Джорджетт Хейер: Footsteps in the Dark

They had just started breakfast when Michael came in.

"Hullo!" Peter said. "Had breakfast?"

"Yes thanks, I had some at the Bell. How are you both feeling?"

"I've got a whacking great bump on my head, but otherwise we're all right. Sit down and have a second breakfast. Did you get back safely last night?"

"Yes, but only just in time," Michael answered, sitting beside Margaret. "Thanks, Mrs. Malcolm." He took the coffee-cup she had handed him. "Look here, the first thing I want to know…'

Charles, who had got up to carve some ham for him, turned. "I beg your pardon? I admit I'm not feeling at my best this morning, but it seemed to me that you said you wanted to know something."

"I do," Michael said brazenly.

Charles returned to his chair and sat down. "Someone else can go on carving," he said. "I'm not strong enough.

Moreover, I don't want to give him any of that peculiarly succulent ham now. A remark more calculated to provoke a peaceful man to homicide I've never yet heard."

"Sorry," Michael grinned. "But it's important. Did either you or your sister, Fortescue, get any idea of the Monk's identity?"

"What, don't you know who he is?" Charles demanded.

"Not yet."

Charles looked round at the others. "I don't believe he's a detective at all. Let's exorcise him. Anyone got any wolfbane, or is that only good against vampires?"

"You needn't pay any attention to Charles," Margaret said. "We never do. Peter didn't see the monk, and I didn't recognise him at all. He never spoke, and the disguise absolutely covered him."

"Just one thing!" Peter said. "There was a button missing from one glove."

Michael's eyes brightened. "So even the Monk slips up occasionally! That's going to be very valuable. You can't tell me anything more about him?"

"No, except that he's about your height," Margaret said, "and very strong."

"I see. I hoped he might have given you some clue to his identity."

"Haven't you got any idea who he is?" Margaret asked.

"I've got a strong suspicion, but that's not quite enough."

"Oh, do tell us," Celia begged.

He shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't do that."

Charles reached out a hand for the marmalade. "Let it be clearly understood," he said, "that if you don't propose to gratify our curiosity, you've obtained that ham under false pretences. Kindly let us have the whole story."

"All right," Michael said. "How much did Tomlinson tell you?"

"Practically nothing. When he turned up last night I told him that I'd rung you up at the Bell, and found you out. Where were you, by the way?"

"Hidden in the cellar. Where did you ring up from?"

"Ackerley's place. He was out, but the butler let me in."

"I see," said Michael. "What time was it?"

"About midnight. Well, considering everything you'll hardly be surprised when I say that I regarded your absence as fishy in the extreme. The inspector seemed extraordinarily loth to do anything, and I rather lost patience. I threatened to go to the Bell, knock them up, and lie in wait for you. That upset old Tomlinson, and after a bit he took me aside and after swearing me to secrecy, told me who you were. That rather changed the complexion of things, of course. His point was that if you weren't at the Bell you were on the Monk's tracks. Who the Monk was, or what he was up to, he wouldn't tell me. The only thing he was worrying about was to keep me from giving the alarm and thus spoiling your game. He held that nothing could be done till you turned up. I agreed to give you till this morning to put in an appearance, and then you turned up. Now let's have your story."

"It's rather long," Michael said, "but I'll make it as brief as I can. It began four years ago. I wasn't on it then, of course, but about that time the French police discovered that there were a number of forged Banque de France notes circulating through the country. These notes were obviously the work of an absolute master, and it takes an expert all his time to detect them. Well, I won't go into all the early details, but it soon became apparent that whoever was responsible for the notes was a pretty cunning rogue who knew not only how to hide his tracks, but how to keep his staff in such dread of him that they'd go to gaol sooner than speak. About three years ago the French police got hold of one of the Monk's agents, but nothing they could threaten or promise had the slightest effect on him. He's serving his term now. The only thing he said from start to finish was that prison was better than what would certainly happen if he spoke."

"Poor thing!" said Mrs. Bosanquet charitably. "Let us hope that he will see the error of his ways and reform. Though I believe the French prisons are not so good as ours in that respect. But do go on, Mr.… Do you mind telling me what your name is?"

"Draycott," he replied.

"A much better name than Strange," she approved.

"Thank you," he said gravely. "Where was I? Oh yes! Well, these notes went on circulating, and to make it more difhicult they were not all of one denomination, as is generally the case. The Surete is pretty good at its job, you know, but it was completely baffled. Whenever the police thought they were on the right track it led them to a blank wall. The man who eventually discovered the key to the mystery was a Customs official at Boulogne, who knew nothing whatever about it. There was a man called Alphonse Martin who was employed by a firm of manufacturers of cheap goods outside Paris. They turn out quantities of so-called Parisian novelties, such as you'll see in any second-class linen-draper's. Pocket combs, studded with paste, puff boxes, and all that sort of meretricious junk that's designed to catch the eyes of city typists, and domestic servants. As you probably know, one of the chief markets for that particular class of' goods is England. Most firms deal through an agent - a middleman - or rather, they used to before the war. But the middleman, though he still exists, had been getting more and more squeezed out of late years, since manufacturers have discovered that he isn't necessary, and it pays them far better to sell direct to the various stores. One of the foreign firms who had tried this, and found it was a success, was this firm for which Martin worked. Martin was a man of about thirty-five, and had been employed by the firm for years. Married man, with children, who lived at Neuilly, led a very respectable sort of life, was well known to any number of people, and was altogether above suspicion. He was a man of fair education, and he had the advantage of being able to speak English through having lived over here for some years when he was in his early twenties. This qualification, coupled with his good record, and the fact that he was apparently a very capable salesman, got him promoted to the job of acting as the firm's chief agent for England. He was known to most of the buyers of London and provincial stores, and he used to come over from time to time with suitcases full of samples. The Customs officials all got to know him, he never tried to smuggle anything through, and after a bit his baggage was never searched except in a perfunctory way.

"This might have gone on for ever if a new Customs officer hadn't been sent to the Douane at Boulogne to take the place of someone who was leaving. The fellow was a young chap, very keen to show himself smart at the job, and he didn't know Martin from Adam. Unfortunately for him Martin fell into his hands on the last of his journeys from London back to Paris. Whether the new official found anything irregular amongst the goods Martin was carrying, or whether he was merely being officious, I don't know, but at all events, he took exception to something or other, and made Martin unpack the whole of one suitcase. This is where the douanier really did show that he was a smart fellow, for in the course of his suspicious search through the suitcase, he noticed that the cubic content of the inside didn't correspond with the size of the case on the outside. In fact, he discovered that the suitcase had a false bottom and false sides. Martin put up some story of a specially strengthened frame; it didn't entirely satisfy the douanier and he talked of making further investigations. Then Martin lost his head, and tried to bolt. After that the game was up, of course. He was caught, the suitcase was examined, and a whole consignment of Banque de France notes was found to be lining the bottom and the sides. Same with the two other cases he had.