Chapter XXXVIII
Mr. Briggerland, killing time on the quay at Monaco, saw the _JungleQueen_ come into harbour and watched Marcus land, carrying his lines inhis hand.
As Marcus came abreast of him he called and Mr. Stepney looked roundwith a start.
"Hello, Briggerland," he said, swallowing something.
"Well, have you been fishing?" asked Mr. Briggerland in his mostpaternal manner.
"Yes," admitted Marcus.
"Did you catch anything?"
Stepney nodded.
"Only one," he said.
"Hard luck," said Mr. Briggerland, with a smile, "but where is Mrs.Meredith--I understood she was going out with you to-day?"
"She went to San Remo," said Stepney shortly, and the other nodded.
"To be sure," he said. "I had forgotten that."
Later he bought a copy of the _Nicoise_ and learnt of the tragedy on theSan Remo road. It brought him back to the house, a visibly agitatedman.
"This is shocking news, my dear," he panted into the saloon and stoodstock still at the sight of Mr. Jack Glover.
"Come in, Briggerland," said Jack, without ceremony. There was a manwith him, a tall, keen Frenchman whom Briggerland recognised as thechief detective of the Prefecture. "We want you to give an account ofyour actions."
"My actions?" said Mr. Briggerland indignantly. "Do you associate mewith this dreadful tragedy? A tragedy," he said, "which has stricken mealmost dumb with horror and remorse. Why did I ever allow that villaineven to speak to poor Lydia?"
"Nevertheless, m'sieur," said the tall man quietly, "you must tell uswhere you have been."
"That is easily explained. I went to San Remo."
"By road?"
"Yes, by road," said Mr. Briggerland, "on my motor-bicycle."
"What time did you arrive in San Remo?"
"At midday, or it may have been a quarter of an hour before."
"You know that the murder must have been committed at half-past eleven?"said Jack.
"So the newspapers tell me."
"Where did you go in San Remo?" asked the detective.
"I went to a cafe and had a glass of wine, then I strolled about thetown and lunched at the Victoria. I caught the one o'clock train toMonte Carlo."
"Did you hear nothing of the murder?"
"Not a word," said Mr. Briggerland, "not a word."
"Did you see the car?"
Mr. Briggerland shook his head.
"I left some time before poor Lydia," he said softly.
"Did you know of any attachment between the chauffeur and your guest?"
"I had no idea such a thing existed. If I had," said Mr. Briggerlandvirtuously, "I should have taken immediate steps to have brought poorLydia to her senses."
"Your daughter says that they were frequently together. Did you noticethis?"
"Yes, I did notice it, but my daughter and I are very democratic. Wehave made a friend of Mordon and I suppose what would have seemedfamiliar to you, would pass unnoticed with us. Yes, I certainly doremember my poor friend and Mordon walking together in the garden."
"Is this yours?" The detective took from behind a curtain an old Britishrifle.
"Yes, that is mine," admitted Briggerland without a moment's hesitation."It is one I bought in Amiens, a souvenir of our gallant soldiers----"
"I know, I quite understand your patriotic motive in purchasing it,"said the detective dryly, "but will you tell us how this passed fromyour possession."
"I haven't the slightest notion," said Mr. Briggerland in surprise. "Ihad no idea it was lost--I'd lost sight of it for some weeks. Can it bethat Mordon--but no, I must not think so evilly of him."
"What were you going to suggest?" asked Jack. "That Mordon fired at Mrs.Meredith when she was on the swimming raft? If you are, I can save youthe trouble of telling that lie. It was you who fired, and it was I whoknocked you out."
Mr. Briggerland's face was a study.
"I can't understand why you make such a wild and unfounded charge," hesaid gently. "Perhaps, my dear, you could elucidate this mystery."
Jean had not spoken since he entered. She sat bolt upright on a chair,her hands folded in her lap, her sad eyes fixed now upon Jack, now uponthe detective. She shook her head.
"I know nothing about the rifle, and did not even know you possessedone," she said. "But please answer all their questions, father. I am asanxious as you are to get to the bottom of this dreadful tragedy. Haveyou told my father about the letters which were discovered?"
The detective shook his head.
"I have not seen your father until he arrived this moment," he said.
"Letters?" Mr. Briggerland looked at his daughter. "Did poor Lydia leavea letter?"
She nodded.
"I think Mr. Glover will tell you, father," she said. "Poor Lydia had anattachment for Mordon. It is very clear what happened. They went outto-day, never intending to return----"
"Mrs. Meredith had no intention of going to the Lovers' Chair until yousuggested the trip to her," said Jack quietly. "Mrs. Cole-Mortimer isvery emphatic on that point."
"Has the body been found?" asked Mr. Briggerland.
"Nothing has been found but the chauffeur," said the detective.
After a few more questions he took Jack outside.
"It looks very much to me as though it were one of those crimes ofpassion which are so frequent in this country," he said. "Mordon was aFrenchman and I have been able to identify him by tattoo marks on hisarm, as a man who has been in the hands of the police many times."
"You think there is no hope?"
The detective shrugged his shoulders.
"We are dragging the pool. There is very deep water under the rock, butthe chances are that the body has been washed out to sea. There isclearly no evidence against these people, except yours. The lettersmight, of course, have been forged, but you say you are certain that thewriting is Mrs. Meredith's."
Jack nodded.
They were walking down the road towards the officers' waiting car, whenJack asked:
"May I see that letter again?"
The detective took it from his pocket book and Jack stopped and scannedit.
"Yes, it is her writing," he said and then uttered an exclamation.
"Do you see that?"
He pointed eagerly to two little marks before the words "Dear friend."
"Quotation marks," said the detective, puzzled. "Why did she writethat?"
"I've got it," said Jack. "The story! Mademoiselle Briggerland told meshe was writing a story, and I remember she said she had writer's cramp.Suppose she dictated a portion of the story to Mrs. Meredith, andsuppose in that story there occurred this letter: Lydia would have putthe quotation marks mechanically."
The detective took the letter from his hand.
"It is possible," he said. "The writing is very even--it shows no signof agitation, and of course the character's initials might be 'L.M.' Itis an ingenious hypothesis, and not wholly improbable, but if this werea part of the story, there would be other sheets. Would you like me tosearch the house?"
Jack shook his head.
"She's much too clever to have them in the house," he said. "More likelyshe's put them in the fire."
"What fire?" asked the detective dryly. "These houses have no fires,they're central heated--unless she went to the kitchen."
"Which she wouldn't do," said Jack thoughtfully. "No, she'd burn them inthe garden."
The detective nodded, and they returned to the house.
Jean, deep in conversation with her father, saw them reappear, andwatched them as they walked slowly across the lawn toward the trees,their eyes fixed on the ground.
"What are they looking for?" she asked with a frown.
"I'll go and see," said Briggerland, but she caught his arm.
"Do you think they'll tell you?" she asked sarcastically.
She ran up to her own room and watched them from behind a curtain.Presently they passed out of sight to t
he other side of the house, andshe went into Lydia's room and overlooked them from there. Suddenly shesaw the detective stoop and pick up something from the ground, and herteeth set.
"The burnt story," she said. "I never dreamt they'd look for that."
It was only a scrap they found, but it was in Lydia's writing, and thepencil mark was clearly visible on the charred ashes.
"'Laura Martin,'" read the detective. "'L.M.,' and there are the words'tragic' and 'remorse'."
From the remainder of the charred fragments they collected nothing ofimportance. Jean watched them disappear along the avenue, and went downto her father.
"I had a fright," she said.
"You look as if you've still got it," he said. He eyed her keenly.
She shook her head.
"Father, you must understand that this adventure may end disastrously.There are ninety-nine chances against the truth being known, but it isthe extra chance that is worrying me. We ought to have settled Lydiamore quietly, more naturally. There was too much melodrama and shooting,but I don't see how we could have done anything else--Mordon was verytiresome."
"Where did Glover come from?" asked Mr. Briggerland.
"He's been here all the time," said the girl.
"What?"
She nodded.
"He was old Jaggs. I had an idea he was, but I was certain when Iremembered that he had stayed at Lydia's flat."
He put down his tea cup and wiped his lips with a silk handkerchief.
"I wish this business was over," he said fretfully. "It looks as if weshall have trouble."
"Of course we shall," she said coldly. "You didn't expect to get afortune of six hundred thousand pounds without trouble, did you? I daresay we shall be suspected. But it takes a lot of suspicion to worry me.We'll be in calm water soon, for the rest of our lives."
"I hope so," he said without any great conviction.
Mrs. Cole-Mortimer was prostrate and in bed, and Jean had no patience tosee her.
She herself ordered the dinner, and they had finished when a visitor inthe shape of Mr. Marcus Stepney came in.
It was unusual of Marcus to appear at the dinner hour, except in eveningdress, and she remarked the fact wonderingly.
"Can I have a word with you, Jean?" he asked.
"What is it, what is it?" asked Mr. Briggerland testily. "Haven't we hadenough mysteries?"
Marcus eyed him without favour.
"We'll have another one, if you don't mind," he said unpleasantly, andthe girl, whose every sense was alert, picked up a wrap and walked intothe garden, with Marcus following on her heels.
Ten minutes passed and they did not return, a quarter of an hour wentby, and Mr. Briggerland grew uneasy. He got up from his chair, put downhis book, and was half-way across the room when the door opened and JackGlover came in, followed by the detective.
It was the Frenchman who spoke.
"M'sieur Briggerland, I have a warrant from the Prefect of the AlpesMaritimes for your arrest."
"My arrest?" spluttered the dark man, his teeth chattering. "What--whatis the charge?"
"The wilful murder of Francois Mordon," said the officer.
"You lie--you lie," screamed Briggerland. "I have no knowledge ofany----" his words sank into a throaty gurgle, and he stared past thedetective. Lydia Meredith was standing in the doorway.