Free Murder Abroad by E.R. Punshon Page A

Shields answered doubtfully. The elder Camion had come into the room now and Shields beckoned to him: “Monsieur Camion,” he called, “I suppose one could get across the Bornay Massif on foot, couldn’t one?”
    The elder Camion came up and again Bobby thought how strange it was that this round, smiling, commonplace little man could have produced that youngster of the fierce and haughty mien who was his son. There was a distinct family likeness though. It was as though Nature had said: ‘Just to show you, I’ll take this humble, commonplace type, the very image of the “little man”, and show how easily I can transform it into the type of the leader and the chieftain.’ He looked faintly puzzled now, a familiar expression on his countenance, Bobby thought, and said: “But with what object, monsieur? Why should any one make such an attempt?”
    â€œWell, if they did, would it be possible?”
    â€œIt might be done,” the elder Camion agreed though somewhat hesitatingly. “It would be difficult, success would be quite a triumph. There is the great crevasse it would be necessary to cross. That alone would require help and ropes. Doubtless it could be accomplished, but hardly in a single day. And if one were alone and met with an accident, even slight, or got lost—finished,” declared the hotel-keeper with emphasis. “But why should one try?” he asked and wandered away, evidently puzzled that so mad an idea should ever have occurred to any one.
    â€œOne of the village lads did get lost on the Massif a few months ago,” Shields remarked. “He was still alive when they found him, but he died from the exposure.”
    â€œI heard about that,” observed Bobby. “Some one up there always shows a light now after dark, doesn’t he? A sort of guide?”
    â€œThat’s right,” said Shields. “Excommunicated priest—and they don’t excommunicate priests for nothing. I wonder sometimes what that lantern is really shown for.”
    â€œYou mean?” asked Bobby, startled.
    â€œDid you know there was a murder here some months ago?” Shields countered.
    â€œI think I’ve heard of it,” Bobby said. “An English woman, wasn’t it? A Miss Polthwaite?”
    â€œThat’s right,” Shields said again. “I knew her slightly—old friends in a way though we never got intimate. Fussy old girl but not a bad sort. I used to have to come over here to pay her a visit at times. Bit of a drag, I found it. She liked to play at being an artist and I gave her a few hints sometimes.” He smiled faintly. “It was really I who told her about the Pépin Mill. I panicked a bit when I found she was looking for a place round my way so I headed her off here as I happened to know about the Pépin Mill. Had had a look at it myself but decided on Barsac instead. And I definitely didn’t want her too near. She would have been on my doorstep all day and every day, wanting to know this and that. Makes me feel a bit responsible sometimes. I don’t care about the idea that if I hadn’t mentioned the Pépin Mill to her she might be alive still. I mentioned other places too, of course. I really wanted her further away if possible. There was a place at Vienne I thought would suit her down to the ground but she took a great fancy to the mill here. Picturesque sort of place, I know. But I hate to think I ever told her about it. Suicide they say. I wonder?”
    â€œDo you think it’s possible it was something else?” Bobby asked gravely.
    â€œYes, I do. She wasn’t a rich woman really. Lived on a small annuity. Told me so herself. But the story got about that she had money. There’s an old blind beggar goes about here and he spread the story. He’s responsible for half the gossip that goes on and that’s plenty.”
    â€œThe Père Trouché?” Bobby