M. Floçon was the first to realize the full meaning of Colonel
Papillon’s surprising statement.
“Run, run, La Pêche! Have the outer doors closed; let no one leave the
place.”
“Draw back, gentlemen!” he went on, and he hustled his companions with
frantic haste out at the back of the mortuary chamber. “Pray Heaven he
has not seen us! He would know us, even if we do not him.”
Then with no less haste he seized Colonel Papillon by the arm and
hurried him by the back passages through the office into the outer,
public chamber, where the astonished crowd stood, silent and perturbed,
awaiting explanation of their detention.
“Quick, monsieur!” whispered the Chief; “point him out to me.”
The request was not unnecessary, for when Colonel Papillon went
forward, and, putting his hand on a man’s shoulder, saying, “Mr.
Quadling, I think,” the police officer was scarcely able to restrain
his surprise.
The person thus challenged was very unlike any one he had seen before
that day, Ripaldi most of all. The moustache was gone, the clothes were
entirely changed; a pair of dark green spectacles helped the disguise.
It was strange indeed that Papillon had known him; but at the moment of
recognition Quadling had removed his glasses, no doubt that he might
the better examine the object of his visit to the Morgue, that gruesome
record of his own fell handiwork.
Naturally he drew back with well-feigned indignation, muttering
half-unintelligible words in French, denying stoutly both in voice and
gesture all acquaintance with the person who thus abruptly addressed
him.
“This is not to be borne,” he cried. “Who are you that dares—”
“Ta! ta!” quietly put in M. Floçon; “we will discuss that fully, but
not here. Come into the office; come, I say, or must we use force?”
There was no escaping now, and with a poor attempt at bravado the
stranger was led away.
“Now, Colonel Papillon, look at him well. Do you know him? Are you
satisfied it is—”
“Mr. Quadling, late banker, of Rome. I have not the slightest doubt of
it. I recognize him beyond all question.”
“That will do. Silence, sir!” This to Quadling. “No observations. I too
can recognize you now as the person who called himself Ripaldi an hour
or two ago. Denial is useless. Let him be searched; thoroughly, you
understand, La Pêche? Call in your other men; he may resist.”
They gave the wretched man but scant consideration, and in less than
three minutes had visited every pocket, examined every secret
receptacle, and practically turned him inside out.
After this there could no longer be any doubt of his identity, still
less of his complicity in the crime.
First among the many damning evidences of his guilt was the missing
pocketbook of the porter of the sleeping-car. Within was the train card
and the passengers’ tickets, all the papers which the man Groote had
lost so unaccountably. They had, of course, been stolen from his person
with the obvious intention of impeding the inquiry into the murder.
Next, in another inner pocket was Quadling’s own wallet, with his own
visiting-cards, several letters addressed to him by name; above all, a
thick sheaf of bank-notes of all nationalities—English, French,
Italian, and amounting in total value to several thousands of pounds.
“Well, do you still deny? Bah! it is childish, useless, mere waste of
breath. At last we have penetrated the mystery. You may as well
confess. Whether or no, we have enough to convict you by independent
testimony,” said the Judge, severely. “Come, what have you to say?”
But Quadling, with pale, averted face, stood obstinately mute. He was
in the toils, the net had closed round him, they should have no
assistance from him.
“Come, speak out; it will be best. Remember, we have means to make
you—”
“Will you interrogate him further, M. Beaumont le Hardi? Here, at
once?”
“No, let him be removed to the Prefecture; it will be more convenient;
to my private office.”
Without more ado a fiacre was called, and the prisoner was taken off
under escort, M. Floçon seated by his side, one policeman in front,
another on the box, and lodged in a secret cell at the Quai l’Horloge.
“And you, gentlemen?” said the Judge to Sir Charles and Colonel
Papillon. “I do not wish to detain you further, although there may be
points you might help us to elucidate if I might venture to still
trespass on your time?”
Sir Charles was eager to return to the Hôtel Madagascar, and yet he
felt that he should best serve his dear Countess by seeing this to the
end. So he readily assented to accompany the Judge, and Colonel
Papillon, who was no less curious, agreed to go too.
“I sincerely trust,” said the Judge on the way, “that our people have
laid hands on that woman Petitpré. I believe that she holds the key to
the situation, that when we hear her story we shall have a clear case
against Quadling; and—who knows?—she may completely exonerate Madame la
Comtesse.”
During the events just recorded, which occupied a good hour, the police
agents had time to go and come from the Rue Bellechasse. They did not
return empty-handed, although at first it seemed as if they had made a
fruitless journey. The Hôtel Ivoire was a very second-class place, a
lodging-house, or hotel with furnished rooms let out by the week to
lodgers with whom the proprietor had no very close acquaintance. His
clerk did all the business, and this functionary produced the register,
as he is bound by law, for the inspection of the police officers, but
afforded little information as to the day’s arrivals.
“Yes, a man calling himself Dufour had taken rooms about midday, one
for himself, one for madame who was with him, also named Dufour—his
sister, he said;” and he went on at the request of the police officers
to describe them.
“Our birds,” said the senior agent, briefly. “They are wanted. We
belong to the detective police.”
“All right.” Such visits were not new to the clerk.
“But you will not find monsieur; he is out; there hangs his key.
Madame? No, she is within. Yes, that is certain, for not long since she
rang her bell. There, it goes again.”
He looked up at the furiously oscillating bell, but made no move.
“Bah! they do not pay for service; let her come and say what she
needs.”
“Exactly; and we will bring her,” said the officer, making for the
stairs and the room indicated.
But on reaching the door, they found it locked. From within? Hardly,
for as they stood there in doubt, a voice inside cried vehemently:
“Let me out! Help! Help! Send for the police. I have much to tell them.
Quick! Let me out.”
“We are here, my dear, just as you require us. But wait; step down,
Gaston, and see if the clerk has a second key. If not, call in a
locksmith—the nearest. A little patience only, my beauty. Do not fear.”
The key was quickly produced, and an entrance effected.
A woman stood there in a defiant attitude, with arms akimbo; she, no
doubt, of whom they were in search. A tall, rather masculine-looking
creature, with a dark, handsome face, bold black eyes just now flashing
fiercely, rage in every feature.
“Madame Dufour?” began the police officer.
“Dufour! Rot! My name is Hortense Petitpré; who are you? _La Rousse?_”
(Police.)
“At your service. Have you anything to say to us? We have come on
purpose to take you to the Prefecture quietly, if you will let us; or—”
“I will go quietly. I ask nothing better. I have to lay information
against a miscreant—a murderer—the vile assassin who would have made me
his accomplice—the banker, Quadling, of Rome!”
In the fiacre Hortense Petitpré talked on with such incessant abuse,
virulent and violent, of Quadling, that her charges were neither
precise nor intelligible.
It was not until she appeared before M. Beaumont le Hardi, and was
handled with great dexterity by that practised examiner, that her story
took definite form.
What she had to say will be best told in the clear, formal language of
the official disposition.
The witness inculpated stated:
“She was named Aglaé Hortense Petitpré, thirty-four years of age, a
Frenchwoman, born in Paris, Rue de Vincennes No. 374. Was engaged by
the Contessa Castagneto, November 19, 189—, in Rome, as lady’s maid,
and there, at her mistress’s domicile, became acquainted with the Sieur
Francis Quadling, a banker of the Via Condotti, Rome.
“Quadling had pretensions to the hand of the Countess, and sought, by
bribes and entreaties, to interest witness in his suit. Witness often
spoke of him in complimentary terms to her mistress, who was not very
favourably disposed towards him.
“One afternoon (two days before the murder) Quadling paid a lengthened
visit to the Countess. Witness did not hear what occurred, but Quadling
came out much distressed, and again urged her to speak to the Countess.
He had heard of the approaching departure of the lady from Rome, but
said nothing of his own intentions.
“Witness was much surprised to find him in the sleeping-car, but had no
talk to him till the following morning, when he asked her to obtain an
interview for him with the Countess, and promised a large reward. In
making this offer he produced a wallet and exhibited a very large
number of notes.
“Witness was unable to persuade the Countess, although she returned to
the subject frequently. Witness so informed Quadling, who then spoke to
the lady, but was coldly received.
“During the journey witness thought much over the situation. Admitted
that the sight of Quadling’s money had greatly disturbed her, but,
although pressed, would not say when the first idea of robbing him took
possession of her. (Note by Judge—That she had resolved to do so is,
however, perfectly clear, and the conclusion is borne out by her acts.
It was she who secured the Countess’s medicine bottle; she, beyond
doubt, who drugged the porter at Laroche. In no other way can her
presence in the sleeping-car between Laroche and Paris be accounted
for-presence which she does not deny.)
“Witness at last reluctantly confessed that she entered the compartment
where the murder was committed, and at a critical moment. An affray was
actually in progress between the Italian Ripaldi and the incriminated
man Quadling, but the witness arrived as the last fatal blow was struck
by the latter.
“She saw it struck, and saw the victim fall lifeless on the floor.
“Witness declared she was so terrified she could at first utter no cry,
nor call for help, and before she could recover herself the murderer
threatened her with the ensanguined knife. She threw herself on her
knees, imploring pity, but the man Quadling told her that she was an
eye-witness, and could take him to the guillotine,—she also must die.
“Witness at last prevailed on him to spare her life, but only on
condition that she would leave the car. He indicated the window as the
only way of escape; but on this for a long time she refused to venture,
declaring that it was only to exchange one form of death for another.
Then, as Quadling again threatened to stab her, she was compelled to
accept this last chance, never hoping to win out alive.
“With Quadling’s assistance, however, she succeeded in climbing out
through the window and in gaining the roof. He had told her to wait for
the first occasion when the train slackened speed to leave it and shift
for herself. With this intention he gave her a thousand francs, and
bade her never show herself again.
“Witness descended from the train not far from the small station of
Villeneuve on the line, and there took the local train for Paris.
Landed at the Lyons Station, she heard of the inquiry in progress, and
then, waiting outside, saw Quadling disguised as the Italian leave in
company with another man. She followed and marked Quadling down,
meaning to denounce him on the first opportunity. Quadling, however, on
issuing from the restaurant, had accosted her, and at once offered her
a further sum of five thousand francs as the price of silence, and she
had gone with him to the Hôtel Ivoire, where she was to receive the
sum. Quadling had paid it, but on one condition, that she would remain
at the Hotel Ivoire until the following day. Apparently he had
distrusted her, for he had contrived to lock her into her compartment.
As she did not choose to be so imprisoned, she summoned assistance, and
was at length released by the police.”
This was the substance of Hortense Petitpré’s deposition, and it was
corroborated in many small details.
When she appeared before the Judge, with whom Sir Charles Collingham
and Colonel Papillon were seated, the former at once pointed out that
she was wearing a dark mantle trimmed with the same sort of
passementerie as that picked up in the sleeping-car.
L’ENVOI
Quadling was in due course brought before the Court of Assize and tried
for his life. There was no sort of doubt of his guilt, and the jury so
found, but, having regard to certain extenuating circumstances, they
recommended him to mercy. The chief of these was Quadling’s positive
assurance that he had been first attacked by Ripaldi; he declared that
the Italian detective had in the first instance tried to come to terms
with him, demanding 50,000 francs as his price for allowing him to go
at large; that when Quadling distinctly refused to be black-mailed,
Ripaldi struck at him with a knife, but that the blow failed to take
effect.
Then Quadling closed with him and took the knife from him. It was a
fierce encounter, and might have ended either way, but the unexpected
entrance of the woman Petitpré took off Ripaldi’s attention, and then
he, Quadling, maddened and reckless, stabbed him to the heart.
It was not until after the deed was done that Quadling realized the
full measure of his crime and its inevitable consequences. Then, in a
daring effort to extricate himself, he intimidated the woman Petitpré,
and forced her to escape through the sleeping-car window.
It was he who had rung the signal-bell to stop the train and give her a
chance of leaving it. It was after the murder, too, that he conceived
the idea of personating Ripaldi, and, having disfigured him beyond
recognition, as he hoped, he had changed clothes and compartments.
On the strength of this confession Quadling escaped the guillotine, but
he was transported to New Caledonia for life.
The money taken on him was forwarded to Rome, and was usefully employed
in reducing his liabilities to the depositors in the bank.
One other word.
Some time in June the following announcement appeared in all the Paris
papers:
“Yesterday, at the British Embassy, General Sir Charles Collingham, K.
C. B., was married to Sabine, Contessa di Castagneto, widow of the
Italian Count of that name.”
THE END.