“I speak English,” he answered. “What is it you want?”
“Lunch,” French returned, “and to know if it will soon be ready.”
“I can answer that for you,” the other declared, after he had explained the situation to the girl. “Lunch will be ready in exactly five minutes, and visitors are usually welcome.”
“Thank you.” French spoke in a leisurely, conversational way. “I am staying at the Orient, where one or two of them speak English, but business brought me to this part of the town, and I did not want to go all that way back to lunch. A confounded nuisance this language business! It makes you feel pretty helpless when you want to talk to people.”
“That’s true,” the stranger admitted. “In most of the larger hotels they speak French and English, but at practically none of the smaller. In this one, for example, one waiter has a few words of French only. No English or Italian or German. Some of the staff don’t even speak Spanish.”
French was interested in spite of the larger question which was occupying his mind.
“Not Spanish?” he repeated. “How do you mean? What do they speak?”
“Catalan. This is Catalonia, you know, and both the race and the language are different from the rest of Spain. They are more go-ahead and enterprising than the people farther south.”
“That sounds a bit like Ireland,” French remarked. “I’ve been both in Belfast and in the south, and the same things seems to hold good. Though Dublin is a fine city, and no mistake.”
They continued discussing peoples and languages and the northerly concentration of energy to be found in most countries, until the hands of the clock pointed to noon and lunch time. Then French caught what he had been angling for. The stranger asked him to share his table.
The Inspector continued to make himself agreeable, and after they had finished invited the other to have coffee and a cigar with him in a deserted corner of the lounge. Then thinking his companion was by this time off his guard, he introduced a new subject after a lull in the conversation.
“It’s strange the different businesses people are engaged on,” he remarked ruminatively, as he poured himself out a second cup of coffee. “Now, I wouldn’t mind betting a ten-pound note you wouldn’t guess what I am, and what my business here is.”
The other laughed.
“I confess I was wondering,” he admitted. “I am afraid I should lose my money. I won’t guess.”
“Well, I’ll tell you, though our business is not a thing we speak of as a rule. I am a detective inspector from Scotland Yard.”
As he spoke French watched the other’s face. If this were the man of whom he was in search, he could swear he would make him exhibit some emotion.
But so far he did not succeed. His new acquaintance merely laughed again.
“Then I should have lost. I admit I never thought of that.”
French continued to observe, and he went on with more seriousness in his manner.
“Yes, and I’m on rather important business, too. Man wanted for murder and robbery in the City. A bad affair enough. He murdered the confidential clerk of a diamond merchant in Hatton Garden and rifled the safe and got off with I don’t know how many thousand pounds’ worth of stuff.”
At the commencement of French’s reply the stranger had listened with but little more than a conventional interest, but at the mention of a diamond merchant in Hatton Garden he figuratively sat up and began to take notice.
“Hatton Garden?” he repeated. “That’s an extraordinary coincidence. Why, I belong to a firm of diamond merchants in Hatton Garden. I know them all. Who was the man?”
Inspector French was puzzled. Either Vanderkemp—for there could no longer be any doubt of his identity—was innocent, or he was an almost incredibly good actor. Anxious to observe the man further, he fenced a little in his reply.
“Is it possible you haven’t heard?” he asked in apparent surprise. “How long is it since you have heard from home?”
“Haven’t had a line of any kind since I left, and that’s nearly three weeks ago; on the night of the 25th of last month to be exact.”
“The 25th! Well, that’s a coincidence, too. That’s the very night poor old Mr. Gething was killed.”
Vanderkemp stiffened suddenly and his hands closed on the arms of his chair.
“What?” he cried. “Not Charles Gething of Messrs. Duke & Peabody?”
French, now keenly observing him without any attempt at concealment, nodded.
“That’s the man. You knew him then?”
“Of course I knew him. Why, it’s my own firm. Good God, to think of poor old Gething! And you say the safe was rifled? You don’t tell me Mr. Duke’s collection of stones is gone?”
“All of it, and money as well. The murderer made a clean sweep.”
Vanderkemp whistled and then swore.
“Tell me about it.”
French was more than ever puzzled. The traveller’s manner, his evident emotion, his questions—all seemed those of an innocent man. He felt doubts arising in his mind; possibly there might be an explanation. … He did not at once reply, as he turned over in his mind how he could best surprise the other into an admission of the truth.
But Vanderkemp also was evidently thinking, and suddenly an expression of deeper concern showed on his face. He made as if to speak, then hesitated and a wary look appeared in his eyes. He cleared his throat, then in a changed voice asked, “At what time did it happen?”
French leaned forward swiftly and fixed his eyes on his companion as he said in a low, tense tone, “That’s what I want to ask you, Mr. Vanderkemp.”
The man started. He did not answer, and the wary look in his eyes changed into definite anxiety, which deepened as the moments passed. At last he spoke.
“It had just dawned on me from what you said, Inspector, that our meeting here was not such a coincidence as I at first imagined. I see that you suspect me of the crime. What has happened
