THE S. S. “ENOCH”
IN the vast organisation of Scotland Yard the indexing of information on
every available subject has been brought to something more than a fine
art. If French had wished to know the number of inhabitants of Prague,
the favourite recreations of the Elder Brethren of Trinity House, or the
width of the Ganges at Allahabad, some notes or books of reference would
immediately have been forthcoming which would have fully supplied the
desired information. How much more when the question was merely one of
trains and steamers. He had not long to wait for an answer to his
telephone, and this revealed the fact that the Booth liner _Enoch_,
which had left Liverpool on the previous afternoon, called at Havre,
Oporto, Lisbon, Madeira, and Para, before completing her voyage to
Manáos by a sail of a thousand miles up the Amazon. Moreover, she
awaited at Havre the arrival of the Southhampton boat, the connection of
which left Waterloo at 9.30 on the night of the 27th.
“To-night!” French thought as he hastily glanced at his watch. It was
just 8.42. _What_ a stroke of luck! He would travel by it, and with any
reasonable good fortune he would have these Vanes safe in his clutches
before another dozen hours had passed.
As a man of action French was unsurpassed. Within five minutes he had
called an assistant, a keen, efficient young sergeant named Carter, and
instructed him to join him that night on the 9.30 Continental train from
Waterloo, had sent another keen, efficient helper post-haste to have
extradition warrants and other necessaries sent to the same train, and
had rung up for a taxi to take him home to tell his wife of his change
of plan and to put two or three things together for the journey. In
short, thanks to his energy, the hands of the Waterloo station clock had
scarcely reached 9.25 when he and Sergeant Carter reached the platform
from which the boat train was about to start. Awaiting them was Manning,
the other keen and efficient assistant, who handed over warrants for the
arrest and extradition of Mr. and Mrs. Vane, passports, English and
French money, as well as an introduction to the French police at Havre.
“Good, Manning! That’s all right,” French approved as he took over the
munitions of war. In another couple of minutes the train drew slowly out
of the station, and increasing its speed as it passed the myriad lights
of South London, was soon roaring through the darkness of the open
country beyond.
Fortunately, the night was calm and the boat was not crowded, so that
the detectives were able to get berths and a sleep to prepare them for
their toils on the following day. They reached Havre on time, and
jumping into a taxi were driven to the berth of the _Enoch_, which was
some distance down the docks. French hurried on board and asked to see
the Captain, while Carter remained at the gangway lest the quarry,
seeing French and knowing his appearance, might take fright and attempt
to slip ashore.
Captain Davis saw French immediately.
“Sit down, Mr. French,” he said pleasantly when he had examined the
other’s credentials, “and let me know what I can do for you.”
French took the proffered seat as he drew from his pocket Mrs. Vane’s
photograph as well as her description and that of her husband.
“I’ll tell you, Captain,” he answered. “I’m after a man and woman who
are wanted for murder and robbery. They call themselves Mr. and Mrs.
Vane, though I don’t know if this is their real name or even if they are
married. I have learned that they booked with you from Liverpool to
Manáos, but I only found that out last night, so I came over by
Southampton in the hope of making an arrest. There,” he passed over his
photograph and papers, “are the descriptions.”
The Captain glanced at him as he took the papers. He did not speak until
he had looked through the latter, then he said gravely:
“I’m afraid, Mr. French, they’ve been one too many for you this time. A
Mr. and Mrs. Vane did book passages and even came on board at Liverpool,
but they left the ship almost immediately and didn’t turn up again. I
assumed that some accident had prevented their return, and that they
would follow by Southampton as you did, but from what you tell me it
looks as if they had learned you were on their track and made a bolt for
it. But we had better see the purser. He will tell us details.”
French was aghast. Once again had happened to him what he had so often
previously experienced. When he was most sure of himself and most
confident of success, that was the time of failure! How often had he
taken a sporting chance, doubtful of himself and his ability to meet a
situation, and the occasion had resulted in a brilliant coup. And how
often, alas, had his certainty of success ended in disaster!
By the time the purser arrived, he had to some extent recovered his
equanimity. “Mr. Jennings—Inspector French of the C.I.D.,” the Captain
introduced them. “Sit down, Jennings, and hear what the Inspector wants.
It’s about that Mr. and Mrs. Vane that came aboard at Liverpool and left
again before we sailed. Ask him what you want to know, Mr. French.”
Mr. Jennings was a shrewd, efficient-looking man of about forty, and as
French began to speak he felt a comfortable assurance that at least he
would receive in answer to his questions concisely-worded statements of
accurately observed facts.
“It’s this way, Mr. Jennings,” he explained. “These Vanes are wanted for
murder and robbery. I traced them to your ship, and crossed last night
from London, hoping to arrest them here. But the Captain tells me I have
missed them. Perhaps you’ll give me any information you can about them.”
“There’s not much to tell,” the purser answered. “They came aboard about
noon on Thursday, and Mr. Vane showed me their tickets and asked for
their stateroom. The tickets were singles from Liverpool to Manáos, all
O. K. An upper deck stateroom, No. 12, had been reserved at the London
office, and I gave the number to their cabin steward and saw him leading
the way there with the luggage. About half an hour later they came back
to my office and asked what time the ship sailed. I told them three
o’clock. Mr. Vane said they had to go ashore to complete some business,
but would be back in good time. They then left in the direction of the
gangway.”
“Did you actually see them go ashore?”
“No, you can’t see out on deck from the office.”
“Yes? And then?”
“After dinner their cabin steward asked me if I knew anything about
them. He said they hadn’t been down for dinner, and he couldn’t find
them anywhere about the ship. We had a look round, and then I spoke to
Captain Davis, and he had a thorough search made. They have never been
seen since, and they’re certainly not on board now.”
“They couldn’t have hidden somewhere and slipped ashore here in Havre?”
“Quite impossible. There’s not the slightest doubt they missed the boat
at Liverpool.”
“Intentionally or unintentionally?” the Captain interjected.
“I don’t know anything about that,” Mr. Jennings replied, “but they
certainly did not sail with us. Perhaps, Inspector, they learned when
they went on shore that you were after them?”
“Impossible,” French declared. “I did not myself know where they had
gone until last night.”
He felt ruefully sure that the whole thing was part of the elaborate
laying of a false trail, but he did not see that anything was to be
gained by discussing this with the ship’s officers. He pushed his papers
towards the purser.
“Can you recognise the parties from those, Mr. Jennings?”
A glance at the photograph sufficed. The original was undoubtedly that
Mrs. Vane who had for a brief half-hour boarded the _Enoch_. And the
description was that of Mr. Vane also. French was forced to the
conclusion that his quarry had indeed, in the Captain’s words, been too
many for him. He swore bitterly beneath his breath.
“You say they left some luggage in their stateroom,” he went on. “Could
I have a look at it?”
“Of course. But, you know, they may still be here. On several occasions
I have known passengers to miss the ship at Liverpool and follow on
here. They may turn up at any minute.”
“If they do, so much the better,” French answered. “But I won’t bank on
it. If you don’t mind, I’ll have a look at the luggage now. What time do
you sail?”
“In about half an hour.”
“That will just give me time. Meantime I have a man at the gangway, and
he’ll spot them if they come along.”
There were four large suitcases in the roomy and comfortable stateroom
set apart for the Vanes, as well as a number of articles of toilet and
apparel which might well represent the first hurried attempt at
unpacking. The suitcases were locked, but French soon opened them with
his bunch of skeleton keys. And here he got confirmation of his theory
that all this journey to Manáos was merely a carefully thought out plan.
The cases were empty. Dummy luggage, brought in to bolster up the trick.
But there was nothing in the cabin to give any hint of where the
fugitives had really gone.
“I needn’t wait for them to turn up,” French said grimly. “Those empty
suitcases give the show away.”
“I’m afraid it looks like it,” the purser admitted. “Sorry we didn’t
know about it sooner.”
“Can’t be helped. That’s what we Scotland Yard men are up against all
the time.” He bid the friendly purser good-day and slowly left the ship.
But he did not leave the wharf. Though he thought it unlikely, there was
still just a chance that the quarry had missed the ship and were
following on. He would make sure.
But though he waited until the _Enoch_ cast off and swung her bows round
towards the open sea, there was no sign of any late arrivals, and when
he had once seen the liner under way he turned disconsolately to his
satellite.
“It’s all U P, Carter, as far as this trip is concerned. They’ve given
us the slip about proper. Goodness only knows where they are by this
time; perhaps half-way to the States. Let’s find a telegraph office and
report to Headquarters.”
A few minutes later French had sent a long wire to his chief at the
Yard. Then at a loose end, he turned to Sergeant Carter.
“Well, Carter, what shall we do with ourselves now? Here’s ten o’clock
and we can’t get back until the evening. We have the whole day to play
round in.”
Except that he believed he could do with a bit more breakfast, the
Sergeant’s ideas were nebulous. French laughed at him.
“It’s what I was thinking myself,” he admitted, “but it’s a bad time.
These folk over here have no notion of what a good breakfast means, and
it’s a bit early for their lunch. However, we’ll see what we can do.”
They went into a small restaurant and asked for coffee and ham and eggs.
This proving too much for the waiter, the proprietor was summoned. He
had a little English and at last understood.
“But yes, messieurs,” he cried, waving his hands. “The ham, the eggs,
the omelette; is it not so?” He bowed low. “Immediately, messieurs. Will
messieurs be pleased to be seated.”
Messieurs were pleased to be seated, and in an incredibly short space of
time a smoking omelette arrived, garnished with chip potatoes and
onions, together with coffee and delicious rolls and butter. To this the
hungry men did full justice, and Carter’s estimate of the French, which
had been low, went up several points. They took their time over the
meal, but eventually it was finished, and the problem of how to fill in
their time once more became insistent.
“We might go round and see some of these coast places,” French
suggested. “St. Malo or some of those. Or I dare say we could work
across somehow to Dieppe and catch the afternoon boat to Newhaven. What
do you say?”
Carter voted for going to the station and looking into the
possibilities, and they walked slowly up the town, fascinated by the
foreign life of the busy port. Havre is a fine city with good streets,
shops, and public buildings, but it is not an interesting town, and by
the time they reached the station, a mile and a half away, they felt
they had seen enough of it.
An examination of the time-tables showed that they were too late for
Dieppe—the English boat would have left before they could possibly get
there—and St. Malo, they discovered, was not in that part of the
country at all, but miles away to the south-west. Trouville was only
eight or ten miles away across the bay, but Trouville in winter did not
seem an attractive prospect.
“Tell you what,” French said at last. “We’ve got an introduction to
these French johnnies. We’ll go and look ’em up, and perhaps see
something of their police station.”
Sergeant Carter, delighted with his superior’s condescension, hurriedly
agreed, and a few minutes later the two men found themselves ascending
the steps of a large building which bore over the door the legend
“Gendarmerie.” Here French tendered his introduction, with the result
that he was shown into the presence of and politely welcomed by the
officer in charge.
“I regret the Chief is out of town at present,” the latter said in
excellent English. “He will be sorry not to have seen you. I hope that
presently you will give me the pleasure of your company at lunch, and in
the meantime let me know if there is anything I can do for you.”
French explained the circumstances. He would not stay for lunch, as he
had but a short time since finished an excellent breakfast, but he would
be most grateful if the other would tell him how best he could spend the
time until his return boat to Southampton.
“That’s not until midnight,” answered the Frenchman. “You don’t know
this country?”
“Not at all. It was just that if there was anything to see within reach,
we might as well see it.”
“Of course, naturally. Well, monsieur, were I in your place I should
certainly go to Caen. It is an interesting old town, well worth a visit.
There is a steamer all the way, but you would scarcely have time for
that; it is rather slow. I should recommend you to go to Trouville by
steamer—it’s just across the bay—and then go on from there to Caen by
rail. In the time at your disposal I really do not think you could do
anything better.”
French thanked him, and the other continued, “The steamer sails
according to the tide. To-day,” he glanced at an almanac, “it leaves at
midday. You should get to Caen about two, and you could dine there and
come back in the evening in time for your boat.”
At ten minutes to twelve French and his satellite reached the wharf,
having delayed on their walk down town to consume bocks in one of the
many attractive cafés in the main streets. They took tickets and went on
board the little steamer. The day was cold though fine, and there were
but few travellers. They strolled about, interested in the novel scene,
and at last finding two seats in the lee of the funnel, sat down to
await the start.
Midday came, and with leisurely movements the horn was blown, the
gangway run ashore, and the ropes slacked. The Captain put his lips to
the engine-room speaking tube, but before he could give his order an
interruption came from the shore. Shouts arose and a man in the blue
uniform of a gendarme appeared running towards the boat and
gesticulating wildly. The Captain paused, the slackened ropes were
pulled tight, and all concerned stood expectant.
The gendarme jumped on board and ran up the steps to the bridge, eagerly
watched by the entire ship’s company. He spoke rapidly to the Captain,
and then the latter turned to the staring passengers below.
“Monsieur Fr-r-onsh?” he called in stentorian tones, looking inquiringly
round the upturned faces. “Monsieur Fr-r-onsh de Londres?”
“It’s you, sir,” cried Carter. “There’s something up.”
French hastened to the bridge and the gendarme handed him a blue
envelope. “De monsieur le chef,” he explained with a rapid salute, as he
hastened ashore.
It was a telegram, and it contained news which, as it were, brought the
Inspector up all standing. It was from the Yard and read:
“Liverpool police wire Vanes went aboard _Enoch_ and did not go
ashore again. Mackay was watching ship for Henson and saw them.
They must still be on board. Follow ship to Oporto or Lisbon.”
“Come ashore, Carter,” French cried rapidly, rushing to the side. The
boat was actually moving, but the two men, jumping, reached the wharf
amid the execrations of the Captain and staff.
“Here, officer,” he called, beckoning to the gendarme, who had watched
the proceedings with a horrified interest, “how do you get quickly to
Headquarters?”
The man bowed, shrugged his shoulders, and indicated in dumb show that
he did not understand. French hailed a passing taxi and pushed his
companions in.
“Monsieur le chef!” he cried to the bewildered gendarme, producing and
tapping the telegram. “Monsieur le chef?”
The man understood. A smile dawned on his perturbed countenance, and
with a rapid flow of French he gave the required address. In ten minutes
they were once more at the gendarmerie, French still clamouring for
“Monsieur le chef.”
He was shown into the room of the same polite officer whom he had
previously met.
“Ah,” the latter said, “so my man was in time. You got your telegram?”
“Yes, sir, I did, and greatly obliged to you I am for your trouble. But
I can’t make head or tail of the thing. Those ship’s officers this
morning were absolutely positive the wanted couple had not sailed.”
The officer shrugged his shoulders.
“Doubtless,” he said smoothly. “All the same I thought you should have
the message, lest you should wish to follow up the steamer as
suggested.”
“I have no choice,” French returned. “It is an order from Headquarters.
Perhaps, sir, you would add to your already great kindness by telling me
my route. With this confounded difference of language I feel myself all
at sea.”
The officer, who had seemed bored as to the movements of the Vanes,
became once more the efficient, interested consultant. The obvious
route, he said, was via Paris. It was true that you could get across
country to pick up the international express at Bordeaux, but Paris was
quicker and more comfortable. Fortunately, French had returned in time
to catch the midday train to the capital. It left at 12.40, and he could
easily reach the station and book in the twenty minutes which remained
before that hour.
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 reread 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 Leixoes 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
Leixos, 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.