“I’m not asking you, sir. There’s no sort of reason to think there was anything done to him. He just went out and didn’t come back. Three days ago. I don’t see any light at all. What he was doing here, beats me. You can say he was hiding with the swag he got in Paris. But then, why did he register in his own name? Say he was just a silly ass - you do get that kind of amateur thief. But what has he bolted for? He couldn’t have had any suspicions we were on to him. We weren’t, at the time he faded out.”
“But my friend, you go too fast,” said Dubois. “From you, no, he could not have had any alarm. But there is the other end - Paris. It is very possible that a friend in Paris warned him the police were searching for him.”
“All right,” Bell grunted. “I give you that. Why would he make the hotel people notice him by bolting without paying his bill? Silly again. Sheer silly. He’d got a pot of money, if he did have the jewels, like you say. Going off without paying ‘em just sent them to inform the police quick.”
“That is well argued. You have an insight, a power of mind, my friend.” Dubois’s voice was silky. “But what have we then? It is quite natural that Farquhar should disappear again, it is not natural that he should disappear like this. For me, I confess I do not find myself able to form an idea of Farquhar. That he is the type to rob such a woman as Clotilde, there is evidence enough - he had the knowledge, he had the opportunity. So far, there are a thousand cases like it. But that he should then retire to such a paradise of the bourgeois, that is not like his type at all.”
“That’s right,” said Bell. “No sense in it anyway.”
“No. As you say,” Reggie murmured. “That struck me. Happy to agree with everybody. We don’t know anything about anything.”
“Bigre! You go a little strong,” Dubois rumbled. “Come, there is at least a connection with Clotilde, and her jewels are gone. Be sure of that. Weber is an honest man - except in business. And what, now, is your hypothesis? You said look for him in Brittany. This at least is certain - he had not gone there. What the devil should he have to do with this so correct Lyncombe? As much as with our rough Brittany.”
“Yes. Quite obscure. I haven’t the slightest idea what he’s been doing. However. Are we down - hearted? No. We’re in touch with the fundamental problem now. Why does Mr. Farquhar deal with Brittany and Clotilde and Lyncombe? First method of solution clearly indicated. Find out what he did do in Lyncombe. That ought to be an easy one, Bell. He must have been noticed. He’d be conspicuous in this correct place. Good night.”
The next day he sat upon the same balcony, spreading the first scone of his tea with clotted cream and blackberry jelly, when the two returned.
“What! Have you not moved since last night? “Dubois made a grimace at him.
“My dear chap! Just walked all along one of the bays. And back. Great big bay. Exercise demanded by impatient and fretful brain. Rest is better. Have a splitter. They’re too heavy. But the cream is sound.”
Dubois shuddered. “Brr! You are a wonderful animal. Me, I am only human. But Bell has news for you. Tell him, old fellow.”
“It’s like this,” Bell explained. “About a week ago - that’s three or four days before he disappeared, we can’t fix the date nearer - Farquhar went to call at one of the big houses here. There’s no doubt about that. It’s rather like the Paris case. He was seen loafing round before and after - as you said, he’s the sort of chap to get noticed. The house he went to belongs to an old gentleman - Mr. Lane Hudson. Lived here for years. Very rich, they say. Made his money in South Wales, and came here when he retired. Well, he’s eighty or more; he’s half paralysed - only gets about his house and grounds in a wheeled chair. I’ve seen him; I’ve had a talk with him. His mind’s all right. He looks like a mummy, only a bit plumped out. Sort of yellow, leathery face that don’t change or move. Sits in his chair looking at nothing, and talks soft and thick. He tells me he never heard of Farquhar: didn’t so much as know Farquhar had been to his house: that’s quite in order it’s his rule that the servants tell anybody not known he’s not well enough to see people, and I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t want strangers to come and look at me if I was like he is. I gave him an idea of the sort of fellow Farquhar was, and watched him pretty close, but he didn’t turn a hair. He just said again he had no knowledge of any such person, and I believe him. He wasn’t interested. He told me the fellow had no doubt come begging for money; he was much exposed to that sort of thing - we ought to stop it - and good day Mr. Superintendent. Anyhow, it’s certain Farquhar didn’t see him. The old butler and the nurse bear that out, and they never heard of Farquhar before. The butler saw him and turned him away - had a spot of bother over it, but didn’t worry. Like the old man, he says they do have impudent beggars now and then. So here’s another nice old dead end.”
“Yes. As you say. Rather weird isn’t it? The flamboyant debauched Farquhar knockin’ at the door - to get to a paralysed old rich man who never heard of him. I wonder. Curious selection of people to call on by our Mr. Farquhar. A pretty lady of Paris who’s married money and settled down on it; a rich old Welshman who’s helpless on the edge of the grave. And neither of ‘em sees Mr. Farquhar - accordin’ to the evidence - neither will admit to knowin’ anything about him. Very odd. Yes.” Reggie turned large, melancholy eyes on Dubois. “Takes your fancy, what? The blackguard artist knockin’, knockin’, and, upstairs, a mummy of a man helpless in his chair.”
“Name of a name!” Dubois rumbled. “It is fantasy pure. One sees such things in dreams. This has no more meaning.”
“No. Not to us. But it happened. Therefore it had a cause. Mr. Lane Hudson lives all alone, what - except for servants?”
“That’s right, sir,” Bell nodded. “He’s been a widower this long time. Only one child - daughter - and there’s a grandson, quite a kid. Daughter’s been married twice - first to a chap called Tracy, now to a Mr. Bernal - son by the first marriage, no other children.”
“You have taken pains, Bell,” Reggie smiled.
“Well, I got everything I could think of,” said Bell, with gloomy satisfaction. “Not knowing what I wanted. And there’s nothing I do want in what I’ve got. The Bernals come here fairly regular - Mr. and Mrs. Bernal, not the child - they’ve been staying with the old man just now. Usual autumn visit. They were there when Farquhar called, and after - didn’t go away till last Wednesday; that’s before Farquhar disappeared, you see, the day before. Farquhar didn’t ask for the Bernals, and they didn’t see him at all, the servants say. So there you are. The Bernals don’t link up any way. That peters out, like everything else.”
“Yes. Taken a lot of pains,” Reggie murmured.
“What would you have?” Dubois shrugged. “To amass useless knowledge - it is our only method; one is condemned to it. Ours is a slow trade, my friend. We gather facts and facts and facts, and so, if we are lucky, eliminate ninety - nine of the hundred and use, at last, one.”
“Yes. As you say,” Reggie mumbled. “Where do the Bernals live, Bell?”
“In France, sir,” said Bell, and Reggie opened his eyes.
“Aha!” Dubois made a grimace, and pointed a broad finger at him. “There, my friend. The one grand fact, is it not? In France! And Brittany is in France! But alas, my dear Fortune, they do not live in Brittany! Far from it. They live in the south, near Cannes; they have lived there - what do I know? - since they were married, hem?” he turned to Bell.
“That’s right,” Bell grunted. “Lady set up house there with her first husband. He had to live in the south of France - gassed in the war.”
“You see?” Dubois smiled. “It is still the useless knowledge. And your vision of Brittany, my friend, it has no substance still.”
“I wonder,” Reggie mumbled, and sank deep in his chair… .
He is, even without hope, conscientious. That night he examined another set of Farquhar’s dirty linen, but neither in that nor the rest of the worthless luggage found any information. Prodded by him, Bell enquired of the Hudson household where the Bernals were to be found, but could obtain only the address of their Cannes villa, for they were reported to be going back by car. Dubois was persuaded to telegraph Cannes and received the reply that the Bernal villa was shut up; monsieur and madame were away motoring, and their boy at school - what school nobody knew.
“Then what?” Dubois summed up. “Nothing to do.”
“Not to - night, no,” Reggie yawned. “I’m going to bed.”
