CHECKMATE
"It is evident that this affair was not lightly arranged," said M.
Delcasse, and ran his fingers nervously through his hair.
Lepine nodded gloomily.
"You may well say so!" he agreed.
The two sat together in Delcasse's room, and Lepine had just finished
his report. Evening was falling, and the room was growing dark, but
neither desired a light.
"Everything has been thought of and provided for," said the Prefect, at
last, "even to the telegram which gave an excuse for this man's abrupt
departure. Perhaps the other telegrams were also intended to mislead
us--just as they did mislead me--to convince us that those other men
were only ordinary travellers. They must have foreseen that the police
would investigate the presence of every stranger in Toulon. It was
careless to send both telegrams from Brussels, but a coincidence so
small might easily be overlooked. On one point only was there an
oversight--they did not foresee that we might trace them by means of the
money. There is our hope. Sooner or later, the man with the white hair
will spend another of his hundred-franc notes. There is a certain
justice in it," he added, "that he should be betrayed by his
blood-money."
"Yes, blood-money!" cried Delcasse. "That is the word for it! Oh, that I
had my hands on the monster--for he _is_ a monster, Lepine; he must be a
monster! There he sat, in cold blood, and loosed the power that killed
three hundred men! Have you considered, Lepine, that the finding of this
second installation furnishes, as Crochard foresaw, proof of his
theory?"
"Yes," said Lepine, in a low voice; "this is the proof."
Delcasse was on his feet, striding savagely up and down the room.
"But it is absurd," he cried, "it is incredible that here, under our
very noses, such things should take place! What are our police for,
Lepine--our secret service?"
"It is the fault of that miserable landlord," Lepine pointed out.
"Of him an example shall be made. But that does not help us. This man
must not escape! Think what it may mean for France if he escapes!"
"I have thought, sir!" and Lepine's voice was trembling.
Delcasse turned on him fiercely.
"Where is Crochard?" he demanded. "What is he doing all this time?"
"I do not know, sir. I have not seen him since yesterday."
"Rest assured that he has not been idle. Do you know where to find him?"
"I have his address."
"Go to him, then, and say I wish to see him. We must lay these
discoveries before him--though no doubt he has already made them for
himself. Tell him he must not desert us--that without him, we are lost!"
Lepine was grateful for the darkness, for his cheeks were red with
humiliation. But, after all, M. Delcasse was right. He rose with a sigh.
"I will seek him at once, sir," he said.
"Understand well, Lepine," said the Minister, more gently, "it is not
you I blame. You have done all that is possible with the means at your
command. But we cannot afford to fail. In an affair of this kind, the
public is not reasonable. Should we fail, and should our failure become
known, as it almost surely would, the ministry might find itself swept
away before the storm. So we must find Crochard."
"I agree with you, sir," said Lepine, and took his leave.
The Cafe des Voyageurs was crowded when he reached it, and he had some
difficulty in finding a seat. The marines who had been searching the
wreck had, at last, been released from duty, and had, with one accord,
hastened ashore to refresh themselves at the expense of a populace eager
to listen to every detail. The cafe hummed with talk; weird and
revolting stories of the search were told with gusto; the completeness
of the destruction was described; the survivors dwelt upon their
sensations at the moment of the explosion; the heroism of the rescuers
was not forgotten; but, and Lepine noted this with a little sigh of
relief, nowhere was there an intimation that the disaster was other than
an accident.
He sat there for half an hour, listening to all this, and then, as
Crochard made no sign, he summoned the head-waiter and requested a word
with the proprietor. With a nod, as of one who expected the request, the
man turned and again led the way to the door at the rear of the room.
"In there, sir," he said, and closed it when Lepine had entered.
A single candle burned on the table in the centre of the little room,
and beyond it sat a man. At the first glance, in the semi-darkness,
Lepine fancied it was Crochard; then he saw that this man was slighter,
that his face was bloodless, and that he was staring with hunted eyes.
With a little start of surprise, he looked again; then he sat down.
"So, Samson, it is you!" said Lepine, quietly.
"Yes, sir," answered Samson. "I was expecting you. But I did not think
you would recognise me so readily."
Lepine laughed shortly.
"I have a good memory," he said. "Crochard told you, perhaps, that I
might come?"
"Yes, sir; and he directed that I give you this."
He handed Lepine a note. The latter broke the seal, held it to the light
and read it carefully:
"_My dear M. Lepine:_
"I have found it necessary to leave Toulon, in the pursuit of
a certain business, whose nature you can guess. I hope soon
to have good news for M. Delcasse and yourself. Meanwhile, I
would remind you of our agreement as to my friends. Samson
is one of them. He has already been of some service in this
affair, and may be of more. We can discuss his future upon
my return. I will answer for him.
"CROCHARD, L'Invincible!"
Lepine refolded the note and slipped it into his pocket.
"When did Crochard leave?" he asked.
"He gave me the note at four o'clock yesterday afternoon, sir, and
stated that he was about to depart. I have not seen him since."
"Did he mention his destination?"
"No, sir."
Lepine regarded his companion thoughtfully.
"There is one thing that perhaps you _can_ tell me, Samson," he said.
"Previous to his departure, did he visit the house at 80 Rue du
Plasson?"
"I think it very probable," answered Samson, after a moment's
hesitation. "I myself furnished M. Crochard with that address, when he
returned to the cafe yesterday for his lunch."
"Ah!" said Lepine. "So it was you discovered it!"
He fell a moment silent, studying the other's countenance.
"You have indeed changed, Samson," he said, at last. "I suppose it was
Crochard who arranged your escape?"
Samson made no reply.
"You have a good business here?"
"Very good, sir."
"You know, of course, that it is my duty to denounce you as an escaped
criminal?"
"Yes, I know that, sir."
"Crochard tells me that he will answer for you--in other words, he
guarantees that you will not run away. Do you understand that?"
"Do not fear," said Samson, huskily. "Monsieur will always find me here
when he requires me."
Lepine looked at him for a moment, then got abruptly to his feet.
"Very well," he said; "I shall do nothing for the present," and he left
the cafe.
It was nearly eight o'clock, and, feeling the need of dinner, Lepine
made his way back to his hotel; but his hunger was destined to go
unsatisfied, for, as he stepped through the door, Pigot touched him on
the arm.
"M. Delcasse wishes to see you at once," he said, and Lepine, with one
regretful glance in the direction of the dining-room, hurried up the
stairs to the Minister's apartment. He found him dictating to his
secretary, a great pile of letters before him.
Without pausing in his dictation, Delcasse picked up a telegram which
lay at his elbow, and handed it to Lepine. It was dated from Paris, and
had been filed but an hour before. It read:
"Seven notes one hundred francs B162810R to B162816R
deposited to-day by Thomas Cook & Son.
"LINNE, Governor Bank of France."
Lepine laid the telegram on his desk and glanced at his watch.
"I must be in Paris in the morning," he said.
Delcasse nodded.
"Yes," he agreed. "And Crochard?"
"Is no doubt already there," and he handed Delcasse the note which
Samson had given him.
Delcasse read it, and looked up with an amused smile, in which there
lurked a trace of malice.
"What a man!" he said. "Nevertheless, Lepine, I think you would better
go. You may be able to assist him! Give him my compliments, and keep me
informed," and he turned back to his secretary.
* * * * *
The Paris office of the Messrs. Cook is at the corner opposite the Opera
House, and here, about ten o'clock on the morning of Thursday, September
28, a little grey-bearded man descended from a fiacre, entered, and,
after a short delay, was admitted to the presence of the manager, who
made it clear at once that he was entirely at the service of his
distinguished visitor.
Lepine sat down and produced from his pocket seven notes of the Bank of
France, for one hundred francs each. They were quite new and had not
even been folded.
"These notes were deposited by you yesterday afternoon," he said. "I
should like to know from whom they were received."
The manager took the notes and glanced at them.
"That will not be difficult, sir," he said. "Our cashier can no doubt
tell us from which of our clerks he received them. Excuse me a moment."
He hurried from the room with the notes in his hand, and Lepine,
strolling to the window, relapsed into his favourite amusement. At no
other corner in the city could it be practised so profitably, for here,
at the meeting of the Boulevards, all Paris, sooner or later, passed;
and not Paris only, but vagrants from every nation. So Lepine watched
the crowd intently, his bright eyes skipping from face to face--a mere
glance at one, a longer glance at another, a close stare at a third.
Perhaps, at the back of his mind, there was the hope that some
incredible good-fortune might send past this corner a shrunken,
white-haired man, leaning on the arm of his dark-haired daughter....
The opening of the door behind him broke into his thoughts, and he
turned to find that the manager had brought another man back with him.
"This is the clerk who received the money," said the manager, and
returned the seven notes to the detective.
Lepine motioned the clerk to be seated, and himself sat down facing him.
"Tell me all that you remember of the transaction," he said.
"It was Tuesday afternoon, sir," the clerk began, "about four o'clock, I
should say, that a man came to the counter and stated that he desired a
stateroom, with two berths, second-class, for the _Prinzsessin
Ottilie_, the sailing of yesterday."
"What sort of a man?" asked Lepine.
"A thin man, past middle-age. His hair was quite grey and he was of a
dark complexion, with very bright eyes."
"What language did he use?"
"He spoke in English, sir."
"Fluently?"
"Quite fluently, sir."
"Very well; proceed."
"I was in some doubt as to whether such a stateroom was available, as
this is the busy season; but on reference to our list, I found that
there was such a stateroom. A customer to whom we had sold it had just
called at the office, saying that he would not be able to sail, and
leaving his tickets with us to resell, if possible. When I told the man
of this, he seemed very pleased, took the tickets, and gave me the seven
hundred-franc notes. My attention was called to them because they were
quite new and unfolded. He took them from a long envelope which he
carried in an inner pocket, and which seemed to contain a large sum of
money."
"Do you remember the number of the stateroom?"
The clerk spread out before Lepine a cabin-plan of the ship.
"It was this one, sir," he said, and placed his finger on 514; "an inner
room, you see, on the upper deck."
"You asked the man's name, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes, sir. I caused him to fill out the usual blank. Here it is."
Lepine took the blank and looked it over. It stated that stateroom No.
514, on the _Prinzsessin Ottilie_, for the sailing of September 27, two
berths, second-class, had been purchased of Thomas Cook & Son by Ignace
Vard, of New York City, the berths to be used by himself and his
daughter; and that he had paid for these berths the sum of six hundred
and forty francs, being payment in full, the receipt of which was
acknowledged. The blank also stated that Mr. Vard was a naturalised
citizen of the United States, and had lived in that country for ten
years.
"The sailing was from Cherbourg?" Lepine inquired, when he had
assimilated all this.
"Yes, sir."
"At what hour?"
"About four o'clock, sir--four o'clock yesterday afternoon."
"How did it happen, sir," Lepine asked, turning to the manager, "that
the notes were not deposited until yesterday?"
"Our deposit is made up at three o'clock each afternoon," the manager
explained. "The notes came in too late for Tuesday's deposit, and were
placed in our safe until the next day."
Lepine made a brief entry in his notebook, handed back the blank and
rose.
"I thank you very much, gentlemen," he said. "You have been most
obliging. The information you have given me will be of the very greatest
service."
And with that he took his leave, returned light-heartedly to his office
and sent a wireless to the captain of the _Ottilie_. The fugitive could
not escape him now; it was merely a question of arresting him as he left
the boat at New York; soon, soon, Lepine would have the pleasure of
putting him on the grill, and, once there, the detective felt sure that
there would be some important revelations before he got off again. One
fact surprised him--that Vard should be an American citizen; but perhaps
that was not the truth. If it was the truth, it would make the arrest at
New York a little awkward; a formal complaint would have to be made, a
charge of some kind trumped up. But there was no hurry--a week remained
in which to mature the plans.
So Lepine, after sending a brief report in cipher to M. Delcasse, turned
to the work which had accumulated during his absence in a happier and
more contented frame of mind than he had enjoyed for some days.
"I shall relish my lunch to-day!" he reflected; but, alas! it was just
as he was preparing to sally forth for it that the blow fell.
"A message for you, sir," his secretary said, and handed him a
light-blue envelope.
"Ah!" said Lepine, "a wireless!" and he ripped it open eagerly. Then he
remained staring at it with astounded eyes. Here is the message:
"PRINZSESSIN OTTILIE, September 28, 11:10 A. M.
_Radio via Cherbourg._
"_Lepine, Paris._
"No record of Ignace Vard and daughter on _Ottilie_.
Stateroom 514 unoccupied.
"HAUSMANN, Captain."