The fugitive was dead. Blood upon his shirt front told the story. He had been shot through the heart within the compartment, before the train had reached Dover!
BLYTHE’S body was almost at Lord Bixley’s feet. Astounded, the peer turned to Delka. A clatter from the compartment told that the C.I.D. men had heard the noise at the outer door and had dashed into the compartment, from the corridor. Their faces appeared at the doorway. They were in time to hear Lord Bixley’s exclamation.
“A suicide!”
Delka was bending over the dead man’s body. No weapon had fallen clear. He motioned to the C.I.D. men. They dived among the cushions of the compartment, to bob out with the report that no revolver had dropped within the car.
“The Frenchman!” ejaculated Delka. “He is the murderer! He fired the shot while the train was roaring through the cliff tunnel. He has gone aboard the Channel boat!”
A blast sounded from the whistle of the Canterbury. It came as an echo to Delka’s statement. The Scotland Yard man barked an order to his men; they were to take charge of Blythe’s body. With a wave of his arm, Delka started on a run toward the steamship. Lord Bixley and Thomason followed.
It was a hard dash to the quay; but Delka made it just as the gangplank was about to go aboard. Waving his arm, Delka halted the move, and scrambled, breathless, up to the deck. Lord Bixley came stumbling aboard a moment later.
The gangplank clattered; the boat was moving toward the quay before either man could look about. They saw Thomason, far behind. The secretary had missed the boat, for he had tripped while running along the station platform.
“No necessity for Thomason,” puffed Lord Bixley. “We can carry on without him. What about this Frenchman, inspector? Do you think that you can discover him, here, aboard the vessel?”
“I intend to,” replied Delka, grimly. “Our first step, your lordship, will be to visit the captain.”
TEN minutes later, Delka and Lord Bixley were seated in the captain’s cabin, going over a list of passengers. Their quest was a slender one, for this list included only those who had reserved private cabins aboard the Canterbury, and there were but a few dozen of such accommodations. A steward was eyeing Delka as the C.I.D. man thumbed the list. The man spoke as Delka’s finger stopped.
“That man, sir,” informed the steward. “The one who reserved Cabin 12. He is a Frenchman, with a little mustache.”
“Rene Levaux,” read Delka. “Let us make a search for him.”
They went to the cabin, to find it empty. Another steward had seen the man leave the cabin. His description matched the first so perfectly that Delka knew Levaux must be the man. Having checked upon the fellow’s name, the C.I.D. man posted the stewards at the cabin and started in search of his quarry.
The chalk cliffs of the English coast were already fading far behind. The Channel crossing would require only an hour and a quarter; and twenty-five minutes of that period had already elapsed. The boat had many passengers, yet Delka felt sure that he would have time to locate Levaux.
He found the Frenchman after twenty minutes more. Levaux was in the smoking saloon; and he had evidently finished several drinks from the ship’s bar. Cleverly, the murderer had made himself inconspicuous by behaving in an almost conspicuous fashion. Glass in hand, he was moving about, chatting with other passengers and keeping somewhat out of sight during the process.
The Channel passage was proving a rough one. Jolting through heavy waves, the Canterbury was riding in a fashion that forced passengers to seek the security of chairs. Delka saw Levaux stagger with a roll of the ship. A heavy-built man stopped the Frenchman and helped him to a chair by a table.
Delka saw the rescuer’s face. The man was wearing a heavy auburn beard that glistened in the sunlight. Delka saw a gold-toothed smile when Levaux spoke to his chance companion.
The Frenchman had evidently invited the stranger to have a drink, for they called a waiter and gave an order. Soon the man returned with two tall glasses. Delka decided that Levaux was in good company. Choosing a corner table, he kept out of sight; but all the while, he watched the space between Levaux and the door.
ANOTHER drink was ordered, a dozen minutes later. Delka decided that Levaux and the bearded man were becoming convivial. Time drifted; the roughness of the passage lessened. The Canterbury was nearing the long breakwaters of Calais harbor. The ship began to swing stern first, to make its entry.
Levaux came tipsily into view. Delka watched him go toward the door; then arose and followed. The bearded man was still at the table, glancing from the window toward the French coast line, as he lighted a cigar.
Delka took up Levaux’s trail. It led to Cabin 12. The stewards let the man enter. Lord Bixley joined Delka and made inquiry:
“What now?”
“A quiet arrest,” replied Delka. “This is an English ship. We are within our rights. But this time, it is advisable to wait, in order to avoid complications.”
“Quite true,” agreed Lord Bixley. “There is no one in the cabin, other than the man we want.”
Delka had edged close to the cabin door, his hand on the revolver in his pocket. French customs officers were on the quay beside the ship and the Scotland Yard man did not intend to attract their notice. Passengers were leaving the Canterbury, heading for a train that stood alongside. This was the Fleche d’Or, the French equivalent for the Golden Arrow.
Prepared for a thundering non-stop dash to Paris, the Fleche d’Or was headed by a herculean locomotive, pride of the Chemin de Fer du Nord, or Northern Railway. The great engine formed a contrast to the British locomotive that had hauled the Golden Arrow. It was larger than the Howard of Effingham; and it lacked the colorful paint of the British locomotive.
The cars, too, were different. The Pullman at the front of the train were brown and cream in color, with golden arrows painted on their sides. Behind these cars were three others of a bluish hue. They were through sleepers for the Mediterranean Express, the celebrated Blue Train that travels from Paris to the Riviera.
As at Dover, the Calais transfer called for twenty minutes; but rapid progress with the baggage loading told that the time would be cut. The Canterbury had been delayed in passage. Delka, however, felt no tenseness because Levaux was loitering in the cabin.
The Fleche d’Or, departing at two-thirty, carried Pullman passengers only. Other passengers were standing on the quay, to take a train that would leave twenty minutes after the Fleche d’Or. Levaux, riding second-class, had no need to hurry.
GLANCING toward the train on the quay, Delka saw the bearded man who had talked with Levaux. He was entering one of the Pullman cars of the Fleche d’Or. Another glance showed Delka that nearly all persons had gone ashore from the Canterbury. Delka saw no need for further waiting. Gripping the knob of the cabin door, he turned it slowly; then kicked the barrier inward and entered.
He found Rene Levaux half sprawled upon a couch, staring upward. The Frenchman made no move when Delka entered with a drawn revolver. He appeared to be in a drunken stupor. Delka approached and clamped a heavy hand upon the man’s shoulder.
The corner of the cabin was gloomy. It was not until Delka leaned close that he saw the whiteness of the Frenchman’s eyes. Those optics were bulging in a vacant gaze. They had assumed a glassiness that Delka had seen in other eyes. The C.I.D. man shoved Levaux’s shoulder. The body resisted with an odd heaviness.
Delka knew the answer. As the thought flashed through his brain, he heard the shrill shriek of the French locomotive. The Fleche d’Or was pulling from the quay.
With a leap, Delka sprang from the cabin and reached the deck. He could hear the locomotive’s chug. He arrived at the rail of the steamer in time to see the last cars of the train as they rounded the curves that led away from the quay.
Delka’s fists were tightened. He was too late to catch the train. It was already off on its one-hundred-and-eighty-five mile run to Paris.
The startled boat stewards had hurried into the cabin. Lord Bixley was standing with them when Delka returned. All were staring at the sprawled form of Rene Levaux, the man who had murdered Willoughby Blythe.
“Dead!” Lord Bixley was aghast as he spoke to Delka. “Levaux — dead — like Blythe—”
“Poisoned!” interposed Eric Delka. “Again we are dealing with murder, Lord Bixley!”
“But who—”
“Levaux was drinking with a bearded stranger,” inserted Delka. “I thought that their meeting was a chance one. Now I realize that it was not. The bearded man had opportunity to introduce some deadly poison into Levaux’s glass.”
“You are sure?”