Zemba

CHAPTER II DEATH DEALS DOUBLE

THE Golden Arrow had reached Folkestone. As it whirled rapidly across the high viaduct above the town, Eric Delka caught his first glimpse of the sea. Seven miles through the warren would bring the train to Dover.

Delka was glancing at his watch when he left the Pullman and walked forward to the second-class carriages. It was twenty-five minutes past twelve.

Eighty-five minutes out of London. Another ten minutes to go. Delka smiled with confidence. He had left Lord Bixley and Thomason expressing their impatience for the finish of the journey; but Delka did not share the mood. He was quite willing to wait for the scheduled time of Blythe’s capture.

The train was following the cliff region above the English Channel when Delka found his two aids in the corridor outside of Willoughby Blythe’s compartment. They had come from their own compartments. Delka drew them toward the end of the corridor.

A dapper, mustached man edged by, coming from another car. Delka saw him enter Blythe’s compartment. The dapper man was the one other passenger who had been in the compartment at the beginning of the journey. He looked like a Frenchman.

“Has Blythe come out at all?” queried Delka.

Negative headshakes. Verbal reply had become suddenly impossible, for the train had roared into blackness at that moment. The Golden Arrow was surging through Shakespeare’s Cliff, to reach the beach along the English Channel.

The roar of the locomotive was terrific, blotting out all other sounds for this car was close behind the powerful engine. Delka and his men stood silent in the feeble glow of the corridor lights.

Then the roar ended. The brilliance of daylight replaced artificial illumination. As the train slackened speed along the line of the beach, Delka gave his final instructions. One man was placed at each end of the corridor. Delka, himself, would cover the station platform.

The train veered sharply to the right, to swing into the Dover Marine Station. Delka saw the dapper Frenchman come from the compartment and stroll past one of the Scotland Yard men.

Delka nodded his approval. There was a chance that Willoughby Blythe might make a struggle. It would be best to trap him alone in the compartment.

THE train rolled to a stop. Delka, with a railway guard beside him, was the first person to reach the platform. The C.I.D. man immediately posted himself at the most important spot.

Blythe could find two ways to leave the train; one, by the corridor, which Delka’s aids were guarding; the other, by the outer door of the compartment direct to the station platform itself. That was the exit which Delka covered.

The Golden Arrow was disgorging passengers. The train had arrived at twenty-five minutes of one, precisely on schedule. Already, a shunting engine had gripped the baggage vans at the rear of the train and was tugging them away, to work them around to the quay. There, the Steamship Canterbury was waiting, with smoke issuing from its single funnel.

Passengers and porters were thronging toward the steamship, to embark immediately for Calais. Twenty minutes was the time allotted for such transfer. Yet, as the platform cleared of people, there was still no sign of Willoughby Blythe.

Delka had been watching the compartment door in a hawklike fashion. He had seen Blythe on the train in London; and would have known the man immediately, for the fellow’s face was long-nosed and weak-chinned — a pasty countenance that could easily be remembered. Nevertheless, Delka watched in vain for such a visage to appear at the compartment door.

Two stragglers joined Delka on the platform: Lord Bixley and the secretary, Thomason. Delka ordered Thomason to go into the car and contact the C.I.D. men in the corridor.

Thomason went in, to return two minutes later. He brought the positive report that no one had come from Blythe’s compartment, by way of the corridor.

“The chap must know that we are watching him,” observed Lord Bixley, to Delka. “Why not enter and apprehend him? The other passengers have reached the steamship. If Blythe offers resistance, it will endanger no one.”

Delka considered. He glanced at his watch; it was nearly ten minutes of one. He looked toward the Canterbury, where cranes were swinging the boxes from the baggage wagons down into the steamship’s hold. All other passengers had reached the vessel.

Delka decided to act. He spoke to a railway guard who was standing by, and ordered the man to open the outer door of Blythe’s compartment.

The guard obeyed. At the same time, Delka tugged a revolver from his pocket and mounted the step beside the compartment. He expected that Blythe would flee when accosted; but if the fugitive dashed through the corridor he would be immediately trapped by the two C.I.D. men. Delka wanted Blythe to attempt flight.

The door swung open and Delka thrust himself forward. As he did, a huddled figure came tumbling directly against him. Delka spun about, ready with his revolver as a man’s form sprawled in a crazy dive, across the step, then headlong to the platform. As Delka bounded down beside the rolling form, it turned over. Delka saw the face of Willoughby Blythe.

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?”

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.