Ignorant of the fate of my friends, I was unceremoniously bundled into a
fiacre and driven to the police bureau, where for nearly three hours I
was closely questioned regarding my own identity and my knowledge of
Harvey Shaw.
Aix-les-Bains being a gambling centre, it attracts half the _escrocs_ in
Europe; hence, stationed here and there are several of the smartest and
shrewdest police officials which France possesses. At the hands of
Victor Tramu and two of his colleagues I was subjected to the closest
interrogation in a small bare room with threadbare carpet and walls
painted dark green, the headquarters of the Surete in that district.
The population of Aix in summer is much the same as that of Monte Carlo
in winter--a heterogeneous, cosmopolitan collection of wealthy pigeons
and hawks of both sexes and all nationalities.
From the thousand and one questions with which I fenced I tried to
gather the nature of the offence of which Harvey Shaw was culpable, but
all to no avail. I asked Tramu point-blank if he and his
foster-daughter had been arrested, but no information would he give.
"I am asking questions--not you, m'sieur," was his cold reply.
All the interrogation seemed directed towards ascertaining the
hiding-place of Shaw in England.
"You knew him in England," remarked Tramu, seated at a table upon which
was a telephone instrument, while I stood between the two agents of
police who had arrested me. "Where did you first meet him?"
"At a railway station."
"Under what circumstances?"
"I had a message to deliver--a letter from a dead friend."
Tramu smiled incredulously, as did also the two other officials at his
side.
"And this dead friend--who was he?" asked the renowned detective.
"A man whom I had met on a steamer between Naples and London. He was a
stranger to me, but being taken ill on board, I tried to do what I could
for him. He died in London soon after our arrival."
"His name?"
"Melvill Arnold."
Victor Tramu stroked his brown beard.
"Arnold! Arnold!" he repeated. "Melvill Arnold--an English name. He
was an Englishman, of course?"
"Certainly."
"Arnold! Arnold!" he repeated, gazing blankly across the room. "And he
was a friend of the suspect Shaw, eh?"
"I presume so."
"Arnold!" he again repeated reflectively, as though the name recalled
something to his memory. "Was he an elderly, grey-haired man who had
lived a great deal in Egypt and was an expert in Egyptology eh?"
"He was."
Tramu sprang to his feet, staring at me, utterly amazed.
"And he is dead, you say?"
"He is--he died in my presence."
"Arnold!" he cried, turning to his colleagues. "All, yes. I remember
now. I recollect--a most remarkable and mysterious mail. _Dieu_! what
a colossal brain! What knowledge--what a staunch friend, and what a
formidable enemy! And he is, alas! dead. Describe to me the
circumstances in which he died, Monsieur Kemball," he added, in a voice
full of regret and sympathy.
In response, I briefly told him the story, much as I have related it in
these pages, while all listened attentively.
"And he actually compelled you to burn the banknotes, eh?" asked the
officer of the Surete. "He wilfully destroyed his fortune--the money
which I had hoped to recover--the money which he--But, no! He is dead,
so we need say no more."
"Then you knew poor Arnold, Monsieur Tramu?" I remarked.
"Quite well," laughed the brown-bearded man seated at the table. "For
years the police of Europe searched for him in vain. He was far too
wary and clever for us. Instead of enjoying the pleasures of the
capitals, he preferred the desert and his studies of Egyptian antiques.
He moved about so quickly, and with so many precautions, that we never
could lay hands upon him. Indeed, it is said that he kept two ex-agents
of police, whose duty it was to watch us, and keep him informed
regarding our movements. His was, indeed, a master mind--a greater man
than your associate, Harvey Shaw."
"What were the charges against Arnold?" I asked eagerly. "Why were you
so anxious to secure his arrest?"
"Oh, there were a dozen different charges," he replied. "But now he is
dead, let his memory as a very remarkable man rest in peace. Our
present action concerns the man Shaw. Where did you visit him in
England?"
"He visited me at my house, Upton End."
"And you did not visit him?"
"I saw him twice at the Carlton Hotel in London, and once at the Adelphi
Hotel in Liverpool."
"And you declare that you have no knowledge of his offences?" asked the
official shrewdly.
"If I had, I certainly should not have accepted his invitation to come
here on a motor-tour," was my quick reply.
"And the girl? You mean to say that you have no suspicion of her
offence?"
"Her offence!" I cried. "Tell me--I beg of you to tell me!--what
allegation there is against her."
"Ah, my dear m'sieur, of that you will know soon enough," replied the
detective, again stroking his beard. "I fear that, if your ignorance of
the truth is not feigned, the revelations forthcoming will--well,
greatly astonish you."
"But surely Mademoiselle is not a criminal!" I cried, staring at him in
dismay.
"Wait and hear the evidence against her."
"I will not believe it."
"Ah! because you are enamoured of her--eh, Monsieur Kemball?" exclaimed
the great detective, with a shrewd twinkle in his large brown eyes. "A
man is always loath to believe that his well-beloved can do wrong.
_Bien_! I urge you to wait and see what the revelations bring forth--to
carefully weigh over the hideous story before giving further thought to
her."
"I need no advice. Monsieur," I protested angrily. "If you make
allegations, you should surely tell me their nature."
"That is for you to discover," he answered, with a crafty smile. "You
have refused to assist me; therefore I, in turn, refuse to satisfy your
curiosity."
"You have arrested me because I happen to be on friendly terms with this
man and his daughter. Therefore surely I may be told the offence
alleged against them," I protested in anger.
"The fact you have revealed--namely, that Shaw and Melvill Arnold were
friends--is quite sufficient to prove what I really suspected. The
man's identity is made entirely plain, even though you refused to give
me information."
"They are my friends," I remarked resentfully.
"Perhaps they will be so no longer when you know the actual truth
concerning them," he said, smiling grimly.
"And what is this terrible charge against them, pray?"
"Have I not already told you that you will know quite soon enough?" was
the prompt reply of the renowned detective, whose name was as a
household word in France; and his two companions smiled.
The telephone bell rang, and one of them took up the receiver and
listened.
Then he handed it to Tramu, who, from his words, I gathered, was
speaking with the commissary of police at the Gare du Lyon, in Paris,
asking that an incoming train should be carefully watched.
"Thank you. Advise me as soon as it arrives," he added, and placing the
receiver down, he rang off.
Again he returned to the attack, endeavouring to discover from me where
in England Shaw had hidden himself. But I was just as evasive as he was
himself. I was fighting for the woman I loved. I told him vaguely that
they lived in the North of England in order to mislead him, but I
declared I did not know their actual place of residence.