THE CROOK OF MARSDEN MANOR by G. H. Teed

Author:G. H. Teed
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 7

Thibaud Springs a Surprise.

M. THIBAUD was prompt to keep his appointment with Sexton Blake. It was just three o’clock when an inconspicuous police car drew up in front of the Carlitz Hotel in the Rue de Rivoli.

Blake joined him at once, and the car started up the Champs Elysees. Just after they passed Claridges Hotel the man from the Surete pointed out a large block of flats, one of those luxuriously fitted buildings which have appeared in the Champs Elysees since the war.

“That is 87 bis,” he said, “the residence of Coppot’s fiancée.”

Blake gazed at the place with interest. On the third floor he could see that all the curtains were drawn.

“Is that her flat?”

“Yes.”

“Have you examined it since she went to Enghien?”

Thibaud admitted that he had not neglected this precaution, adding that nothing of a nature to incriminate either the woman or Coppot had been found.

“What was your impression, Thibaud? Do you think she knew what he was up to?”

“I do not. She struck me as innocent, and there is no doubt she was taking his death hard. I have had her bank account traced. It appears that Coppot would not allow her to keep it in his bank—whether through caution or because he wished to protect her I cannot say. But the account is no more than a woman in her position would have; I gather that Coppot had settled fairly large amounts on her at different times.”

They said no more until the car drew up in front of a splendid mansion in the Avenue Marceau. Its grilled outer doors were closed, but when Thibaud had rung Blake could see the inner vestibule doors open and a man appear who, he knew at first glance, was a plain-clothes man from the Surete.

“So you are still in charge,” he murmured.

“While the good Cravette is here,” rejoined Thibaud.

They passed through the vestibule into the hall. When the constable had closed the doors, Thibaud turned to him, saying curtly:

“The butler—summon him.”

The man gazed at his superior in amazement.

“The butler—Cravette, monsieur? But monsieur himself took him away not half an hour ago. He has not returned.”

The bland expression was no longer to be seen on Thibaud’s face. His eyes were stern as Sexton Blake had seen them oacasionally in the past.

“Fool! What are you talking about? I have not been near this house since yesterday.”

The constable gazed at him helplessly, then turned his eyes on Blake.

“Explain yourself!” rasped Thibaud. “Ten thousand pink-eyed devils! What do you mean?”

“Monsieur, it is as I say,” faltered the other. “Cravette went away with monsieur himself not half an hour ago.”

Thibaud’s shoulders almost touched his ears. He raised his hands to high Heaven.

“Pig of an imbecile!” he roared. “Dare you throw the lie in the teeth of Thibaud?”

Blake laid a hand on his arm.

“Wait, my friend,” he said quietly. “The man is sincere. Get his story from him.”

“You hear?” spluttered Thibaud. “The gentleman intercedes for you. Speak, imbecile!”

The constable made an effort to recover his poise.

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