OFFICIAL SECRECY.
The following evening was damp, grey, and dull, as I stood shivering at
the corner of the narrow Rue de l'Eveque and the broad Place de la Monnie
in Brussels. The lamps were lit, and around me everywhere was the bustle
of business.
I had crossed by the morning service by way of Ostend, and had arrived
again at the Grand only half an hour before.
The woman Petre had sent a letter to Digby Kemsley to the Poste Restante
in Brussels under the name of Bryant. If this were so, the fugitive must
be in the habit of calling for his letters, and it was the great black
façade of the chief post-office in Brussels that I was watching.
The business-day was just drawing to a close, the streets were thronged,
the traffic rattled noisily over the uneven granite paving of the big
square. Opposite the Post Office the arc lamps were shedding a bright
light outside the theatre, while all the shops around were a blaze of
light, while on every side the streets were agog with life.
Up and down the broad flight of steps which led to the entrance of the
Post Office hundreds of people ascended and descended, passing and
re-passing the four swing-doors which gave entrance to the huge hall with
its dozens of departments ranged around and its partitioned desks for
writing.
The mails from France and England were just in, and dozens of men came
with their keys to obtain their correspondence from the range of private
boxes, and as I watched, the whole bustle of business life passed before
me.
I was keeping a sharp eye upon all who passed up and down that long
flight of granite steps, but at that hour of the evening, and in that
crowd, it was no easy matter.
Would I be successful? That was the one thought which filled my mind.
As I stood there, my eager gaze upon that endless stream of people, I
felt wearied and fagged. The Channel crossing had been a bad one, as it
so often is in January, and I had not yet recovered from my weird
experience at Colchester. The heavy overcoat I wore was, I found, not
proof against the cutting east wind which swept around the corner from
the Boulevard Auspach, hence I was compelled to change my position and
seek shelter in a doorway opposite the point where I expected the man I
sought would enter.
I had already surveyed the interior and presented the card of a friend to
an official at the Poste Restante, though I knew there was no letter for
him. I uttered some words of politeness to the man in order to make his
acquaintance, as he might, perhaps, be of use to me ere my quest was at
an end.
At the Poste Restante were two windows, one distributing correspondence
for people whose surname began with the letters A to L, and the other
from M to Z.
It was at the first window I inquired, the clerk there being a pleasant,
fair-haired, middle-aged man in a holland coat as worn by postal
employees. I longed to ask him if he had any letters for the name of
Bryant, or if any Englishman of that name had called, but I dared not do
so. He would, no doubt, snub me and tell me to mind my own business.
So instead, I was extremely polite, regretted to have troubled him, and,
raising my hat, withdrew.
I saw that to remain within the big office for hours was impossible. The
uniformed doorkeeper who sat upon a high desk overlooking everything,
would quickly demand my business, and expel me.
No, my only place was out in the open street. Not a pleasant prospect in
winter, and for how many days I could not tell.
For aught I knew, the fugitive had called for the woman's letter and left
the capital. But he, being aware that the police were in search of him,
would, I thought, if he called at the post office at all for letters,
come there after dark. Hence, I had lost no time in mounting guard.
My thoughts, as I stood there, were, indeed, bitter and confused.
The woman Petre had not, as far as I could make out, made any
incriminating statement to the police. Yet she undoubtedly believed me to
be dead, and I reflected in triumph upon the unpleasant surprise in store
for her when we met--as meet we undoubtedly would.
The amazing problem, viewed briefly, stood thus: The girl, Marie Bracq,
had been killed by a knife with a three-cornered blade, such knife having
been and being still in the possession of Phrida, my well-beloved, whose
finger-prints were found in the room near the body of the poor girl. The
grave and terrible suspicion resting upon Phrida was increased and even
corroborated by her firm resolve to preserve secrecy, her admissions, and
her avowed determination to take her own life rather than face
accusation.
On the other hand, there was the mystery of the identity of Marie Bracq,
the mystery of the identity of the man who had passed as Sir Digby
Kemsley, the reason of his flight, if Phrida were guilty, and the mystery
of the woman Petre, and her accomplices.
Yes. The whole affair was one great and complete problem, the extent of
which even Edwards, expert as he was, had, as yet, failed to discover.
The more I tried to solve it the more hopelessly complicated did it
become.
I could see no light through the veil of mystery and suspicion in which
my well-beloved had become enveloped.
Why had that man--the man I now hated with so fierce an hatred--held her
in the hollow of his unscrupulous hands? She had admitted that, whenever
he ordered her to do any action, she was bound to obey.
Yes. My love was that man's slave! I ground my teeth when the bitter
thought flashed across my perturbed mind.
Ah! what a poor, ignorant fool I had been! And how that scoundrel must
have laughed at me!
I was anxious to meet him face to face--to force from his lips the truth,
to compel him to answer to me.
And with that object I waited--waited in the cold and rain for three long
hours, until at last the great doors were closed and locked for the
night, and people ascended those steps no longer.
Then I turned away faint and disheartened, chilled to the bone, and
wearied out. A few steps along the Boulevard brought me to the hotel,
where I ate some dinner, and retired to my room to fling myself upon the
couch and think.
Why was Phrida in such fear lest I should meet the man who held her so
mysteriously and completely in his power? What could she fear from our
meeting if she were, as I still tried to believe, innocent?
Again, was it possible that after their dastardly attempt upon my life,
Mrs. Petre and her accomplices had fled to join the fugitive? Were they
with him? Perhaps so! Perhaps they were there in Brussels!
The unfortunate victim, Marie Bracq, had probably been a Belgian. Bracq
was certainly a Belgian name.
The idea crossed my mind to go on the following day to the central Police
Bureau I had noticed in the Rue de la Regence, and make inquiry whether
they knew of any person of that name to be missing. It was not a bad
suggestion, I reflected, and I felt greatly inclined to carry it out.
Next day, I was up early, but recognised the futility of watching at the
Poste Restante until the daylight faded. On the other hand, if Mrs.
Petre was actually in that city, she would have no fear to go about
openly. Yet, after due consideration, I decided not to go to the post
office till twilight set in.
The morning I spent idling on the Boulevards and in the cafés, but I
became sick of such inactivity, for I was frantically eager and anxious
to learn the truth.
At noon I made up my mind, and taking a taxi, alighted at the Préfecture
of Police, where, after some time, I was seen by the _Chef du Sureté_, a
grey-haired, dry-as-dust looking official--a narrow-eyed little man, in
black, whose name was Monsieur Van Huffel, and who sat at a writing-table
in a rather bare room, the walls of which were painted dark green. He
eyed me with some curiosity as I entered and bowed.
"Be seated, I pray, m'sieur," he said in French, indicating a chair on
the opposite side of the table, and leaning back, placed his fingers
together in a judicial attitude.
The police functionary on the continent is possessed of an ultra-grave
demeanour, and is always of a funereal type.
"M'sieur wishes to make an inquiry, I hear?" he began.
"Yes," I said. "I am very anxious to know whether you have any report of
a young person named Marie Bracq being missing."
"Marie Bracq!" he echoed in surprise, leaning forward towards me. "And
what do you know, m'sieur, regarding Marie Bracq?"
"I merely called to ascertain if any person of that name, is reported to
you as missing," I said, much surprised at the effect which mention of
the victim had produced upon him.
"You are English, of course?" he asked.
"Yes, m'sieur."
"Well, curiously enough, only this morning I have had a similar inquiry
from your Scotland Yard. They are asking if we are acquainted with any
person named Marie Bracq. And we are, m'sieur," said Monsieur Van Huffel.
"But first please explain what you know of her."
"I have no personal acquaintance with her," was my reply. "I know of
her--that is all. But it may not be the same person."
He opened a drawer, turned over a quantity of papers, and a few seconds
later produced a photograph which he passed across to me.
It was a half-length cabinet portrait of a girl in a fur coat and hat.
But no second glance was needed to tell me that it was actually the
picture of the girl found murdered in London.
"I see you recognise her, m'sieur," remarked the police official in a
cold, matter-of-fact tone. "Please tell me all you know."
I paused for a few seconds with the portrait in my hand. My object was to
get all the facts I could from the functionary before me, and give him
the least information possible.
"Unfortunately, I know but very little," was my rather lame reply. "This
lady was a friend of a lady friend of mine."
"An English lady was your friend--eh?"
"Yes."
"In London?"
I nodded in the affirmative, while the shrewd little man who was
questioning me sat twiddling a pen with his thin fingers.
"And she told you of Marie Bracq? In what circumstances?"
"Well," I said. "It is a long story. Before I tell you, I would like to
ask you one question, m'sieur. Have you received from Scotland Yard the
description of a man named Digby Kemsley--Sir Digby Kemsley--who is
wanted for murder?"
The dry little official with the parchment face repeated the name, then
consulting a book at his elbow, replied:
"Yes. We have circulated the description and photograph. It is believed
by your police that his real name is Cane."
"He has been in Brussels during the past few days to my own certain
knowledge," I said.
"In Brussels," echoed the man seated in the writing chair. "Where?"
"Here, in your city. And I expect he is here now."
"And you know him?" asked the _Chef du Sureté_, his eyes betraying slight
excitement.
"Quite well. He was my friend."
"I see he is accused of murdering a woman, name unknown, in his
apartment," remarked the official.
"The name is now known--it has been discovered by me, m'sieur. The name
of the dead girl is Marie Bracq."
The little man half rose from his chair and stared at me.
"Is this the truth, m'sieur?" he cried. "Is this man named Kemsley, or
Cane, accused of the assassination of Marie Bracq?"
"Yes," I replied.
"But this is most astounding," the Belgian functionary declared
excitedly. "Marie Bracq dead! Ah! it cannot be possible, m'sieur! You do
not know what this information means to us--what an enormous sensation it
will cause if the press scents the truth. Tell me quickly--tell me all
you know," he urged, at the same time taking up the telephone receiver
from his table and then listening for a second, said in a quick,
impetuous voice, "I want Inspector Frémy at once!"