The Sign of Silence

"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.

CHAPTER XXVI.

SHOWS EXPERT METHODS

It being the luncheon hour, Frémy and myself ate our meal at the highly popular restaurant, the Taverne Joseph, close to the Bourse, where the cooking is, perhaps, the best in Brussels and where the cosmopolitan, who knows where to eat, usually makes for when in the Belgian capital.

After our coffee, cigarettes, and a "triple-sec" each, we strolled round to the General Post Office. As we approached that long flight of granite steps I knew so well, a poor-looking, ill-dressed man with the pinch of poverty upon his face, and his coat buttoned tightly against the cold, edged up to my companion on the pavement and whispered a word, afterwards hurrying on.

"Our interesting friend has not been here yet," the detective remarked to me. "We will have a talk with the clerk at the Poste Restante."

Entering the great hall, busy as it is all day, we approached the window where letters were distributed from A to L, and where sat the same pleasant, fair-haired man sorting letters.

"Bon jour, m'sieur!" he exclaimed, when he caught sight of Frémy. "What weather, eh?"

The great detective returned his greetings, and then putting his head further into the window so that others should not overhear, said in French:

"I am looking for an individual, an Englishman, name of Bryant, and am keeping watch outside. He is wanted in England for a serious offence. Has he been here?"

"Bryant?" repeated the clerk thoughtfully.

"Yes," said Frémy, and then I spelt the name slowly.

The clerk reached his hand to the pigeon-hole wherein were letters for callers whose names began with B, and placing them against a little block of black wood on the counter before him, looked eagerly through while we watched intently.

Once or twice he stopped to scrutinise an address, but his fingers went on again through the letters to the end.

"Nothing," he remarked laconically, replacing the packet in the pigeon-hole. "But there has been correspondence for him. I recollect – a thin-faced man, with grey hair and clean shaven. Yes. I remember him distinctly. He always called just before the office was closed."

"When did he call last?" asked Frémy quickly.

"The night before last, I think," was the man's answer. "A lady was with him – a rather stout English lady."

We both started.

"Did the lady ask for any letters?"

"Yes. But I forget the name."

"Petre is her right name," I interrupted. Then I suggested to Frémy: "Ask the other clerk to look through the letter 'P.'"

"Non, m'sieur!" exclaimed the fair-haired employée. "The name she asked for was in my division. It was not P."

"Then she must have asked for a name that was not her own," I said.

"And it seems very much as though we have lost the gang by a few hours," Frémy said disappointedly. "My own opinion is that they left Brussels by the Orient Express last night. They did not call at the usual time yesterday."

"They may come this evening," I suggested.

"Certainly they may. We shall, of course, watch," he replied.

"When the man and woman called the day before yesterday," continued the employée, "there was a second man – a dark-faced Indian with them, I believe. He stood some distance away, and followed them out. It was his presence which attracted my attention and caused me to remember the incident."

Frémy exchanged looks with me. I knew he was cursing his fate which had allowed the precious trio to slip through his fingers.

Yet the thought was gratifying that when the express ran into the Great Westbahnhof at Vienna, the detectives would at once search it for the fugitives.

My companion had told me that by eight o'clock we would know the result of the enquiry, and I was anxious for that hour to arrive.

Already Frémy had ordered search to be made of arrivals at all hotels and pensions in the city for the name of Bryant, therefore, we could do nothing more than possess ourselves in patience. So we left the post office, his poverty-stricken assistant remaining on the watch, just as I had watched in the cold on the previous night.

With my companion I walked round to the big Café Metropole on the Boulevard, and over our "bocks," at a table where we could not be overheard, we discussed the situation.

That big café, one of the principal in Brussels, is usually deserted between the hours of three and four. At other times it is filled with business men discussing their affairs, or playing dominoes with that rattle which is characteristic of the foreign café.

"Why is it," I asked him, "that your chief absolutely refuses to betray the identity of the girl Marie Bracq?"

The round-faced man before me smiled thoughtfully as he idly puffed his cigarette. Then, shrugging his shoulders, he replied:

"Well, m'sieur, to tell the truth, there is a very curious complication. In connection with the affair there is a scandal which must never be allowed to get out to the public."

"Then you know the truth – eh?" I asked.

"A portion of it. Not all," he replied. "But I tell you that the news of the young lady's death has caused us the greatest amazement and surprise. We knew that she was missing, but never dreamed that she had been the victim of an assassin."

"But who are her friends?" I demanded.

"Unfortunately, I am not permitted to say," was his response. "When they know the terrible truth they may give us permission to reveal the truth to you. Till then, my duty is to preserve their secret."

"But I am all anxiety to know."

"I quite recognise that, M'sieur Royle," he said. "I know how I should feel were I in your position. But duty is duty, is it not?"

"I have assisted you, and I have given you a clue to the mystery," I protested.

"And we, on our part, will assist you to clear the stigma resting upon the lady who is your promised wife," he said. "Whatever I can do in that direction, m'sieur may rely upon me."

I was silent, for I saw that to attempt to probe further then the mystery of the actual identity of Marie Bracq was impossible. There seemed a conspiracy of silence against me.

But I would work myself. I would exert all the cunning and ingenuity I possessed – nay, I would spend every penny I had in the world – in order to clear my well-beloved of that terrible suspicion that by her hand this daughter of a princely house had fallen.

"Well," I asked at last. "What more can we do?"

"Ah!" sighed the stout man, blowing a cloud of cigarette smoke from his lips and drawing his glass. "What can we do? The Poste Restante is being watched, the records of all hotels and pensions for the past month are being inspected, and we have put a guard upon the Orient Express. No! We can do nothing," he said, "until we get a telegram from Vienna. Will you call at the Préfecture of Police at eight o'clock to-night? I will be there to see you."

I promised, then having paid the waiter, we strolled out of the café, and parted on the Boulevard, he going towards the Nord Station, while I went along in the opposite direction to the Grand.

For the appointed hour I waited in greatest anxiety. What if the trio had been arrested in Vienna?

That afternoon I wrote a long and encouraging letter to Phrida, telling her that I was exerting every effort on her behalf and urging her to keep a stout heart against her enemies, who now seemed to be in full flight.

At last, eight o'clock came, and I entered the small courtyard of the Préfecture of Police, where a uniformed official conducted me up to the room of Inspector Frémy.

The big, merry-faced man rose as I entered and placed his cigar in an ash tray.

"Bad luck, m'sieur!" he exclaimed in French. "They left Brussels in the Orient, as I suspected – all three of them. Here is the reply," and he handed me an official telegram in German, which translated into English read:

"To Préfet of Police, Brussels, from Préfet of Police, Vienna:

"In response to telegram of to-day's date, the three persons described left Brussels by Orient Express, travelled to Wels, and there left the train at 2.17 this afternoon. Telephonic inquiry of police at Wels results that they left at 4.10 by the express for Paris."

"I have already telegraphed to Paris," Frémy said. "But there is time, of course, to get across to Paris, and meet the express from Constantinople on its arrival there. Our friends evidently know their way about the Continent!"

"Shall we go to Paris," I suggested eagerly, anticipating in triumph their arrest as they alighted at the Gare de l'Est. I had travelled by the express from Vienna on one occasion about a year before, and remembered that it arrived in Paris about nine o'clock in the morning.

"With the permission of my chief I will willingly accompany you, m'sieur," replied the detective, and, leaving me, he was absent for five minutes or so, while I sat gazing around his bare, official-looking bureau, where upon the walls were many police notices and photographs of wanted persons, "rats d'hotel," and other malefactors. Brussels is one of the most important police centres in Europe, as well as being the centre of the political secret service of the Powers.

On his return he said:

"Bien, m'sieur. We leave the Midi Station at midnight and arrive in Paris at half-past five. I will engage sleeping berths, and I will telephone to my friend, Inspector Dricot, at the Préfecture, to send an agent of the brigade mobile to meet us. Non d'un chien! What a surprise it will be for the fugitives. But," he added, "they are clever and elusive. Fancy, in order to go from Brussels to Paris they travel right away into Austria, and with through tickets to Belgrade, too! Yes, they know the routes on the Continent – the routes used by the international thieves, I mean. The Wels route by which they travelled, is one of them."

Then I left him, promising to meet him at the station ten minutes before midnight. I had told Edwards I would notify him by wire any change of address, therefore, on leaving the Préfecture of Police, I went to the Grand and from there sent a telegram to him at Scotland Yard, telling him that I should call at the office of the inspector of police at the East railway station in Paris at ten on the following morning – if he had anything to communicate.

All through that night we travelled on in the close, stuffy wagon-lit by way of Mons to Paris arriving with some three hours and a half to spare, which we idled in one of the all-night cafés near the station, having been met by a little ferret-eyed Frenchman, named Jappé, who had been one of Frémy's subordinates when he was in the French service.

Just before nine o'clock, after our café-au-lait in the buffet, we walked out upon the long arrival platform where the Orient Express from its long journey from Constantinople was due.

It was a quarter of an hour late, but at length the luggage porters began to assemble, and with bated breath I watched the train of dusty sleeping-cars slowly draw into the terminus.

In a moment Frémy and his colleague were all eyes, while I stood near the engine waiting the result of their quest.

But in five minutes the truth was plain. Frémy was in conversation with one of the brown-uniformed conductors, who told him that the three passengers we sought did join at Wels, but had left again at Munich on the previous evening!

My heart sank. Our quest was in vain. They had again eluded us!

"I will go to Munich," Frémy said at once. "I may find trace of them yet."