A Tale of Two Cities
Next morning French had an interview with his chief at the Yard at
which he produced the torn hotel bill, and having demonstrated the
methods by which he had come to identify it with the Grand Hôtel du
Sablon in Bruges, suggested that a visit there might be desirable. To
his secret relief Chief Inspector Mitchell took the same view, and it
was arranged that he should cross as soon as he could get away.
On his return to his room he found Cheyne waiting for him. The young
man seemed to have aged by years since his frenzied appeal to the
Yard, and his anxious face and distrait manner bore testimony to the
mental stress through which he was passing. Eagerly he inquired for
news.
“None so far, I’m sorry to say,” French answered, “except that we have
found that Miss Merrill did return to her rooms that night,” and he
told what he had learned of Joan’s movements, as well as of his visit
to Hackworth’s garage, and of Blessington’s exchange of cars. But of
Bruges and the hotel bill he said nothing. Cheyne, he felt sure, would
have begged to be allowed to accompany him to Belgium, and this he did
not want. But in his kindly way he talked sympathetically to the young
man reiterating his promise to let him know directly anything of
importance was learned.
Cheyne having reluctantly taken his leave, French turned to routine
business, which had got sadly behind during the last few days. At this
he worked all the morning, but on his return from lunch he found that
further news had come in.
Sergeant Burnett, the man he had put on the Waterloo Station job, was
waiting for him, and reported success in his mission. He had, he said,
spent the whole of the day from early morning at the station, and at
last he had obtained what he wanted. A taximan on a nearby stand had
been called to the footpath at the arrival side of the station at
about 2:00 P.M. He had drawn up behind an old black car, which he had
thought was a Napier. His own fare, a lady, kept him waiting for a few
seconds while she took a somewhat leisurely farewell of the gentleman
who was seeing her off, and during this time he had idly watched the
vehicle in front. He had seen an invalid lady in a sable colored fur
coat being helped in. There was a second lady with her, and a tall
man. The three got in, and the car moved off at the same time as his
own. Sergeant Burnett had questioned the man on the appearance of the
travelers, and was pretty certain that they were Joan, Susan, and
Sime. Dangle, so far as he could learn, was not with them.
French felt the sudden thrill of the artist who has just caught the
elusive effect of light which he wanted, as he reflected how sound had
been his deduction. He had considered it likely that these people
would use Waterloo Station to effect the change of cars, and now it
seemed that they had done so. Nothing like a bit of imagination, he
thought, as he good-naturedly complimented the sergeant on his powers,
and dismissed him.
Having too much to see to at the Yard to catch the 2:00 P.M. from
Victoria for Ostend, he rang up and engaged a berth on the
Harwich-Zeebrugge boat, and that night at 8:40 P.M. he left Liverpool
Street for Belgium.
Apart from his actual business, he was looking forward with
considerable keenness to the trip. Foreign travel had become perhaps
his greatest pleasure, and he had never yet been in Belgium. Moreover
he had always heard Bruges mentioned as the paradise of artists, and
in a rather shamefaced way he admitted an interest in and appreciation
of art. He had determined that if at all possible he would snatch
enough time to see at least the more interesting parts of the old
town.
They left the Parkeston Quay at 10:30, and by 6 next morning French
was on deck. He was anxious to miss no possible sight of the approach
of Zeebrugge. He had read with a thrilled and breathless interest the
story of what was perhaps the greatest naval exploit of all time—as,
indeed, who has not?—and as the long, low line of the famous mole
loomed up rather starboard of straight ahead, his heart beat faster
and a lump came in his throat. There, away to the right, round the
curve of the long pier, must have been where _Vindictive_ boarded,
where in an inferno of fire her crew reached with their scaling
ladders the top of the great sea wall, and climbing down on the
inside, joined a hand-to-hand fight with the German defenders. And
here, at the left hand end of the huge semicircle, was the lighthouse,
which he was now rounding as _Thetis_, _Intrepid_, and _Iphigenia_
rounded it on that historic night. He tried to picture the scene. The
screen of smoke to sea, which baffled the searchlights of the
defenders and from which mysterious and unexpected craft emerged at
intervals, the flashing lights as guns were fired and shells burst
over the mole, the sea, and the low-lying sand dunes of the coast
behind. The din of hell in the air, fire, smoke, explosion, and
death—and those three ships passing on; _Thetis_ a wreck, struck and
fiercely burning, forced aside by the destruction of her gear, but
lighting her fellows straight to their goal—the mouth of the canal
which led to the submarine base at Bruges. French crossed the deck and
gazed at the spot with its swing bridge and stone side walls, as he
thought how, had the desperate venture failed, history might have been
changed and at that touch and go period of the war the Central Powers
might have triumphed. It was with renewed pride and wonder in the men
who conceived and carried out the wonderful enterprise that he crossed
back over the deck and set himself to the business of landing.
A short run past the sandhills at the coast and across the flat
Belgian fields brought the spires of Bruges into view, and slowly
rounding a sharp curve through the gardens of the houses in the
suburbs, they joined the main line from Ostend, and a few minutes
later entered the station. Emerging on to the wide boulevard in front,
French’s eyes fell on a bus bearing the legend “Grand Hôtel du
Sablon,” and getting in, he was driven across the boulevard and a
short way up a long, rather narrow and winding street, between houses
some of which seemed to have stood unaltered—and doubtless had—for six
hundred years, when Bruges, three times its present size, was the
chief trading city of the Hanseatic League. As he turned into the
hotel, chimes rang out—from the famous belfry, the porter told
him—tinkling, high-pitched bells and silvery, if a trifle thin in the
clear morning air.
He called for some breakfast, and as he was consuming it the
anticipated delights of sight-seeing receded, and interest in the
movements of James Dangle became once more paramount. He was proud of
his solution of the problem of the torn hotel bill, and not for a
moment had a doubt of the correctness of that solution entered his
head.
It came upon him therefore as a devastating shock when the courteous
manager of the hotel, with whom he had asked an interview, assured him
not only that no such person as the original of the photograph he had
presented had ever visited his establishment, but that the fragment of
the bill was not his.
To French it seemed as if the bottom had fallen out of his world. He
had been so sure of his ground; all his reasoning about the stamp, the
size of the hotel and town and lengths of their names had seemed so
convincing and unassailable. And the names Grand Hôtel du Sablon and
Bruges had worked in so well! More important still, no other hotel
seemed to fill the bill. French felt cast down to the lowest depths of
despair, and for a time he could only stare speechlessly at the
manager.
At last he smiled rather ruefully.
“That’s rather a blow,” he confessed. “I was pretty sure of my ground.
Indeed, so sure was I, that if I might without offense, I should like
to ask you again if there is no possibility that the man might have
been here, say, during your absence.”
The manager was sympathetic. He brought French a sample of his bill,
stamped with his rubber receipt stamp, and French saw at once their
dissimilarity with those he had been studying. Moreover, the manager
assured him that neither had been altered for several years.
So he was no further on! French lit a cigar, and retiring to a
deserted corner of the salon, sat down to think the thing out.
What was he to do next? Was he to return to London by the next boat,
giving up the search and admitting defeat, or was there any possible
alternative? He set his teeth as he swore great oaths that nothing
short of the direct need would lead him to abandon his efforts until
he had found the hotel, and learned Dangle’s secret.
But heroics were all very well: what, in point of fact was he to do?
He sat considering the problem for an hour, and at the end of that
time he had decided to go to Brussels, borrow or buy a Belgian hotel
guide, and go through it page by page until he found what he wanted.
If none of the hotels given suited, he would go on to Paris and try a
similar experiment.
This decision he reached only after long consideration, not because it
was not obvious—it had instantly occurred to him—but because he was
convinced that the methods he had already tried had completely covered
the ground. He had proved that there was no hotel whose name ended in
. . . lon in a fair-sized town whose name ended in . . . s in all the
district in question, other than the Grand Hôtel du Sablon at Bruges.
There still remained, however, the chance that it might be a southern
French or Swiss hotel, and he saw that he would have to make sure of
this before returning to London.
Still buried in thought, he walked slowly back to the station to look
up trains to Brussels. The fact that he was in the most interesting
town in Belgium no longer stirred his pulse. His disappointment and
anxiety about his case drove all irrelevant matters from his mind, and
he felt that all he wanted now was to be at work again to retrieve his
error.
He reached the station, and began searching the huge timetable boards
for the train he wanted. He was interested to notice that the tables
were published in two languages, French and what he thought at first
was Dutch, but concluded later must be Flemish. Idly he compared the
different spelling of the names of the towns. Brugge and Bruges, Gent
and Gand, Brussel and Bruxelles, Oostende and Ostende, and then
suddenly he came up as it were all standing, and a sudden wave of
excitement passed over him as he stood regarding another pair of
names. Antwerpen and Anvers! Anvers! A six lettered town ending in s!
He cursed himself for his stupidity. He had always thought of the
place as Antwerp, but he ought to have known its French name. Anvers!
Once more he was alert and full of eager optimism. Had he got it at
last?
He passed through on to the platform, and making for a door headed
“Chef de Gare,” asked for the stationmaster. There, after a moment’s
delay, he was shown into the presence of an imposing individual in
gold lace, who, however, was not too important to listen to him
carefully and reply courteously in somewhat halting English. Monsieur
wished to know if there was an hotel whose name ended in . . . lon in
Antwerp? He could not recall one off hand, but he would look up the
advertisements in his guides and tourist programs. Ah, what was this?
The Grand Hôtel du Carillon. Was that what monsieur required?
A name of twenty letters—which would exactly fill the space on the
receipt stamp! It certainly was what monsieur required! The very idea
raised monsieur to an exalted pitch of delighted enthusiasm. The
stationmaster was gratified at the reception of his information.
“I haf been at the ’otel myself,” he volunteered. “It is small, but
vair’ goot. It is in the Place Verte, near to the Cathedral. Does
monsieur know Antwerp?”
Monsieur did not, but he expressed the pleasure it would give him to
make its acquaintance, and thanking the polite official he returned to
the timetables to look up the trains thither.
His most direct way, it appeared, was through Ghent and Termonde, but
on working out the services he found he could get quicker trains via
Brussels. He therefore booked by that route, and at 11:51 he climbed
into a great through express from Ostend to Brussels, Aix-la-Chapelle,
Strasbourg, and, it seemed to him, the whole of the rest of Europe. An
hour and a half’s run brought him into Brussels-Nord, and from there
he wandered out into the Place Rogier for lunch. Then returning to the
station he took an express for Antwerp, arriving in the central
terminus of that city a few minutes after three o’clock.
He had bought a map of Antwerp at a bookstall in Brussels, from which
he had learned that the Place Verte was nearly a mile away in the
direction of the river. His traveling impedimenta consisting of a
handbag only, he determined to walk, and emerging from the great
marble hall of the station, he passed down the busy Avenue de Keyser,
and along the Place de Meir into the older part of the town. As he
walked he was immensely impressed by the fine wide streets, the ornate
buildings, and the excellence of the shops. Everywhere were evidences
of wealth and prosperity, and as he turned into the Place Verte, and
looked across at the huge bulk of the Cathedral with its soaring
spire, he felt that here was an artistic treasure of which any city
might well be proud.
The Grand Hôtel du Carillon was an old, quaint looking building
looking out over the Place Verte. French, entering, called for a bock
in the restaurant, and after he had finished, asked to see the
manager. A moment later a small, stout man with a humorous eye
appeared, bowed low, and said that he was M. Marquet, the proprietor.
“A word with you in private, M. Marquet,” French requested, when they
had exchanged confidences on the weather. “Won’t you take something
with me?”
The proprietor signified his willingness in excellent English, and
when further drinks had been brought, and French had satisfied himself
that they were alone, he went on:
“I am a detective officer from the London police, and I am trying to
trace an Englishman called Dangle. I have reason to suppose he stayed
at this hotel recently. There is his photograph. Can you help me at
all?”
At the name Dangle, M. Marquet had nodded, and when he saw the
photograph he beamed and his whole body became affirmation
personified. But certainly, he knew M. Dangle. For several weeks—he
could not say how many, but he could ascertain from his records—for
several weeks M. Dangle had been his guest at intervals. Sometimes he
had stayed one night, sometimes two, sometimes three. Yes, he was
usually alone, but not always. On three or four occasions he had been
accompanied by another gentleman—a tall, well-built, clean-shaven man,
and once a third man had come, a short man with a fair mustache. Yes,
that was the photograph of the short man, M.—? Yes; Blessington. The
other man’s name he could not remember, but it would appear in the
register: Sile, Site—something like that. Yes, Sime: that was it. No,
he was afraid he knew nothing about these gentlemen or their business,
but he would be glad to do everything in his power to assist monsieur.
French, his enthusiasm and delight remaining at fever heat, was
suitably grateful. He wished just to ask M. Marquet a few more
questions. He would like to know the last occasion on which M. Dangle
had stayed.
“Why,” M. Marquet exclaimed, “he just left yesterday. He came here,
let me see, on Tuesday night quite late, indeed it was nearly one on
Wednesday morning when he arrived. He came, he said, off the English
boat train which arrives here about midnight. He stayed here two
days—till yesterday, Thursday. He left yesterday shortly after
déjeuner.”
“He was alone?”
“Yes, monsieur. This time he was alone.”
French, metaphorically speaking, hugged himself on hearing this news.
Through his brilliant work with the torn bill, he had added one more
fine achievement to the long list of his successes. He could not but
believe that the most doubtful and difficult step of the investigation
had now been accomplished. With a trail only twenty four hours old, he
should surely be able to put his hands on Dangle with but little
delay. Moreover, from the fact that so many visits had been paid to
Antwerp it looked as if the secret of the gang was hidden in the city.
Greatly reassured, he proceeded to acquire details.
He began by obtaining from M. Marquet’s records lists of the visits of
the three men, and that gentleman’s identification of the torn bill.
Also he pressed him as to whether he could not remember any questions
or conversations of the trio which might give him a hint as to their
business, but without success. He saw and made a detailed search of
the room Dangle had occupied during his last visit, but here again
with no result. Dangle, M. Marquet said, had been out all day on the
Wednesday, the day after his arrival, but on Thursday he had remained
in the hotel until his departure about 2:00 P.M. M. Marquet had not
seen him leave, but he had sent the waiter for his bill after
déjeuner, and the proprietor believed he had gone a little later.
Possibly the porter could give more information on the point.
The porter was sent for and questioned. He knew M. Dangle well and
recognized his photograph. He had been present in the hall when the
gentleman left on the previous day, shortly before two o’clock. M.
Dangle had walked out of the hotel with his suitcase in his hand,
declining the porter’s offer to carry it for him or call a taxi. The
trams, however, passed the door, and the porter had assumed M. Dangle
intended to travel by that means. No, he had not noticed the direction
he took. There was a “stillstand” or tramway halt close by. Dangle had
not talked to the porter further than to wish him good-day when he met
him. He had not asked questions, or given any hint of his business in
the town.
Following his usual procedure under such circumstances, French next
asked for interviews with all those of the staff who had come in any
way in contract with his quarry, but in spite of his most persistent
efforts he could not extract a single item of information as to the
man’s business or movements.
Baffled and weary from his journey, French took his hat and went out
in the hope that a walk through the streets of the fine old city would
clear his brain and bring him the inspiration he needed. Crossing
beneath the trees of the Place Verte, he passed round the cathedral to
the small square from which he could look up at the huge bulk of the
west front, with its two unequal towers, one a climbing marvel of
decoration, “lace in stone,” the other unfinished, and topped with a
small and evidently temporary spire. Then, promising himself a look
round the interior before leaving the town, he regained the tramline
from the Place Verte, and following it westwards, in two or three
minutes came out on the great terraces lining the banks of the river.
The first sight of the Scheldt was one which French felt he would not
soon forget. Well on to half a mile wide, it bore away in both
directions like a great highway leading from this little Belgium to
the uttermost parts of the earth. Large ships lay at anchor in it, as
well as clustering along the wharves to the south. This river frontage
of wharves and sheds and cranes and great steamers extended as far as
the eye could reach; he had read that it was three and a half miles
long. And that excluded the huge docks for which the town was famous.
As he strolled along he became profoundly impressed, not only with the
size of the place, but more particularly with the attention which had
been given to its artistic side. In spite of all this commercial
activity the city did not look sordid. Thought had been given to its
design; one might almost say loving care. Why, these very terraces on
which he was walking, with their cafés and their splendid view of the
river, were formed on neither more nor less than the vast roofs of the
dock sheds. French, who knew most of the English ports, felt his
amazement grow at every step.
He followed the quays right across the town till he came to the Gare
du Sud, then turning away from the river, he found himself in the
Avenue du Sud. From this he worked back along the line of great
avenues which had replaced the earlier fortifications, until
eventually, nearly three hours after he had started, he once again
turned into the Place Verte, and reached the Carillon.
He ordered a room for the night, and some strong tea, after which he
sat on in his secluded corner of the comfortable restaurant, and
smoked a meditative cigar. His walk had done him good. His brain had
cleared, and the weariness of the journey, and the chagrin of his
deadlock had vanished. His thoughts returned to his problem, which he
began to attack in the new.
He puzzled over it for the best part of an hour, without making the
slightest progress, and then he began to consider how far the ideas he
had already arrived at fitted in with what he had since learned of
Dangle’s movements.
He had thought that the nature of the articles on Dangle’s list
suggested a sea expedition. He remembered the delight with which, many
years earlier, he had read _The Riddle of the Sands_, and he thought
that had Dangle contemplated just such another cruise as that of the
heroes of that fascinating book, he might well have got together the
articles in question. But since these ideas had passed through his
mind, French had learned the following fresh facts:
1. From a fortnight after obtaining the tracing, Dangle had been
paying frequent visits to Antwerp.
2. He had on these occasions put up at the Carillon.
3. His last visit had followed immediately on the failure to murder
Cheyne, with its almost certain result of the calling in of Scotland
Yard.
4. He had on this last visit remained at the Carillon for two days,
leaving about 2:00 P.M. on the Thursday, the previous day.
5. He had carried his hand-bag from the hotel, without calling for a
taxi.
At first French could not see that these additional facts had any
bearing on his theory, but as he continued turning them over in his
mind, he realized that all but one might be interpreted as tending in
the same direction.
1. Dangle’s visits to Antwerp. Supposing Dangle had been planning some
secret marine expedition, where, French asked himself, could he have
found a more suitable base from which to make his arrangements?
Antwerp was a seaport: moreover, it was a great seaport, large enough
for a secret expedition to set sail from without attracting notice. It
was a foreign port, away from the inquisitive notice of the British
police, but, on the other hand, it was the nearest great port to
London. If these considerations did not back up his theory, they at
least did not conflict with it.
2. Why had Dangle put up at the Carillon? The hotels near the station
were the obvious ones for English visitors. Could it be because the
Place Verte was close to the river and the shipping? This, French
admitted to himself, sounded farfetched, and yet it might be the
truth.
3. The dispersal and disappearance of the gang immediately on the
probability of its activities becoming known to the police looked
suspiciously like a flight.
4. Could it be that Dangle’s arrival in Antwerp was ahead of schedule,
that is, the flight brought him there two days before the expedition
was to start? Or could it be that on his arrival he immediately set to
work to organize the departure, but was unable to complete his
arrangements for two days? At least, it might be so.
Lastly, had he carried his bag from the hotel for the same reason as
he might have chosen the hotel: that he was going, not to the station,
but the few hundred yards to the quays, thence to start on this
maritime expedition? Again, it might be so.
French was fully aware that the whole of these elaborate
considerations had the actual stability of a house of cards. Each and
every one of his deductions might be erroneous and the facts might be
capable of an entirely different construction. Still, there was at
least a suggestion that Dangle might have left Antwerp by water
shortly after two o’clock on the previous day. It was the one
constructive idea French could evolve, and he decided that in the
absence of anything better he would try to follow it up.
It was too late to do anything that night. After dinner, therefore, he
had another walk, spent an hour in a cinema, and then went early to
bed, so as to be fresh for his labors of the following day.