“Skedaddled, by Jove!” said French to himself. “Guess that lets in the Belgian police.”
He called at headquarters, and saw the officer in charge, and before he left to catch the connection for London, it had been arranged that the movements of the junior partner should be gone into, and a watch kept for the return of that enterprising weaver of fairy tales.
XVIII
A Visitor from India
When French reached Victoria, the first person he saw on the platform was Maxwell Cheyne.
“They told me at the Yard that you might be on this train,” the young man said excitedly as he elbowed his way forward. “Any news? Anything about Miss Merrill?”
He looked old and worn, and it was evident that his anxiety was telling on him. In his eagerness he could scarcely wait for the Inspector to dismount from his carriage, and his loud tones were attracting curious looks from the bystanders.
“Get a taxi,” French answered quietly. “We can talk there.”
A few seconds later they found a vehicle, and Cheyne, gripping the other by the arm, went on earnestly:
“Tell me. I can see you have learned something. Is she—all right?”
“I got news of her on Thursday last. She was all right then, though still under the influence of a drug. The whole party has gone to sea.”
“To sea?”
“Yes, to sea in a small tramp. I don’t know what they are up to, but there is no reason to suppose Miss Merrill is otherwise than well. Probably they took her with them to prevent her giving them away. They would drug her to get her to go along, but would cease it as soon as she was on board. I wired for inquiries to be made at the different signal stations, and news may be waiting for us at the Yard.”
A few seconds sufficed to put Cheyne in possession of the salient facts which French had learned, and the latter in his turn asked for news.
“By Jove, yes!” Cheyne cried, “there is news. You remember that Arnold Price had disappeared? Well, yesterday I had a letter from him!”
“You don’t say so?” French rejoined in surprise. “Where did he write from?”
“Bombay. He was shortly leaving for home. He expects to be here in about a month.”
“And what about his disappearance?”
“He was ill in hospital. He had gone up to Agra on some private business and met with an accident—was knocked down in the street and was insensible for ages. He couldn’t say who he was, and the hospital people in Agra couldn’t find out, and he hadn’t told the Bombay people where he was going to spend his leave.”
“Did he mention the letter?”
“Yes, he thanked me for taking charge of it and said that when he reached home he would relieve me of further trouble about it. He little knows!”
“That’s so,” French assented.
Their taxi had been held up by a block at the end of Westminster Bridge, but now the mass cleared and in a few seconds they reached the Yard.
French’s first care was to get rid of Cheyne. He repeated what he had learned about Joan Merrill, then, assuring him that the key of the matter lay in the cipher, he advised him to go home and try it once more. Directly any more news came in he would let him know.
Cheyne having reluctantly taken his departure, French made inquiries as to what had been done in reference to his telephone from Antwerp. It appeared that the Yard had not been idle. In the first place an application had been made to the Moroccan Government, who had replied that no ship had been chartered by them for freight at Casablanca, nor was anything known of agricultural samples for the Italian market. Lowenthal’s story must therefore have been an absolute fabrication. He had, however, told it so readily that French suspected it had been made up beforehand, so as to be ready to serve up to any inquisitive policeman or detective who might come along.
Next Lloyd’s had been approached, as to the direction the L’Escaut had taken, and a reply had shortly before come in from them. It stated that up to on that day, the vessel had not been reported from any of their stations. But this, French realized, might not mean so much. If she had gone south down the English Channel it would have been well on to dark before she reached the Straits of Dover. In any case, had she wished to slip through unseen, she had only to keep out to the middle of the passage, when in ordinary weather she would have been invisible from either coast. On the other hand, had she gone north, she would almost naturally have kept out of sight of land. It was true that in either case she would have been likely to pass some other vessel which would have spoken her, and the fact that no news of such a recognition had come to hand seemed to indicate that she was taking some unusual course out of the track of regular shipping.
French wired this information to the Antwerp police, and then, his chief being disengaged, went in and gave him a detailed account of his adventures in Belgium.
Chief Inspector Mitchell was impressed by the story. He sat back in his chair and treated French to a prolonged stare as the latter talked. At the end of the recital he remained sitting motionless for some moments, whistling gently below his breath.
“Any theories?” he said at last.
French shook his head.
“Well, no, sir,” he answered slowly. “It’s not easy to see what they’re after. And it’s not easy to see, either, why the whole gang wanted to go. It looked at first as if they were
