The Milliner's Hat Mystery (11 page)

“I did not come to search your vessel, but only to ask you a question or two about your late passengers. I have their names, of course, but only you can tell me why they chose to come over in your little vessel instead of by one of the ordinary cross Channel boats.”

“How can one guess why these eccentric English and Americans choose to cross in a launch; they wanted a new experience, I suppose. But their papers were quite in order.”

“Yes, but who told you that they wanted to cross the Channel in this way? Did they write to you, or what?”

“I took them over to England last May, and they enjoyed the voyage so much that they took my address and wrote to me, giving the day for their return passage.”

“When you were at Newquay,” put in Vincent, “you had no name on your boat. Why was that?”

The captain laughed. “I see that you know very little about the vagaries of holiday makers. If they have ladies with them it is a game among them to name the boat. Look, monsieur.” He opened a locker and showed little boards with names painted on them. “If a majority of the ladies is in favour of
Rosamonde
then I hang out these boards and the boat becomes
Rosamonde
as she is registered, but if they prefer the name of Iris, well, here are the little boards to hang out.”

Lalage became stern. “Your boat is registered as
Rosamonde
and you change the name at your own risk. The whims of lady passengers do not count in a matter like this. See to it that the name
Rosamonde
is painted on the boat or there may be trouble in store for you.”

“Very good, monsieur,” replied the captain in a surly tone.

Vincent interposed with another question. “Where is the letter you received from these Americans asking you to meet them at Newquay?”

“I never keep letters; they go overboard when I've read them.”

“What address did they give at the head of the letter?”

“None that I remember.”

“And, of course,” suggested Lalage sarcastically, “you don't remember the name of the hotel they went to in Brest.”

“I never knew where they went to. They just took their handbags and walked off.”

“Well,” said Lalage, rising, “don't forget my order about the name of this boat: that it is to be painted on her and not on boards to be hung over the side; and see to it that you don't accept charters for passengers whose papers are not in order.” He lowered his voice. “Remember that you will be held responsible for any prohibited article imported by any of your passengers. Take this warning to heart because if you neglect it and you are prosecuted, it will be brought to the knowledge of the magistrate.”

When they were on shore again, Lalage remarked: “I never expected to get any admission from that rascal. Clearly, he has been squared by the gang, but this interview may make him think twice before he accepts those Americans as passengers again…” A telegraph boy was approaching. He was scrutinizing the names on the small craft as he went. Lalage stopped him.

“Who's your telegram for?”

“Captain Duprez, of the
Rosamonde
.”

“I've just come from the
Rosamonde
. You know me, my lad. I will take charge of this telegram.”

“Yes, I know you, monsieur, but…”

“That's all right. You can tell the postmaster that I took charge of it.”

The boy handed over the telegram and required Lalage to sign a receipt for it. He went off whistling some kind of tune. As soon as he had turned the corner Lalage tore the confining strip of blue paper and read aloud:

“Good!” exclaimed Vincent. “We'll go to St Malo. What's the quickest way?”

“If you come to my office the timetable will tell you. I don't carry all the cross-country trains in my head. We will also see whether my men, who have been out tracing these men, have brought in any report.”

They found a man in plain clothes waiting in the office.

“Any news, Henri?”

“Yes, monsieur, those two Americans were staying at the Hotel des Cloches and left early this morning —in haste. Fortunately their room had not been touched since their departure and in the empty fireplace we found this.” He brought out a piece of blue paper screwed into a tight ball.

Lalage smoothed it out. “
Tiens!
Yet another telegram. Ah! You must read this, monsieur: it is in English.” He handed it to Vincent.

Vincent interpreted the telegram into French. It ran:

“Ah! Madame Germaine assured us that she understood not a word of English, yet she writes her telegram in that language.”

“I
F I MIGHT
make a suggestion,” said Vincent, “I think that the best route for us to St Malo would be by motorboat—the boat of Captain Duprez.”

Goron threw up his arms and brought his palms heavily down upon his knees. “You've hit it, my friend. The sea is calm and during our little voyage there would be time for conversation. Who knows but that our sturdy sea captain may experience a change of heart in the course of the voyage. We could leave it to our English friend here to apply the necessary mental treatment.”

“Do you suggest that I should give him the telegram?” asked Lalage.

“On no account,” exclaimed Vincent. “If he had that telegram, he would not take us. But which of us is going to charter the boat?”

“I think that Monsieur Lalage is the obvious person,” said Goron. “There is no time to lose. Will you go back alone and make the necessary overtures?”

“I will,” said Lalage, “and I'll apply pressure if necessary. Give me ten minutes and then you can come along to the boat to hear what is decided. If all goes well I will make an unobtrusive signal to you by lifting my hand to my face and rubbing my right eyebrow.”

In ten minutes by Vincent's watch the two police officers sauntered along the quay towards the launch. When they came in sight of the
Rosamonde
, Goron murmured: “Keep your eye on Lalage.”

Almost as he spoke both saw Lalage bring his right hand to his eye and begin a vigorous rubbing of his eyebrow.

“Good!” said Vincent; “we're over the first fence.”

“The second offence will be your affair; I am curious to see how you will set about it.”

The first part of their voyage was quite uneventful. They stopped to take in motor fuel and then continued on their way along the coast towards St Malo.

Vincent was regarding the captain with a fixed stare. The man had his hand on the tiller and it was obvious that the scrutiny disconcerted him.

“You seem to be uneasy, my friend. You think that I am looking at you more closely than is consistent with good manners. You must excuse me. I was speculating how you would look in the striped overall that they wear at Cayenne.”

The man stifled an oath and the boat lurched dangerously towards the rock-bound shore. Vincent made a leap towards the tiller and seized it firmly, bringing the head of the launch parallel to the coast.

“Your steering is erratic, my friend. Let me remind you that we are bound for St Malo, not for the next world. You had better leave the steering to me.”

The Breton captain still kept his hand on the tiller for the sake of appearances, but he allowed Vincent to control the steering.

“I am always sorry when I see a man backing the wrong horse at the races, and it grieves me when I think of a man accustomed to the wild fresh air and liberty of the seas heading towards a narrow little cubicle in a cell of corrugated iron, deprived of such amenities as tobacco. They tell me that that deprivation is the worst part of imprisonment; that men would sell their souls for a twist of tobacco leaf. The pity of it is that if you were working for the lawful authorities you would have a quiet life and an easy conscience.”

“I don't know what you're talking about. I'm a plain sailor.”

“Then let us talk in plain language as man to man,” retorted Vincent. “You have been carrying passengers from England with dangerous contraband about their persons.”

“I know nothing about that. People take their passage and that's all that concerns me.”

“Then why not prove your innocence by helping the police to do their duty?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I'll tell you. We hold a telegram sent to you by those two men, telling you to come to St Malo for them. They are expecting you. What we want you to do when you catch sight of them on the quay is to signal that all is well. Probably you have a code of signals.”

“You are an Englishman. You couldn't arrest me.”

“I might have to denounce you to the French authorities and they have a short way with their nationals who engage in the drug traffic. You might find yourself languishing in a prison cell for months before being brought to trial and all that time you would be on a prison diet, with nothing to smoke and aid digestion. Why, man! Your health would break down under the strain.”

“Do those gentlemen in the cabin, who are French officers, want me to do this?”

“They do and they will tell you so.” He signalled to Goron and Lalage to come out of the cabin. The captain now proved to be amenable and their plans were made.

As they neared the quay at St Malo, Vincent's heart beat fast when he saw two men waving. They answered the description of those of whom he was in search. It was possible that they were armed and would resist capture, but that was a risk that every police officer had to take. He was relieved to see that there were other people on the quay. The presence of so many witnesses might restrain the two criminals from using their revolvers.

The three officers remained out of sight in the cabin as the captain steered his launch to the steps. The two men advanced confidently and Vincent leaped for the lowest of the granite steps, followed by Goron and Lalage. The men had not a chance to make off.

Goron laid his hand on the shoulder of the nearest saying: “You are wanted at the police station.”

“What for?”

“They will tell you that at the station.”

“I demand first to be taken to the American consulate,” said the man. “You have no right to interfere with American citizens.”

“You are now on French soil, monsieur, and you may both have to answer charges of breaking French law, but you shall have an opportunity of telephoning to the American consulate from the police station.”

“What is the charge? We have a right to know that.”

Vincent caught a quick glance in the eyes of one of the men towards one of the little streets that debouched upon the quay. He was measuring his chance of escape. It was the moment for a word of warning in English. “You had better not try to do a bolt,” Vincent said. “They have a short way over here with prisoners who resist arrest. I advise you to go quietly.”

“You hear that?” shouted the man to his companion. “This guy is a cop from Scotland Yard. These Britishers won't let the French do their own dirty work without interfering. O.K., we'll go with you, but you'll get hell from the State Department in Washington when they get to hear of it, I warn you.”

Vincent interposed quietly. “There are charges pending against you in England and there may be extradition proceedings. I can tell you no more than that at this stage.”

The men now appeared to accept the inevitable and followed Lalage without another word. Vincent did some rapid thinking. He drew Goron out of earshot.

“I shall have to get into communication with my chief at Scotland Yard.”

“By telephone, you mean?”

“No, I think it best that I should return to England if you can assure me that the men will be held safely in custody here until their extradition is arranged.”

“Have no fear,” responded Goron. “You can safely leave them with us.”

“Then I will lose no more time. I must make enquiries about the boats.”

“I must accompany M. Lalage and these men. If you don't get a boat for this evening come round to the little
bistro
and we'll meet again there.”

“I will. In case we don't meet again, please accept my warmest thanks for your help.”

He shook hands with both his French colleagues and made his way to the steamship office. He was just in time to get a passage on a boat that was leaving within an hour.

On his way back to England Vincent reflected a little ruefully on the difficulties that lay before him in persuading the powers above that this was a case in which extradition might properly be applied for. He knew that it would be useless to cite the drug traffic because this was not at that period one of the scheduled offences to which extradition applied, even if the evidence had been sufficient to convince the Director of Public Prosecutions that it was a water-tight case. That is always the difficulty that confronts police officers. They may be certain that an offender is breaking the law, but unless they have evidence sufficient to convince a court of justice their hands are tied. The wide powers conferred on the police under the Defence of the Realm Act had been repealed for more than ten years. They were now back in the old rut in which personal liberty even of the criminal counted for more than the safety of the public.

True, there was the question of the murder charge, but a charge of wilful murder is not lightly to be preferred on evidence that was largely circumstantial and even more largely conjectural.

On arriving in London, Vincent reported himself to his immediate superior, Chief Constable Richardson, who listened patiently to his story and said that the proper course was to go over to the Director of Public Prosecutions to lay the whole case before him. This was an ordeal that in former days had daunted most men in the department, for there came a moment when the director put his elbows on the table and joined the fingertips of both hands before he spoke. His speech on those occasions damped the spirits of most of his colleagues, for the gesture was invariably followed by destructive criticism. Vincent's hope was that he would find the assistant director in temporary charge of the department: he could always deal with that gentleman.