“Why, we shall be detained, of course; arrested, probably—certainly detained. Examined, cross-examined, bully-ragged—I know something of the French police and their ways.”
“If they stop us, I shall write to the Times” cried his brother, by profession a man of peace, but with a choleric eye that told of an angry temperament.
“By all means, my dear Silas, when you get the chance. That won’t be just yet, for I tell you we’re in a tight place, and may expect a good deal of worry.” With that he took out his cigarette-case, and his match-box, lighted his cigarette, and calmly watched the smoke rising with all the coolness of an old campaigner accustomed to encounter and face the ups and downs of life. “I only hope to goodness they’ll run straight on to Paris,” he added in a fervent tone, not unmixed with apprehension. “No! By jingo, we’re slackening speed—.”
“Why shouldn’t we? It’s right the conductor, or chief of the train, or whatever you call him, should know what has happened.”
“Why, man, can’t you see? While the train is travelling express, every one must stay on board it; if it slows, it is possible to leave it.”
“Who would want to leave it?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said the General, rather testily. “Any way, the thing’s done now.”
The train had pulled up in obedience to the signal of alarm given by some one in the sleeping-car, but by whom it was impossible to say. Not by the porter, for he seemed greatly surprised as the conductor came up to him.
“How did you know?” he asked.
“Know! Know what? You stopped me.”
“I didn’t.”
“Who rang the bell, then?”
“I did not. But I’m glad you’ve come. There has been a crime—murder.”
“Good Heavens!” cried the conductor, jumping up on to the car, and entering into the situation at once. His business was only to verify the fact, and take all necessary precautions. He was a burly, brusque, peremptory person, the despotic, self-important French official, who knew what to do—as he thought—and did it without hesitation or apology.
“No one must leave the car,” he said in a tone not to be misunderstood. “Neither now, nor on arrival at the station.”
There was a shout of protest and dismay, which he quickly cut short.
“You will have to arrange it with the authorities in Paris; they can alone decide. My duty is plain: to detain you, place you under surveillance till then. Afterwards, we will see. Enough, gentlemen and madame”—
He bowed with the instinctive gallantry of his nation to the female figure which now appeared at the door of her compartment. She stood for a moment listening, seemingly greatly agitated, and then, without a word, disappeared, retreating hastily into her own private room, where she shut herself in.
Almost immediately, at a signal from the conductor, the train resumed its journey. The distance remaining to be traversed was short; half an hour more, and the Lyons station, at Paris, was reached, where the bulk of the passengers—all, indeed, but the occupants of the sleeper—descended and passed through the barriers. The latter were again desired to keep their places, while a posse of officials came and mounted guard. Presently they were told to leave the car one by one, but to take nothing with them. All their hand-bags, rugs, and belongings were to remain in the berths, just as they lay. One by one they were marched under escort to a large and bare waiting-room, which had, no doubt, been prepared for their reception.
Here they took their seats on chairs placed at wide intervals apart, and were peremptorily forbidden to hold any communication with each other, by word or gesture. This order was enforced by a fierce-looking guard in blue and red uniform, who stood facing them with his arms folded, gnawing his moustache and frowning severely.
Last of all, the porter was brought in and treated like the passengers, but more distinctly as a prisoner. He had a guard all to himself; and it seemed as though he was the object of peculiar suspicion. It had no great effect upon him, for, while the rest of the party were very plainly sad, and a prey to lively apprehension, the porter sat dull and unmoved, with the stolid, sluggish, unconcerned aspect of a man just roused from sound sleep and relapsing into slumber, who takes little notice of what is passing around.
Meanwhile, the sleeping-car, with its contents, especially the corpse of the victim, was shunted into a siding, and sentries were placed on it at both ends. Seals had been affixed upon the entrance doors, so that the interior might be kept inviolate until it could be visited and examined by the Chef de la Surêté, or Chief of the Detective Service. Every one and everything awaited the arrival of this all-important functionary.
CHAPTER II
M. Floçon, the Chief, was an early man, and he paid a first visit to his office about 7 A.M.
He lived just round the corner in the Rue des Arcs, and had not far to go to the Prefecture. But even now, soon after daylight, he was correctly dressed, as became a responsible ministerial officer. He wore a tight frock coat and an immaculate white tie; under his arm he carried the regulation portfolio, or lawyer’s bag, stuffed full of reports, dispositions, and documents dealing with cases in hand. He was altogether a very precise and natty little personage, quiet and unpretending in demeanour, with a mild, thoughtful face in which two small ferrety eyes blinked and twinkled behind gold-rimmed glasses. But when things went wrong, when he had to deal with fools, or when scent was keen, or the enemy near, he would become as fierce and eager as any terrier.
He had just taken his place at his table and begun to arrange his papers, which, being a man of method, he kept carefully sorted by lots each in an old copy of the Figaro, when he was called to the telephone. His services were greatly needed, as we know, at the Lyons station and the summons was to the following effect:
“Crime on train No. 45. A man murdered in the sleeper. All the passengers held. Please come at once. Most important.”
A fiacre was called instantly, and M. Floçon, accompanied by Galipaud and Block, the two first inspectors for duty, was driven with all possible speed across Paris.
He was met outside the station, just under the wide verandah, by the officials, who gave him a brief outline of the facts, so far as they were known, and as they have already been put before the reader.
“The passengers have been detained?” asked M. Floçon at once.
“Those in the sleeping-car only—”
“Tut, tut! they should have been all kept—at least until you had taken their names and addresses. Who knows what they might not have been able to tell?”
It was suggested that as the crime was committed presumably while the train was in motion, only those in the one car could be implicated.
“We should never jump to conclusions,” said the Chief snappishly. “Well, show me the train card—the list of the travellers in the sleeper.”
“It cannot be found, sir.”
“Impossible! Why, it is the porter’s business to deliver it at the end of the journey to his superiors, and under the law—to us. Where is the porter? In custody?”
“Surely, sir, but there is something wrong with him.”
“So I should think! Nothing of this kind could well occur without his knowledge. If he was doing his duty—unless, of course, he—but let us avoid hasty conjectures.”
“He has also lost the passengers’ tickets, which you know he retains till the end of the journey. After the catastrophe, however, he was unable to lay his hand upon his pocket-book. It contained all his papers.”
“Worse and worse. There is something behind all this. Take me to him. Stay, can I have a private room close to the other—where the prisoners, those held on suspicion, are? It will be necessary to hold investigations, take their depositions. M. le Juge will be here directly.”
M. Floçon was soon installed in a room actually communicating with the waiting-room, and as a preliminary of the first importance, taking precedence even of the examination of the sleeping-car, he ordered the porter to be bro
ught in to answer certain questions.
The man, Ludwig Groote, as he presently gave his name, thirty-two years of age, born at Amsterdam, looked such a sluggish, slouching, blear-eyed creature that M. Floçon began by a sharp rebuke.
“Now. Sharp! Are you always like this?” cried the Chief.
The porter still stared straight before him with lack-lustre eyes, and made no immediate reply.
“Are you drunk? are you—Can it be possible?” he said, and in vague reply to a sudden strong suspicion, he went on:
“What were you doing between Laroche and Paris? Sleeping?”
The man roused himself a little. “I think I slept. I must have slept. I was very drowsy. I had been up two nights; but so it is always, and I am not like this generally. I do not understand.”
“Hah!” The Chief thought he understood. “Did you feel this drowsiness before leaving Laroche?”
“No, monsieur, I did not. Certainly not. I was fresh till then—quite fresh.”
“Hum; exactly; I see;” and the little Chief jumped to his feet and ran round to where the porter stood sheepishly, and sniffed and smelt at him.
“Yes, yes.” Sniff, sniff, sniff, the little man danced round and round him, then took hold of the porter’s head with one hand, and with the other turned down his lower eyelid so as to expose the eyeball, sniffed a little more, and then resumed his seat.
“Exactly. And now, where is your train card?”
“Pardon, monsieur, I cannot find it.”
“That is absurd. Where do you keep it? Look again—search—I must have it.”
The porter shook his head hopelessly.
“It is gone, monsieur, and my pocket-book.”
“But your papers, the tickets—”
“Everything was in it, monsieur. I must have dropped it.”
Strange, very strange. However—the fact was to be recorded, for the moment. He could of course return to it.
“You can give me the names of the passengers?”
“No, monsieur. Not exactly. I cannot remember, not enough to distinguish between them.”
“Fichtre! But this is most devilishly irritating. To think that I have to do with a man so stupid—such an idiot, such an ass!”
“At least you know how the berths were occupied, how many in each, and which persons? Yes? You can tell me that? Well, go on. By and by we will have the passengers in, and you can fix their places, after I have ascertained their names. Now, please! For how many was the car?”
“Sixteen. There were two compartments of four berths each, and four of two berths each.”
“Stay, let us make a plan. I will draw it. Here, now, is that right?” and the Chief held up the rough diagram. “Here we have the six compartments. Now take a, with berths 1, 2, 3, and 4. Were they all occupied?”
“No; only two, by Englishmen. I know that they talked English, which I understand a little. One was a soldier; the other, I think, a clergyman, or priest.”
“Good! we can verify that directly. Now, b, with berths 5 and 6. Who was there?”
“One gentleman. I don’t remember his name. But I shall know him by appearance.”
“Go on. In c, two berths, 7 and 8?”
“Also one gentleman. It was he who—I mean, that is where the crime occurred.”
“Ah, indeed, in 7 and 8? Very well. And the next, 9 and 10?”
“A lady. Our only lady. She came from Rome.”
“One moment. Where did the rest come from? Did any embark on the road?”
“No, monsieur; all the passengers travelled through from Rome.”
“The dead man included? Was he Roman?”
“That I cannot say, but he came on board at Rome.”
“Very well. This lady—she was alone?”
“In the compartment, yes. But not altogether.”
“I do not understand!”
“She had her servant with her.”
“In the car?”
“No, not in the car. As a passenger by second class. But she came to her mistress sometimes, in the car.”
“For her service, I presume?”
“Well, yes, monsieur, when I would permit it. But she came a little too often, and I was compelled to protest, to speak to Madame la Comtesse—”
“She was a countess, then?”
“The maid addressed her by that title. That is all I know. I heard her.”
“When did you see the lady’s maid last?”
“Last night. I think at Amberieux. about 8 p.m.”
“Not this morning?”
“No, sir, I am quite sure of that.”
“Not at Laroche? She did not come on board to stay, for the last stage, when her mistress would be getting up, dressing, and likely to require her?”
“No; I should not have permitted it.”
“And where is the maid now, d’you suppose?”
The porter looked at him with an air of complete imbecility.
“She is surely somewhere near, in or about the station. She would hardly desert her mistress now,” he said, stupidly, at last.
“At any rate we can soon settle that.” The Chief turned to one of his assistants, both of whom had been standing behind him all the time, and said:
“Step out, Galipaud, and see. No, wait. I am nearly as stupid as this simpleton. Describe this maid.”
“Tall and slight, dark-eyed, very black hair. Dressed all in black, plain black bonnet. I cannot remember more.”
“Find her, Galipaud—keep your eye on her. We may want her—why, I cannot say, as she seems disconnected with the event, but still she ought to be at hand.” Then, turning to the porter, he went on. “Finish, please. You said 9 and 10 was the lady’s. Well, 11 and 12?”
“It was vacant all through the run.”
“And the last compartment, for four?”
“There were two berths, occupied both by Frenchmen, at least so I judged them. They talked French to each other and to me.”
“Then now we have them all. Stand aside, please, and I will make the passengers come in. We will then determine their places and affix their names from their own admissions. Call them in, Block, one by one.”
CHAPTER III
The questions put by M. Floçon were much the same in every case, and were limited in this early stage of the inquiry to the one point of identity.
The first who entered was a Frenchman. He was a jovial, fat-faced, portly man, who answered to the name of Anatole Lafolay, and who described himself as a traveller in precious stones. The berth he had occupied was No. 13 in compartment f. His companion in the berth was a younger man, smaller, slighter, but of much the same stamp. His name was Jules Devaux, and he was a commission agent. His berth had been No. 15 in the same compartment, f. Both these Frenchmen gave their addresses with the names of many people to whom they were well known, and established at once a reputation for respectability which was greatly in their favour.
The third to appear was the tall, gray-headed Englishman, who had taken a certain lead at the first discovery of the crime. He called himself General Sir Charles Collingham, an officer of her Majesty’s army; and the clergyman who shared the compartment was his brother, the Reverend Silas Collingham, rector of Theakstone-Lammas, in the county of Norfolk. Their berths were numbered 1 and 4 in a.
Before the English General was dismissed, he asked whether he was likely to be detained.
“For the present, yes,” replied M. Floçon, briefly. He did not care to be asked questions. That, under the circumstances, was his business.
“Because I should like to communicate with the British Embassy.”
“You are known there?” asked the detective, not choosing to believe the story at first. It might be a ruse of some sort.
“I know Lord Dufferin personally; I was with him in India. Also Colonel Papillon, the military attaché; we were in the same regiment. If I sent to the Embassy, the latter would, no doubt, come himself.”
“How do you propose to se
nd?”
“That is for you to decide. All I wish is that it should be known that my brother and I are detained under suspicion, and incriminated.”
“Hardly that, Monsieur le General. But it shall be as you wish. We will telephone from here to the post nearest the Embassy to inform his Excellency—”
“Certainly, Lord Dufferin, and my friend, Colonel Papillon.”
“Of what has occurred. And now, if you will permit me to proceed?”
So the single occupant of the compartment b, that adjoining the Englishmen, was called in. He was an Italian, by name Natale Ripaldi; a dark-skinned man, with very black hair and a bristling black moustache. He wore a long dark cloak of the Inverness order, and, with the slouch hat he carried in his hand, and his downcast, secretive look, he had the rather conventional aspect of a conspirator.
“If monsieur permits,” he volunteered to say after the formal questioning was over, “I can throw some light on this catastrophe.”
“And how so, pray? Did you assist? Were you present? If so, why wait to speak till now?” said the detective, receiving the advance rather coldly. It behooved him to be very much on his guard.
“I have had no opportunity till now of addressing any one in authority. You are in authority, I presume?”
“I am the Chief of the Detective Service.”
“Then, monsieur, remember, please, that I can give some useful information when called upon. Now, indeed, if you will receive it.”
M. Floçon was so anxious to approach the inquiry without prejudice that he put up his hand.
“We will wait, if you please. When M. le Juge arrives, then, perhaps; at any rate, at a later stage. That will do now, thank you.”
The Italian’s lip curled with a slight indication of contempt at the French detective’s methods, but he bowed without speaking, and went out.
Last of all the lady appeared, in a long sealskin travelling cloak, and closely veiled. She answered M. Floçon’s questions in a low, tremulous voice, as though greatly perturbed.
She was the Contessa di Castagneto, she said, an Englishwoman by birth; but her husband had been an Italian, as the name implied, and they resided in Rome. He was dead—she had been a widow for two or three years, and was on her way now to London.
The Detective Megapack Page 111
