The Classic Mystery Collection - Arthur Conan Doyle [4166]
CHAPTER VIII
A first stage in the inquiry had now been reached, with results that seemed promising, and were yet contradictory.
No doubt the watch to be set on the Countess might lead to something yet—something to bring first plausible suspicion to a triumphant issue; but the examination of the other occupants of the car should not be allowed to slacken on that account. The Countess might have some confederate among them—this pestilent English General, perhaps, who had made himself so conspicuous in her defence; or some one of them might throw light upon her movements, upon her conduct during the journey.
Then, with a spasm of self-reproach, M. Floçon remembered that two distinct suggestions had been made to him by two of the travellers, and that, so far, he had neglected them. One was the significant hint from the Italian that he could materially help the inquiry. The other was the General's sneering assertion that the train had not continued its journey uninterruptedly between Laroche and Paris.
Consulting the Judge, and laying these facts before him, it was agreed that the Italian's offer seemed the most important, and he was accordingly called in next.
"Who and what are you?" asked the Judge, carelessly, but the answer roused him at once to intense interest, and he could not quite resist a glance of reproach at M. Floçon.
"My name I have given you—Natale Ripaldi. I am a detective officer belonging to the Roman police."
"What!" cried M. Floçon, colouring deeply. "This is unheard of. Why in the name of all the devils have you withheld this most astonishing statement until now?"
"Monsieur surely remembers. I told him half an hour ago I had something important to communicate—"
"Yes, yes, of course. But why were you so reticent. Good Heavens!"
"Monsieur was not so encouraging that I felt disposed to force on him what I knew he would have to hear in due course."
"It is monstrous—quite abominable, and shall not end here. Your superiors shall hear of your conduct," went on the Chief, hotly.
"They will also hear, and, I think, listen to my version of the story,—that I offered you fairly, and at the first opportunity, all the information I had, and that you refused to accept it."
"You should have persisted. It was your manifest duty. You are an officer of the law, or you say you are."
"Pray telegraph at once, if you think fit, to Rome, to the police authorities, and you will find that Natale Ripaldi—your humble servant—travelled by the through express with their knowledge and authority. And here are my credentials, my official card, some official letters—"
"And what, in a word, have you to tell us?"
"I can tell you who the murdered man was."
"We know that already."
"Possibly; but only his name, I apprehend. I know his profession, his business, his object in travelling, for I was appointed to watch and follow him. That is why I am here."
"Was he a suspicious character, then? A criminal?"
"At any rate he was absconding from Rome, with valuables."
"A thief, in fact?"
The Italian put out the palms of his hands with a gesture of doubt and deprecation.
"Thief is a hard, ugly word. That which he was removing was, or had been, his own property."
"Tut, tut! do be more explicit and get on," interrupted the little Chief, testily.
"I ask nothing better; but if questions are put to me—"
The Judge interposed.
"Give us your story. We can interrogate you afterwards."
"The murdered man is Francis A. Quadling, of the firm of Correse & Quadling, bankers, in the Via Condotti, Rome. It was an old house, once of good, of the highest repute, but of late years it has fallen into difficulties. Its financial soundness was doubted in certain circles, and the Government was warned that a great scandal was imminent. So the matter was handed over to the police, and I was directed to make inquiries, and to keep my eye on this Quadling"—he jerked his thumb towards the platform, where the body