CHAPTER XXVI.
SHOWS EXPERT METHODS
It being the luncheon hour, Frémy and myself ate our meal at the highly popular restaurant, the Taverne Joseph, close to the Bourse, where the cooking is, perhaps, the best in Brussels and where the cosmopolitan, who knows where to eat, usually makes for when in the Belgian capital.
After our coffee, cigarettes, and a "triple-sec" each, we strolled round to the General Post Office. As we approached that long flight of granite steps I knew so well, a poor-looking, ill-dressed man with the pinch of poverty upon his face, and his coat buttoned tightly against the cold, edged up to my companion on the pavement and whispered a word, afterwards hurrying on.
"Our interesting friend has not been here yet," the detective remarked to me. "We will have a talk with the clerk at the Poste Restante."
Entering the great hall, busy as it is all day, we approached the window where letters were distributed from A to L, and where sat the same pleasant, fair-haired man sorting letters.
"Bon jour, m'sieur!" he exclaimed, when he caught sight of Frémy. "What weather, eh?"
The great detective returned his greetings, and then putting his head further into the window so that others should not overhear, said in French:
"I am looking for an individual, an Englishman, name of Bryant, and am keeping watch outside. He is wanted in England for a serious offence. Has he been here?"
"Bryant?" repeated the clerk thoughtfully.
"Yes," said Frémy, and then I spelt the name slowly.
The clerk reached his hand to the pigeon-hole wherein were letters for callers whose names began with B, and placing them against a little block of black wood on the counter before him, looked eagerly through while we watched intently.
Once or twice he stopped to scrutinise an address, but his fingers went on again through the letters to the end.
"Nothing," he remarked laconically, replacing the packet in the pigeon-hole. "But there has been correspondence for him. I recollect – a thin-faced man, with grey hair and clean shaven. Yes. I remember him distinctly. He always called just before the office was closed."
"When did he call last?" asked Frémy quickly.
"The night before last, I think," was the man's answer. "A lady was with him – a rather stout English lady."
We both started.
"Did the lady ask for any letters?"
"Yes. But I forget the name."
"Petre is her right name," I interrupted. Then I suggested to Frémy: "Ask the other clerk to look through the letter 'P.'"
"Non, m'sieur!" exclaimed the fair-haired employée. "The name she asked for was in my division. It was not P."
"Then she must have asked for a name that was not her own," I said.
"And it seems very much as though we have lost the gang by a few hours," Frémy said disappointedly. "My own opinion is that they left Brussels by the Orient Express last night. They did not call at the usual time yesterday."
"They may come this evening," I suggested.
"Certainly they may. We shall, of course, watch," he replied.
"When the man and woman called the day before yesterday," continued the employée, "there was a second man – a dark-faced Indian with them, I believe. He stood some distance away, and followed them out. It was his presence which attracted my attention and caused me to remember the incident."
Frémy exchanged looks with me. I knew he was cursing his fate which had allowed the precious trio to slip through his fingers.
Yet the thought was gratifying that when the express ran into the Great Westbahnhof at Vienna, the detectives would at once search it for the fugitives.
My companion had told me that by eight o'clock we would know the result of the enquiry, and I was anxious for that hour to arrive.
Already Frémy had ordered search to be made of arrivals at all hotels and pensions in the city for the name of Bryant, therefore, we could do nothing more than possess ourselves in patience. So we left the post office, his poverty-stricken assistant remaining on the watch, just as I had watched in the cold on the previous night.
With my companion I walked round to the big Café Metropole on the Boulevard, and over our "bocks," at a table where we could not be overheard, we discussed the situation.
That big café, one of the principal in Brussels, is usually deserted between the hours of three and four. At other times it is filled with business men discussing their affairs, or playing dominoes with that rattle which is characteristic of the foreign café.
"Why is it," I asked him, "that your chief absolutely refuses to betray the identity of the girl Marie Bracq?"
The round-faced man before me smiled thoughtfully as he idly puffed his cigarette. Then, shrugging his shoulders, he replied:
"Well, m'sieur, to tell the truth, there is a very curious complication. In connection with the affair there is a scandal which must never be allowed to get out to the public."
"Then you know the truth – eh?" I asked.
"A portion of it. Not all," he replied. "But I tell you that the news of the young lady's death has caused us the greatest amazement and surprise. We knew that she was missing, but never dreamed that she had been the victim of an assassin."
"But who are her friends?" I demanded.
"Unfortunately, I am not permitted to say," was his response. "When they know the terrible truth they may give us permission to reveal the truth to you. Till then, my duty is to preserve their secret."
"But I am all anxiety to know."
"I quite recognise that, M'sieur Royle," he said. "I know how I should feel were I in your position. But duty is duty, is it not?"
"I have assisted you, and I have given you a clue to the mystery," I protested.
"And we, on our part, will assist you to clear the stigma resting upon the lady who is your promised wife," he said. "Whatever I can do in that direction, m'sieur may rely upon me."
I was silent, for I saw that to attempt to probe further then the mystery of the actual identity of Marie Bracq was impossible. There seemed a conspiracy of silence against me.
But I would work myself. I would exert all the cunning and ingenuity I possessed – nay, I would spend every penny I had in the world – in order to clear my well-beloved of that terrible suspicion that by her hand this daughter of a princely house had fallen.
"Well," I asked at last. "What more can we do?"
"Ah!" sighed the stout man, blowing a cloud of cigarette smoke from his lips and drawing his glass. "What can we do? The Poste Restante is being watched, the records of all hotels and pensions for the past month are being inspected, and we have put a guard upon the Orient Express. No! We can do nothing," he said, "until we get a telegram from Vienna. Will you call at the Préfecture of Police at eight o'clock to-night? I will be there to see you."
I promised, then having paid the waiter, we strolled out of the café, and parted on the Boulevard, he going towards the Nord Station, while I went along in the opposite direction to the Grand.
For the appointed hour I waited in greatest anxiety. What if the trio had been arrested in Vienna?
That afternoon I wrote a long and encouraging letter to Phrida, telling her that I was exerting every effort on her behalf and urging her to keep a stout heart against her enemies, who now seemed to be in full flight.
At last, eight o'clock came, and I entered the small courtyard of the Préfecture of Police, where a uniformed official conducted me up to the room of Inspector Frémy.
The big, merry-faced man rose as I entered and placed his cigar in an ash tray.
"Bad luck, m'sieur!" he exclaimed in French. "They left Brussels in the Orient, as I suspected – all three of them. Here is the reply," and he handed me an official telegram in German, which translated into English read:
"To Préfet of Police, Brussels, from Préfet of Police, Vienna:
"In response to telegram of to-day's date, the three persons described left Brussels by Orient Express, travelled to Wels, and there left the train at 2.17 this afternoon. Telephonic inquiry of police at Wels results that they left at 4.10 by the express for Paris."
"I have already telegraphed to Paris," Frémy said. "But there is time, of course, to get across to Paris, and meet the express from Constantinople on its arrival there. Our friends evidently know their way about the Continent!"
"Shall we go to Paris," I suggested eagerly, anticipating in triumph their arrest as they alighted at the Gare de l'Est. I had travelled by the express from Vienna on one occasion about a year before, and remembered that it arrived in Paris about nine o'clock in the morning.
"With the permission of my chief I will willingly accompany you, m'sieur," replied the detective, and, leaving me, he was absent for five minutes or so, while I sat gazing around his bare, official-looking bureau, where upon the walls were many police notices and photographs of wanted persons, "rats d'hotel," and other malefactors. Brussels is one of the most important police centres in Europe, as well as being the centre of the political secret service of the Powers.
On his return he said:
"Bien, m'sieur. We leave the Midi Station at midnight and arrive in Paris at half-past five. I will engage sleeping berths, and I will telephone to my friend, Inspector Dricot, at the Préfecture, to send an agent of the brigade mobile to meet us. Non d'un chien! What a surprise it will be for the fugitives. But," he added, "they are clever and elusive. Fancy, in order to go from Brussels to Paris they travel right away into Austria, and with through tickets to Belgrade, too! Yes, they know the routes on the Continent – the routes used by the international thieves, I mean. The Wels route by which they travelled, is one of them."
Then I left him, promising to meet him at the station ten minutes before midnight. I had told Edwards I would notify him by wire any change of address, therefore, on leaving the Préfecture of Police, I went to the Grand and from there sent a telegram to him at Scotland Yard, telling him that I should call at the office of the inspector of police at the East railway station in Paris at ten on the following morning – if he had anything to communicate.
All through that night we travelled on in the close, stuffy wagon-lit by way of Mons to Paris arriving with some three hours and a half to spare, which we idled in one of the all-night cafés near the station, having been met by a little ferret-eyed Frenchman, named Jappé, who had been one of Frémy's subordinates when he was in the French service.
Just before nine o'clock, after our café-au-lait in the buffet, we walked out upon the long arrival platform where the Orient Express from its long journey from Constantinople was due.
It was a quarter of an hour late, but at length the luggage porters began to assemble, and with bated breath I watched the train of dusty sleeping-cars slowly draw into the terminus.
In a moment Frémy and his colleague were all eyes, while I stood near the engine waiting the result of their quest.
But in five minutes the truth was plain. Frémy was in conversation with one of the brown-uniformed conductors, who told him that the three passengers we sought did join at Wels, but had left again at Munich on the previous evening!
My heart sank. Our quest was in vain. They had again eluded us!
"I will go to Munich," Frémy said at once. "I may find trace of them yet."
"And I will accompany you!" I exclaimed eagerly. "They must not escape us."
But my plans were at once altered, and Frémy was compelled to leave for Germany alone, for at the police office at the station half an hour later I received a brief message from Edwards urging me to return to London immediately, and stating that an important discovery had been made.
So I drove across to the Gare du Nord, and left for London by the next train.
What, I wondered, had been discovered?
CHAPTER XXVII.
EDWARDS BECOMES MORE PUZZLED
At half-past seven on that same evening, Edwards, in response to a telegram I sent him from Calais, called upon me in Albemarle Street.
He looked extremely grave when he entered my room. After Haines had taken his hat and coat and we were alone, he said in a low voice:
"Mr. Royle, I have a rather painful communication to make to you. I much regret it – but the truth must be faced."
"Well?" I asked, in quick apprehension; "what is it?"
"We have received from an anonymous correspondent – who turns out to be the woman Petre, whom you know – a letter making the gravest accusations against Miss Shand. She denounces her as the assassin of the girl Marie Bracq."
"It's a lie! a foul, abominable lie!" I cried angrily. "I told you that she would seek to condemn the woman I love."
"Yes, I recollect. But it is a clue which I am in duty bound to investigate."
"You have not been to Miss Shand – you have not yet questioned her?" I gasped anxiously.
"Not before I saw you," he replied. "I may as well tell you at once that I had some slight suspicion that the young lady in question was acquainted with your friend who posed as Sir Digby."
"How?" I asked.
He hesitated. "Well, I thought it most likely that as you and he were such great friends, you might have introduced them," he said, rather lamely.
"But surely you are not going to believe the words of this woman Petre?" I cried. "Listen, and I will tell you how she has already endeavoured to take my life, and thus leave Miss Shand at her mercy."
Then, as he sat listening, his feet stretched towards the fender, I related in detail the startling adventure which befel me at Colchester.
"Extraordinary, Mr. Royle!" he exclaimed, in blank surprise. "Why, in heaven's name, didn't you tell me this before! The snake! Why, that is exactly the method used by Cane to secure the death of the real Sir Digby!"
"What was the use of telling you?" I queried. "What is the use even now? The woman has fled and, at the same time, takes a dastardly revenge upon the woman I love."
"Tell me, Mr. Royle," said the inspector, who, in his dinner coat and black tie, presented the appearance of the West End club man rather than a police official. "Have you yourself any suspicion that Miss Shand has knowledge of the affair?"
His question non-plussed me for the moment.
"Ah! I see you hesitate!" he exclaimed, shrewdly. "You have a suspicion – now admit it."
He pressed me, and seeing that my demeanour had, alas! betrayed my thoughts, I was compelled to speak the truth.
"Yes," I said, in a low, strained voice. "To tell you the truth, Edwards, there are certain facts which I am utterly unable to understand – facts which Miss Shand has admitted to me. But I still refuse to believe that she is a murderess."
"Naturally," he remarked, and I thought I detected a slightly sarcastic curl of the lips. "But though Miss Shand is unaware of it, I have made certain secret inquiries – inquiries which have given astounding results," he said slowly. "I have, unknown to the young lady, secured some of her finger-prints, which, on comparison, have coincided exactly with those found upon the glass-topped table at Harrington Gardens, and also with those which you brought to me so mysteriously." And he added, "To be quite frank, it was that action of yours which first aroused my suspicion regarding Miss Shand. I saw that you suspected some one – that you were trying to prove to your own satisfaction that your theory was wrong."
I held my breath, cursing myself for such injudicious action.
"Again, this letter from the woman Petre has corroborated my apprehensions," he went on. "Miss Shand was a friend of the man who called himself Sir Digby. She met him clandestinely, unknown, to you – eh?" he asked.
"Please do not question me, Edwards," I implored. "This is all so extremely painful to me."
"I regret, but it is my duty, Mr. Royle," he replied in a tone of sympathy. "Is not my suggestion the true one?"
I admitted that it was.
Then, in quick, brief sentences I told him of my visit to the Préfecture of Police in Brussels and all that I had discovered regarding the fugitives, to which he listened most attentively.
"They have not replied to my inquiry concerning the dead girl Marie Bracq," he remarked presently.
"They know her," I replied. "Van Huffel, the Chef du Sureté, stood aghast when I told him that the man Kemsley was wanted by you on a charge of murdering her. He declared that the allegation utterly astounded him, and that the press must have no suspicion of the affair, as a great scandal would result."
"But who is the girl?" he inquired quickly.
"Van Huffel refused to satisfy my curiosity. He declared that her identity was a secret which he was not permitted to divulge, but he added when I pressed him, that she was a daughter of one of the princely houses of Europe!"
Edwards stared at me.
"I wonder what is her real name?" he said, reflectively. "Really, Mr. Royle, the affair grows more and more interesting and puzzling."
"It does," I said, and then I related in detail my fruitless journey to Paris, and how the three fugitives had alighted at Munich from the westbound express from the Near East, and disappeared.
"Frémy, whom I think you know, has gone after them," I added.
"If Frémy once gets on the scent he'll, no doubt, find them," remarked my companion. "He's one of the most astute and clever detectives in Europe. So, if the case is in his hands, I'm quite contented that all will be done to trace them."
For two hours we sat together, while I related what the girl at Melbourne House had told me, and, in fact, put before him practically all that I have recorded in the foregoing pages.
Then, at last, I stood before him boldly and asked:
"In face of all this, can you suspect Miss Shand? Is she not that man's victim?"
He did not speak for several moments; his gaze was fixed upon the fire.
"Well," he replied, stirring himself at last, "to tell you the truth, Mr. Royle, I'm just as puzzled as you are. She may be the victim of this man we know to be an unscrupulous adventurer, but, at the same time, her hand may have used that triangular-bladed knife which we have been unable to find."
The knife! I held my breath. Was it not lying openly upon that table in the corner of the drawing-room at Cromwell Road? Would not analysis reveal upon it a trace of human blood? Would not its possession in itself convict her?
"Then what is your intention?" I asked, at last.
"To see her and put a few questions, Mr. Royle," he answered slowly. "I know how much this must pain you, bearing in mind your deep affection for the young lady, but, unfortunately, it is my duty, and I cannot see how such a course can be avoided."
"No. I beg of you not to do this," I implored. "Keep what observation you like, but do not approach her – at least, not yet. In her present frame of mind, haunted by the shadow of the crime and hemmed in by suspicion of which she cannot clear herself, it would be fatal."
"Fatal! I don't understand you."
"Well – she would take her own life," I said in a low whisper.
"She has threatened – eh?" he asked.
I nodded in the affirmative.
"Then does not that, in itself, justify my decision to see and question her?"
"No, it does not!" I protested. "She is not guilty, but this terrible dread and anxiety is, I know, gradually unbalancing her brain. She is a girl of calm determination, and if she believed that you suspected her she would be driven by sheer terror to carry out her threat."
He smiled.
"Most women threaten suicide at one time or other of their lives. Their thoughts seem to revert to romance as soon as they find themselves in a corner. No," he added. "I never believe in threats of suicide in either man or woman. Life is always too precious for that, and especially if a woman loves, as she does."
"You don't know her."
"No, but I know women, Mr. Royle – I know all their idiosyncrasies as well as most men, I think," he said.
I begged him not to approach my well-beloved, but he was inexorable.
"I must see her – and I must know the truth," he declared decisively.
But I implored again of him, begging him to spare her – begged her life.
I had gripped him by the hand, and looking into his face I pointed out that I had done and was doing all I could to elucidate the mystery.
"At least," I cried, "you will wait until the fugitives are arrested!"
"There is only one – the impostor," he said. "There is no charge against the others."
"Then I will lay a charge to-night against the woman Petre and the man Ali of attempting to kill me." I said. "The two names can then be added to the warrant."
"Very well," he said. "We'll go to the Yard, and I will take your information."
"And you will not approach Phrida until you hear something from Brussels – eh?" I asked persuasively. "In the meantime, I will do all I can. Leave Miss Shand to me."
"If I did it would be a grave dereliction of duty," he replied slowly.
"But is it a dereliction of duty to disregard allegations made by a woman who has fled in that man's company, and who is, we now know, his accomplice?" I protested. "Did not you yourself tell me that you, at Scotland Yard, always regarded lightly any anonymous communication?"
"As a rule we do. But past history shows that many have been genuine," he said. "Before the commission of nearly all the Jack the Ripper crimes there were anonymous letters, written in red ink. We have them now framed and hanging up in the Black Museum."
"But such letters are not denunciations. They were promises of a further sensation," I argued. "The triumphant and gleeful declarations of the mad but mysterious assassin. No. Promise me, Edwards, that you will postpone this projected step of yours, which can, in any case, even though my love be innocent, only result in dire disaster."
He saw how earnest was my appeal, and realised, I think, the extreme gravity of the situation, and how deeply it concerned me. He seemed, also, to recognise that in discovering the name of the victim and in going a second time to Brussels, I had been able to considerably advance the most difficult inquiry; therefore, after still another quarter of an hour of persuasion, I induced him to withhold.
"Very well," he replied, "though I can make no definite promise, Mr. Royle. I will not see the lady before I have again consulted with you. But," he added, "I must be frank with you. I shall continue my investigations in that quarter, and most probably watch will be kept upon her movements."
"And if she recognises that you suspect her?" I gasped.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, with a slight shrug of the shoulders. "I cannot accept any responsibility for that. How can I?"