“Is it a sitting down matter?” he said, indicating one of the armchairs. The Inspector took it while Felix dropped into the other.
“I want, Mr. Felix,” began the detective, “to make some inquiries about a cask which you got from the steamer Bullfinch this morning—or rather yesterday, for this is really Tuesday—and which I have reason to believe is still in your possession.”
“Yes?”
“The steamboat people think that a mistake has been made and that the cask that you received was not the one consigned to you, and which you expected.”
“The cask I received is my own property. It was invoiced to me and the freight was paid. What more do the shipping company want?”
“But the cask you received was not addressed to you. It was invoiced to a Mr. Felix of West Jubb Street, Tottenham Court Road.”
“The cask was addressed to me. I admit the friend who sent it made a mistake in the address, but it was for me all the same.”
“But if we bring the other Mr. Felix—The West Jubb Street Mr. Felix—here, and he also claims it, you will not then, I take it, persist in your claim?”
The black-bearded man moved uneasily. He opened his mouth to reply, and then hesitated. The Inspector felt sure he had seen the little pitfall only just in time.
“If you produce such a man,” he said at last, “I am sure I can easily convince him that the cask was really sent to me and not to him.”
“Well, we shall see about that later. Meantime, another question. What was in the cask you were expecting?”
“Statuary.”
“You are sure of that?”
“Why, of course I’m sure. Really, Mr. Inspector, I’d like to know by what right I am being subjected to this examination.”
“I shall tell you, Mr. Felix. Scotland Yard has reason to believe there is something wrong about that cask, and an investigation has been ordered. You were naturally the first person to approach, but since the cask turns out not to be yours, we shall—”
“Not to be mine? What do you mean? Who says it is not mine?”
“Pardon me, you yourself said so. You have just told me the cask you expected contained statuary. We know the one you received does not contain statuary. Therefore you have got the wrong one.”
Felix paled suddenly, and a look of alarm crept into his eyes. Burnley leant forward and touched him on the knee.
“You will see for yourself, Mr. Felix, that if this matter is to blow over we must have an explanation of these discrepancies. I am not suggesting you can’t give one. I am sure you can. But if you refuse to do so you will undoubtedly arouse unpleasant suspicions.”
Felix remained silent, and the Inspector did not interrupt his train of thought.
“Well,” he said at length, “I have really nothing to hide, only one does not like being bluffed. I will tell you, if I can, what you want to know. Satisfy me that you are from Scotland Yard.”
Burnley showed his credentials, and the other said:—
“Very good. Then I may admit I misled you about the contents of the cask, though I told you the literal and absolute truth. The cask is full of plaques—plaques of kings and queens. Isn’t that statuary? And if the plaques should be small and made of gold and called sovereigns, aren’t they still statuary? That is what the cask contains, Mr. Inspector. Sovereigns. £988 in gold.”
“What else?”
“Nothing else.”
“Oh, come now, Mr. Felix. We knew there was money in the cask. We also know there is something else. Think again.”
“Oh, well, there will be packing, of course. I haven’t opened it and I don’t know. But £988 in gold would go a small way towards filling it. There will be sand or perhaps alabaster or some other packing.”
“I don’t mean packing. Do you distinctly tell me no other special object was included?”
“Certainly, but I suppose I’d better explain the whole thing.”
He stirred the embers of the fire together, threw on a couple of logs and settled himself more comfortably in his chair.
V
Felix Tells a Story
“I am a Frenchman, as you know,” began Felix, “but I have lived in London for some years, and I run over to Paris frequently on both business and pleasure. About three weeks ago on one of these visits I dropped into the Café Toisson d’Or in the rue Royale, where I joined a group of acquaintances. The conversation turned on the French Government lotteries, and one of the men, a M. Le Gautier, who had been defending the system, said to me, ‘Why not join in a little flutter?’ I refused at first, but afterwards changed my mind and said I would sport 500 francs if he did the same. He agreed, and I gave him £20 odd as my share. He was to carry the business through in his name, letting me know the result and halving the profits, if any. I thought no more about the matter till last Friday, when, on my return home in the evening, I found a letter from Le Gautier, which surprised, pleased, and annoyed me in equal measure.”
Mr. Felix drew a letter from a drawer of his writing-table and passed it to the Inspector. It was in French, and though the latter had a fair knowledge of the language, he was not quite equal to the task, and Mr. Felix translated. The letter ran as follows:—
“Rue de Vallorbes, 997,
“Avenue Friedland,
“Paris.
““My Dear Felix—I have just had the most wonderful news! We have won! The lottery has drawn trumps and our 1,000 francs has become 50,000—25,000 francs each! I shake both your hands!
“The money I have already received, and I am sending your share at once. And now, old chap, do not be very annoyed when
