He caught sight of the impassive figure by the table with the steady eyes fixed on him and stopped. For a second he stood staring, a curious grey creeping under his tan.
"I'm not alone, Mr. Carter, and even if I were, violence wouldn't help you," said the Chief Inspector, rising to his feet. He knew what that tightened jaw meant. "I have a warrant here for your arrest charging you with the murder of Robert Erskine in London on August 4. Of course, as you know, if you wish it I must call in the French authorities; but the end will be the same. It will save time if you come quietly with me back to England and let me arrest you at Dover. I must warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence against you."
The young man made no reply; his eyes were now fixed on the table. He was evidently thinking hard.
A bead of sweat trickled down his temple.
"A French prison is very uncomfortable, but please yourself." Pointer hoped the young man would take it sensibly.
Carter—to give him the name under which his warrant had been issued—looked around the room. A flash came into his eyes as he caught sight of Mr. Beale bolting the door.
"Pity I didn't kill you when I had the chance!" he spat out between clenched teeth.
Mr. Beale looked pointedly at the police-officer.
"You had better take it quietly. Talk of that kind won't help your case," that official warned, phlegmatically.
Carter sat down.
"May I smoke?"
"A cigarette of mine, or here's my pouch if you'll let me have a look at your pipe first." Pointer looked through the bowl and handed his briar back to Carter, who filled it, and then, hunching his shoulders, puffed away with his feet stuck straight out in front of him, his eyes on his boots. The Chief Inspector looked at him keenly. The man really was engrossed in calculations of some kind. Concentration oozed from him. The police-officer was on the alert. He had seen something like this once before, when a man had been arrested on a capital charge, and the result had been a swift suicide.
"It's a pretty average frowst in here; can the window be opened?"
Pointer flung it open and stood squarely in the opening.
Carter gave a harsh laugh, like a bark.
"Suicide? Me? Not on your life!"
The other did not move away. "Well?" he asked. "Do you want an extradition order?"
"I'll come. Got to. Handcuffs, I suppose?" His voice was suddenly weary.
Pointer did not reply. He never permitted himself to have any emotion towards a prisoner, but he felt sure that O'Connor would have been sorry for the chap in front of him. He cut the strings of the package on the table. Mr. Beale pressed forward.
"Ah, ha! Electrical plant. Something new in the safe-breaking line, eh, Green?"
Carter bared two rows of strong teeth. He did not look pleasant. The Englishman was conscious of an undertone as of a secret duel going on. Was it merely that the Editor had run the criminal to earth, who for so long had evaded justice, and evidently on some occasion tricked him? He looked as keenly at Mr. Beale as at Carter. The Editor's eyes were alight with triumph. Carter watched him dully, looking years older than the young man who had flung the door open. He strolled over to the window, and Pointer tensed himself, but Carter merely shot out a long, thin hand and pulled the curtain across the shut half.
Mr. Beale, with a wonderfully agile spring—all things considered—switched it back.
"No signaling to your accomplices, Green!"
Carter swore at him, and swore strongly.
"Come, come," the Chief Inspector interposed sternly, "none of that! Mr. Beale, may I trouble you to call up my man who's down below; and where would you like me to meet you afterwards?"
Mr. Beale gave a half-shrug.
"Considering that I put the case in your hands, Chief, instead of the French authorities, I think that I'm hardly being treated quite fairly. Surely there can be no objection to my being present at the search of the room. Remember I'm in a very responsible position."
"Quite so, sir, and I'm sure I'm much obliged to you," the other bowed, "but I'm afraid routine work has to be done as routine."
"I shall report what you say to the proper quarter." Mr. Beale spoke very quietly.
For a second Pointer hesitated. The case did owe Mr. Beale a tremendous lot. He had notified the finding of Erskine's dead body. In some equally mysterious way he had found the "wanted" man. But Pointer thought that the American's flair for discoveries betokened some private knowledge which might alter many obscurities if he would speak. So he contented himself with merely bowing.
Mr. Beale shot him one of his steely glances.
"I shall expect you at the depot," he said briefly. "I suppose you are taking the four twenty-five back." He strode off with as much dignity as his short stature allowed. On the whole, the police-officer was rather glad that he was annoyed, as he might be the less likely to notice the French detective to whom Pointer had spoken on his way in to Lille, and who was to follow the Editor's every step.
When the door closed, Carter flung a bunch of keys down on the table. "You've got the grip. I suppose you didn't find in it what you are all looking for? You won't find it in the trunk either." His tone was rough. His whole intonation had changed from that of a well-educated man to something coarser.
Pointer signed to Watts to open the trunk. Leaving him to guard the prisoner, the Chief Inspector himself searched it. One of the first things he picked up was a London telephone directory; after that came a list of Paris bankers. Just the literature to expect from a man of "Green's" reputation. He ran his fingers among the clothes. His practiced tips encountered something in the lining of a coat. He drew it out, made a slit, and, inserting a finger, brought out a long string of pearls with an antique emerald fastening. He laid it beside him without a word. Carter had risen from his chair and was watching intently. When the pearls lay on the table he made a curious gesture with his hands, and, sinking back on to his chair, covered his face, which had turned livid. Pointer went on methodically. Several rings, a diamond necklace, and a jeweled pendant were discovered. Finally the trunk was turned upside down, and on the very bottom he pounced on a twist of newspaper. Inside were a few screws. The two officers examined them closely, then the Chief Inspector took out an envelope and fastened them carefully inside.
"Any explanation you wish to offer, Carter? I have cautioned you already?"
Carter shook his head.
The police finished their work, and in silence, arm in arm, like the best of friends, the three walked to the station in plenty of time to catch the Calais express. Pointer left Mr. Beale and Watts to sit beside Carter in the reserved compartment Mr. Beale had ordered, and went off to have a cup of coffee. A man selling postcards approached him and saluted with an odd little jerk. The Englishman glanced over his wares and picked out two. "Can you put them in an envelope for me?"
"But yes, monsieur, but yes," and the man slipped the cards into one and passed on. Outside the café the Chief Inspector drew out a sheet of thin paper. It was a record of Mr. Beale's movements from the time he left Carter's room. "X went from Rue Sentier to the post. Sent telegram to 'M. Garnier, Notaire, Rue Bizet, Genève': 'Series accepted. Editor.' After that, X lounged the time away till he joined you at the station."
Pointer wired to Geneva for full particulars as to M. Garnier, and took his seat in the train. Carter would be tried first in London for the murder of Erskine, and, if acquitted, would be sent to Canada to stand his trial there for embezzlement and, doubtless, robbery. The young man seemed quite conscious of his position.