A first stage in the inquiry had now been reached, with results that
seemed promising, and were yet contradictory.
No doubt the watch to be set on the Countess might lead to something
yet—something to bring first plausible suspicion to a triumphant issue;
but the examination of the other occupants of the car should not be
allowed to slacken on that account. The Countess might have some
confederate among them—this pestilent English General, perhaps, who had
made himself so conspicuous in her defence; or some one of them might
throw light upon her movements, upon her conduct during the journey.
Then, with a spasm of self-reproach, M. Floçon remembered that two
distinct suggestions had been made to him by two of the travellers, and
that, so far, he had neglected them. One was the significant hint from
the Italian that he could materially help the inquiry. The other was
the General’s sneering assertion that the train had not continued its
journey uninterruptedly between Laroche and Paris.
Consulting the Judge, and laying these facts before him, it was agreed
that the Italian’s offer seemed the most important, and he was
accordingly called in next.
“Who and what are you?” asked the Judge, carelessly, but the answer
roused him at once to intense interest, and he could not quite resist a
glance of reproach at M. Floçon.
“My name I have given you—Natale Ripaldi. I am a detective officer
belonging to the Roman police.”
“What!” cried M. Floçon, colouring deeply. “This is unheard of. Why in
the name of all the devils have you withheld this most astonishing
statement until now?”
“Monsieur surely remembers. I told him half an hour ago I had something
important to communicate—”
“Yes, yes, of course. But why were you so reticent. Good Heavens!”
“Monsieur was not so encouraging that I felt disposed to force on him
what I knew he would have to hear in due course.”
“It is monstrous—quite abominable, and shall not end here. Your
superiors shall hear of your conduct,” went on the Chief, hotly.
“They will also hear, and, I think, listen to my version of the
story,—that I offered you fairly, and at the first opportunity, all the
information I had, and that you refused to accept it.”
“You should have persisted. It was your manifest duty. You are an
officer of the law, or you say you are.”
“Pray telegraph at once, if you think fit, to Rome, to the police
authorities, and you will find that Natale Ripaldi—your humble
servant—travelled by the through express with their knowledge and
authority. And here are my credentials, my official card, some official
letters—”
“And what, in a word, have you to tell us?”
“I can tell you who the murdered man was.”
“We know that already.”
“Possibly; but only his name, I apprehend. I know his profession, his
business, his object in travelling, for I was appointed to watch and
follow him. That is why I am here.”
“Was he a suspicious character, then? A criminal?”
“At any rate he was absconding from Rome, with valuables.”
“A thief, in fact?”
The Italian put out the palms of his hands with a gesture of doubt and
deprecation.
“Thief is a hard, ugly word. That which he was removing was, or had
been, his own property.”
“Tut, tut! do be more explicit and get on,” interrupted the little
Chief, testily.
“I ask nothing better; but if questions are put to me—”
The Judge interposed.
“Give us your story. We can interrogate you afterwards.”
“The murdered man is Francis A. Quadling, of the firm of Correse &
Quadling, bankers, in the Via Condotti, Rome. It was an old house, once
of good, of the highest repute, but of late years it has fallen into
difficulties. Its financial soundness was doubted in certain circles,
and the Government was warned that a great scandal was imminent. So the
matter was handed over to the police, and I was directed to make
inquiries, and to keep my eye on this Quadling”—he jerked his thumb
towards the platform, where the body might be supposed to be.
“This Quadling was the only surviving partner. He was well known and
liked in Rome, indeed, many who heard the adverse reports disbelieved
them, I myself among the number. But my duty was plain—”
“Naturally,” echoed the fiery little detective.
“I made it my business to place the banker under surveillance, to learn
his habits, his ways of life, see who were his friends, the houses he
visited. I soon knew much that I wanted to know, although not all. But
one fact I discovered, and think it right to inform you of it at once.
He was on intimate terms with La Castagneto—at least, he frequently
called upon her.”
“La Castagneto! Do you mean the Countess of that name, who was a
passenger in the sleeper?”
“Beyond doubt! it is she I mean.” The officials looked at each other
eagerly, and M. Beaumont le Hardi quickly turned over the sheets on
which the Countess’s evidence was recorded.
She had denied acquaintance with this murdered man, Quadling, and here
was positive evidence that they were on intimate terms!
“He was at her house on the very day we all left Rome—in the evening,
towards dusk. The Countess had an apartment in the Via Margutta, and
when he left her he returned to his own place in the Condotti, entered
the bank, stayed half an hour, then came out with one hand-bag and rug,
called a cab, and was driven straight to the railway station.”
“And you followed?”
“Of course. When I saw him walk straight to the sleeping-car, and ask
the conductor for 7 and 8, I knew that his plans had been laid, and
that he was on the point of leaving Rome secretly. When, presently, La
Castagneto also arrived, I concluded that she was in his confidence,
and that possibly they were eloping together.”
“Why did you not arrest him?”
“I had no authority, even if I had had the time. Although I was ordered
to watch the Signor Quadling, I had no warrant for his arrest. But I
decided on the spur of the moment what course I should take. It seemed
to be the only one, and that was to embark in the same train and stick
close to my man.”
“You informed your superiors, I suppose?”
“Pardon me, monsieur,” said the Italian blandly to the Chief, who asked
the question, “but have you any right to inquire into my conduct
towards my superiors? In all that affects the murder I am at your
orders, but in this other matter it is between me and them.”
“Ta, ta, ta! They will tell us if you will not. And you had better be
careful, lest you obstruct justice. Speak out, sir, and beware. What
did you intend to do?”
“To act according to circumstances. If my suspicions were confirmed—”
“What suspicions?”
“Why—that this banker was carrying off any large sum in cash, notes,
securities, as in effect he was.”
“Ah! You know that? How?”
“By my own eyes. I looked into his compartment once and saw him in the
act of counting them over, a great quantity, in fact—”
Again the officials looked at each other significantly. They had got at
last to a motive for the crime.
“And that, of course, would have justified his arrest?”
“Exactly. I proposed, directly we arrived in Paris, to claim the
assistance of your police and take him into custody. But his fate
interposed.”
There was a pause, a long pause, for another important point had been
reached in the inquiry: the motive for the murder had been made clear,
and with it the presumption against the Countess gained terrible
strength.
But there was more, perhaps, to be got out of this dark-visaged Italian
detective, who had already proved so useful an ally.
“One or two words more,” said the Judge to Ripaldi. “During the
journey, now, did you have any conversation with this Quadling?”
“None. He kept very much to himself.”
“You saw him, I suppose, at the restaurants?”
“Yes, at Modane and Laroche.”
“But did not speak to him?”
“Not a word.”
“Had he any suspicion, do you think, as to who you were?”
“Why should he? He did not know me. I had taken pains he should never
see me.”
“Did he speak to any other passenger?”
“Very little. To the Countess. Yes, once or twice, I think, to her
maid.”
“Ah! that maid. Did you notice her at all? She has not been seen. It is
strange. She seems to have disappeared.”
“To have run away, in fact?” suggested Ripaldi, with a queer smile.
“Well, at least she is not here with her mistress. Can you offer any
explanation of that?”
“She was perhaps afraid. The Countess and she were very good friends, I
think. On better, more familiar terms, than is usual between mistress
and maid.”
“The maid knew something?”
“Ah, monsieur, it is only an idea. But I give it you for what it is
worth.”
“Well, well, this maid—what was she like?”
“Tall, dark, good-looking, not too reserved. She made other friends—the
porter and the English Colonel. I saw the last speaking to her. I spoke
to her myself.”
“What can have become of her?” said the Judge.
“Would M. le Juge like me to go in search of her? That is, if you have
no more questions to ask, no wish to detain me further?”
“We will consider that, and let you know in a moment, if you will wait
outside.”
And then, when alone, the officials deliberated.
It was a good offer, the man knew her appearance, he was in possession
of all the facts, he could be trusted—
“Ah, but can he, though?” queried the detective. “How do we know he has
told us truth? What guarantee have we of his loyalty, his good faith?
What if he is also concerned in the crime—has some guilty knowledge?
What if he killed Quadling himself, or was an accomplice before or
after the fact?”
“All these are possibilities, of course, but—pardon me, dear
colleague—a little far-fetched, eh?” said the Judge. “Why not utilize
this man? If he betrays us—serves us ill—if we had reason to lay hands
on him again, he could hardly escape us.”
“Let him go, and send some one with him,” said the Commissary, the
first practical suggestion he had yet made.
“Excellent!” cried the Judge. “You have another man here, Chief; let
him go with this Italian.”
They called in Ripaldi and told him, “We will accept your services,
monsieur, and you can begin your search at once. In what direction do
you propose to begin?”
“Where has her mistress gone?”
“How do you know she has gone?”
“At least, she is no longer with us out there. Have you arrested her—or
what?”
“No, she is still at large, but we have our eye upon her. She has gone
to her hotel—the Madagascar, off the Grands Boulevards.”
“Then it is there that I shall look for the maid. No doubt she preceded
her mistress to the hotel, or she will join her there very shortly.”
“You would not make yourself known, of course? They might give you the
slip. You have no authority to detain them, not in France.”
“I should take my precautions, and I can always appeal to the police.”
“Exactly. That would be your proper course. But you might lose valuable
time, a great opportunity, and we wish to guard against that, so we
shall associate one of our own people with you in your proceedings.”
“Oh! very well, if you wish. It will, no doubt, be best.” The Italian
readily assented, but a shrewd listener might have guessed from the
tone of his voice that the proposal was not exactly pleasing to him.
“I will call in Block,” said the Chief, and the second detective
inspector appeared to take his instructions.
He was a stout, stumpy little man, with a barrel-like figure, greatly
emphasized by the short frock coat he wore; he had smallish pig’s eyes
buried deep in a fat face, and his round, chubby cheeks hung low over
his turned-down collar.
“This gentleman,” went on the Chief, indicating Ripaldi, “is a member
of the Roman police, and has been so obliging as to offer us his
services. You will accompany him, in the first instance, to the Hôtel
Madagascar. Put yourself in communication with Galipaud, who is there
on duty.”
“Would it not be sufficient if I made myself known to M. Galipaud?”
suggested the Italian. “I have seen him here, I should recognize him—”
“That is not so certain; he may have changed his appearance. Besides,
he does not know the latest developments, and might not be very
cordial.”
“You might write me a few lines to take to him.”
“I think not. We prefer to send Block,” replied the Chief, briefly and
decidedly. He did not like this pertinacity, and looked at his
colleagues as though he sought their concurrence in altering the
arrangements for the Italian’s mission. It might be wiser to detain him
still.
“It was only to save trouble that I made the suggestion,” hastily put
in Ripaldi. “Naturally I am in your hands. And if I do not meet with
the maid at the hotel, I may have to look further, in which case
Monsieur—Block? thank you—would no doubt render valuable assistance.”
This speech restored confidence, and a few minutes later the two
detectives, already excellent friends from the freemasonry of a common
craft, left the station in a closed cab.