The Greatest Murder Mysteries - Dorothy Fielding Collection. Dorothy Fielding

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СКАЧАТЬ himself. Hence this night's planned robbery. He has had me watched, he has bribed my own secretary—so I have learnt from that clever police officer of yours, and now he thought the prize would be his; but, thanks again to Inspector Pointer, it is not so, but quite different. Now, Mr. Beale, here is my offer:—To forget this night's scene in return for a signed confession, given of your own free will, of course, that the jewels were being taken care of by Mr. Carter at your own request, which you had forgotten. That"—M. Meunier referred to his notebook—"M. Heilbronner withdraws his accusations and"—again he searched his notes—"and his warrant. That you both acknowledge that you have nothing against Mr. Carter in any way. Refuse this offer, and mademoiselle will ring up the Prefecture de Police."

      Mr. Beale glared at his finger tips as though he would have liked to bite them.

      "We have witnesses of the best," purred M. Meunier.

      "I'll write it." Mr. Beale sat down at the desk, and rapidly filled a sheet of blue and white crossed paper which M. Meunier handed him. It was a clever piece of writing. Facts had just come to light, so wrote Mr. Beale, which entirely altered the case against Mr. Carter as far as the accusations of theft or embezzlement were concerned. The jewelery found in his trunk had been handed to him for disposal by a member of his (Beale's) family, unbeknown to that gentleman, and a careful examination of the books of the Toronto Mills showed that, though there had been errors in the bookkeeping, there was none whatever in the percentages paid to the Amalgamated, which therefore gladly withdrew all claims against the managers, Robert Erskine, deceased, and John Carter, and were canceling the warrants taken out mistakenly against them.

      "Heilbronner'll sign it, of course, if I tell him to," Mr. Beale observed laconically. "One copy goes to our New York police, and one to Scotland Yard. Is that what you want?" Mr. Beale was certainly a good loser.

      "Parfaitment." The Frenchman opened the door and called in the Chief Inspector, who witnessed the American's signature, together with Daru.

      Mr. Beale rose. "There, I'm through. I guess I'll go to my hotel."

      "To mine, Monsieur, to mine, until Mr. Heilbronner signs these—you can post these to him tonight with a letter explaining your plight. Till then you stay with me, and M. the Chief Inspector he stays, too, hein?"

      "I'm on my holiday," assented Pointer equably, "and Lille is quite an interesting town. Go on ahead, Monsieur: Watts is below; he'll get a taxi for mademoiselle."

       "Why didn't you stay and hear what M. Meunier had to tell about Jack, and the Amalgamated, and his wonderful discovery. To think he thought that he was no good at engineering!" Christine had asked Pointer to breakfast with her. She looked the ghost of herself after the excitements of the past night, but her eyes were alight.

      "I didn't dare to go to sleep for fear it should be a dream."

      "My dear Miss West, I haven't the faintest idea of what M. Meunier talked to you and Mr. Beale about," the Chief Inspector said very seriously. "Mr. Beale's written retraction was given quite freely, an all-important point which we, none of us, must forget."

      Christine digested this in silence.

      "But how did you come to be there—how did you know about it all?"

      "Routine," Pointer explained blandly; "routine took me to Geneva, where lived the avocat to whom Mr. Beale had once telegraphed, and where I found Mr. Heilbronner. From information which came to hand"—a vision of himself piecing together minute scraps from a dustbin made Pointer speak with unction—"which came to hand, I found that Mr. Beale and he were extremely interested in a M. Meunier. I followed up this and that clue, and found that M. Meunier was M. Charles Bonnot of Lyons. More information coming to hand led to the belief that Mr. Beale, and incidentally Mr. Heilbronner, meditated getting hold of some important papers from M. Bonnot and yourself in Lille last night. M. Beauregard—one of M. Bonnot's men of business—took me on two days ago as an extra clerk for some special late work. Being an Alsatian explained my French, and no one suspected me."

      "But—how did you know that I should be there?"

      "I couldn't think of any better or firmer friend of Mr. Carter's." The Chief Inspector gave a little laugh, and Christine laughed too, and plied him with questions.

      "What are you going to do when Mr. Heilbronner has signed? I suppose he will sign the papers?"

      "I fancy he will. Mr. Beale is the strong man in that team." And Christine did not notice that he left the first part of her sentence unanswered.

      "And what about that clerk?"

      "Daru? Oh! M. Bonnot is letting him off very well. He will have to leave his present post, of course, but a place will be found for him at Lyons, where he can work up again. Mr. Beale offered what was a fortune to him, and he has a wife in hospital, so altogether M. Bonnot inclined to a very merciful view of things." Christine herself waited in desperate anxiety. She could not go to England without knowing. The slip with "Yes" had been dispatched to Carter, but she had been told to say nothing of the unexpected turn of events which Mr. Beale's detection had brought about.

      The next day's post brought the papers signed by Mr. Heilbronner. Mr. Beale delivered the papers to M. Meunier with a wry smile.

      "Satisfied now? Can I go to my hotel and leave this blank, blanked country?"

      M. Meunier nodded, and Mr. Beale stalked from the room and drove off to his own suite in the Meurice. As he entered his sitting-room a figure rose from a chair. It was Pointer.

      "Good afternoon, Mr. Beale."

      "What does this mean? What the devil are you doing in my rooms?" There was no mistaking the fact that Mr. Beale's nerves were getting frayed.

      "A few questions that we want cleared up," said Pointer imperturbably. "Shut the door, Watts. These papers, Mr. Beale, were found in your flat at Lyons."

      "Well, suppose they were?"

      "May I ask how they came into your possession, sir?"

      "Bought 'em."

      "From whom, sir?"

      Mr. Beale's eyes travelled slowly from the papers to the officers and back from them to the papers.

      "Off an agent of mine. His name would mean nothing to you."

      "I must ask for it all the same, sir."

      "Godard."

      "I think not. Godard—Levinsky is his real name—told us, when we interviewed him at Lyons, that the papers in question were shown him by you, and that he made copies of them from which he worked."

      Mr. Beale looked sallower than usual.

      "I suppose it's got to be the truth. I took them out of Carter's bag."

      "We have been in telegraphic communication with Carter about them. He says that these papers belonged to Robert Erskine."

      "Quite possibly. But I got them out of Carter's bag just the same."

      "Carter denies that absolutely. Mr. Beale, your situation seriously calls for frankness, as I'm sure you see for yourself. Things are very awkward. You have no satisfactory alibi for the hours from four to six on August fourth. Those screws which were found in Carter's box must have been put there СКАЧАТЬ