Inspector French's Greatest Case (30 page)

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.

He wondered how it came that Mackay had not at the time recognised the Vanes as a wanted couple. Probably, he thought, the man had been so much occupied with his own case that he had not read up the particulars in the
Bulletin
, which, after all, was a magazine intended more for the rank and file than for men on specialised duties. However, the fact remained that Mackay had missed his chance, though his habit of detailed observation had enabled him to some extent to redeem his error.

But if it was true that the Vanes had not left the ship at Liverpool, what became of the statements of the Captain and Purser? It was not likely that these men could be hoodwinked over such a matter. They were experts; moreover, they were dealing with a ship with whose every part they were familiar. To the Vanes, on the other hand, the ship would be strange, and they would be ignorant of its routine. Under these circumstances it was absolutely out of the question that the pair could have hidden themselves on board. No, if they were there, the Captain would have known of it. French could not devise any explanation of the matter. The whole thing seemed a contradiction.

He had, however, to settle his own plans. The kindly French police officer had helped him by 'phoning the local office of the Booth Line and finding out the itinerary of the
Enoch
. This was Saturday, and on the afternoon of the following day, Sunday, the steamer was expected to reach Leixoes, the port of Oporto. She would remain there that night and the next day, leaving Leixoes about 8 o'clock on the Monday evening. Next day about noon she was due in Lisbon, where she would remain for two days. After that her first call was Madeira.

French had intended to meet her in Lisbon, but it now occurred to him that he might be able to make Oporto in time to join her there. He had bought a railway guide in Havre, and he now proceeded to look up the trains. The route, he saw, was to Bordeaux by the Paris-Orleans line, then on by the Midi to the Spanish frontier at Irun, and so by Medina and Salamanca to Oporto. The first through train from Paris after their arrival at 4.35 p.m. was the 10.22 p.m. from the Gare Quai d'Orsay, and this reached Oporto at shortly after midday on the next day but one, Monday. Oporto to Lexioes was only half an hour's run, so he had six or seven hours' margin. Oporto, he decided, was his goal.

They were fortunate in securing sleeping berths between Paris and Bordeaux, and there was a restaurant car on the train to Irun. They waited an hour at the frontier station, and French blessed the intelligence of Manning, who had had their identification papers made available for Spain and Portugal as well as France.

French on his trip from Chamonix to Barcelona had been amazed by the illimitable extent of the earth, but his feelings of wonder on that occasion were as nothing compared to those he now experienced. The journey from Irun to Oporto was absolutely
endless
; at least he thought so as interminable mile succeeded interminable mile, while day turned into night and night more slowly turned back into day. It was cold, too, through the high tableland of Spain—bitterly cold, and the two men could not get the kind of meals they liked, nor could they sleep well in the somewhat jolting coaches. But all things come to an end, and at half-past one on the Monday, about an hour late, the train came finally to a stand in the Estacao Central of Oporto. There was plenty of time, and the travellers went straight to the Porto Hotel for a short rest before setting out to find the tramway to Leixoes.

French was immensely struck with the picturesque, old world city, nestling on the steep, hilly banks of the Douro, and he marvelled to feel quiver at every horse-hoof the great high level Dom Luez bridge, which throws its spidery steel arch in a single span of nearly 600 feet across the placid river flowing far beneath. Then after passing down the steeply-inclined streets to near the water's edge, he and Carter boarded the tram and set off seawards along a road skirting the right bank of the stream.

In spite of the business which had brought them so far, both men gazed with intense interest at the unwonted sights they passed, the semi-tropical vegetation, the long, narrow, four-wheeled carts with their teams of oxen, the mole constructed across some three-quarters of the mouth of the Douro to increase the scour through the remainder, then, passing a stretch of sandhills, they finally reached the houses of Leixoes, with lying below them the harbour contained within its two encircling stone piers, and, blessed sight, the
Enoch
lying at anchor therein.

They made a bargain with a dusky boatman for what seemed to French a fortune of reis, and ten minutes later they had ascended the ladder and were once more on the steamer's deck.

If Captain Davis experienced surprise on seeing French reappear at the door of his cabin, he gave no indication of his feelings.

“Good-afternoon, Inspector,” he greeted him quietly. “Come aboard again? You should have stayed with us, you know.” He smiled quizzically. “It would have been much less tiring than going all that way round by land, and for the matter of fact, a good deal cheaper. Found your criminals?”

“Well, I've not,” French answered slowly, “—yet. But I hope to soon. Captain, I've had a wire from the Yard that those people are on board after all.”

The Captain frowned.

“No doubt the Yard is a wonderfully efficient organisation,” he said gravely, “but when it comes to telling me who is or is not on board my ship—well, I think that is a trifle, shall we say, thick? How do they profess to know?”

“I'll tell you. I got a wire shortly after the ship left Havre on Saturday, and it said that one of the Liverpool detectives, Sergeant Mackay, was watching your ship before she sailed. He was looking out for a man also wanted for murder, not this Vane—a different person altogether. He saw the Vanes going on board, though, of course, he did not realise they also were wanted. But he saw them right enough, at least, he was able to convince the Yard as to their identity. Mackay waited until the ship sailed, and he states the Vanes did not go ashore. I know Mackay personally, and he is a most careful and accurate officer. I am satisfied that if he makes this statement it is true. Now, none of your people saw them go ashore, and with all due respect to you and your purser, the suggestion is that they're still on board. The wire ended by instructing me to follow up the ship either here or to Lisbon, and investigate further.”

“You've certainly followed us up all right, but having overtaken us I should like to ask, if it is not an indiscreet question, what you propose to do next?”

French saw that if he was to retain the help of Captain Davis he would have to be careful how he answered.

“There, Captain, I was going to ask for your kind help, though I feel I have troubled you more than enough already. I'll tell you what I was thinking over in the train. Suppose for argument's sake the Yard is right, and that these people really are on board. It is obvious from your search that they're not here in their own characters, therefore they must be posing as two other people. That, I take it, is what the people at the Yard had in mind also.”

“Well?”

“This is not such an unlikely supposition as it sounds. The woman is, or rather was, an actress, and we know she is a clever one. Not only was she well thought of when on the stage, but she has recently carried off successfully a far stiffer test than that. She crossed from New York to Southampton on the
Olympic
, and convinced the people on board that she was English, and then she went on to London and convinced the people there that she was an American. I have seen the people in each case—critical, competent people who know the world—and each lot ridiculed the idea that she was not what she seemed. If she could do that, she could surely manage another impersonation. A comparatively simple disguise would do, as there would be nothing to make you or the purser suspect.”

The Captain was listening with considerable interest, but it was evident that his ruffled feelings were not yet entirely smoothed down.

“That may be all very well,” he admitted, “but you have not taken into consideration the evidence of the bookings. 176 passengers booked from Liverpool, and in almost every case their tickets were taken and their staterooms reserved several days in advance. The exceptions in all cases were men. 176 passengers turned up, Mr. and Mrs. Vane among them. But there were only 174 passengers on board when we left Liverpool. You follow what I mean; that all the other passengers on board are accounted for?”

“I see that,” French admitted slowly, “and you may be right. It certainly doesn't seem easy to answer what you say. At the same time, in the face of the instructions I have had from the Yard, I daren't do other than go on and sift the thing further.”

“Naturally, but how?”

“I don't know. I don't see my way clear as yet. For one thing, I shall have to meet every woman on board, with the special object of trying to penetrate any disguise which may have been attempted. If that fails I may give up the search or I may try something else. I suppose you can take me on as far as Lisbon at all events?”

“With pleasure.” The Captain seemed to have recovered from his momentary irritation. “Let me know if there is anything I can do to help you. Though I confess I think you're on a wild-goose chase, I'll give you every facility I can.”

“Thank you, Captain. You will understand that whatever I may think myself, I am not my own master in the matter. The only thing I should like at present is a chat with the purser over the passenger list.”

“That, at all events, is easily arranged,” answered Captain Davis as he touched a bell.

The purser had not observed French's arrival, and professed amazement on finding him on board.

“I begin to wonder if the ship's not haunted,” he smiled as he shook hands. “Mr. and Mrs. Vane we leave behind at Liverpool, and you say they're aboard at Havre. You we leave behind at Havre—I saw you myself on the wharf—and here you are aboard at Leixoes! What distinguished stranger are we to expect to find on board at Lisbon?”

“I hope there'll be a clearance of four at Lisbon,” French rejoined. “Though it sounds impolite, nothing would please me better than to change to a homeward bounder in company with my Sergeant and Mr. and Mrs. Vane.”

“What? Do you still think they're on board?”

“The Inspector still thinks so,” the Captain intervened, “and he wants to talk to you about it. Better take him to your cabin and give him any help you can.”

“Right, sir. Will you come along, Mr. French?”

Mr. Jennings, in spite of his obvious competence, had a pleasant, leisurely manner which conveyed to the many who sought his counsel that though he might be busy enough at other times, he was not too hurried at that moment to give them his most careful and undivided attention. So he listened to French's story, and so he took out the passenger list, and set himself to discuss the personalities of those enumerated thereon.

“I'll deal with the women first,” French explained. “You say that there are sixty-seven on board, as against about twice as many men. Besides, I have more information about Mrs. Vane than her husband. Now, if you don't mind, let's get on with them.”

The purser ran his finger down the list.

“Miss Ackfield is the first,” he explained. “She is a lady of between fifty and sixty, I should say. You can easily see her, but in my opinion there is not the slightest chance that she could be otherwise than what she seems.”

French noted the particulars.

“Right,” he said. “Next, please.”

“The next is Miss Bond. She's also pretty well on in years, but she couldn't be your friend because she's at least four inches taller.”

“Very good.”

“Then there is Mrs. Brent. She is a young girl. Her husband is on board, and they are evidently newly married. She's too young.”

They worked on down the list, provisionally eliminating the unlikely. Mrs. Cox was too tall, Miss Duffield too short, Mrs. Eaglefield too stout, Miss Fenton too thin, and so on. In the end they had reduced the number to ten, of which French had to admit that not one seemed in the least promising.

There was indeed one couple who had at first appealed to him, a Mr. Pereira da Silva, and his daughter, Miss Maria da Silva, because they kept almost entirely to their cabins, mixing but little with the life of the ship. Mr. da Silva, a man of over seventy, Mr. Jennings thought, was an invalid, and had come on board with difficulty, leaning on a stick and his daughter's arm. He was practically confined to bed, and Miss da Silva was assiduous in her attention to him, reading to him and keeping him company when many another similarly placed daughter would have been on deck or in the saloon, amusing herself among the other passengers. The two had their meals together, and the lady, though friendly enough when she did go on deck or when occasionally she sat in the saloon, was but rarely seen. This was, thought French, a likely enough ruse for the fugitives to adopt, and his suspicions were strengthened by the fact that Miss da Silva's general appearance was not unlike that of Mrs. Vane. But Mr. Jennings soon demolished his house of cards. The da Silvas were obviously Brazilian. They, or rather the girl, for the old man had been too feeble even to deal with the business of the tickets, spoke fluent Portuguese, the Portuguese of a native, and her English was not only broken, but was spoken as a Portuguese alone speaks it. Besides, she looked like a Portuguese. They lived at Rio, so Mr. Jennings had gathered, and had visited England to see Mr. da Silva's brother, a London merchant. They had booked to Para, near where other relatives lived, and from where they would return to Rio. They had taken tickets and reserved their staterooms some time before the Vanes.