Wyllard's Weird: A Novel

by M. E. Braddon

"And you conclude that this travelling-cap was bought for the murderer?"

"Hear the sequel, and judge for yourself. I went from the hatter's to the railway-station, and there, after having been bandied about from pillar to post, I succeeded in finding a tolerably intelligent official who remembered the night of the murder—now ten days past—and who could recall most of the passengers who had left for Paris by the half-past nine o'clock train upon that particular night. The news of the murder had not been brought to the station before the starting of the train: a most criminal neglect on the part of the local police. No suspicious-looking person had been observed to enter the train; but upon my questioning him closely, the man remembered having noticed a traveller who wore a cloth cap with flaps over the ears—a seemingly needless protection upon a mild September evening. 'There is one who takes care of himself,' the railway official had thought. For the rest, this passenger had looked like a gentleman, tall, erect, well-built, a bigger man than the majority of Frenchmen—what the railway official permitted himself to call un bel homme. Had he appeared agitated, breathless, in a hurry? No, the official had noticed nothing extraordinary in his manner. He wore smoke-coloured spectacles, which concealed the expression of his eyes. He had a return-ticket for Paris. The train was scarcely out of the station when the police came to make inquiries. The murder had been known of at the police-station at a quarter past eight, and it was not until after half-past nine that the police thought of setting a watch upon the railway-station. That is how your rustic police favour the escape of a criminal."

"Did you trace your gentleman in the cloth cap any further?"

"Not an inch. No one had observed him at Saint-Lazare, nor at any intermediate station where the train stopped. I wearied myself during the next six weeks in the endeavour to trace the man called Georges, who must have had some local habitation in Paris besides Marie Prévol's apartment. In vain. In no quarter of Paris could I hear of any apartment occupied by a man answering to the description of this man who called himself Georges—rich, independent, handsome, in the prime of life. I could trace no such man among the prosperous classes of Paris, and my machinery for tracking any individual in the wilderness of this great city had hitherto proved almost infallible. This man baffled me. I 'touched on him' now and again, as you English say of your hunted fox, but I could never get upon a scent strong enough to follow; and in the end I gave up all hope of finding him. He must have sneaked out of France under the very noses of the police; for I had set a watch upon every probable exit from this country."

"No doubt he was clever enough to choose the most improbable point of departure. Did you see much of Madame Lemarque after the murder?"

"No. My interest in her ceased when I gave up the case as hopeless. I had fresh cases—new interests; and the murder of Marie Prévol remained in my mind only as a tradition, until you recalled the story of the crime."

"I telegraphed yesterday to the principal of the Ursuline convent at Dinan," said Mr. Heathcote, "and I have obtained from her the address at which Madame Lemarque was living two years ago, when her niece was sent back to Paris in company with other pupils. After leaving you I shall go to that address, and try to find Madame Lemarque. I may have the painful duty of informing her of her granddaughter's death; and yet I can but think that were the grandmother still living she must have heard of the girl's death, and would have communicated with the Cornish police."

"That is to suppose her more intelligent than the average Frenchwoman," said Drubarde, as if he belonged to another nation. "Suppose I accompany you in your search for Madame Lemarque? That ought to be interesting."

"I shall be delighted to secure your aid."

Monsieur Drubarde and his guest descended the ladder. The detective put on a gray overcoat, which concealed and subjugated the airiness of his summer attire. He put on the hat of sober commonplace existence, and contrived to give himself an almost patriarchal aspect before he left his lodging.