Part 21 (2/2)

Etheridge rummaged in his pockets, produced a box of safety matches, struck one, and held it in the hollow of both hands to screen the flame from the wind. When he was quite a.s.sured that the light would not be blown out, he leaned forward so that McGowan was not only able to light his cigarette, but to whisper in his colleague's ear. The words he used may, at first blush, seem somewhat vague; for all that, to the quick intelligence of the London detective they conveyed all the information he desired to know.

”D Forty-one,” said McGowan, who then, having lighted his cigarette, thanked Etheridge, and strolled carelessly away.

Etheridge walked casually along the deck until he came to one of the lifts, where he asked the attendant to take him down to ”D” deck. There, as if looking for his own cabin, he wandered about, until he came to number forty-one, which he promptly entered and where he seated himself in a comfortable armchair.

Then, producing a copy of the morning paper which he had purchased at the dock gates, he proceeded to read the news of the day. About the Baron von Essling he troubled himself not in the least. He never gave him a thought. He had gathered from McGowan that D41 was the number of the cabin that had been booked by ”Mr. Valentine.” Sooner or later, Valentine himself would arrive. Until that moment, Superintendent-detective Etheridge was determined to give the whole of his attention to the morning's news.

Suddenly, a steward entered, carrying a Gladstone bag. He appeared somewhat surprised to see the cabin in possession of the detective, of whose ident.i.ty he had no idea.

”This is the wrong cabin, sir,” said he.

”I think not,” said the other. ”It has been booked by a Mr. Valentine, I believe. I have here a police warrant for his arrest.”

The usual effect of a police warrant can only be described as electrical. The steward allowed the Gladstone bag to fall from his hand, and stood regarding the detective in amazement.

”What shall I do?” he asked.

”Mr. Valentine has come on board?” asked Etheridge, disregarding the steward's question.

”He is on the promenade deck now.”

”Then show him down to his cabin, and leave us together. You need not trouble to remain at hand, as several of my a.s.sistants are on board the s.h.i.+p, and besides, I am provided with these,” he added, producing a Colt revolver and a pair of handcuffs.

The steward went out, walking on tiptoe, with the demeanour of a man who is conscious that he finds himself on dangerous ground. And no sooner was the door closed than Etheridge flung himself at the Gladstone bag as a hungry dog might tackle a bone. To undo the straps was the work of a moment. Producing a skeleton key from his pocket, he succeeded in opening the lock, and then turned out the complete contents of the bag upon the floor.

He found nothing more suspicious than a suit of pyjamas, was.h.i.+ng materials and an extraordinary number of neckties of every conceivable colour, tone and shade. He bundled these back into the bag with scant ceremony; and no sooner had he done so than the door was opened, and there entered a man wearing a tweed suit and one of those soft felt hats which are so popular in the United States.

”I understood,” said he, regarding Etheridge in surprise, ”I understood this was my cabin--D41.”

At that moment, there entered another steward--a thick-set man with a heavy, black moustache--who carried upon his back a large cabin-trunk, upon the lid of which were inscribed the words: ”LEWIS N. VALENTINE, MINNEAPOLIS, MINN.”

Now, Superintendent-detective Etheridge had already searched the archives of Scotland Yard for a photograph of von Essling; and there was no question but that this Mr. Lewis N. Valentine (of Minneapolis, Minn.) bore a striking resemblance to the military attache, with the exception of the trifling fact that von Essling wore a moustache and Valentine was clean-shaven.

The steward set down the trunk in the middle of the cabin, and then went out without a word, half closing the door. Etheridge and Valentine stood face to face, regarding each other closely, the one wondering whether he had found the right man, the suspicions of the other fully aroused.

Etheridge had a method of his own that seldom failed. It was his custom to confront suspected persons with the truth. On such occasions, it is extremely difficult not to give one's self away; the most hardened criminal is not capable of controlling his features or of finding suitable words of explanation, when he suddenly finds himself face to face with his own guilt. If ”Valentine,” or von Essling, were so obliging as to betray his own ident.i.ty, there was little doubt in the detective's mind that the necessary proof would be forthcoming, when the man's baggage was overhauled. However--as we shall see--Valentine himself was possessed of considerable presence of mind. He was a desperate man in a desperate situation, and was not likely to stick at trifles.

”To the best of my knowledge,” said Etheridge bluntly, ”this cabin was reserved for the Baron von Essling, a military attache to the German Emba.s.sy in Was.h.i.+ngton, who has certainly no right to be in England at the present time.”

Valentine started. He was not sufficiently master of himself to prevent it. He drew back a quick step, and stared hard at Etheridge. His lips had parted, and the colour had vanished from his cheeks.

”What do you mean?” he exclaimed.

He got the better of his feelings in an instant, and feigned annoyance.

Etheridge, however, had already formed his own opinion, and was determined to arrest the man, at once.

”If you're wise,” said he, ”you'll speak the truth. It's my duty to warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence against you.”

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