She was - suspicious, stiff, formal, I don't know how to put it! But entirely unlike herself.'
I was looking over at Mile Prevost, who sat in the shadow. The lovely face had an expression of tortured doubt, and her eyes were half closed.
'Forgive me for asking this, madame,' Bencolin requested, in a low voice, 'but you understand that it is necessary. But - Mademoiselle Duchene, so far as you know, had no particular interest in any man except Captain Chaumont?'
At first, anger tightened madame's nostrils; but it was followed by an expression of weary and humorous tolerance.
'None. It might have been better if she had.'
'I see. You believe her death was the result of a wanton and senseless attack.'
'Naturally.' Tears filmed over her eyes. 'She - she was lured out of here, and . . . how, I don't know! That's what I can't understand! She was to have tea with Claudine Martel, a friend of hers, and Robert. Suddenly she cancelled both engagements by telephone, and a little later she ran out of the house. I was surprised, because she always comes to tell me good-bye. That - that was the last time I saw her before ., .'
'You did not hear these telephone conversations?'
'No. I was upstairs. I assumed, when she left the house, that she was going to tea. Robert told me later.'
Bencolin inclined his head, as though he were listening to the little enamel clock. Beyond the grey windows I saw the sodden trees trembling under the wind in a flicker of scarlet maple - leaves. Gina Prevost had sat back on die divan with closed eyes; the dim light washed the perfect contour of her throat, and her long eyelashes were wet. It was so quiet up here that the jangle of the doorbell from below made us all start a little.
'Lucie is in the kitchen, Paul,' madame said. 'Do not trouble; she will answer it.... Well, monsieur?'
The bell was still pealing as we heard hurried footsteps go along the lower hall. Bencolin inquired:
'Mademoiselle Duchene kept no diaries, no papers, that might give us a clue?'
'She started a diary every year, and never carried it past the first two weeks. No. Her papers she kept, yes; but I have been over them and there is nothing.'
'Then ' Bencolin was beginning, when he stopped
short. His eyes remained fixed, his hand half-way to his chin. Suddenly I felt a horrible excitement pounding in my chest. I glanced at Gina Prevost, who had seized the arm of die divan and was sitting there rigid... .
Very distinctly we could hear, floating up from the hall below, the voice of the person who had rung the door-bell. It said deprecatingly:
'A thousand pardons. I wonder if I might see Madame Duchene ? My name is Etienne Galant.'
None of us moved or spoke. The voice had such an arresting quality that, even though you heard it for the first time without seeing the speaker, you would wonder to whom it belonged. Deep, ingratiating, tenderly sympathetic. I could visualize Galant standing there in the doorway, framed against the damp leaves outside. He would have a silk hat in his hands; his shoulders, under their correct morning coat, would be slightly bent, as though he were offering apologies on a platter; and the yellow-grey eyes would be full of solicitude.
My eyes travelled to the faces here. Madame's gaze was opaque, rather too set. Gina Prevost stared wildly at the door as though she could not believe her ears. ...
'Unwell?' the voice repeated, in reply to a murmur. 'That is too bad! My name will be unknown to her, but I was a very great friend of her late husband's, and I very much want to convey my deepest sympathies. ... ‘ A pause, as though he were meditating. 'Let me see. I believe Mademoiselle Gina Prevost is here. Ah, yes. Perhaps I might speak to her instead, as a friend of the family. Thank you.' A maid's light footfalls crossed the lower hall towards the stairs: Hurriedly Gina Prevost rose.
'You - you don't want to be disturbed. Mamma Duchene,' she said, trying to smile. 'Now don't disturb yourself. I will go down and see him.'
She uttered the words as though she were breathing too hard. Madame remained motionless. I saw the girl's white face as she swished past us. She closed the door after her. On the instant. Bencolin whispered, swiftly:
'Madame, is there a back stairway to this house? Quick please!'
Startled, she met his eyes, and it seemed to me
'Well - yes. It goes down between the dining-room and kitchen, then out to the side door.'
'Can you get to the front room from there?'
'Yes, The room where Odette — ‘
'You know where this is?' he demanded of Robiquet. 'Good! Show it to Monsieur Marie here. Hurry, Jeff. You know what to do.'
His fierce eyes told me to listen to that conversation at any cost. Robiquet was so bewildered that he almost stumbled, but he caught the urge to hurry and to make no noise. We could hear Gina Prevost descending the stairs, but she was hidden in the darkened hall. Robiquet showed me a narrow flight of steps - carpeted, fortunately - and his pantomime gave me directions. A door at their foot emitted a slight creak, but I pushed through it into a dim dining-room. Beyond it. through half-opened doors, I could see the dull, white flowers. Yes! In that front room where the casket lay, the portieres were almost drawn shut over the door to the hallway. I wriggled through to this room, almost knocking over a huge casket of lilies. The closed shutters building up slits of light, the stuffy sweetness, the dove-grey coffin with its polished handles - into the quiet of this place drifted voices. They were standing in the centre of the hall. Then I realized that they were speaking in voices audible on the second floor, and adding their real communication in whispers which barely reached me as I stood behind the portieres.
'…understand, monsieur - I did not catch your name
- you wished to see me?'
('You must be mad! That detective is here!')
'Probably you don't remember me, mademoiselle; I had the pleasure of meeting you once at Madame De Louvac's, My name is Galant.'
('I had to see you. Where is he?')
'Oh, yes. You understand, monsieur, that we are all upset here — ?'
('Upstairs. They're all upstairs. The maid is in the kitchen. For God's sake, go!')
I wondered how long her voice would keep that casualness; husky, indifferent, with the unconscious caress beneath it. Behind the curtain I could even hear her breathing.
'A mutual friend of ours, whom I telephoned, told me you were here, so I ventured to ask for you. I can't tell you how profoundly shocked I was to hear of Mademoiselle Duchene's death.'
('He suspects me, but he doesn't know about you. We must go somewhere to talk.')
'We - we were all shocked, monsieur.'
('I can't!')
Galant sighed. 'Then you will convey my deepest sympathy to madame, and tell her I shall be happy to do anything I can ? Thank you. I might, perhaps, look at the poor mademoiselle?'
('They can't hear us in there.')
My heart rose up sickeningly. I heard a sort of protesting sob, a rasp as though her hand had brushed his sleeve and he had shaken it off. His voice remained gentle and tender. Standing in the centre of the room, I felt as though I had been caught against a wall. I could not understand the horror and revulsion I felt at doing what I did then. Crossing to the coffin, I slid behind a gigantic floral tribute of white carnations at its head. I was wedged against the screen before the fireplace, in imminent danger of having my foot rattle against it. The situation had about it a sort of ghastly comedy which was as much of an insult to Odette Duchene as though mud had been flung at her dead face. A human being had lived for
'Pretty,' said Galant. 'What's the matter, my dear? You're not looking at her. But weak, like her father. ... Listen to me. I've got to have a talk with you. You were too hysterical last night.'
'Please, won't you go? I can't look at her. I won't see you. I promised to stay here all day, and if I go out, after you've been here, that detective may. ... '
