Kitabı oku: «The Doctor of Pimlico: Being the Disclosure of a Great Crime», sayfa 8
CHAPTER XVI
THE ORDERS OF HIS EXCELLENCY
Again Paul sat back without a word. Well, he would hear the extraordinary charge against him, whatever it might be. And, without speaking, they travelled on and on, until they at last entered the Porte St. Paul at Verdun, passed up the Avenue de la Gare, skirting the Palais de Justice into the station yard.
As Paul descended they were met by a third stranger who strolled forward—a man in a heavy travelling coat and a soft Homburg hat.
It was the man who had sat behind him earlier in the evening—the man with the deep lines upon his care-worn brow, who had laughed so heartily—and who a moment later introduced himself as Jules Pierrepont, special commissaire of the Paris Sûreté.
"We have met before?" remarked Paul abruptly.
"Yes, Monsieur Le Pontois," replied the man with a grim smile. "On several occasions lately. It has been my duty to keep observation upon your movements—acting upon orders from Monsieur the Prefect of Police."
And together they entered the dark, deserted station to await the night express for Paris.
Suddenly Paul turned back, saying to the chauffeur in a low, hard voice: "Gallet, to-morrow go and tell madame my wife that I am unexpectedly called to the capital. Tell her—tell her that I will write to her. But, at all hazards, do not let her know the truth that I am under arrest," he added hoarsely.
"That is understood, monsieur," replied the man, saluting. "Neither madame nor anyone else shall know why you have left for Paris."
"I rely upon you," were Paul's parting words, and, turning upon his heel, he accompanied the three men who were in waiting.
Half an hour later he sat in a second-class compartment of the Paris rapide with the three keen-eyed men who had so swiftly effected his arrest.
It was apparent to him now that the reason he had recognised Pierrepont was because that man had maintained vigilant, yet unobtrusive, observation upon him during several of the preceding days, keeping near him in all sorts of ingenious guises and making inquiries concerning him—inquiries instituted for some unexplained cause by the Paris police.
Bitterly he smiled to himself as he gazed upon the faces of his three companions, hard and deep-shadowed beneath the uncertain light. Presently he made some inquiry of Jules Pierrepont, who had now assumed commandership of the party, as to the reason of his arrest.
"I regret, Monsieur Le Pontois," replied the quiet, affable man, "his Excellency does not give us reasons. We obey orders—that is all."
"But surely there is still, even after the war, justice in France!" cried Paul in dismay. "There must be some good reason. One cannot be thus arrested as a criminal without some charge against him—in my case a false one!"
All three men had heard prisoners declare their innocence many times before, therefore they merely nodded assent—it was their usual habit.
"There is, of course, some charge," remarked Pierrepont. "But no doubt monsieur has a perfect answer to it."
"When I know what it is," replied Paul between his teeth, "then I shall meet it bravely, and demand compensation for this outrageous arrest!"
He held his breath, for, with a sinking heart, he realised for the first time the very fact of a serious allegation being made against him by some enemy. If mud is thrown some of it always sticks. What had all his enthusiasm in life profited him? Nothing. He bit his lip when he reflected.
"You have some idea of what is alleged against me, messieurs," the unhappy man exclaimed presently, as the roaring train emerged from a long tunnel. "I see it in your faces. Indeed, you would not have taken the precaution, which you did at the moment of my arrest, of searching me to find firearms. You suspected that I might make an attempt to take my life."
"Merely our habit," replied Pierrepont with a slight smile.
"The charge is a grave one—will you not admit that?"
"Probably it is—or we should not all three have been sent to bring you to Paris," remarked one of the trio.
"You have had access to my dossier—I feel sure you have, monsieur," Paul said, addressing Pierrepont.
"Ah! you are in error. Monsieur le Ministre does not afford me that privilege. I am but the servant of the Sûreté, and no one regrets more than myself the painful duty I have been compelled to perform to-night. I assure you, Monsieur Le Pontois, that I entertain much regret that I have been compelled to drag you away from your home and family thus, to Paris."
"No apology is needed, mon ami," Paul exclaimed quickly, well aware that the detective was merely obeying instructions. "I understand your position perfectly." Then, glancing round at his companions, he added: "You may sleep in peace, messieurs. I give you my word of honour that I will not attempt to escape. Why, indeed, should I? I have committed no wrong!"
One of the men had pulled out a well-worn notebook and was with difficulty writing down the prisoner's words—to be put in evidence against him. Le Pontois realised that; therefore his mouth closed with a snap, and, leaning back in the centre of the carriage, he closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to think.
Before leaving Verdun he had seen Pierrepont enter the telegraph bureau—to dispatch a message to the Sûreté, without a doubt. They already knew in Paris that he was under arrest, but at his home they were, happily, still in ignorance. Poor Blanche was asleep, no doubt, by that time, he thought, calm in the belief that he had been delayed and would be home in the early hours.
The fact that he was actually under arrest he regarded with more humour than seriousness, feeling that in the morning explanations would be made and the blunder rectified.
No more honourable or upright man was there in France than Paul Le Pontois, and this order from the Sûreté had held him utterly speechless and astounded. So he sat there hour after hour as the rapide roared westward, until it halted at the great echoing station of Châlons, where all four entered the buffet and hastily swallowed their café-au-lait.
Afterwards they resumed their seats, and the train, with its two long, dusty wagons-lit, moved onward again, with Paris for its goal.
The prisoner said little. He sat calmly reflecting, wondering and wondering what possible charge could be made against him. He had enemies, as every man had, he knew, but he was not aware of anyone who could make an allegation of a character sufficiently grave to warrant his arrest.
Why had it been forbidden that he should wish Blanche farewell? There was some reason for that! He inquired of Pierrepont, who had treated him with such consideration and even respect, but the agent of secret police only replied that in making an arrest of that character they made it a rule never to allow a prisoner to communicate with his family.
"There are several reasons for it," he explained. "One is that very often the prisoner will make a statement to his wife which he will afterwards greatly regret. Again, prisoners have been known to whisper to their wives secret instructions, to order the destruction of papers before we can make a domiciliary visit, or–"
"But you surely will not make a domiciliary visit to my house?" cried Paul, interrupting.
The men exchanged glances.
"At present we cannot tell," Pierrepont replied. "It depends upon what instructions we receive."
"Do you usually make searches?" asked the prisoner, with visions of his own home being desecrated and ransacked.
"Yes, we generally do," the commissaire of police admitted. "As I have explained, it is for that reason we do not allow a prisoner's wife to know that he is under arrest."
"But such an action is abominable!" cried Le Pontois angrily. "That my house should be turned upside down and searched as though I were a common thief, a forger, or a coiner is beyond toleration. I shall demand full inquiry. My friend Carlier shall put an interpellation in the Chamber!"
"Monsieur le Ministre acts upon his own discretion," the detective replied coldly.
"And by so doing sometimes ruins the prospects and the lives of some of our best men," blurted forth the angry prisoner. It was upon the tip of his tongue to say much more in condemnation, but the sight of the man with the notebook caused him to hesitate.
Every word he uttered now would, he knew, be turned against him. He was under arrest—for some crime that he had not committed.
The other passengers by that night express, who included a party of English tourists, little dreamed as they passed up and down the corridor that the smart, good-looking man who wore the button of the Legion d'Honneur, and who sat there with the three quiet, respectable-looking men, was being conveyed to the capital under escort—a man who, by the law of France, was already condemned, was guilty until he could prove his own innocence!
In the cold grey of dawn they descended at last at the great bare Gare de l'Est in Paris. Paul felt tired, cramped and unshaven, but of necessity entered a taxi called by one of his companions, and, accompanied by Pierrepont and the elder of his assistants, was driven along through the cheerless, deserted streets to the Sûreté.
As he entered the side door of the ponderous building the police officer on duty saluted his escort.
His progress across France had been swift and secret.
What, he wondered, did the future hold in store for him?
His lip curled into a smile when they ushered him into a bare room on the first floor. Two police officers were placed outside the door, while two stood within.
Then, turning to the window, which looked out upon the bare trees of the Place below, he laughed aloud and made some humorous remark which caused the men to smile.
But, alas! he knew not the truth. Little did he dream of the amazing allegation that was to be made against him!—little did he dream how completely the enemies of his father-in-law, the general, had triumphed!
CHAPTER XVII
WALTER GIVES WARNING
The morning dawned bright and sunny—a perfect autumn morning—at the pretty Château of Lérouville.
The message which Blanche had received after returning had not caused her much consternation. She supposed that Paul had been suddenly called away on business. So she had eaten her supper with her father and Enid and retired to rest.
When, however, they sat at breakfast—served in the English style—Sir Hugh opened a letter which lay upon his plate, and at once announced his intention of returning to London.
"I have to see Hughes, my solicitor, over Aunt Mary's affairs," he explained suddenly to Blanche. "That executorship is always an infernal nuisance."
"But surely you can remain a day or two longer, Dad?" exclaimed Madame Le Pontois. "The weather is delightful just now, and I hear it is too dreadful for words in England."
"I, too, have to be back to prepare for going away with Mrs. Caldwell," Enid remarked.
"But surely these solicitors will wait? There is no great urgency—there can't be! The old lady died ten years ago," Blanche exclaimed as she poured out coffee.
"My dear, I'm extremely sorry," said her father quietly, "but I must go—it is imperative."
"Not to-day?"
"I ought to go to-day," he sighed. "Indeed, I really must—by the rapide I usually take. Perhaps I shall alter my route this time, and go from Conflans to Metz, and home by Liège and Brussels. It is about as quick, and one gets a wagon-lit from Metz. I looked up the train the other day, and find it leaves Conflans at a little after six."
"Surely you will remain and say au revoir to Paul? He'll be so disappointed!" she cried in dismay.
"My dear, you will make excuses for us. I must really go, and so must Enid. She had a letter from Mrs. Caldwell urging her to get back, as she wants to start abroad for the winter. The bad weather in England is affecting her, it seems."
And so, with much regret expressed by little Ninette and her mother, Sir Hugh Elcombe and his stepdaughter went to their rooms to see about their packing.
Both were puzzled. The sudden appearance of those strange men out of the darkness had frightened Enid, but she had said nothing. Perhaps it was upon some private matter that Paul had been summoned. Therefore she had preserved silence, believing with Blanche that at any moment he might return.
Back in his room, Sir Hugh closed the door, and, standing in the sunshine by the window, gazed across the wide valley towards the blue mists beyond, deep in reflection.
"This curious absence of Paul's forebodes evil," he murmured to himself.
He had slept little that night, being filled with strange apprehensions. Though he had closely questioned Enid, she would not say what had actually happened. Her explanation was merely that Paul had been called away by a man who had met him outside.
The old man sighed, biting his lip. He cursed himself for his dastardly work, even though he had been compelled by Weirmarsh to execute it on pain of exposure and consequent ruin.
Against his will, against his better nature, he had been forced to meet the mysterious doctor of Pimlico in secret on that quiet, wooded by-road between Marcheville and Saint-Hilaire, four kilomètres from the château, and there discuss with him the suggested affair of which they had spoken in London.
The two men had met at sundown.
"You seem to fear exposure!" laughed the man who provided Sir Hugh with his comfortable income. "Don't be foolish—there is no danger. Return to England with Enid as soon as you possibly can without arousing suspicion, and I will call and see you at Hill Street. I want to have a very serious chat with you."
Elcombe's grey, weather-worn face grew hard and determined.
"Why are you here, Weirmarsh?" he demanded. "I have helped you and your infernal friends in the past, but please do not count upon my assistance in the future. Remember that from to-day our friendship is entirely at an end."
"As you wish, of course, my dear Sir Hugh," replied the other, with a nonchalant air. "But if I were you I would not be in too great a hurry to make such a declaration. You may require a friend in the near future—a friend like myself."
"Never, I hope—never!" snapped the old general.
"Very well," replied the doctor, who, with a shrug of his shoulders, wished his friend a cold adieu and, turning, strode away.
As Sir Hugh stood alone by the window that morning he recalled every incident of that hateful interview, every word that had fallen from the lips of the man who seemed to be as ingenious and resourceful as Satan himself.
His anxiety regarding Paul's sudden absence had caused him to invent an excuse for his own hurried departure. He was not prepared to remain there and witness his dear daughter's grief and humiliation, so he deemed it wiser to get away in safety to England, for he no longer trusted Weirmarsh. Suppose the doctor revealed the actual truth by means of some anonymous communication?
As he stood staring blankly across the valley he heard the hum of an approaching motor-car, and saw that it was General Molon's, being driven by Gallet, the soldier chauffeur.
There was no passenger, but the car entered the iron gates and pulled up before the door.
A few minutes later Blanche ran up the stairs and, bursting into her father's room, cried: "Paul has been called suddenly to Paris, Dad! He told Gallet to come this morning and tell me. How strange that he did not come in to get even a valise!"
"Yes, dear," said her father. "Gallet is downstairs, isn't he? I'll speak to him. The mystery of Paul's absence increases!"
"It does. I—I can't get rid of a curious feeling of apprehension that something has happened. What was there to prevent him from coming in to wish me good-bye when he was actually at the gate?"
Sir Hugh went below and questioned the chauffeur.
The story told by the man Gallet was that Le Pontois had been met by two gentlemen and given a message that he was required urgently in Paris, and they had driven at once over to Verdun, where they had just caught the train.
"Did Monsieur Le Pontois leave any other message for madame?" asked Sir Hugh in French.
"No, m'sieur."
The general endeavoured by dint of persuasion to learn something more, but the man was true to his promise, and would make no further statement. Indeed, earlier that morning he had been closely questioned by the commandant, but had been equally reticent. Le Pontois was a favourite in the neighbourhood, and no man would dare to lift his voice against him.
Sir Hugh returned to his room and commenced packing his suit-cases, more than ever convinced that suspicion had been aroused. Jean came to offer to assist, but he declared that he liked to pack himself, and this occupied him the greater part of the morning.
Enid was also busy with her dresses, assisted by Blanche's Provençal maid, Louise. About eleven o'clock, however, Jean tapped at her door and said: "A peasant from Allamont, across the valley, has brought a letter, mademoiselle. He says an English gentleman gave it to him to deliver to you personally. He is downstairs."
In surprise the girl hurriedly descended to the servants' entrance, where she found a sturdy, old, grey-bearded peasant, bearing a long, stout stick. He raised his frayed cap politely and asked whether she were Mademoiselle Orlebar.
Then, when she had replied in the affirmative, he drew from the breast of his blouse a crumpled letter, saying: "The Englishman who has been staying at the Lion d'Or at Allamont gave this to me at dawn to-day. I was to give it only into mademoiselle's hands. There is no reply."
Enid tore open the letter eagerly and found the following words, written hurriedly in pencil in Walter Fetherston's well-known scrawling hand—for a novelist's handwriting is never of the best:
"Make excuse and induce your father to leave Conflans-Jarny at once for Metz, travelling by Belgium for London. Accompany him. A serious contretemps has occurred which will affect you both if you do not leave immediately on receipt of this. Heed this, I beg of you. And remember, I am still your friend.
"Walter."
For a moment she stood puzzled. "Did the Englishman say there was no reply?" she asked.
"Yes, mademoiselle. He left the Lion d'Or just before eight, and drove into Conflans with his luggage. The innkeeper told me that he is returning suddenly to England. He received several telegrams in the night, it appears."
"You know him, then?"
"Oh yes, mademoiselle. He came there to fish in the Longeau, and I have been with him on several occasions."
Enid took a piece of "cent sous" from her purse and gave it to the old man, then she returned to her room and, sending Louise below for something, burned Walter's letter in the grate.
Afterwards she went to her stepfather and suggested that perhaps they might leave Conflans earlier than he had resolved.
"I hear there is a train at three-five. If we went by that," she said, "we could cross from Ostend instead of by Antwerp, and thus be in London a day earlier."
"Are you so anxious to get away from here, Enid?" he asked, looking straight into her face.
"Well, yes. Mother, in her letter yesterday, urged me to come home, as she does not wish me to travel out alone to join Mrs. Caldwell. She's afraid she will leave London without me if I don't get home at once. Besides, I've got a lot of shopping to do before I can start. Do let us get away by the earlier train. It will be so much better," she urged.
As Sir Hugh never denied Enid anything, he acquiesced. Packing was speedily concluded, and, much to the regret of Blanche, the pair left in a fly for which they had telephoned to Conflans-Jarny.
The train by which they travelled ran through the beautiful valley of Manvaux, past the great forts of Plappeville and St. Quentin, and across the Moselle to Metz, and so into German territory.
Whatever might happen, Sir Hugh reflected, at least he was now safe from arrest. While Enid, on her part, sat back in the corner of the first-class compartment gazing out of the window, still mystified by that strange warning from the man who only a few days previously had so curiously turned and abandoned her.
