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.
