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?”
DELKA nodded as he surveyed the dead man. He placed his thumb upon one of Levaux’s upper eyelids and raised it to study the rigid orb beneath.
“Yes,” he assured. “I have seen a case like this before. The bearded man was the murderer.”
“And he has gone?”
“Aboard the first train for Paris. Due there at five-forty; seventeen-forty by continental time.”
“Then we must count upon the French authorities to apprehend this second murderer.”
“Such is our only course, Lord Bixley.”
Delka stepped to the deck. Lord Bixley joined him. Leaving the stewards in charge of Levaux’s body, the two men started for the gangplank. Twice thwarted in their hopes of catching a living prisoner, they were seeking a new quest.
Death had dealt double. Willoughby Blythe had died aboard the Golden Arrow. His murderer, Rene Levaux, had found a similar fate in his cabin on the Steamship Canterbury. Another murderer was at large, a man unknown to Eric Delka; but one whose bulky frame and conspicuous beard would make him easily recognizable.
As with Willoughby Blythe; as with Rene Levaux, this new quarry was located in a place that he could not leave. The French express, the Fleche d’Or, would discharge no passengers before it reached its destination.
Delka was bound upon the only course; to place this new case in the hands of the French police. They would have time to arrange the perfect capture of a bearded murderer. Their chance would come when the train from Calais arrived at the Gare du Nord, its terminus in Paris.
CHAPTER III
DEATH REACHES PARIS
IT was shortly before five o’clock when a uniformed officer entered the office of Monsieur Clandine, the Paris prefect of police. Monsieur Clandine, a keen-eyed man with a wax-tipped mustache and a pointed beard, looked up in expectation of an announcement.
“Monsieur Delka has arrived,” announced the officer. “Shall I usher him here, Monsieur le Prefet?”
“At once!”
Delka entered to receive the prefect’s handclasp. Monsieur Clandine motioned his visitor to a chair; then tapped a stack of papers that were upon the desk.
“I am pleased at your arrival,” stated Clandine. “It was wise for you to come by plane from Calais.”
“We traveled faster than the Golden Arrow,” returned Delka, with a smile. “I mean your train — the Fleche d’Or — as you call it on this side of the Channel. It is not due in Paris for more than forty minutes.”
“Quite a while to wait,” observed Clandine, calmly. “We have completed our preparations long ago. All was ready within half an hour after we received the telegraph report from Calais.”
“And the fast plane brought me here in time to witness the capture,” chuckled Delka. “Well, monsieur, I feel quite sure that I shall be able to identify the man with the red beard.”
“That will not be necessary. We know him already.”
Delka stared.
“And what is more” — the prefect smiled — “we have all the necessary information concerning his victim, Rene Levaux.”
“Who is the bearded man?” queried Delka.
“One of whom you have heard,” replied Clandine. “He is Boris Danyar, the notorious head of the spy clique in Helsingfors.”
This news left Delka gaping. Pleased, Clandine delivered further facts.
“And Rene Levaux,” he informed, “was the chief lieutenant of Gaspard Zemba, the mystery man of Paris.”
Sudden understanding dawned upon Delka. While the prefect sat smiling, the C.I.D. man verbally pieced together the puzzle.
“Levaux was posted to kill Blythe in case of an emergency!” he exclaimed. “Blythe had blundered — as Zemba believed he might — so Zemba had delegated Levaux to cover him from London to Paris!”
The prefect nodded.
“And Danyar has been seeking a trail to Zemba!” added Delka. “Danyar must have recognized Levaux. When they talked, Levaux must have let something slip. That is why Danyar killed him.”
Monsieur Clandine shook his head.
“I have a different theory,” he stated. “I believe that Danyar already had a trail to Zemba. Seeing Levaux and noting you as an observer, he decided to eliminate Levaux and thus keep the trail for himself.”
“But Danyar never saw me before!”
“So you may believe. Danyar is very clever. He has photographs of every important police officer in Europe.”
“Is he cleverer than Zemba?”
“That is a question,” returned the prefect, rising. “One that could only be decided by a meeting between the two. But Boris Danyar will never meet Gaspard Zemba. For Boris Danyar will no longer be at large after his arrival at the Gare du Nord. Come, monsieur. It is time for us to go to the terminus.”
WHEN the prefect and Delka arrived upon the street, they found a limousine awaiting them. A police officer was acting as chauffeur. Beside the car was a man of slender build, who stood with shoulders back, in the erect exaggeration of a martinet. This bantam was attired in street clothes, like the prefect; but he seemed accustomed to pose in military fashion.
Monsieur Clandine introduced him as Sergeant Rusanne, then when they had stepped aboard the car and Rusanne had taken a place in front, the prefect made mention of Rusanne’s duties.
“Sergeant Rusanne is my personal aid,” Clandine told Delka. “He serves also as chief secretary in my office. All orders are checked by Rusanne; then there can be no mistake. He is a useful fellow, Rusanne; for if any of my instructions are ignored, I can hold him to account.”
The prefect chuckled, as though he considered his statement a clever jest. Then he added:
“It is a system that never fails, for Rusanne has only to check all orders to subordinates. I have no time to follow up such matters; but Rusanne has. At present, as an instance, we are going to find extensive preparations at the Gare du Nord. I know exactly how everything should be. Sergeant Rusanne has made sure that all has been done as expected.”
Lights were glimmering along the boulevards when the limousine neared the Northern Railway Station. A clouded sky was bringing early dusk to Paris, but daylight still held some sway. Delka’s watch showed five-thirty when they alighted at the Gare du Nord.
“The express is scheduled to arrive at seventeen-forty,” remarked the prefect, using the continental form of time reference. “It will not, however, arrive until seventeen forty-five. The train was purposely slowed at Amiens, then again at Creil.
“This was arranged through our emergency signal system, after your word came from Calais. Messages were dropped and picked up on each occasion. Thus our final arrangements are known aboard the train as well as here in Paris.”