her allowance was far from generous. As a rule, you waited for your sister outside in the street. But that night you went upstairs and let yourself into the apartment. You hid in Cecile's bedroom while she was elsewhere attending to Madam Boyant. Am I right so far? Quite right. When your aunt was settled at a dining room table and ready for her dinner, Cecile went into the kitchen. You opened the bedroom door and told her that you had to have some money at all costs. I told her I was at the end of my tether and rather than see my wife. Right. Not only did you play on Cecile's sympathy, you went further. You frightened her. It was this sort of emotional black man. I had made up my mind to kill myself. After having killed your wife, idiot, I swear to you, Chief Superintendent, I would have done it for three whole days before that. I shut up. Your sister couldn't discuss the matter with you then in case the old woman should overhand. She served a meal as usual. She ate with her aunt. No doubt she asked the old woman for the money and was refused. But a time Madam Boinett was safely in bed. I presume she did go to bed. It was too late for you to leave the house. As by that time, the street door was locked. You would have had to ask the consequence to let you out. And she might have reported it to her employee. Presumably Cecile brought food to you in the bedroom. What did you have to eat? Bread and cheese. Did you have anything to drink? A glass of wine to start with? Anything else? Cecile always had a cup of herb tea at night because she had a delicate stomach. There was a full cup there ready for her. She suggested that I should drink it. I had been crying. I was feeling very low and I thought I was going to be sick. And Cecile gave up her bed to you. Yes, we top a little while longer about failure. Then I can't think why I fell asleep. Made great look at the American asset to say, I told you so. You fell asleep because you drank the herb tea intended for your sister, to which your aunt, as always when she was expecting a visit from most her child, had added a massive dose of bromide. Everything that followed occurred as a result of this seemingly trivial discharge. If Cecile had drunk the herb tea as intended, your aunt would almost certainly still be alive, in which case, your sister. Made great got up and went to the window. He stood there with his back to the room and murmured, as if to himself. Cecile, having given up her bed to you, sits in an armchair. She can't sleep and for a very good reason, old, mad and pointed. As the appointed time approaches, gets up, puts on her dressing gown and stockings and confident that there is no one to hear her, goes to the door to wait for most her child's. It was all because you were feeling sick and therefore drank the herb tea intended for Cecile. Isn't that the two schemas? What do you mean by that? Explain the young man, turning pain. Isn't that what they were? Come now, let me finish. It's getting very hot in here. You went across and opened the door leading to another office. As I was saying, the two schemas are in a sitting room, which is lit only by a single table lamp. Cecile, hearing noises creeps into the passage or the dining room and listens unseen. They talk in low voices of their unsavory business of ass, about the house in Basien and the one on Houdon town. I can just imagine poor Cecile's face when at long last it dawned on her what sort of places they were. Most her child's hands over the 50,000 frames to his former mistress. She relocks the bureau but retains the money in her hand. She sees the former lawyer to the door and bolts it behind it. Breathing a sigh of satisfaction, she returns to her bedroom, a good night's work, a substantial addition to her savings. She raises the lid of the tapestry stool, which she uses as a strong box. And Cecile, her eye glued to the keyhole, sees the thick bundles of thousand frank builds. As for you, you are still sound asleep. Will you awaken by any and towards sounds? Then carefully now. No, it was my sister who, hold on, your aunt is undressing. She has already taken off one stocking when Cecile, driven frantic by your threats of suicide. I couldn't have foreseen wailed Gerhard. That's what they always say afterward. But be that as it may. Your sister bursts into the room, much to the alarm of the old woman. The sight of all that money, a fortune no less, gives Cecile courage. She repeats her request for money. She's not pleading now. She's almost threatening. What neither of the two women suspects is that in the apartment below, Monceau's is listening in astonishment and alarm to every word they say. I can guess your aunt's reaction. No doubt her tongue lashed her knees, whom she considered to be so much in her debt and reminded her yet again of all she had done for her and her family. Possibly she may even have threatened to call for help. It wasn't quite like that, said the young man slowly. In that case, you tell me. I don't know exactly what time it was. I heard someone calling my name over and over again, waking up was a struggle, and I couldn't make out what was going on. I fell dazed as if I'd had too much to drink, Cecile was sitting on the edge of the bed. Gerhard, she shouted, Gerhard, what's wrong with you? You've got to listen to me. She was very composed, more so than usual. I thought she must be ill. She was so pale and she had such dark rings under her eyes. She spoke softly, but distinctly. Gerhard, unjuliet is dead, I've just killed her. And then she said, quite still for ages, just staring at the floor. I got out of bed, intending to go and see for myself. Don't move, you mustn't on any account. She didn't warn your fingerprints to be found there, mermaid Megre. He was thinking of Cecile, impassive, waiting for him for hours on end in the aquarium. That's what she told me. She described it all to me. Unjuliet was sitting on the edge of the bed. She must have heard something, because she felt under her pillow for the revolver she always kept there at night. She was scared stiff of burgers. "Oh, is you?" she said, unseen Cecile. "Why aren't you asleep? I suppose you've been spying on me." Listen ons, earlier tonight, I asked you for a little money for Gerhard, or rather for his wife, who is expecting a baby. Go back to bed, you're a rich woman. I know that now you've got to listen to me. Gerhard will kill himself if, is that good for nothing brother of yours here? My aunt, still holding revolver, trying to stand up. Cecile was so scared she went up to her and seized her by the arm. You've got to give me some money. Unjuliet fell back on the bed. She struggled to reach the revolver, which has slipped out of her hand. And it was then that my sister seized her by the throat. In cold blood, Mayberry's voice ran out with unwanted resonance. Yes, he had been wrong. There had been no promotion. Cecile had not lost her head. If ever there was a sheep in human form, it had been Cecile. For years and years, she had been submissive without even realizing it. Meekness came to her so naturally. It had not taken much, just a sight of that pile of bills to make her realize the extent to which her aunt had duped and exploited her. Go on, my boy. For a long time, we sat in silence. At one point Cecile left me to make sure that Unjuliet was really dead. When at last she did speak, it was to say, the police were have to be told. In Mayberry's office too, there was a long silence. The gray dust was pierced only by the green shaded desolate, which revealed the features of the two men in sharp relief. The only sound was the sputter of a pipe. Mayberry could picture the brother and sister together in the apartment. In that great house, a butting on the Rue National, overwhelmed and utterly stunned by what had happened. And in the apartment below, most of her child's, panic-stricken, able to hear everything, even to faintest whisper. If I were to go up now, as a CEO, looking thoughtfully at her brother, the police were never going to believe that he had taken no part in the murder. Bo was sick at heart and as exhausted as if they had been running for hours. Should she try and get him out of the house? But that would mean asking the concierge to release the catch. And she would be bound to look up through the spy hole to see who it was leaving the house at this late hour. The brother and sister started as all the clocks in the apartment chimed the hour. Listen, get out. I'll go and see Chief Superintendent Mayberry first thing in the morning. I'll tell him everything. And while the concierge is out in the yard collecting the garbage cans, you can safely step out of here and go home. A strange vigil, indeed. They were utterly cut off from the rest of the world. They applied to conjured up a picture of refugees squatting on the ground, surrounded by bundles in station waiting rooms or on board ship. Which one of you inquired Mayberry, relating his pipe, thought of the idea of opening the desk and examining the papers? It was a seal, but that was much later. She had just made coffee for the two of us. I was still pretty dazed. We were sitting in the kitchen and she suddenly whispered. Supposing that man should come back and she went on. Well, I did tell the Chief Superintendent that someone had been coming up to the apartment at night, but he wouldn't believe me. And now Mayberry stared at the end of the dawned rectangle of the window and bit on the stem of his pipe. Heaven knows what he may do while we were out. Whereupon's a seal had calmly suggested removing the papers from the desk. It had never crossed her mind to take the money in run or even to give some of it to her brother in his dire need. Did you look through the papers yourself as the Chief Superintendent? Yes. At this point, Mayberry got up and went across to the door of the Little Side Office, which he had already pushed open a few minutes before. I think you had better join us in here, Montserve Doctor Hong. What we are about to discuss, Chief, he concerns you. There was none other than Montserve Charles installed in the adjoining office under the watchful eye of an inspector. He cut rather a sorry figure, stripped of his collar and tie and even his shoelaces. He had not shaved for two days. His hands hung down in front of him, joined at the wrists by handcuffs. I'm afraid I can't offer you a chair. I'm sorry. You must be very tired. Gerhard sprang to his feet, suspecting a trap. What on earth? Calm down, pardon. Carry on with what you were saying. I want Montserve Doctor Hong to hear your story. You had reached a point where you and your sister were together in the sitting, looking through the papers in your hands desk. Mostly, I imagine, they're related to money matters. Bills, receipts, counts, and that sort of thing. There were some letters as well. As he said this, Gerhard stole a glance at the former lawyer as a fearful, in spite of the handcuffs that he might have sucked him. Love letters, were they not? At this, the former lawyer intervened. One moment may have asked if this is by way of being a confrontation. You might call it that, Montserve Doctor Hong. In that case, I should be obliged if you would commit me to call my lawyer. Indeed, I insist. It is my right under the law. What is your lawyer's name? Metropolitan Shah. Torens, Torens, shouted me. Call Metropolitan Shah, who you, one moment though, at this hour, I should think he must be caught. He's in court 11 into post Montserve House. Go across to court 11 and bring him here. If his case is still in progress, tell him to ask for an adjournment. At my request. For the next half hour or so, complete silence reigned in May Grey's office, during which time the slightest movement was as audible as the plop of a pebble in the pond. Take a seat, Metropolitan Shah. I had better tell you frankly at the outset that it is my present intention to apply to the examining magistrate for a warrant for the rest of your client on the charge of premeditated murder. Pay attention, pardon. Just now you referred a certain love letters. If I am not mistaken, these letters date back some 15 years. I don't know. None of them was dated. The lawyer smiled triumphantly and seemed on the point of adopting a tone of forensic illiteracy. But May Grey forestored him by addressing himself to Spencer Owens. You recall our visit to the ugly little town hall in Berglahan, then turning to Gerhard. What was in those letters? No, wait. We'd better get one important point clear first. Am I right in thinking that your sister took the letters so seriously that she made up her mind to hand them over to me when she came here to police headquarters to give herself up? She put them in her bag. Did she not, along with all the other papers from the desk? Yes. In that case, interpose the lawyer, turning to May Grey. I'd be obliged if you would produce these documents. Let us take our time, madam. And this, May Grey noted, an ambiguous smile played about monster child's lips. You're not out of the wood yet, Donne de Horn. Oh, I'm well aware that those all too compromising letters fell into your hands and that you destroyed them. But don't forget that. While I was engaged on the telephone in your apartment, you seized the opportunity to go upstairs and into Madam Boynett's bedroom. Now then, Gerhard, let's have the rest of your story. First of all, tell us how the writer of the letters addressed the recipient. They all began my darling. It seemed all of a sudden as if May Grey was enjoying himself. Sorry to interrupt you again, but I feel I owe an explanation to my American colleague. I shouldn't like him to get any wrong ideas about how love affairs are conducted in France. And I would therefore wish to point out that when those letters were written, Madam Boynett was 15 years younger, even though she was no longer in the first flush of youth. She was, nevertheless, a very different person from the dreadful old fright, hobbling on a cane that she was to become in the later years. How many letters were there, Gerhard? About 30. Most of them were just notes. Tomorrow at three usual planes, laughing kisses, yours. Any signature, they were all assigned C. Most of the champs, who had not been invited to sit down, never took his eyes off the young men. His face was ashen, but he was still very much in command of himself. A mere initial doesn't prove anything, objected mecha poncha. If these letters are produced in evidence, I shall enlist the services of a handwriting expert. They will not be produced in evidence, at least not those letters. Go on, Gerhard. Some of the letters were longer, were they not? There were four or five there were. Tell us about them. In one of them, I remember he wrote, be brave. Remember, your deliverance is at hand, and in a few weeks time, we shall have peace at last. Matter ponchard sniggered. Are you suggesting that she was pregnant? No, sir. I'm suggesting that here was a woman with two men in her power, her husband and her lover. This letter was written by her lover. Was her husband ill? Is that what you're saying? That's what we shall have to find out. Go on, my boy, and Gerhard, uncomfortably aware that he was the focus of all eyes, stand. In another letter he wrote, you see, he doesn't suspect a thing, be patient. I think it would be wiser for us not to meet for a time being. On the present dose, there will be a delay of at least a fortnight. It would be too risky to attempt to hasten the outcome. I don't understand, explain the lawyer with a little cough. That's just too bad, matter. And besides, I'm still waiting for you to produce the documents and the discussion. Commit me to say that I consider it most unwise of you to proceed on a basis. Merpon Magre, very bland and suave, broken. If you insist, unprepared to order the exhumination of the late Joseph Boyner, an institute test on what remained of him after 15 years, you are no doubt aware, matter, that most poisons, especially poison, such as arsenic, which can be administered in very small quantities, leave traces which remain the body for a very long time after. He was interrupted by Torrance, with the list he had asked for, of everyone who had visited police headquarters on the morning of the seal's mess. (upbeat music) - Squatty, squatty, additive of weather, characterized by squalls, conducive, conducive, additive, making a certain situation of outcome likely or possible, untoward, untoward, additive, unexpected, and inappropriate, or inconvenient. (upbeat music) - Magre and a spinster, by George Symadin, part three, chapter four. - You must be tired of standing, don't you, hold? Torrance, bring in another chair. Most of her child's is looking a bit shaky. You are mistaken, Chief Superintendent. I'm still waiting for you to produce so much as a shred of evidence. Give me a chance. In view of the fact that your legal advisor, Mater Ponscha, never met old Juliet, I feel it only right that I should give him a brief description of the lady. Don't you agree, Mater Ponscha? The lawyer assented with a slight note and lit a cigarette. Juliet Kasanov, as she then was, growing up in the township of Fortnay Lacomte, became Donte Horn's mistress at a very early age. It created quite a scandal, locally. Monsieur Donte Horn, at that time, did not yet have many convictions for the corruption of minus. He was very much younger in those days, and not unattractive, I assume. All the same, when the opportunity of making a good match presented itself in the person of Joseph Boyne, Juliet, the child of impoverished parents, didn't hesitate. She even went so far as to sacrifice her sister by appropriating her dowry to add to her own. What sort of life did she envisage for herself in Paris as the wife of a prosperous building contracted? Who can tell? She went to live in Baudlerham, a jealous husband, a dull existence, certainly not luxurious. Years passed, back in Fortnay, her former lover, Monsieur Donte Horn, grew older, but did not outgrow his taste for young girls, which later developed into a passion for very young girls. But we don't go into that, if you don't mind. A two-year prison sentence, nothing much, really. And then, one fine day, he turns up in Paris, in furnished rooms on who, the longer. The Baud forever, not only from his own profession, but from respectable society as a whole. Where did they meet again? It doesn't matter. Suffice it to say that they became lovers once more. And before long, the husband was getting in their way. In Juliet's way, especially, I'm quite sure of that. It may even have been her idea to get rid of the husband who stood in the way of her freedom. That she sought and obtained the advice of her lover we know from his letters. Letters which I challenge you to produce, interrupted the law, making a show of reverting to his papers. Letters which I shall not produce, because on their account, your client was driven to commit a second murder, and that's a fact. In that case, a broad scheme of the art. The lawyer had perhaps forgotten that he was not in a courtroom, wearing his black gown with his billow and sleeves. Patient, smartie and matter. The husband dies at last. The husband is dead. He was given to overeating, heavy drinking, and overweight. His doctor is easily persuaded that the cause of death is a heart attack. It was at this point he paused, turning first to monster charms, then to Spencer Owens. His eyes are light with mischief. And it was at this point that our friend Juliet turned overnight into the crazy old woman of her later years. Possibly, she was still attracted to the man who had been her accomplice, but she was so afraid of him. She became deeply suspicious of everything, because she now knew how easy it was to take a life. She became my son. Monster Charles went to live in her house, occupying the apartment just below hers, but she had become jealous of her reputation and would only meet him outside. Then, out of the blue, two nieces in the nephew fell into her lap. Later, on account on her infirmities, she ceased to be able to go out. And in order to confer and save thee with her accomplice at night, she took the precaution of dragging the seal with bromide, if the seal had not had a weak stomach, if she had not been in the habit of drinking her tea every night, gods. Metaboyne had kept those old letters safely locked up in her desk in the sitting room. Don de Horn had put her in the way of a number of highly profitable, even though unsavory, infestments. She, who had once been a passionate lover, was now old, miserly, and helpless. As illicit relationships go, this was a particularly odious one. The nephew and one of the nieces had escaped, and good riddance to them. Only porcesy endowed with the temperament of a slave or a saint, stuck it out. Permit me to ask you a question, chief superintendent, put in the loin. What are your grounds for? I'll tell you later, Metaboyne. In the meantime, I would appreciate your attention for a little while longer. Love had turned to Everest. One passion had been superseded by another, because, as every blacksmith knows, it takes a nail to knock out the nail. It took only the mere smish chance to trivial extent whereby Gerhard drank the herb tea intended for Cecile for the situation to explode into tragedy. Don de Horn, downstairs in his apartment, hears every word. He knows that up there now, there are two people who have just learned the whole truth. He knows that Cecile has made up her mind to tell me everything, to hand over the letters to me. There he take the risk of going up to the fifth floor, right then, in the middle of the night, to forestore. You must have had a rough night of it, Don de Horn. Don de Horn did not flinch. On a contrary, he responded with his usual bleak, fleeting smile. Early next morning, while the concierge was out in the yard with her garbage cans, the brother and sister creeped downstairs. Don de Horn, his door opened a crank, seized them go by. If only Cecile were by herself, but he couldn't tackle two people at once, out in the street, the brother and sister go their separate ways. Don de Horn follows Cecile in the fork, hoping for a chance at least to snatch her bag and its incriminating contents. The street car is not the right place. Between Pong Song Michel and police headquarters, no opportunity arises. She is inside the building. She is going up the stairs. Can anything save most of her childs now? But there is one thing on her side, Ty. It is not yet eight o'clock. I'm still at home, and that morning, as it so happens, I decide for no particular reason, except perhaps to save Paris in the fork, to walk to work. Meanwhile, Cecile is waiting for me in the room we call the Aquarium. Don de Horn, meanwhile, is lurking nearby. Forgive me, Chief Superintendent, but I feel obliged to repeat my question. Have you any proof? Have you any witnesses? I have here in front of me, Metapong Shah, a list of everyone who entered this building in the morning in question. And I see that there are at least three names. You, who are, in a sense, one of us, must surely understand it would have been much too risky for Don de Horn to go up and speak to Cecile himself. Knowing all there was to know, nothing on earth would have persuaded her to go anywhere with him. But as luck will have it, who should turn up just then at police headquarters but a shady youth, a member of that very fraternity of which monster childs have established himself as a leading light. Don de Horn accosting eagerly. Hi there, there's a wench up there waiting to see the Chief Superintendent. And she's got to be stopped. It's absolutely essential that I should have aware of her. She doesn't know. Bear in mind that Don de Horn knows his way about the corridors of this building and those of the palliative justice as well as we do. Think of some excuse to bring her to me. I'll be waiting beyond the glass door, Met. And that, gentlemen, is the only way it could have been managed. Needless to say, the accomplice had no notion that a murder was about to be committed or he would have been reluctant. I assumed to do as he was asked and I'm quite sure he's regretted it since and so the drama unfolds. Do you wish to see Chief Superintendent Mayberry? Cecile has just seen me go past. She's waiting and suspecting me. She follows the spurious messenger. He leads her through the glass door. You'd be wise to admit that that's how it happened. Don de Horn, because it is the only way it could have happened. At the sight of you, she is terrified. The broom closet is closed at hand. You push her, she struggles. You try to grab her bag, but she claims to it. You strike her and then... All this is pure conjecture, Chief Superintendent. The lawyer who had been making copious notes had lost none of his composure. After all, in such cases, it is not the lawyer's neck that is in jeopardy. In then, directing an almost imperceptible wink at his transatlantic leak, Mayberry murmured. Would the letter meet the case? The letter from the man who took Cecile to my client. The letter from the client himself, my dear matter. Don de Horn's expression was D. Show it to me then, I'm waiting. And I, side Mayberry, am waiting for it to be found. In other words, all this is pure conjecture. Yes, I'm afraid so. All the same, Pons de Charles, did slip away from me and go into Julia's bathroom. And he must have had a reason for doing so. I have instituted a thorough search of the room. I don't know if you're familiar with the workings of a noble woman's mind. Old women as a class tend to be deeply suspicious. Even though she did keep most of the letters in her desk, you can take it from me in that. Most of her don't de Horn's sneaked. They all stare at him. At this point, if the truth were told, Mayberry was very close to admitting defeat. He had only one shred of hope to cling to, had not usually had whiners said in one of her letters to morphine, that if any mishap should befall her, the chief superintendent had staked his all on this. He still refused to believe that during those few minutes alone in the bedroom, Don de Horn had. The very fact that he had gone into that room lifted the lid of the tapestry stool and touched the bundles of bills, even at the risk of leaving fingerprints, and yet had not taken them, must surely mean that he had been looking for something else, which was even more important to him. Was it conceivable that the old woman had been so foolish as to keep so crucial a document in the apartment where he could find it? And what if Mater Le Lu had failed to telegraph to morphine? What if Murphy had gone off fishing or shooting or whatever? What if he were anywhere but at home? If? The telephone rang. Mayberry quite literally leaped upon the instrument. Hello, yes, very well. Keep trying. As he replaced the receiver, try as he might to conceal the fact his face told Spencer Olds more plainly than words that the search in the apartment at Bob Le Hen had yielded nothing. Permit me to point out, Chief Superintendent, you can point out anything you wish. As things are, your entire case rests upon a non-existent letter. And in these circumstances, as you know, my client has to write to you. The telephone rang again. Hello, very well. Three or four hours? Yes, he's here. I'll tell him. In turning the guitar, you'd better go to your wife. I don't think it will be long now before you're a father. I repeat, Chief Superintendent, that Mayberry gave the lawyer a look but said nothing. Then he turned to the American winged and went up with him into the court. "It's beginning to look," he said, "as of this case in which you have been so good as to take an interest will end by making me look an awful fool. And you will go back to the United States with a very poor impression of my balance. All the same, I'm certain. Absolutely certain you see that." And then abruptly and without preamble, Mayberry interrupted himself. "What do you say to a being?" He hustled his companion out, in passing, he looked brutally into the aquarium, where two or three people were waiting. They walked along in the shadow of the palliative justice and went into the brasserie to feed, which was quiet and warm and redolent of draft beer. "Tubiers, bumpers, what's a bumper?" asked the American. "It is special glass reserved for reculus. It holds a full litre. Somewhat inflated, they retrace the steps. I could swear, oh well, never mind, if I have to start again from scratch, so be it. Spencer Rhodes was in the state of embarrassment felt by a man who attempts to express condolences without resorting to outworn phrases. Do you understand, psychologically speaking, I know I'm right. It isn't possible that, what if Don Dohon got to the latter first? Show me the lover that can match his mistress in cunning." We told it to Chief Superintendent, an old Juliet. They went up the dusty staircase, patterned with damp footprints. A man came up to them, self-important and very much on his dignity, carrying a briefcase. I trust you have some explanation, Chief Superintendent. Mayberry had this slight metallolue on site. Now he fell upon him as if he were a dear friend whom he had not seen for 20 years. To telegram, why didn't he address it to me direct? Come on, come on, head it over. Here it is, but I doubt if you'll be able to make anything of it, and I'm not sure I ought to let you have it, unless you are prepared to tell me more. Mayberry snatched a telegram out of his hand. In form, Chief Superintendent Mayberry Portrait Photograph, only percent received from late aunt, dismantle frame on off chance, found concealed letter somewhat cryptic, but in my opinion, highly damaging to third party. Situation regarding secession completely altered since Joseph Boyner's death, not due to natural causes and murderer in accomplice cannot inherit. Deciders of doing my duty, but without prejudice, arrive in Paris tonight. Etienne Monfie. Don't you think my client ventured the line? Your client is the hero of the house, Metalado. He raises a point that I hadn't even thought of. Once it is established that Joseph Boyner was murdered by his wife and her lover, she is retrospectively dispossessed of his fortune, which referred to the boy mates and the mashup here. But the Chief Superintendent was no longer listening. He stood motionless in the middle of the fast corridor of police headquarters with insight of the door of his own office. Close by was the glass walled waiting room in which one foggy morning. The child was in process of being born somewhere or other, little dreaming that the fees for his delivery would be paid by a small band of gentlemen whose fingers were adorned with flashy rings, and then for their part were no doubt engaged. At this hour, in the complexities of a game of billet at Chet Albe on Hooten Lodge. In one of Monster's house, closeted with his lawyer under the discreet eye of the benign torus, what was he thinking? Not a bad idea. He was startled by the sound of his own voice, and he was not alone in this. Spencer Rhodes and Metalado, taken unawareness, nearly jumped out of their skins. I was thinking of that dodge with the photograph. He explained apologetically. The old woman sized up her cousin pretty accurately. She understood professional life. Well, gentlemen, back to work. And with a little snort, he embarked upon the interrogation of all those who had fisted police headquarters in the morning of the murder. He finished with The Last of Them, a small-time pimp at one o'clock in the morning. In conclusion, dropping his burned-out cigarette on the floor, the man said, well, there it is. I try to do some of the favor, and I lend myself in the soup. What's the best I can hope for, Chief Superintendent? Two years? Madam Major had already been on the telephone three times. Hello? No, don't wait for me. I'll probably be home pretty late. Suddenly, he had a craving for a plate of chukruggan, in the brasserie, in Monmata, or in one partners, in company with his American. Afterward, they saw one another home, and weaving from bar to bar and from beer to beer. They drank the night away. And after all, it was only fair that Spencer Rhodes should have something to talk about when he got back to Philadelphia. All the same, if it had not occurred to Monfie to take the photograph out of his frame. New Sir Mere, Chappen Maratine, Winter 1939, 1940. Fort Nalacont, Vendee, December 1940. (gentle music) A cost. A cost. Verb. Approach and address someone boldly or aggressively. Spurious. Spurious. Agitive. Not being what he purports to be, falls or fake. Regulant. Regulant. Agitive. Strongly reminiscent or suggestive of fragrance or sweet smellic.
