Swirling Waters | Page 7

ten o'clock he
was at the office of the Europe Chronicle, an important daily paper
published simultaneously in Paris, Frankfort, and Florence.
Martin came out from the news room into the adjoining ante-room with
a slip of "flimsy" in his hand.
"Was your man hefty with the shillelagh?" he asked.
"He carried a big, gold-mounted stick."
"Then here's your bird." He read out from the slip of paper: "Last night,
shortly after twelve, a certain Gaspard P---- was brought to the Hôpital
Malesherbes suffering from a fractured skull. This morning, on
recovering consciousness, he states that he was attacked without cause
by a drunken Englishman, and struck over the head with a heavy stick.
His state is grave."
Dean felt a warm wave of relief. He thanked the journalist cordially and
was about to leave, when the telephone bell rang sharply in the
adjoining news room. The sub-editor in charge took up the receiver.
"Ullo, ullo! C'est ici le Chronicle," said the sub-editor, and after
listening for a moment signed imperatively to Martin to come in and
shut the door.
Presently Martin came out from the news room bustling with energy

and took Dean by the arm. "You specified two apaches, didn't you?" he
asked, and hurried on without waiting for an answer. "One was
probably the injured innocence now at the Malesherbes and cursing
those sacrés Angliches, but the other lies low and says nuffink. That's
the one that interests me. Come along in my taxi and watch me chase a
story."
Stopping only to borrow fifty francs for expenses from the cashier's
wicket, Martin hurried his friend into a taximeter cab and gave the brief
direction: "Pont de Neuilly."
Three-quarters of an hour later they had reached the bridge at the end of
the long avenue of the suburb of Neuilly and had dismissed the cab.
"Now for our imitaciong Sherlock Holmes," said Martin. "The 'phone
message was that a man had found a fur coat and a gold-mounted stick
under some bushes by the left bank of the Seine four hundred metres
down stream. He was apparently some sort of workman, and explained
that he had no wish to be mixed up with the police. On the other hand,
he felt he had to do his duty by the civilization that provides him with a
blue blouse, bread, and bock, so he 'phoned the news to us.... Wish
everyone was as sensible," he added, viewing the matter from a
professional standpoint.
Three hundred yards down, they began to look very carefully amongst
the bushes that line the water's edge. It was not long before they came
to the object of their search. Under an alder-bush they found it--a heavy
fur-lined coat sodden with the river water, and a gold-mounted stick.
The maker's name had been cut out of the overcoat; its pockets were
empty.
Martin held it up. "Did this belong to your man?" he asked, as though
sure of the answer.
"No," answered Dean decisively.
The journalist whisked around in complete surprise and looked at him

keenly. "Sure?"
"Positive. There was astrakhan on the collar and cuffs of the coat my
man was wearing."
"And this stick?"
"It looks much the same kind, but then there are thousands of sticks like
this in use."
The stout little journalist looked pathetically disappointed. For the
moment he had no thought beyond the professional aspect of the
matter--the unearthing of a "good story"--and the human significance of
what he had found was entirely out of mind. He turned over the coat
and stick in obvious perplexity, as though they ought somehow to
contain the key to the puzzle if only he could see it. Then he examined
the traces of footsteps on the damp earth by the water-side. There was
another set of footprints beside their own--no doubt the footprints of
the man who had first found the objects and 'phoned to the Chronicle.
"What are you going to do next?" asked the young clerk.
"Take them to the police?"
Martin looked up and down the river bank. That part of the Seine is
usually deserted except for nursemaids and children and an occasional
workman. At the moment there was apparently no one in sight.
"You don't know the Paris police--that's evident," returned the
journalist. "They would throw fits on the floor if I were so much as to
carry off a coat-button. No, we must hide the coat and stick in the
bushes again, and tell them to-morrow."
"Why to-morrow?"
"Twenty-four hours' start is due to my owners, bless their sensational
little hearts. If nothing further comes to light, then the press steps aside
and allows the law to take its course. Meanwhile to the Morgue and the

Malesherbes. We'll pick up a cab on the Avenue de Neuilly. Newspaper
life,