These admissions made it abundantly clear that French was once more on the right track, and he handed over his five francs with the feeling that he had made the cheapest bargain of his life.
He had no doubt that Dangle had sailed with the senior partner on the tramp, but he felt he must make sure, and he walked slowly back towards the quays, turning over in his mind possible methods for settling the point. One inquiry seemed promising. If the ship had lain at anchor out in the river, and if Dangle had gone aboard her, he must have had a boat to do so. French wondered could he find that boat.
He felt himself held up by the language difficulty. Up to the present he had had extraordinary luck in this respect, but then up to the present he had been interviewing educated persons whose business brought them in contact with foreigners. He doubted if he could make boatmen and loafers about the quays understand what he wanted.
A trial convinced him that his fears were well founded, and he lost a solid hour in finding the Berlitz School and engaging a young linguist with a reputation for discretion. Then, accompanied by M. Jules Renard, he returned to the quays and set systematically to work. He began by inquiring where boats might be hired, and where there were steps at which ships’ boats might come alongside. Taking these in turn he asked had the boatmen taken a passenger out to the L’Escaut between 2-0 and 3-0 p.m. on the previous Thursday? Or had the loafer, stevedore, shunter or constable, as the case might be, noticed if a boat had come ashore from the same vessel on the same date and at the same time?
Though the work was easy it bade fair to be tedious, and therefore for more than one reason French felt a glow of satisfaction when at his fourth inquiry, his question received an affirmative answer. A wizened old man, one of a small knot of longshoremen whom M. Renard addressed, separated himself from his companions and came forward. He said that he was a boatman, and that he had been hailed by a man—an Englishman, he believed—at the time stated, and had rowed him out to the ship.
‘Ask him if that’s the man,’ French directed, producing Dangle’s photograph, though he felt there could be no doubt as to the reply.
He was therefore immensely dashed when the boatman shook his head. This was not the man at all. The traveller was a short, rather stout man with a small fair moustache.
French gasped. The description sounded familiar. Taking out Blessington’s photograph he passed it over.
This time the boatman nodded. Yes, that was the man he had rowed out. He had no doubt of him whatever.
This was unexpected but most welcome news, though as French thought over it, he saw that it was not so surprising after all. If Dangle was in it, why not Blessington, and for the matter of that, why not Sime also? In this case he wondered where Susan could be, and more acutely, what had been the fate of Joan Merrill. Possibly, he thought, his inquiries about Dangle would solve these questions also.
Half an hour later he struck oil for the second time. Another boatman, a little further along the quays, had also rowed a passenger out to the L’Escaut, and this one, it appeared, was Dangle. But though French kept working steadily away, he could hear nothing of Sime.
In the end it was a suggestion of Renard’s that put him once more on the trail. The interpreter proved an intelligent youth, and when he had grasped the point at issue, he stopped and pointed to the river.
‘You say, monsieur, that the sheep, she lie there, opposite the Musée Steen, is it not so? Bon! We haf walked along all the quays near to that. Your friends would not haf hired boat from farther on—it is too far. You say, too, they come from England secretly, is it not? Bon! They would come to the other side.’
French did not understand.
‘The other side?’ he repeated questioningly.
‘But yes, monsieur, the other side.’ The young fellow’s eyes flashed in his eagerness. ‘Over there. La. Gare de Waes.’ He pointed out across the great stream to its west bank.
‘I didn’t know there was a station across there,’ French admitted. ‘Where does the line go to?’
‘Direct to Ghent. Your friends change trains at Ghent. It is a quiet railway. They come unseen.’
‘Good man,’ said French heartily. ‘We’ll go and find out.’ How do you get to the blessed place?’
M. Renard smiled delightedly.
‘Ah yes, monsieur. You weesh to cross? Is it not?’ he cried. ‘This way. We take ferry from the Quai Van Dyck. It is near.’
Half an hour later they had reached the Tete de Flandre—the low-lying western bank of the Scheldt. It bore a small but not unpicturesque cluster of old-fashioned houses, nestling about one of the historic Antwerp forts. Renard, now apparently quite as interested in the chase as French, led the way along the river bank from boatman to boatman, with the result that before very many minutes had passed French had obtained the information he wanted.
It appeared that about 1-0 p.m. on the day in question, a strapping young boatman had noticed three strangers approaching from the direction of the Waes Station, a hundred yards or more distant. They consisted of a tall, clean-shaven man of something under middle age and two women, both young. One was tall and strongly made and dark as to hair and eyes, the other was slighter and with red gold hair. The smaller one seemed to be ill, and was stumbling along between the other two, each of whom supported her by an arm. None of the trio could speak French or Flemish, but they managed by signs to convey the information that they wanted to be put on board the L’Escaut, which was lying out in midstream. The man had rowed them out, and they had been received on board by an elderly gentleman with a dark beard.
Further questions produced the information that the fair lady appeared to be seriously ill, though whether it was her mind or body that was affected, the boatman couldn’t be sure. She was able to walk, but would not do so unless urged on by the others. She had not spoken nor taken any interest in the journey. She had not appeared even, to look round her, but had sat gazing listlessly at nothing, with a vacant expression in her eyes. Her companions had had real difficulty in getting her up the short ladder on to the L’Escaut’s deck.
The news was rather unexpected to French. About Joan Merrill it was both disconcerting and reassuring; the former because he could not see that the gang had anything but a sinister reason for inveigling the young girl aboard the ship—probably she will fall overboard at night, he thought; the latter because she was at least still alive, or had been two days ago. It was quite evident that she was drugged, probably with morphine or something similar. It might, however, mean that while wishing Joan no harm, they were taking her with them on their expedition to ensure her silence as to their movements.
As French returned across the ferry, he kept on puzzling as to Lowenthal’s position. Could Lowenthal be arrested? Was he in league with the gang? If so, could he be held responsible for the abduction of Joan Merrill? French didn’t think the evidence would justify drastic measures. He had, as a matter of fact, no actual evidence against Lowenthal. Of his complicity he was satisfied, but he doubted if he could prove it.
He got rid of the young interpreter, and strolling slowly along the quays, thought the matter out. No, he had not a good enough case with which to go to the Belgian police. But he could do the next best thing. He could call on M. Lowenthal for the second time, and try to bluff an admission out of him.
As he walked to the Rue des Tanneurs, he felt his prospects were not rosy. But at least he had no difficulty in obtaining his interview. M. Lowenthal seemed surprised to see him so soon again, but received him politely, and asked what he could do for him.
‘I want to ask you another question, M. Lowenthal, if you please,’ French answered in his pleasantest manner, ‘and first I must tell you that the agency I hold is that of Detective Inspector at New Scotland Yard in London. My question is this: When you and M. Merkel entered into relations with Blessington, Sime and the Dangles, did you know that they were dangerous criminals wanted by the English police?’
In spite of the most evident ef
forts for self-control. Lowenthal was so much taken aback that he could not for some moments speak. His swarthy face turned a greenish hue and little drops of sweat showed on his forehead. To the other pleasant characteristics with which French had mentally endowed him, he now added that of coward, and his hopes of his bluff succeeding grew brighter. He sat waiting in silence for the other to recover himself, then said suavely:
‘After that, M. Lowenthal, you will see for yourself that you cannot plead ignorance of the affair. Let me advise you for your own sake to be open with me.’
The man pulled himself together. He wiped his brow as he replied earnestly, but in somewhat shaky accents:
‘That I haf met Blessington, Sime and Dangle I do not deny, though they were Merkel’s friends—not mine. But I do not know that they are criminal. Dangle, he called here and asked Merkel to take him on the next’—he hesitated for a word—‘next work, next sail of the sheep. Merkel said that Dangle iss a writer—he writes books. He weeshed to see the sail to Casablanca to deescribe it in hiss book. Merkel said he would haf to pay fare, the firm could not afford it unless. Dangle agreed. Merkel was going himself, and Dangle suggested Sime and Blessington go also to make party—to play cards. Of a second Dangle I know nothing. They went secretly—I admit it—because the law forbids to take passengers for sail without a certificate. That is all of the affair.’
Not a single word of this statement did French believe, but he saw that unless he could get some further information, or surprise this Lowenthal into some more damaging admission, he could not have him arrested. After all, the story hung together. Merkel might conceivably be playing his own game, and have pitched the yarn of the author out for copy to his partner. The contravention of the shipping laws would undoubtedly account for the secrecy with which the start was made. Certainly there was no evidence to bring before a jury.
French proceeded to question the junior partner with considerable thoroughness, but he could not shake his statement. The only additional facts he learnt were that the L’Escaut was going to Casablanca on the order of the Moroccan Government to load up a cargo of agricultural samples for the Italian market, and that M. Merkel was accompanying it simply as a holiday trip.
With this French had to be content, and he went to the post office, and got through on the long distance telephone to his chief at the Yard. To him he repeated the essentials of the tale, asking him to inquire from the Moroccan authorities as to the truth of their portion of it, as well as to endeavour to trace the L’Escaut.
On leaving the post office, it occurred to him that communication with the L’Escaut should be possible by wireless, and he returned to the Rue des Tanneurs to ascertain this point. There he was told that just after he had left M. Lowenthal had received a telephone call, requiring his immediate presence in Holland, and he had with a great rush caught the afternoon express for the Dutch capital.
‘Skiddaddled, by Jove!’ said French to himself. ‘Guess that lets in the Belgian police.’
He called at headquarters, and saw the officer in charge and before he left to catch the connection for London, it had been arranged that the movements of the junior partner should be gone into, and a watch kept for the return of that enterprising weaver of fairy tales.
18
A Visitor from India
When French reached Victoria, the first person he saw on the platform was Maxwell Cheyne.
‘They told me at the Yard that you might be on this train,’ the young man said excitedly as he elbowed his way forward. ‘Any news? Anything about Miss Merrill?’
He looked old and worn, and it was evident that his anxiety was telling on him. In his eagerness he could scarcely wait for the inspector to dismount from his carriage, and his loud tones were attracting curious looks from the bystanders.
‘Get a taxi,’ French answered quietly. ‘We can talk there.’
A few seconds later they found a vehicle, and Cheyne, gripping the other by the arm, went on earnestly:
‘Tell me. I can see you have learnt something. Is she—all right?’
‘I got news of her on Thursday last. She was all right then, though still under the influence of a drug. The whole party has gone to sea.’
‘To sea?’
‘Yes, to sea in a small tramp. I don’t know what they are up to, but there is no reason to suppose Miss Merrill is otherwise than well. Probably they took her with them to prevent her giving them away. They would drug her to get her to go along, but would cease it as soon as she was on board. I wired for inquiries to be made at the different signal stations, and news may be waiting for us at the Yard.’
A few seconds sufficed to put Cheyne in possession of the salient facts which French had learnt, and the latter in his turn asked for news.
‘By Jove, yes!’ Cheyne cried, ‘there is news. You remember that Arnold Price had disappeared? Well, yesterday I had a letter from him!’
‘You don’t say so?’ French rejoined in surprise, ‘where did he write from?’
‘Bombay. He was shortly leaving for home. He expects to be here in about a month.’
‘And what about his disappearance?’
‘He was ill in hospital. He had gone up to Agra on some private business and met with an accident—was knocked down in the street and was insensible for ages. He couldn’t say who he was, and the hospital people in Agra couldn’t find out, and he hadn’t told the Bombay people where he was going to spend his leave.’
‘Did he mention the letter?’
‘Yes, he thanked me for taking charge of it and said that when he reached home he would relieve me of further trouble about it. He little knows!’
‘That’s so,’ French assented.
Their taxi had been held up by a block at the end of Westminster Bridge, but now the mass cleared and in a few seconds they reached the Yard.
French’s first care was to get rid of Cheyne. He repeated what he had learnt about Joan Merrill, then, assuring him that the key of the matter lay in the cipher, he advised him to go home and try it once more. Directly any more news came in he would let him know.
Cheyne having reluctantly taken his departure, French made inquiries as to what had been done in reference to his telephone from Antwerp. It appeared that the Yard had not been idle. In the first place an application had been made to the Moroccan Government, who had replied that no ship had been chartered by them for freight at Casablanca, nor was anything known of agricultural samples for the Italian market. Lowenthal’s story must therefore have been an absolute fabrication. He had, however, told it so readily that French suspected it had been made up beforehand, so as to be ready to serve up to any inquisitive policeman or detective who might come along.
Next Lloyd’s had been approached, as to the direction the L’Escaut had taken, and a reply had shortly before come in from them. It stated that up to noon on that day, the vessel had not been reported from any of their stations. But this, French realised, might not mean so much. If she had gone south down the English Channel it would have been well on to dark before she reached the Straits of Dover. In any case, had she wished to slip through unseen, she had only to keep out to the middle of the passage, when in ordinary weather, she would have been invisible from either coast. On the other hand, had she gone north, she would almost naturally have kept out of sight of land. It was true that in either case she would have been likely to pass some other vessel which would have spoken her, and the fact that no news of such a recognition had come to hand seemed to indicate that she was taking some unusual course out of the track of regular shipping.
French wired this information to the Antwerp police, and then, his chief being disengaged, went in and gave him a detailed account of his adventures in Belgium.
Chief Inspector Mitchell was impressed by the story. He sat back in his chair and treated French to a prolonged stare as the latter talked. At the end of the recital he remained sitting motionless for some moments, whistling gently below his breath.
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�Any theories?’ he said at last.
French shook his head.
‘Well, no, sir,’ he answered slowly. ‘It’s not easy to see what they’re after. And it’s not easy to see, either, why the whole gang wanted to go. It looked at first like as if they were just clearing out because of Cheyne’s coming to the Yard, but it’s more than that. The arrangements were made too long ago. They have been dealing with that Antwerp firm for several weeks.’
‘The hard copper was all a story?’
‘Looks like it, sir. As a matter of fact every single statement those men made that could be tested has been proved false. Even when there didn’t seem any great object in a yarn they pitched it. Lies seemed to come easier to them.’
‘Well, I’ve known a good few cases of that, and so have you, French. It’s a habit that grows. Now, what’s your next move?’
French hesitated.
‘For the moment the outlook’s not very cheery,’ he said at last. ‘All the same I can’t believe that boat can go away out of the Scheldt and disappear. In my judgment she’s bound to be reported before long, and I’m looking forward to getting word of her within the next day or so. Then I have no doubt that the tracing is some kind of cipher, and if we could read it we should probably get light on the whole affair.’
‘Why shouldn’t you read it? Try it again.’
‘I intend to, sir. But I don’t hope for much result, because I don’t believe we’ve got the genuine document. I don’t believe they would have handed it, nor a copy of it either, to a man they intended to murder, lest it should be found on his body. I’d state long odds they gave him a fake.’
‘I think you’re probably right,’ the chief admitted. ‘Try at all events. You never know your luck.’
He bent over his desk, and French, realising that the interview had come to an end, quietly left the room. Then, seeing there was nothing requiring his attention urgently, and tired after his journey, he went home.
Inspector French and the Cheyne Mystery Page 22
