Bell rubbed his chin. “I see. I don’t know Brittany myself, I’m glad to say. I got to own I never met a dinner like it.” He looked at Lomas. “That means putting it back on the French.”
“Quite,” Lomas smiled. “Brilliant thought, Reginald. Would you be surprised to hear that Paris is asking us to look for Mr. Derry Farquhar in England?”
“Well, well,” Reggie surveyed him with patient contempt. “Another relevant fact which you didn’t mention. Also indicatin’ an association of your Mr. Farquhar with France.”
“If you like,” Lomas shrugged. “But the point is they are sure he’s here. Dubois is coming over to - day. I’m taking him to dine at the club. You’d better join us.”
“Oh, no. No,” Reggie said quickly. “Dubois will dine with me. You bring him along. Your club dinner would destroy his faith in the English intelligence. If any. And I like Dubois. Pleasant to discuss the case with a serious mind. Good - bye. Half past eight.”
With a superior English smile, Lomas sat back and watched Reggie and Dubois consume that fantasia on pancakes, Crepes Joan, which Reggie invented as an expression of the way of his wife with her husband… .
Dubois wiped his flowing moustaches. “My homage,” he said reverently.
By way of a devilled biscuit, they came to another claret. Dubois looked and smelt and tasted, and his eyes returned thanks. “Try it with a medlar,” Reggie purred.
“You are right. There is no fruit better with wine.” They engaged upon a ritual of ecstasy while Lomas gave himself a glass of port and lit a cigarette. At that, Reggie gave a reproachful stare. “My only aunt. Forgive him, Dubois. He’s mere modern English.”
“I pity profoundly,” Dubois sighed. “A bleak life. This is a great wine, my friend. Of Pauillac, I think eh? Of the last century?”
“Quite good, yes,” Reggie purred. “Mouton Rothschild 1900.”
Dubois’s large face beamed. “Aha. Not so bad for poor old Dubois.”
They proceeded to a duet on claret… . Lomas became restive. “This unanimity is touching. Now you’ve embraced each other all over, we might come to business and see if you can keep it up.”
Dubois turned to him with a gesture of deprecation. “Pardon, my friend. Have no fear. We agree always. But I will not delay you. The affair is, after all, very simple - -”
“Quite,” Lomas smiled. “Tell Fortune. He has his own ideas about it.”
“Aha,” Dubois’s eyebrows went up. “I shall be grateful. Well, I begin, then, with Max Weber. He is what you call a profiteer, but, after all, a good fellow. It is a year ago he married a pretty lady. She was by courtesy an actress, the beautiful Clotilde. One has nothing else against her. They live together very happily in an apartment of luxury. Two weeks ago, they find that some of her jewels, which she had in her bedroom, are gone. Not all that Weber had given her, the most valuable are at the bank, but diamonds worth five hundred thousand francs. Weber comes to the Surety and makes a complaint. What do we find? The servants, they have been with Weber many years, they are spoilt, they are careless; but dishonest - I think not. There is no sign of a burglary. But the day before the jewels were missed a man came to the Weber apartment who asked for Madame Weber and was told she was not at home. That was true in fact, but, also, Weber’s man did not like his look. A gouape of the finest water - that is the description. What you call a blackguard, is it not? The man was shabby but showy; he resembled exactly a loafer in the Quartier Latin, an artist decant - how do you say that.”
“On his uppers. Yes. Still more interesting. But not an identification, Dubois.”
“Be patient still. You see - here is a type which might well have known la belle Clotilde before she was Madame Weber. Very well. This gentleman, when he was refused at the Weber door, he did not go far away. We have a concierge who saw him loitering till the afternoon at least. In the afternoon the Weber servants take their ease. The man went to a cafe - he admits it - one woman calls on a friend here, another there. What more easy than for the blackguard artist to enter, to take the jewel case, to hop it, as you say.”
“We do. Yes.”
“Well, then, I begin from a description of Monsieur the Blackguard. It is not so bad. A man who is plump and dark, with little dark whiskers, who has front teeth which stand out, who walks like a bird running, with short steps that go pit pat. He speaks French well enough, but not like a Frenchman. He wears clothes of orange colour, cut very loose, and a soft black hat of wide brim. Then I find that a man like this got into the night train from the Gare St. Lazare for Dieppe - that is, you see, to come back to England by the cheap way. Very well. We have worked in the Quartier Latin, we find that a man like this was seen a day or two in some of the cafes. They remember him well, because they knew him ten years ago when he was a student. They are like that, these old folks of the Quartier - it pays. Then his name was Farquhar - Derek Farquhar, an Englishman.” Dubois twirled his moustaches. “So you see, my friend, I dare to trouble Mr. Lomas to find me in England this Farquhar.”
“Yes. Method quite sound,” Reggie mumbled. “As a method.”
“My poor Reginald,” Lomas laughed. “What a mournful, reluctant confession! You’ve hurt him, Dubois. He was quite sure Mr. Farquhar was traversing the wilds of Brittany.”
“Aha,” Dubois put up his eyebrows, and made a gesture of respect to Reggie. “My dear friend, never I consult you but I find you see farther than I. Tell me then.”
“Oh, no. No. Don’t see it all,” Reggie mumbled, and told him of the menu of the long dinner.
“Without doubt that dinner was served in Brittany,” Dubois nodded. “I agree, it is probable he had been there not so long ago. But what of that? He was a painter, he had studied in France, and Brittany is always full of painters.”
“Yes. You’re neglectin’ part of the evidence. Faces on the back of the menu.” He took out his pocket - book. and sketched the black - browed, black - bearded countenance. “Like that.”
“The devil,” said Dubois.
“As you say. Devil of opera and fancy ball. The ordinary Mephistopheles. Associated by your Mr. Farquhar with Brittany.”
“My dear Fortune!” Dubois’s big face twisted into a quizzical smile. “You are very subtle. Me, I find this is to make too much of little things. After all, drawing devils, it is common sport - you find devils all over our comic papers - a devil and a pretty lady - and he drew pretty ladies often, you say, this Farquhar - and this is a very common devil.”
“Yes, rational criticism,” Reggie murmured, looking at him with dreamy eyes. “You’re very rational, Dubois. However. Any association of the Webers with Brittany?”
