Juve took the corpse under the armpits and raised it gently, wishing to examine it closely, but anxious, also, not to alter its position. On the nape of the neck was a large stain of blood, like a black wen and as big as a five-shilling piece, just above the last vertebra of the spinal column.
“That’s the explanation,” the detective murmured, and carefully replacing the body he continued his investigation. With quick, clever hands he searched the coat pockets and found the watch in its proper place. Another pocket was full of money, chiefly small change, with a few louis. But Juve looked in vain for the pocketbook which the man had doubtless been in the habit of carrying about with him: the pocketbook probably containing some means of identification.
The inspector merely grunted, got up, began pacing the room, and questioned the concierge.
“Did M. Gurn have a motorcar?”
“No, sir,” she replied, looking surprised. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, for no particular reason,” said the inspector with affected indifference, but at the same time he was contemplating a large nickel pump that lay on a whatnot, a syringe holding perhaps half a pint, like those that chauffeurs use. He looked at it steadfastly for several minutes. His next question was addressed to the gendarme who was still on his knees by the trunk.
“We have found one yellow stain on the neck; you will very likely find some more. Have a look at the wrists and the calves of the legs and the stomach. But do it carefully, so as not to disturb the body.” While the gendarme began to obey his chief’s order, carefully undoing the clothing on the corpse, Juve looked at the concierge again.
“Who did the work of this flat?”
“I did, sir.”
Juve pointed to the velvet curtain that screened the door between the little anteroom and the room in which they were.
“How did you come to leave that curtain unhooked at the top, without putting it to rights?”
Mme. Doulenques looked at it.
“It’s the first time I’ve seen it like that,” she said apologetically; “the curtain could not have been unhooked when I did the room last without my noticing it. Anyhow, it hasn’t been like that long. I ought to say that as M. Gurn was seldom here I didn’t do the place out thoroughly very often.”
“When did you do it out last?”
“Quite a month ago.”
“That is to say M. Gurn went away a week after you last cleaned the place up?”
“Yes, sir.”
Juve changed the subject, and pointed to the corpse.
“Tell me, madame, did you know that person?”
The concierge fought down her nervousness and for the first time looked at the unfortunate victim with a steady gaze.
“I have never seen him before,” she said, with a little shudder.
“And so, when that gentleman came up here, you did not notice him?” said the inspector gently.
“No, I did not notice him,” she declared, and then went on as if answering some question which occurred to her own mind. “And I wonder I didn’t, for people very seldom enquired for M. Gurn; of course when the lady was with him M. Gurn was not at home to anybody. This—this dead man must have come straight up himself.”
Juve nodded, and was about to continue his questioning when the bell rang.
“Open the door,” said Juve to the concierge, and he followed her to the entrance of the flat, partly fearing to find some intruder there, partly hoping to see some unexpected person whose arrival might throw a little light upon the situation.
At the opened door Juve saw a young man of about twenty-five, an obvious Englishman with clear eyes and close-cropped hair. With an accent that further made his British origin unmistakable, the visitor introduced himself:
“I am Mr. Wooland, manager of the Paris branch of the South Steamship Company. It seems that I am wanted at M. Gurn’s flat on the fifth floor of this house, by desire of the police.”
Juve came forward.
“I am much obliged to you for putting yourself to this inconvenience, sir: allow me to introduce myself: M. Juve, an Inspector from the Criminal Investigation Department. Please come in.”
Solemn and impassive, Mr. Wooland entered the room; a side glance suddenly showed him the open trunk and the dead body, but not a muscle of his face moved. Mr. Wooland came of a good stock, and had all that admirable self-possession which is the strength of the powerful Anglo-Saxon race. He looked at the inspector in somewhat haughty silence, waiting for him to begin.
“Will you kindly let me know, sir, the instructions your firm had with regard to the forwarding of the baggage which you sent for to this flat of M. Gurn’s this morning?”
“Four days ago, Inspector,” said the young man, “on the 14th of December to be precise, the London mail brought us a letter in which Lord Beltham, who had been a client of ours for several years, instructed us to collect, on the 17th of December, that is, today, four articles marked H. W. K., 1, 2, 3 and 4, from M. Gurn’s apartments, 147 rue Lévert. He informed us that the concierge had orders to allow us to take them away.”
“To what address were you to despatch them?”
“Our client instructed us to forward the trunks by the first steamer to Johannesburg, where he would send for them; we were to send two invoices with the goods as usual; the third invoice was to be sent to London, Box 63, Charing Cross Post Office.”
Juve made a note of Box 63, Charing Cross in his pocketbook.
“Addressed to what name or initials?”
“Simply Beltham.”
“Good. There are no other documents relating to the matter?”
“No, I have nothing else,” said Mr. Wooland.
The young fellow relapsed into his usual impassive silence. Juve watched him for a minute or two and then said:
“You must have heard the various rumours current in Paris three weeks ago, sir, about Lord Beltham. He was a very well-known personage in society. Suddenly he disappeared; his wife
