Sant of the Secret Service: Some Revelations of Spies and Spying

It was necessary to make many inquiries without arousing suspicion, therefore I was compelled to spend several days at my task. I made some interesting discoveries, for naturally the entire neighbourhood was familiar with Cauvin’s rise to wealth, and he had been put under that microscopic observation and discussion which is so marked a feature of provincial life everywhere, but especially in France.

I chanced upon a retired butcher named Demetz, in whose debt Cauvin had been to the extent of nearly two thousand francs. Demetz had been on the point of suing for the money when, to his intense surprise, Cauvin called one day with a bundle of thousand-franc notes in his hand, and threw out three, saying gleefully: “The extra thousand is for interest, my dear friend. I invented an improvement in automobile engines a year ago and patented it. A big firm in England has taken up my invention, and my fortune is made.”

Naturally enough, the retired butcher had been keenly interested in Cauvin’s sudden wealth, and had tried to question him about it. But the postman’s son was too wily to be drawn. He declared that the invention was a secret, that it would revolutionise the motor trade, and that the English syndicate which had bought it meant to spring it upon the market as a complete surprise.

I soon found out that the man Cauvin was not popular. True, he flung his money about, and there were few local institutions which had not benefited by his largesse. But there is no population in the world so suspicious as the French provincial, and it was evident that the ex-postman’s son had entirely failed in his prosperity to win either the affection or the confidence of those who had known him in his earlier and humbler days.

Demetz voiced the prevailing suspicion. “Where does his money come from, monsieur?” he asked me. “From a motor invention – bah! What does Jules Cauvin know about motors? He had hardly ever been in one before he grew so suddenly rich. There is something mysterious about it all.” But it was evident that even Demetz had not the least inkling of the real truth, and, of course, I did not breathe a syllable of it to him.

The matter was of extreme urgency, and I did not allow the grass to grow under my feet. I had promised Doris to spend a week with her in Worcestershire, but this was impossible. I knew, however, that she had long wished for a trip to Mentone, so I sent her a wire, asking her to come with her mother and meet me there. A few hours after I got the reply I wished for, and the following afternoon I alighted upon the long platform at Mentone. Two days later I was joined at my hotel by Doris and her mother.

In Mentone, of course, my objective was the Villa des Fleurs. I particularly wanted to have a good look round the interior of that interesting house. Cauvin, of course, was away, and the house was shut up, but I learned that it was being looked after by an old woman, the wife of the gardener, and accordingly I hired a fiacre and, with Doris as my companion, drove out to the Villa des Fleurs.

On the Côte d’Azur the weather was stifling. Driving up the white, winding road of Castellar, we found the olives and aloes dry and dusty, and the land parched and brown. The Riviera is not gay in the dog-days. At last we arrived at the Villa, a great, recently built house of the flamboyant, new art style, its green shutters closed, and the whole place silent and deserted in the burning sun. Roses and geraniums ran riot everywhere, but the gardens were kept spick and span, as became the winter pied-à-terre of a wealthy man.

I posed as an Englishman who wished to view the Villa, with the object of becoming its tenant next winter, having heard from a friend of Monsieur Cauvin that he might wish to let it. Doris, I assured the old gardener, a white-bearded man in a big straw hat and blue apron, was my sister. He took the bait readily enough, and handed me over to the care of his wife, by whom we were conducted over the house.

The house was most luxuriously furnished, and it was evident that popular rumours, for once, had not exaggerated Cauvin’s wealth. Everything was in splendid taste and bore the unmistakable cachet of a famous Paris firm of experts. Cauvin, evidently, was no fool; he had committed none of the absurdities of the average nouveau riche, but had wisely given experienced men carte blanche. The result was a mingling of luxury and good taste which certainly could not have been expected from the son of a village postman.

Chapter Five

The Perfumed Card

We passed from room to room, chatting freely with the old Frenchwoman, who garrulously told me everything I wanted to know, and showed not the least reluctance to discuss her master and his affairs.