The manager could not recall the name, but he had a thorough search made of the records. This also drew blank. French then handed him the photograph of Vanderkemp which he had obtained in Amsterdam, asking if he had ever seen the original.
With that the luck turned. M. Marcel beamed. “But yes, monsieur,” he exclaimed, with a succession of nods, “your friend was here for several days. He left about a fortnight ago. M. Harrison from one of your great Midland towns, is it not? He told me which, but I have forgotten.”
“That’s the man,” cried French heartily, delighted beyond words at this new development. “I have been following him round. Might I see his entry in the register?”
Again the records were brought into requisition, and as he looked French felt wholly triumphant. On comparing the “J. Harrison, Huddersfield, England,” to which the manager pointed, with the samples of Vanderkemp’s handwriting which he had obtained from Mr. Schoofs, he saw that unquestionably they were written by the same hand. So Vanderkemp was his man! After this there could be no further doubt of his guilt.
For a moment he remained silent, considering what this discovery meant. It was now evident that Vanderkemp, under the alias Harrison, had arrived at the Beau-Sejour Hotel about midday on the second day after the crime, and after staying a week, had departed for an unknown destination. But the matter did not end there. With a sudden, theatrical gesture the manager indicated that he had more to say.
“You have recalled something on my mind, monsieur,” he announced. “That M. Harrison asked me to change notes for him. In fact, I remember the whole thing clearly. His bill came to between four and five hundred francs, and he paid with an English ten-pound note. With the exchange as it is at present, he should have had about 300 francs change. But I now remember he asked me at the same time to change a second ten-pound note. I did so, and gave him about 1000 francs. So it is possible, I do not say certain, but it is possible. …” He shrugged his shoulders and threw out his hands, as if to indicate that Fate and not he was responsible for the possibility, and looked inquiringly at his visitor.
Inspector French was exultant. This news seemed to him to complete his case. When in Amsterdam he had found cause to suspect Vanderkemp of the crime, and now here was corroborative evidence of the most convincing character. Rapidly he ran over in his mind the salient points of the case against the traveller.
Vanderkemp possessed all the special knowledge necessary to commit the crime. He knew of the collection of diamonds, and was familiar with the London office and the characters and habits of the workers there. As he was by no means well off, this knowledge would have constituted a very real temptation. So much on general grounds.
Then as to details. A forged letter calling the man to London, or some similar device, would be a necessary feature of the case. But this letter existed; moreover, Vanderkemp had access to the machine on which it had been typed. While telling Mr. Schoofs that he was crossing by a certain train, which arrived in town after the murder had been committed, he had in reality gone by an earlier service, which would have brought him there in time to carry out the crime. Such evidence, though circumstantial, was pretty strong. But when was added to it the facts that Vanderkemp had disappeared without explanation from his firm, had arrived in Chamonix on the second day after the murder, had registered under a false name and address, and most important of all, had paid out two of the notes stolen from Mr. Duke’s safe, the case became overwhelming. It was impossible not to believe in his guilt; in fact, seldom had the Inspector known so clear a case. When he had found and arrested Vanderkemp his work would be done.
But just in the flush of victory, his luck again turned. The man had left the Beau-Sejour a week previously, and the manager had no idea what direction he had taken. In vain French asked questions and made suggestions, hoping to say something which might recall the information to the other’s mind. But the manager readily gave his help in interviewing the whole of the staff who had in any way come in contact with the wanted man. And here, thanks again to his persistent thoroughness, he obtained just the hint that was needed.
He had worked through the whole staff without result, and he was about to give up, when it occurred to him that none of those to whom he had spoken had admitted having brought down Vanderkemp’s luggage from his room on the day of his departure. French then asked directly who had done this, and further inquiries revealed the fact that in the absence of the usual man an under porter, usually employed about the kitchen, had been called upon. This man stated he had noticed the label on Vanderkemp’s suitcase. It was to a hotel in Barcelona. He could not recall the name of the hotel, but he was sure of the city.
When French had thanked the manager, distributed baksheesh among the staff, and with the help of the head porter worked out his journey from Chamonix to Barcelona, he felt his work in Savoy was done. He went exultantly to bed, and next morning left by an early train on his way to Spain.
CHAPTER VI
THE HOTEL IN
BARCELONA
To a comparative stay-at-home like Inspector French, who considered a run to Plymouth or Newcastle a long journey, the trailing of Jan Vanderkemp across southwest France opened up a conception of the size of the globe whereon he moved and had his being, which left him slightly awestruck. The journey from Savoy to Spain seemed endless, the distances incredible, the expanse of country between himself and home illimitable. Hour after hour he sat in the train, while elms and oaks gave place to cypresses and olives, apples to vines, and corn to maize, and it was not until daylight had gone on the evening of the second day that the train rolled into the Estacion de Francia in Barcelona.
The porter at the Beau-Sejour at Chamonix had written down the names of two or three hotels at which he thought English would be spoken, and passing out of the station, French showed the paper to a taxi-driver. The man at first ogled it distrustfully, then with a smile of comprehension he emitted a rapid flood of some unknown language, opened the taxi-door, bowed his fare in, and rapidly cranking his engine, set off into the night. French was conscious of being whirled down a great avenue wider than any he had yet seen, brilliantly lighted, and with rows of palms down the centre; they turned through a vast square with what looked like a commemorative column in the middle, then up a slightly narrower, tree-lined boulevard, where presently the vehicle swung into the curb and French found himself at his destination—the Hôtel d’Orient.
To his extreme relief, the head porter spoke English. He got him to settle with the taxi-man, and soon he began to forget the fatigues of the journey with the help of a luxurious bath and dinner.
He decided that he had done enough for one day, and presently, soothed by a cigar, he went out into the great street in front of the hotel, with its rows of trees and brilliant arc lamps. He did not know then that this gently-sloping boulevard was one of the famous streets of the world—the Rambla, known as is Piccadilly in London, the Champs Elysées in Paris, or Fifth Avenue in New York. For an hour he roamed, then, tired out, he returned to the Orient, and a few minutes later was sunk in dreamless slumber.
Early next morning he was seated with the manager, who also spoke English. But neither the manager nor any of his staff could help him, and French recognised that so far as the Orient was concerned he had drawn blank. He therefore set to work on the other hotels, taking the larger first, the Colon, in the Plaza de Cataluna, the Cuatro Naciones, and such like. Then he went on to the smaller establishments, and at the fourth he paused suddenly, thrilled by an unexpected sight.
The hotel was in a side street off the Paseo de Colon, the great boulevard through which he had been driven on the previous evening. The entrance door led into a kind of lounge in which were seated half a dozen people, evidently waiting for déjeuner. With one exception these were obviously Spaniards, but that exception, French felt he could swear, was the original of the photograph.
In spite of such a meeting being what he was hoping for, the Inspector was taken aback. But his
hesitation was momentary. Passing immediately on to the little office at the back of the lounge, he said in English:
“Can I have lunch, please? Will it soon be ready?”
A dark-eyed, dark-haired girl came forward, smiling but shaking her head regretfully, and murmuring what was evidently that she couldn’t understand.
“You don’t speak English, miss?” the detective went on, speaking loudly and very clearly. “I want to know can I have lunch, and if it will soon be ready?”
As the girl still shook her head, French turned back into the lounge.
“Excuse me,” he addressed the company generally, “but might I ask if any of you gentlemen speak English? I can’t make this young lady understand.”
The little ruse succeeded. The man resembling Vanderkemp rose.
“I speak English,” he answered. “What is it you want?”
“Lunch,” French returned, “and to know if it will soon be ready.”
“I can answer that for you,” the other declared, after he had explained the situation to the girl. “Lunch will be ready in exactly five minutes, and visitors are usually welcome.”
“Thank you,” French spoke in a leisurely, conversational way, “I am staying at the Orient, where one or two of them speak English, but business brought me to this part of the town, and I did not want to go all that way back to lunch. A confounded nuisance this language business! It makes you feel pretty helpless when you want to talk to people.”
“That’s true,” the stranger admitted. “In most of the larger hotels they speak French and English, but at practically none of the smaller. In this one, for example, one waiter has a few words of French only. No English or Italian or German. Some of the staff don’t even speak Spanish.”
French was interested in spite of the larger question which was occupying his mind.
“Not Spanish?” he repeated. “How do you mean? What do they speak?”
“Catalan. This is Catalonia, you know, and both the race and the language is different from the rest of Spain. They are more go-ahead and enterprising than the people farther south.”
“That sounds a bit like Ireland,” French remarked.
“I’ve been both in Belfast and in the south, and the same thing seems to hold good. Though Dublin is a fine city, and no mistake.”
They continued discussing peoples and languages and the northerly concentration of energy to be found in most countries, until the hands of the clock pointed to noon and lunch time. Then French caught what he had been angling for. The stranger asked to share his table.
The Inspector continued to make himself agreeable, and after they had finished invited the other to have coffee and a cigar with him in a deserted corner of the lounge. Then, thinking his companion was by this time off his guard, he introduced a new subject after a lull in the conversation.
“It’s strange the different businesses people are engaged on,” he remarked ruminatively, as he poured himself out a second cup of coffee. “Now, I wouldn’t mind betting a ten-pound note you wouldn’t guess what I am, and what my business here is.”
The other laughed.
“I confess I was wondering,” he admitted. “I am afraid I should lose my money. I won’t guess.”
“Well, I’ll tell you, though our business is not a thing we speak of as a rule. I am a detective inspector from Scotland Yard.”
As he spoke French watched the other’s face. If this were the man of whom he was in search, he could swear he would make him exhibit some emotion.
But so far he did not succeed. His new acquaintance merely laughed again.
“Then I should have lost. I admit I never thought of that.”
French continued to observe, and he went on with more seriousness in his manner.
“Yes, and I’m on rather important business, too. Man wanted for murder and robbery in the City. A bad affair enough. He murdered the confidential clerk of a diamond merchant in Hatton Garden and rifled the safe and got off with I don’t know how many thousand pounds’ worth of stuff.”
At the commencement of French’s reply the stranger had listened with but little more than a conventional interest, but at the mention of a diamond merchant in Hatton Garden he figuratively sat up and began to take notice.
“Hatton Garden?” he repeated. “That’s an extraordinary coincidence. Why, I belong to a firm of diamond merchants in Hatton Garden. I know them all. Who was the man?”
Inspector French was puzzled. Either Vanderkemp—for there could no longer be any doubt of his identity—was innocent, or he was an almost incredibly good actor. Anxious to observe the man further, he fenced a little in his reply.
“Is it possible you haven’t heard?” he asked in apparent surprise. “How long is it since you have heard from home?”
“Haven’t had a line of any kind since I left, and that’s nearly three weeks ago; on the night of the 25th of last month, to be exact.”
“The 25th! Well, that’s a coincidence, too. That’s the very night poor old Mr. Gething was killed.”
Vanderkemp stiffened suddenly and his hands closed on the arms of his chair.
“What?” he cried. “Not Charles Gething of Messrs. Duke & Peabody?”
French, now keenly observing him without any attempt at concealment, nodded.
“That’s the man. You knew him then?”
“Of course I knew him. Why, it’s my own firm. Good God, to think of poor old Gething! And you say the safe was rifled? You don’t tell me Mr. Duke’s collection of stones is gone?”
“All of it, and money as well. The murderer made a clean sweep.”
Vanderkemp whistled and then swore.
“Tell me about it.”
French was more than ever puzzled. The traveller’s manner, his evident emotion, his questions—all seemed those of an innocent man. He felt doubts arising in his mind; possibly there might be an explanation. … He did not at once reply, as he turned over in his mind how he could best surprise the other into an admission of the truth.
But Vanderkemp also was evidently thinking, and suddenly an expression of deeper concern showed on his face. He made as if to speak, then hesitated, and a wary look appeared in his eyes. He cleared his throat, then in a changed voice asked: “At what time did it happen?”
French leaned forward swiftly and fixed his eyes on his companion as he said in a low, tense tone: “That’s what I want to ask you, Mr. Vanderkemp.”
The man started. He did not answer, and the wary look in his eyes changed into definite anxiety, which deepened as the moments passed. At last he spoke.
“It had just dawned on me from what you said, Inspector, that our meeting here was not such a coincidence as I at first imagined. I see that you suspect me of the crime. What has happened I don’t know, what you have against me I don’t know either, but I can tell you at once that I am not only absolutely innocent, but until you told me just now I was ignorant that a crime had been committed. I will tell you my whole story and answer any questions you may like to ask, whether you believe me or not.”
French nodded. Certainly, if guilty, this man was a consummate actor. There was at least the chance that he might be innocent, and he answered accordingly.
“I don’t accuse you of anything, Mr. Vanderkemp. But there are certain suspicious circumstances which require an explanation. You may be able to account for all of them—I hope you will. At the same time it is fair to warn you that, failing an explanation, your arrest is not impossible, and in that case anything that you may say now may be used against you in evidence.”
Vanderkemp was by this time extremely ill at ease. His face had paled and had already taken on a somewhat drawn and haggard expression. For a while he remained silent, buried in thought, then with a sudden gesture as of throwing further caution to the winds, he began to speak.
“I’ll tell you what I know, Inspector,” he said earnestly. “Whether, if you are going to arrest me, I am wise or foolish, I don’t know. But I can at least a
ssure you that it is the literal truth.”
He looked at the Inspector, who nodded approval.
“Of course I can’t advise you, Mr. Vanderkemp,” he remarked, “but all the same I believe you are doing the wise thing.”
“I am in a difficulty,” Vanderkemp went on, “as I don’t know how much of the circumstances you are familiar with. It would therefore be better if you would ask me questions.”
“I shall do so, but first I should like your own statement. I am aware of your name and position in the firm. Also that Mr. Schoofs received a letter on the 21st of last month, asking him to send you to London to undertake an important commission in Sweden. Also that you left your lodgings in the Kinkerstraat at 8.30 on the evening of the 24th. I have since learned certain other facts as to your subsequent movements, which I need not mention at the moment. What I want you now to do is to let me have a detailed account of your experiences from the moment of your leaving your lodgings until the present time.”
“I will do so.” Vanderkemp spoke eagerly, as if now anxious to get through with the matter. “But there is one thing which comes earlier in point of time which I must mention. You have probably heard of it from Mr. Duke, but I shall tell you anyway. I mean about my further instructions as to my London visit—the private instructions. You have seen a copy of them?”
French, always cautious, was not giving away information. He wondered to what the other was referring, but merely said: “Assume I have not, Mr. Vanderkemp. It is obvious that I must check your statement by the information in my possession.”
“Well, then, though you probably know it already, I may tell you I received additional instructions about my visit. Mr. Duke wrote me a private letter, addressed to my lodgings, in which he told me—but I have it here, and you can see it for yourself.”
He took an envelope from his pocket-book and passed it across. It contained a note almost identical in appearance with the forged one which Mr. Schoofs had received. It was typewritten on a sheet of the firm’s cheaper memorandum paper, with the same kind of type and the same coloured ribbon. Examination with the lens showed the same defects in the “n” and the “g,” the signature was obviously forged, and the back of the sheet was marked from a heavy touch. Evidently both letters had been written by the same person, and on the Hatton Garden machine. The note read:
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