It was getting on towards five when Inspector Burnley, like a giant refreshed with wine, emerged once more upon the street. Calling a taxi, he gave the address of St. Malo, Great North Road.

‘Now for friend Felix,’ he thought, as he lit a cigar. He was tired and he lay back on the cushions, enjoying the relaxation as the car slipped dexterously through the traffic. Familiar as he was with every phase of London life, he never wearied of the panorama of the streets, the ceaseless movement, the kaleidoscopic colours. The sights of the pavement, the sound of pneus upon asphalt, the very smell of burnt petrol—each appealed to him as part of the alluring whole he loved.

They passed through the Haymarket and along Shaftesbury Avenue, turned up Tottenham Court Road, and through Kentish Town out on the Great North Road. Here the traffic was less dense and they made better speed. Burnley removed his hat and allowed the cool air to blow on his head. His case was going well. He was content.

Nearly an hour had passed before he rang the bell at St. Malo. Felix opened the door, the visage of Sergeant Kelvin, his watchdog, appearing in the gloom at the back of the hall.

‘What luck, Inspector?’ he cried, when he recognised his visitor.

‘We’ve got it, Mr. Felix. Found it a couple of hours ago. I’ve got a taxi here, and, if convenient for you, we’ll go right in and open the thing at once.’

‘Right. I’m sure I am ready.’

‘You come along too, Kelvin,’ said the Inspector to his subordinate, and when Felix had got his hat and coat the three men walked up to the taxi.

‘Scotland Yard,’ called Burnley, and the car swung round and started citywards.

As they sped swiftly along, the Inspector gave an account of his day to his companion. The latter was restless and excited, and admitted he would be glad to get the business over. He was anxious about the money, as it happened that a sum of £1000 would just enable him to meet a mortgage, which otherwise would press rather heavily upon him. Burnley looked up sharply when he heard this.

‘Did your French friend know that?’ he asked.

‘Le Gautier? No, I’m sure he did not.’

‘If you take my advice, Mr. Felix, you won’t count too much on the cask. Indeed, you should prepare yourself for something unpleasant.’

‘What do you mean?’ exclaimed Felix. ‘You hinted that you thought the cask contained something besides the money. What was it?’

‘I’m sorry I can’t answer you. The thing was only a suspicion, and we shall learn the truth in so short a time it’s not worth discussion.’

Burnley having to make a call on some other business, they returned by a different route, coming down to the river near London Bridge. Already the day was drawing in, and yellow spots of light began to gleam in the windows of the palace hotels, and from the murky buildings on the south side. On the comparatively deserted Embankment they made good speed, and Big Ben was chiming the quarter after seven as they swung into the Yard.

‘I’ll see if the Chief’s in,’ said Burnley, as they reached his office. ‘He wanted to see the cask opened.’

The great man was getting ready to go home, but decided to wait on seeing the Inspector. He greeted Felix politely.

‘Singular set of circumstances, Mr. Felix,’ he said, as they shook hands. ‘I trust they will remain only that.’

‘You’re all very mysterious about it,’ returned Felix. ‘I have been trying to get a hint of the Inspector’s suspicions but he won’t commit himself.’

‘We shall see now in a moment.’

Headed by Burnley, they passed along a corridor, down some steps and through other passages, until they emerged in a small open yard entirely surrounded by a high, window-pierced building. Apparently in the daytime it acted as a light well, but now in the growing dusk it was itself illuminated by a powerful arc lamp which threw an intense beam over every part of the granolithic floor. In the centre stood the cask, on end, with the damaged stave up.

The little group numbered five. There were the Chief, Felix, Burnley, Sergeant Kelvin, and another nondescript looking man. Burnley stepped forward.

‘This cask is so exceedingly strongly made,’ he said, ‘I’ve got a carpenter to open it. I suppose he may begin?’

The Chief nodded, and the nondescript man advancing set to work and soon lifted out the pieces of wood from the top. He held one up.

‘You see, gentlemen, it’s nearly two inches thick, more than twice as heavy as an ordinary wine cask.’

‘That’ll do, carpenter. I’ll call you if I want you again,’ said Burnley, and the man, touching his cap, promptly disappeared.

The four men drew closer. The cask was filled up to the top with sawdust. Burnley began removing it, sifting it carefully through his fingers.

‘Here’s the first,’ he said, as he laid a sovereign on the floor to one side. ‘And another! And another!’

The sovereigns began to grow into a tiny pile.

‘There’s some very uneven-shaped thing here,’ he said again. ‘About the centre the sawdust is not half an inch thick, but it goes down deep round the sides. Lend a hand, Kelvin, but be careful and don’t use force.’

The unpacking continued. Handful after handful of dust was taken out and, after being sifted, was placed in a heap beside the sovereigns. As they got deeper the operation became slower, the spaces from which the tightly packed dust was removed growing narrower and harder to get at. Fewer sovereigns were found, suggesting that these had been placed at the top of the cask after the remainder of the contents had been packed.

‘All the sawdust we can get at is out now,’ Burnley said presently, and then, in a lower tone, ‘I’m afraid it’s a body. I’ve come on a hand.’

‘A hand? A body?’ cried Felix, his face paling and an expression of fear growing in his eyes. The Chief moved closer to him as the others bent over the cask.

The two men worked silently for some moments and then Burnley spoke again,—

‘Lift now. Carefully does it.’

They stooped again over the cask and, with a sudden effort lifted out a paper-covered object and laid it reverently on the ground. A sharp ‘My God!’ burst from Felix, and even the case-hardened Chief drew in his breath quickly.

It was the body of a woman, the head and shoulders being wrapped round with sheets of brown paper. It lay all bunched together as it had done in the cask. One dainty hand, with slim, tapered fingers protruded from the paper, and stuck stiffly upwards beside the rounded shoulder.

The men stopped and stood motionless looking down at the still form. Felix was standing rigid, his face blanched, his eyes protruding, horror stamped on his features. The Chief spoke in a low tone,—

‘Take off the paper.’

Burnley caught the loose corner and gently removed it. As it came away the figure within became revealed to the onlookers.

The body was that of a youngish woman, elegantly clad in an evening gown of pale pink cut low round the throat and shoulders, and trimmed with old lace. Masses of dark hair were coiled round the small head. On the fingers the glint of precious stones caught the light. The feet were cased in silk stockings, but no shoes. Pinned to the dress was an envelope.

But it was on the face and neck the gaze of the men was riveted. Once she had clearly been beautiful, but now the face was terribly black and swollen. The dark eyes were open and protruding, and held an expression of deadly horror and fear. The lips were drawn back showing the white, even teeth. And below, on the throat were two discoloured bruises, side by side, round marks close to the windpipe, thumb-prints of the animal who had squeezed out that life with relentless and merciless hands.

When the paper was removed from the dead face, the eyes of Felix seemed to start literally out of his head.

‘God!’ he shrieked in a thin, shrill tone. ‘It’s Annette!’ He stood for a moment, waved his hands convulsively, and then, slowly turning, pitched forward insensible on the floor.

The chief caught him before his head touched the ground.

‘Lend a hand here,’ he called.

Burnley and the sergeant sprang forward and, lifting the inanimate form, bore it into an adjoining room and laid it gently on the floor.

‘Doctor,’ said the Chief shortly, and the sergeant hurried off.

‘Bad business, this,’ resumed the Chief. ‘He didn’t know what was coming?’

‘I don’t think so, sir. My impression has been all through that he was being fooled by this Frenchman, whoever he is.’

‘It’s murder now, anyway. You’ll have to go to Paris, Burnley, and look into it.’

‘Yes, sir, very good.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s eight o’clock. I shall hardly be able to go to-night. I shall have to take the cask and the clothing, and get some photos and measurements of the corpse and hear the result of the medical examination.’

‘To-morrow will be time enough, but I’d go by the nine o’clock train. I’ll give you a personal note to Chauvet, the chief of the Paris police. You speak French, I think?’

‘Enough to get on, sir.’

‘You shouldn’t have much difficulty, I think. The Paris men are bound to know if there are any recent disappearances, and if not you have the cask and the clothing to fall back on.’

‘Yes, sir, they should be a help.’

Footsteps in the corridor announced the arrival of the doctor. With a hasty greeting to the Chief, he turned to the unconscious man.

‘What happened to him?’ he asked.

‘He has had a shock,’ answered the Chief, explaining in a few words what had occurred.

‘He’ll have to be removed to hospital at once. Better get a stretcher.’

The sergeant disappeared again and in a few seconds returned with the apparatus and another man. Felix was lifted on to it and borne off.

‘Doctor,’ said the Chief, as the former was about to follow, ‘as soon as you are through with him I wish you’ld make an examination of the woman’s body. It seems fairly clear what happened to her, but it would be better to have a post-mortem. Poison may have been used also. Burnley, here, is going to Paris by the nine o’clock in the morning to make inquiries, and he will want a copy of your report with him.’

‘I shall have it ready,’ said the doctor as, with a bow, he hurried after his patient.

‘Now, let’s have a look at that letter.’

They returned to the courtyard and Burnley unpinned the envelope from the dead woman’s gown. It was unaddressed, but the Chief slit it open and drew out a sheet of folded paper. It bore a single line of typing:—

‘Your £50 loan returned herewith with £2 10s. 0d. interest.’

That was all. No date, address, salutation, or signature. Nothing to indicate who had sent it, or whose was the body that had accompanied it.

‘Allow me, sir,’ said Burnley.

He took the paper and scrutinised it carefully. Then he held it up to the light.

‘This is from Le Gautier also,’ he continued. ‘See the watermark. It is the same paper as Felix’s letter. Look also at the typing. Here are the crooked n’s and r’s, the defective l’s and the t’s and e’s below alignment. It was typed on the same machine.’

‘Looks like it certainly.’ Then, after a pause: ‘Come to my room for that letter to M. Chauvet.’

They traversed the corridors and the Inspector got his introduction to the Paris police. Then returning to the little yard, he began the preparations for his journey.

First he picked up and counted the money. There was £31 10s. in English gold and, having made a note of the amount, he slipped it into his pocket as a precaution against chance passers-by. With the £21 handed by Broughton to Mr. Avery, this made the £52 10s. referred to in the typewritten slip. Then he had the body moved to the dissecting-room and photographed from several points of view, after which it was stripped by a female assistant. The clothes he went through with great care, examining every inch of the material for maker’s names, initials, or other marks. Only on the delicate cambric handkerchief was his search rewarded, a small A. B. being embroidered amid the tracery of one corner. Having attached a label to each garment separately, as well as to the rings from the fingers and a diamond comb from the luxuriant hair, he packed them carefully in a small portmanteau, ready for transport to France.

Sending for the carpenter, he had the end boards of the cask replaced, and the whole thing wrapped in sacking and corded. Labelling it to himself at the Gare du Nord, he had it despatched to Charing Cross with instructions to get it away without delay.

It was past ten when his preparations were complete, and he was not sorry when he was free to go home to supper and bed.

PART II—PARIS

CHAPTER IX