Chapter XVII.On the Flood TideFrench was astir betimes next morning, and over his coffee and rolls and honey he laid his plans for the day. As to the next step of his investigation he had no doubt. He must begin by finding out what vessels had left the city after 2:00p.m.on the previous Thursday. That done, he could go into the question of the passengers each carried, in the hope of learning that Dangle was among them.At the outset he was faced by the handicap of being a stranger in a strange land. If Antwerp had been an English port he would have known just where to get his information, but here he was unfamiliar with the ropes. He did not know if all sailings were published in any paper or available to the public at any office; moreover, his ignorance of both French and Flemish precluded his mixing with clerks or dock loafers from whom he might pick up information. Of course there were the Belgian police, but he did not wish to apply to them if he could carry out his job by himself.However, this part of his problem proved easier of solution than he had expected. Inquiries at the post office revealed the fact that there was a shipping agency in the Rue des Tanneurs, and soon he had reached the place, found a clerk who spoke English, and put his question.When French wished to be suave, as he usually did, he could, so to speak, have wheedled his best bone from a bulldog. Now, explaining in a friendly and confidential manner who he was and why he wanted the information, he begged the other’s good offices. The clerk, flattered at being thus courteously approached, showed a willingness to assist, with the result that in ten minutes French had the particulars he needed.He turned into a café, and calling for a bock, sat down to consider what he had learned. And of this the very first fact filled him with delight, as it seemed to fit in with the theory he had evolved.On Thursday it had been high water at 2:30p.m.By 2:30 the dock gates had been opened, and it appeared that, taking advantage of this, several steamers had left shortly after that hour.This was distinctly encouraging, and French turned to the list of ships with a growing hope that the end of his investigation might be coming into sight. In all, eleven steamers had left the port on the day in question, between the hours of 2:00 and 6:00p.m., the period he had included in his inquiry.There was first of all a Canadian Pacific liner, which had sailed from the quays at 3:00p.m., and at 3:30 a small passenger boat had left for Oslo and Bergen. The remaining boats were tramps. There were four coasters, two for Newcastle, one for Goole, and one for Belfast, a 6,000 tonner for Singapore and the Dutch Islands, another slightly smaller ship for Genoa and Spezia, and another for Boston, U.S.A. Then there was a big five-masted sailing ship, bound with a general cargo for Buenos Aires and the River Platte, and finally there was a small freighter in ballast for Casablanca.Of these eleven ships, the windjammer at once attracted French’s attention. Here was a vessel on which, if you took a passage, you might easily require three dozen tins of peaches before you reached your journey’s end. He determined to begin with this, taking the other ships in order according to the position of their offices. Fortunately in each case the clerk had given him the name of the owners or agents.His first call, therefore, was at an old-fashioned office in a small street close to the Steen Museum. There he saw M. Leblanc, the owner of the windjammer, and explained his business. But M. Leblanc could not help him. The old gentleman had never heard of Dangle nor had any one resembling his visitor’s photograph called or done any business with his firm. Moreover, no passengers had shipped on the windjammer, and the crew that had sailed was unchanged since the previous voyage.This was not encouraging, and French went on to the next item on his program, the headquarters of the small freighter which had sailed in ballast for Casablanca. She was owned by Messrs. Merkel & Lowenthal, whose office was farther down the Rue des Tanneurs, and five minutes later he had pushed open the door and was inquiring for the principal.This was a more modern establishment than that of M. Leblanc. Though small, the office ran to plate glass windows, teak furniture, polished brass fittings, and encaustic tiles, while the two typists he could envisage through the small inquiry window seemed unduly gorgeous as to raiment and pert as to demeanor.He was kept waiting for some minutes, then told that M. Merkel, the head of the business, was away, but that M. Lowenthal, the junior partner, would see him.His first glance told French that M. Lowenthal was a man to be watched. Seldom had he seen so many of the tell-tale signs of roguery concentrated in the features of one person. The junior partner had a mean, sly look, close-set, shifty eyes which would not meet French’s, and a large mouth with loose, fleshy lips. His manner was in accord with his appearance, now blustering, now almost fulsomely ingratiating. French took an instant dislike to him, and though he remained courteous as ever, he determined not to lay his cards on the table.“My name,” he began, “as you will have seen from my card, is French, and I carry out the business of a general agent in London. I am trying to obtain an interview with a friend, who has been staying here, off and on, for some time. I came on here from Brussels in the hope of seeing him, but he had just left. I was told that he had sailed with your ship, theL’Escaut, on Thursday afternoon, and if so I called to ask at which port I should be likely to get in touch with him. His name is Dangle.”While French spoke he watched the other narrowly, on his favorite theory that the involuntary replies to unexpected remarks—starts, changes of expression, sudden pallors—were more valuable than spoken answers.But M. Lowenthal betrayed no emotion other than a mild surprise.“That iss a very egstraordinary statement, sir,” he said in heavy guttural tones. “I do not really know who could haf given you such misleading information. Your friend’s name is quite unknown to me, and in any case we do not take passengers on our ships.”This seemed an entirely reasonable and proper reply, and yet to French’s highly developed instincts it did not ring true. However, he could do nothing more, and after a little further conversation containing not a few veiled inquiries, all of which, he noted, were skillfully parried by the other, he apologized for his mistake and withdrew.Though he was dissatisfied with the interview, he could only continue his program. He recognized that the secret might be located in Canada or the States, and that Dangle might have booked on the C.P.R. liner. Or he might have gone to Norway—indeed, for the matter of that, he might have signed on on any of the ships for any part of the world.But after a tedious morning of calls and interviews, French had to confess defeat. He could get no farther. At none of the offices at which he applied had he obtained the slightest helpful hint. It began to look as if he had been mistaken as to Dangle’s sea expedition, and if so, as he reminded himself with exasperation, he had no alternative theory to follow up.He strolled slowly along the pleasant, sunlit streets, as he reviewed his morning’s work. He was satisfied with all his interviews but the one. Everywhere save in M. Lowenthal’s office he felt he had been told the truth. But instinctively he distrusted the junior partner. That the man had lied to him he had no reason to suspect, but he had no doubt that he would do so if it suited his book.French felt that it was unsatisfactory to leave the matter in this state, and he presently thought of a simple subterfuge whereby it might be cleared up. It was almost the lunch hour, a suitable time for putting his project into operation. He hurried back to the Rue des Tanneurs, and turning into a café nearly opposite Messrs. Merkel & Lowenthal’s premises, ordered a bock and selected a seat from which he could observe the office door.He was only just in time. He had not taken his place five minutes when he saw M. Lowenthal emerge and walk off towards the center of the town. Three men clerks and the two rapid-looking typists followed, and lastly there appeared the person for whom he was waiting—the sharp-looking office boy who had attended to him earlier in the day.The boy turned off in the opposite direction to his principal—towards a quarter inhabited by laborers and artisans, and French, getting up from his table, slipped quietly out of the café and followed him.The chase continued for some ten minutes, when the quarry disappeared into a small house in a back street. French strolled up and down until some half an hour later the young fellow reappeared. As he approached French allowed a look of recognition and slight surprise to appear on his features.“Ah,” he said, pausing with a friendly smile, “you are the clerk who attended to me this morning in Messrs. Merkel & Lowenthal’s office, are you not? A piece of luck meeting you! I wonder if you could give me a piece of information? I forgot to ask it of M. Lowenthal this morning, and as I am in a hurry, it would be worth five francs to me not to have to go back to your office.”The youth’s eyes had brightened at the suggestion of financial dealings, and French felt he would learn all the other could tell him. He therefore continued without waiting for a reply.“The thing is this: I am joining my friend, M. Dangle, aboard theL’Escautat the first opportunity. It was arranged between us that one of us should take with him a couple of dozen of champagne. I want to know whether he took the stuff, or whether I am to. Can you help me at all?”The clerk’s English, though fairly good, was not quite equal to such a strain, and French had to repeat himself less idiomatically. But the boy grasped his meaning at last, and then at once dashed his hopes by saying he had never heard of any M. Dangle.“There he is,” French went on, producing his photograph. “You must have seen him scores of times.”And then French got the reward of his pertinacity. A look of recognition passed over the clerk’s features, and he made a gesture of comprehension.“Mais oui, m’sieur; yes, sir,” he answered quickly, “but that is not M. Danggalle. I know him: it is M. Charles.”“That’s right,” French returned, trying to keep the triumph out of his voice. “His name is Dangle Charles. I know him as M. Dangle, because he is one of four brothers at our works. But of course he would give his name here as M. Charles. But now, can you tell me anything about the champagne?”The clerk shook his head. He had not known upon what business M. Charles had called at the office.“Oh, well, it can’t be helped,” French declared. “I thought that perhaps when he was in with you last Wednesday you might have heard something about it. You don’t know what luggage he took aboard theL’Escaut?”The clerk had not been aware that M. Charles had embarked on the freighter, still less did he know of what his luggage had consisted. But as French talked on in his pleasant way, the following facts became apparent; first, that Dangle for some weeks past had been an occasional visitor at the shipping office; second, that on the previous Wednesday he had been closeted with the partners for the greater part of the day; third, that theL’Escauthad evidently sailed on an expedition of considerable importance and length, for a vast deal of stores had gone aboard her, about which both partners had shown very keen anxiety; fourthly, that not only had M. Merkel, the senior partner, himself sailed on her, but it was likely that he intended to be away some time as M. Lowenthal had moved into his room, and lastly, that theL’Escauthad come up from the firm’s yard during the Wednesday night and had anchored in the river off the Steen until she left about 3:00p.m.on the Thursday.These admissions made it abundantly clear that French was once more on the right track, and he handed over his five francs with the feeling that he had made the cheapest bargain of his life.He had no doubt that Dangle had sailed with the senior partner on the tramp, but he felt he must make sure, and he walked slowly back towards the quays, turning over in his mind possible methods for settling the point. One inquiry seemed promising. If the ship had lain at anchor out in the river, and if Dangle had gone aboard her, he must have had a boat to do so. French wondered could he find that boat.He felt himself held up by the language difficulty. Up to the present he had had extraordinary luck in this respect, but then up to the present he had been interviewing educated persons whose business brought them in contact with foreigners. He doubted if he could make boatmen and loafers about the quays understand what he wanted.A trial convinced him that his fears were well founded, and he lost a solid hour in finding the Berlitz School and engaging a young linguist with a reputation for discretion. Then, accompanied by M. Jules Renard, he returned to the quays and set systematically to work. He began by inquiring where boats might be hired, and where there were steps at which ships’ boats might come alongside. Taking these in turn he asked had the boatmen taken a passenger out to theL’Escautbetween 2:00 and 3:00p.m.on the previous Thursday? Or had the loafer, stevedore, shunter, or constable, as the case might be, noticed if a boat had come ashore from the same vessel on the same date and at the same time?Though the work was easy it bade fair to be tedious, and therefore for more than one reason French felt a glow of satisfaction when at his fourth inquiry his question received an affirmative answer. A wizened old man, one of a small knot of longshoremen whom M. Renard addressed, separated himself from his companions and came forward. He said that he was a boatman, and that he had been hailed by a man—an Englishman, he believed—at the time stated, and had rowed him out to the ship.“Ask him if that’s the man,” French directed, producing Dangle’s photograph, though he felt there could be no doubt as to the reply.He was therefore immensely dashed when the boatman shook his head. This was not the man at all. The traveler was a short, rather stout man with a small fair mustache.French gasped. The description sounded familiar. Taking out Blessington’s photograph he passed it over.This time the boatman nodded. Yes, that was the man he had rowed out. He had no doubt of him whatever.This was unexpected but most welcome news, though as French thought over it, he saw that it was not so surprising after all. If Dangle was in it, why not Blessington, and for the matter of that, why not Sime also? In this case he wondered where Susan could be, and more acutely, what had been the fate of Joan Merrill. Possibly, he thought, his inquiries about Dangle would solve these questions also.Half an hour later he struck oil for the second time. Another boatman, a little further along the quays, had also rowed a passenger out to theL’Escaut, and this one, it appeared, was Dangle. But though French kept working steadily away, he could hear nothing of Sime.In the end it was a suggestion of Renard’s that put him once more on the trail. The interpreter proved an intelligent youth, and when he had grasped the point at issue, he stopped and pointed to the river.“You say, monsieur, that the sheep, she lie there, opposite the Musée Steen, is it not so?Bon!We haf walked along all the quays near to that. Your friends would not haf hired boat from farther on—it is too far. You say, too, they come from England secretly, is it not?Bon!They would come to the other side.”French did not understand.“The other side?” he repeated questioningly.“But yes, monsieur, the other side.” The young fellow’s eyes flashed in his eagerness. “Over there, La Gare de Waes.” He pointed out across the great stream to its west bank.“I didn’t know there was a station across there,” French admitted. “Where does the line go to?”“Direct to Ghent. Your friends change trains at Ghent. It is a quiet railway. They come unseen.”“Good man,” said French heartily. “We’ll go and find out. How do you get to the blessed place?”M. Renard smiled delightedly.“Ah yes, monsieur. You weesh to cross? Is it not?” he cried. “This way. We take ferry from the Quai Van Dyck. It is near.”Half an hour later they had reached the Tête de Flandre—the low-lying western bank of the Scheldt. It bore a small but not unpicturesque cluster of old-fashioned houses, nestling about one of the historic Antwerp forts. Renard, now apparently quite as interested in the chase as French, led the way along the river bank from boatman to boatman, with the result that before very many minutes had passed French had obtained the information he wanted.It appeared that about 1:00p.m.on the day in question, a strapping young boatman had noticed three strangers approaching from the direction of the Waes Station, a hundred yards or more distant. They consisted of a tall, clean-shaven man of something under middle age and two women, both young. One was tall and strongly made and dark as to hair and eyes, the other was slighter and with red gold hair. The smaller one seemed to be ill, and was stumbling along between the other two, each of whom supported her by an arm. None of the trio could speak French or Flemish, but they managed by signs to convey the information that they wanted to be put on board theL’Escaut, which was lying out in midstream. The man had rowed them out, and they had been received on board by an elderly gentleman with a dark beard.Further questions produced the information that the fair lady appeared to be seriously ill, though whether it was her mind or body that was affected, the boatman couldn’t be sure. She was able to walk, but would not do so unless urged on by the others. She had not spoken or taken any interest in the journey. She had not appeared even to look round her, but had sat gazing listlessly at nothing, with a vacant expression in her eyes. Her companions had had real difficulty in getting her up the short ladder on to theL’Escaut’sdeck.The news was rather unexpected to French. About Joan Merrill it was both disconcerting and reassuring; the former because he could not see that the gang had anything but a sinister reason for inveigling the young girl aboard the ship—probably she will fall overboard at night, he thought; the latter because she was at least still alive, or had been two days ago. It was quite evident that she was drugged, probably with morphine or something similar. It might, however, mean that while wishing Joan no harm, they were taking her with them on their expedition to insure her silence as to their movements.As French returned across the ferry, he kept on puzzling as to Lowenthal’s position. Could Lowenthal be arrested? Was he in league with the gang? If so, could he be held responsible for the abduction of Joan Merrill? French didn’t think the evidence would justify drastic measures. He had, as a matter of fact, no actual evidence against Lowenthal. Of his complicity he was satisfied, but he doubted if he could prove it.He got rid of the young interpreter, and strolling slowly along the quays, thought the matter out. No, he had not a enough case with which to go to the Belgian police. But he could do the next best thing. He could call on M. Lowenthal for the second time, and try to bluff an admission out of him.As he walked to the Rue des Tanneurs, he felt his prospects were not rosy. But at least he had no difficulty in obtaining his interview. M. Lowenthal seemed surprised to see him so soon again, but received him politely, and asked what he could do for him.“I want to ask you another question, M. Lowenthal, if you please,” French answered in his pleasantest manner, “and first I must tell you that the agency I hold is that of Detective Inspector at New Scotland Yard in London. My question is this: When you and M. Merkel entered into relations with Blessington, Sime, and the Dangles, did you know that they were dangerous criminals wanted by the English police?”In spite of the most evident efforts for self-control, Lowenthal was so much taken aback that he could not for some moments speak. His swarthy face turned a greenish hue and little drops of sweat showed on his forehead. To the other pleasant characteristics with which French had mentally endowed him, he now added that of coward, and his hopes of his bluff succeeding grew brighter. He sat waiting in silence for the other to recover himself, then said suavely:“After that, M. Lowenthal, you will see for yourself that you cannot plead ignorance of the affair. Let me advise you for your own sake to be open with me.”The man pulled himself together. He wiped his brow as he replied earnestly, but in somewhat shaky accents:“That I haf met Blessington, Sime, and Dangle I do not deny, though they were Merkel’s friends—not mine. But I do not know that they are criminal. Dangle, he called here and asked Merkel to take him on the next”—he hesitated for a word—“next work, next sail of the sheep. Merkel said that Dangle iss a writer—he writes books. He weeshed to see the sail to Casablanca to deescribe it in hiss book. Merkel said he would haf to pay fare, the firm could not afford it unless. Dangle agreed. Merkel was going himself, and Dangle suggested Sime and Blessington go also to make party—to play cards. Of a second Dangle I know nothing. They went secretly—I admit it—because the law forbids to take passengers for sail without a certificate. That is all of the affair.”Not a single word of this statement did French believe, but he saw that unless he could get some further information, or surprise this Lowenthal into some more damaging admission, he could not have him arrested. After all, the story hung together. Merkel might conceivably be playing his own game, and have pitched the yarn of the author out for copy to his partner. The contravention of the shipping laws would undoubtedly account for the secrecy with which the start was made. Certainly there was no evidence to bring before a jury.French proceeded to question the junior partner with considerable thoroughness, but he could not shake his statement. The only additional facts he learned were that theL’Escautwas going to Casablanca on the order of the Moroccan Government to load up a cargo of agricultural samples for the Italian market, and that M. Merkel was accompanying it simply as a holiday trip.With this French had to be content, and he went to the post office, and got through on the long distance telephone to his chief at the Yard. To him he repeated the essentials of the tale, asking him to inquire from the Moroccan authorities as to the truth of their portion of it, as well as to endeavor to trace theL’Escaut.On leaving the post office, it occurred to him that communication with theL’Escautshould be possible by wireless, and he returned to the Rue des Tanneurs to ascertain this point. There he was told that just after he had left M. Lowenthal had received a telephone call, requiring his immediate presence in Holland, and he had with a great rush caught the afternoon express for the Dutch capital.“Skedaddled, by Jove!” said French to himself. “Guess that lets in the Belgian police.”He called at headquarters, and saw the officer in charge, and before he left to catch the connection for London, it had been arranged that the movements of the junior partner should be gone into, and a watch kept for the return of that enterprising weaver of fairy tales.
French was astir betimes next morning, and over his coffee and rolls and honey he laid his plans for the day. As to the next step of his investigation he had no doubt. He must begin by finding out what vessels had left the city after 2:00p.m.on the previous Thursday. That done, he could go into the question of the passengers each carried, in the hope of learning that Dangle was among them.
At the outset he was faced by the handicap of being a stranger in a strange land. If Antwerp had been an English port he would have known just where to get his information, but here he was unfamiliar with the ropes. He did not know if all sailings were published in any paper or available to the public at any office; moreover, his ignorance of both French and Flemish precluded his mixing with clerks or dock loafers from whom he might pick up information. Of course there were the Belgian police, but he did not wish to apply to them if he could carry out his job by himself.
However, this part of his problem proved easier of solution than he had expected. Inquiries at the post office revealed the fact that there was a shipping agency in the Rue des Tanneurs, and soon he had reached the place, found a clerk who spoke English, and put his question.
When French wished to be suave, as he usually did, he could, so to speak, have wheedled his best bone from a bulldog. Now, explaining in a friendly and confidential manner who he was and why he wanted the information, he begged the other’s good offices. The clerk, flattered at being thus courteously approached, showed a willingness to assist, with the result that in ten minutes French had the particulars he needed.
He turned into a café, and calling for a bock, sat down to consider what he had learned. And of this the very first fact filled him with delight, as it seemed to fit in with the theory he had evolved.
On Thursday it had been high water at 2:30p.m.By 2:30 the dock gates had been opened, and it appeared that, taking advantage of this, several steamers had left shortly after that hour.
This was distinctly encouraging, and French turned to the list of ships with a growing hope that the end of his investigation might be coming into sight. In all, eleven steamers had left the port on the day in question, between the hours of 2:00 and 6:00p.m., the period he had included in his inquiry.
There was first of all a Canadian Pacific liner, which had sailed from the quays at 3:00p.m., and at 3:30 a small passenger boat had left for Oslo and Bergen. The remaining boats were tramps. There were four coasters, two for Newcastle, one for Goole, and one for Belfast, a 6,000 tonner for Singapore and the Dutch Islands, another slightly smaller ship for Genoa and Spezia, and another for Boston, U.S.A. Then there was a big five-masted sailing ship, bound with a general cargo for Buenos Aires and the River Platte, and finally there was a small freighter in ballast for Casablanca.
Of these eleven ships, the windjammer at once attracted French’s attention. Here was a vessel on which, if you took a passage, you might easily require three dozen tins of peaches before you reached your journey’s end. He determined to begin with this, taking the other ships in order according to the position of their offices. Fortunately in each case the clerk had given him the name of the owners or agents.
His first call, therefore, was at an old-fashioned office in a small street close to the Steen Museum. There he saw M. Leblanc, the owner of the windjammer, and explained his business. But M. Leblanc could not help him. The old gentleman had never heard of Dangle nor had any one resembling his visitor’s photograph called or done any business with his firm. Moreover, no passengers had shipped on the windjammer, and the crew that had sailed was unchanged since the previous voyage.
This was not encouraging, and French went on to the next item on his program, the headquarters of the small freighter which had sailed in ballast for Casablanca. She was owned by Messrs. Merkel & Lowenthal, whose office was farther down the Rue des Tanneurs, and five minutes later he had pushed open the door and was inquiring for the principal.
This was a more modern establishment than that of M. Leblanc. Though small, the office ran to plate glass windows, teak furniture, polished brass fittings, and encaustic tiles, while the two typists he could envisage through the small inquiry window seemed unduly gorgeous as to raiment and pert as to demeanor.
He was kept waiting for some minutes, then told that M. Merkel, the head of the business, was away, but that M. Lowenthal, the junior partner, would see him.
His first glance told French that M. Lowenthal was a man to be watched. Seldom had he seen so many of the tell-tale signs of roguery concentrated in the features of one person. The junior partner had a mean, sly look, close-set, shifty eyes which would not meet French’s, and a large mouth with loose, fleshy lips. His manner was in accord with his appearance, now blustering, now almost fulsomely ingratiating. French took an instant dislike to him, and though he remained courteous as ever, he determined not to lay his cards on the table.
“My name,” he began, “as you will have seen from my card, is French, and I carry out the business of a general agent in London. I am trying to obtain an interview with a friend, who has been staying here, off and on, for some time. I came on here from Brussels in the hope of seeing him, but he had just left. I was told that he had sailed with your ship, theL’Escaut, on Thursday afternoon, and if so I called to ask at which port I should be likely to get in touch with him. His name is Dangle.”
While French spoke he watched the other narrowly, on his favorite theory that the involuntary replies to unexpected remarks—starts, changes of expression, sudden pallors—were more valuable than spoken answers.
But M. Lowenthal betrayed no emotion other than a mild surprise.
“That iss a very egstraordinary statement, sir,” he said in heavy guttural tones. “I do not really know who could haf given you such misleading information. Your friend’s name is quite unknown to me, and in any case we do not take passengers on our ships.”
This seemed an entirely reasonable and proper reply, and yet to French’s highly developed instincts it did not ring true. However, he could do nothing more, and after a little further conversation containing not a few veiled inquiries, all of which, he noted, were skillfully parried by the other, he apologized for his mistake and withdrew.
Though he was dissatisfied with the interview, he could only continue his program. He recognized that the secret might be located in Canada or the States, and that Dangle might have booked on the C.P.R. liner. Or he might have gone to Norway—indeed, for the matter of that, he might have signed on on any of the ships for any part of the world.
But after a tedious morning of calls and interviews, French had to confess defeat. He could get no farther. At none of the offices at which he applied had he obtained the slightest helpful hint. It began to look as if he had been mistaken as to Dangle’s sea expedition, and if so, as he reminded himself with exasperation, he had no alternative theory to follow up.
He strolled slowly along the pleasant, sunlit streets, as he reviewed his morning’s work. He was satisfied with all his interviews but the one. Everywhere save in M. Lowenthal’s office he felt he had been told the truth. But instinctively he distrusted the junior partner. That the man had lied to him he had no reason to suspect, but he had no doubt that he would do so if it suited his book.
French felt that it was unsatisfactory to leave the matter in this state, and he presently thought of a simple subterfuge whereby it might be cleared up. It was almost the lunch hour, a suitable time for putting his project into operation. He hurried back to the Rue des Tanneurs, and turning into a café nearly opposite Messrs. Merkel & Lowenthal’s premises, ordered a bock and selected a seat from which he could observe the office door.
He was only just in time. He had not taken his place five minutes when he saw M. Lowenthal emerge and walk off towards the center of the town. Three men clerks and the two rapid-looking typists followed, and lastly there appeared the person for whom he was waiting—the sharp-looking office boy who had attended to him earlier in the day.
The boy turned off in the opposite direction to his principal—towards a quarter inhabited by laborers and artisans, and French, getting up from his table, slipped quietly out of the café and followed him.
The chase continued for some ten minutes, when the quarry disappeared into a small house in a back street. French strolled up and down until some half an hour later the young fellow reappeared. As he approached French allowed a look of recognition and slight surprise to appear on his features.
“Ah,” he said, pausing with a friendly smile, “you are the clerk who attended to me this morning in Messrs. Merkel & Lowenthal’s office, are you not? A piece of luck meeting you! I wonder if you could give me a piece of information? I forgot to ask it of M. Lowenthal this morning, and as I am in a hurry, it would be worth five francs to me not to have to go back to your office.”
The youth’s eyes had brightened at the suggestion of financial dealings, and French felt he would learn all the other could tell him. He therefore continued without waiting for a reply.
“The thing is this: I am joining my friend, M. Dangle, aboard theL’Escautat the first opportunity. It was arranged between us that one of us should take with him a couple of dozen of champagne. I want to know whether he took the stuff, or whether I am to. Can you help me at all?”
The clerk’s English, though fairly good, was not quite equal to such a strain, and French had to repeat himself less idiomatically. But the boy grasped his meaning at last, and then at once dashed his hopes by saying he had never heard of any M. Dangle.
“There he is,” French went on, producing his photograph. “You must have seen him scores of times.”
And then French got the reward of his pertinacity. A look of recognition passed over the clerk’s features, and he made a gesture of comprehension.
“Mais oui, m’sieur; yes, sir,” he answered quickly, “but that is not M. Danggalle. I know him: it is M. Charles.”
“That’s right,” French returned, trying to keep the triumph out of his voice. “His name is Dangle Charles. I know him as M. Dangle, because he is one of four brothers at our works. But of course he would give his name here as M. Charles. But now, can you tell me anything about the champagne?”
The clerk shook his head. He had not known upon what business M. Charles had called at the office.
“Oh, well, it can’t be helped,” French declared. “I thought that perhaps when he was in with you last Wednesday you might have heard something about it. You don’t know what luggage he took aboard theL’Escaut?”
The clerk had not been aware that M. Charles had embarked on the freighter, still less did he know of what his luggage had consisted. But as French talked on in his pleasant way, the following facts became apparent; first, that Dangle for some weeks past had been an occasional visitor at the shipping office; second, that on the previous Wednesday he had been closeted with the partners for the greater part of the day; third, that theL’Escauthad evidently sailed on an expedition of considerable importance and length, for a vast deal of stores had gone aboard her, about which both partners had shown very keen anxiety; fourthly, that not only had M. Merkel, the senior partner, himself sailed on her, but it was likely that he intended to be away some time as M. Lowenthal had moved into his room, and lastly, that theL’Escauthad come up from the firm’s yard during the Wednesday night and had anchored in the river off the Steen until she left about 3:00p.m.on the Thursday.
These admissions made it abundantly clear that French was once more on the right track, and he handed over his five francs with the feeling that he had made the cheapest bargain of his life.
He had no doubt that Dangle had sailed with the senior partner on the tramp, but he felt he must make sure, and he walked slowly back towards the quays, turning over in his mind possible methods for settling the point. One inquiry seemed promising. If the ship had lain at anchor out in the river, and if Dangle had gone aboard her, he must have had a boat to do so. French wondered could he find that boat.
He felt himself held up by the language difficulty. Up to the present he had had extraordinary luck in this respect, but then up to the present he had been interviewing educated persons whose business brought them in contact with foreigners. He doubted if he could make boatmen and loafers about the quays understand what he wanted.
A trial convinced him that his fears were well founded, and he lost a solid hour in finding the Berlitz School and engaging a young linguist with a reputation for discretion. Then, accompanied by M. Jules Renard, he returned to the quays and set systematically to work. He began by inquiring where boats might be hired, and where there were steps at which ships’ boats might come alongside. Taking these in turn he asked had the boatmen taken a passenger out to theL’Escautbetween 2:00 and 3:00p.m.on the previous Thursday? Or had the loafer, stevedore, shunter, or constable, as the case might be, noticed if a boat had come ashore from the same vessel on the same date and at the same time?
Though the work was easy it bade fair to be tedious, and therefore for more than one reason French felt a glow of satisfaction when at his fourth inquiry his question received an affirmative answer. A wizened old man, one of a small knot of longshoremen whom M. Renard addressed, separated himself from his companions and came forward. He said that he was a boatman, and that he had been hailed by a man—an Englishman, he believed—at the time stated, and had rowed him out to the ship.
“Ask him if that’s the man,” French directed, producing Dangle’s photograph, though he felt there could be no doubt as to the reply.
He was therefore immensely dashed when the boatman shook his head. This was not the man at all. The traveler was a short, rather stout man with a small fair mustache.
French gasped. The description sounded familiar. Taking out Blessington’s photograph he passed it over.
This time the boatman nodded. Yes, that was the man he had rowed out. He had no doubt of him whatever.
This was unexpected but most welcome news, though as French thought over it, he saw that it was not so surprising after all. If Dangle was in it, why not Blessington, and for the matter of that, why not Sime also? In this case he wondered where Susan could be, and more acutely, what had been the fate of Joan Merrill. Possibly, he thought, his inquiries about Dangle would solve these questions also.
Half an hour later he struck oil for the second time. Another boatman, a little further along the quays, had also rowed a passenger out to theL’Escaut, and this one, it appeared, was Dangle. But though French kept working steadily away, he could hear nothing of Sime.
In the end it was a suggestion of Renard’s that put him once more on the trail. The interpreter proved an intelligent youth, and when he had grasped the point at issue, he stopped and pointed to the river.
“You say, monsieur, that the sheep, she lie there, opposite the Musée Steen, is it not so?Bon!We haf walked along all the quays near to that. Your friends would not haf hired boat from farther on—it is too far. You say, too, they come from England secretly, is it not?Bon!They would come to the other side.”
French did not understand.
“The other side?” he repeated questioningly.
“But yes, monsieur, the other side.” The young fellow’s eyes flashed in his eagerness. “Over there, La Gare de Waes.” He pointed out across the great stream to its west bank.
“I didn’t know there was a station across there,” French admitted. “Where does the line go to?”
“Direct to Ghent. Your friends change trains at Ghent. It is a quiet railway. They come unseen.”
“Good man,” said French heartily. “We’ll go and find out. How do you get to the blessed place?”
M. Renard smiled delightedly.
“Ah yes, monsieur. You weesh to cross? Is it not?” he cried. “This way. We take ferry from the Quai Van Dyck. It is near.”
Half an hour later they had reached the Tête de Flandre—the low-lying western bank of the Scheldt. It bore a small but not unpicturesque cluster of old-fashioned houses, nestling about one of the historic Antwerp forts. Renard, now apparently quite as interested in the chase as French, led the way along the river bank from boatman to boatman, with the result that before very many minutes had passed French had obtained the information he wanted.
It appeared that about 1:00p.m.on the day in question, a strapping young boatman had noticed three strangers approaching from the direction of the Waes Station, a hundred yards or more distant. They consisted of a tall, clean-shaven man of something under middle age and two women, both young. One was tall and strongly made and dark as to hair and eyes, the other was slighter and with red gold hair. The smaller one seemed to be ill, and was stumbling along between the other two, each of whom supported her by an arm. None of the trio could speak French or Flemish, but they managed by signs to convey the information that they wanted to be put on board theL’Escaut, which was lying out in midstream. The man had rowed them out, and they had been received on board by an elderly gentleman with a dark beard.
Further questions produced the information that the fair lady appeared to be seriously ill, though whether it was her mind or body that was affected, the boatman couldn’t be sure. She was able to walk, but would not do so unless urged on by the others. She had not spoken or taken any interest in the journey. She had not appeared even to look round her, but had sat gazing listlessly at nothing, with a vacant expression in her eyes. Her companions had had real difficulty in getting her up the short ladder on to theL’Escaut’sdeck.
The news was rather unexpected to French. About Joan Merrill it was both disconcerting and reassuring; the former because he could not see that the gang had anything but a sinister reason for inveigling the young girl aboard the ship—probably she will fall overboard at night, he thought; the latter because she was at least still alive, or had been two days ago. It was quite evident that she was drugged, probably with morphine or something similar. It might, however, mean that while wishing Joan no harm, they were taking her with them on their expedition to insure her silence as to their movements.
As French returned across the ferry, he kept on puzzling as to Lowenthal’s position. Could Lowenthal be arrested? Was he in league with the gang? If so, could he be held responsible for the abduction of Joan Merrill? French didn’t think the evidence would justify drastic measures. He had, as a matter of fact, no actual evidence against Lowenthal. Of his complicity he was satisfied, but he doubted if he could prove it.
He got rid of the young interpreter, and strolling slowly along the quays, thought the matter out. No, he had not a enough case with which to go to the Belgian police. But he could do the next best thing. He could call on M. Lowenthal for the second time, and try to bluff an admission out of him.
As he walked to the Rue des Tanneurs, he felt his prospects were not rosy. But at least he had no difficulty in obtaining his interview. M. Lowenthal seemed surprised to see him so soon again, but received him politely, and asked what he could do for him.
“I want to ask you another question, M. Lowenthal, if you please,” French answered in his pleasantest manner, “and first I must tell you that the agency I hold is that of Detective Inspector at New Scotland Yard in London. My question is this: When you and M. Merkel entered into relations with Blessington, Sime, and the Dangles, did you know that they were dangerous criminals wanted by the English police?”
In spite of the most evident efforts for self-control, Lowenthal was so much taken aback that he could not for some moments speak. His swarthy face turned a greenish hue and little drops of sweat showed on his forehead. To the other pleasant characteristics with which French had mentally endowed him, he now added that of coward, and his hopes of his bluff succeeding grew brighter. He sat waiting in silence for the other to recover himself, then said suavely:
“After that, M. Lowenthal, you will see for yourself that you cannot plead ignorance of the affair. Let me advise you for your own sake to be open with me.”
The man pulled himself together. He wiped his brow as he replied earnestly, but in somewhat shaky accents:
“That I haf met Blessington, Sime, and Dangle I do not deny, though they were Merkel’s friends—not mine. But I do not know that they are criminal. Dangle, he called here and asked Merkel to take him on the next”—he hesitated for a word—“next work, next sail of the sheep. Merkel said that Dangle iss a writer—he writes books. He weeshed to see the sail to Casablanca to deescribe it in hiss book. Merkel said he would haf to pay fare, the firm could not afford it unless. Dangle agreed. Merkel was going himself, and Dangle suggested Sime and Blessington go also to make party—to play cards. Of a second Dangle I know nothing. They went secretly—I admit it—because the law forbids to take passengers for sail without a certificate. That is all of the affair.”
Not a single word of this statement did French believe, but he saw that unless he could get some further information, or surprise this Lowenthal into some more damaging admission, he could not have him arrested. After all, the story hung together. Merkel might conceivably be playing his own game, and have pitched the yarn of the author out for copy to his partner. The contravention of the shipping laws would undoubtedly account for the secrecy with which the start was made. Certainly there was no evidence to bring before a jury.
French proceeded to question the junior partner with considerable thoroughness, but he could not shake his statement. The only additional facts he learned were that theL’Escautwas going to Casablanca on the order of the Moroccan Government to load up a cargo of agricultural samples for the Italian market, and that M. Merkel was accompanying it simply as a holiday trip.
With this French had to be content, and he went to the post office, and got through on the long distance telephone to his chief at the Yard. To him he repeated the essentials of the tale, asking him to inquire from the Moroccan authorities as to the truth of their portion of it, as well as to endeavor to trace theL’Escaut.
On leaving the post office, it occurred to him that communication with theL’Escautshould be possible by wireless, and he returned to the Rue des Tanneurs to ascertain this point. There he was told that just after he had left M. Lowenthal had received a telephone call, requiring his immediate presence in Holland, and he had with a great rush caught the afternoon express for the Dutch capital.
“Skedaddled, by Jove!” said French to himself. “Guess that lets in the Belgian police.”
He called at headquarters, and saw the officer in charge, and before he left to catch the connection for London, it had been arranged that the movements of the junior partner should be gone into, and a watch kept for the return of that enterprising weaver of fairy tales.