“To-night!” French thought as he hastily glanced at his watch. It was just 8.42. What a stroke of luck! He would travel by it, and with any reasonable good fortune he would have these Vanes safe in his clutches before another dozen hours had passed.
As a man of action French was unsurpassed. Within five minutes he had called an assistant, a keen, efficient young sergeant named Carter, and instructed him to join him that night on the 9.30 Continental train from Waterloo, had sent another keen, efficient helper posthaste to have extradition warrants and other necessaries sent to the same train, and had rung up for a taxi to take him home to tell his wife of his change of plan and to put two of three things together for the journey. In short, thanks to his energy, the hands of the Waterloo station clock had scarcely reached 9.25 when he and Sergeant Carter reached the platform from which the boat train was about to start. Awaiting them was Manning, the other keen and efficient assistant, who handed over warrants for the arrest and extradition of Mr. and Mrs. Vane, passports, English and French money, as well as an introduction to the French police at Havre.
“Good, Manning! That’s all right,” French approved as he took over the munitions of war. In another couple of minutes the train drew slowly out of the station, and increasing its speed as it passed the myriad lights of South London, was soon roaring through the darkness of the open country beyond.
Fortunately, the night was calm and the boat was not crowded, so that the detectives were able to get berths and a sleep to prepare them for their toils on the following day. They reached Havre on time, and jumping into a taxi were driven to the berth of the Enoch, which was some distance down the docks. French hurried on board and asked to see the Captain, while Carter remained at the gangway lest the quarry, seeing French and knowing his appearance, might take fright and attempt to slip ashore.
Captain Davis saw French immediately.
“Sit down, Mr. French,” he said pleasantly when he had examined the other’s credentials, “and let me know what I can do for you.”
French took the proffered seat as he drew from his pocket Mrs. Vane’s photograph as well as her description and that of her husband.
“I’ll tell you, Captain,” he answered. “I’m after a man and woman who are wanted for murder and robbery. They call themselves Mr. and Mrs. Vane, though I don’t know if this is their real name or even, if they are married. I have learned that they booked with you from Liverpool to Manáos, but I only found that out last night, so I came over by Southampton in the hope of making an arrest. There,” he passed over his photograph and papers, “are the descriptions.”
The Captain glanced at him as he took the papers. He did not speak until he had looked through the latter, then he said gravely:
“I’m afraid, Mr. French, they’ve been one too many for you this time. A Mr. and Mrs. Vane did book passages and even came on board at Liverpool, but they left the ship almost immediately and didn’t turn up again. I assumed that some accident had prevented their return, and that they would follow by Southampton as you did, but from what you tell me it looks as if they had learned you were on their track and made a bolt for it. But we had better see the purser. He will tell us details.”
French was aghast. Once again had happened to him what he had so often previously experienced. When he was most sure of himself and most confident of success, that was the time of failure! How often had he taken a sporting chance, doubtful of himself and his ability to meet a situation, and the occasion had resulted in a brilliant coup. And how often, alas, had his certainty of success ended in disaster!
By the time the purser arrived, he had to some extent recovered his equanimity. “Mr. Jennings—Inspector French of the C.I.D.,” the Captain introduced them. “Sit down, Jennings, and hear what the Inspector wants. It’s about that Mr. and Mrs. Vane that came aboard at Liverpool and left again before we sailed. Ask him what you want to know, Mr. French.”
Mr. Jennings was a shrewd, efficient-looking man of about forty, and as French began to speak he felt a comfortable assurance that at least he would receive in answer to his questions concisely-worded statements of accurately observed facts.
“It’s this way, Mr. Jennings,” he explained. “These Vanes are wanted for murder and robbery. I traced them to your ship, and crossed last night from London, hoping to arrest them here. But the Captain tells me I have missed them. Perhaps you’ll give me any information you can about them.”
“There’s not much to tell,” the purser answered. “They came aboard about noon on Thursday, and Mr. Vane showed me their tickets and asked for their stateroom. The tickets were singles from Liverpool to Manáos, all O.K. An upper deck stateroom, No. 12, had been reserved at the London office, and I gave the number to their cabin steward and saw him leading the way there with the luggage. About half an hour later they came back to my office and asked what time the ship sailed. I told them three o’clock. Mr. Vane said they had to go ashore to complete some business, but would be back in good time. They then left in the direction of the gangway.”
“Did you actually see them go ashore?”
“No, you can’t see out on deck from the office.”
“Yes? And then?”
“After dinner their cabin steward asked me if I knew anything about them. He said they hadn’t been down for dinner, and he couldn’t find them anywhere about the ship. We had a look round, and then I spoke to Captain Davis, and he had a thorough search made.
They had never been seen since, and they’re certainly not on board now.”
“They couldn’t have hidden somewhere and slipped ashore here in Havre?”
“Quite impossible. There’s not the slightest doubt they missed the boat at Liverpool.”
“Intentionally or unintentionally?” the Captain interjected.
“I don’t know anything about that,” Mr. Jennings replied, “but they certainly did not sail with us. Perhaps, Inspector, they learned when they went on shore that you were after them?”
“Impossible,” French declared. “I did not myself know where they had gone until last night.”
He felt ruefully sure that the whole thing was part of the elaborate laying of a false trail, but he did not see that anything was to be gained by discussing this with the ship’s officers. He pushed his papers towards the purser.
“Can you recognise the parties from those, Mr. Jennings?”
A glance at the photograph sufficed. The original was undoubtedly that Mrs. Vane who had for a brief half-hour boarded the Enoch. And the description was that of Mr. Vane also. French was forced to the conclusion that his quarry had indeed, in the Captain’s words, been too many for him. He swore bitterly beneath his breath.
“You say they left some luggage in their stateroom,” he went on. “Could I have a look at it?”
“Of course. But, you know, they may still be here. On several occasions I have known passengers to miss the ship at Liverpool and follow on here. They may turn up at any minute.”
“If they do, so much the better,” French answered. “But I won’t bank on it. If you don’t mind, I’ll have a look at the luggage now. What time do you sail?”
“In about half an hour.”
“That will just give me time. Meantime I have a man at the gangway, and he’ll spot them if they come along.”
There were four large suitcases in the roomy and comfortable stateroom set apart for the Vanes, as well as a number of articles of toilet and apparel which might well represent the first hurried attempt at unpacking. The suitcases were locked, but French soon opened them with his bunch of skeleton keys. And here he got confirmation of his theory that all this journey to Manáos was merely a carefully thought out plant. The cases were empty. Dummy luggage, brought in to bolster up the trick. But there was nothing in the cabin to give any hint of where the fugitives had really gone.
“I needn’t wait for them to turn up,” French said grimly. “Those empty suitcases give the show away.”
“I’m afrai
d it looks like it,” the purser admitted “Sorry we didn’t know about it sooner.”
“Can’t be helped. That’s what we Scotland Yard men are up against all the time.” He bid the friendly purser good-day and slowly left the ship.
But he did not leave the wharf. Though he thought it unlikely, there was still just a chance that the quarry had missed the ship and were following on. He would make sure.
But though he waited until the Enoch cast off and swung her bows round towards the open sea there was no sign of any late arrivals, and when he had once seen the liner under way he turned disconsolately to his satellite.
“It’s all U.P., Carter, as far as this trip is concerned. They’ve given us the slip about proper. Goodness only knows where they are by this time; perhaps half-way to the States. Let’s find a telegraph office and report to Headquarters.”
A few minutes later French had sent a long wire to his chief at the Yard. Then at a loose end, he turned to Sergeant Carter.
“Well, Carter, what shall we do with ourselves now? Here’s ten o’clock and we can’t get back until the evening. We have the whole day to play round in.”
Except that he believed he could do with a bit more breakfast, the Sergeant’s ideas were nebulous. French laughed at him.
“It’s what I was thinking myself,” he admitted, “but it’s a bad time. These folk over here have no notion of what a good breakfast means, and it’s a bit early for their lunch. However, we’ll see what we can do.”
They went into a small restaurant and asked for coffee and ham and eggs. This proving too much for the waiter, the proprietor was summoned. He had a little English and at last understood.
“But yes, messieurs,” he cried, waving his hands. “The ham, the eggs, the omelette, is it not so? He bowed low. “Immediately, messieurs. Will messieurs be pleased to be seated.”
Messieurs were pleased to be seated, and in an incredibly short space of time a smoking omelette arrived, garnished with chip potatoes and onions, together with coffee and delicious rolls and butter. To this the hungry men did full justice, and Carter’s estimate of the French, which had been low, went up several points. They took their time over the meal, but eventually it was finished, and the problem of how to fill in their time once more became insistent.
“We might go round and see some of these coast places,” French suggested. “St. Malo or some of those. Or I dare say we could work across somehow to Dieppe and catch the afternoon boat to Newhaven. What do you say?”
Carter voted for going to the station and looking into the possibilities, and they walked slowly up the town, fascinated by the foreign life of the busy port. Havre is a fine city with good streets, shops, and public buildings, but it is not an interesting town, and by the time they reached the station, a mile and a half away, they felt they had seen enough of it.
An examination of the time-tables showed that they were too late for Dieppe—the English boat would have left before they could possibly get there—and St. Malo, they discovered, was not in that part of the country at all, but miles away to the south-west. Trouville was only eight or ten miles away across the bay, but Trouville in winter did not seem an attractive prospect.
“Tell you what,” French said at last. “We’ve got an introduction to these French johnnies. We’ll go and look ’em up, and perhaps see something of their police station.”
Sergeant Carter, delighted with his superior’s condescension, hurriedly agreed, and a few minutes later the two men found themselves ascending the steps of a large building which bore over the door the legend “Gendarmerie.” Here French tendered his introduction, with the result that he was shown into the presence of and politely welcomed by the officer in charge.
“I regret the Chief is out of town at present,” the latter said in excellent English. “He will be sorry not to have seen you. I hope that presently you will give me the pleasure of your company at lunch, and in the meantime let me know if there is anything I can do for you.”
French explained the circumstances. He would not stay for lunch, as he had but a short time since finished an excellent breakfast, but he would be most grateful if the other would tell him how best he could spend the time until his return boat to Southampton.
“That’s not until midnight,” answered the Frenchman. “You don’t know this country?”
“Not at all. It was just that if there was anything to see within reach, we might as well see it.”
“Of course, naturally. Well, monsieur, were I in your place I should certainly go to Caen. It is an interesting old town, well worth a visit. There is a steamer all the way, but you would scarcely have time for it is rather slow. I should recommend you to go to Trouville by steamer—it’s just across the bay—and then go on from there to Caen by rail. In the time at your disposal I really do not think you could do anything better.”
French thanked him, and the other continued, “The steamer sails according to the tide. To-day,” he glanced at an almanac, “it leaves at midday. You should get to Caen about two, and you could dine there and come back in the evening in time for your boat.”
At ten minutes to twelve French and his satellite reached the wharf, having delayed on their walk down town to consume books in one of the many attractive cafés in the main streets. They took tickets and went on board the little steamer. The day was cold though fine, and there were but few travellers. They strolled about, interested in the novel scene, and at last finding two seats in the lee of the funnel, sat down to await the start.
Midday came, and with leisurely movements the horn was blown, the gangway run ashore, and the ropes slacked. The Captain put his lips to the engine-room speaking tube, but before he could give his order an interruption came from the shore. Shouts arose, and a man in the blue uniform of a gendarme appeared running towards the boat and gesticulating wildly. The Captain paused, the slackened ropes were pulled tight, and all concerned stood expectant.
The gendarme jumped on board and ran up the steps to the bridge, eagerly watched by the entire ship’s company. He spoke rapidly to the Captain, and then the latter turned to the staring passengers below.
“Monsieur Fr-r-ronsh?” he called in stentorian tones, looking inquiringly round the upturned faces. “Monsieur Fr-r-ronsh de Londres?”
“It’s you, sir,” cried Carter. “There’s something up.”
French hastened to the bridge, and the gendarme handed him a blue envelope. “De monsieur le chef,” he explained with a rapid salute, as he hastened ashore.
It was a telegram, and it contained news which, as it were, brought the Inspector up all standing. It was from the Yard and read:
“Liverpool police wire Vanes went aboard Enoch and did not go ashore again. Mackay was watching ship for Henson and saw them. They must still be on board. Follow ship to Oporto or Lisbon.”
“Come ashore, Carter,” French cried rapidly, rushing to the side. The boat was actually moving, but the two men, jumping, reached the wharf amid the execrations of the Captain and staff.
“Here, officer,” he called, beckoning to the gendarme, who had watched the proceedings with a horrified interest, “how do you get quickly to Headquarters?”
The man bowed, shrugged his shoulders, and indicated in dumb show that he did not understand. French hailed a passing taxi and pushed his companions in.
“Monsieur le chef!” he cried to the bewildered gendarme, producing and tapping the telegram. “Monsieur le chef?”
The man understood. A smile dawned on his perturbed countenance, and with a rapid flow of French he gave the required address. In ten minutes they were once more at the gendarmerie, French still clamouring for “Monsieur le chef.”
He was shown into the room of the same polite officer whom he had previously met.
“Ah,” the latter said, “so my man was in time. You got your telegram?”
“Yes, sir, I did, and greatly obliged to you I am for your trouble. But I can’t make head or tail of the thing. Those ship�
��s officers this morning were absolutely positive the wanted couple had not sailed.”
The officer shrugged his shoulders.
“Doubtless,” he said smoothly. “All the same I thought you should have the message, lest you should wish to follow up the steamer as suggested.”
“I have no choice,” French returned. “It is an order from Headquarters. Perhaps, sir, you would add to your already great kindness by telling me my route. With this confounded difference of language I feel myself all at sea.”
The officer, who had seemed bored as to the movements of the Vanes, became once more the efficient, interested consultant. The obvious route, he said, was via Paris. It was true that you could get across country to pick up the international express at Bordeaux, but Paris was quicker and more comfortable. Fortunately, French had returned in time to catch the midday train to the capital. It left at 12.40, and he could easily reach the station and book in the twenty minutes which remained before that hour.
His time from the receipt of the wire until the Paris express pulled out of Havre station had been so fully occupied that French had not been able seriously to consider the message sent. Now, seated in the corner of a second-class compartment with Carter opposite, he drew the flimsy sheet from his pocket and re-read it carefully. He understood the reference to Mackay and Henson. Detective-Sergeant Mackay was one of the best men of the Liverpool detective staff, and he was on a very similar job to French’s own. He was watching the outgoing steamers in the hope of capturing one Charles Henson, who with a couple of others had made a sensational raid on a country bank, and after murdering the manager, had got away with a large haul from the safe. French knew Mackay personally, and he was satisfied that if he had said the Vanes had gone on board and remained there, they had done so.
Inspector French's Greatest Case Page 22
