The Holladay Case (Detective Story Magazine)/Chapter 15
CHAPTER XV.
I Beard the Lion.
Martigny was lying back in his berth, smoking a cigarette.
“It was most kind of you to come,” he said, with his old smile.
“It was only by accident I learned you were on board,” I explained as I sat down. “You're getting better?”
“I believe so; though this physician is—what you call—an alarmist. He has even forbidden me cigarettes, but I prefer to die than to do without them. Will you not have one?” and he motioned to the pile that lay beside him.
“But if you are so ill, why did you attempt the voyage? Was it not imprudent?”
“A sudden call to business,” he explained airily; “unexpected but—what you call—imperative. Besides, this bed is the same as any other, You see, I have a week of rest.”
“Your name was not on the sailing list.”
“No.” He was looking at me sharply. “I came on board at the last moment—the need was ver' sudden, as I have said. I had not time to engage a stateroom.”
“That explains it. The doctor told me that you were bedfast.”
“Yes—since the voyage began I have not left it. I shall not arise until we reach Havre to-morrow.”
In the half light of the cabin, I had not perceived how ill he looked; now I saw the dark patches under the eyes, the livid and flabby face, the shaking hand. For the first time I realized how near he had been to death.
“But you, Mistair Lester,” he was saying, “how does it occur that you also are going to France? I did not know you contemplated”
“No,” I answered calmly, for I had seen that the question was inevitable, and I even welcomed it, since it gave me opportunity to get my guns to going. “No; the last time I saw you, I didn't contemplate it, but a good deal has happened since then. Would you care to hear? Are you strong enough to talk?”
“I should like very exceedingly to hear,” he assured me, and shifted his position.
“You may remember,” I began, “that I told you once that if I ever went to work on the Holladay case, I'd try first to find the murderess. I succeeded in doing it the very first day.”
“Ah!” he breathed. “And after the police had failed! That was, indeed, remarkable. How did you accomplish it?”
“By the merest chance—by great good fortune. I was making a search of the French Quarter, when, on Houston Street, I came to a restaurant, the Café Jourdain. An order set Jourdain's tongue to wagging; I pretended I wanted a room; he dropped a word, the merest hint; in the end I got the whole story. It seems there was not only one woman, there were two.”
“Yes?”
“Yes—and a man whose name was Betuny or Bethune, or something like that. But I didn't pay much attention to him—he doesn't figure in the case. He didn't even go away with the women. The very day I set out on my search, he was picked up on the streets somewhere suffering with apoplexy and taken to a hospital, so nearly dead that it was a question whether he would recover. So he's out of it. The Jourdains told me that the women had sailed for France.”
“You will pardon me,” said my hearer, “but in what way did you make sure that they were the women you desired?”
“By the younger one's resemblance to Miss Holladay,” I answered, lying with a glibness which surprised myself. “The Jourdains maintained that a photograph of Miss Holladay was really one of their lodger.”
I heard him draw a deep breath, but he kept his face under admirable control.
“Ah, yes,” he said. “That was exceedingly clever. I should never have thought of that. That is worthy of Monsieur Lecog. And so you follow them to France—but, surely, you have some more definite address than that, Mistair Lester!”
I could feel his eyes burning out from the shadows; I was thankful for the cigarette—it helped me to preserve an indifferent countenance.
“No,” I said. “It rather a wild-gooose chase, doesn't it? But you could advise me, Mr. Martigny. Where would it be best for me to search for them?”
He did not answer for a moment, and I took advantage of the opportunity to select a second cigarette and light it. I dared not remain unoccupied; I dared not meet his eyes; I trembled to see that my hand was not wholly steady.
“That,” he began slowly, “seems to me a most—ah!—deeficult affair, Mistair Lester. To search for three people through all France—there seems little hope of success. Yet I should think it most likely that they have gone to Paris.”
I nodded. “That was my own theory,” I agreed. “But to find them in Paris seems also impossible.”
“Not if one uses the police,” he said. “It could most probably be soon achieved, if you requested the police to assist you.”
“But, my dear sir,” I protested. “I can't use the police. Miss Holladay has committed no crime; she has simply chosen to go away without informing us.”
“You will permit me to say, then, Mistair Lester,” he observed, with just a touch of irony, “that I fail to comprehend your anxiety concerning her.”
I felt that I had to go carefully.
“It is not quite so simple as that,” I explained. “The last time we Saw Miss Holladay, she told us that she was ill, and intended to go to her country home for a rest. Instead of going there, she sailed for France, without informing any one. That conduct seems so eccentric that we feel in duty bound to investigate it. Besides, two days before she left she received from us a hundred thousand dollars in cash.”
I saw him move uneasily on his bed; after all, this advantage of mine was no small one.
“Ah! Yes, that seems peculiar. Perhaps if you had waited for a letter you should have heard from her.”
“Suppose we had waited, and there had been no letter—suppose, in consequence of waiting, we should be too late?”
“Too late? Too late for what, Mistair Lester? What is it you fear for her?”
“I don't know,” I answered. “But something strange is back of it all. At least we could not assume the responsibility of delay.”
“No,” he agreed, “perhaps not. You are doubtless quite right to investigate. I wish you success—I wish that I myself might aid you, there is so much of interest in the case to me; but I fear that to be impossible.”
And he breathed a sigh, which was doubtless genuine enough.
“Will you go to Paris?” I asked.
“Not at once. At Havre I shall meet my agent and transact my affairs with him. Then I shall seek some place of quiet along the coast.”
“Etretat!” I said to myself. But I dared not speak the word.
“I shall write to you,” he added, “when I have settled. Where do you stay at Paris?”
“We haven't decided yet,” I said.
“We?” he repeated.
“Didn't I tell you? Mr. Royce, our junior partner, is with me—he's had a breakdown in health, too, and needed a rest.”
“It is no matter where you stay,” he said; “I shall write to you at the poste restante. I should like both you and your friend to be my guests before you return to Amer-ric'.”
“I am tiring you!” I said, starting up. “You must pardon me. I hope you will soon be better,” and I closed the door behind me with his murmured thanks in my ears.
The last day came.
They were to take the company's special train to Paris, which was waiting on the wharf, two hundred feet away, and we slowly pushed our way toward it. In the clamor and hurry and confusion wholly Latin, there was no chance for intelligent converse. Suddenly we found our way blocked by a uniformed official who demanded to see our tickets.
“You can't come any farther, I'm afraid,” said Mrs. Kemball, turning to us. “We'll have to say good-by,” and she held out her hand. “But we'll soon see you both again in Paris. You have the address?”
“Oh, yes!” I assured her; I felt that there was no danger of my ever forgetting it.
“Very well, then; we shall look for you,” and she shook hands with both of us.
For an instant, I felt another little hand in mine; a pair of blue eyes smiled up at me in a way
“Good-by, Mr. Lester,” said a voice. “I shall be all impatience till we meet again.”
“So shall I,” and I brightened. “That was nice of you, Miss Kemball.”
“Oh, I shall be anxious to hear how you succeeded,” she retorted. “You will bring Miss Holladay to us?”
“If we find her, yes.”
“Then, again, good-by.”
She waved her hand, smiling, and was lost in the crowd.
“Come on, Lester,” said Mr. Royce's voice. “There's no use standing staring here. We've got our own journey to look after,” and he started back along the platform.
Suddenly I remembered Martigny.
“I'll be back in a minute,” I called, and ran up the gangplank. “Has Monsieur Martigny left the ship yet?” I inquired of the first steward I met.
“Martigny” he repeated. “Martigny? Let me see.”
“The sick gentleman in 375," I prompted.
“I do not know, monsieur,” he said. “No matter. I'll find out myself.”
I mounted to the upper deck, and knocked at the door of 375. There was no response. After a moment, I tried the door, but it was locked. The window was partly open, and, shading my eyes with my hands, I peered inside. The stateroom was empty.
I passed a moment of uncertainty; I saw quite clearly what little chance of success we had. But I shook the feeling off, sought the lower deck, and inquired again for Martigny. The doctor told me that he had seen the sick man safely to a carriage, and had heard him order the driver to proceed to the Hotel Continental.
I hunted up Mr. Royce, and found him endeavoring to extract some information from a supercilious official in a gold-laced uniform.
It seemed a somewhat complicated proceeding to get to Etretat. In half an hour a train would leave for Beuzeville, where we must transfer to another line to Les Ifs; there a second transfer would be necessary before we could reach our destination.
Amid this jumble of uncertainties one definite fact remained—a train was to leave in half an hour which we must take. So we hurried back to the boat, made our declaration, and finally were shut into a compartment two minutes before the hour.
In that first moment of inactivity, the fear of Martigny came back upon me. Had he really gone to the hotel? Or had he watched? Was he on the train with us?
I looked out cautiously from the window, up and down the platform, but saw no sign of him, and in a moment more we rattled slowly away over the switches. I sank back into my seat with a sigh of relief. Perhaps I had really blinded him!
An hour's run brought us to Beuzeville, where we were dumped out, together with our luggage, in a little frame station. An official informed us that we must wait there three hours for the train for Les Ifs. Beyond that? He could not say. We might possibly reach Etretat next day.
“How far is Les Ifs from here?” inquired my companion.
“About twelve kilometers, monsieur.”
“And from there to Etretat?”
“Is twenty kilometers more, monsieur.”
“Thirty-two kilometers altogether,” said Mr. Royce. “That's about twenty miles. Why can't we drive, Lester? We ought to cover it easily in three hours—four at the most.”
Certainly it seemed better than waiting on the uncertain railway, and we set at once about the work of finding a vehicle. The sun was setting when we finally drove away northward.
The road was smooth and level, and we bowled along at a good rate past cultivated fields with little dwellings like doll houses dotted here and there. In an hour and a half from Beuzeville we reached Les Ifs, and here we stopped for a light supper. We had cause to congratulate ourselves that we had secured a vehicle at Beuzeville, for we learned that no train would start for Etretat until morning. The damage wrought by the storm of two days before had not yet been repaired, the wires were still down, and we were warned that the road was badly washed in places.
Luckily for us the moon soon arose. An hour before midnight we pulled up triumphantly before the Hotel Blanquet, the principal inn of Etretat.