Subsequently a visit to London coincided with the
acquisition of £700, which, converted into francs at the then rate of exchange,
made a very respectable item in the account. From that time on, the outgoings
and receipts presented a similar aspect and were more or less evenly balanced,
the cheques to self becoming rather larger and more frequent as time went on,
while during 1921 the income from the vineyard began to show signs of recovery.
Mr.
Parker noted down all this information in detail, and, leaning back in his
chair, looked round the flat. He felt, not for the first time, distaste for his
profession, which cut him off from the great masculine community whose members
take each other for granted and respect privacy. He relighted his pipe, which
had gone out, and proceeded with his report.
Information
obtained from Monsieur Turgeot, the manager of the Crédit Lyonnais, confirmed
the evidence of the pass-book in every particular. Monsieur Cathcart had
recently made all his payments in notes, usually in notes of small
denominations. Once or twice he had had an overdraft—never very large, and
always made up within a few months. He had, of course, suffered a diminution of
income, like everybody else, but the account had never given the bank any
uneasiness. At the moment it was some 14,000 francs on the right side. Monsieur
Cathcart was always very agreeable, but not communicative—très correct.
Information
obtained from the concierge:
One did
not see much of Monsieur Cathcart, but he was très gentil.
French for a Gentleman
He never failed to say, “Bon jour, Bourgois,”
when he came in or out. He received visitors sometimes—gentlemen in evening
dress. One made card-parties. Monsieur Bourgois had never directed any ladies
to his rooms; except once, last February, when he had given a lunch-party to
some ladies très comme il faut who
brought with them his fiancée, une jolie blonde. Monsieur Cathcart used the
flat as a pied à terre, and often he
would shut it up and go away for several weeks or months. He was un jeune homme très rangé. He had never
kept a valet. Madame Leblanc, the cousin of one's late wife, kept his appartement
clean. Madame Leblanc was very respectable. But certainly monsieur might have
Madame Leblanc's address.
Information
obtained from Madame Leblanc:
Monsieur
Cathcart was a charming young man, and very pleasant to work for. Very generous
and took a great interest in the family. Madame Leblanc was desolated to hear
that he was dead, and on the eve of his marriage to the daughter of the English
milady. Madame Leblanc had seen Mademoiselle last year when she visited
Monsieur Cathcart in Paris; she considered the young lady very fortunate. Very
few young men were as serious as Monsieur Cathcart, especially when they were
so good-looking. Madame Leblanc had had experience of young men, and she could
relate many histories if she were disposed, but none of Monsieur Cathcart. He
would not always be using his rooms; he had the habit of letting her know when
he would be at home, and she then went round to put the flat in order. He kept
his things very tidy; he was not like English gentlemen in that respect. Madame
Leblanc had known many of them, who kept their affairs sens dessus dessous. Monsieur Cathcart was always very well
dressed; he was particular about his bath; he was like a woman for his toilet,
the poor gentleman. And so he was dead. Le
pauvre garçon! Really it had taken away Madame Leblanc's appetite.
Information
obtained from Monsieur the Prefect of Police:
Absolutely
nothing. Monsieur Cathcart had never caught the eye of the police in any way.
With regard to the sums of money mentioned by Monsieur Parker, if monsieur
would give him the numbers of some of the notes, efforts would be made to trace
them.
Where
had the money gone? Parker could think only of two destinations—an irregular
establishment or a blackmailer. Certainly a handsome man like Cathcart might
very well have a woman or two in his life, even without the knowledge of the
concierge. Certainly a man who habitually cheated at cards—if he did cheat at
cards—might very well have got himself into the power of somebody who knew too
much. It was noteworthy that his mysterious receipts in cash began just as his
economies were exhausted; it seemed likely that they represented irregular
gains from gambling—in the casinos, on the exchange, or, if Denver's story had
any truth in it, from crooked play. On the whole, Parker rather inclined to the
blackmailing theory. It fitted in with the rest of the business, as he and Lord
Peter had reconstructed it at Riddlesdale.
Two or
three things, however, still puzzled Parker. Why should the blackmailer have
been trailing about the Yorkshire moors with a cycle and side-car? Whose was
the green-eyed cat? It was a valuable trinket. Had Cathcart offered it as part
of his payment? That seemed somehow foolish. One could only suppose that the
blackmailer had tossed it away with contempt. The cat was in Parker's
possession, and it occurred to him that it might be worthwhile to get a
jeweller to estimate its value. But the side-car was a difficulty, the cat was
a difficulty, and, more than all, Lady Mary was a difficulty.
Why had
Lady Mary lied at the inquest? For that she had lied, Parker had no manner of
doubt. He disbelieved the whole story of the second shot which had awakened
her. What had brought her to the conservatory door at three o'clock in the
morning? Whose was the suit-case—if it was a suit-case—that had lain concealed
among the cactus plants? Why this prolonged nervous breakdown, with no
particular symptoms, which prevented Lady Mary from giving evidence before the
magistrate or answering her brother's inquiries? Could Lady Mary have been
present at the interview in the shrubbery? If so, surely Wimsey and he would
have found her footprints. Was she in league with the blackmailer? That was an
unpleasant thought. Was she endeavoring to help her fiancé? She had an
allowance of her own—a generous one, as Parker knew from the Duchess. Could she
have tried to assist Cathcart with money? But in that case, why not tell all
she knew? The worst about Cathcart—always supposing that card-sharping were the
worst—was now matter of public knowledge, and the man himself was dead. If she
knew the truth, why did she not come forward and save her brother?
And at
this point he was visited by a thought even more unpleasant. If, after all, it
had not been Denver whom Mrs. Marchbanks had heard in the library, but someone
else—someone who had likewise an appointment with the blackmailer—someone who
was on his side as against Cathcart—who knew that there might be danger in the
interview. Had he himself paid proper attention to the grass lawn between the
house and the thicket? Might Thursday morning perhaps have revealed here and
there a trodden blade that rain and sap had since restored to uprightness? Had
Peter and he found all the footsteps in the wood? Had some more trusted hand
fired that shot at close quarters? Once again—whose was the green-eyed cat?
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