Very truly yours,
Mortimer Meukes.
Christine read the note very carefully. Entered a few notes in her shopping diary under the heading of last January, and as though they concerned dress items, and burned the letter in the shop womans stove before she turned back towards the town itself and the villa.
To-day was the eighteenth. Her visit would be up on the twentieth. She decided to spend the days between its end and the twenty-third at Avignon, among antiquities which would well explain any lingering should eyes be on her. She would have liked to go direct to Lille, but in a town she did not know she doubted her ability to remain unnoticed for so long.
Of Mrs. Erskine and the inmates of the villa she took a friendly farewell on the twentieth, and caught the train to Avignon as she had mentioned in conversation. Here she browsed among its Roman remains and suffered its Roman wind till the twenty-third, when she motored out to the next station on the P.L.M. beyond Avignon and caught the Paris express, and on to Lille. Arrived at Lille early in the forenoon, she took a tram and saw the sights like any stranger. Only for lunch did she allow herself to drift into the Rue des Muguets. A café-restaurant almost opposite to No. 15 was her choice. She seated herself discreetly in an obscure corner, and had hardly finished a very good meal—Christine was no believer in a poached-egg day—when in walked Mr. Beale. She had his photograph inside her note-book at the moment. He paid no attention to her, but took a window-seat facing No. 15, and not only faced the large building but watched it intently. Once or twice he looked around, included her in his casual glance, and returned to his close watch. She laid down her paper.
"Isn't that M. Voiron?" She named a popular cinema actor as she paid her bill. Her tip made the waiter willing to linger.
"No, Madame," he obviously regretted to shatter an illusion, "that is un Anglais. He comes here lately daily and always to that table."
Christine seemed to be barely listening. That the house was also kept under observation by others for the rest of the twenty-four hours was obvious. She emptied her letter-case under the table into her handbag. It was a plain black leather case.
"I ask, because I saw him ahead of me in Rue Albert just now. He dropped this case. Will you please give it him at"—she glanced at the clock. It was exactly five minutes to two o'clock—"at two o'clock precisely. I do not want him to thank me personally, so please wait till two."
"As it strikes!" The waiter assured her heartily, "Madame can count on me."
Christine saw that her watch and the clock were to the second together.
At exactly one minute past two she crossed the street and entered the door of No. 15, a door with many signs chiefly of insurance companies, and the men of the law in black and gold outside the handsome portals. She had noted how far into its open throat anyone on the opposite side could see. Just beyond this she flashed a glance backward. As she had hoped, Mr. Beale's head, with its fringe of reddish hair, was turned quite away from the window to the black-haired waiter standing beside him—her waiter.
She passed up the stairs in her silent galoshes. On the third floor was a sign: "Beauregard et Fils."
She looked at the landing from above. There was only one large door on each floor. No one was about. It was the sacred hour of noon repose.
She tried the top floor. This, too, belonged to a business firm, but a trap door on to the roof gave her her chance. It was a very dirty roof, but it had a high coping all round, and there was a place where she could sit down. She fastened down the trap-door, and made herself as comfortable as possible, with a novel she had with her, under her umbrella. At seven o'clock she lifted the flap gingerly and listened. Feet clattered down the stone stairs below her. Bang, bang! went the house doors far in the depths. The clerks were leaving. At eight o'clock she carefully crawled to the top landing and bent over the banisters. All was silent. She crept below. From the third floor came the sound of a typewriter. It was very dark inside the building, and she decided to remain on the fourth floor landing, at any rate for the present.
A little before nine o'clock she heard a key inserted in the hall door and steps ascending—cautious steps. They stopped at M. Beauregard's and out of the darkness came a gentle tap. Only one. Christine dared not risk a glance over the banisters. She was back against the wall above, listening intently. The door opened and shut swiftly.
She heard a man's voice say in English with a foreign accent: "The old idiot's working late, but he'll soon be gone. Everything is ready."
"The men understand their job, do they? Sure?" asked another voice with a distinct twang to it.
"If you come at twelve-thirty, monsieur, you will find that their job has been understood and perfectly carried out. Your birds will be trussed and waiting."
"You're still certain that you are not suspected?"
"Who, I? But no, monsieur, but no! A temporary clerk who is open to reason will witness the signatures as well as myself. All goes well, allez!"
The men separated, one letting himself back into the flat and the other moving softly and slowly down the stairs.
Like a shadow Christine slipped after him. Near the house door she heard a click, and Mr. Beale switched on an electric torch for a second which gave her a glimpse of his face, before he swung open the door and shut it noiselessly behind him.
Another half-hour passed and she heard M. Beauregard's door again opened. This time it closed with a bang, and firm steps echoed down the stairs—no conspirator this apparently.
The minutes dragged by, till at exactly a quarter to twelve the front door was again unlocked, someone with an electric torch was coming up. A tall man, well muffled up, for the night was fresh. Christine slipped down to the door of the third floor flat, but keeping out of the ray of his steady light. The stranger come on, evidently making for the same goal. He got to the mat and extended his hands towards the little push button.
"Ne sonnez pas, monsieur, ne sonnez pas!" she murmured, touching his right arm.
"Hein?" He wheeled to face her, at the same moment the door was flung open and a clerk stood there bowing courteously.
"Come in, monsieur and madame. We did not expect a lady, but pray come in. I am M. Beauregard's head clerk."
M. Meunier entered briskly. For a second Christine hesitated. But what might be the effect of calling in the police? She stepped in, too. The door shut.
"This way"—and the clerk bowed them into a cheery office. "I go for the other witness."
Christine had exhausted her stock of French. She whispered hurriedly in English.
"M. Meunier, I am Christine West. There is something wrong. That man has confederates and a Mr. Beale is in it, too. After the signing—"
He gave her a reassuring glance.
"We, too, are prepared. The password, mademoiselle?"
"Suneverup. And yours?"
"Piratekeep."
The silly names from out her childhood seemed doubly incongruous just then, but as she looked him over, she guessed that M. Meunier would be a good man in a scrap. Tall, resolute, grey at the temples, and a bit red in the face, but with an eye like a boy's, and every short hair on his head bristling with vitality. Without a word he fastened his electric torch to the wall over by the door. She followed his example, hanging hers where he silently pointed beside a second door. She lit a candle which stood ready with matches and sealing wax on a desk in the middle of the room.
The head clerk entered, with a big stout German-looking man.
"M. Kaufmann, who will witness the signatures with me." The head clerk looked in surprise at the extra lights.
"It is said that there may be a strike of the electricians quite suddenly tonight," said M. Meunier shortly.
"Tiens!" muttered the head clerk, who did not seem to find the arrangements particularly welcome.