“Care to come round?” he asked. “I’ve got most of it sorted out.”
In the small crowd outside Rouben’s were the cameramen, of course, hungry for something to waste their films on — one or two nondescripts who might have been racing touts — a few genuine sightseers. I recognized two or three familiar policemen; one, named Coxon, was in uniform at the door — he saluted and passed me within.
There sat Calloway at a table in the restaurant. But since last night something had happened to the restaurant. No carpet lay on the bare floor: probably the floor had been sounded and raised in a search for whatever was thought to be stored under it. The tables no longer bore tablecloths and discreet little red-shaded lamps. They were drawn close to one side, piled top to top, half of them with their legs in the air; and from the previously dim ceiling hung a biggish electric light which floodlit the place and drove away all shadows.
“Oh, come in, Frank,” Calloway said in his usual quiet tone. “Sorry not to have called you earlier.”
“I guessed you were busy.”
“Frightfully busy. The news only reached us at 10 o’clock yesterday morning; and there’s been the devil’s own confusion.”
He began to load his pipe, looking like the sort of businessman one sees in a teashop playing dominoes.
“But you’re through with that?” I asked.
“Pretty well.”
“The papers have been full of his lurid history.”
Calloway grimaced. He is not partial to newspaper stories. I think he’d write psychological novels if he were not a policeman with a full-time job.
“They’ve got to fake up something,” he said.
“I guessed narcotics, last night,” I modestly claimed. “That’s the only solid item in the papers. I suppose it was simple as ABC to you.”
“Yes. I’ve wanted an excuse to ransack this place.”
“So you killed him?”
“Somebody did.”
“The old waiter?” I asked. “After that wigging?”
Calloway smiled.
“Poor old Jacques! He’s not the type. Did you see him when he dropped the tray?”
“I guessed it was going to happen. The actual event was behind me. Don’t forget you were facing that way. I suppose you saw everything?”
Calloway’s face darkened. Perhaps it was the horrible light that sharpened his cheekbones.
“Several things,” he said reluctantly, as if he had not relished what he saw.
“Was the princess in the way? A minute before the crash I heard you say, ‘Damn that girl!’ ”
“Did I?” Calloway looked as nearly startled as I have ever seen him. He then became silent. I didn’t interrupt his reverie. It was because I had tact that he liked to have me with him.
At last he said, “I didn’t know I’d said anything. I’m glad — rather, sorry — you reminded me. As to Jacques, he’s the one who found Rouben. Went down into the wine cellar this morning, and there was our friend, looking nasty. The lights were on. It wasn’t only a wine cellar, of course. He’d got the other stuff — the drugs — hidden in casks, even in cobwebbed bottles. All very obvious. He wasn’t a clever man, not really.”
“I thought he looked more sensual than clever.”
“Yes, it was women. Plenty of them.”
“You’d say he was attractive to them?”
“Who knows what attracts them?” he demanded. It sounded as if the fellow had lately suffered a blow.
I thought I’d move him away from that, so I said, “What’s the princess doing here?”
He took me up very sharply, exclaiming, “Don’t be a damned fool!”
“I only wondered why she was here.” Calloway was evidently rattled, for he walked about restlessly. I called after him, “Do you know anything about the woman who dined with him? Just one of them? Past or present?”
The restless pacing stopped. He was normal again.
“Passing, I gather. I’ve had a lot of talk with Jacques. She came into it.”
“If passing, perhaps superseded. Could she have done it?”
Calloway smiled as if he thought me an old stupid. He said, “They all call her Hortense. She’s been about as long as they remember — latterly not so often. They didn’t expect her last night.”
“There you are! She stayed behind and put something in his coffee. How’s that?”
“Rotten. She’s coming in a few minutes. You’ll see her.”
I tried something new.
“What was he doing in the cellar? Had he been taken there?”
“No,” said Calloway, drily. “He went there by himself”
“For dope?”
“He didn’t take the stuff himself. No, he kept everything there. Some rare wines. Cupboard full of cigars. Also, he was a bit of a chemist. We’ve found a lot of interesting things, including letters and a book of addresses. All useful I expect there’ll be a general skedaddle, which won’t come off. The narcotics boys are checking everything. No, from our point of view he’s better dead; but of course I’ve got to find out what happened.”
“I thought you knew?”
“I hope to God I don’t.”
I sat digesting this information...
I was still sitting there with my arms folded and my head down, when I was startled by a whispering or rustling noise. It came from the far end of the restaurant, beyond what I thought of as Rouben’s table; and it was caused by the old waiter’s shuffling footsteps on the bare boards. Quite uncanny. The old chap looked odd in a short blue and white cotton jacket; but in addition to this he was a strange sight, his cheeks like a badly-laundered bath towel, and his chin covered as if with mold by a revolting white stubble. He did not raise his eyes, but plodded on towards us. Behind him was a woman whom I recognized as Rouben’s guest two nights ago.
Jacques squeezed his way to the kitchen. Calloway went forward.
“Good afternoon, Madame Kimel. Won’t you sit down?”
His tone was not unkind; but she stared at him as a doe might stare at a butcher. Sitting at an angle to her, I could see the rise and fall of her breast and the throbbing of her throat. Calloway, as if to ease her fears, sat down again at his table. He glanced at a page of notes.
“You know why I’ve asked you to come, don’t you? I’m questioning everybody who may be able to help me. Now, you dined here two nights ago with Mr. Rouben. Would you mind telling me what time you left him?”
She was in terror. That was clear. All the same, she held herself haughtily erect, as Marie Antoinette did on her way to the guillotine.
“I don’t know. I can’t think. It’s all so horrifying.”
“I quite understand. Take your time and try to remember.”
“I think 10... 11 o’clock. I don’t know.”
“Had everybody else gone?”
She was a beautiful woman, but because she was no longer young the great light was merciless to her. She was revealed as haggard, with dry lips, and cheeks which had begun to grow hollow. Her fingers were tightly intertwined, and she often touched her lips with a pale tongue. At times she looked beseechingly at Calloway, as if entreating him to spare her. You could follow the struggle she was having to remember — or to invent.
“I think... you mean the others who dined here?”
“My friend and I were among them.”
“Oh?” She was quite vague. “I don’t remember you.”
“All gone, the place empty — is that so? Not the staff — Jacques, Emilie the cashier?” Only after a pause did he add, as if he had just thought of her, “Adrienne?”
That name produced its reaction. The lady became even more secretive.
“I think... I am sure... yes, all were gone.”
“Jacques?”
“Oh, I forgot. He’s always here.”
“You didn’t notice him. You saw nobody but Rouben? What happened? Did you quarrel?”