On the Flood Tide
French was astir betimes next morning, and over his coffee and rolls
and honey he laid his plans for the day. As to the next step of his
investigation he had no doubt. He must begin by finding out what
vessels had left the city after 2:00 P.M. on the previous Thursday.
That done, he could go into the question of the passengers each
carried, in the hope of learning that Dangle was among them.
At the outset he was faced by the handicap of being a stranger in a
strange land. If Antwerp had been an English port he would have known
just where to get his information, but here he was unfamiliar with the
ropes. He did not know if all sailings were published in any paper or
available to the public at any office; moreover, his ignorance of both
French and Flemish precluded his mixing with clerks or dock loafers
from whom he might pick up information. Of course there were the
Belgian police, but he did not wish to apply to them if he could carry
out his job by himself.
However, this part of his problem proved easier of solution than he
had expected. Inquiries at the post office revealed the fact that
there was a shipping agency in the Rue des Tanneurs, and soon he had
reached the place, found a clerk who spoke English, and put his
question.
When French wished to be suave, as he usually did, he could, so to
speak, have wheedled his best bone from a bulldog. Now, explaining in
a friendly and confidential manner who he was and why he wanted the
information, he begged the other’s good offices. The clerk, flattered
at being thus courteously approached, showed a willingness to assist,
with the result that in ten minutes French had the particulars he
needed.
He turned into a café, and calling for a bock, sat down to consider
what he had learned. And of this the very first fact filled him with
delight, as it seemed to fit in with the theory he had evolved.
On Thursday it had been high water at 2:30 P.M. By 2:30 the dock gates
had been opened, and it appeared that, taking advantage of this,
several steamers had left shortly after that hour.
This was distinctly encouraging, and French turned to the list of
ships with a growing hope that the end of his investigation might be
coming into sight. In all, eleven steamers had left the port on the
day in question, between the hours of 2:00 and 6:00 P.M., the period
he had included in his inquiry.
There was first of all a Canadian Pacific liner, which had sailed from
the quays at 3:00 P.M., and at 3:30 a small passenger boat had left
for Oslo and Bergen. The remaining boats were tramps. There were four
coasters, two for Newcastle, one for Goole, and one for Belfast, a
6,000 tonner for Singapore and the Dutch Islands, another slightly
smaller ship for Genoa and Spezia, and another for Boston, U.S.A. Then
there was a big five-masted sailing ship, bound with a general cargo
for Buenos Aires and the River Platte, and finally there was a small
freighter in ballast for Casablanca.
Of these eleven ships, the windjammer at once attracted French’s
attention. Here was a vessel on which, if you took a passage, you
might easily require three dozen tins of peaches before you reached
your journey’s end. He determined to begin with this, taking the other
ships in order according to the position of their offices. Fortunately
in each case the clerk had given him the name of the owners or agents.
His first call, therefore, was at an old-fashioned office in a small
street close to the Steen Museum. There he saw M. Leblanc, the owner
of the windjammer, and explained his business. But M. Leblanc could
not help him. The old gentleman had never heard of Dangle nor had any
one resembling his visitor’s photograph called or done any business
with his firm. Moreover, no passengers had shipped on the windjammer,
and the crew that had sailed was unchanged since the previous voyage.
This was not encouraging, and French went on to the next item on his
program, the headquarters of the small freighter which had sailed in
ballast for Casablanca. She was owned by Messrs. Merkel & Lowenthal,
whose office was farther down the Rue des Tanneurs, and five minutes
later he had pushed open the door and was inquiring for the principal.
This was a more modern establishment than that of M. Leblanc. Though
small, the office ran to plate glass windows, teak furniture, polished
brass fittings, and encaustic tiles, while the two typists he could
envisage through the small inquiry window seemed unduly gorgeous as to
raiment and pert as to demeanor.
He was kept waiting for some minutes, then told that M. Merkel, the
head of the business, was away, but that M. Lowenthal, the junior
partner, would see him.
His first glance told French that M. Lowenthal was a man to be
watched. Seldom had he seen so many of the tell-tale signs of roguery
concentrated in the features of one person. The junior partner had a
mean, sly look, close-set, shifty eyes which would not meet French’s,
and a large mouth with loose, fleshy lips. His manner was in accord
with his appearance, now blustering, now almost fulsomely
ingratiating. French took an instant dislike to him, and though he
remained courteous as ever, he determined not to lay his cards on the
table.
“My name,” he began, “as you will have seen from my card, is French,
and I carry out the business of a general agent in London. I am trying
to obtain an interview with a friend, who has been staying here, off
and on, for some time. I came on here from Brussels in the hope of
seeing him, but he had just left. I was told that he had sailed with
your ship, the _L’Escaut_, on Thursday afternoon, and if so I called
to ask at which port I should be likely to get in touch with him. His
name is Dangle.”
While French spoke he watched the other narrowly, on his favorite
theory that the involuntary replies to unexpected remarks—starts,
changes of expression, sudden pallors—were more valuable than spoken
answers.
But M. Lowenthal betrayed no emotion other than a mild surprise.
“That iss a very egstraordinary statement, sir,” he said in heavy
guttural tones. “I do not really know who could haf given you such
misleading information. Your friend’s name is quite unknown to me, and
in any case we do not take passengers on our ships.”
This seemed an entirely reasonable and proper reply, and yet to
French’s highly developed instincts it did not ring true. However, he
could do nothing more, and after a little further conversation
containing not a few veiled inquiries, all of which, he noted, were
skillfully parried by the other, he apologized for his mistake and
withdrew.
Though he was dissatisfied with the interview, he could only continue
his program. He recognized that the secret might be located in Canada
or the States, and that Dangle might have booked on the C.P.R. liner.
Or he might have gone to Norway—indeed, for the matter of that, he
might have signed on on any of the ships for any part of the world.
But after a tedious morning of calls and interviews, French had to
confess defeat. He could get no farther. At none of the offices at
which he applied had he obtained the slightest helpful hint. It began
to look as if he had been mistaken as to Dangle’s sea expedition, and
if so, as he reminded himself with exasperation, he had no alternative
theory to follow up.
He strolled slowly along the pleasant, sunlit streets, as he reviewed
his morning’s work. He was satisfied with all his interviews but the
one. Everywhere save in M. Lowenthal’s office he felt he had been told
the truth. But instinctively he distrusted the junior partner. That
the man had lied to him he had no reason to suspect, but he had no
doubt that he would do so if it suited his book.
French felt that it was unsatisfactory to leave the matter in this
state, and he presently thought of a simple subterfuge whereby it
might be cleared up. It was almost the lunch hour, a suitable time for
putting his project into operation. He hurried back to the Rue des
Tanneurs, and turning into a café nearly opposite Messrs. Merkel &
Lowenthal’s premises, ordered a bock and selected a seat from which he
could observe the office door.
He was only just in time. He had not taken his place five minutes when
he saw M. Lowenthal emerge and walk off towards the center of the
town. Three men clerks and the two rapid-looking typists followed, and
lastly there appeared the person for whom he was waiting—the
sharp-looking office boy who had attended to him earlier in the day.
The boy turned off in the opposite direction to his principal—towards
a quarter inhabited by laborers and artisans, and French, getting up
from his table, slipped quietly out of the café and followed him.
The chase continued for some ten minutes, when the quarry disappeared
into a small house in a back street. French strolled up and down until
some half an hour later the young fellow reappeared. As he approached
French allowed a look of recognition and slight surprise to appear on
his features.
“Ah,” he said, pausing with a friendly smile, “you are the clerk who
attended to me this morning in Messrs. Merkel & Lowenthal’s office,
are you not? A piece of luck meeting you! I wonder if you could give
me a piece of information? I forgot to ask it of M. Lowenthal this
morning, and as I am in a hurry, it would be worth five francs to me
not to have to go back to your office.”
The youth’s eyes had brightened at the suggestion of financial
dealings, and French felt he would learn all the other could tell him.
He therefore continued without waiting for a reply.
“The thing is this: I am joining my friend, M. Dangle, aboard the
_L’Escaut_ at the first opportunity. It was arranged between us that
one of us should take with him a couple of dozen of champagne. I want
to know whether he took the stuff, or whether I am to. Can you help me
at all?”
The clerk’s English, though fairly good, was not quite equal to such a
strain, and French had to repeat himself less idiomatically. But the
boy grasped his meaning at last, and then at once dashed his hopes by
saying he had never heard of any M. Dangle.
“There he is,” French went on, producing his photograph. “You must
have seen him scores of times.”
And then French got the reward of his pertinacity. A look of
recognition passed over the clerk’s features, and he made a gesture of
comprehension.
“_Mais oui, m’sieur_; yes, sir,” he answered quickly, “but that is not
M. Danggalle. I know him: it is M. Charles.”
“That’s right,” French returned, trying to keep the triumph out of his
voice. “His name is Dangle Charles. I know him as M. Dangle, because
he is one of four brothers at our works. But of course he would give
his name here as M. Charles. But now, can you tell me anything about
the champagne?”
The clerk shook his head. He had not known upon what business M.
Charles had called at the office.
“Oh, well, it can’t be helped,” French declared. “I thought that
perhaps when he was in with you last Wednesday you might have heard
something about it. You don’t know what luggage he took aboard the
_L’Escaut_?”
The clerk had not been aware that M. Charles had embarked on the
freighter, still less did he know of what his luggage had consisted.
But as French talked on in his pleasant way, the following facts
became apparent; first, that Dangle for some weeks past had been an
occasional visitor at the shipping office; second, that on the
previous Wednesday he had been closeted with the partners for the
greater part of the day; third, that the _L’Escaut_ had evidently
sailed on an expedition of considerable importance and length, for a
vast deal of stores had gone aboard her, about which both partners had
shown very keen anxiety; fourthly, that not only had M. Merkel, the
senior partner, himself sailed on her, but it was likely that he
intended to be away some time as M. Lowenthal had moved into his room,
and lastly, that the _L’Escaut_ had come up from the firm’s yard
during the Wednesday night and had anchored in the river off the Steen
until she left about 3:00 P.M. on the Thursday.
These admissions made it abundantly clear that French was once more on
the right track, and he handed over his five francs with the feeling
that he had made the cheapest bargain of his life.
He had no doubt that Dangle had sailed with the senior partner on the
tramp, but he felt he must make sure, and he walked slowly back
towards the quays, turning over in his mind possible methods for
settling the point. One inquiry seemed promising. If the ship had lain
at anchor out in the river, and if Dangle had gone aboard her, he must
have had a boat to do so. French wondered could he find that boat.
He felt himself held up by the language difficulty. Up to the present
he had had extraordinary luck in this respect, but then up to the
present he had been interviewing educated persons whose business
brought them in contact with foreigners. He doubted if he could make
boatmen and loafers about the quays understand what he wanted.
A trial convinced him that his fears were well founded, and he lost a
solid hour in finding the Berlitz School and engaging a young linguist
with a reputation for discretion. Then, accompanied by M. Jules
Renard, he returned to the quays and set systematically to work. He
began by inquiring where boats might be hired, and where there were
steps at which ships’ boats might come alongside. Taking these in turn
he asked had the boatmen taken a passenger out to the _L’Escaut_
between 2:00 and 3:00 P.M. on the previous Thursday? Or had the
loafer, stevedore, shunter, or constable, as the case might be,
noticed if a boat had come ashore from the same vessel on the same
date and at the same time?
Though the work was easy it bade fair to be tedious, and therefore for
more than one reason French felt a glow of satisfaction when at his
fourth inquiry his question received an affirmative answer. A wizened
old man, one of a small knot of longshoremen whom M. Renard addressed,
separated himself from his companions and came forward. He said that
he was a boatman, and that he had been hailed by a man—an Englishman,
he believed—at the time stated, and had rowed him out to the ship.
“Ask him if that’s the man,” French directed, producing Dangle’s
photograph, though he felt there could be no doubt as to the reply.
He was therefore immensely dashed when the boatman shook his head.
This was not the man at all. The traveler was a short, rather stout
man with a small fair mustache.
French gasped. The description sounded familiar. Taking out
Blessington’s photograph he passed it over.
This time the boatman nodded. Yes, that was the man he had rowed out.
He had no doubt of him whatever.
This was unexpected but most welcome news, though as French thought
over it, he saw that it was not so surprising after all. If Dangle was
in it, why not Blessington, and for the matter of that, why not Sime
also? In this case he wondered where Susan could be, and more acutely,
what had been the fate of Joan Merrill. Possibly, he thought, his
inquiries about Dangle would solve these questions also.
Half an hour later he struck oil for the second time. Another boatman,
a little further along the quays, had also rowed a passenger out to
the _L’Escaut_, and this one, it appeared, was Dangle. But though
French kept working steadily away, he could hear nothing of Sime.
In the end it was a suggestion of Renard’s that put him once more on
the trail. The interpreter proved an intelligent youth, and when he
had grasped the point at issue, he stopped and pointed to the river.
“You say, monsieur, that the sheep, she lie there, opposite the Musée
Steen, is it not so? _Bon!_ We haf walked along all the quays near to
that. Your friends would not haf hired boat from farther on—it is too
far. You say, too, they come from England secretly, is it not? _Bon!_
They would come to the other side.”
French did not understand.
“The other side?” he repeated questioningly.
“But yes, monsieur, the other side.” The young fellow’s eyes flashed
in his eagerness. “Over there, La Gare de Waes.” He pointed out across
the great stream to its west bank.
“I didn’t know there was a station across there,” French admitted.
“Where does the line go to?”
“Direct to Ghent. Your friends change trains at Ghent. It is a quiet
railway. They come unseen.”
“Good man,” said French heartily. “We’ll go and find out. How do you
get to the blessed place?”
M. Renard smiled delightedly.
“Ah yes, monsieur. You weesh to cross? Is it not?” he cried. “This
way. We take ferry from the Quai Van Dyck. It is near.”
Half an hour later they had reached the Tête de Flandre—the low-lying
western bank of the Scheldt. It bore a small but not unpicturesque
cluster of old-fashioned houses, nestling about one of the historic
Antwerp forts. Renard, now apparently quite as interested in the chase
as French, led the way along the river bank from boatman to boatman,
with the result that before very many minutes had passed French had
obtained the information he wanted.
It appeared that about 1:00 P.M. on the day in question, a strapping
young boatman had noticed three strangers approaching from the
direction of the Waes Station, a hundred yards or more distant. They
consisted of a tall, clean-shaven man of something under middle age
and two women, both young. One was tall and strongly made and dark as
to hair and eyes, the other was slighter and with red gold hair. The
smaller one seemed to be ill, and was stumbling along between the
other two, each of whom supported her by an arm. None of the trio
could speak French or Flemish, but they managed by signs to convey the
information that they wanted to be put on board the _L’Escaut_, which
was lying out in midstream. The man had rowed them out, and they had
been received on board by an elderly gentleman with a dark beard.
Further questions produced the information that the fair lady appeared
to be seriously ill, though whether it was her mind or body that was
affected, the boatman couldn’t be sure. She was able to walk, but
would not do so unless urged on by the others. She had not spoken or
taken any interest in the journey. She had not appeared even to look
round her, but had sat gazing listlessly at nothing, with a vacant
expression in her eyes. Her companions had had real difficulty in
getting her up the short ladder on to the _L’Escaut’s_ deck.
The news was rather unexpected to French. About Joan Merrill it was
both disconcerting and reassuring; the former because he could not see
that the gang had anything but a sinister reason for inveigling the
young girl aboard the ship—probably she will fall overboard at night,
he thought; the latter because she was at least still alive, or had
been two days ago. It was quite evident that she was drugged, probably
with morphine or something similar. It might, however, mean that while
wishing Joan no harm, they were taking her with them on their
expedition to insure her silence as to their movements.
As French returned across the ferry, he kept on puzzling as to
Lowenthal’s position. Could Lowenthal be arrested? Was he in league
with the gang? If so, could he be held responsible for the abduction
of Joan Merrill? French didn’t think the evidence would justify
drastic measures. He had, as a matter of fact, no actual evidence
against Lowenthal. Of his complicity he was satisfied, but he doubted
if he could prove it.
He got rid of the young interpreter, and strolling slowly along the
quays, thought the matter out. No, he had not a enough case with which
to go to the Belgian police. But he could do the next best thing. He
could call on M. Lowenthal for the second time, and try to bluff an
admission out of him.
As he walked to the Rue des Tanneurs, he felt his prospects were not
rosy. But at least he had no difficulty in obtaining his interview. M.
Lowenthal seemed surprised to see him so soon again, but received him
politely, and asked what he could do for him.
“I want to ask you another question, M. Lowenthal, if you please,”
French answered in his pleasantest manner, “and first I must tell you
that the agency I hold is that of Detective Inspector at New Scotland
Yard in London. My question is this: When you and M. Merkel entered
into relations with Blessington, Sime, and the Dangles, did you know
that they were dangerous criminals wanted by the English police?”
In spite of the most evident efforts for self-control, Lowenthal was
so much taken aback that he could not for some moments speak. His
swarthy face turned a greenish hue and little drops of sweat showed on
his forehead. To the other pleasant characteristics with which French
had mentally endowed him, he now added that of coward, and his hopes
of his bluff succeeding grew brighter. He sat waiting in silence for
the other to recover himself, then said suavely:
“After that, M. Lowenthal, you will see for yourself that you cannot
plead ignorance of the affair. Let me advise you for your own sake to
be open with me.”
The man pulled himself together. He wiped his brow as he replied
earnestly, but in somewhat shaky accents:
“That I haf met Blessington, Sime, and Dangle I do not deny, though
they were Merkel’s friends—not mine. But I do not know that they are
criminal. Dangle, he called here and asked Merkel to take him on the
next”—he hesitated for a word—“next work, next sail of the sheep.
Merkel said that Dangle iss a writer—he writes books. He weeshed to
see the sail to Casablanca to deescribe it in hiss book. Merkel said
he would haf to pay fare, the firm could not afford it unless. Dangle
agreed. Merkel was going himself, and Dangle suggested Sime and
Blessington go also to make party—to play cards. Of a second Dangle I
know nothing. They went secretly—I admit it—because the law forbids to
take passengers for sail without a certificate. That is all of the
affair.”
Not a single word of this statement did French believe, but he saw
that unless he could get some further information, or surprise this
Lowenthal into some more damaging admission, he could not have him
arrested. After all, the story hung together. Merkel might conceivably
be playing his own game, and have pitched the yarn of the author out
for copy to his partner. The contravention of the shipping laws would
undoubtedly account for the secrecy with which the start was made.
Certainly there was no evidence to bring before a jury.
French proceeded to question the junior partner with considerable
thoroughness, but he could not shake his statement. The only
additional facts he learned were that the _L’Escaut_ was going to
Casablanca on the order of the Moroccan Government to load up a cargo
of agricultural samples for the Italian market, and that M. Merkel was
accompanying it simply as a holiday trip.
With this French had to be content, and he went to the post office,
and got through on the long distance telephone to his chief at the
Yard. To him he repeated the essentials of the tale, asking him to
inquire from the Moroccan authorities as to the truth of their portion
of it, as well as to endeavor to trace the _L’Escaut_.
On leaving the post office, it occurred to him that communication with
the _L’Escaut_ should be possible by wireless, and he returned to the
Rue des Tanneurs to ascertain this point. There he was told that just
after he had left M. Lowenthal had received a telephone call,
requiring his immediate presence in Holland, and he had with a great
rush caught the afternoon express for the Dutch capital.
“Skedaddled, by Jove!” said French to himself. “Guess that lets in the
Belgian police.”
He called at headquarters, and saw the officer in charge, and before
he left to catch the connection for London, it had been arranged that
the movements of the junior partner should be gone into, and a watch
kept for the return of that enterprising weaver of fairy tales.