The day before the encounter with Mr. Cranley at the house of the
lady of _The Bunhouse_, Barton, when he came home from a round of
professional visits, had found Maitland waiting in his chill, unlighted
lodgings. Of late, Maitland had got into the habit of loitering there,
discussing and discussing all the mysteries which made him feel that
he was indeed “moving about in worlds not realized.” Keen as was the
interest which Barton took in the labyrinth of his friend’s affairs,
he now and again wearied of Maitland, and of a conversation that ever
revolved round the same fixed but otherwise uncertain points.
“Hullo, Maitland; glad to see you,” he observed, with some shade of
hypocrisy. “Anything new to-day?”
“Yes,” said Maitland; “I really do think I have a clew at last.”
“Well, wait a bit till they bring the candles,” said Barton, groaning
as the bell-rope came away in his hands. “Bring lights, please, and
tea, and stir up the fire, Jemima, my friend,” he remarked, when the
blackened but alert face of the little slavey appeared at the door.
“Yes, Dr. Barton, in a minute, sir,” answered Jemima, who greatly
admired the Doctor, and in ten minutes the dismal lodgings looked almost
comfortable.
“Now for your clew, old man,” exclaimed Barton, as he handed Maitland
a cup of his peculiar mixture, very weak, with plenty of milk and no
sugar. “Oh, Ariadne, what a boon that clew of yours has been to the
detective mind! To think that, without the Minotaur, the police would
probably never have hit on that invaluable expression, ‘the police have
a clew.’”
Maitland thought this was trifling with the subject.
“This advertisement,” he said, gravely, “appears to me undoubtedly to
refer to the miscreant who carried off Margaret, poor girl.”
“Does it, by Jove?” cried Barton, with some eagerness this time. “Let’s
have a look at it!”
This was what he read aloud:
“Bearskin Coat.--The gentleman travelling with a young lady,
who, on Feb. 19th, left a bearskin coat at the Hôtel Alsace
and Lorraine, Avenue de l’Opéra, Paris, is requested to
remove it, or it will be sold to defray expenses.
“Dupin.”
“This _may_ mean business,” he said, “or it may not. In the first place,
is there such an hotel in Paris as the ‘Alsace et Lorraine,’ and is M.
Dupin the proprietor?”
“_That’s_ all right,” said Maitland. “I went at once to the Club, and
looked up the _Bottin_, the Paris Directory, don’t you know.”
“So far, so good; and yet I don’t quite see what you can make of it. It
does not come to much, you know, even if the owner of the coat is the
man you want And again, is he likely to have left such a very notable
article of dress behind him in an hotel? Anyway, can’t you send some
detective fellow? Are you going over yourself in this awful weather?”
So Barton argued, but Maitland was not to be easily put off the hopeful
scent.
“Why, don’t you see,” he exclaimed, “the people at the hotel will at
least be able to give one a fuller description of the man than anything
we have yet. And they may have some idea of where he has gone to; and,
at least, they will have noticed how he was treating Margaret, and that,
of course, is what I am most anxious to learn. Again, he may have left
other things besides the coat, or there may be documents in the pockets.
I have read of such things happening.”
“Yes, in ‘Le Crime de l’Opéra;’ and a very good story, too,” answered
the incredulous Barton; “but I don’t fancy that the villain of real life
is quite so innocent and careless as the monster of fiction.”
“Everyone knows that murderers are generally detected through some
incredible piece of carelessness,” said Mait-land; “and why should this
elaborate scoundrel be more fortunate than the rest? If he _did_ leave
the coat, he will scarcely care to go back for it; and I do not think
the chance should be lost, even if it is a poor one. Besides, I’m doing
no good here, and I can do no harm there.”
This was undeniably true; and though Barton muttered something about “a
false scent,” he no longer attempted to turn Maitland from his purpose.
He did, however, with some difficulty, prevent the Fellow of St.
Gatien’s from purchasing a blonde beard, one of those wigs which
simulate baldness, and a pair of blue spectacles. In these disguises,
Maitland argued, he would certainly avoid recognition, and so discomfit
any mischief planned by the enemies of Margaret.
“Yes; but, on the other hand, you would look exactly like a German
professor, and probably be taken for a spy of Bismarck’s,” said Barton.
And Maitland reluctantly gave up the idea of disguise. He retained,
however, certain astute notions of his own about his plan of operations,
and these, unfortunately, he did not communicate to his friend. The
fact is, that the long dormant romance of Maitland’s character was now
thoroughly awake, and he began, unconsciously, to enjoy the adventure.
His enjoyment did not last very long. The usual troubles of a winter
voyage, acting on a dilapidated digestive system, were not spared the
guardian of Margaret But everything---even a period of waiting at
the Paris _salle d’attente_, and a struggle with the _cochers_ at the
station (who, for some reason, always decline to take a fare)--must come
to an end at last. About dinner-time, Maitland was jolted through the
glare of the Parisian streets, to the Avenue de l’Opéra. At the
Hôtel Alsace et Lorraine he determined not to betray himself by too
precipitate eagerness. In the first place, he wrote an assumed name in
the hotel book, choosing, by an unlucky inspiration, the pseudonym
of Buchanan. He then ordered dinner in the hotel, and, by way of
propitiation, it was a much better dinner than usual that Maitland
ordered. Bottles of the higher Bordeaux wines, reposing in beautiful
baskets, were brought at his command; for he was determined favorably to
impress the people of the house.
His conduct in this matter was partly determined by the fact that, for
the moment, the English were not popular in Paris.
In fact, as the French newspapers declared, with more truth than they
suspected, “Paris was not the place for English people, especially for
English women.”
In these international circumstances, then, Maitland believed he showed
the wisdom of the serpent when he ordered dinner in the fearless old
fashion attributed by tradition to the Milords of the past But he had
reckoned without his appetite.
A consequence of sea-travel, neither uncommon nor alarming, is the
putting away of all desire to eat and drink. As the waiter carried
off the untouched _hors d’oeuvres_ (whereof Maitland only nibbled the
delicious bread and butter); as he bore away the _huîtres_, undiminished
in number; as the _bisque_ proved too much for the guest of the evening;
as he faltered over the soles, and failed to appreciate the cutlets; as
he turned from the noblest _crûs_ (including the widow’s _crûs_, those
of La Veuve Cliquot), and asked for _siphon_ and _fine champagne_, the
waiter’s countenance assumed an air of owl-like sagacity. There was
something wrong, the _garçon_ felt sure, about a man who could order a
dinner like Maitland’s, and then decline to partake thereof. However,
even in a republican country, you can hardly arrest a man merely because
his intentions are better than his appetite. The waiter, therefore,
contented himself with assuming an imposing attitude, and whispering
something to the hall porter.
The Fellow of St. Gatien’s, having dined with the Barmecide regardless
of expense, went on (as he hoped) to ingratiate himself with the
_concierge_. From that official he purchased two large cigars, which he
did not dream of attempting to enjoy; and he then endeavored to enter
into conversation, selecting for a topic the state of the contemporary
drama. What would monsieur advise him to go to see? Where was Mile. Jane
Hading playing?
Having in this conversation broken the ice (and almost every rule
of French grammar), Maitland began to lead up craftily to the great
matter--the affair of the bearskin coat. Did many English use the hotel?
Had any of his countrymen been there lately? He remembered that when he
left England a friend of his had asked him to inquire about an article
of dress--a great-coat--which he had left somewhere, perhaps in a cab.
Could monsieur the Porter tell him where he ought to apply for news
about the garment, a coat in _peau d’ours_?
On the mention of this raiment a clerkly-looking man, who had been
loitering in the office of the _concierge_, moved to the neighborhood of
the door, where he occupied himself in study of a railway map hanging on
the wall.
The porter now was all smiles. But, certainly! Monsieur had fallen well
in coming to him. Monsieur wanted a lost coat in skin of the bear? It
had been lost by a compatriot of monsieur’s? Would monsieur give himself
the trouble to follow the porter to the room where lost baggage was
kept?
Maitland, full of excitement, and of belief that he now really was on
the trail, followed the porter, and the clerkly man (rather a liberty,
thought Maitland) followed _him_.
The porter led them to a door marked “private,” and they all three
entered.
The clerkly-looking person now courteously motioned Maitland to take a
chair.
The Englishman sat down in some surprise.
“Where,” he asked, “was the bearskin coat?”
“Would monsieur first deign to answer a few inquiries? Was the coat his
own, or a friend’s?”
“A friend’s,” said Maitland, and then, beginning to hesitate, admitted
that the garment only belonged to “a man he knew something about.”
“What is his name?” asked the clerkly man, who was taking notes.
His name, indeed! If Maitland only knew that! His French now began to
grow worse and worse in proportion to his flurry.
Well, he explained, it was very unlucky, but he did not exactly remember
the man’s name. It was quite a common name. He had met him for the
first time on board the steamer; but the man was going to Brussels, and,
finding that Maitland was on his way to Paris, had asked him to make
inquiries.
Here the clerkly person, laying down his notes, asked if English
gentlemen usually spoke of persons whom they had just met for the first
time on board the steamer as their friends?
Maitland, at this, lost his temper, and observed that, as they seemed
disposed to give him more trouble than information, he would go and see
the play.
Hereupon the clerkly person requested monsieur to remember, in his
deportment, what was due to Justice; and when Maitland rose, in a
stately way, to leave the room, he also rose and stood in front of the
door.
However little of human nature an Englishman may possess, he is rarely
unmoved by this kind of treatment. Maitland took the man by the collar,
_sans phrase_, and spun him round, amid the horrified clamor of the
porter. But the man, without any passion, merely produced and displayed
a card, containing a voucher that he belonged to the Secret Police, and
calmly asked Maitland for “his papers.”
Maitland had no papers. He had understood that passports were no longer
required.
The detective assured him that passports “spoil nothing.” Had monsieur
nothing stating his identity? Maitland, entirely forgetting that he had
artfully entered his name as “Buchanan” on the hotel book, produced his
card, on the lower corner of which was printed, _St. Gatien’s College._
This address puzzled the detective a good deal, while the change of name
did not allay his suspicions, and he ended by requesting Maitland to
accompany him into the presence of Justice. As there was no choice,
Maitland obtained leave to put some linen in his travelling-bag, and was
carried off to what we should call the nearest police-station. Here
he was received in a chill bleak room by a formal man, wearing a
decoration, who (after some private talk with the detective) asked
Maitland to explain his whole conduct in the matter of the coat. In
the first place, the detective’s notes on their conversation were
read aloud, and it was shown that Maitland had given a false name; had
originally spoken of the object of his quest as “the coat of a friend;”
then as “the coat of a man whom he knew something about;” then as “the
coat of a man whose name he did not know;” and that, finally, he had
attempted to go away without offering any satisfactory account of
himself.
All this the philanthropist was constrained to admit; but he was, not
unnaturally, quite unable to submit any explanation of his proceedings.
What chiefly discomfited him was the fact that his proceedings were a
matter of interest and observation. Why, he kept wondering, was all this
fuss made about a coat which had, or had not, been left by a traveller
at the hotel? It was perfectly plain that the hotel was used as a
_souricière_, as the police say, as a trap in which all inquirers after
the coat could be captured. Now, if he had been given time (and a French
dictionary), Maitland might have set before the Commissaire of Police
the whole story of his troubles. He might have begun with the discovery
of Shields’ body in the snow; he might have gone on to Margaret’s
disappearance (_enlèvement_), and to a description of the costume
(bearskin coat and all) of the villain who had carried her away. Then
he might have described his relations with Margaret, the necessity of
finding her, the clew offered by the advertisement in the _Times_, and
his own too subtle and ingenious attempt to follow up that clew. But
it is improbable that this narrative, had Maitland told it ever
so movingly, would have entirely satisfied the suspicions of the
Commissaire of Police. It might even have prejudiced that official
against Maitland. Moreover, the Fellow of St. Gatien’s had neither the
presence of mind nor the linguistic resources necessary to relate the
whole plot and substance of this narrative, at a moment’s notice, in a
cold police-office, to a sceptical alien. He therefore fell back on a
demand to be allowed to communicate with the English Ambassador; and
that night Maitland of Gatien’s passed, for the first time during his
blameless career, in a police-cell.
It were superfluous to set down in detail all the humiliations endured
by Maitland. Do not the newspapers continually ring with the laments
of the British citizen who has fallen into the hands of Continental
Justice? Are not our countrymen the common butts of German, French,
Spanish, and even Greek and Portuguese Jacks in office? When an
Englishman appears, do not the foreign police usually arrest him at a
venture, and inquire afterward?
Maitland had, with the best intentions, done a good deal more than most
of these innocents to deserve incarceration. His conduct, as the
Juge d’Instruction told him, without mincing matters, was undeniably
_louche_.
In the first place, the suspicions of M. Dupin, of the Hôtel Alsace et
Lorraine, had been very naturally excited by seeing the advertisement
about the great-coat in the _Times_, for he made a study of “the journal
of the City.”
Here was a notice purporting to be signed by himself, and referring to a
bearskin coat, said (quite untruly) to have been left in his own
hotel. A bearskin coat! The very words breathe of Nihilism, dynamite,
stratagems, and spoils. Then the advertisement was in English, which
is, at present and till further notice, the language spoken by the brave
Irish. M. Dupin, as a Liberal, had every sympathy with the brave Irish
in their noble struggle for whatever they _are_ struggling for; but he
did not wish his hostelry to become, so to speak, the mountain-cave of
Freedom, and the great secret storehouse of nitro-glycerine. With a view
to elucidating the mystery of the advertisement, he had introduced the
police on his premises, and the police had hardly settled down in its
_affût_, when, lo! a stranger had been captured, in most suspicious
circumstances. M. Dupin felt very clever indeed, and his friends envied
him the distinction and advertisement which were soon to be his.
When Maitland appeared, as he did in due course, before the Juge
d’Instruction, he attempted to fall back on the obsolete _Civis
Romanus sum!_ He was an English citizen. He had written to the English
ambassador, or rather to an old St. Gatien’s man, an _attaché_ of the
embassy, whom he luckily happened to know. But this great ally chanced
to be out of town, and his name availed Maitland nothing in his
interview with the Juge d’Instruction. That magistrate, sitting with his
back to the light, gazed at Maitland with steady, small gray eyes,
while the scribble of the pen of the _greffier_, as he took down the
Englishman’s deposition, sounded shrill in the bleak torture-chamber of
the law.
“Your name?” asked the Juge d’Instruction.
“Maitland,” replied the Fellow of St. Gatien’s.
“You lie!” said the Juge d’Instruction. “You entered the name of
Buchanan in the book of the hotel.”
“My name is on my cards, and on that letter,” said Maitland, keeping his
temper wonderfully.
The documents in question lay on a table, as _pièces justificatives_.
“These cards, that letter, you have robbed them from some unfortunate
person, and have draped (_afflublé_) yourself in the trappings of your
victim! Where is his body?”
This was the working hypothesis which the Juge d’Instruction had formed
within himself to account for the general conduct and proceedings of the
person under examination.
“Where is _whose_ body?” asked Maitland, in unspeakable surprise.
“Buchanan,” said the Juge d’Instruction. (And to hear the gallantry
with which he attacked this difficult name, of itself insured respect.)
“Buchanan, you are acting on a deplorable system. Justice is not
deceived by your falsehoods, nor eluded by your subterfuges. She
is calm, stern, but merciful. Unbosom yourself freely” (_répandez
franchement_), “and you may learn that justice can be lenient It is your
interest to be frank.” (_Il est de votre intérêt d’être franc_.)
“But what do you want me to say?” asked the prévenu, “What is all this
pother about a great-coat?” (_Tant de fracas pour un paletot?_)
Maitland was rather proud of this sentence.
“It is the part of Justice to ask questions, not to answer them,”
said the Juge d’Instruction. “Levity will avail you nothing. Tell me,
Buchanan, why did you ask for the coat at the Hôtel Alsace et Lorraine?”
“In answer to that advertisement in the Times.”
“That is false; you yourself inserted the advertisement. But, on your
own system, bad as it is, what did you want with the coat?”
“It belonged to a man who had done me an ill-turn.”
“His name?”
“I do not know his name; that is just what I wanted to find out I might
have found his tailor’s name on the coat, and then have discovered for
whom the coat was made.”
“You are aware that the proprietor of the hotel did not insert the
forged advertisement?”
“So he says.”
“You doubt his word? You insult France in one of her citizens!”
Maitland apologized.
“Then whom do you suspect of inserting the advertisement, as you deny
having done it yourself, for some purpose which does not appear?”
“I believe the owner of the coat put in the advertisement.”
“That is absurd. What had he to gain by it?”
“To remove me from London, where he is probably conspiring against me at
this moment.”
“Buchanan, you trifle with Justice!”
“I have told you that my name is not Buchanan.”
“Then why did you forge that name in the hotel book?”
“I wrote it in the hurry and excitement of the moment; it was
incorrect.”
“Why did you lie?” (_Pourquoi avez vous menti?_)
Maitland made an irritable movement
“You threaten Justice. Your attitude is deplorable. You are consigned
_au secret_, and will have an opportunity of revising your situation,
and replying more fully to the inquiries of Justice.”
So ended Maitland’s first and, happily, sole interview with a Juge
d’Instruction. Lord Walter Brixton, his old St Gatien’s pupil, returned
from the country on the very day of Maitland’s examination. An interview
(during which Lord Walter laughed unfeelingly) with his old coach
was not refused to the _attaché_, and, in a few hours, after some
formalities had been complied with, Maitland was a free man. His _pièces
justificatives_, his letters, cards, and return ticket to Charing Cross,
were returned to him intact.
But Maitland determined to sacrifice the privileges of the last-named
document.
“I am going straight to Constantinople and the Greek Islands,” he
wrote to Barton. “Do you know, I don’t like Paris. My attempt at an
investigation has not been a success. I have endured considerable
discomfort, and I fear my case will get into the _Figaro_, and there
will be dozens of ‘social leaders’ and ‘descriptive headers’ about me in
all the penny papers.”
Then Maitland gave his banker’s address at Constantinople, relinquished
the quest of Margaret, and for a while, as the Sagas say, “is out of the
story.”