"Where's my man?" quickly asked Colonel Papillon in response to this appeal.
"There, the third from the left," whispered M. Flocon. "We hoped you would recognise the corpse at once."
"That? Impossible! You do not expect it, surely? Why, the face is too much mangled for any one to say who it is."
"Are there no indications, no marks or signs, to say whether it is Quadling or not?" asked the Judge in a greatly disappointed tone.
"Absolutely nothing. And yet I am quite satisfied it is not him. For the simple reason that-"
"Yes, yes, go on."
"That Quadling in person is standing out there among the crowd."
CHAPTER XX
M. Flocon was the first to realise the full meaning of Colonel Papillon's surprising statement.
"Run, run, La Peche! Have the outer doors closed; let no one leave the place."
"Draw back, gentlemen!" he went on, and he hustled his companions with frantic haste out at the back of the mortuary chamber. "Pray Heaven he has not seen us! He would know us, even if we do not him."
Then with no less haste he seized Colonel Papillon by the arm and hurried him by the back passages through the office into the outer, public chamber, where the astonished crowd stood, silent and perturbed, awaiting explanation of their detention.
"Quick, monsieur!" whispered the Chief; "point him out to me."
The request was not unnecessary, for when Colonel Papillon went forward, and, putting his hand on a man's shoulder, saying, "Mr. Quadling, I think," the police officer was scarcely able to restrain his surprise.
The person thus challenged was very unlike any one he had seen before that day, Ripaldi most of all. The moustache was gone, the clothes were entirely changed; a pair of dark green spectacles helped the disguise. It was strange indeed that Papillon had known him; but at the moment of recognition Quadling had removed his glasses, no doubt that he might the better examine the object of his visit to the Morgue, that gruesome record of his own fell handiwork.
Naturally he drew back with well-feigned indignation, muttering half-unintelligible words in French, denying stoutly both in voice and gesture all acquaintance with the person who thus abruptly addressed him.
"This is not to be borne," he cried. "Who are you that dares-"
"Ta! ta!" quietly put in M. Flocon; "we will discuss that fully, but not here. Come into the office; come, I say, or must we use force?"
There was no escaping now, and with a poor attempt at bravado the stranger was led away.
"Now, Colonel Papillon, look at him well. Do you know him? Are you satisfied it is-"
"Mr. Quadling, late banker, of Rome. I have not the slightest doubt of it. I recognise him beyond all question."
"That will do. Silence, sir!" This to Quadling. "No observations. I too can recognise you now as the person who called himself Ripaldi an hour or two ago. Denial is useless. Let him be searched; thoroughly, you understand, La Peche? Call in your other men; he may resist."
They gave the wretched man but scant consideration, and in less than three minutes had visited every pocket, examined every secret receptacle, and practically turned him inside out.
After this there could no longer be any doubt of his identity, still less of his complicity in the crime.
First among the many damning evidences of his guilt was the missing pocketbook of the porter of the sleeping-car. Within was the train card and the passengers' tickets, all the papers which the man Groote had lost so unaccountably. They had, of course, been stolen from his person with the obvious intention of impeding the inquiry into the murder. Next, in another inner pocket was Quadling's own wallet, with his own visiting-cards, several letters addressed to him by name; above all, a thick sheaf of bank-notes of all nationalities-English, French, Italian, and amounting in total value to several thousands of pounds.
"Well, do you still deny? Bah! it is childish, useless, mere waste of breath. At last we have penetrated the mystery. You may as well confess. Whether or no, we have enough to convict you by independent testimony," said the Judge, severely. "Come, what have you to say?"
But Quadling, with pale, averted face, stood obstinately mute. He was in the toils, the net had closed round him, they should have no assistance from him.
"Come, speak out; it will be best. Remember, we have means to make you-"
"Will you interrogate him further, M. Beaumont le Hardi? Here, at once?"
"No, let him be removed to the Prefecture; it will be more convenient; to my private office."
Without more ado a fiacre was called, and the prisoner was taken off under escort, M. Flocon seated by his side, one policeman in front, another on the box, and lodged in a secret cell at the Quai l'Horloge.
"And you, gentlemen?" said the Judge to Sir Charles and Colonel Papillon. "I do not wish to detain you further, although there may be points you might help us to elucidate if I might venture to still trespass on your time?"
Sir Charles was eager to return to the Hotel Madagascar, and yet he felt that he should best serve his dear Countess by seeing this to the end. So he readily assented to accompany the Judge, and Colonel Papillon, who was no less curious, agreed to go too.
"I sincerely trust," said the Judge on the way, "that our people have laid hands on that woman Petitpre. I believe that she holds the key to the situation, that when we hear her story we shall have a clear case against Quadling; and-who knows?-she may completely exonerate Madame la Comtesse."
During the events just recorded, which occupied a good hour, the police agents had time to go and come from the Rue Bellechasse.
They did not return empty-handed, although at first it seemed as if they had made a fruitless journey. The Hotel Ivoire was a very second-class place, a lodging-house, or hotel with furnished rooms let out by the week to lodgers with whom the proprietor had no very close acquaintance. His clerk did all the business, and this functionary produced the register, as he is bound by law, for the inspection of the police officers, but afforded little information as to the day's arrivals.
"Yes, a man calling himself Dufour had taken rooms about midday, one for himself, one for madame who was with him, also named Dufour-his sister, he said;" and he went on at the request of the police officers to describe them.
"Our birds," said the senior agent, briefly. "They are wanted. We belong to the detective police."
"All right." Such visits were not new to the clerk. "But you will not find monsieur; he is out; there hangs his key. Madame? No, she is within. Yes, that is certain, for not long since she rang her bell. There, it goes again."
He looked up at the furiously oscillating bell, but made no move. "Bah! they do not pay for service; let her come and say what she needs."
"Exactly; and we will bring her," said the officer, making for the stairs and the room indicated.
But on reaching the door, they found it locked. From within? Hardly, for as they stood there in doubt, a voice inside cried vehemently: "Let me out! Help! Help! Send for the police. I have much to tell them. Quick! Let me out."
"We are here, my dear, just as you require us. But wait; step down, Gaston, and see if the clerk has a second key. If not, call in a locksmith-the nearest. A little patience only, my beauty. Do not fear."
The key was quickly produced, and an entrance effected.
A woman stood there in a defiant attitude, with arms akimbo; she, no doubt, of whom they were in search. A tall, rather masculine-looking creature, with a dark, handsome face, bold black eyes just now flashing fiercely, rage in every feature.
"Madame Dufour?" began the police officer.
"Dufour! Rot! My name is Hortense Petitpre; who are you? La Rousse?" (Police.)
"At your service. Have you anything to say to us? We have come on purpose to take you to the Prefecture quietly, if you will let us; or-"
"I will go quietly. I ask nothing better. I have to lay information against a miscreant-a murderer-the vile assassin who would have made me his accomplice-the banker, Quadling, of Rome!"