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 south-west 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 Élysées
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 are 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 things 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 him 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 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 assure 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 pocketbook 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:
“DEAR VANDERKEMP,—Further to my note to Mr. Schoofs re your
call here on Wednesday morning, 26th inst., the business on
which I wish to see you has turned out to be more urgent than I
at first believed, and I shall therefore have to ask you to
advance the hour of your interview, and also to leave London for
Paris—not Stockholm—immediately after it. I shall return to
the office after dinner on Tuesday evening, 25th inst., and
shall be glad if you will call there at 8.30 p.m., when I shall
give you your instructions. This will enable you to catch the
9.30 p.m. for Paris, via Southampton and Havre.
“I wish to impress on you that as the business in question is
exceptionally confidential, you will oblige me by keeping your
change of plans to yourself.
“Yours truly,
“R. A. DUKE.”
Inspector French was keenly interested, but he recognised with
exasperation how inconclusive the letter was as evidence. Either it had
been sent to Vanderkemp as he stated, in which case he might be
innocent, or the man had written it himself, in which case he certainly
was guilty, it was true that in this instance an envelope was
forthcoming which bore a London E.C. postmark and the correct date, but
here again there was no proof that this was really the covering in which
the letter had come. These points passed through the Inspector’s mind,
but he banished them as matters to be thought out later, and turned once
more to his companion.
“I shall keep this, if you don’t mind,” he declared. “Please proceed.”
“I carried out the instructions in the letter,” Vanderkemp resumed. “The
change of hours necessitated my leaving Amsterdam by the night train on
the 24th, and I spent the following day at my hotel in London, and in
doing a matinee. At 8.30, with my luggage, I reached Hatton Garden. I
found the outer office was in darkness, but a light shone out of the
doorway of the inner office. Mr. Gething was there alone. He told me to
come in and shut the door, and I did so, and sat down in the clients’
arm-chair. Mr. Gething was seated at Mr. Duke’s desk, which was open.”
“Was the safe open?”
“No, nor was it opened while I was there. Mr. Gething told me that Mr.
Duke had intended to be present to give me my instructions in person,
but at the last moment he had been prevented coming down, and that he
had asked him, Mr. Gething, to do it instead. It seemed that Mr. Duke
had got information from a confidential agent at Constantinople that a
member of the old Russian aristocracy had escaped with his family jewels
from the clutches of the Bolsheviks, and that he now wished to dispose
of the whole collection for what it would bring. He was at one time Duke
Sergius of one of the Ural provinces—I have the name in my book
upstairs—but was now passing himself off as a Pole under the name of
Francisko Loth. The collection was one of extraordinary excellence, and
Mr. Duke believed it could be purchased for a third, or even less, of
its real value. He had approached the duke through the agent, and had
offered to deal. The trouble, however, was that the Soviet Government
had learned of the duke’s escape, and were displaying immense energy in
the hope of recapturing him. Their agents were scouring the whole of
Europe, and Loth was in mortal terror, for discovery meant certain
death. Mr. Gething told me straight also, that should I succeed in
purchasing, my life would not be worth a tinker’s curse until I had
handed over the stuff. He said that, recognising this, Mr. Duke
considered that my commission should be substantially increased, and he
asked me was I willing to take on the job.”
“And you agreed?”
“Well, what do you think? Of course I agreed. I asked for further
details, and he let me have them. For both my own safety and Loth’s, I
was to take extraordinary precautions. My name is pretty well known in
dealers’ circles over Europe, and therefore would be known to the Soviet
emissaries, so I was to take another. I was to become John Harrison, of
Huddersfield, a tinplate manufacturer. I was not to write to the office
direct, but to send my reports, if any were necessary, to Mr. Herbert
Lyons, a friend of Mr. Duke’s, who lived not far from him at Hampstead.
If I had to write, I was to be most careful to phrase my letter so that
were I suspected and my correspondence tampered with, it would not give
the affair away. Instructions to me would be sent to Harrison and
written on plain notepaper, and would be worded in a similar careful
way. Mr. Gething gave me a code by which I could wire the amount agreed
on, when the money would be sent me by special messenger; that is, if we
could come to terms.”
Vanderkemp paused and glanced at the Inspector, but the latter not
speaking, he continued:
“Loth was hidden in Constantinople, but was trying to come west. He was
not sure whether he could do so best by land or sea. If he could get out
of Turkey by land, he would work his way up the Danube to Austria and
Switzerland, and would stop eventually at the Beau-Sejour Hotel in
Chamonix. If that proved impossible, he would try to leave by sea, and
would travel by one of the Navigazione Generale Italiana boats to Genoa,
and thence to Barcelona, where he would put up at the Gomez Hotel, that
is, this one. He had let Mr. Duke know through his Constantinople friend
that if he didn’t turn up at Chamonix by the 4th, it would mean either
that the Bolsheviks had caught him, or that he was making for Barcelona.
My instructions, therefore, were to go to Chamonix, put up at the
Beau-Sejour, and look out until the 4th for a tall, white-complexioned,
dark-haired man named Francisko Loth. If by that time he had not turned
up, I was to move on here. I was to wait here for a fortnight, at the
end of which time, if I had still heard nothing of him, I was to go on
to Constantinople, look up Mr. Duke’s agent, and try for news of Loth’s
fate.”
“And you carried out the instructions?”
“Yes. I went to Chamonix, and stayed there for a week. Seeing no one who
could possibly be the man, I came on here, and have been waiting here
ever since. To-morrow I proposed to leave for Constantinople.”
French threw away the butt of his cigar and selected another.
“Such a trip could not be accomplished without money,” he said slowly.
“How were you equipped in that way?”
“Mr. Gething handed me a hundred pounds in ten-pound notes. I changed
two in Chamonix and I have the remaining eight in my pocket.”
“You might let me see them.”
Vanderkemp readily complied, and the Inspector found, as he expected,
that the eight notes were among those stolen from the safe. He resumed
his interrogation.
“You say you reached the office in Hatton Garden about half-past eight?”
“Yes, and left about nine. My business occupied only half an hour.”
“And you saw no one except Mr. Gething?”
“No one.”
French, having offered his possible future prisoner another cigar, sat
silent, thinking deeply. He had no doubt that the story of the escaped
Russian was a fabrication from beginning to end. Besides being an
unlikely tale in itself, it broke down on the point of its authorship.
Vanderkemp’s statement was that Gething had been told the story by Mr.
Duke, and that Mr. Duke would have been present to tell it to him,
Vanderkemp, in person, were he not prevented by some unexpected cause.
This also was an obvious fabrication, but the reason of its insertion
into the tale was clear enough. Without it, the story would have no
authority. The use of Mr. Duke’s name was an essential part of any such
scheme, just as the forging of Mr. Duke’s signature had been necessary
for the letters of instruction to Schoofs and Vanderkemp.
But though French felt sure enough of his ground so far, on trying to
take a further step he was held up by the same difficulty with which he
had been faced in considering the forged letters. Was Gething guilty,
and had he invented this elaborate plan to throw suspicion on to
Vanderkemp, or was Vanderkemp the criminal, and the story his scheme for
accounting for his actions since the murder? That was a real difficulty,
and French sat wondering if there was no test he could apply, no way in
which he could reach certainty, no trap which the victim would be unable
to avoid?
For some time he could think of none, but presently an idea occurred to
him which he thought might be worth while following up. Some information
might be gained through the typewriting of the two forged letters. Could
Vanderkemp type, and if so, was his work done with a light or heavy
touch? He turned to his companion.
“I wish you would write me a short statement of your movements in London
on the night of the crime, stating the times at which you arrived at and
left the various places you visited. I should prefer it typed—that is,
if you can type. Can you?”
Vanderkemp smiled wanly.
“I think so,” he answered. “I type and write shorthand in four
languages. But I’ve no machine here.”
“Borrow one from the office,” French suggested, as he expressed his
admiration of the other’s prowess.
It took a personal visit to the office, but Vanderkemp, anxious to defer
to the Inspector’s whims, managed to overcome the scruples of the
languorous, dark-eyed beauty who reigned therein, and returned
triumphant with the machine. Ten minutes later French had his
time-table.
Instantly he saw that Vanderkemp typed as an expert—with a light, sure
touch that produced a perfect impression, but did not dint the paper. It
was a point in the man’s favour. By no means conclusive, it was still by
no means negligible.
Inspector French was puzzled. His experience told him that in this world
the ordinary, natural and obvious thing happened. A man who secretly
visited the scene of a crime at about the hour at which the crime was
known to be committed, and who then left the country on a mysterious and
improbable mission, the reality of which was denied by its alleged
author, a man, further, who had in his pocket bank-notes stolen from the
scene of the crime, such a man in ordinary, prosaic, everyday life was
the criminal. Such, French thought, was common sense, and common sense,
he considered, was right ninety-nine times out of a hundred.
But there was always the hundredth chance. Improbabilities and
coincidences _did_ occasionally happen. He would have given a good deal
at that moment to know if this case was the exception that proves the
rule.
He saw clearly that his second explanation, if somewhat more
far-fetched, was still quite possibly true. It certainly might be that
Vanderkemp had been duped, that he had been sent on this wild goose
chase by the murderer, with the object of drawing on himself just that
suspicion which he had attracted, and thus allowing the real scent to
cool. A good many of the facts tended in that direction, the forged
letters, the keeping of the alleged deal from Schoofs, the fact that no
Russian nobleman had turned up at either of the rendezvous named, the
travelling under a false name, the warning against communications with
the office, and last, but not least, Vanderkemp’s manner during the
interview, all these undoubtedly supported the view that the traveller
had been used to lay a gigantic false clue.
If so, it was a fiendish trap to set for the unfortunate dupe. French
thought he could see how it was intended to pan out. Vanderkemp, while
on these mysterious journeys—certainly when he reached Mr. Duke’s agent
in Constantinople—would learn of the murder, and he would at once see
how he had been victimised. The more he learned of the details, the more
he would realise how completely he was in the toils. He would recognise
that if he went home and told his story he would not have a dog’s chance
of clearing himself, and he would turn his apparent flight into a real
one, and so permanently fasten upon himself a tacit admission of guilt.
It was an ingenious scheme, and if it really were the explanation of
these mysterious happenings, it gave an indication of the character and
mentality of the man who had devised it.
French was by no means decided as to the truth of the matter, but on the
whole he thought that though he undoubtedly had evidence to justify him
in applying for the arrest and extradition of the traveller, he would
prefer to avoid this step if possible. If the man tried to give him the
slip, the local police would get him in no time. Accordingly he turned
once more to Vanderkemp.
“Mr. Vanderkemp,” he began, “I am strongly inclined to believe your
story. But as a man of the world you will readily see that it must be
more completely examined before it can be fully accepted. Now the
question is, Are you willing to come back with me to London and give me
your assistance towards finding out the truth? I can make you no promise
that you will not be arrested on reaching British ground, but I can
promise you that you will be fairly dealt with and get every chance and
assistance to prove your innocence.”
Vanderkemp did not hesitate in his reply.
“I will go,” he said promptly. “I am aware that you can have me arrested
here, if you want to, by applying to the Spanish authorities, so I have
no choice. But I think I should go in any case. I have done nothing
contrary to the law, and I have done nothing to be ashamed of. I cannot
now rest until my innocence is admitted.”
French nodded gravely.
“Once again, sir, I think you are doing the wise thing. Let us go
to-night by the Paris express. In the meantime come with me to the post
office and help me to send a wire to the Yard.”
Two mornings later they reached London. Mr. Duke was naturally amazed at
his subordinate’s story, and on hearing the evidence, gave it as his
opinion that Vanderkemp was the dupe of some person or persons unknown.
What was more to the point, Chief Inspector Mitchell, French’s immediate
superior, took the same view, and Vanderkemp, therefore, was not
arrested, though he was shadowed night and day. French undertook an
investigation into his life and circumstances, which showed that these
had been painted in somewhat darker colours than appeared justifiable,
but which revealed no evidence about the crime. Furthermore, none of the
jewels could be traced to him, nor any of the stolen notes other than
those he had spoken of.
Once more the days began to slip past without bringing to light any
fresh fact, and as time passed French grew more worried and despondent,
and his superior officers more querulous. And then something occurred to
turn his attention to a completely different side of the case, and send
him off with fresh hope and energy on a new clue.