“In that case,” said Wimsey, “you can do him no harm by speaking.”
When Suzanne Legros had recovered herself a little, she made her statement, the commissaire calling in his attendant gendarme to take a shorthand note of it.
“It is true that my husband was not a Frenchman or a Belgian. He was an Englishman. But it is true also that he was wounded in the retreat of 1918. He came to the farm one night. He had lost much blood and was exhausted. Also his nerves were shattered, but it is not true that he had lost his memory. He implored me to help him and to hide him because he did not want to fight any more. I nursed him till he was well and then we arranged what we should say.”
“It was shameful, madame, to harbour a deserter.”
“I acknowledge it, monsieur, but consider my position. My father was dead, my two brothers killed, and I had no one to help me with the farm. Jean-Marie Picard, that was to have married me, was dead also. There were so few men left in France, and the War had gone on so long. And also, monsieur, I grew to love Jean. And his nerves were greatly deranged. He could not face any more fighting.”
“He should have reported to his unit and applied for sick leave,” said Wimsey. “But then,” said Suzanne, simply, “they would have sent him back to England and separated us. And besides, the English are very strict. They might have thought him a coward and shot him.”
“It appears, at least, that he made you think so,” said Monsieur Rozier.
“Yes, monsieur. I thought so and he thought so too. So we arranged that he should pretend to have lost his memory,’ and since his French accent was not good, we decided to make out that his speech was affected by his injury. And I burnt his uniform and papers in the copper.”
“Who invented the story — you or he?”
“He did, monsieur. He was very clever. He thought of everything.”
“And the name also?”
“The name also.”
“And what was his real name?”
She hesitated. “His papers were burnt, and he never told me anything about himself.”
“You do not know his name. Was it then not Taylor?”
“No, monsieur. He adopted that name when he went back to England.”
“Ah! and what did he go to England for?”
“Monsieur, we were very poor, and Jean said that he had property in England which could be disposed of for a good sum, if only he could get hold of it without making himself known. For, you see, if he were to reveal himself he would be shot as a deserter.”
“But there was a general amnesty for deserters after the War.”
“Not in England, monsieur.”
“He told you that?” said Wimsey.
“Yes, milord. So it was important that nobody should know him when he went to fetch the property. Also there were difficulties which he did not explain to me, about selling the goods — I do not know what they were — and for that he had to have the help of a friend. So he wrote to this friend and presently he received a reply.”
“Have you that letter?”
“No, monsieur. He burnt it without showing it to me. This friend asked him for something — I did not quite understand that, but it was some sort of guarantee, I think. Jean shut himself up in his room for several hours the next day to compose his answer to the letter, but he did not show that to me, either. Then the friend wrote back and said he could help him, but it would not do for Jean’s name to appear — neither his own name nor the name of Legros, you understand. So he chose the name of Paul Taylor, and he laughed very much when the idea came to him to call himself so. Then the friend sent him papers made out in the name of Paul Taylor, British subject. I saw those. There was a passport with a photograph; it was not very much like my husband, but he said they would not pay great attention to it. The beard was like his.”
“Had your husband a beard when you first knew him?”
“No, he was clean-shaven, like all the English. But of course, he grew his beard when he was ill. It altered him very much, because he had a small chin, and with the beard it looked bigger. Jean took with him no luggage; he said he would buy clothes in England, because then he would again look like an Englishman.”
“And you know nothing of the nature of this property in England?”
“Nothing whatever, monsieur.”
“Was it land, securities, valuables?”
“I know nothing about it, monsieur. I asked Jean often, but he would never tell me.”
“And you expect us to believe that you do not know your husband’s real name?”
Again the hesitation. Then:
“No, monsieur, I do not know. It is true that I saw it upon his papers, but I burnt those and I do not now remember it. But I think it began with a C, and I should know it if I saw it again.”
“Was it Cranton?” asked Wimsey.
“No, I do not think it was that, but I cannot say what it was. As soon as he was able to speak at all, he told me to give him his papers, and I asked him then what his name was, because I could not pronounce it — it was English and difficult — and he said that he would not tell me his name then, but I could call him what I liked. So I called him Jean, which was the name of my fiancé, who was killed.”
“I see,” said Wimsey. He hunted through his pocketbook and laid the official photograph of Cranton before her. “Is that your husband as you first knew him?”
“No, milord. That is not my husband. It is not in the least like him.” Her face darkened. “You have deceived me. He is not dead and I have betrayed him.”
“He is dead,” said Wimsey. “It is this man who is alive.”
* * *
“And now,” said Wimsey, “we are no nearer than before to a solution.”
“Attendez, milord. She has not yet told all she knows. She does not trust us, and she is concealing the name. Only wait, and we shall find means to make her speak. She still thinks that her husband may be alive. But we shall convince her. We shall have this man traced. It is some months old, the trail, but it will not be too difficult. That he started from here by train to go to Belgium I already know, by my inquiries. When he sailed for England, it was doubtless from Ostend — unless, voyons, milord, what resources could this man command?”
“How can I tell? But we believe that this mysterious property had to do with an emerald necklace of many thousands of pounds value.”
“Ah, voilà! It would be worth while to spend money, then. But this man, you say he is not the man you thought. If that other man was the thief, how does this one come into it?”
“There is the difficulty. But look! There were two men concerned in the theft: one, a London cambrioleur, the other, a domestic servant. We do not know which of them had the jewels; it is a long story. But you heard that this Jean Legros wrote to a friend in England, and that friend may have been Cranton, the burglar. Now Legros cannot have been the servant who stole the jewels in the first place, for that man is dead. But before dying, the thief may have communicated to Legros the secret of where the emeralds are hidden, and also the name of Cranton. Legros then writes to Cranton and proposes a partnership to find the jewels. Cranton does not believe, and asks for proof that Legros really knows something. Legros sends a letter which satisfies Cranton, and Cranton in turn procures the necessary papers for Legros. Then Legros goes to England and meets Cranton. Together they go and discover the jewels. Then Cranton kills his confederate, so as to have all for himself. How is that, monsieur? For Cranton also has disappeared.”