He saw Tellman briefly and told him what little he had learned.
“That embassy’s hiding something,” Tellman replied, sitting in the chair at the other side of Pitt’s paper- strewn desk. “I still think it’s got something to do with them. There’s only Mrs. Geddes that says the body was Cathcart. Maybe it isn’t? Maybe it is the Frenchman. The whole thing looks more like actors and foreigners anyway.”
“It looks more like passion than greed,” Pitt answered. “But all sorts of people are capable of that, not only Frenchmen and eccentrics.”
Tellman gave him a look of silent disdain.
“We’ll go back to the embassy in the morning,” Pitt conceded. “We need to know what happened to Henri Bonnard, even if it is only to exclude him from the investigation.”
“Or what happened to Cathcart,” Tellman added.
“I think we know what happened to him,” Pitt said sadly. “He was murdered in his own house, and then sent down the Thames on a last, obscure journey. What I don’t know is by whom, and exactly why.”
Tellman did not answer.
However, Monsieur Villeroche was just as adamant as he had been the first time they saw him, only on this occasion he managed to conduct the meeting in the privacy of his own neat office.
“No! No, absolutely!” he repeated. “He has not returned nor sent any word, so far as I know, and I am at my wits’ end to know what has happened to him.” His face was pink, and he waved his hands jerkily to emphasize his distress. “It is now well over a week and there is no account of him at all. His work is piling up, and I am simply told not to worry. I am worried sick! Who would not be?”
“Have you been in contact with his family in France?” Pitt asked him.
“In France? No. They live in the south-Provence, I believe. He would hardly go all the way there without telling me. If a crisis arose it would be simple enough to ask for leave. The ambassador is not unreasonable.”
Pitt did not pursue it. Tellman had already ascertained that Bonnard had not taken the packet boat across the Channel but had returned from Dover to London.
“Could it be a romantic affair?” he said instead.
Villeroche shrugged. “Then why not simply say so?” he asked reasonably. “He has not taken a normal leave of absence, a holiday, that is certain. What kind of a man pursues a secret romantic affair by abandoning his position, where he is trusted and respected, and disappearing into. . God knows where?. . and without a word to anyone?”
“A man who is pursuing someone he should not be,” Pitt said with a slight smile. “A man in the grasp of a passion so intense he loses all sense of propriety or duty towards his colleagues.”
“A man who does not desire to keep his position,” Villeroche responded. “And thus be in a situation to afford to marry this secret love.” He bit his lip. “So I suppose we must speak of an illicit affair, a woman who is already married or is the daughter of someone who does not find him an acceptable suitor. Or, I suppose, a woman of low class he could not marry? Or. .” He did not name the last alternative, but both Pitt and Tellman knew what he was thinking.
“Is that likely?” Pitt asked, avoiding Tellman’s eye. The green velvet gown was sharp in his memory.
Villeroche frowned. “No!” He was obviously surprised that it should even be considered. “Not in the least. I know that one seldom understands a person as well as one imagines, but Bonnard seemed as natural a man as any I know.” He shook his head slightly. “But I wish you could find him. He was distressed before he left, laboring under some. . some difficulty, some pressure, although I have no idea what. I am afraid some harm has come to him.”
Pitt obtained a list of clubs and other places Bonnard frequented, and where he would almost certainly call were he in London. Then he thanked Villeroche and he and Tellman took their leave.
“Well, what do you reckon, then?” Tellman said as soon as they were out in the windy street again.
An omnibus clattered past them, women on the open top deck clasping their hats. A man on the footpath jammed his bowler on more firmly.
A newspaper seller shouted headlines about a government bill and the forthcoming visit of some minor royalty to London, doing his best to make it sound interesting. An elderly man smiled at him goodnaturedly and shook his head, but he bought a newspaper and tucked it under his arm.
“Bless yer, guv!” the seller called after him.
Tellman was waiting, his face keen.
“I think we’ve got to look a great deal harder for Bonnard,” Pitt said reluctantly. “It may be a romance that for some reason he had to keep in complete secrecy.”
“You don’t believe that!” Tellman looked at him with scorn. “Villeroche is his friend. He’d know if there were something like that going on. Anyway, what kind of a man just drops everything and goes off after a woman without telling anyone, however he feels? He’s not a poet or an actor-this is a man supposed to deal with governments. I know he’s French, but even so!”
Pitt agreed with him, but there was no reasonable alternative. Together they set off to visit the places on Villeroche’s list, asking questions as discreetly as possible without being so vague as to be meaningless.
No one knew where Bonnard was or had heard him make any mention at all of leaving London. Certainly no one knew of any romantic interest in particular. He had given them all the impression that he enjoyed the company of a number of young ladies, more than a few of whom were of questionable reputation. Marriage was the last thing on his mind at the moment. Romantic pleasure was something that lay far in the future.
“Not Henri,” one young man said vehemently and with a slightly nervous laugh. “He’s far too ambitious to marry badly, let alone chase after another man’s wife, and when he’s on foreign soil as well. Oh no.” He glanced from Pitt to Tellman and back again. He was- is-the sort of man to enjoy himself, perhaps not always with the discretion one would wish in a diplomat, but only. . convivially, if you like? Temporarily. . I don’t really know how to put it. .” he trailed off.
“He likes to wine and dine but make no commitment,” Pitt interpreted.
“Precisely,” the other man agreed. “A man of the world. . or perhaps I should say a man of the city, the bright lights and the music, and yet not so worldly-wise as might be.”
Pitt smiled in spite of himself. They were all trying so hard to avoid the blunter way of expressing Bonnard’s indulgences. “Thank you. I believe I understand. You have been very helpful. Good day, sir.”
They visited several more of the people whose names Villeroche had given them, but no one added anything new. By the middle of the evening they had begun to call in at the various clubs he was known to frequent.
It was half past nine; they were tired and discouraged when they came to Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, in an alleyway next to a tailor and a barber’s shop.
“Is it worth it?” Tellman protested, wrinkling his nose in distaste as they stood together on the step, the gaslight making their shadows long across the stones.
“Probably not,” Pitt answered. “I’m beginning to accept that he’s either gone into the country somewhere after a romance which he managed to keep so well hidden even his closest friends didn’t know about it, or he is involved in something darker, perhaps illegal, perhaps even Cathcart’s murder, although I don’t see any connection. Come on, we’ll make this the last place. The fellow is probably in a warm bed somewhere with someone unsuitable, and thoroughly enjoying himself, while we tramp around half London wondering what’s happened to him.” He turned and pushed the door open, and was immediately inside a warm, close atmosphere smelling of wine and tobacco smoke. A score of young men and a few older sat around in groups with glasses or tankards at their elbows, many talking eagerly, others listening, leaning forward to catch every word.
Pitt must have looked a trifle Bohemian with his untidy clothes and hair seriously in need of a barber’s attention, because no one questioned his presence. He was not sure whether that pleased him or not. He was certain it would not have pleased his superiors.
Tellman drew a few glances, but since he was obviously with Pitt, he was suffered to pass without question. He took a deep breath, ran his fingers around inside his collar, as if it were too tight and restricted his breath, and plunged in.
Pitt passed the first table, the conversation being so earnest he thought interrupting it would earn him no favor. At the second, where the company was far more relaxed, he saw a face he thought in some way familiar, although he was not sure from where. It was heavyset, with thick, dark hair and dark eyes.
“Lesser men will always criticize what they do not understand,” the man said vehemently. “It is their only
