The Emperor's Snuff-Box Read online

  It was a weather-beaten face, kindly and absent-minded, a little lined by study, with absent-minded dark eyes. There was still no gray in the thick dark hair. You would not have guessed—except at certain angles—that one side of this face had been rebuilt by plastic surgery after a shell-burst at Arras. Humor you saw there, and wisdom without flippancy; but strength you never saw until it was needed.

  He smoked a cigarette, and had a whiskey-and-soda at his elbow. Though he seemed in a holiday mood, he had never in his life known what a holiday meant.

  “Continue,” he said.

  The prefect of police lowered his voice.

  “Now here, you would have said, was a perfect match. I mean Madame Eve Neill and Monsieur … they call him Tobee, but his name is Horatio … Lawes. An ideal match, with money in it. Almost a grand passion.”

  “There is no such thing,” observed Dermot Kinross, “as a grand passion. Nature has arranged that if A had never met B he would have been just as happy with C.”

  M. Goron regarded him with polite skepticism.

  “You believe that, doctor?”

  “I know it as a scientific fact.”

  “Then I take it,” said M. Goron, remaining politely skeptical, “that you have never met Madame Neill?”

  “No,” smiled Dermot. “But my failure to meet a certain lady can hardly be said to alter a scientific fact.”

  “Ah, well!” sighed M. Goron, and got down to business. “One week ago tonight, the household at the Villa Bonheur in the rue des Anges consisted of Sir Maurice Lawes, his lady, his daughter Janice, his son M. Horatio, and his brother-in-law M. Benjamin Phillips. There were, in addition, two servants.

  “At eight o’clock Madame Neill, and all the Lawes family except Sir Maurice, departed for the theatre. Sir Maurice refused to go. He had seemed in a very queer temper—mark that!—ever since his return from his usual afternoon walk. But this temper changed. At half-past eight he was rung up on the telephone by his friend M. Veille, the art dealer of the rue de la Harpe. M. Veille reported that he had acquired a jewel, a treasure, a stunning addition for Sir Maurice’s collection. M. Veille suggested that he should bring this marvel to the Villa Bonheur for Sir Maurice’s immediate inspection. And this he did.”

  M. Goron paused. Dr. Dermot Kinross blew up smoke, watching it curl in the warm lazy air.

  “And the nature of this treasure?” he asked.

  “It was a snuff-box,” answered M. Goron. “A snuff-box said to have belonged to the Emperor Napoleon himself.”

  The prefect of police looked bewildered.

  “When M. Veille later told me the price of this article,” he went on, “I could not believe him. Sacred name! What people will pay for fads! Of course, apart from its historic interest …” He hesitated, craftily. “A propos! I suppose the Emperor Napoleon really did take snuff?”

  Dermot laughed.

  “My friend,” he said, “have you ever seen the part of Napoleon played on the English stage? No actor would think of playing it for five minutes without juggling a snuff-box and hurling it all over the stage at every third speech. Even in authentic memoirs he is always spilling snuff over himself.”

  M. Goron frowned.

  “There seems no reason,” he conceded, “to doubt the authenticity of the article. But its intrinsic value!” He drank coffee and rolled up his eyes. “It was made—look!—of transparent rose agate, bound with gold and set in small diamonds. Of curious shape, as you shall see. It carries with it a written pedigree, guaranteeing its genuineness.

  “Sir Maurice was delighted. It appears that he had a fondness for Napoleonic relics. He agreed to buy the box, asking leave to keep it now and saying that he would send a check in the morning. Incidentally, the box is still unpaid for and M. Veille is having fits and, faith, I don’t blame him.

  “On the same night Madame Neill, as I told you, went to the theatre with the rest of the Lawes family. The piece they saw was an English play called Mrs. Varren’s Profession. They returned home at about eleven o’clock, and there they separated. Young M. Horatio Lawes escorts her to her door, where he leaves her. Later, by the way, the examining magistrate asks him: ‘Monsieur, did you kiss her goodnight?’ The young man draws himself up like a stuffed owl and sternly answers: ‘Monsieur, that is no business of yours.’ Which the examining magistrate thought very suspicious, as perhaps indicating a quarrel. But it appears there was nothing of the kind.”

  Again M. Goron hesitated.

  “The Lawes family return to their villa. There they are greeted by Sir Maurice, who comes rushing downstairs to show them this treasure, in a little green-and-gold case. They display—with the exception of little Miss Janice, who says it is beautiful—a singular lack of enthusiasm. Lady Lawes declares it is a sinful waste of money. Sir Maurice Lawes, in something of a huff, pointedly says he will retire to his study where he can get some peace. The rest of them go to bed.

  “But two of them, observe, are unable to sleep.”

  M. Goron leaned over and tapped the table. He was so engrossed in the recital that his coffee had grown cold.

  “M. Horatio, this Tobee, admits he must rise up at one o’clock in the morning and telephone to Madame Neill. ‘Ah!’ says the examining magistrate; ‘you were on fire with love, no doubt?’ Whereat M. Horatio changes color and denies that he is on fire with anything. Not a clue, true! But, palpably, there is an atmosphere here. Something in the air. You agree?”

  “Not necessarily,” said Dermot.

  M. Goron blinked at him.

  “You do not agree?”

  “Never mind that, for the moment. Go on.”

  “Alors! He goes downstairs to telephone, returns, and goes to bed. The house is dark. He hears no sound. He sees a light under the door of his father’s study, but does not disturb Sir Maurice.

  “At the same time, Lady Lawes herself is restless. She is not exactly distressed or upset over the purchase of this snuff-box. But it worries her a little. She cannot sleep. At a quarter past one in the morning—mark the time!—she rises. She goes to her husband’s study. Ostensibly to beg him to come to bed; but really, as she confesses, to preach a mild sermon about people who buy such expensive bits of rose agate.”

  M. Goron’s voice raised and sharpened like an actor’s.

  “Finish!” he said, suddenly snapping his fingers. “She finds him sitting dead at his desk.

  “His head has been beaten in by nine blows from a poker which now hangs in a stand of fire irons across the room. He has been sitting with his back to the room, writing a description of the snuff-box which we find on a writing pad before him. But more! One of the blows, either by accident or design, has landed on the agate snuff-box and smashed it to bits.”

  Dermot whistled.

  “It is not enough,” said M. Goron, “to take the old man’s life. His treasure must be destroyed as well. Or perhaps (I repeat) it was an accident.”

  Dermot was growing more and more disturbed.

  “You could hardly aim at a target like a man’s head,” he replied, “and hit a snuff-box on a desk in front of him. Unless, of course …”

  “You were saying, dear doctor?”

  “Nothing. Please go on.”

  M. Goron had half risen on the tips of his toes, hand cupped behind his ear, as though to catch words of wisdom. His rather protruding eyes were fixed on Dermot. But he sank back again.

  “This crime,” he pursued, “is brutal. It is senseless. On the surface, it is almost the work of a madman…”

  “Nonsense,” said Dermot, with slight irritation. “On the contrary, it is absolutely characteristic.”

  “Characteristic?”

  “Of its type, yes. Forgive my interrupting you. Go on.”

  “Nothing is stolen,” said M. Goron. “There are no signs of burglarious entry. This crime has been committed by someone who knows the house, knows that a poker hangs by the fireplace, and even knows that the old man is slightly deaf so that he may be approa
ched unheard from behind. This Lawes family is a happy household, almost French. I assure you! Properly, they are bewildered and they are horrified.”

  “And then?”

  “They go to seek Madame Neill. They are fond of Madame Neill. Immediately after the crime is discovered, I am told, both M. Horatio and Miss Janice made determined efforts to see her. They were stopped by the policeman in charge, who properly told them they must not leave the house until the commissaire of police had arrived. I have even heard that Miss Janice slipped out of the house once more. But evidently she did not see Madame Neill.

  “The commissaire arrives. Good! He questions them. Good! They ask if they may see Madame Neill. The commissaire offers to send a man across the street to fetch her. This man, the same agent of police who has already shown such zeal, is despatched on the errand. By good luck, he carries a light. The houses are just opposite, as you may have heard or read…?”

  “Yes,” admitted Dermot.

  “The agent,” said M. Goron, leaning both fat elbows on the table and screwing up his face hideously, “opens the gate and goes up the path. In the path, just outside the front door of Madame Neill’s villa, he finds …”

  “Well?” prompted the other, as M. Goron paused.

  “A pink satin band or belt, such as women wear round dressing-gowns or negligées. And it is slightly stained with blood.”

  “I see.”

  Again there was a pause.

  “But this agent, he is cunning. He puts the satin band in his pocket, and says nothing. He rings the doorbell. Presently it is answered by two frightened women. The names of these women are,”—here M. Goron took out a very tiny memorandum book, which he held up to peer at,—“Yvette Latour, madame’s personal maid. And Célestine Bouchère, the cook.

  “These women whisper to him from the dark. They have their fingers at their lips. They enjoin silence. They draw him into a downstairs room, and explain what they have seen.

  “Yvette Latour tells how she is waked up by much noise. She goes out of her room, and sees Madame Neill creeping back into the house. Alarmed (though this is a strong-minded woman), Yvette wakes up Célestine Bouchère the cook. They creep down and peep into Madame Neill’s bedroom. Beyond, in a bathroom walled with looking-glasses, they see Madame Neill, much tousled and breathing from hard exertion, engaged in washing blood from her hands and face, and attempting to sponge out smaller blood spots from a white lace negligée whose waistband is missing.”

  M. Goron glanced quickly over his shoulder.

  More people were drifting along the terrace of the Donjon Hotel. The sun, sinking beyond the pine forest at the other side of the Avenue de la Forêt, was now in their eyes.

  It was, Dermot Kinross thought, a picture of almost intolerable vividness: the furtiveness, the peering servants, the agitated face multiplied by mirrors. It came from the dark night of evil, which was the province of the police, but also from the dark night of the mind, which was his own province. For the moment, he suspended judgment. He only said:

  “And then?”

  “Well! Our agent swears the two servants, Yvette and Célestine, to absolute silence. He goes upstairs boldly and knocks at Madame Neill’s bedroom door.”

  “She was in bed?”

  “On the contrary,” returned M. Goron, with a breath of admiration, “she was dressing herself in outdoor clothes. She explained that M. Horatio Lawes had awakened her with a telephone call—another telephone call, you observe, only a few minutes before—to tell her of the tragedy. Previous to that, she says she has heard nothing. Not police whistles or shouting in the street. Nothing!

  “But, dear doctor! My God, what acting! How she is shocked to tears by the death of Sir Maurice Lawes! How her lips open! How her eyes widen! There is the innocence of the pink rose, eh? And the white negligée hangs up in the wardrobe; and, in the bathroom adjoining, there is still steam on the mirrors from her efforts to wash away the old man’s blood.”

  Dermot stirred uncomfortably.

  “What about your policeman? What did he do?”

  “He laughed up his sleeve, kept a face of iron, and asked her if she would have the kindness to come across the street and comfort her friends. Then he made an excuse to lag behind.”

  “In order to…?”

  “Exactly. In order to take possession, in secret, of the negligée.”

  “Well?”

  “Yvette the maid was enjoined to say, under horrible oaths of silence, that it had been sent to the cleaner’s when Madame next asked for it. Several other things were genuinely sent to the cleaner’s to preserve the fiction. Would Madame care? No! The few blood spots were washed out. Of course, that such stains are always present for chemical examination undoubtedly never occurred to her. But the blood spots, dear doctor, are not at all the most interesting thing about that negligée.”

  “No?”

  “No,” said M. Goron, and drummed on the table. “It is Yvette Latour who closely examines that robe under the eyes of my man. It is Yvette Latour who finds, clinging to the lace, a small sliver of rose agate.”

  This time the prefect of police’s pause was not one of drama. It was one of deep and regretful finality.

  “A week of patient reconstruction has enabled us to fit that sliver exactly into its place in the shattered snuff-box. It was a chip which flew wide from the box when Madame Eve Neill took a poker and beat the old man to death. This is a devilish thing. But it is conclusive. It serves. And it will end Madame Neill’s public career, I think.”

  There was a silence. Dermot cleared his throat.

  “What explanation,” he inquired, “has Madame Neill for all this?”

  M. Goron looked shocked.

  “I beg your pardon,” Dermot added. “I forgot. You haven’t mentioned it to her yet, have you?”

  “In this country, doctor,”—M. Goron spoke with dignity,—“we do not consider it good sense to show our cards until the game is complete. She will be asked for explanations. But that will come after the arrest, when she is confronted with the examining magistrate.”

  And very unpleasant things, Dermot remembered, those confrontations could be. Though no actual third-degree was employed, the law permitted nearly every form of “mental” pressure. It would require a very tough, very strong-minded woman to outface her questioners and say nothing she might afterwards regret.

  “Are you sure,” he asked, “that no word of your evidence against Madame Neill has leaked out?”

  “Very sure, monsieur.”

  “I congratulate you. What about the two servants, Yvette Latour and Célestine Bouchère? Do they gossip?”

  “No: that arranges itself. Célestine has been sent away for the moment, pleading shock. The other one, the maid, has been a tower of strength. She keeps her mouth shut.” M. Goron looked thoughtful. “And I do not think she likes Madame Neill very much.”

  “So?”

  “But one thing I can tell you. This Lawes family have been magnificent! It is impossible to admire them too much. They are nearly out of their minds. Yet they answer all our questions. They keep what you call,” for three words M. Goron ventured into English, “the steef ooper leep. They are tirelessly kind to Madame Neill….”

  “And why shouldn’t they be? Do they suspect her of the murder?”

  “Sacred name, no!”

  “How do they account for the murder, then?”

  M. Goron waved his hands. “How can they account for it? A burglar! A maniac!”

  “Yet nothing was stolen?”

  “Nothing,” M. Goron conceded, “was stolen. But something else besides the agate snuff-box was disturbed. In a glass case to the left of the door in the old man’s study was another treasure of his collection. This was a valuable diamond-and-turquoise necklace, also with a historical pedigree.”

  “Well?”

  “The necklace, slightly bloodstained, was found flung down in a heap under the curio cabinet afterwards. A maniac!”

 
Dr. Dermot Kinross, who was perhaps the foremost mental specialist in England on the subject of criminal psychology, looked across at his companion with a curious expression.

  “A convenient term,” he said.

  “A convenient term, dear doctor? What?”

  “‘Maniac.’ How was this alleged burgling maniac supposed to have got into the house?”

  “That, fortunately,” said M. Goron, “is a point which has not yet occurred to the family.”

  “If it comes to that, how did Madame Neill herself get into it?”

  M. Goron sighed.

  “I fear,” he said, “that it is the final proof. Four of the villas in the rue des Anges were put up by the same building company. The keys of one will fit the doors of all the others.”

  Again with reluctant weightiness, M. Goron leaned across the table.

  “In the breast pocket of Madame Neill’s pajamas,” he went on, “the invaluable Yvette Latour discovered a key to the front door of her own villa. Now, come! A key to one’s own villa, carried in the pajamas? For what purpose? Can you think of any reasonable explanation—any innocent explanation—why you keep such a key on your person when you are ready for bed? No. There is only one explanation. Madame Neill needed it to get into the house across the street. It constitutes the final contributing proof that she visited the Villa Bonheur on the night of the murder.”

  They had got her. No doubt about that.

  “Still… the woman’s motive?” Dermot persisted.

  And M. Goron told him.

  The sun had dipped behind the trees across the avenue. Pink fire remained in the sky, a mild and heady warmth in the air. French sunshine can be as blinding as a spotlight; when its dazzle left their eyes, they blinked to adjust themselves to it. A small bead of sweat remained on M. Goron’s forehead.

  Dermot got up to throw the stump of his cigarette over the stone balustrade by which they had been sitting. But he did not throw it. His hand remained in the air.