The Case of the Dead Diplomat by Basil Thomson Page B

“I think we ought to report our day’s work to the first secretary, Mr. Carruthers, I think his name was.”
    The porter touched his hat as they went in; they were now members of the Embassy staff. The Press photographer had deserted his post, weary of waiting for what seemed never destined to materialize.
    Chubb met the two detectives at the door of the Chancery. “They’ve been asking where you two gentlemen were, and I could tell them nothing. I said that probably you were going over the floor of Mr. Everett’s flat with a high-power microscope—that’s what they do in the detective films. Number One holds up a hair found on the carpet. ‘What’s this?’ he asks, and Number Two says, ‘I know it; it belonged to the beard of the sous-prefet who was done to death last Thursday,’ and there you are!”
    â€œAre they fond of detective films over here?” asked Cooper.
    â€œThey eat them, but always there’s a woman in the case—she’s the vamp that lured the poor man to his death. When she’s off stage they talk about her as the most beautiful woman that you’ve ever seen, and when you do see her—my God!”
    Richardson laughed. “I suppose the canons of female beauty vary for every country. In England the type looks half-starved; here in France it’s the other way about; they run to busts. Is the first secretary disengaged?”
    â€œMr. Carruthers? Oh, he’s always busy, you know, but he asked me just now whether you had come in. Stop here and I’ll see how the land lies.”
    Chubb opened a door, looked in, and beckoned to Richardson; the two detectives entered the room.
    Carruthers’ first question was, “Well, how did you get on with the French police?”
    â€œVery well indeed, sir. They showed us every-thing—the room where the body was found, every-thing that had been taken to the police station, and a mass of documents, mostly in English, which we had to go through.”
    â€œDid you find anything that threw a light on the mystery?”
    â€œWe found material for further investigation, but it did not amount to very much. In the waste-paper-basket there were a number of scraps of torn paper. We pieced them together and showed them to Inspector Bigot. It was a libellous statement about one of the Ministers, written on club paper, apparently by a guest who was lunching with Mr. Everett the day before the murder. Among the papers that had been brought down to the police station was a letter signed ‘P.C.’ We have provisionally identified the writer as a certain Paul Chabrol.”
    â€œPaul Chabrol? Why, he’s a very well-known journalist who signs his articles. What was in the letter?”
    â€œIt was written in a peremptory tone, calling upon Mr. Everett to destroy the note in the writer’s presence, and saying that he would call at Mr. Everett’s flat that evening to see it done.”
    â€œI wonder why.”
    â€œNo reason was given except that the story wasn’t true. Probably Paul Chabrol gave his reason to Mr. Everett when he called.”
    â€œDoesn’t it strike you as rather suspicious that Chabrol hasn’t been round to the police to tell them at what hour he called at the flat?”
    â€œYes, sir, especially if he had an innocent explanation to give.”
    â€œWas that all you found?”
    â€œNo. sir; we found something else; an un-developed Kodak film which may have dropped out of the murderer’s pocket during the struggle.”
    â€œOr out of Everett’s pocket. I know he had a camera.”
    â€œYes, sir, we found the camera, but this film was two sizes too large for that make.”
    â€œYou’re having the film developed, of course?”
    â€œYes, sir; M. Bigot is having that done.”
    â€œI shall be interested to hear the result.”
    â€œI forgot to say that we’ve been round to the Cercle