ON PRESENTING MYSELF at the headquarters of the Toulon police I was immediately ushered into the room of the chief inspector. He was sitting at a table, a heavy, swarthy man of saturnine appearance whom I took to be a Corsican. He threw me, perhaps from force of habit, a suspicious glance; but noticing the ribbon of the Legion of Honor, which I had taken the precaution to put in my buttonhole, with an unctuous smile asked me to sit down and proceeded to make profuse apologies for having been obliged to incommode a person of my distinction. Adopting a similar tone, I assured him that nothing could make me happier than to be of service to him. Then we got down to brass tacks and he resumed his brusque, rather insolent manner. Looking at some papers before him, he said:
“This is a dirty business. It appears that the woman Macdonald had a very bad reputation. She was a drunkard, a dope fiend, and a nymphomaniac. She was in the habit of sleeping not only with sailors off the ships, but with the riffraff of the town. How does it happen that a person of your age and respectability should be acquainted with such a character?”
I was inclined to tell him that it was no business of his, but from a diligent perusal of hundreds of detective stories I have learnt that it is well to be civil with the police.
“I knew her very little. I met her when she was a girl in Chicago, where she afterward married a man of good position. I met her again in Paris a year or so ago through friends of hers and mine.”
I had been wondering how on earth he had ever connected me with Sophie, but now he pushed forward a book.
“This volume was found in her room. If you will kindly look at the dedication you will see that it hardly suggests that your acquaintance with her was as slight as you claim.”
It was the translation of that novel of mine that she had seen in the bookshop window and asked me to write in. Under my own name I had written “Mignonne, allons voir si la rose,” because it was the first thing that occurred to me. It certainly looked a trifle familiar.
“If you are suggesting that I was her lover, you are mistaken.”
“It would be no affair of mine,” he replied, and then with a gleam in his eye: “And without wishing to say anything offensive to you I must add that from what I have heard of her proclivities I should not say you were her type. But it is evident that you would not address a perfect stranger as mignonne.”
“That line, monsieur le commissaire, is the first line of a celebrated poem by Ronsard, whose works I am certain are familiar to a man of your education and culture. I wrote it because I felt sure she knew the poem and would recall the following lines, which might suggest to her that the life she was leading was, to say the least of it, indiscreet.”
“Evidently I have read Ronsard at school, but with all the work I have to do I confess that the lines you refer to have escaped my memory.”
I repeated the first stanza and knowing very well he had never heard the poet’s name till I mentioned it, had no fear that he would recall the last one which can hardly be taken as an incitement to virtue.
“She was apparently a woman of some education. We found a number of detective stories in her room and two or three volumes of poetry. There was a Baudelaire and a Rimbaud and an English volume by someone called Eliot. Is he known?”
“Widely.”
“I have no time to read poetry. In any case I cannot read English. If he is a good poet it is a pity he doesn’t write in French, so that educated people could read him.”
The thought of my chief inspector reading The Waste Land filled me with pleasure. Suddenly he pushed a snapshot toward me.
“Have you any idea who that is?”
I immediately recognized Larry. He was in bathing trunks, and the photograph, a recent one, had been taken, I guessed, during the summer part of which he had spent with Isabel and Gray at Dinard. My first impulse was to say I did not know, for I wanted nothing less than to get Larry mixed up in this hateful business, but I reflected that if the police discovered his identity my assertion would look as if I thought there was something to hide.
“He’s an American citizen called Laurence Darrell.”
“It was the only photograph found among the woman’s effects. What was the connection between them?”
“They both came from the same village near Chicago. They were childhood friends.”
“But this photograph was taken not long ago, I suspect at a seaside resort in the North or on the West of France. It would be easy to discover the exact place. What is he, this individual?”
“An author,” I said boldly. The inspector slightly raised his bushy eyebrows and I guessed that he did not attribute high morality to members of my calling. “Of independent means,” I added to make it sound more respectable.
“Where is he now?”
Again I was tempted to say I didn’t know, but again decided it would only make things awkward if I did. The French police may have many faults, but their system enables them to find anyone they want without delay.
“He’s living at Sanary.”
The inspector looked up and it was clear that he was interested.
“Where?”
I had remembered Larry telling me that Auguste Cottet had lent him his cottage and on my return at Christmas I had written to ask him to come and stay with me for a while, but as I fully expected he had refused. I gave the inspector his address.
“I’ll telephone to Sanary and have him brought here. It might be worthwhile to question him.”
I could not but see that the inspector thought that here might be a suspect, but I was only inclined to laugh; I was convinced that Larry could easily prove that he had nothing to do with the affair. I was anxious to hear more about Sophie’s lamentable end, but the inspector only told me in somewhat greater detail what I already knew. Two fishermen had brought the body in. It was a romantic exaggeration of my local policeman’s that it was stark naked. The murderer had left girdle and brassière. If Sophie had been dressed in the same way as I had seen her he had had to strip her only of her slacks and her jersey. There was nothing to identify her and the police had inserted a description in the local paper. This had brought a woman to the station who kept a small rooming-house in a back street, what the French called a maison de passe, to which men could bring women or boys. She was an agent of the police, who liked to know who frequented her house and what for. Sophie had been turned out of the hotel on the quay at which she was living when I ran across her because her conduct was more scandalous than even the tolerant proprietor could put up with. She had offered to engage a room with a tiny sitting-room beside it in the house of the woman I have just mentioned. It was more profitable to let it two or three times a night for short periods, but Sophie offered to pay so handsomely that the woman consented to rent it to her by the month. She came to the police station now to state that her tenant had been absent for several days; she had not bothered, thinking she had gone for a trip to Marseilles or to Villefranche, where ships of the British fleet had lately arrived, an event that always attracted women, young and old, from all along the coast; but she had read the description of the deceased in the paper and thought it might apply to her tenant. She had been taken to see the body and after a trifling hesitation declared it was that of Sophie Macdonald.
“But if the body’s been identified, what do you want me for?”
“Madame Bellet is a woman of high honorability and excellent character,” said the inspector, “but she may have reasons for identifying the dead woman that we do not know; and in any case I think she should be seen by someone who was more closely connected with her so that the fact may be confirmed.”
“Do you think you have any chance of catching the murderer?”
The inspector shrugged his massive shoulders.
“Naturally we are making inquiries. We have questioned a number of persons at the bars she used to go to. She may have been killed out of jealousy by a sailor whose ship has already left the port, or by a gangster for whatever money she had on her. It appears that she always had on her a sum that would seem large to a man of that sort. It may be that some people have a strong suspicion who the culprit is, but in the circles she moved it is unlikely that anyone will speak unless it is to his advantage. Consorting with the bad characters she did, such an end as she has come to was only too probable.”
I had nothing to say to this. The inspector asked me to come next morning at nine o’clock, by which time he would have seen “this gentleman of the photograph,” after which a policeman would take us to the nearest morgue to see the body.
“And how about burying her?”
“If after identifying the body you claim it as friends of the deceased and are prepared to undertake the expense of the funeral yourselves, you will receive the necessary authorization.”
“I’m sure that Mr. Darrell and I would like to have it as soon as possible.”
“I quite understand. It is a sad story and it is better that the poor woman should be laid to rest without delay. And that reminds me that I have here the card of an undertaker who will arrange the matter for you on reasonable terms and with dispatch. I will just write a line on it so that he may give you every attention.”
I was pretty sure he would get a rake-off on the amount paid, but I thanked him warmly, and when he had ushered me out with every expression of esteem I went forthwith to the address on the card. The undertaker was brisk and businesslike. I chose a coffin, neither the cheapest nor the most expensive, accepted his offer to get me two or three wreaths from a florist of his acquaintance—“to save monsieur a painful duty and out of respect for the dead,” he said—and arranged for the hearse to be at the morgue at two o’clock the next day. I could not but admire his efficiency when he told me that I need not trouble to see about a grave, he would do all that was necessary, and “Madame was a Protestant, I assume,” furthermore he would, if I wished it, have a pastor waiting at the cemetery to read the burial service. But since I was a stranger and a foreigner he was sure that I would not take it amiss if he asked me to be good enough to give him a check in advance. He named a larger sum than I had foreseen, evidently expecting me to beat him down, and I discerned a look of surprise, perhaps even of disappointment, on his face when I took out my check-book and wrote out a check without demur.
I took a room at an hotel and next morning returned to the police station. I was kept waiting for some time and then was bidden to go into the chief inspector’s office. I found Larry, looking grave and distressed, sitting in the chair I had sat in the day before. The inspector greeted me with joviality. I might have been a long-lost brother.
“Well, mon cher monsieur, your friend has answered all the questions it was my duty to put him with the utmost frankness. I have no reason to disbelieve his statement that he had not seen this poor woman for eighteen months. He has accounted for his movements during the last week in a perfectly satisfactory manner as well as for the fact that his photograph was found in her room. It was taken at Dinard and he happened to have it in his pocket one day when he was lunching with her. I have had excellent reports of the young man from Sanary and I am besides, I say it without vanity, a good judge of character myself; I am convinced that he is incapable of committing a crime of this nature. I have ventured to offer him my sympathy that a friend of his childhood, brought up with all the advantages of a healthy family life, should have turned out so badly. But such is life. And now, my dear gentlemen, one of my men will accompany you to the morgue and when you have identified the body, your time is at your own disposal. Go and have a good lunch. I have a card here of the best restaurant in Toulon and I will just write a word on it which will assure you of the patron’s best attention. A good bottle of wine will do you both good after this harrowing experience.”
He was by now positively beaming with good will. We walked to the mortuary with a policeman. They were not doing a lively business in that establishment. There was a body on one slab only. We went up to it and the mortuary attendant uncovered the head. It was not a pleasant sight. The sea water had taken the curl out of the dyed silvery hair and it was plastered dankly on the skull. The face was horribly swollen and it was ghastly to look at, but there was no doubt that it was Sophie’s. The attendant drew the covering sheet down to show us what we both would rather not have seen, the horrid gash across the throat that stretched from ear to ear.
We went back to the station. The chief inspector was busy, but we said what we had to say to an assistant; he left us and presently returned with the necessary papers. We took them to the undertaker.
“Now let’s have a drink,” I said.
Larry hadn’t uttered a word since we left the police station to go to the mortuary except on our return there to declare that he identified the body as that of Sophie Macdonald. I led him down to the quay and we sat in the café in which I had sat with her. A strong mistral was blowing and the harbor, usually so smooth, was flecked with white foam. The fishing-boats were gently rocking. The sun shone brightly and, as always happens with a mistral, every object in sight had a peculiar sparkling sharpness as though you looked at it through glasses focused with more than common accuracy. It imparted a nerve-racking, throbbing vitality to everything in sight. I drank a brandy and soda, but Larry never touched the one I had ordered for him. He sat in moody silence and I did not disturb him.
Presently I looked at my watch.
“We’d better go and have something to eat,” I said. “We’ve got to be at the mortuary at two.”
“I’m hungry, I didn’t have any breakfast.”
Having judged from his appearance that the chief inspector knew where the food was good, I took Larry to the restaurant he had told us of. Knowing that Larry seldom ate meat, I ordered an omelette and a grilled lobster and then, asking for the wine list, chose, again following the policeman’s counsel, a vintage wine. When it appeared I poured out a glass for Larry.
“You damn well drink it,” I said. “It may suggest a topic of conversation to you.”
He obediently did as I bade him.
“Shri Ganesha used to say that silence also is conversation,” he murmured.
“That suggests a jolly social gathering of intellectual dons at the University of Cambridge.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to stand the racket of this funeral by yourself,” he said. “I haven’t any money.”
“I’m quite prepared to do that,” I answered. Then the implication of his remark hit me. “You haven’t been and gone and done it really?”
He did not answer for a moment. I noticed the whimsical, teasing glint in his eyes.
“You haven’t got rid of your money?”
“Every cent except what I need to last me till my ship comes in.”
“What ship?”
“The man who has the next cottage to mine at Sanary is the Marseilles agent of a line of freighters that run from the Near East to New York. They’ve cabled him from Alexandria that they’ve had to put off a couple of sick men there from a ship that’s coming on to Marseilles and asked him to get two more to take their place. He’s a buddy of mine and he’s promised to get me on. I’m giving him my old Citroën as a parting present. When I step on board I shall have nothing but the clothes I stand up in and a few things in a grip.”
“Well, it’s your own money. You’re free, white, and twenty-one.”
“Free is the right word. I’ve never been happier or felt more independent in my life. When I get to New York I shall have my wages and they’ll carry me on till I can get a job.”
“What about your book?”
“Oh, it’s finished and printed. I made a list of people I wanted it sent to—you ought to get a copy in a day or two.”
“Thank you.”
There was not much more to say and we finished our meal in amiable silence. I ordered coffee. Larry lit a pipe and I a cigar. I looked at him thoughtfully. He felt my eyes upon him and threw me a glance; his own were lit with an impish twinkle.
“If you feel like telling me I’m a damned fool, don’t hesitate. I wouldn’t in the least mind.”
“No, I don’t particularly feel like that. I was only wondering if your life wouldn’t have fallen into a more perfect pattern if you’d married and had children like everybody else.”
He smiled. I must have remarked twenty times on the beauty of his smile, it was so cozy, trustful, and sweet, it reflected the candor, the truthfulness of his charming nature; but I must do so once again, for now, besides all that, there was in it something rueful and tender.
“It’s too late for that now. The only woman I’ve met whom I could have married was poor Sophie.”
I looked at him with amazement.
“Can you say that after all that’s happened?”
“She had a lovely soul, fervid, aspiring, and generous. Her ideals were greathearted. There was even at the end a tragic nobility in the way she sought destruction.”
I was silent. I did not know what to make of these strange assertions.
“Why didn’t you marry her then?” I asked.
“She was a child. To tell you the truth, it never occurred to me when I used to go over to her grandfather’s and we read poetry together under the elm tree that there was in that skinny brat the seed of spiritual beauty.”
I could not but think it surprising that at this juncture he made no mention of Isabel. He could not have forgotten that he had been engaged to her and I could only suppose that he regarded the episode as a foolishness without consequence of two young things not old enough to know their own minds. I was ready to believe that the suspicion had never so much as fugitively crossed his mind that ever since she had been eating her heart out for him.
It was time for us to go. We walked to the square where Larry had left his car, very shabby now, and drove to the mortuary. The undertaker was as good as his word. The businesslike efficiency with which everything was accomplished, under that garish sky, with the violent wind bending the cypresses of the cemetery, added a last note of horror to the proceedings. When it was all over the undertaker shook hands with us cordially.
“Well, gentlemen, I hope you were satisfied. It went very well.”
“Very well,” I said.
“Monsieur will not forget that I am always at his disposition if he has need of my services. Distance is no object.”
I thanked him. When we came to the gate of the cemetery Larry asked me if there was anything further I wanted him for.
“Nothing.”
“I’d like to get back to Sanary as soon as possible.”
“Drop me at my hotel, will you?”
We spoke never a word as we drove. When we arrived I got out. We shook hands and he went off. I paid my bill, got my bag, and took a taxi to the station. I too wanted to get away.