“What have we against her?” said the Judge, as soon as they had gained the absolute privacy of the sleeping-car.
“The bottle of laudanum and the porter’s condition. He was undoubtedly drugged,” answered the detective; and the discussion which followed took the form of a dialogue between them, for the Commissary took no part in it.
“Yes; but why by the Countess? How do we know that positively?”
“It is her bottle,” said M. Floçon.
“Her story may be true—that she missed it, that the maid took it.”
“We have nothing whatever against the maid. We know nothing about her.”
“No. Except that she has disappeared. But that tells more against her mistress. It is all very vague. I do not see my way quite, as yet.”
“But the fragment of lace, the broken beading? Surely, M. le Juge, they are a woman’s, and only one woman was in the car—”
“So far as we know.”
“But if these could be proved to be hers?”
“Ah! if you could prove that!”
“Easy enough. Have her searched, here at once, in the station. There is a female searcher attached to the detention-room.”
“It is a strong measure. She is a lady.”
“Ladies who commit crimes must not expect to be handled with kid gloves.”
“She is an Englishwoman, or with English connections; titled, too. I hesitate, upon my word. Suppose we are wrong? It may lead to unpleasantness. M. le Prefet is anxious to avoid complications possibly international.”
As he spoke, he bent over, and, taking a magnifier from his pocket, examined the lace, which still fluttered where it was caught.
“It is fine lace, I think. What say you, M. Floçon? You may be more experienced in such matters.”
“The finest, or nearly so; I believe it is Valenciennes—the trimming of some underclothing, I should think. That surely is sufficient, M. le Juge?”
M. Beaumont le Hardi gave a reluctant consent, and the Chief went back himself to see that the searching was undertaken without loss of time.
The Countess protested, but vainly, against this new indignity. What could she do? A prisoner, practically friendless—for the General was not within reach—to resist was out of the question. Indeed, she was plainly told that force would be employed unless she submitted with a good grace. There was nothing for it but to obey.
Mother Tontaine, as the female searcher called herself, was an evil-visaged, corpulent old creature, with a sickly, soft, insinuating voice, and a greasy, familiar manner that was most offensive. They had given her the scrap of torn lace and the débris of the jet as a guide, with very particular directions to see if they corresponded with any part of the lady’s apparel.
She soon showed her quality.
“Aha! oho! What is this, my pretty princess? How comes so great a lady into the hands of Mother Tontaine? But I will not harm you, my beauty, my pretty, my little one. Oh, no, no, I will not trouble you, dearie. No, trust to me;” and she held out one skinny claw, and looked the other way. The Countess did not or would not understand.
“Madame has money?” went on the old hag in a half-threatening, half-coaxing whisper, as she came up quite close, and fastened on her victim like a bird of prey.
“If you mean that I am to bribe you—”
“Fie, the nasty word! But just a small present, a pretty gift, one or two yellow bits, twenty, thirty, forty francs—you’d better.” She shook the soft arm she held roughly, and anything seemed preferable than to be touched by this horrible woman.
“Wait, wait!” cried the Countess, shivering all over, and, feeling hastily for her purse, she took out several napoleons.
“Aha! oho! One, two, three,” said the searcher in a fat, wheedling voice. “Four, yes, four, five;” and she clinked the coins together in her palm, while a covetous light came into her faded eyes at the joyous sound. “Five—make it five at once, d’ye hear me?—or I’ll call them in and tell them. That will go against you, my princess. What, try to bribe a poor old woman, Mother Tontaine, honest and incorruptible Tontaine? Five, then, five!”
With trembling haste the Countess emptied the whole contents of her purse in the old hag’s hand.
“Bon aubaine. Nice pickings. It is a misery what they pay me here. I am, oh, so poor, and I have children, many babies. You will not tell them—the police—you dare not. No, no, no.”
Thus muttering to herself, she shambled across the room to a corner, where she stowed the money safely away. Then she came back, showed the bit of lace, and pressed it into the Countess’s hands.
“Do you know this, little one? Where it comes from, where there is much more? I was told to look for it, to search for it on you;” and with a quick gesture she lifted the edge of the Countess’s skirt, dropping it next moment with a low, chuckling laugh.
“Oho! aha! You were right, my pretty, to pay me, my pretty—right. And some day, to-day, to-morrow, whenever I ask you, you will remember Mother Tontaine.”
The Countess listened with dismay. What had she done? Put herself into the power of this greedy and unscrupulous old beldame?
“And this, my princess? What have we here, aha?”
Mère Tontaine held up next the broken bit of jet ornament for inspection, and as the Countess leaned forward to examine it more closely, gave it into her hand.
“You recognize it, of course. But be careful, my pretty! Beware! If any one were looking, it would ruin you. I could not save you then. Sh! say nothing, only look, and quick, give it me back. I must have it to show.”
All this time the Countess was turning the jet over and over in her open palm, with a perplexed, disturbed, but hardly a terrified air.
Yes, she knew it, or thought she knew it. It had been—But how had it come here, into the possession of this base myrmidon of the French police?
“Give it me, quick!” There was a loud knock at the door. “They are coming. Remember!” Mother Tontaine put her long finger to her lip. “Not a word! I have found nothing, of course. Nothing, I can swear to that, and you will not forget Mother Tontaine?”
Now M. Floçon stood at the open door awaiting the searcher’s report. He looked much disconcerted when the old woman took him on one side and briefly explained that the search had been altogether fruitless.
There was nothing to justify suspicion, nothing, so far as she could find.
The detective looked from one to the other—from the hag he had employed in this unpleasant quest, to the lady on whom it had been tried. The Countess, to his surprise, did not complain. He had expected further and strong upbraidings. Strange to say, she took it very quietly. There was no indignation in her face. She was still pale, and her hands trembled, but she said nothing, made no reference, at least, to what she had just gone through.
Again he took counsel with his colleague, while the Countess was kept apart.
“What next, M. Floçon?” asked the Judge. “What shall we do with her?”
“Let her go,” answered the detective, briefly.
“What! do you suggest this, sir,” said the Judge, slyly. “After your strong and well-grounded suspicions?”
“They are as strong as ever, stronger: and I feel sure I shall yet justify them. But what I wish now is to let her go at large, under surveillance.”
“Ah! you would shadow her?”
“Precisely. By a good agent. Galipaud, for instance. He speaks English, and he can, if necessary, follow her anywhere, even to England.”
“She can be extradited,” said the Commissary, with his one prominent idea of arrest.
“Do you agree, M. le Juge? Then, if you will permit me, I will give the necessary orders, and perhaps you will inform the lady that she is free to leave the station?”
The Countess now had reason to change her opinion of the French officials. Great politeness now replaced the first severity that had been so cruel. She was told, with many bows and apologies, that her regretted but unavoidable detenti
on was at an end. Not only was she freely allowed to depart, but she was escorted by both M. Floçon and the Commissary outside, to where an omnibus was in waiting, and all her baggage piled on top, even to the dressing-bag, which had been neatly repacked for her.
But the little silver-topped vial had not been restored to her, nor the handkerchief.
In her joy at her deliverance, either she had not given these a second thought, or she did not wish to appear anxious to recover them.
Nor did she notice that, as the bus passed through the gates at the bottom of the large slope that leads from the Lyons Station, it was followed at a discreet distance by a modest fiacre, which pulled up, eventually, outside the Hôtel Madagascar. Its occupant, M. Galipaud, kept the Countess in sight, and, entering the hotel at her heels, waited till she had left the office, when he held a long conference with the proprietor.
CHAPTER VIII
A first stage in the inquiry had now been reached, with results that seemed promising, and were yet contradictory.
No doubt the watch to be set on the Countess might lead to something yet—something to bring first plausible suspicion to a triumphant issue; but the examination of the other occupants of the car should not be allowed to slacken on that account. The Countess might have some confederate among them—this pestilent English General, perhaps, who had made himself so conspicuous in her defence; or some one of them might throw light upon her movements, upon her conduct during the journey.
Then, with a spasm of self-reproach, M. Floçon remembered that two distinct suggestions had been made to him by two of the travellers, and that, so far, he had neglected them. One was the significant hint from the Italian that he could materially help the inquiry. The other was the General’s sneering assertion that the train had not continued its journey uninterruptedly between Laroche and Paris.
Consulting the Judge, and laying these facts before him, it was agreed that the Italian’s offer seemed the most important, and he was accordingly called in next.
“Who and what are you?” asked the Judge, carelessly, but the answer roused him at once to intense interest, and he could not quite resist a glance of reproach at M. Floçon.
“My name I have given you—Natale Ripaldi. I am a detective officer belonging to the Roman police.”
“What!” cried M. Floçon, colouring deeply. “This is unheard of. Why in the name of all the devils have you withheld this most astonishing statement until now?”
“Monsieur surely remembers. I told him half an hour ago I had something important to communicate—”
“Yes, yes, of course. But why were you so reticent. Good Heavens!”
“Monsieur was not so encouraging that I felt disposed to force on him what I knew he would have to hear in due course.”
“It is monstrous—quite abominable, and shall not end here. Your superiors shall hear of your conduct,” went on the Chief, hotly.
“They will also hear, and, I think, listen to my version of the story—that I offered you fairly, and at the first opportunity, all the information I had, and that you refused to accept it.”
“You should have persisted. It was your manifest duty. You are an officer of the law, or you say you are.”
“Pray telegraph at once, if you think fit, to Rome, to the police authorities, and you will find that Natale Ripaldi—your humble servant—travelled by the through express with their knowledge and authority. And here are my credentials, my official card, some official letters—”
“And what, in a word, have you to tell us?”
“I can tell you who the murdered man was.”
“We know that already.”
“Possibly; but only his name, I apprehend. I know his profession, his business, his object in travelling, for I was appointed to watch and follow him. That is why I am here.”
“Was he a suspicious character, then? A criminal?”
“At any rate he was absconding from Rome, with valuables.”
“A thief, in fact?”
The Italian put out the palms of his hands with a gesture of doubt and deprecation.
“Thief is a hard, ugly word. That which he was removing was, or had been, his own property.”
“Tut, tut! do be more explicit and get on,” interrupted the little Chief, testily.
“I ask nothing better; but if questions are put to me—”
The Judge interposed.
“Give us your story. We can interrogate you afterwards.”
“The murdered man is Francis A. Quadling, of the firm of Correse & Quadling, bankers, in the Via Condotti, Rome. It was an old house, once of good, of the highest repute, but of late years it has fallen into difficulties. Its financial soundness was doubted in certain circles, and the Government was warned that a great scandal was imminent. So the matter was handed over to the police, and I was directed to make inquiries, and to keep my eye on this Quadling”—he jerked his thumb towards the platform, where the body might be supposed to be.
“This Quadling was the only surviving partner. He was well known and liked in Rome, indeed, many who heard the adverse reports disbelieved them, I myself among the number. But my duty was plain—”
“Naturally,” echoed the fiery little detective.
“I made it my business to place the banker under surveillance, to learn his habits, his ways of life, see who were his friends, the houses he visited. I soon knew much that I wanted to know, although not all. But one fact I discovered, and think it right to inform you of it at once. He was on intimate terms with La Castagneto—at least, he frequently called upon her.”
“La Castagneto! Do you mean the Countess of that name, who was a passenger in the sleeper?”
“Beyond doubt! it is she I mean.” The officials looked at each other eagerly, and M. Beaumont le Hardi quickly turned over the sheets on which the Countess’s evidence was recorded.
She had denied acquaintance with this murdered man, Quadling, and here was positive evidence that they were on intimate terms!
“He was at her house on the very day we all left Rome—in the evening, towards dusk. The Countess had an apartment in the Via Margutta, and when he left her he returned to his own place in the Condotti, entered the bank, stayed half an hour, then came out with one hand-bag and rug, called a cab, and was driven straight to the railway station.”
“And you followed?”
“Of course. When I saw him walk straight to the sleeping-car, and ask the conductor for 7 and 8, I knew that his plans had been laid, and that he was on the point of leaving Rome secretly. When, presently, La Castagneto also arrived, I concluded that she was in his confidence, and that possibly they were eloping together.”
“Why did you not arrest him?”
“I had no authority, even if I had had the time. Although I was ordered to watch the Signor Quadling, I had no warrant for his arrest. But I decided on the spur of the moment what course I should take. It seemed to be the only one, and that was to embark in the same train and stick close to my man.”
“You informed your superiors, I suppose?”
“Pardon me, monsieur,” said the Italian blandly to the Chief, who asked the question, “but have you any right to inquire into my conduct towards my superiors? In all that affects the murder I am at your orders, but in this other matter it is between me and them.”
“Ta, ta, ta! They will tell us if you will not. And you had better be careful, lest you obstruct justice. Speak out, sir, and beware. What did you intend to do?”
“To act according to circumstances. If my suspicions were confirmed—”
“What suspicions?”
“Why—that this banker was carrying off any large sum in cash, notes, securities, as in effect he was.”
“Ah! You know that? How?”
“By my own eyes. I looked into his compartment once and saw him in the act of counting them over, a great quantity, in fact—”
Again the officials looked at each other significantly. They had got at last to a moti
ve for the crime.
“And that, of course, would have justified his arrest?”
“Exactly. I proposed, directly we arrived in Paris, to claim the assistance of your police and take him into custody. But his fate interposed.”
There was a pause, a long pause, for another important point had been reached in the inquiry: the motive for the murder had been made clear, and with it the presumption against the Countess gained terrible strength.
But there was more, perhaps, to be got out of this dark-visaged Italian detective, who had already proved so useful an ally.
“One or two words more,” said the Judge to Ripaldi. “During the journey, now, did you have any conversation with this Quadling?”
“None. He kept very much to himself.”
“You saw him, I suppose, at the restaurants?”
“Yes, at Modane and Laroche.”
“But did not speak to him?”
“Not a word.”
“Had he any suspicion, do you think, as to who you were?”
“Why should he? He did not know me. I had taken pains he should never see me.”
“Did he speak to any other passenger?”
“Very little. To the Countess. Yes, once or twice, I think, to her maid.”
“Ah! that maid. Did you notice her at all? She has not been seen. It is strange. She seems to have disappeared.”
“To have run away, in fact?” suggested Ripaldi, with a queer smile.
“Well, at least she is not here with her mistress. Can you offer any explanation of that?”
“She was perhaps afraid. The Countess and she were very good friends, I think. On better, more familiar terms, than is usual between mistress and maid.”
“The maid knew something?”
“Ah, monsieur, it is only an idea. But I give it you for what it is worth.”
“Well, well, this maid—what was she like?”
“Tall, dark, good-looking, not too reserved. She made other friends—the porter and the English Colonel. I saw the last speaking to her. I spoke to her myself.”
“What can have become of her?” said the Judge.
“Would M. le Juge like me to go in search of her? That is, if you have no more questions to ask, no wish to detain me further?”
The Detective Megapack Page 114