CHAPTER XXIV.
OFFICIAL SECRECY
The following evening was damp, grey, and dull, as I stood shivering at the corner of the narrow Rue de l'Eveque and the broad Place de la Monnie in Brussels. The lamps were lit, and around me everywhere was the bustle of business.
I had crossed by the morning service by way of Ostend, and had arrived again at the Grand only half an hour before.
The woman Petre had sent a letter to Digby Kemsley to the Poste Restante in Brussels under the name of Bryant. If this were so, the fugitive must be in the habit of calling for his letters, and it was the great black façade of the chief post-office in Brussels that I was watching.
The business-day was just drawing to a close, the streets were thronged, the traffic rattled noisily over the uneven granite paving of the big square. Opposite the Post Office the arc lamps were shedding a bright light outside the theatre, while all the shops around were a blaze of light, while on every side the streets were agog with life.
Up and down the broad flight of steps which led to the entrance of the Post Office hundreds of people ascended and descended, passing and re-passing the four swing-doors which gave entrance to the huge hall with its dozens of departments ranged around and its partitioned desks for writing.
The mails from France and England were just in, and dozens of men came with their keys to obtain their correspondence from the range of private boxes, and as I watched, the whole bustle of business life passed before me.
I was keeping a sharp eye upon all who passed up and down that long flight of granite steps, but at that hour of the evening, and in that crowd, it was no easy matter.
Would I be successful? That was the one thought which filled my mind.
As I stood there, my eager gaze upon that endless stream of people, I felt wearied and fagged. The Channel crossing had been a bad one, as it so often is in January, and I had not yet recovered from my weird experience at Colchester. The heavy overcoat I wore was, I found, not proof against the cutting east wind which swept around the corner from the Boulevard Auspach, hence I was compelled to change my position and seek shelter in a doorway opposite the point where I expected the man I sought would enter.
I had already surveyed the interior and presented the card of a friend to an official at the Poste Restante, though I knew there was no letter for him. I uttered some words of politeness to the man in order to make his acquaintance, as he might, perhaps, be of use to me ere my quest was at an end.
At the Poste Restante were two windows, one distributing correspondence for people whose surname began with the letters A to L, and the other from M to Z.
It was at the first window I inquired, the clerk there being a pleasant, fair-haired, middle-aged man in a holland coat as worn by postal employees. I longed to ask him if he had any letters for the name of Bryant, or if any Englishman of that name had called, but I dared not do so. He would, no doubt, snub me and tell me to mind my own business.
So instead, I was extremely polite, regretted to have troubled him, and, raising my hat, withdrew.
I saw that to remain within the big office for hours was impossible. The uniformed doorkeeper who sat upon a high desk overlooking everything, would quickly demand my business, and expel me.
No, my only place was out in the open street. Not a pleasant prospect in winter, and for how many days I could not tell.
For aught I knew, the fugitive had called for the woman's letter and left the capital. But he, being aware that the police were in search of him, would, I thought, if he called at the post office at all for letters, come there after dark. Hence, I had lost no time in mounting guard.
My thoughts, as I stood there, were, indeed, bitter and confused.
The woman Petre had not, as far as I could make out, made any incriminating statement to the police. Yet she undoubtedly believed me to be dead, and I reflected in triumph upon the unpleasant surprise in store for her when we met – as meet we undoubtedly would.
The amazing problem, viewed briefly, stood thus: The girl, Marie Bracq, had been killed by a knife with a three-cornered blade, such knife having been and being still in the possession of Phrida, my well-beloved, whose finger-prints were found in the room near the body of the poor girl. The grave and terrible suspicion resting upon Phrida was increased and even corroborated by her firm resolve to preserve secrecy, her admissions, and her avowed determination to take her own life rather than face accusation.
On the other hand, there was the mystery of the identity of Marie Bracq, the mystery of the identity of the man who had passed as Sir Digby Kemsley, the reason of his flight, if Phrida were guilty, and the mystery of the woman Petre, and her accomplices.
Yes. The whole affair was one great and complete problem, the extent of which even Edwards, expert as he was, had, as yet, failed to discover. The more I tried to solve it the more hopelessly complicated did it become.
I could see no light through the veil of mystery and suspicion in which my well-beloved had become enveloped.
Why had that man – the man I now hated with so fierce an hatred – held her in the hollow of his unscrupulous hands? She had admitted that, whenever he ordered her to do any action, she was bound to obey.
Yes. My love was that man's slave! I ground my teeth when the bitter thought flashed across my perturbed mind.
Ah! what a poor, ignorant fool I had been! And how that scoundrel must have laughed at me!
I was anxious to meet him face to face – to force from his lips the truth, to compel him to answer to me.
And with that object I waited – waited in the cold and rain for three long hours, until at last the great doors were closed and locked for the night, and people ascended those steps no longer.
Then I turned away faint and disheartened, chilled to the bone, and wearied out. A few steps along the Boulevard brought me to the hotel, where I ate some dinner, and retired to my room to fling myself upon the couch and think.
Why was Phrida in such fear lest I should meet the man who held her so mysteriously and completely in his power? What could she fear from our meeting if she were, as I still tried to believe, innocent?
Again, was it possible that after their dastardly attempt upon my life, Mrs. Petre and her accomplices had fled to join the fugitive? Were they with him? Perhaps so! Perhaps they were there in Brussels!
The unfortunate victim, Marie Bracq, had probably been a Belgian. Bracq was certainly a Belgian name.
The idea crossed my mind to go on the following day to the central Police Bureau I had noticed in the Rue de la Regence, and make inquiry whether they knew of any person of that name to be missing. It was not a bad suggestion, I reflected, and I felt greatly inclined to carry it out.
Next day, I was up early, but recognised the futility of watching at the Poste Restante until the daylight faded. On the other hand, if Mrs. Petre was actually in that city, she would have no fear to go about openly. Yet, after due consideration, I decided not to go to the post office till twilight set in.
The morning I spent idling on the Boulevards and in the cafés, but I became sick of such inactivity, for I was frantically eager and anxious to learn the truth.
At noon I made up my mind, and taking a taxi, alighted at the Préfecture of Police, where, after some time, I was seen by the Chef du Sureté, a grey-haired, dry-as-dust looking official – a narrow-eyed little man, in black, whose name was Monsieur Van Huffel, and who sat at a writing-table in a rather bare room, the walls of which were painted dark green. He eyed me with some curiosity as I entered and bowed.
"Be seated, I pray, m'sieur," he said in French, indicating a chair on the opposite side of the table, and leaning back, placed his fingers together in a judicial attitude.
The police functionary on the continent is possessed of an ultra-grave demeanour, and is always of a funereal type.
"M'sieur wishes to make an inquiry, I hear?" he began.
"Yes," I said. "I am very anxious to know whether you have any report of a young person named Marie Bracq being missing."
"Marie Bracq!" he echoed in surprise, leaning forward towards me. "And what do you know, m'sieur, regarding Marie Bracq?"
"I merely called to ascertain if any person of that name, is reported to you as missing," I said, much surprised at the effect which mention of the victim had produced upon him.
"You are English, of course?" he asked.
"Yes, m'sieur."
"Well, curiously enough, only this morning I have had a similar inquiry from your Scotland Yard. They are asking if we are acquainted with any person named Marie Bracq. And we are, m'sieur," said Monsieur Van Huffel. "But first please explain what you know of her."
"I have no personal acquaintance with her," was my reply. "I know of her – that is all. But it may not be the same person."
He opened a drawer, turned over a quantity of papers, and a few seconds later produced a photograph which he passed across to me.
It was a half-length cabinet portrait of a girl in a fur coat and hat. But no second glance was needed to tell me that it was actually the picture of the girl found murdered in London.
"I see you recognise her, m'sieur," remarked the police official in a cold, matter-of-fact tone. "Please tell me all you know."
I paused for a few seconds with the portrait in my hand. My object was to get all the facts I could from the functionary before me, and give him the least information possible.
"Unfortunately, I know but very little," was my rather lame reply. "This lady was a friend of a lady friend of mine."
"An English lady was your friend – eh?"
"Yes."
"In London?"
I nodded in the affirmative, while the shrewd little man who was questioning me sat twiddling a pen with his thin fingers.
"And she told you of Marie Bracq? In what circumstances?"
"Well," I said. "It is a long story. Before I tell you, I would like to ask you one question, m'sieur. Have you received from Scotland Yard the description of a man named Digby Kemsley – Sir Digby Kemsley – who is wanted for murder?"
The dry little official with the parchment face repeated the name, then consulting a book at his elbow, replied:
"Yes. We have circulated the description and photograph. It is believed by your police that his real name is Cane."
"He has been in Brussels during the past few days to my own certain knowledge," I said.
"In Brussels," echoed the man seated in the writing chair. "Where?"
"Here, in your city. And I expect he is here now."
"And you know him?" asked the Chef du Sureté, his eyes betraying slight excitement.
"Quite well. He was my friend."
"I see he is accused of murdering a woman, name unknown, in his apartment," remarked the official.
"The name is now known – it has been discovered by me, m'sieur. The name of the dead girl is Marie Bracq."
The little man half rose from his chair and stared at me.
"Is this the truth, m'sieur?" he cried. "Is this man named Kemsley, or Cane, accused of the assassination of Marie Bracq?"
"Yes," I replied.
"But this is most astounding," the Belgian functionary declared excitedly. "Marie Bracq dead! Ah! it cannot be possible, m'sieur! You do not know what this information means to us – what an enormous sensation it will cause if the press scents the truth. Tell me quickly – tell me all you know," he urged, at the same time taking up the telephone receiver from his table and then listening for a second, said in a quick, impetuous voice, "I want Inspector Frémy at once!"
CHAPTER XXV.
FRÉMY, OF THE SURETÉ
After a few moments a short, stout, clean-shaven man with a round, pleasant face, and dressed in black, entered and bowed to his chief.
He carried his soft felt hat and cane in his hand, and seated himself at the invitation of Van Huffel.
"This is Inspector Frémy – Monsieur Edouard Royle, of Londres," exclaimed the Chef du Sureté, introducing us.
The detective, the most famous police officer in Belgium, who had been for years under Monsieur Hennion, in Paris, and had now transferred his services to Belgium, bowed and looked at me with his small, inquisitive eyes.
"Monsieur Frémy. This gentleman has called with regard to the case of Marie Bracq," said Van Huffel in French.
The detective was quickly interested.
"She is dead – been assassinated in London," his chief went on.
Frémy stared at the speaker in surprise, and the two men exchanged strange glances.
"Monsieur tells me that the man, Sir Digby Kemsley, wanted by Scotland Yard, is accused of the murder of Marie Bracq – and, further," added Van Huffel, "the accused has been here in Brussels quite recently."
"In Brussels?" echoed the round-faced man.
"Yes," I said. "He has letters addressed to the Poste Restante in the name of Bryant." And I spelt it as the detective carefully wrote down the name.
"He will not be difficult to find if he is still in Brussels," declared the inspector. "We had an inquiry from Scotland Yard asking if we had any report concerning Marie Bracq only this morning," he added.
"It was sent to you by my friend, Inspector Edwards, and whom I am assisting in this inquiry," I explained.
"You said that Marie Bracq was a friend of a lady friend of yours, M'sieur Royle," continued the Chef du Sureté. "Will you do us the favour and tell us all you know concerning the tragedy – how the young lady lost her life?"
"Ah! m'sieur," I replied, "I fear I cannot do that. How she was killed is still a mystery. Only within the past few hours have I been able to establish the dead girl's identity, and only then after narrowly escaping falling the victim of a most dastardly plot."
"Perhaps you will be good enough to make a statement of all you know, M'sieur Royle," urged the grey-haired little man; "and if we can be of any service in bringing the culprit to justice, you may rely upon us."
"But first, m'sieur, allow me to put observation upon the Poste Restante?" asked Frémy, rising and going to the telephone, where he got on to one of his subordinates, and gave him instructions in Flemish, a language I do not understand.
Then, when he returned to his chair, I began to briefly relate what I knew concerning Sir Digby, and what had occurred, as far as I knew, on that fatal night of the sixth of January.
I, of course, made no mention of the black suspicion cast upon the woman I loved, nor of the delivery of Digby's letter, my meeting with the woman Petre and its exciting results.
Yet had I not met that woman I should still have been in ignorance of the identity of the dead girl, and, besides, I would not have met the sallow-faced Ali, or been aware of his methods – those methods so strangely similar to that adopted when Sir Digby Kemsley lost his life in Peru.
The two police functionaries listened very attentively to my story without uttering a word.
I had spoken of the woman Petre as being an accomplice of the man who was a fugitive, whereupon Frémy asked:
"Do you suppose that the woman is with him?"
"She has, I believe, left England, and, therefore, in all probability, is with him."
"Are there any others of the gang – for there is, of course, a gang? Such people never act singly."
"Two other men, as far as I know. One, a young man, who acts as servant, and the other, a tall, copper-faced man with sleek black hair – probably a Peruvian native. They call him Ali, and he pretends he is a Hindu."
"A Hindu!" gasped the detective. "Why, I saw one talking to a rather stout Englishwoman at the Gare du Nord yesterday evening, just before the Orient Express left for the East!" He gave a quick description of both the man and the woman, and I at once said:
"Yes, that was certainly Ali, and the woman was Mrs. Petre!"
"They probably left by the Orient Express!" he cried, starting up, and crossing to his chief's table snatched up the orange-coloured official time table.
"Ah! yes," he exclaimed, after searching a few moments. "The Orient Express will reach Wels, in Austria, at 2.17, no time for a telegram to get through. No. The next stop is Vienna – the Westbahnhof – at 6. I will wire to the Commissary of Police to board the train, and if they are in it, to detain them."
"Excellent," remarked his chief, and, ringing a bell, a clerk appeared and took down the official telegram, giving the description of the woman and her accomplice.
"I suppose the fugitive Englishman is not with them?" suggested the Chef du Sureté.
"I did not see him at the station – or, at least, I did not recognise anyone answering to the description," replied the inspector; "but we may as well add his description in the telegram and ask for an immediate reply."
Thereupon the official description of Digby, as supplied to the Belgian police by Scotland Yard, was translated into French and placed in the message.
After the clerk had left with it, Frémy, standing near the window, exclaimed:
"Dieu! Had I but known who they were last night! But we may still get them. I will see the employée at the Poste Restante. This Monsieur Bryant, if he receives letters, may have given an address for them to be forwarded."
After a slight pause, during which time the two functionaries conversed in Flemish, I turned to Van Huffel, and said:
"I have related all I know, m'sieur; therefore, I beg of you to tell me something concerning the young person Marie Bracq. Was she a lady?"
"A lady!" he echoed with a laugh. "Most certainly – the daughter of one of the princely houses of Europe."
"What?" I gasped. "Tell me all about her!"
But the dry-as-dust little man shook his grey head and replied:
"I fear, m'sieur, in my position, I am not permitted to reveal secrets entrusted to me. And her identity is a secret – a great secret."
"But I have discovered her identity where our English police had failed!" I protested. "Besides, am I not assisting you?"
"Very greatly, and we are greatly indebted to you, M'sieur Royle," he replied, with exquisite politeness; "but it is not within my province as Chef du Sureté to tell you facts which have been revealed to me under pledge of secrecy."
"Perhaps M'sieur Frémy may be able to tell me some facts," I suggested. "Remember, I am greatly interested in the mysterious affair."
"From mere curiosity – eh?" asked Van Huffel with a smile.
"No, m'sieur," was my earnest reply. "Because the arrest and condemnation of the assassin of Marie Bracq means all the world to me."
"How?"
I hesitated for some moments, then, hoping to enlist his sympathy, I told him the truth.
"Upon the lady who is my promised wife rests a grave suspicion," I said, in a low, hard voice. "I decline to believe ill of her, or to think that she could be guilty of a crime, or – "
"Of the assassination of Marie Bracq?" interrupted Van Huffel. "Do you suspect that? Is there any question as to the guilt of the man Kemsley?" he asked quickly.
"No one has any suspicion of the lady in question," I said. "Only – only from certain facts within my knowledge and certain words which she herself has uttered, a terrible and horrible thought has seized me."
"That Marie Bracq was killed by her hand – eh? Ah, m'sieur, I quite understand," he said. "And you are seeking the truth – in order to clear the woman you love?"
"Exactly. That is the truth. That is why I am devoting all my time – all that I possess in order to solve the mystery and get at the actual truth."
Frémy glanced at his chief, then at me.
"Bien, m'sieur," exclaimed Van Huffel. "But there is no great necessity for you to know the actual identity of Marie Bracq. So long as you are able to remove the stigma from the lady in question, who is to be your wife, and to whom you are undoubtedly devoted, what matters whether the dead girl was the daughter of a prince or of a rag-picker? We will assist you in every degree in our power," he went on. "M'sieur Frémy will question the postal clerk, watch will be kept at the Poste Restante, at each of the railway stations, and in various other quarters, so that if any of the gang are in the city they cannot leave it without detection – "
"Except by automobile," I interrupted.
"Ah! I see m'sieur possesses forethought," he said with a smile. "Of course, they can easily hire an automobile and run to Namur, Ghent, or Antwerp – or even to one or other of the frontiers. But M'sieur Frémy is in touch with all persons who have motor-cars for hire. If they attempted to leave by car when once their descriptions are circulated, we should know in half an hour, while to cross the frontier by car would be impossible." Then, turning to the inspector, he said, "You will see that precautions are immediately taken that if they are here they cannot leave."
"The matter is in my hands, m'sieur," answered the great detective simply.
"Then m'sieur refuses to satisfy me as to the exact identity of Marie Bracq?" I asked Van Huffel in my most persuasive tone.
"A thousand regrets, m'sieur, but as I have already explained, I am compelled to regard the secret entrusted to me."
"I take it that her real name is not Marie Bracq?" I said, looking him in the face.
"You are correct. It is not."
"Is she a Belgian subject?" I asked.
"No, m'sieur, the lady is not."
"You said that a great sensation would be caused if the press knew the truth?"
"Yes. I ask you to do me the favour, and promise me absolute secrecy in this matter. If we are to be successful in the arrest of these individuals, then the press must know nothing – not a syllable. Do I have your promise, M'sieur Royle?"
"If you wish," I answered.
"And we on our part will assist you to clear this lady who is to be your wife – but upon one condition."
"And that is what?" I asked.
"That you do not seek to inquire into the real identity of the poor young lady who has lost her life – the lady known to you and others as Marie Bracq," he said, looking straight into my eyes very seriously.