Part 25 (1/2)
”Then what are the facts?” challenged Matheson.
Lars Larssen took a deep breath before he leaned forward across the horseshoe desk to answer. At the same time he moved a hidden lever under the desk. This was a device allowing any conversation of his to be heard telephonically in the adjoining room where his private secretary worked.
It was useful occasionally when he needed an unseen listener to a business interview of his; and now he particularly wanted Sylvester to hear what he and Matheson were saying to one another. It would give Sylvester his cue if he were to be called in at any point.
”Matheson,” said the s.h.i.+powner, ”the facts of your case don't make a very edifying story. If you're sure you want to hear them as you'd hear them in a court of law, I'll spare another five minutes to tell you.
You're quite certain you'd like to hear the outside view of your actions this past three weeks?”
”I'm listening.”
With brutal directness Larssen proceeded: ”On the night of March 14th, you decided you were tired of your wife. Thought you'd like a change of bedfellow. You left your coat and stick about a quarter-mile down the left bank of the Seine from Neuilly bridge, so that people would think you dead. You cut a knife-slit in the ribs of your coat to make a neater story of it. Then, as I guessed you would, you went honeymooning with the other woman. Away to the sunny South. I had you followed.
”You registered together at the Hotel du Forum at Arles, taking the names of John Riviere and Elaine Verney. A man doesn't change his name unless he's got some shady reason for it. Every court of law knows that.
You dallied for a day or two at Arles, getting this woman to write a lying letter to your wife saying that you were down with fever. We have that letter.”
”We!”
”Yes, _we_. We have that letter. I advised your wife to let me keep it for possible emergencies. I have it in this office along with the other evidence. I don't bluff--shall I ring and have my secretary show it to you?”
”Get on.”
”Then you moved to Nimes, staying for shame's sake at different houses.
Hers was the Hotel de Provence, and yours was the Villa Clementine. You went lovemaking with this woman in the moonlight, up to a quiet place on the hillside, and there you nearly got what was coming to you from a peasant called Crau. Then you had this Verney woman stay with you in your Villa Clementine, and finally you took her off to Wiesbaden.”
Larssen ostentatiously pressed an electric bell.
”I'll give you chapter and verse,” he said.
Morris Sylvester came in quietly from his room close by, a slow smile under his heavy dark moustache, and nodded greeting to Matheson. He had heard by the telephone device all of his chief's case against Matheson, and was quite ready to take up his cue.
”Sylvester, you recognize this man?” said Larssen.
”Yes. He is the Mr John Riviere I shadowed at Arles and Nimes.”
Larssen turned to the financier. ”Want to ask him any questions? Ask anything you like.”
”No.”
”Sure?”
”Quite,” answered Matheson. There was nothing to be gained at this stage by cross-examining the secretary.
”That will do, Sylvester.”
The secretary left the room.
Larssen leant forward across the desk once more and snarled: ”There's the facts of the case as they'll go before the divorce court.”
”Do you know that Miss Verney is blind?” There was a hoa.r.s.eness in Matheson's voice; he cleared his throat to relieve it.