The Classic Mystery Collection - Arthur Conan Doyle [5869]
"He might have taken something other than drink."
"What do you mean?"
"Dope!"
"Oh, yes, I s'pose so, and him bein' French might account for it. Anyhow he was like two different men. That one day he was as bold as brass, and I guess he'd have driven one of them there airships if any one had dared him to. Then, the next day he was like a chap trying for his license with the motor inspector lookin' on. I can't account for it. That Jean Forette sure is a card !"
"Then he really seemed afraid to speed the Dilat car?"
"That's it. And he spoke of Mr. Carwell going to get a more powerful French machine. He said then he'd never driven it to the limit, and didn't want to handle it at all. And he spoke the truth, for I heard that he and the old man didn't get along at all with that red, white and blue devil Mr. Carwell imported."
"So they say. Forette was to leave at the end of the month. Well, I'm much obliged to you. A friend of mine was going to engage him, but if he has such a reputation - not reliable, you know, I guess I'll look farther. Much obliged," and the colonel, who, it is needless to say, had not revealed his true character to the garage owner, turned aside.
"Oh, I wouldn't want what I said to keep Forette out of a place!" protested the man quickly. "If I'd thought that - "
"You needn't worry. You haven't done him any harm. He's out of a place anyhow, since Mr. Carwell died, and I'll treat what you told me in strict confidence."
"I wish you would. You know we have to be careful."
"I understand."
And this information passed again in review before the mind of the fisherman as he took Jean Forette's card from the pack.
"I wonder if he can be a dope fiend?" mused the colonel. "It's worth looking up, at any rate. He'd be a bad kind to drive a car. I'm glad he isn't in my employ, and I'm better pleased that he won't take Viola out. This dope - bad stuff, whether it's morphine, cocaine, or something else. We'll just keep this card up in front where we can get at it easily."
The next mental card had on it the name of LeGrand Blossom.
"Curious chap, him," mused the detective. "He's very fond of the sound of his own voice, particularly where he can get an audience, as he had at the inquest. Well, I don't know anything about you, Mr. Blossom, neither for nor against you, but I'll keep your card within reach, also. Can't neglect any possibilities in cases like this. And now for some others."
There were many cards in the colonel's index, and he ran rapidly over them as he waited for a bite. They bore the names of many members of the golf and yachting clubs of which Mr. Carwell had been a member. There were also the names of the household servants, and the dead man's nearest relatives, including his sister and Viola. But the colonel did not linger long over any of these memoranda. The card of Viola Carwell, however, had mentally penciled on it the somewhat mystic symbol 58 C. H. - i6i* and this the colonel looked at from every angle.
"I really must get a book on chemistry," he mused. "I may need it to find out what kind of dope Forette uses - if he takes any."
And thus the colonel sat in the shade, beside the quiet stream, the little green book by his side. But he did not open it now, and though his gaze was on his line, where it cut the water in a little swirl, he did not seem to see it.
"Shag!" suddenly exclaimed the colonel, breaking a stillness that was little short of idyllic.
"Yes, sah, Colonel! Yes, sah!" and the colored man awoke with a skill perfected by long practice under similar circumstances.
"Shag, the fishing here is miserable!"
"Yes, sah, Colonel. Shall we-all move?"
"Might as well. I haven't had a nibble, and from the looks of everything - even the evidence of Mr. Walton himself - it ought