hurry to be off. He would not wait for the noon express: he took the
slow train. As it began to move, he and Juve exchanged a cordial
handshake.
"Good luck!" cried he.
"Thanks, Lieutenant. Good courage!"
The latter admonition was given with a purpose; for Juve was under no
illusion as to de Loubersac's feelings.
"At any other time," thought he, "de Loubersac would have seen it to
be his duty to accompany me to London: he could have secured an
authorisation from his headquarters if required; besides, attached to
the Second Bureau as he is, no doubt the ordinary military rules and
regulations would hardly apply to him: to a large extent he must be
allowed a free hand in emergencies. This is an emergency--an important
one!... No, he wishes to see Wilhelmine: he is in love, is worried,
suspicious: he wishes to clear up the mystery surrounding Wilhelmine's
identity: he is determined to know what exactly were her relations
with Captain Brocq: also, he wants to find out all there is to find
regarding Bobinette and her doings.... To get to the bottom of these
dark mysteries, unravel the tangled threads needs a clear head and a
brave heart, for his feelings are deeply involved, and they may yet be
cut to the quick!... He is a straight goer, that young man!" was
Juve's concluding thought.... "He will do his duty: and when one does
one's duty, with rare exceptions, the result is happiness."
* * * * *
Whilst Juve returned to the jetty to await the departure of the
excursion steamer, Henri de Loubersac, alone in his compartment,
reflected sadly on his relations with Wilhelmine.... He had loved her
a long time. A frank, a sincere affection for her had gradually grown
into a love which filled his whole heart and mind. Juve's words had
troubled him profoundly. This spy chase had been a momentary
distraction, but now his anxieties, his suspicions, his fears, swarmed
and buzzed among his thoughts: he could not banish them!
His reflections so absorbed him that he lost consciousness of time and
place: when the train came to a stand-still in Rouen station, he could
have vowed they had left Dieppe but a few miles behind!
He would stretch his limbs on the platform. He jumped out; but, as he
strolled past the kiosks, gazing at the papers and magazines exhibited
in them, his mind was haunted but by one vision: Wilhelmine....
The train was about to leave: the porters were shouting: he hastened
to his compartment: his foot was on the mounting board: it might have
been nailed there, for the moment!... A young woman was seated in the
further corner. She had lowered her window, and, with head out, was
either saying good-bye to someone or was watching the comings and
goings of the station.
Her attitude, the lines of her figure, were familiar to de Loubersac.
He felt sure he knew her. He took his seat and awaited the turning of
her head.
A piercing whistle and the train began to move. The young woman drew
back, pulled up the window, and sat back in her seat.
Henri de Loubersac saw her.
She made a movement of surprise.
"You! Monsieur Henri!"
"You! Mademoiselle Bobinette!"
"By what chance?" began de Loubersac.
Bobinette interrupted:
"It is rather I who might ask you that, Monsieur Henri!... As for me,
I have been spending four days with my family at Rouen.... I asked for
a holiday and Monsieur de Naarboveck very kindly granted it ... but
you?"
De Loubersac was nervously chewing the end of his blonde moustache.
With a shrug he replied:
"Oh, I! It is never surprising to meet me in a train: I am constantly
on the move: here--there--everywhere!... You have news of Mademoiselle
Wilhelmine?"
"Excellent news. You are coming to Monsieur de Naarboveck's soon?"
"I think of calling on the baron this evening."
Talk continued, commonplace, desultory. What questions crowded to his
lips, sternly repressed!
"She lies," thought he, while listening to the details of her family
visit. "She certainly lies!... I must pretend to be her dupe--the
miserable creature!"
His whole soul revolted at the thought that this Bobinette, involved
as she must be in disgraceful adventures, abominable tragedies, shared
Wilhelmine's home, was her so-called friend! He was seized by a mad
desire to grip Bobinette by the throat--silence her lying
tongue--arrest, handcuff her on the spot--render her powerless!
He had noticed a vague line of black showing below her light coloured
taffeta skirt. It might be the frill of a petticoat just too long.
Thinking no more of it he continued to chat of indifferent things....
Presently, a quick movement of Bobinette's raised her skirt a little
more. This time the watchful de Loubersac could not be mistaken: he
had seen clearly that what showed beneath Bobinette's skirt, every now
and again, was a priest's cassock!
Bobinette's dress concealed the disguise of a priest.
Too well he understood the part this perverse creature had been
playing! Now he could account for their meeting in this train coming
from Rouen!... She had recently associated with Corporal Vinson as a
priest. She had seen him off, no doubt, and, anxious to rid herself of
her ecclesiastical exterior as quickly as might be, she had slipped on
a dress over her ecclesiastical garment.
What was all this but a painful confirmation of Juve's words?... How
could Wilhelmine be entirely ignorant of this dreadful creature's
character? How could Wilhelmine be wholly innocent of the terribly
compromising actions of her daily companion? Did Wilhelmine lack
intuition? Was she without that delicate sensitiveness which is the
birthright of all nice women? How could a pure girl breathe the
miasmic atmosphere which must emanate from the soul of this abominable
woman?
It was terrible!
The desultory commonplace chat went on, whilst de Loubersac was
considering how best to act.
Arrest Bobinette?
Yes. He must not, dare not, hesitate. It was his duty. If he held this
young woman at his mercy, it was, perhaps, the only way, painful as it
was, to ultimately clear up the position of Wilhelmine.
How proceed?
Whilst still chattering of this and that, Henri de Loubersac made up
his mind.
"Being a soldier, and not a policeman, I cannot myself arrest this
woman. The scandal would be tremendous! I should get into the hottest
of hot water with my chiefs: it is not my job.... Directly we arrive
at the Saint Lazare station I will manage to signal one of the plain
clothes men always on the watch there! Two of them will have her fast
before she knows where she is!"
This seemed the easier because Bobinette had a heavy valise with her:
she would have to call a porter and give him instructions--this would
give him time to act.
Reassured, Henri de Loubersac continued to laugh and joke, though it
went sorely against the grain....
At last! Saint Lazare station! The train stopped.
"I will say good-bye, Mademoiselle Bobinette.... I must hurry away!...
You will excuse me?"
De Loubersac leaped on to the platform, jostling the passengers
crowding his path. He must reach the platform exit without a second's
delay!... As he handed his ticket to the collecter, a hubbub arose.
Passengers were stopping, turning back, running--something sensational
must have happened!
He paused. He heard a porter at his elbow say in a low voice:
"Don't stop, Monsieur Henri--you may be noticed."
De Loubersac identified the speaker as a man in the employ of the
Second Bureau. He handed his wraps to this detective, dressed as an
ordinary porter.
"What is happening, then?" he asked.
"An arrest, ordered by the Second Bureau. There was a man, or a woman,
in your train."
"Ah, Bobinette must have been identified at Rouen when she got into
the train--Juve's men must have wired from there!" Henri de Loubersac
rejoiced. How he hated this creature, whose detestable influence must
harm Wilhelmine, whose wickedness might work woe to the girl he loved!
This traitorous wretch would be under lock and key now!
Splendid!
With mind relieved, he thanked the informer and prepared to leave the
station. But, as he descended the steps leading to the Cour du Havre
he stopped. Two police detectives whom he knew well were walking on
either side a soldier in corporal's uniform--Vinson, of course! They
must be taking him to the Cherche Midi prison.
De Loubersac realised what had happened.
"By-Jove! The telegram Juve had received at Dieppe must have been
false!... Vinson and Bobinette, discovering that they were under
observation, had found means to send Juve a telegram announcing that
Vinson had been met in London: having thus drawn Juve over to England
they had returned to Paris.... The traitors must have separated: this
would lessen their chances of being recognised.... They must have
arrested Vinson as he was leaving the train.... Bobinette, become
unrecognisable when her cassock was hidden, must have escaped!"
De Loubersac ran back. He hunted the station all over. He jumped into
a taxi and drove up and down all the adjoining streets; but the chase
was a useless one! Bobinette was invisible--Bobinette had seized her
opportunity. She had disappeared!
XXIV
AN APPETISER AT ROBERT'S BAR
"Have another whisky, old sport?"
"Not I! We have taken too much on board as it is."
"You must! You must! Seen through the gold of old Scotch, life seems
more beautiful, and the barmaids more fetching."
Perched on the high stools which allowed them to lean on the rail of
the bar the two topers solemnly clinked glasses.
The younger of the two, a lean, dark fellow, emptied his glass at one
go, but his companion, a big fair man about thirty-five, clean shaven,
and slightly bald, handled his glass so awkwardly that the contents
escaped on to the floor.
The big fair man called for fresh drinks. Their glasses were refilled
so quickly that the dark young man failed to notice it: he drank on
and on automatically, as though wound up to do so, but his companion
barely wetted his lips with the intoxicating liquor.
It was six o'clock and a dismal December evening; but there was an
animated cosmopolitan crowd in Robert's bar.
Robert's of London is the equivalent of Maxim's of Paris. The great
place for luxurious entertainments, it opens its doors at twilight,
and does not close them till the small hours are well advanced. When
evening falls, the scene grows animated: business men and women of
pleasure crowd the rooms. Gradually the crowd assumes a cosmopolitan
character. A band of Hungarian gipsies plays inspiriting and seductive
music. The crush increases, the noise grows louder, and amidst this
babel of voices, the racket, the din, the barmaids ply their trade
with calm determination: they flirt with their customers and egg them
on to drink glass after glass of wine and spirits for the good of the
house, in an atmosphere thick with tobacco smoke.
Every ten minutes or so, a newspaper boy slips in with the latest
evening editions, to be chased out by one of the managers of mixed
nationality who, for the most part, talk in a strangely mixed tongue,
partly French, partly English.
In this noisy crowded place the two drinkers were talking together
familiarly.
The dark young man, after having listened with curiosity to the
confidences of his companion, which must have been of an extraordinary
nature, judging by the exclamations of surprise they evoked, asked:
"But what is your profession, then?"
"But I have already told you," replied the fat man. "I am a clown--a
musical clown.... I interpret comic romances.... I dress up as a
negro, I play the banjo!" This jovial individual began humming an air
which was the rage of the moment.
The dark young man interrupted with another question:
"What is your native country, Tommy?"
"Oh, I am a Belgian.... And you, Butler?"
The dark young man, who answered to the name of Butler, gave what had
to pass for an account of himself.
"I ... I'm Canadian--just come from Canada--hardly three months ago."
"As much as that?" remarked fat Tommy.
Butler seemed upset by this question.
"Yes, yes!... And I feel very anxious, because I don't know my way
about, and I don't know English very well, and I can't find work, try
as I will ... it seems no use."...
"What can you do?"
"A little of everything."
"That is to say--nothing!"
Butler said slowly:
"I can do book-keeping."
The clown burst out laughing.
"That will not take you far! There are hundreds and hundreds of
stick-in-the-muds at that job!"
"What do you want me to do, then?" asked Butler.
His plump acquaintance put a hand on his shoulder.
"There is only one career in the world--the theatre!... There is only
one profession worth following, that of artiste!... See how I have
succeeded! And without having received the least instruction, for my
parents never cared a hang for my future--I soon earned plenty money;
now, though still in the full flush of young man-hood, I am on the
point of making a fortune!"
The clown evidently fancied himself, for he was of a ripe age--no
chicken.
His companion gazed at him admiringly.
Certainly the clown looked wealthy: his thick watch-chain was gold,
English sovereigns, ostentatiously displayed, were stuffed in a
bulging purse: his appearance justified his boasts.
"I would ask nothing better than to get into a theatre," said Butler
with a simple air, "but I don't know how to do anything!"
The clown shot a shrewd glance at his companion: Butler's face was
flushed, his eyes were wandering: his wits seemed dulled: the glasses
of whisky were having their effect.
Tommy murmured into Butler's ear:
"I have known you but a short time, but we are in sympathy, and
already I feel a very great friendship for you. Tell me, is it the
same on your side?"
Touched by this cordiality, Butler raised a shaky hand above his glass
and declared:
"I swear it!"
"Good! My dear Butler, I think things will arrange themselves
marvellously well.... Just fancy! When walking on the Thames
Embankment to-day, I met a theatrical manager whom I have known this
long while ... a very good fellow, called Paul.... Naturally we had a
glass together.... Then I asked him what he was doing. His answer was
'I am looking for an artiste!' Of course, I suggested myself! Paul
explained that he did not need a clown, but a professor.... I promised
to find him one if I could.... Would you like to be this professor?"
"Professor of what?" questioned Butler, who, in spite of his growing
intoxication, was lending an attentive ear to clown Tommy, who laughed
at the question.
"You would never guess who would be your pupils!... You would have to
teach Japanese canaries to sing!"
Butler considered this a joke in the worst of taste. The clown
declared there was nothing ridiculous about teaching Japanese canaries
to sing.... The important point was that the professor of singing
Japanese canary birds would receive immediate payment.
Whilst Butler was turning over this offer in his muddled mind--for he
had persuaded himself that the offer was a genuine one--the clown
fidgeted on his high stool, and hummed an air from _Faust_ in a
falsetto voice. The clown stopped.
"Come, Butler, is it settled?"
Butler hesitated.
"I am not sure that I had better."
"But yes, certainly you had better," insisted the clown. "And, as it
happens, I have agreed to dine with this manager he must be in the
room downstairs.... I will go and look for him!... We three could meet
and talk the thing over."
"Where should I have to go?" asked Butler. "To what country?"
"To Belgium, of course," replied Tommy. "The manager is a Belgian,
like myself--we are compatriots."
The clown, judging that his companion had decided to accept the offer,
left him, saying:
"I am going to find the manager and tell him my friend Butler will be
his professor of Japanese singing canaries."
Butler sighed, then swallowed another glass of whisky.
Pushing his way among the crowded tables of the front downstairs room,
the clown reached the end of the room. He approached a clean-shaven
man seated before a full glass: it was untouched.
"Monsieur Juve?" asked Tommy in a low voice.
Juve nodded.
"Captain Loreuil?"
"That is so: at present, Tommy, musical Belgian clown. And you are
Monsieur Paul, theatrical manager.... That is according to our
arrangement, is it not?"
"Quite so.... Anything fresh?"
Loreuil smiled. "I have got your man."
"Sure of it?"
Loreuil seated himself next Juve. He spoke low.
"He calls himself Butler ... says he is Canadian.... He declares he has
been in London some time: it is a falsehood. I recognise him
perfectly. I had already seen him at Chalons, when he had a connection
with the singer Nichoune, and we suspected him of being the author of
the leakages in the offices of the Headquarters Staff."
"That is Corporal Vinson, then?"
"Consequently you must intervene," said Loreuil.
Juve reflected. After a short silence he said:
"Intervene! You go too fast. Remember we are in a foreign country, and
there is no question of a common law crime: Vinson is not accused of
murder, simply of treason.
"I like that word 'simply,'" remarked Loreuil ironically.
"Don't take that in bad part," smiled Juve; "but it has its importance
from an international point of view. I cannot arrest Vinson in England
on the pretext that he is a spy."
"Happily we have foreseen that difficulty," said Loreuil. "Butler will
accompany us to Belgium. He believes we are Belgians. Belgium means
France, as far as we are concerned--the three of us!"
Juve had reached London the evening before. He had found at Scotland
Yard several telegrams and a private note from a detective friend,
informing him of the arrival of an individual known to be an officer
of the Second Bureau.
Juve met Loreuil. The two men, on the same quest, put their heads
together. They were soon on the track of Vinson. A man answering to
his description had been in London several weeks. This was the truth.
Juve would not admit it. He believed Vinson had arrived in England
only a few hours ahead of him.
Loreuil, whose mission did not include the arrest of Vinson,
considered he had done his part as soon as he had identified the
corporal. Juve would do the rest.
"We are agreed, then!" said Loreuil. "If I introduce you to Butler as
Paul, the theatrical manager, who wishes to engage him as trainer of
canaries ... the rest you can manage for yourself.... Be circumspect!
The fellow is on the lookout!"
"He must leave with me to-night--it is urgent!" insisted Juve.... "You
must help me, Captain!"
Captain Loreuil frowned.
"I must confess I don't like this sort of thing!" said he.
"But this affair is more serious even than you know," said Juve. "This
Vinson business does not stand alone: it is but a strand in a vast
network of mystery and wickedness of the most malignant kind."
Still the captain was reluctant. To take part in such a sinister
comedy; to make a poor wretch tipsy in order to deliver him to the
authorities for punishment, wounded the captain's self-respect. Juve
overcame his hesitations with the words:
"It is not merely a secret service matter, Monsieur: it is a question
of National Defence."
"I will help you, Monsieur," was the captain's answer to this, adding:
"Let us go up! Our man's patience must be giving out."
XXV
THE ARREST
The Dover Express, the Continental Mail, was moving out of Charing
Cross station.
Three travellers were seated in a first-class compartment. They were
smoking big cigars: their eyes were bright, their cheeks flushed; they
looked like big men who had dined well. These were Butler, Tommy and
Paul, leaving for Belgium: otherwise Juve, Loreuil and Vinson bound
for France! Copious libations of generous wines and strong liqueurs
had reduced Butler-Vinson to the condition of a maudlin puppet: Tommy
and Paul had made Butler most conveniently drunk.
The train rushed forward through station after station, brilliantly
lighted, then plunged into the obscurity of the country. A stupefying
warmth from the heating apparatus impelled slumber. Unfortunate
Butler-Vinson, lulled by the regular movement of the train, was soon
fast asleep.
Juve and Loreuil kept vigil. They were sitting side by side facing
their captive.
"Dover will be the difficulty," whispered Juve, who had drawn closer
to the captain.
"Yes, that is the crucial point," agreed Loreuil....
The express was entering the tunnels pierced in the precipitous
coastline of the Channel near Dover. There was a short stop at Dover
Town station before it drew up on the Pier. There the travellers would
embark. Of these there were two distant streams: those crossing to
Belgium: those bound for France. Butler-Vinson still slept soundly.
Juve was waiting till the last minute. Then he would awaken his
prisoner as he already considered him and shepherd him aboard the
Calais boat.
Captain Loreuil got out and went on ahead.
"Come along, Butler!" Juve cried suddenly. He shook the slumbering
traitor sharply.
Butler-Vinson leaped to his feet with frightened eyes and gaping
mouth.
"What is it?" he stuttered. "What do you want with me?"
Juve's smile was a masterpiece of hypocrisy.
"Why, old fellow, you must wake up! We must go aboard our boat!"
The corporal heard men shouting:
"Steamer _Victoria_ for Ostend! Steamer _Empress_ for Calais!"
"We must hurry!" cried Juve, pushing the bemused Butler-Vinson out of
the compartment.
There was a sea fog growing denser every minute. Without their
powerful electric lights it would have been impossible to recognise
the boats or the gangways leading to them.
Juve had Butler by the arm: a necessary precaution, for the wretched
man could scarcely keep on his feet. Juve propelled him towards a
gangway: a minute later both were on the boat.
Vinson caught sight of the inscription _Empress_ on the lifebuoys. A
flash of reason illumined Butler-Vinson's drink-soddened mind. He
hesitated, drew back with a frightened look.
"Didn't I hear just now that this boat goes to Calais?"
A passing sailor heard this question. He was about to enlighten
Butler-Vinson, but Juve pushed him aside--this imbecile was going to
spoil everything!
"No, old fellow, you are quite mistaken! It is the _Victoria_ that
goes to Calais: we go to Ostend with the _Empress_."
Butler-Vinson accepted this statement as true.
An ear-piercing whistle sounded; the cables were drawn up: a vibratory
motion told the passengers they were off.
The mast-head light was extinguished: the mail-boat silently made its
way out to sea.
There was a dense fog in the Channel. The fog-horn sounded its
lugubrious note.
The sea was rough: a strong wind from the south-west had been blowing
all the afternoon. The boat began to pitch and toss: the passengers
were drenched.
Though nothing of a sailor in the nautical sense, Juve took his
duckings with equanimity: a bit of a pitch and toss would keep Vinson
occupied.
The fog was Juve's friend: it lent an air of vagueness, of confusion,
to Butler-Vinson's surroundings. The vagaries of the steamer would
further distract what thoughts he was capable of. Still, they were on
an English boat, and should the corporal grasp what was happening and
refuse to disembark, Juve would be in a fix. Butler-Vinson must be
kept in ignorance of the truth till they were on French soil.
Captain Loreuil had remained at Dover, declaring he still had much to
do in England. Besides, he could not be brought to consider that to
arrest criminals came within the scope of his duties: to mark them
down, point them out, yes. Thus he had tracked down the traitor and
left him in good hands.
Meanwhile, Butler-Vinson was suffering from a severe attack of
sea-sickness. His head seemed splitting with throbbing pain.
"How long shall we be getting across?" he asked in a faint voice.
"Three hours," said Juve: this was the crossing time between Dover and
Ostend.
Heavy cross-seas were running. Those who braved the buffetings and
drenchings above deck were now few: it was a villainous crossing!
At the end of an hour and a half the odious waltz of the steamer
slowed down. The fog-horn was silent: the _Empress_ moved alongside
the jetties of Calais.
The gangways were let down; porters invaded the deck, carrying away
luggage to the trains awaiting the travellers in the terminus station.
"Now for it!" thought Juve.