“I believe he’s a resident of the village. Why?”
“How do you know him?”
She shook her head. “I cannot recall, but I have seen the name somewhere.”
“Where?”
“As I say, I cannot recall.”
“In the mayor’s papers? Or did the mayor mention him?”
“No, not that. Perhaps in his papers — in fact, yes, I think somewhere in Mr. Stevens’s papers.”
“You’re sure you can’t recall anything more exactly?”
“If I do, I’ll tell you,” said the young secretary. “Please excuse me, Mr. Lenox. I wish you luck in finding out who killed Mayor Stevens, but if you want to speak any further, it will have to be after my work is finished.”
“Of course. Thank you, Miss Harville.”
Lenox left the building and walked up the square, brooding. It had been a peculiar interview. Why had she been so eager to end it?
He found his feet turning to Potbelly Lane. On an impulse he stopped into Mrs. Appleby’s post office first, where he greeted her and then fired off a telegram to Polly and Dallington. In it, he asked if they might spare Pointilleux for a night, and added that if they could, the young Frenchman could pack a suitcase and stay at the hall.
After that he went to Hadley’s house. The street was quiet and empty, the morning sun falling softly on the cobblestones, the few clouds slipping soundlessly across the pure blue sky. Lenox paused at the foot of Hadley’s steps and took a few breaths of the clean air, thinking.
When he knocked, Mrs. Watson answered the door. “Hello, Mr. Lenox,” she said.
To his eye she looked troubled, and after greeting her, he said, “Is everything quite all right?”
“Well — I suppose.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, exactly. Only I don’t think Mr. Hadley came home last night.”
Lenox became very alert. “How do you know?”
“The food I left for him is untouched. As far as I can tell, so is his bed.”
“May I come in?”
“Of course, sir.”
There was a broom leaning against the front hall table — evidently Mrs. Watson had been sweeping — and Lenox walked past it toward Hadley’s sitting room. There he checked the alcohol (all present) and surveyed the room for some time. The charwoman watched him.
Then, abruptly, he turned back into the front hallway, making for Hadley’s study. “Today is Wednesday,” he said. “When did you last see Mr. Hadley?”
“Monday evening, sir.”
Lenox went into the study. There was nothing of very great interest on the desk — but something in the room looked different. What? He forced himself to slow down and look around carefully, as he had in the sitting room.
Then he saw it.
The door of the mahogany cabinet underneath the window hung just slightly open; he strode forward and opened it fully, and found, inside, Hadley’s safe, where he kept his collection of gemstones.
Empty.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Back at Lenox House an hour later, Lenox found there were two telegrams waiting for him, both sent by Dallington. The more recent of the two merely reported that Pointilleux was on his way. The first, from that morning, was a disjointed post on their progress in the Muller case:
When can you return STOP following chandelier per your sugg STOP whole thing damnably confusing STOP suspect Greville myself STOP have just discovered bizarre fct also STOP Margarethe Muller is reported in Paris right this minute by their constblry STOP anyhow come back here curse you STOP Dall
Lenox frowned after he read that. He read it again. Reported in Paris. He sat for some time, thinking about all that this information implied.
Thurley had identified the dead woman without hesitation when they found her: Margarethe Muller, Muller’s sister and assistant.
It was possible that Thurley had been lying, but Lenox didn’t think so. His reaction had been immediate, genuine.
That meant Muller had introduced the woman to the theater manager, and presumably everybody else, as Margarethe Muller. Which, in turn, meant, that the woman calling herself by that name in Paris might well be an impersonator — or that the dead woman had been an impersonator. One or the other.
After pondering this in silence for a long time, Lenox suddenly sprang up out of his chair. Writing rapidly, he drafted a telegram to Dallington.
Must remain here for now STOP but was Muller married STOP if so possible mistress traveling under sister’s name STOP please keep apprised STOP Lenox
No sooner had he given that slip of paper to a footman with instructions to hurry down to the village and send it, however, than he had another thought. This one hit him even harder, with all the force of a revelation.
In his excitement he grabbed another servant and had him stand there and wait as he wrote.
And if lover then MULLER HIMSELF must be suspect STOP but how did he learn of chandelier STOP and why STOP push hard on Greville and Thurley STOP wine glasses STOP
Lenox sent this missive off — not much more coherent than Dallington’s — and after he had watched it go stood stock-still in the front hall, thinking for many minutes on end.
As he stood there, he was wholly in London, wholly bent upon the problem of Muller’s disappearance. Had he cracked it? A certain race in his pulse and his thoughts told him he had gotten a step closer to the truth, anyway. A lovers’ quarrel. It made sense. If Muller was married — and Lenox strained to recall whether the newspapers had said he was, but couldn’t — then his mistress might easily have traveled with him, and been more plausibly explained as a sister than a secretary or friend.
He would have gone on thinking about Muller for a great deal longer, if at that moment Edmund had not come in with a handsome brindle pointer. “Hello, Charles,” he said.
“Hello, Edmund. How are you?”
“Oh, well enough. This is Toby, your scenting dog.”
Lenox looked at his brother and smiled a smile of forced cheer. “Let’s take him out, then. Do you have your walking boots on? Good, because the Lord knows what will happen to our horses this time.”
They had to ride very slowly. For a moment Lenox had thought that Edmund would decline to accompany him, but after a beat he had agreed, and now, having given Toby the flannel from the spaniel’s neck, they followed him together at a walk, now and then a trot. Occasionally they would exchange a few desultory words. Only when Lenox described Hadley’s disappearance did Edmund become engaged.
“My goodness. Did you tell Clavering?” he asked.
“I passed the word by Bunce, and I wired the head office of the Dover Assurance to ask what news they had of Hadley’s whereabouts.”
Edmund shook his head. “It doesn’t look good.”
Lenox squinted into the sun. “I know. And yet … well, it’s simply odd, that’s all. Why is his disappearance so different than the attack on Stevens? I mean to say, Stevens is confronted and stabbed, Hadley tormented for weeks and then kidnapped? Isn’t it odd?”
“It is. Is it possible that Hadley himself attacked Stevens, though?”
“Yes, and what if Stevens was the tormenter! I thought of that, but then — why would Hadley have come to us, if he knew what was afoot, and that he planned to confront Stevens? His puzzlement seemed completely genuine. And then, even more baffling, why would he draw our attention to him by leaving directly after the attack?”
“Yes, true.”
Lenox looked at his pocket watch. It was just before one o’clock. “At this moment, the Queen is either in my house or not in my house,” he said.