CHAPTER XXII.
"MARIE BRACQ!"
Marie Bracq! The name rang in my ears in the express all the way from Colchester to Liverpool Street.
Just before six o'clock I alighted from a taxi in Scotland Yard, and, ascending in the lift, soon found myself sitting with Inspector Edwards.
At that moment I deemed it judicious to tell him nothing regarding my night adventure in the country, except to say:
"Well, I've had a strange experience – the strangest any man could have, because I have dared to investigate on my own account the mystery of Harrington Gardens."
"Oh! tell me about it, Mr. Royle," he urged, leaning back in his chair before the littered writing-table.
"There's nothing much to tell," was my reply. "I'll describe it all some day. At present there's no time to waste. I believe I am correct in saying that the name of the murdered girl is Marie Bracq."
Edwards looked me straight in the face. "That's not an English name, is it?" he said.
"No, Belgian, I should say."
"Belgian? Yes, most probably," he said. "A rather uncommon name, and one which ought not to be difficult to trace. How did you find this out?"
"Oh, it's a long story, Mr. Edwards," I said. "But I honestly believe that at last we are on the scent. Cannot you discover whether any girl of that name is missing?"
"Of course. I'll wire to the Brussels police at once. Perhaps it will be well to ask the Préfect of Police in Paris if they have any person of that name reported missing," he said, and, ringing a bell, a clerk appeared almost instantly with a writing-pad and pencil.
"Wire to Brussels and Paris and ask if they have any person named Marie Bracq – be careful of the spelling – missing. If so, we will send them over a photo."
"Yes, sir," the man replied, and disappeared.
"Well," I asked casually, when we were alone, "have you traced the tailor who made the dead girl's costume?"
"Not yet. The Italian police are making every inquiry."
"And what have you decided regarding that letter offering to give information?"
"Nothing," was his prompt reply. "And if this information you have obtained as to the identity of the deceased proves correct, we shall do nothing. It will be far more satisfactory to work out the problem for ourselves, rather than risk being misled by somebody who has an axe to grind."
"Ah! I'm pleased that you view the matter in that light," I said, much relieved. "I feel confident that I have gained the true name of the victim."
"But how did you manage it, Mr. Royle?" he asked, much interested.
I, however, refused to satisfy his curiosity.
"You certainly seem to know more about the affair than we do," he remarked with a smile.
"Well, was I not a friend of the man who is now a fugitive?" I remarked.
"Ah, of course! And depend upon it, Mr. Royle, when this affair is cleared up, we shall find that your friend was a man of very curious character," he said, pursing his lips. "Inquiries have shown that many mysteries concerning him remain to be explained."
For a moment I did not speak. Then I asked:
"Is anything known concerning a woman friend of his named Petre?"
"Petre?" he echoed. "No, not that I'm aware of. But it seemed that he was essentially what might be called a ladies' man."
"I know that. He used to delight in entertaining his lady friends."
"But who is this woman Petre whom you've mentioned?" he inquired with some curiosity.
"The woman who is ready to give you information for a consideration," I replied.
"How do you know that?"
"Well, I am acquainted with her. I was with her last night," was my quick response. "Her intention is to condemn a perfectly innocent woman."
"Whom?" he asked sharply. "The woman who lost that green horn comb at the flat?"
I held my breath.
"No, Edwards," I answered, "That question is unfair. As a gentleman, I cannot mention a lady's name. If she chooses to do so that's another matter. But if she does – as from motives of jealousy she easily may do – please do not take any action without first consulting me. Ere long I shall have a strange, almost incredible, story to put before you."
"Why not now?" he asked, instantly interested.
"Because I have not yet substantiated all my facts," was my reply.
"Cannot I assist you? Why keep me in the dark?" he protested.
"I'm afraid you can render me no other assistance except to hesitate to accept the allegations of that woman Petre," I replied.
"Well, we shall wait until she approaches us again," he said.
"This I feel certain she will do," I exclaimed. "But if you see her, make no mention whatever of me – you understand? She believes me to be dead, and therefore not likely to disprove her allegations."
"Dead!" he echoed. "Really, Mr. Royle, all this sounds most interesting."
"It is," I declared. "I believe I am now upon the verge of a very remarkable discovery – that ere long we shall know the details of that crime in South Kensington."
"Well, if you do succeed in elucidating the mystery you will accomplish a marvellous feat," said the great detective, placing his hands together and looking at me across his table. "I confess that I'm completely baffled. That friend of yours who called himself Kemsley has disappeared as completely as though the ground had opened and swallowed him."
"Ah, Edwards, London's a big place," I laughed, "and your men are really not very astute."
"Why not?"
"Because the man you want called at my rooms in Albemarle Street only a few days ago."
"What?" he cried, staring at me surprised.
"Yes, I was unfortunately out, but he left a message with my man that he would let me know his address later."
"Amazing impudence!" cried my friend. "He called in order to show his utter defiance of the police, I should think."
"No. My belief is that he wished to tell me something," I said. "Anyhow, he will either return or send his address."
"I very much doubt it. He's a clever rogue, but, like all men of his elusiveness and cunning, he never takes undue chances. No, Mr. Royle, depend upon it, he'll never visit you again."
"But I may be able to find him. Who knows?"
The detective moved his papers aside, and with a sigh admitted:
"Yes, you may have luck, to be sure."
Then, after some further conversation, he looked at the piece of sticking plaster on my head and remarked:
"I see you've had a knock. How did you manage it?"
I made an excuse that in bending before my own fireplace I had struck it on the corner of the mantelshelf. Afterwards I suddenly said:
"You recollect those facts you told me regarding the alleged death of the real Kemsley in Peru, don't you?"
"Of course."
"Well, they've interested me deeply. I'd so much like to know any further details."
Edwards reflected a moment, recalling the report.
"Well," he said, taking from one of the drawers in his table a voluminous official file of papers. "There really isn't very much more than what you already know. The Consul's report is a very full one, and contains a quantity of depositions taken on the spot – mostly evidence of Peruvians, in which little credence can, perhaps, be placed. Of course," he added, "the suspected man Cane seems to have been a very bad lot. He was at one time manager of a rubber plantation belonging to a Portuguese company, and some very queer stories were current regarding him."
"What kind of stories?" I asked.
"Oh, his outrageous cruelty to the natives when they did not collect sufficient rubber. He used, they said, to burn the native villages and massacre the inhabitants without the slightest compunction. He was known by the natives as 'The Red Englishman.' They were terrified by him. His name, it seems, was Herbert Cane, and so bad became his reputation that he was dismissed by the company after an inquiry by a commission sent from Lisbon, and drifted into Argentina, sinking lower and lower in the social scale."
Then, after referring to several closely-written pages of foolscap, each one bearing the blue embossed stamp of the British Consulate in Lima, he went on:
"Inquiries showed that for a few months the man Cane was in Monte Video, endeavouring to obtain a railway concession for a German group of financiers, but his reputation became noised abroad and he found it better to leave that city. Afterwards he seems to have met Sir Digby and to have become his bosom friend."
"And what were the exact circumstances of Sir Digby's death?" I asked anxiously.
"Ah! they are veiled in mystery," was the detective's response, turning again to the official report and depositions of witnesses. "As I think I told you, Sir Digby had met with an accident and injured his spine. Cane, whose acquaintance he made, brought him down to Lima, and a couple of months later, under the doctor's advice, removed him to a bungalow at Huacho. Here they lived with a couple of Peruvian men-servants, named Senos and Luis. Cane seemed devoted to his friend, leading the life of a quiet, studious, refined man – very different to his wild life on the rubber plantation. One morning, however, on a servant entering Sir Digby's room, he found him dead, and an examination showed that he had been bitten in the arm by a poisonous snake. There were signs of a struggle, showing the poor fellow's agony before he died. Cane, entering shortly afterwards, was distracted with grief, and telegraphed himself to the British Consul at Lima. And, according to custom in that country, that same evening the unfortunate man was buried."
"Without any inquiry?" I asked.
"Yes. At the time, remember, there was no suspicion. A good many people die annually in Peru of snake-bite," Edwards replied, again referring to the file of papers before him. "It seems, however, that three days later, the second Peruvian servant – a man known as Senos – declared that during the night of the tragic affair he had heard his master suddenly yell with terror and cry out 'You blackguard, Cane, you hell-fiend; take the thing away. Ah! God! You – why, you've killed me!'"
"Yes," I said. "But was this told to Cane?"
"Cane saw the man and strenuously denied his allegation. He, indeed, went to the local Commissary of Police and lodged a complaint against the man Senos for falsely accusing him, saying that he had done so out of spite, because a few days before he had had occasion to reprimand him for inattention to his duties. Further, Cane brought up a man living five miles from Huacho who swore that the accused man was at his bungalow on that night, arriving at nine o'clock. He drank so heavily that he could not get home, so he remained there the night, returning at eight o'clock next morning."
"And the police officials believed him – eh?" I asked.
"Yes. But next day he left Huacho, expressing a determination to go to Lima and make a statement to the Consul there. But he never arrived at the capital, and he has never been seen since."
"Then a grave suspicion rests upon him?" I remarked, reflecting upon my startling adventure of the previous night.
"Certainly. But the curious thing is that no attempt seems to have been made by the police authorities in Lima to trace the man. They allowed him to disappear, and took no notice of the affair, even when the British Consul reported it. I fancy police methods must be very lax ones there," he added.
"But what could have been the method of the assassin?" I asked.
"Why, simply to allow the snake to strike at the sleeping man, I presume," said the detective. "Yet, one would have thought that after the snake had bitten him he would have cried out for help. But he did not."
Had the victim, I wondered, swallowed that same tasteless drug that I had swallowed, and been paralysed, as I had been?
"And the motive of the crime?" I asked.
Edwards shrugged his shoulders, and raised his brows.
"Robbery, I should say," was his reply. "But, strangely enough, there is no suggestion of theft in this report; neither does there seem to be any woman in the case."
"You, of course, suspect that my friend Digby and the man Cane, are one and the same person!" I said. "But is it feasible that if Cane were really responsible for the death of the real Sir Digby, would he have the bold audacity to return to London and actually pose as his victim?"
"Yes, Mr. Royle," replied the detective, "I think it most feasible. Great criminals have the most remarkable audacity. Some really astounding cases of most impudent impersonation have come under my own observation during my career in this office."
"Then you adhere to the theory which you formed at first?"
"Most decidedly," he replied; "and while it seems that you have a surprise to spring upon me very shortly, so have I one to spring upon you – one which I fear, Mr. Royle," he added very slowly, looking me gravely in the face – "I fear may come as a great shock to you."
I sat staring at him, unable to utter a syllable.
He was alluding to Phrida, and to the damning evidence against her.
What could he know? Ah! who had betrayed my love?
CHAPTER XXIII.
LOVE'S CONFESSION
I dined alone at the Club, and afterwards sat over my coffee in one of the smaller white-panelled rooms, gazing up at the Adams ceiling, and my mind full of the gravest thoughts.
What had Edwards meant when he promised me an unpleasant surprise? Had the woman Petre already made a statement incriminating my well-beloved?
If so, I would at once demand the arrest of her and her accomplices for attempted murder. It had suggested itself to me to make a complete revelation to Edwards of the whole of my exciting adventure at Colchester, but on mature consideration I saw that such a course might thwart my endeavours to come face to face with Digby.
Therefore I had held my tongue.
But were Edwards' suspicions that the assassin Cane and the man I knew as Sir Digby Kemsley were one and the same, correct, or were they not?
The method by which the unfortunate Englishman in Peru had been foully done to death was similar to the means employed against myself at Colchester on the previous night. Again, the fact that the victim did not shout and call for aid was, no doubt, due to the administration of that drug which produced complete paralysis of the muscles, and yet left the senses perfectly normal.
Was that Indian whom they called Ali really a Peruvian native – the accomplice of Cane? I now felt confident that this was so.
But in what manner could the impostor have obtained power over Phrida? Why did she not take courage and reveal to me the truth?
Presently, I took a taxi down to Cromwell Road and found my well-beloved, with thin, pale, drawn face, endeavouring to do some fancy needlework by the drawing-room fire. Her mother had retired with a bad headache, she said, and she was alone.
"I expected you yesterday, Teddy," she said, taking my hand. "I waited all day, but you never came."
"I had to go into the country," I replied somewhat lamely.
Then after a brief conversation upon trivialities, during which time I sat regarding her closely, and noting how nervous and agitated she seemed, she suddenly asked:
"Well! Have you heard anything more of that woman, Mrs. Petre?"
"I believe she's gone abroad," I replied, with evasion.
Phrida's lips twitched convulsively, and she gave vent to a slight sigh, of relief, perhaps.
"Tell me, dearest," I said, bending and stroking her soft hair from her white brow. "Are you still so full of anxiety? Do you still fear the exposure of the truth?"
She did not reply, but of a sudden buried her face upon my shoulder and burst into tears.
"Ah!" I sighed, still stroking her hair sympathetically, "I know what you must suffer, darling – of the terrible mental strain upon you. I believe in your innocence – I still believe in it, and if you will bear a stout heart and trust me, I believe I shall succeed in worsting your enemies."
In a moment her tear-stained face was raised to mine.
"Do you really believe that you can, dear?" she asked anxiously. "Do you actually anticipate extricating me from this terrible position of doubt, uncertainty, and guilt?"
"I do – if you will only trust me, and keep a brave heart, darling," I said. "Already I have made several discoveries – startling ones."
"About Mrs. Petre, perhaps?"
"About her and about others."
"What about her?"
"I have found out where she is living – down at Colchester."
"What?" she gasped, starting. "You've been down there?"
"Yes, I was there yesterday, and I saw Ali and the two servants."
"You saw them – and spoke to them?" she cried incredibly.
"Yes."
"But, Teddy – ah! You don't know how injudicious it was for you to visit them. Why, you might have – "
"Might have what?" I asked, endeavouring to betray no surprise at her words.
"Well, I mean you should not have ventured into the enemy's camp like that. It was dangerous," she declared.
"Why?"
"They are quite unscrupulous," she replied briefly.
"They are your enemies, I know. But I cannot see why they should be mine," I remarked.
"My enemies – yes!" my love cried bitterly. "It will not be long before that woman makes a charge against me, Teddy – one which I shall not be able to refute."
"But I will assist you against them. I love you, Phrida, and it is my duty to defend you," I declared.
"Ah! You were always so good and generous," she remarked wistfully. "But in this case I cannot, alas, see how you can render me any aid! The police will make inquiries, and – and then the end," she added in a voice scarce above a whisper.
"No, no!" I urged. "Don't speak in that hopeless strain, darling. I know your position is a terrible one. We need not refer to details; as they are painful to both of us. But I am straining every nerve – working night and day to clear up the mystery and lift from you this cloud of suspicion. I have already commenced by learning one or two facts – facts of which the police remain in ignorance. Although you refused to tell me – why, I cannot discern – the name of the unfortunate girl who lost her life, I have succeeded in gaining knowledge of it. Was not the girl named Marie Bracq?"
She started again at hearing the name.
"Yes," she replied at once. "Who told you?"
"I discovered it for myself," I replied. "Who was the girl – tell me?"
"A friend of Digby Kemsley's."
"A foreigner, of course?"
"Yes, Belgian, I believe."
"From Brussels, eh?"
"Perhaps. I don't know for certain."
"And she learned some great secret of Digby's, which was the motive of the crime," I suggested.
But my love only shook her pretty head blankly, saying – "I don't know. Perhaps she knew something to his detriment."
"And in order to silence her, she was killed," I suggested.
"Perhaps."
She made no protest of her own innocence, I noticed. She seemed to place herself unreservedly in my hands to judge her as I thought fit.
Yet had not her own admissions been extremely strange ones. Had she not practically avowed her guilt?
"Can you tell me nothing concerning this Belgian girl?" I asked her a few moments later.
"I only knew her but very slightly."
"Pardon me putting to you such a pointed question, Phrida. But were you jealous of her?"
"Jealous!" she ejaculated. "Why, dear me, no. Why should I be jealous? Who suggested that?"
"Mrs. Petre. She declares that your jealousy was the motive of the crime, and that Digby himself can bear witness to it."
"She said that?" cried my love, her eyes flashing in fierce anger. "She's a wicked liar."
"I know she is, and I intend to prove her so," I replied with confidence. "When she and I meet again we have an account to settle. You will see."
"Ah! Teddy, beware of her! She's a dangerous woman – highly dangerous," declared my love apprehensively. "You don't know her as I do – you do not know the grave evil and utter ruin she has brought upon others. So I beg of you to be careful not to be entrapped."
"Have others been entrapped, then?" I asked with great curiosity.
"I don't know. No. Please don't ask me," she protested. "I don't know."
Her response was unreal. My well-beloved was I knew in possession of some terrible secret which she dared not betray. Yet why were her lips sealed? What did she fear?
"I intend to find Digby, and demand the truth from him," I said after we had been silent for a long time. "I will never rest until I stand before him face to face."
"Ah! no dear!" she cried in quick alarm, starting up and flinging both her arms about my neck. "No, don't do that?" she implored.
"Why not?"
"Because he will condemn me – he will think you have learned something from me," she declared in deep distress.
"But I shall reveal to him my sources of information," I said. "Since that fatal night I have learned that the man whom I believed was my firm friend has betrayed me. An explanation is due to me, and I intend to have one."
"At my expense – eh?" she asked in bitter reproach.
"No, dearest. The result shall not fall upon you," I said. "I will see to that. A foul and dastardly crime has been committed, and the assassin shall be brought to punishment."
My well-beloved shuddered in my arms as she heard my words – as though the guilt were upon her.
I detected it, and became more than ever puzzled. Why did she seek to secure this man's freedom?
I asked her that question point-blank, whereupon in a hard, faltering voice, she replied:
"Because, dear, while he is still a fugitive from justice I feel myself safe. The hour he is arrested is the hour of my doom."
"Why speak so despondently?" I asked. "Have I not promised to protect you from those people?"
"How can you if they make allegations against me and bring up witnesses who will commit perjury – who will swear anything in order that the guilt shall be placed upon my head," she asked in despair.
"Though the justice often dispensed by country magistrates is a disgraceful travesty of right and wrong, yet we still have in England justice in the criminal courts," I said. "Rest assured that no jury will convict an innocent woman of the crime of murder."
She stood slightly away from me, staring blankly straight before her. Then suddenly she pressed both hands upon her brow and cried in a low, intense voice:
"May God have pity on me!"
"Yes," I said very earnestly. "Trust in Him, dearest, and He will help you."
"Ah!" she cried. "You don't know how I suffer – of all the terror – all the dread that haunts me night and day. Each ring at the door I fear may be the police – every man who passes the house I fear may be a detective watching. This torture is too awful. I feel I shall go mad —mad!"
And she paced the room in her despair, while I stood watching her, unable to still the wild, frantic terror that had gripped her young heart.
What could I do? What could I think?
"This cannot go on, Phrida!" I cried at last in desperation. "I will search out this man. I'll grip him by the throat and force the truth from him," I declared, setting my teeth hard. "I love you, and I will not stand by and see you suffer like this!"
"Ah, no!" she implored, suddenly approaching me, flinging herself upon her knees and gripping my hands. "No, I beg of you not to do that!" she cried hoarsely.
"But why?" I demanded. "Surely you can tell me the reason of your fear!" I went on – "the man is a rank impostor. That has been proved already by the police."
"Do you know that?" she asked, in an instant grave. "Are you quite certain of that? Remember, you have all along believed him to be the real Sir Digby."
"What is your belief, Phrida?" I asked her very earnestly.
She drew a long breath and hesitated.
"Truth to tell, dear, I don't know what to think. Sometimes I believe he must be the real person – and at other times I am filled with doubt."
"But now tell me," I urged, assisting her to rise to her feet and then placing my arm about her neck, so that her pretty head fell upon my shoulder. "Answer me truthfully this one question, for all depends upon it. How is it that this man has secured such a hold upon you – how is it that with you his word is law – that though he is a fugitive from justice you refuse to say a single word against him or to give me one clue to the solution of this mystery?"
Her face was blanched to the lips, she trembled in my embrace, drawing a long breath.
"I – I'm sorry, dear – but I – I can't tell you. I – I dare not. Can't you understand?" she asked with despair in her great, wide-open eyes. "I dare not!"