The gendarme jumped on board and ran up the steps to the bridge, eagerly watched by the entire ship’s company. He spoke rapidly to the Captain, and then the latter turned to the staring passengers below.
“Monsieur Fr‑r‑onsh?” he called in stentorian tones, looking inquiringly round the upturned faces. “Monsieur Fr‑r‑onsh de Londres?”
“It’s you, sir,” cried Carter. “There’s something up.”
French hastened to the bridge and the gendarme handed him a blue envelope. “De monsieur le chef,” he explained with a rapid salute, as he hastened ashore.
It was a telegram, and it contained news which, as it were, brought the Inspector up all standing. It was from the Yard and read:
“Liverpool police wire Vanes went aboard Enoch and did not go ashore again. Mackay was watching ship for Henson and saw them. They must still be on board. Follow ship to Oporto or Lisbon.”
“Come ashore, Carter,” French cried rapidly, rushing to the side. The boat was actually moving, but the two men, jumping, reached the wharf amid the execrations of the Captain and staff.
“Here, officer,” he called, beckoning to the gendarme, who had watched the proceedings with a horrified interest, “how do you get quickly to Headquarters?”
The man bowed, shrugged his shoulders, and indicated in dumb show that he did not understand. French hailed a passing taxi and pushed his companions in.
“Monsieur le chef!” he cried to the bewildered gendarme, producing and tapping the telegram. “Monsieur le chef?”
The man understood. A smile dawned on his perturbed countenance, and with a rapid flow of French he gave the required address. In ten minutes they were once more at the gendarmerie, French still clamouring for “Monsieur le chef.”
He was shown into the room of the same polite officer whom he had previously met.
“Ah,” the latter said, “so my man was in time. You got your telegram?”
“Yes, sir, I did, and greatly obliged to you I am for your trouble. But I can’t make head or tail of the thing. Those ship’s officers this morning were absolutely positive the wanted couple had not sailed.”
The officer shrugged his shoulders.
“Doubtless,” he said smoothly. “All the same I thought you should have the message, lest you should wish to follow up the steamer as suggested.”
“I have no choice,” French returned. “It is an order from Headquarters. Perhaps, sir, you would add to your already great kindness by telling me my route. With this confounded difference of language I feel myself all at sea.”
The officer, who had seemed bored as to the movements of the Vanes, became once more the efficient, interested consultant. The obvious route, he said, was via Paris. It was true that you could get across country to pick up the international express at Bordeaux, but Paris was quicker and more comfortable. Fortunately, French had returned in time to catch the midday train to the capital. It left at 12:40, and he could easily reach the station and book in the twenty minutes which remained before that hour.
His time from the receipt of the wire until the Paris express pulled out of Havre station had been so fully occupied that French had not been able seriously to consider the message sent. Now, seated in the corner of a second-class compartment with Carter opposite, he drew the flimsy sheet from his pocket and reread it carefully. He understood the reference to Mackay and Henson. Detective-Sergeant Mackay was one of the best men of the Liverpool detective staff, and he was on a very similar job to French’s own. He was watching the outgoing steamers in the hope of capturing one Charles Henson, who with a couple of others had made a sensational raid on a country bank, and after murdering the manager, had got away with a large haul from the safe. French knew Mackay personally, and he was satisfied that if he had said the Vanes had gone on board and remained there, they had done so.
He wondered how it came that Mackay had not at the time recognised the Vanes as a wanted couple. Probably, he thought, the man had been so much occupied with his own case that he had not read up the particulars in the Bulletin, which, after all, was a magazine intended more for the rank and file than for men on specialised duties. However, the fact remained that Mackay had missed his chance, though his habit of detailed observation had enabled him to some extent to redeem his error.
But if it was true that the Vanes had not left the ship at Liverpool, what became of the statements of the Captain and Purser? It was not likely that these men could be hoodwinked over such a matter. They were experts; moreover, they were dealing with a ship with whose every part they were familiar. To the Vanes, on the other hand, the ship would be strange, and they would be ignorant of its routine. Under these circumstances it was absolutely out of the question that the pair could have hidden themselves on board. No, if they were there, the Captain would have known of it. French could not devise any explanation of the matter. The whole thing seemed a contradiction.
He had, however, to settle his own plans. The kindly French police officer had helped him by phoning the local office of the Booth Line and finding out the itinerary of the Enoch. This was Saturday, and on the afternoon of the following day, Sunday, the steamer was expected to reach Leixoes, the port of Oporto. She would remain there that night and the next day, leaving Leixoes about 8 o’clock on the Monday evening. Next day about noon she was due in Lisbon, where she would remain for two days. After that her first call was Madeira.
French had intended to meet her in Lisbon, but it now occurred to him that he might be able to make Oporto in time
