The Detective Megapack

by Various Writers

  “We will consider that, and let you know in a moment, if you will wait outside.”

  And then, when alone, the officials deliberated.

  It was a good offer, the man knew her appearance, he was in possession of all the facts, he could be trusted—

  “Ah, but can he, though?” queried the detective. “How do we know he has told us truth? What guarantee have we of his loyalty, his good faith? What if he is also concerned in the crime—has some guilty knowledge? What if he killed Quadling himself, or was an accomplice before or after the fact?”

  “All these are possibilities, of course, but—pardon me, dear colleague—a little far-fetched, eh?” said the Judge. “Why not utilize this man? If he betrays us—serves us ill—if we had reason to lay hands on him again, he could hardly escape us.”

  “Let him go, and send some one with him,” said the Commissary, the first practical suggestion he had yet made.

  “Excellent!” cried the Judge. “You have another man here, Chief; let him go with this Italian.”

  They called in Ripaldi and told him, “We will accept your services, monsieur, and you can begin your search at once. In what direction do you propose to begin?”

  “Where has her mistress gone?”

  “How do you know she has gone?”

  “At least, she is no longer with us out there. Have you arrested her—or what?”

  “No, she is still at large, but we have our eye upon her. She has gone to her hotel—the Madagascar, off the Grands Boulevards.”

  “Then it is there that I shall look for the maid. No doubt she preceded her mistress to the hotel, or she will join her there very shortly.”

  “You would not make yourself known, of course? They might give you the slip. You have no authority to detain them, not in France.”

  “I should take my precautions, and I can always appeal to the police.”

  “Exactly. That would be your proper course. But you might lose valuable time, a great opportunity, and we wish to guard against that, so we shall associate one of our own people with you in your proceedings.”

  “Oh! very well, if you wish. It will, no doubt, be best.” The Italian readily assented, but a shrewd listener might have guessed from the tone of his voice that the proposal was not exactly pleasing to him.

  “I will call in Block,” said the Chief, and the second detective inspector appeared to take his instructions.

  He was a stout, stumpy little man, with a barrel-like figure, greatly emphasized by the short frock coat he wore; he had smallish pig’s eyes buried deep in a fat face, and his round, chubby cheeks hung low over his turned-down collar.

  “This gentleman,” went on the Chief, indicating Ripaldi, “is a member of the Roman police, and has been so obliging as to offer us his services. You will accompany him, in the first instance, to the Hôtel Madagascar. Put yourself in communication with Galipaud, who is there on duty.”

  “Would it not be sufficient if I made myself known to M. Galipaud?” suggested the Italian. “I have seen him here, I should recognize him—”

  “That is not so certain; he may have changed his appearance. Besides, he does not know the latest developments, and might not be very cordial.”

  “You might write me a few lines to take to him.”

  “I think not. We prefer to send Block,” replied the Chief, briefly and decidedly. He did not like this pertinacity, and looked at his colleagues as though he sought their concurrence in altering the arrangements for the Italian’s mission. It might be wiser to detain him still.

  “It was only to save trouble that I made the suggestion,” hastily put in Ripaldi. “Naturally I am in your hands. And if I do not meet with the maid at the hotel, I may have to look further, in which case Monsieur—Block? thank you—would no doubt render valuable assistance.”

  This speech restored confidence, and a few minutes later the two detectives, already excellent friends from the freemasonry of a common craft, left the station in a closed cab.

  CHAPTER IX

  “What next?” asked the Judge.

  “That pestilent English officer, if you please, M. le Juge,” said the detective. “That fire-eating, swashbuckling soldier, with his blustering barrack-room ways. I long to come to close quarters with him. He ridiculed me, taunted me, said I knew nothing—we will see, we will see.”

  “In fact, you wish to interrogate him yourself. Very well. Let us have him in.”

  When Sir Charles Collingham entered, he included the three officials in one cold, stiff bow, waited a moment, and then, finding he was not offered a chair, said with studied politeness:

  “I presume I may sit down?”

  “Pardon. Of course; pray be seated,” said the Judge, hastily, and evidently a little ashamed of himself.

  “Ah! thanks. Do you object?” went on the General, taking out a silver cigarette-case. “May I offer one?” He handed round the box affably.

  “We do not smoke on duty,” answered the Chief, rudely. “Nor is smoking permitted in a court of justice.”

  “Come, come, I wish to show no disrespect. But I cannot recognize this as a court of justice, and I think, if you will forgive me, that I shall take three whiffs. It may help me keep my temper.”

  He was evidently making game of them. There was no symptom remaining of the recent effervescence when he was acting as the Countess’s champion, and he was perfectly—nay, insolently calm and self-possessed.

  “You call yourself General Collingham?” went on the Chief.

  “I do not call myself. I am General Sir Charles Collingham, of the British Army.”

  “Retired?”

  “No, I am still on the active list.”

  “These points will have to be verified.”

  “With all my heart. You have already sent to the British Embassy?”

  “Yes, but no one has come,” answered the detective, contemptuously.

  “If you disbelieve me, why do you question me?”

  “It is our duty to question you, and yours to answer. If not, we have means to make you. You are suspected, inculpated in a terrible crime, and your whole attitude is—is—objectionable—unworthy—disgr—”

  “Gently, gently, my dear colleague,” interposed the Judge. “If you will permit me, I will take up this. And you, M. le Général, I am sure you cannot wish to impede or obstruct us; we represent the law of this country.”

  “Have I done so, M. le Juge?” answered the General, with the utmost courtesy, as he threw away his half-burned cigarette.

  “No, no. I do not imply that in the least. I only entreat you, as a good and gallant gentleman, to meet us in a proper spirit and give us your best help.”

  “Indeed, I am quite ready. If there has been any unpleasantness, it has surely not been of my making, but rather of that little man there.” The General pointed to M. Floçon rather contemptuously, and nearly started a fresh disturbance.

  “Well, well, let us say no more of that, and proceed to business. I understand,” said the Judge, after fingering a few pages of the dispositions in front of him, “that you are a friend of the Contessa di Castagneto? Indeed, she has told us so herself.”

  “It was very good of her to call me her friend. I am proud to hear she so considers me.”

  “How long have you known her?”

  “Four or five months. Since the beginning of the last winter season in Rome.”

  “Did you frequent her house?”

  “If you mean, was I permitted to call on her on friendly terms, yes.”

  “Did you know all her friends?”

  “How can I answer that? I know whom I met there from time to time.”

  “Exactly. Did you often meet among them a Signor—Quadling?”

  “Quadling—Quadling? I cannot say that I have. The name is familiar somehow, but I cannot recall the man.”

  “Have you never heard of the Roman bankers, Correse & Quadling?”

  “Ah, of course. Although I have had no dealing wi
th them. Certainly I have never met Mr. Quadling.”

  “Not at the Countess’s?”

  “Never—of that I am quite sure.”

  “And yet we have had positive evidence that he was a constant visitor there.”

  “It is perfectly incomprehensible to me. Not only have I never met him, but I have never heard the Countess mention his name.”

  “It will surprise you, then, to be told that he called at her apartment in the Via Margutta on the very evening of her departure from Rome. Called, was admitted, was closeted with her for more than an hour.”

  “I am surprised, astounded. I called there myself about four in the afternoon to offer my services for the journey, and I too stayed till after five. I can hardly believe it.”

  “I have more surprises for you, General. What will you think when I tell you that this very Quadling—this friend, acquaintance, call him what you please, but at least intimate enough to pay her a visit on the eve of a long journey—was the man found murdered in the sleeping-car?”

  “Can it be possible? Are you sure?” cried Sir Charles, almost starting from his chair. “And what do you deduce from all this? What do you imply? An accusation against that lady? Absurd!”

  “I respect your chivalrous desire to stand up for a lady who calls you her friend, but we are officials first, and sentiment cannot be permitted to influence us. We have good reasons for suspecting that lady. I tell you that frankly, and trust to you as a soldier and man of honour not to abuse the confidence reposed in you.”

  “May I not know those reasons?”

  “Because she was in the car—the only woman, you understand—between Laroche and Paris.”

  “Do you suspect a female hand, then?” asked the General, evidently much interested and impressed.

  “That is so, although I am exceeding my duty in revealing this.”

  “And you are satisfied that this lady, a refined, delicate person in the best society, of the highest character—believe me, I know that to be the case—whom you yet suspect of an atrocious crime, was the only female in the car?”

  “Obviously. Who else? What other woman could possibly have been in the car? No one got in at Laroche; the train never stopped till it reached Paris.”

  “On that last point at least you are quite mistaken, I assure you. Why not upon the other also?”

  “The train stopped?” interjected the detective. “Why has no one told us that?”

  “Possibly because you never asked. But it is nevertheless the fact. Verify it. Every one will tell you the same.”

  The detective himself hurried to the door and called in the porter. He was within his rights, of course, but the action showed distrust, at which the General only smiled, but he laughed outright when the still stupid and half-dazed porter, of course, corroborated the statement at once.

  “At whose instance was the train pulled up?” asked the detective, and the Judge nodded his head approvingly.

  To know that would fix fresh suspicion.

  But the porter could not answer the question.

  Some one had rung the alarm-bell—so at least the conductor had declared; otherwise they should not have stopped. Yet he, the porter, had not done so, nor did any passenger come forward to admit giving the signal. But there had been a halt. Yes, assuredly.

  “This is a new light,” the Judge confessed. “Do you draw any conclusion from it?” he went on to ask the General.

  “That is surely your business. I have only elicited the fact to disprove your theory. But if you wish, I will tell you how it strikes me.”

  The Judge bowed assent.

  “The bare fact that the train was halted would mean little. That would be the natural act of a timid or excitable person involved indirectly in such a catastrophe. But to disavow the act starts suspicion. The fair inference is that there was some reason, an unavowable reason, for halting the train.”

  “And that reason would be—”

  “You must see it without my assistance, surely! Why, what else but to afford some one an opportunity to leave the car.”

  “But how could that be? You would have seen that person, some of you, especially at such a critical time. The aisle would be full of people, both exits were thus practically overlooked.”

  “My idea is—it is only an idea, understand—that the person had already left the car—that is to say, the interior of the car.”

  “Escaped how? Where? What do you mean?”

  “Escaped through the open window of the compartment where you found the murdered man.”

  “You noticed the open window, then?” quickly asked the detective. “When was that?”

  “Directly I entered the compartment at the first alarm. It occurred to me at once that some one might have gone through it.”

  “But no woman could have done it. To climb out of an express train going at top speed would be an impossible feat for a woman,” said the detective, doggedly.

  “Why, in God’s name, do you still harp upon the woman? Why should it be a woman more than a man?”

  “Because”—it was the Judge who spoke, but he paused a moment in deference to a gesture of protest from M. Floçon. The little detective was much concerned at the utter want of reticence displayed by his colleague.

  “Because,” went on the Judge with decision—“because this was found in the compartment;” and he held out the piece of lace and the scrap of beading for the General’s inspection, adding quickly, “You have seen these, or one of them, or something like them before. I am sure of it; I call upon you; I demand—no, I appeal to your sense of honour, Sir Collingham. Tell me, please, exactly what you know.”

  CHAPTER X

  The General sat for a time staring hard at the bit of torn lace and the broken beads. Then he spoke out firmly:

  “It is my duty to withhold nothing. It is not the lace. That I could not swear to; for me—and probably for most men—two pieces of lace are very much the same. But I think I have seen these beads, or something exactly like them, before.”

  “Where? When?”

  “They formed part of the trimming of a mantle worn by the Contessa di Castagneto.”

  “Ah!” it was the same interjection uttered simultaneously by the three Frenchmen, but each had a very different note; in the Judge it was deep interest, in the detective triumph, in the Commissary indignation, as when he caught a criminal red-handed.

  “Did she wear it on the journey?” continued the Judge.

  “As to that I cannot say.”

  “Come, come, General, you were with her constantly; you must be able to tell us. We insist on being told.” This fiercely, from the now jubilant M. Floçon.

  “I repeat that I cannot say. To the best of my recollection, the Countess wore a long travelling cloak—an ulster, as we call them. The jacket with those bead ornaments may have been underneath. But if I have seen them—as I believe I have—it was not during this journey.”

  Here the Judge whispered to M. Floçon, “The searcher did not discover any second mantle.”

  “How do we know the woman examined thoroughly?” he replied. “Here, at least, is direct evidence as to the beads. At last the net is drawing round this fine Countess.”

  “Well, at any rate,” said the detective aloud, returning to the General, “these beads were found in the compartment of the murdered man. I should like that explained, please.”

  “By me? How can I explain it? And the fact does not bear upon what we were considering, as to whether any one had left the car.”

  “Why not?”

  “The Countess, as we know, never left the car. As to her entering this particular compartment—at any previous time—it is highly improbable. Indeed, it is rather insulting her to suggest it.”

  “She and this Quadling were close friends.”

  “So you say. On what evidence I do not know, but I dispute it.”

  “Then how could the beads get there? They were her property, worn by her.”

  “
Once, I admit, but not necessarily on this journey. Suppose she had given the mantle away—to her maid, for instance; I believe ladies often pass on their things to their maids.”

  “It is all pure presumption, a mere theory. This maid—she has not as yet been imported into the discussion.”

  “Then I would suggest that you do so without delay. She is to my mind a—well, rather a curious person.”

  “You know her—spoke to her?”

  “I know her, in a way. I had seen her in the Via Margutta, and I nodded to her when she came first into the car.”

  “And on the journey—you spoke to her frequently?”

  “I? Oh, dear, no, not at all. I noticed her, certainly; I could not help it, and perhaps I ought to tell her mistress. She seemed to make friends a little too readily with people.”

  “As for instance—?”

  “With the porter to begin with. I saw them together at Laroche, in the buffet at the bar; and that Italian, the man who was in here before me; indeed, with the murdered man. She seemed to know them all.”

  “Do you imply that the maid might be of use in this inquiry?”

  “Most assuredly I do. As I tell you, she was constantly in and out of the car, and more or less intimate with several of the passengers.”

  “Including her mistress, the Countess,” put in M. Floçon.

  The General laughed pleasantly.

  “Most ladies are, I presume, on intimate terms with their maids. They say no man is a hero to his valet. It is the same, I suppose, with the other sex.”

  “So intimate,” went on the little detective, with much malicious emphasis, “that now the maid has disappeared lest she might be asked inconvenient questions about her mistress.”

  “Disappeared? You are sure?”

  “She cannot be found, that is all we know.”

  “It is as I thought, then. She it was who left the car!” cried Sir Charles, with so much vehemence that the officials were startled out of their dignified reserve, and shouted back almost in a breath: “Explain yourself. Quick, quick. What in God’s name do you mean?”

  “I had my suspicions from the first, and I will tell you why. At Laroche the car emptied, as you may have heard; every one except the Countess, at least, went over to the restaurant for early coffee; I with the rest. I was one of the first to finish, and I strolled back to the platform to get a few whiffs of a cigarette. At that moment I saw, or thought I saw, the end of a skirt disappearing into the sleeping-car. I concluded it was this maid, Hortense, who was taking her mistress a cup of coffee. Then my brother came up, we exchanged a few words, and entered the car together.”