Strange Tales of French Crimes.

Star (Christchurch), Volume XLIV, Issue 471, 4 June 1932, Page 26 (Supplement)

Strange Tales of French Crimes.

Second of the Series

|! The Clue of the Missing Tooth. g (By DR EDMOND LOCARD and 11. ASHTON-WOLFE.)

tiacques Laughton, chief inspector of die Surete at Lyons, had always -impressed me as a man utterly without sentiment. Great was my surprise, therefore, when one day while we were waiting for M. Duprez, the magistrate, to arrive, he turned to me and said: •‘She is the sweetest and most beautiful girl in the world! I’m an ugly beast, t know,” he went on with strange bitterness, “but I can’t help it—l worher.” '"But who is >t, man? You haven’t tol 1 me yet.” ‘’Mademoiselle Gilbcrte,” he replied, sinking his voice to a whisper. “The new assistant. What do you think of her?” "For once I agree with you, Laughton. She is beautiful, clever, and charming.” Laughton seized my hand and shook it warmly. "Thank you, my friend,” he said. I dare say I looked startled. Mademoiselle Gilberte Chavannes was truly beautiful, not more than twenty-five years old, with wonderful hair and complexion, and marvellously clear grey •She had entered the Surete laboratories some six months previously as assistant to our chief, in order to study criminology. I knew that Laughton was young in years, but somehow he conveyed the impression of being long past middle-age. “She is to be transferred to the anthropometrical department, is she not?” I asked curiously. “Yes,” Laughton said. “She is greatly interested in our photographic records.” At that moment the inner door opened and Mile. Chavannes entered. "The judge awaits you, messieurs,” <sli« announced. We entered the office of the magistrate, who greeted us coldly, and at once opened a sheaf of documents. “I have been instructed to investigate these jewel robberies, Monsieur Laugh;ton, of which apparently the perpetratora cannot be traced. Nor, it seems, Thrive you discovered where all the stones are sold. Are your agents quite "It is not that, monsieur,” my friend answered calmly. "This gang either does not sell its loot or else sells it somewhere far away.” “I see your report speaks of a man named Heilbrunn. I gather that you believe him to be a receiver of stolen •goods “He is the cleverest fence in France, without a doubt, monsieur, but we have no tangible proof as yet.” “What do you know about him?” “Oh. we have his chart—he has been arrested several times on suspicion, but never convicted. Here it is—” and Laughton produced some documents. “Moil Dieu, what a hideous beast!” <lie magistrate exclaimed, staring with disgust at a photograph. “ Tsidov Heilbrunn, Israelite, born in Mulhous.* in 1S78; speaks French and German with a strong accent. Short, stocky figure, almost a hunchback; long arms and slender white fingers, nails always carefully polished. Face pearshaped; protruding, light blue eyes—no chin—mouth unusually large; teeth black from chevjpg betel nut—straggling red hair; long, hooked nose. Traded for many years in the Pacific. Arrested in 1906, suspected of helping convicts to escape from Noumea—released for want of evidence. Deported from British South Africa in 1008 for 1.D.8. Wounded in 1009 in Sydney for presumed theft of pearls from Chinese smugglers, with whom he was known to deal secretly. . . ’ “A pretty record,” said the magistrate thoughtfully when he had read the chart again, “and you believe now that he is the man who is behind all these robberies ?” “Yes, monsieur. We are watching him closely.” While Laughton was speaking, Mile. Gilberte had picked up the photograph of Heilbrunn. As she glanced at it she became deadly pale, and her eyes opened wide with terror. Laughton sprang forward to support her, for she appeared about to faint. “What is it, mademoiselle?” he asked gently. “Do you know this monster?” “No, no—only his face terrifies me.” “No wonder,” growled M. Duprez. Then to Laughton: “Get to work, messieurs; we must trace these stolen jewels. Report to me immediately if you discover anything.” Laughton picked up his papers and beckoned me to follow. "I felt sure there was some mystery —that sweet girl is here with a purpose. Hullo, Voltaire, what is the matter?” Our energetic colleague Jules Voltaire had come dashing up the stairs. “Great news!” he gasped. “Another jewel robbery. Messrs. Laurent just ’phoned up to report the disappearance of one of their employees and with him a bag containing a "fortune in emeralds.” “Come along then, both of you,” said rov friend. “We’ll go and interview the manager—it’s not far.” Monsieur Laurent could tell us very little beyond the fact that the Countess Castiglioni, an Italian lady living at the “ Continental,” had called and requested that a collection of emerald necklaces, pendants, and rings should be sent to the hotel, stating that she wished to select several pieces of jewellery for the wedding of a niece. The man they had sent was a trusted employee who had been with the firm for ten years. His name was Jose Martinez, and he was a Frenchman, despite hi 3 Spanish It was not the first time that Martinez had been entrusted with jewels of great value. The man knew well that he ran a certain risk, and always went armed. The jewellery was carried in a stout but inconspicuous leather bag, which was lined with steel netting and locked automatically. On this occasion he ‘had left about eleven o’clock, and should have returned by one. At 2 p.m. M. Laurent had xclepuoned to the hotel and learnt to his amazement that Martinez had left with his precious'bag shortly after one o clock. He had even stopped to chat t* moment with the manager of the •hotel, and bad shown him some of the .stones, remarking rather whimsically ;t»iat his dream of a big commission was not likely to materialise, since the t omitess had thought the jewels much too expensive. We obtained a photograph of Martinez end a description of the clothes he was wearing from M. Laurent, and drove at once to the “ Continental.”

The director of the hotel was unable to tell us anything further than that the Countess Castiglioni paid her bills regularly and was reputed to be wealthy. We were fortunate in finding the lady at home. The Countess was a handsome woman with hard, masculine features and a frigid manner. She gave us to understand that she was well aware of the unpleasant position in which the disappearance of the jeweller’s assistant had placed her—and that she resented it. The porter gave us the only bit of information of any value. He had called a taxi for Martinez, and ivhile holding the door open for him heard the jeweller order the chauffeur to drive to Messrs. Laurent. It was a simple matter to find the taxi-driver.

As we advanced in our search so our amazement increased. It appeared as though from the moment he entered the cab Jose Martinez had suddenly lost his reason. When half the distance to his firm’s premises had been covered, he had suddenly ordered the chauffeur to turn and drive to the “ Petit Vatel ” —a restaurant noted for its epicurean dinners. The “Petit Vatel” has a huge glass frontage, and through this the driver saw his passenger greet a number of elegant men and women and settle down to luncheon at a table profusely decorated with flowers. Good fortune awaited us at the “ Petit Vatel.” Pranzini, the dapper little maitre d’hotel, was bubbling 'with information. “Sicuro,” he exclaimed when Laughton asked whether he had noticed a group of men and women. “This morning I receive de order to prepare a table for ten people—plenty flowers, and de menu—ma!” and he spread out his fingers with a truly Italian gesture. “Yes, yes,” Laughton said impatiently, “I know your talents, Pranzini; but this is a serious matter —never mind the menu.” “Oh, but monsieur, de menu is de best of all, for it has de finger-marks of de luncheon party,” and Pranzini grinned with delight at our astonishment. “Ecco,” he continued, drawing us into a corner, “I love to observe human beings. I am what you call observant. Life is dull without a hobby, and lately I have started to collect menus with finger-marks. Some day maybe I get de thumb-print of a great poet, painter, or murderer. “Ebbene, to-day come this party. De women look like demi-monde and de men—rastaqueres—adventurers. Then, behold, I see Monsieur Martinez, whom I know well. He greet them and sit down with them, and I hear him tell my assistant, Desire, to put de bag he carry on de seat. “ ‘lt’s full of emeralds. Desire,’ he say, ‘so be careful.’ Santo Dio, I lift de bag, and it was very heavy. Now I think how strange for a man who carries jewels to be so careless. So I prepare some menus with a little wax mixture of which I have de secret, and I hand it to each one to hold.” “Pranzini, you are a great man,” Laughton exclaimed delightedly. “You shall have a testimonial from headquarters if we find Martinez—” “What! then he lias disappeared?” “Yes, and with him the emeralds. Go on, what happened ?” “Allora, as soon as I had the menus I write on de back a description of de man or woman who held them. Now I get them —aspetti.” Pranzini hurried away and returned with a box in which were ten cards. On each one we saw several faint impressions of those w'horls and ridges which to many a man have spelt prison and “Splendid!” Laughton exclaimed, reading the terse remarks pencilled on the back of each card. “Monsieur, in de books I study I read, ‘Never neglect anything.’ I know Monsieur Martinez. He tell me many times that he is dyspeptic and he never drink wine.” “Good Lord!” Laughton gasped, sitting down hurriedly. The little Italian rubbed his hands and cackled with triumph: “Hein, I catch you dore? To-day, Monsieur Martinez eat and eat, and drink Pommard and fclicquot; and he smoke cigars, which he never did before. Dat is very strange, unless lie has been playing a part, and now lie throw oil de

mask. Aspetti, I have here de best ot all,” and be opened a small box. “Why, it’s a piece of cake,” said Voltaire. “Truly it is, and in it you will find de teeth marks of Monsieur Martinez, who bit into it and then left it. Dat will be good proof dat it was truly Monsieur Martinez who was here to-day with all those people. Dey left at three o’clock in two big cars, which were waiting.” “Any idea where they w T ent?” “Yes, to de races.” “How do you know?” “One of de men called to de chauffeur where to drive, and Jules at de door tell me.” “Well, Pranzini, ‘thank you’ is all I can say now. We’ll take these things, but you shall have them back. By the way, were the cars hired?” “Yes—from de Garage du Rhone.” Laughton’s grin of delight was the Italian’s reward. Thanks to this last piece of information we tracked the defaulting Martinez from the races to a cafe, and from there to another restaurant; but although we w r ere close behind he had always just left. It was nearly midnight when at last we ran him down in an infamous dance hall. Watching the whirling couples of soldiers, sailors, and apaches, our attention was attracted by a swarthy, bearded fellow whose drunken antics were amusing everyone. Laughton pulled out the photograph of the man we were searching for, and showed it to me. The drunken fool was Martinez.

“He has got rid of the bag of jewels,” my companion whispered. “We must go to work cautiously. You, Voltaire, get a dozen men from the nearest commissariat and place two at each exit. When I blow my whistle, join me with the others. No one must leave, in case the bag is here.” Unfortunately, just as my friend was about to signal, someone noticed one of the uniformed police, and gave the alarm. There was an immediate rush for the doors. Laughtoa uid f forced our way through the exdt««i crowd towards the spot where the jeweller was last- reen, but he had disappeared, nor could we find him, although the premises were searched. Suddeniv we heard Voltaire shout, and saw him appear from behind a curtained recess. He was struggling with a man who was dressed only in shirt and trousers. “I found him trying to crawl into a cupboard,” Voltaire said. “He is not the man we are after, but we’d better take mm with us. I fancy that he is wanted at the Surete.” We were greatly disappointed, but nothing else could be done, so after leaving several men on guard at the dance hall, we drove to headquarters, where our captive was locked in a cell for the night. Laughton felt intensely humiliated at bis failure; be would not hear of rest until the menus had been photographed and the prints enlarged. A plaster impression of the piece of sweetmeat was also taken. Pranzini had helped us more than he knew, for the following day, when the records were searched, we found that one of the guests at the luncheon had been a notorious thief known as Jean Tricot. “Things are not so bad as they appear,” Laughton said. “It is a nasty tangle; but this thread leads straight to our friend Heilbrunn. and the Jew spells jewels to me—sorry, I did not intend a pun. Has the laboratory enlarged our prisoner’s finger-prints yet?” “Yes,” I replied, “the special department lias them. The chief has already questioned the fellow. He says his name is Raphael Vinieux and that he is an actoi.” “H’m—well, they’d better hold him another day. By the way, I wonder if his other clothes have been found? Funny that he should have been in that place dressod only in shirt and trousers, no shoes even —what the dev—” The door had burst open and Voltaire appeared, flushed and breathless. “Come along—quick! we’ve got Martinez.” Laughton sprang excitedly forward. “Where —is he alive? Has he the jewels ?” “He is alive and at the Hotel de Voyageurs in La Roselle. Goodness knows how he got there. A doctor is with him now. He was asleep when we arrived and he looked dazed, as though he had been drugged—” “That means no jewels, liein?” Laughton snajmed. Voltaire nodded gloomily. “Naturally! Dunbonnet, the landlord of the hotel, telephoned half an hour ago; he said he’d read about a missing man, and thought his lodger might be the one.” The Hotel des Voyageurs was just a tumble-down tavern and lodginghouse. In a small room on the first floor we found two police officers guarding the door. Lying on the dingy bed. pale and dishevelled, was the man we sought. He seemed barely conscious of our presence. The doctor whom Voltaire had summoned shrugged his shoulders at Laughton’s questions.

“I can say nothing as yet. The man appears to'have been poisoned. He is very weak. When I came I found him sitting at that tabic, with his head on his arms. Near him was an overturned bottle of cognac. He was fast asleep—- “ Asleep? You mean he was drunk? “Well, monsieur, that is not so certain. Truly his eyes are bloodshot and his breath smells of cognac, but his pulse and breathing are not those of a drunken man. I have injected caffeine and camphor, yet, as you see, it does not sober him. My opinion is that he has been drugged.” We examined the room; there was no sign of the bag of jewels. The man was removed in an ambulance under the guard of two officers. Dubonnet, the landlord of the hotel, a vile, fawning creature, related that Martinez had come the night before, accompanied by two women. He appeared to be very intoxicated, and his companions had helped him up the stairs. Several bottles of spirits had been sent to his room, and the women had left some time later. They had paid for the lodging and the drink. Dubonnet had gone upstairs once and heard the man snoring. It was only because he continued to sleep through the day that he had telephoned for the police. “Did he carry a bag?” Voltaire questioned. “No,” Dubonnet said; “nothing at all.” “I shall lay the whole case before the chief,” Laughton exclaimed when we left the place; “it’s too complex for me. What do you think, Voltaire —do you see any light?” “I have a theory—” “Well, then, for heaven’s sake out with it!” Voltaire shook his head. “Not until we have more data. Meanwhile, I’m going to watch that landlord. I don’t believe his story. I’ll change my face and Return. Expect me later.” With that, Voltaire jumped into a passing taxi and drove off. (Sec next Wednesday for conclusion of story.)