The questions put by M. Floçon were much the same in every case, and were limited in this early stage of the inquiry to the one point of identity.
The first who entered was a Frenchman. He was a jovial, fat-faced, portly man, who answered to the name of Anatole Lafolay, and who described himself as a traveller in precious stones. The berth he had occupied was No. 13 in compartment f. His companion in the berth was a younger man, smaller, slighter, but of much the same stamp. His name was Jules Devaux, and he was a commission agent. His berth had been No. 15 in the same compartment, f. Both these Frenchmen gave their addresses with the names of many people to whom they were well known, and established at once a reputation for respectability which was greatly in their favour.
The third to appear was the tall, gray-headed Englishman, who had taken a certain lead at the first discovery of the crime. He called himself General Sir Charles Collingham, an officer of her Majesty’s army; and the clergyman who shared the compartment was his brother, the Reverend Silas Collingham, rector of Theakstone-Lammas, in the county of Norfolk. Their berths were numbered 1 and 4 in a.
Before the English General was dismissed, he asked whether he was likely to be detained.
“For the present, yes,” replied M. Floçon, briefly. He did not care to be asked questions. That, under the circumstances, was his business.
“Because I should like to communicate with the British Embassy.”
“You are known there?” asked the detective, not choosing to believe the story at first. It might be a ruse of some sort.
“I know Lord Dufferin personally; I was with him in India. Also Colonel Papillon, the military attaché; we were in the same regiment. If I sent to the Embassy, the latter would, no doubt, come himself.”
“How do you propose to send?”
“That is for you to decide. All I wish is that it should be known that my brother and I are detained under suspicion, and incriminated.”
“Hardly that, Monsieur le General. But it shall be as you wish. We will telephone from here to the post nearest the Embassy to inform his Excellency—”
“Certainly, Lord Dufferin, and my friend, Colonel Papillon.”
“Of what has occurred. And now, if you will permit me to proceed?”
So the single occupant of the compartment b, that adjoining the Englishmen, was called in. He was an Italian, by name Natale Ripaldi; a dark-skinned man, with very black hair and a bristling black moustache. He wore a long dark cloak of the Inverness order, and, with the slouch hat he carried in his hand, and his downcast, secretive look, he had the rather conventional aspect of a conspirator.
“If monsieur permits,” he volunteered to say after the formal questioning was over, “I can throw some light on this catastrophe.”
“And how so, pray? Did you assist? Were you present? If so, why wait to speak till now?” said the detective, receiving the advance rather coldly. It behooved him to be very much on his guard.
“I have had no opportunity till now of addressing any one in authority. You are in authority, I presume?”
“I am the Chief of the Detective Service.”
“Then, monsieur, remember, please, that I can give some useful information when called upon. Now, indeed, if you will receive it.”
M. Floçon was so anxious to approach the inquiry without prejudice that he put up his hand.
“We will wait, if you please. When M. le Juge arrives, then, perhaps; at any rate, at a later stage. That will do now, thank you.”
The Italian’s lip curled with a slight indication of contempt at the French detective’s methods, but he bowed without speaking, and went out.
Last of all the lady appeared, in a long sealskin travelling cloak, and closely veiled. She answered M. Floçon’s questions in a low, tremulous voice, as though greatly perturbed.
She was the Contessa di Castagneto, she said, an Englishwoman by birth; but her husband had been an Italian, as the name implied, and they resided in Rome. He was dead—she had been a widow for two or three years, and was on her way now to London.
“That will do, madame, thank you,” said the detective, politely, “for the present at least.”
“Why, are we likely to be detained? I trust not.” Her voice became appealing, almost piteous. Her hands, restlessly moving, showed how much she was distressed.
“Indeed, Madame la Comtesse, it must be so. I regret it infinitely; but until we have gone further into this, have elicited some facts, arrived at some conclusions—But there, madame, I need not, must not say more.”
“Oh, monsieur, I was so anxious to continue my journey. Friends are awaiting me in London. I do hope—I most earnestly beg and entreat you to spare me. I am not very strong; my health is indifferent. Do, sir, be so good as to release me from—”
As she spoke, she raised her veil, and showed what no woman wishes to hide, least of all when seeking the good-will of one of the opposite sex. She had a handsome face—strikingly so. Not even the long journey, the fatigue, the worries and anxieties which had supervened, could rob her of her marvellous beauty.
She was a brilliant brunette, dark-skinned; but her complexion was of a clear, pale olive, and as soft, as lustrous as pure ivory. Her great eyes, of a deep velvety brown, were saddened by near tears. She had rich red lips, the only colour in her face, and these, habitually slightly apart, showed pearly-white glistening teeth.
It was difficult to look at this charming woman without being affected by her beauty. M. Floçon was a Frenchman, gallant and impressionable; yet he steeled his heart. A detective must beware of sentiment, and he seemed to see something insidious in this appeal, which he resented.
“Madame, it is useless,” he answered gruffly. “I do not make the law; I have only to support it. Every good citizen is bound to that.”
“I trust I am a good citizen,” said the Countess, with a wan smile, but very wearily. “Still, I should wish to be let off now. I have suffered greatly, terribly, by this horrible catastrophe. My nerves are quite shattered. It is too cruel. However, I can say no more, except to ask that you will let my maid come to me.”
M. Floçon, still obdurate, would not even consent to that.
“I fear, madame, that for the present at least you cannot be allowed to communicate with any one, not even with your maid.”
“But she is not implicated; she was not in the car. I have not seen her since—”
“Since?” repeated M. Floçon, after a pause.
“Since last night, at Amberieux, about eight o’clock. She helped me to undress, and saw me to bed. I sent her away then, and said I should not need her till we reached Paris. But I want her now, indeed I do.”
“She did not come to you at Laroche?”
“No. Have I not said so? The porter,”—here she pointed to the man, who stood staring at her from the other side of the table,—“he made difficulties about her being in the car, saying that she came too often, stayed too long, that I must pay for her berth, and so on. I did not see why I should do that; so she stayed away.”
“Except from time to time?”
“Precisely.”
“And the last time was at Amberieux?”
“As I have told you, and he will tell you the same.”
“Thank you, madame, that will do.” The Chief rose from his chair, plainly intimating that the interview was at an end.
