She gave him the telegram quite obediently, with a little sigh of relief, glad to realize now, for the first time after many years, that there was some one to give her orders and take the burden of trouble off her shoulders.
He read it, but did not understand it in the least. It ran: “I must see you immediately, and beg you will come. You will find Hortense here. She is giving trouble. You only can deal with her. Do not delay. Come at once, or we must go to you.—Ripaldi, Hôtel Ivoire, Rue Bellechasse.”
“What does this mean? Who sends it? Who is Ripaldi?” asked Sir Charles, rather brusquely.
“He—he—oh, Charles, I shall have to go. Anything would be better than his coming here.”
“Ripaldi? Haven’t I heard the name? He was one of those in the sleeping-car, I think? The Chief of the Detective Police called it out once or twice. Am I not right? Please tell me—am I not right?”
“Yes, yes; this man was there with the rest of us. A dark man, who sat near the door—”
“Ah, to be sure. But what—what in Heaven’s name has he to do with you? How does he dare to send you such an impudent message as this? Surely, Sabine, you will tell me? You will admit that I have a right to ask?”
“Yes, of course. I will tell you, Charles, everything; but not here—not now. It must be on the way. I have been very wrong, very foolish—but oh, come, come, do let us be going. I am so afraid he might—”
“Then I may go with you? You do not object to that?”
“I much prefer it—much. Do let us make haste!”
She snatched up her sealskin jacket, and held it to him prettily, that he might help her into it, which he did neatly and cleverly, smoothing her great puffed-out sleeves under each shoulder of the coat, still talking eagerly and taking no toll for his trouble as she stood patiently, passively before him.
“And this Hortense? It is your maid, is it not—the woman who had taken herself off? How comes it that she is with that Italian fellow? Upon my soul, I don’t understand—not a little bit.”
“I cannot explain that, either. It is most strange, most incomprehensible, but we shall soon know. Please, Charles, please do not get impatient.”
They passed together down into the hotel courtyard and across it, under the archway which led past the clerk’s desk into the street.
On seeing them, he came out hastily and placed himself in front, quite plainly barring their egress.
“Oh, madame, one moment,” he said in a tone that was by no means conciliatory. “The manager wants to speak to you; he told me to tell you, and stop you if you went out.”
“The manager can speak to madame when she returns,” interposed the General angrily, answering for the Countess.
“I have had my orders, and I cannot allow her—”
“Stand aside, you scoundrel!” cried the General, blazing up; “or upon my soul I shall give you such a lesson you will be sorry you were ever born.”
At this moment the manager himself appeared in reinforcement, and the clerk turned to him for protection and support.
“I was merely giving madame your message, M. Auguste, when this gentleman interposed, threatened me, maltreated me—”
“Oh, surely not; it is some mistake;” the manager spoke most suavely. “But certainly I did wish to speak to madame. I wished to ask her whether she was satisfied with her apartment. I find that the rooms she has generally occupied have fallen vacant, in the nick of time. Perhaps madame would like to look at them, and move?”
“Thank you, M. Auguste, you are very good; but at another time. I am very much pressed just now. When I return in an hour or two, not now.”
The manager was profuse in his apologies, and made no further difficulty.
“Oh, as you please, madame. Perfectly. By and by, later, when you choose.”
The fact was, the desired result had been obtained. For now, on the far side from where he had been watching, Galipaud appeared, no doubt in reply to some secret signal, and the detective with a short nod in acknowledgment had evidently removed his embargo.
A cab was called, and Sir Charles, having put the Countess in, was turning to give the driver his instructions, when a fresh complication arose.
Some one coming round the corner had caught a glimpse of the lady disappearing into the fiacre, and cried out from afar.
“Stay! Stop! I want to speak to that lady; detain her.” It was the sharp voice of little M. Floçon, whom most of those present, certainly the Countess and Sir Charles, immediately recognized.
“No, no, no—don’t let them keep me—I cannot wait now,” she whispered in earnest, urgent appeal. It was not lost on her loyal and devoted friend.
“Go on!” he shouted to the cabman, with all the peremptory insistence of one trained to give words of command. “Forward! As fast as you can drive. I’ll pay you double fare. Tell him where to go, Sabine. I’ll follow—in less than no time.”
The fiacre rattled off at top speed, and the General turned to confront M. Floçon.
The little detective was white to the lips with rage and disappointment; but he also was a man of promptitude, and before falling foul of this pestilent Englishman, who had again marred his plans, he shouted to Galipaud—
“Quick! After them! Follow her wherever she goes. Take this,”—he thrust a paper into his subordinate’s hand. “It is a warrant for her arrest. Seize her wherever you find her, and bring her to the Quai l’Horloge,” the euphemistic title of the headquarters of the French police.
The pursuit was started at once, and then the Chief turned upon Sir Charles. “Now it is between us,” he said, fiercely. “You must account to me for what you have done.”
“Must I?” answered the General, mockingly and with a little laugh. “It is perfectly easy. Madame was in a hurry, so I helped her to get away. That was all.”
“You have traversed and opposed the action of the law. You have impeded me, the Chief of the Detective Service, in the execution of my duty. It is not the first time, but now you must answer for it.”
“Dear me!” said the General in the same flippant, irritating tone.
“You will have to accompany me now to the Prefecture.”
“And if it does not suit me to go?”
“I will have you carried there, bound, tied hand and foot, by the police, like any common rapscallion taken in the act who resists the authority of an officer.”
“Oho, you talk very big, sir. Perhaps you will be so obliging as to tell me what I have done.”
“You have connived at the escape of a criminal from justice—”
“That lady? Psha!”
“She is charged with a heinous crime—that in which you yourself were implicated—the murder of that man on the train.”
“Bah! You must be a stupid goose, to hint at such a thing! A lady of birth, breeding, the highest respectability—impossible!”
“All that has not prevented her from allying herself with base, common wretches. I do not say she struck the blow, but I believe she inspired, concerted, approved it, leaving her confederates to do the actual deed.”
“Confederates?”
“The man Ripaldi, your Italian fellow traveller; her maid, Hortense Petitpré, who was missing this morning.”
The General was fairly staggered at this unexpected blow. Half an hour ago he would have scouted the very thought, indignantly repelled the spoken words that even hinted a suspicion of Sabine Castagneto. But that telegram, signed Ripaldi, the introduction of the maid’s name, and the suggestion that she was troublesome, the threat that if the Countess did not go, they would come to her, and her marked uneasiness thereat—all this implied plainly the existence of collusion, of some secret relations, some secret understanding between her and the others.
He could not entirely conceal the trouble that now overcame him; it certainly did not escape so shrewd an observer as M. Floçon, who promptly tried to turn it to good account.
“Come, M. le Général,” he said, with much assum
ed bonhomie. “I can see how it is with you, and you have my sincere sympathy. We are all of us liable to be carried away, and there is much excuse for you in this. But now—believe me, I am justified in saying it—now I tell you that our case is strong against her, that it is not mere speculation, but supported by facts. Now surely you will come over to our side?”
“In what way?”
“Tell us frankly all you know—where that lady has gone, help us to lay our hands on her.”
“Your own people will do that. I heard you order that man to follow her.”
“Probably; still I would rather have the information from you. It would satisfy me of your good-will. I need not then proceed to extremities—”
“I certainly shall not give it you,” said the General, hotly. “Anything I know about or have heard from the Contessa Castagneto is sacred; besides, I still believe in her—thoroughly. Nothing you have said can shake me.”
“Then I must ask you to accompany me to the Prefecture. You will come, I trust, on my invitation.” The Chief spoke quietly, but with considerable dignity, and he laid a slight stress upon the last word.
“Meaning that if I do not, you will have resort to something stronger?”
“That will be quite unnecessary, I am sure—at least I hope so. Still—”
“I will go where you like, only I will tell you nothing more, not a single word; and before I start, I must let my friends at the Embassy know where to find me.”
“Oh, with all my heart,” said the little detective, shrugging his shoulders. “We will call there on our way, and you can tell the porter. They will know where to find us.”
CHAPTER XVII
Sir Charles Collingham and his escort, M. Floçon, entered a cab together and were driven first to the Faubourg St. Honoré. The General tried hard to maintain his nonchalance, but he was yet a little crestfallen at the turn things had taken, and M. Floçon, who, on the other hand, was elated and triumphant, saw it. But no words passed between them until they arrived at the portals of the British Embassy, and the General handed out his card to the magnificent porter who received them.
“Kindly let Colonel Papillon have that without delay.” The General had written a few words: “I have got into fresh trouble. Come on to me at the Police Prefecture if you can spare the time.”
“The Colonel is now in the Chancery: will not monsieur wait?” asked the porter, with superb civility.
But the detective would not suffer this, and interposed, answering abruptly for Sir Charles:
“No. It is impossible. We are going to the Quai l’Horloge. It is an urgent matter.”
The porter knew what the Quai l’Horloge meant, and he guessed intuitively who was speaking. Every Frenchman can recognize a police officer, and has, as a rule, no great opinion of him.
“Very well!” now said the porter, curtly, as he banged the wicket-gate on the retreating cab, and he did not hurry himself in giving the card to Colonel Papillon.
“Does this mean that I am a prisoner?” asked Sir Charles, his gorge rising, as it did easily.
“It means, monsieur, that you are in the hands of justice until your recent conduct has been fully explained,” said the detective, with the air of a despot.
“But I protest—”
“I wish to hear no further observations, monsieur. You may reserve them till you can give them to the right person.”
The General’s temper was sorely ruffled. He did not like it at all; yet what could he do? Prudence gained the day, and after a struggle he decided to submit, lest worse might befall him.
There was, in truth, worse to be encountered. It was very irksome to be in the power of this now domineering little man on his own ground, and eager to show his power. It was with a very bad grace that Sir Charles obeyed the curt orders he received, to leave the cab, to enter at a side door of the Prefecture, to follow this pompous conductor along the long vaulted passages of this rambling building, up many flights of stone stairs, to halt obediently at his command when at length they reached a closed door on an upper story.
“It is here!” said M. Floçon, as he turned the handle unceremoniously without knocking. “Enter.”
A man was seated at a small desk in the centre of a big bare room, who rose at once at the sight of M. Floçon, and bowed deferentially without speaking.
“Baume,” said the Chief, shortly, “I wish to leave this gentleman with you. Make him at home,”—the words were spoken in manifest irony—“and when I call you, bring him at once to my cabinet. You, monsieur, you will oblige me by staying here.”
Sir Charles nodded carelessly, took the first chair that offered, and sat down by the fire.
He was to all intents and purposes in custody, and he examined his gaoler at first wrathfully, then curiously, struck with his rather strange figure and appearance. Baume, as the Chief had called him, was a short, thick-set man with a great shock head sunk in low between a pair of enormous shoulders, betokening great physical strength; he stood on very thin but greatly twisted bow legs, and the quaintness of his figure was emphasized by the short black blouse or smock-frock he wore over his other clothes like a French artisan.
He was a man of few words, and those not the most polite in tone, for when the General began with a banal remark about the weather, M. Baume replied, shortly:
“I wish to have no talk;” and when Sir Charles pulled out his cigarette-case, as he did almost automatically from time to time when in any situation of annoyance or perplexity, Baume raised his hand warningly and grunted:
“Not allowed.”
“Then I’ll be hanged if I don’t smoke in spite of every man jack of you!” cried the General, hotly, rising from his seat and speaking unconsciously in English.
“What’s that?” asked Baume, gruffly. He was one of the detective staff, and was only doing his duty according to his lights, and he said so with such an injured air that the General was pacified, laughed, and relapsed into silence without lighting his cigarette.
The time ran on, from minutes into nearly an hour, a very trying wait for Sir Charles. There is always something irritating in doing antechamber work, in kicking one’s heels in the waiting-room of any functionary or official, high or low, and the General found it hard to possess himself in patience, when he thought he was being thus ignominiously treated by a man like M. Floçon. All the time, too, he was worrying himself about the Countess, wondering first how she had fared; next, where she was just then; last of all, and longest, whether it was possible for her to be mixed up in anything compromising or criminal.
Suddenly an electric bell struck in the room. There was a table telephone at Baume’s elbow; he took up the handle, put the tube to his mouth and ear, got his message answered, and then, rising, said abruptly to Sir Charles:
“Come.”
When the General was at last ushered into the presence of the Chief of the Detective Police, he found to his satisfaction that Colonel Papillon was also there, and at M. Floçon’s side sat the instructing judge, M. Beaumont le Hardi, who, after waiting politely until the two Englishmen had exchanged greetings, was the first to speak, and in apology.
“You will, I trust, pardon us, M. le Général, for having detained you here and so long. But there were, as we thought, good and sufficient reasons. If those have now lost some of their cogency, we still stand by our action as having been justifiable in the execution of our duty. We are now willing to let you go free, because—because—”
“We have caught the person, the lady you helped to escape,” blurted out the detective, unable to resist making the point.
“The Countess? Is she here, in custody? Never!”
“Undoubtedly she is in custody, and in very close custody too,” went on M. Floçon, gleefully. “Au secret, if you know what that means—in a cell separate and apart, where no one is permitted to see or speak to her.”
“Surely not that? Jack—Papillon—this must not be. I beg of you, implore, insist, that you will get his l
ordship to interpose.”
“But, sir, how can I? You must not ask impossibilities. The Contessa Castagneto is really an Italian subject now.”
“She is English by birth, and whether or no, she is a woman, a high-bred lady; and it is abominable, unheard-of, to subject her to such monstrous treatment,” said the General.
“But these gentlemen declare that they are fully warranted, that she has put herself in the wrong—greatly, culpably in the wrong.”
“I don’t believe it!” cried the General, indignantly. “Not from these chaps, a pack of idiots, always on the wrong tack! I don’t believe a word, not if they swear.”
“But they have documentary evidence—papers of the most damaging kind against her.”
“Where? How?”
“He—M. le Juge—has been showing me a note-book;” and the General’s eyes, following Jack Papillon’s, were directed to a small carnet, or memorandum-book, which the Judge, interpreting the glance, was tapping significantly with his finger.
Then the Judge said blandly, “It is easy to perceive that you protest, M. le Général, against that lady’s arrest. Is it so? Well, we are not called upon to justify it to you, not in the very least. But we are dealing with a brave man, a gentleman, an officer of high rank and consideration, and you shall know things that we are not bound to tell, to you or to any one.”
“First,” he continued, holding up the note-book, “do you know what this is? Have you ever seen it before?”
“I am dimly conscious of the fact, and yet I cannot say when or where.”
“It is the property of one of your fellow travellers—an Italian called Ripaldi.”
“Ripaldi?” said the General, remembering with some uneasiness that he had seen the name at the bottom of the Countess’s telegram. “Ah! now I understand.”
“You had heard of it, then? In what connection?” asked the Judge, a little carelessly, but it was a suddenly planned pitfall.
“I now understand,” replied the General, perfectly on his guard, “why the note-book was familiar to me. I had seen it in that man’s hands in the waiting-room. He was writing in it.”
The Detective Megapack Page 119