THE LONGEST CHASE ON RECORD
By Vincent M. Hemming.
Being the strange experience of Detective Albert Brissard, who searched France, England, Belgium, and America for a "wanted" man, finally landing his quarry by accident ten months after the search began and seven and a half years after the crime was committed.
NEVER in the annals of police history has a detective officer been so long engaged in the search for a fugitive from justice as in the case I am about to relate. There have been and are many men "wanted" for whom warrants are held indefinitely, but never before has an officer spent ten entire months with but one aim—to "get his man," and that after an interregnum of more than seven years. On June 3rd, 1900, the Baroness de Martigny, of Paris, took into her employment as footman an intelligent, good-looking young man, who had previously been in the service of General Pellissier, of the French army. The Baroness, the grand-daughter of a famous soldier who had been one of Napoleon's closest friends, lived in a beautiful hotel in the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, and also occupied a villa for the season each year at Nice. Her collection of jewels was the envy of the ladies of the French aristocracy, and she had times without number been offered enormous sums for them by dealers and collectors. Many of the ornaments had once belonged to the Queens of France, and one pearl necklace was even said to have at one time adorned the person of an Egyptian princess famous in history. These jewels were always kept in a leather-covered steel box, made expressly for the purpose. When not deposited at her bankers', this box was in the keeping of a trusted maid, who was in turn guarded by a "valet de pied" at times when the Baroness might have occasion to take her jewels with her when travelling.
In December, 1900, the Baroness, accompanied by two maids and the valet engaged some months before, was to travel to London for a few days' stay in the capital on a visit to friends. She seldom carried all her jewels with her, but on this occasion she did so, as an august personage had expressed a desire to see them. Two servants of the bank, under the eye of a sub-manager, had delivered the morocco-covered box to the Baroness in person, and she in turn gave it over to her maid, Marcelle.
All the luggage had gone on ahead, and the brougham was at the door to take the Baroness to the Gare St. Lazare Station, when the maid, Marcelle, came running into the lady's presence and attempted to speak. Her tongue refused to move, however, and there the girl stood, her eyes almost out of her head, shivering from head to foot. When at last she gained control of herself she stammered, "Madame—the jewel-case—it is gone!"
The Baroness tried to get the girl into a rational frame of mind, saying the box could not have been removed from the house; Marcelle must have placed it somewhere else than in its accustomed place. No; the girl was positive she had put the treasure-box on milady's dressing-table just for a moment while she had gone for her hat and coat. When she returned the case was gone!
Orders were at once given to lock the doors, and all the servants were called together and questioned, but no one knew anything at all about the matter. Had anyone entered the house? Had anyone left it? Only Henri, milady's valet. He was at the door with the brougham. "Let him be called," ordered the Baroness. One of the servants went to the door. The brougham was there, as was also the coachman, but Henri was nowhere to be seen.
"Henri has gone to the station," said the coachman. "Yes, he had a leather bag or box with him." This information was duly transmitted to the Baroness.
"Very unusual for him to do such a thing," she commented; "but perhaps he was anxious about the jewels."
Thereupon the trustful lady sent them all about their business, got into her brougham, and was driven to the station. But where was Henri? Well, to cut a long story short, Henri had not gone to the station, and the noble lady, now disillusioned, at once postponed her London journey, and set the machinery of the law in motion to discover the young man who had ten thousand pounds' worth of jewels and five hundred pounds in cash in his possession. No sooner were the police notified than the criminal quarters of Paris were literally "turned inside out." The Baroness de Martigny was not only a lady of great prominence and influence, but she offered enormous rewards for the recovery of her property. The intrinsic value of the jewels was a secondary consideration, their romantic associations and the fact of their having been family heirlooms making them priceless in the lady's eyes. Every possible loophole of escape was watched, and Herculean efforts were made by the police; but for the moment the thief had made good his escape, leaving no clue behind him, and three long weeks elapsed before anything tangible manifested itself. Then, one morning the bell rang at the Baroness's house in the Bois de Boulogne, and a gentleman presented himself, asking that his card should be taken to the Baroness. It read, "Monsieur Albert Brissard—Agent." The caller was asked to state his business, and answered by saying, simply, "Henri Dessaure." This gained him the desired audience, and half an hour later M. Brissard left the house, having induced the loser of the steel box and its precious contents to place the whole matter unreservedly in his hands.
"MADAME—THE JEWEL-CASE—IT IS GONE!"
M. Brissard, who was known among his intimates as "The Ferret," had left the French detective service some time previously and started an inquiry agency of his own. In starting work upon this jewel-case he followed the idea usually worked on by detectives in such cases, at least on the Continent—"Look for the woman," and succeeded where several other officers, working on the case officially, had hitherto failed. He found the woman.
In the Rue de Mesrominil there was a little brasserie, or public-house, much frequented by servants of the upper class. This place was owned by a man named Edouard Morant, whose daughter, a girl of eighteen, had been the sweetheart of Henri Dessaure, the absconding footman. This girl, learning that Dessaure had been false to her, made it her business to find out who had supplanted her in the affections of her sweetheart, and discovered that Dessaure had been seen very often in the company of a dancing-girl from the Bal Boullier, and also that this girl had left Paris only a few days ago, having purchased a second-class ticket to New York. She further ascertained that the girl had been somewhat in debt, but that shortly before leaving she had discharged her obligations, and also purchased a large amount of clothes and finery. All this the jealous Mlle. Morant told M. Brissard. It was now Saturday, and the dancing-girl had sailed for America on Wednesday. M. Brissard at once communicated with the American police, and when the French Line steamer La Touraine arrived at New York a certain young lady, a second-cabin passenger, was closely followed when she left the ship. No one was at the docks to meet her, but after her luggage had passed the Customs inspection she engaged an express wagon to convey her trunks and bags to an address in First Avenue, near Twelfth Street, giving the address to the driver from a card on which it had been written, no doubt for her guidance. One detective followed the luggage, while a second kept his eye on the girl. Calling a cab, she again showed the card and was driven off, followed by Officer O'Brien, whose colleague, Kernohan, remained with the express wagon. Arrived at her destination, the girl, looking up to make sure of the number, ascended the stairs of a four-storey brick building, the ground floor of which was occupied by a small French restaurant. The cab waited, and shortly a young man came down, who proceeded to pay the driver. The young man exactly answered the description sent over from Paris of the missing Henri Dessaure!
After paying the cab fare he returned into the house, while Officer O'Brien called a policeman and instructed him to telephone to head-quarters. So it happened that just about the time Detective Kernohan appeared with the express-man, a third detective arrived on the scene with a provisional warrant, granted by the magistrate at Jefferson Market police-court, for the arrest of Dessaure on suspicion of being a fugitive from justice.
The express-man proceeded to unload his wagon, having first rung the door-bell, and once again the young man who bore so striking a resemblance to the Baroness de Martigny's late valet came to the door. This time he was confronted by two officers, who promptly informed him that he was under arrest.
"We believe you to be Henri Dessaure, late of Paris," said Detective O'Brien.
The accused turned pale, then, pulling himself together, answered in French (in which tongue the detective had addressed him), "That is my name. It is no use my trying to deny it. Surely you have something to work upon, or you would not be here."
The officers next searched the rooms occupied by Dessaure, but found only some fifteen hundred dollars in American money and a few French franc pieces.
"Come," said Officer Kernohan, "you may as well give up the jewellery. It will save you much unpleasantness."
"I know of no jewellery," replied Dessaure. "I have come to America to be married; I have done no wrong."
Seeing that the man could not be induced to speak he was taken to police head-quarters, and the next morning, having been formally charged with being "wanted" by the French authorities, he was remanded and the French police notified. Ten days later two detectives from Paris arrived with a servant from the household of the Baroness for the purpose of identifying the prisoner. This accomplished, his extradition was asked for. Dessaure protested his innocence, and it is quite likely would have succeeded in resisting successfully, had not for a second time a woman proved his undoing. The detectives arrested the dancing-girl as an accomplice, and she at once turned informer, saying that Dessaure had told her in Paris that he had safely stored away "enough jewels to give us every comfort for life." Believing him, she had come to America, Dessaure having given her two thousand five hundred francs for that purpose, and to purchase some necessary things. Confronted with this statement, the ex-footman assumed an air of bravado, saying, "You have got me, but you'll never get what it took me many hours of thought to annex. Now let us see just how clever you are."
Dessaure returned to Paris some days later in the company of the French officers, the girl having been released. Once in the French capital, he was lodged in the Santé Prison to await his trial, and meanwhile every effort was made to get some clue as to the whereabouts of the steel box and its contents; but the police could make no impression on Dessaure, who absolutely refused to speak. Promises and threats were alike useless, and finally he was brought to trial. The newspaper notoriety given to the matter had completely turned the ex-valet's head, and he imagined himself a hero. He entered the court-room with a smiling face and answered questions in a most flippant manner. Even at this late stage the Baroness de Martigny offered to withdraw the prosecution—at least, so far as she was concerned—if he would divulge the hiding-place of the gems. But Dessaure merely folded his arms and said: "Whatever happens, you cannot kill me. You were clever enough to capture me; now find the jewels."
Evidence was given by a housemaid who had seen the footman in milady's rooms and the coachman who had noticed him leave the house with the morocco-covered box in his hand, carrying it openly by the handle as though sent out with it. It was also proved that Dessaure had changed a thousand-franc note at the little brasserie in the Rue Mesrominil on the evening of the day of the robbery; and, lastly, Detective Brissard came forward with a small antique necklet—the property of the Baroness—which Dessaure had given to the daughter of the brasserie keeper. On this evidence Dessaure was found guilty and sentenced to seven years' imprisonment, the judge remarking that on his release, no doubt, such a close watch would be kept on his movements that a further charge would be made should the prisoner at any time be found in possession of the stolen jewels.
The prisoner took his sentence most coolly, and, as the officers were leading him away, turned towards the persons in the court-room and, bowing low, said, "Until then, gentlemen, au revoir!"
For some months Dessaure was left to serve his sentence in peace, the detectives believing that a taste of prison life might have a salutary effect on him, or at least induce him to confess where the stolen jewels were. True, no promises could be made to him, but at the same time it certainly would not add to his sentence should he divulge the hiding-place of the Baroness de Martigny's jewels. Detective Brissard had several long talks with the convict, but they all ended in the same way, Dessaure saying, "I will serve my sentence and then enjoy what I have earned; you will not catch me a second time."
Spite of this uncompromising attitude the detective worked assiduously, doing his utmost to locate the jewels, the hiding-place of which one man alone knew. Finally, however, M. Brissard was obliged to consider the case closed, for the time being, and gave his attention to other matters.
So time went on, until Dessaure had but a few months more to serve. Then one day he wrote a letter, in which he asked the person to whom it was addressed, for old times' sake, to supply him with a new suit of clothes and other articles of wearing apparel, saying he would repay the kindness a hundredfold. This letter came back to the prison, the addressee—Mlle. Morant, daughter of the brasserie keeper—having removed several years back. This upset Dessaure greatly, and he asked and received permission to write another letter, which was addressed to the girl's father. Again the letter came back, marked as before. Dessaure's excitement was now great; he cursed and cried in turn. The warders reported that he did not sleep at night, and ate scarcely any food.
At last came the morning of his release. The liberated man left the prison almost a wreck from mental anguish. He was met at the gates by an aged aunt, who gave him a few francs and took him home with her to her house in the environs of Paris. Dessaure could not be induced to eat, and he would not sit down quietly, but walked about the small house, gazing continually out of the window. No sooner was it dark than he left the place, looked quickly about him, then hurried to the nearest point whence he could get an omnibus cityward. Mounting to the top of the vehicle, he looked about him every few moments to see if he was being followed. He left the bus at the Madeleine; then, cutting through the back streets, made his way to the Rue de Mesrominil. He walked on the right-hand side of the street until he came to the place where the brasserie of M. Morant had been located. Yes, there was still a business of the same kind there, but the place had changed hands.
Dessaure crossed the street and entered the little wine-shop, the floors above which were rented out to lodgers, as formerly. In the basement was a long room used as a dining-room for the guests of the house; behind this was a kitchen, and to the left, at the end of a short passage, a small yard which was used to store empty casks and bottles. Dessaure called for a drink and ordered some food; then, as though an old customer thoroughly familiar with the place, he deliberately went down into the basement. The cook had received Dessaure's order, and the latter stood in the doorway chatting to her. After a moment or two he slowly walked through the passage and stood in the yard whistling. The cook was busy getting his meal ready and offered no objection to his proceedings. One stealthy backward glance, and Dessaure swiftly crossed the yard. Taking a short iron bar, flattened at one end, from his pocket, he pushed it deeply into the ground exactly in the corner of the yard, next a brick wall. Again and again he did this; then, in a frenzy, he tore up the earth to a depth of two feet, but nothing rewarded his efforts. Jumping to his feet, shaking with rage, he shrieked out, "All for nothing! All for nothing!" Then, like a wild man, he rushed up the steps and out of the place, knocking over a waiter in his headlong flight.
The half-crazed man made his way to the Seine embankment, where he walked up and down, trying in vain to think calmly. When he left the Baroness de Martigny's house with the stolen jewel-case he had made direct for the brasserie in the Rue de Mesrominil, in accordance with a plan he had thought out. He hid the jewel-case as much as possible under his long servant's coat, and, after having a drink, went down into the yard described and buried the jewels with the aid of a shovel he had previously placed there in readiness. Then, covering the case over, he stamped the ground down solidly, threw some earth and stones on the spot, and returned upstairs. Dessaure, however, as transpired later, had not taken the precaution to ascertain whether anyone was watching him from the windows overlooking the yard. It was obvious to him now that someone must have seen him bury the gems, or else have discovered them subsequently. And now they were for ever lost to him! Covering his face with his hands, the heart-broken man repeated to himself the words, "All for nothing! All for nothing!" Suddenly he pulled himself together, and, walking toward the embankment balustrade, stood there for a moment gazing hesitatingly into the waters of the Seine. Then a hand was placed on his shoulder, and a voice said:—
"Don't do it, Dessaure! Life is all too short in any case."
The startled man wheeled round, to behold Detective Brissard at his elbow! Dessaure was about to speak, when the officer anticipated him.
"I have watched you ever since your release this morning," he said. "Come, don't be a fool. We will go to my place and have a talk."
Dessaure, unnerved by the loss of the jewels, for the sake of which he had served those long years of imprisonment, was as a child in the hands of the shrewd Brissard, and very soon the two men were talking the matter over in Brissard's rooms. Dessaure now told the entire story of how he had stolen the jewels, and the detective in turn informed him that the large reward offered for their recovery was still open, and that, if Dessaure cared to assist him, they might yet obtain possession of them and return them to their owner. The ex-valet, eager to obtain revenge against the unknown who had annexed "his" property, readily agreed. So the curious situation arose of "setting a thief to catch a thief."
Next morning Detective Brissard made diligent inquiries as to the movements of the Morant family, and these inquiries led to what developed into the longest chase on record. Just one year after Dessaure's conviction, it appeared, the former wine-shop proprietor had sold his business in the Rue de Mesrominil and removed with his wife and daughter to London, where he opened a restaurant in Greek Street, Soho, but, curiously enough, under another name. He had been in business there for some months, when one day a former customer at the Paris wine-shop entered and recognised M. "Martin," the proprietor, as Morant. He thought nothing of this, as people often change their names for business purposes when in other countries. But what did strike the customer was the fact that Mme. "Martin" was wearing a pair of earrings of very great value. Now where did Morant, who had owned only a third-class wine-shop in Paris, get possession of jewels worth at least several thousand pounds—for madame wore also several costly rings and a brooch? The customer jocularly remarked that M. "Martin" must have "backed a winner." The latter, instead on answering in like manner, turned pale, and gruffly told his former patron to mind his own business. Within three days the little restaurant in Greek Street had changed hands, and the "Martin" family disappeared.
"HE RUSHED OUT OF THE PLACE, KNOCKING OVER A WAITER IN HIS HEADLONG FLIGHT."
All this Detective Brissard learnt by judicious inquiries in Soho, London. Then the search for M. Morant began in real earnest. Dessaure made friends with many of the French people in this part of London, ever seeking information. The owner of the restaurant formerly run by "Martin" was not the man who had purchased the place from him. His predecessor, however, was, and could be found at an address in Brussels. To this city Detective Brissard now went, leaving Dessaure in London. Yes; the Belgian knew where M. "Martin" had gone, for a trunk was left behind which he had sent to a house in Houston Street, New York City, U.S.A. Also, the daughter of M. "Martin" was living, he believed, in Brussels, she having married a travelling jeweller.
Brissard cabled to America, and received an answer from the American police to the effect that the address given was the office of a transfer company, and they were looking over the books to see what disposal had been made of the trunk. Brissard next began a search for the former Mlle. Morant in Brussels. As, however, there were some hundreds of jewellers in that city, this was no small undertaking. Successful detectives often admit that "luck" is a potent factor in their work, and the French detective now experienced a little good fortune. The various cities prominent as diamond markets are possessed of clubs at which congregate buyers and sellers of precious stones, and which also serve the purpose of a market where the members do business among themselves. With the assistance of a Belgian official, Brissard was introduced into such a club in Brussels, and here he learnt that a young Belgian—not a member, but a good judge of stones—had married a French girl named Martin. The fact was remembered because the young man had, shortly after his marriage, become possessed of several uncommonly valuable emeralds and diamonds. This man's address was given to M. Brissard, who at once called there—first, however, changing his appearance as a measure of precaution.
The jeweller was not at home, he learnt; he was in Amsterdam, but was returning on the morrow. M. Brissard, posing as a brother jeweller, said he would call again. The lady of the house now came forward, and asked if there was anything she could do. One glance was enough for the detective—she was the daughter of the man Brissard was searching for! But he still was a long way from M. Morant himself, as after events proved.
Calling the next day in company with a Belgian detective officer, M. Brissard was ushered in and presently the jeweller came into the room. The detective briefly made known his business, informing the jeweller that it rested with him whether he would be arrested or not, for it was known that some of the stolen jewels had been in his keeping. Thereupon the man told a most straightforward story to the following effect.
He had been to London on business, and took his meals as usual in the locality frequented by his compatriots, dining at "Martin's." There he met his present wife, they fell in love with each other, and he was accepted as a prospective son-in-law. Being an authority on the value of precious stones, M. "Martin" confided to him that an aged sister had left him a few heirlooms, her husband having been a wealthy man. Would his future son-in-law appraise them? He had done so, greatly surprised at their value and size, and had further, shortly after his marriage, undertaken to sell several unset stones for his father-in-law. His wife was absolutely ignorant of all this, and not until that moment did he know that her real name was other than Martin.
The young woman was called and questioned, and it soon became evident that she knew nothing of her father's affairs. He had changed his name and impressed upon her that under no circumstances must she use the name of Morant, and thus she had been led to deceive even her husband. The gems given him for disposal, the jeweller added, had been sold in Amsterdam to a buyer there, a Mr. H. Van Kloof, for twenty thousand francs (eight hundred pounds). He had not heard from his father-in-law for two years, his last address being in Second Avenue, New York City. M. Brissard, convinced of the truth of this story, took his leave, after having given certain instructions to the Belgian detectives.
On his return to his hotel he found the following cablegram awaiting him: "Trunk forwarded Martin, Second Avenue; receipt signed 'Mrs. Martin.'"
Brissard now communicated with the American authorities, only to learn that no such person as Martin had resided at the number in Second Avenue in the memory of the present tenant, the place being a French boarding-house.
The detective now returned to London, where Dessaure met him, frantically excited. He had found a countryman who had seen Morant in New York, where he held the position of chef at a prominent and fashionable hotel. This was only six months ago, but the man could not remember the name of the hotel, having lost or mislaid the card Morant had given him. One thing he did remember, however—Morant was going under the name of "Melin."
M. Brissard, believing that Morant was still in New York and that he could expedite matters by going there himself, promptly took passage with Dessaure. It struck him as peculiar that a man who was in possession, or had been in possession, of what was practically a small fortune should seek employment; but the officer did not know, perhaps, that the position of chef in a large hotel is a most lucrative one. The two searchers arrived in due course in New York and rooms were taken in the French quarter of the city, both men posing as wine merchants. Dessaure, who had been in America before, took rooms in a house much frequented by cooks, while Brissard lived in a small French hotel near by. For several weeks the two worked with untiring energy, making careful inquiries. Brissard himself visited every hotel of prominence in New York and Brooklyn, inquiring there of the hotel detectives for a M. Melin, and being quietly taken into the kitchen to look over the various staffs. Not until three long months had passed, however, did they come upon even the semblance of a clue. Then, one evening, as M. Brissard and Dessaure were sitting at a small table in the bar-room of Brissard's hotel, there entered a young man whom the detective knew. He had at one time been a pastry-cook in the household of a French diplomat, and had been an habitué of Morant's wine-shop in Paris. Greetings were exchanged, and after some conversation Brissard casually remarked, "I wonder what became of old Morant?"
The young Frenchman looked up sharply. "It's strange that you should speak of him," he said. "Only two weeks ago he took rooms at the house where I am living. It happened that I was going out just as he came in. I greeted him, but he refused to recognise me, and, stranger still, after paying a month's rent in advance he never came near the house again."
Here, at last, was something to work on—Morant was still in New York. Brissard now began what was practically a house-to-house search, for every place patronized by foreigners was visited, the detective taking one district and Dessaure another. It was tedious work, but Morant was somewhere in New York and Brissard meant to find him, his assistant being perhaps even more eager than himself. For two more weeks the pair searched for many hours each day; but it was Dessaure who got the first tangible evidence as to Morant's whereabouts, and this was in the identical house where Dessaure had lived on his first visit to America some years before! Dessaure himself had quite forgotten this, and when the ring of the bell was answered by a maid, he politely asked if "M. Melin" was living there.
"No one of that name is known here," was the answer. Dessaure, as usual, then produced a photograph of Morant.
"Ah," said the girl; "that is M. Martin, who has been here some four weeks. He and madame left only yesterday. They are returning to France."
Dessaure at once looked up Brissard and told him of his discovery. Together they returned to the house, and Brissard succeeded in gaining admittance to the rooms only just vacated by the Morants, where every scrap of paper in the rooms and wardrobe was carefully collected. Brissard had an interview with the proprietor of the place, and then hurried to police headquarters, from where men were sent to the different steamship offices to look over the bookings. The French authorities were notified, and the ships which had sailed the day before and on that day were communicated with by wireless telegraphy.
Meanwhile, Brissard had found the expressman who had removed Morant's belongings, taking them to the docks of the French line of steamers labelled for the ship sailing on the following day. This was getting close. With the assistance of the American police it was now ascertained that the luggage and its owners were booked under the name of "Martin," and a man was detailed to watch the trunks in case M. "Martin" changed his mind about sailing. Next morning, M. Brissard, Dessaure, and two American detectives, armed with a provisional warrant, awaited the appearance of the much-wanted man. The ship was to sail at noon, and shortly after ten a well-dressed woman walked slowly into the receiving dock and inquired the way to that portion of the pier where was located the letter "M" (all luggage being collected under the initial of its owner). She was directed some distance ahead, and, arriving at the location, inspected some of the luggage.
Evidently satisfied that everything belonging to her was there, she slowly walked away and out of the dock, apparently not caring to board the ship so early.
Detective Brissard watched this woman closely, but not quite closely enough. It was Mme. Morant, and she had seen him and recognised him, having been sent by her husband to see if the coast seemed clear for their flight. On reaching the street she took a handkerchief from a bag hanging at her waist and passed it across her face, an action which M. Morant observed from the window of a restaurant opposite, where he was anxiously watching. Brissard, not knowing he had been recognised, or that Morant had heard of the inquiries being made about him, followed Mme. Morant to the Elevated Railway. As she had still some two hours before sailing-time the detective naturally supposed she was going to meet her husband.
Mme. Morant left the train at Forty-Second Street, and made her way to the Grand Central Railway Station. There she turned round suddenly, as if looking for someone, and the detective instinctively felt that the woman knew she was being followed. Throwing discretion to the winds, Brissard now deliberately approached, and, raising his hat, said:—
"Good morning, Mme. Morant."
The woman smiled sweetly. "I seem to know your face," she replied, "but for the life of me I cannot recall your name."
"I will assist you, madame," said the officer. "I am M. Brissard, of Paris, detective agent."
Without showing the least perturbation, Mine. Morant held out her hand. "Ah, yes," she replied. "It is so long since I have been in Paris; I had forgotten. How do you do?"
M. Brissard assured the lady he was enjoying the best of health, and in turn asked after madame's husband.
"Ah, poor Morant!" was the answer. "He has been dead some years; I have married again."
Brissard sympathized with her. He was extremely sorry to trouble her, he said, but a certain event in the life of the late M. Morant was being looked into by the police, and he, Brissard, was afraid that madame would have to accompany him—simply to answer a few questions. The woman kept remarkably cool, only the pallor of her face giving evidence of the emotion she was trying so hard to control.
"Certainly I will go," was her reply. "Only you must excuse me for a moment."
M. Brissard gently pointed out that this was impossible, a cab was called, and Mme. Morant was driven to police head-quarters. Now, American police methods may be somewhat strenuous, but in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred they are successful. American officers brook no nonsense, treating criminals as they should be treated, and it must be admitted they seldom make mistakes. Madame was at once searched by a female attendant, and then she was asked a few questions by a detective inspector.
The "strenuous method" bore good results, for the Frenchwoman admitted that Morant was very much alive. When it came to divulging his whereabouts, however, she remained adamant. The trunks were now brought up from the docks and searched, but absolutely nothing was found in any way bearing on the missing jewels. Madame herself wore three very fine rings and a bar brooch containing two large diamonds, but all these were in modern settings, and, if they were part of the Martigny jewels, had been reset. But, careful as she and her husband had evidently been, they had not been quite careful enough, for madame was wearing a small watch encrusted with pearls, on the inside of which was inscribed, "12 Avril, 1877. C. J. de M."
This was evidence absolute, but Mme. Morant now resolutely refused to say another word, and the search for the erstwhile keeper of the little wine-shop in Paris had to be renewed. Meanwhile legal machinery was set in motion which resulted in Mme. Morant being extradited as an accessory, and shortly she was taken back to Paris in custody. Brissard and Dessaure were now assisted in their man-hunt by the authorities, and again several weeks went by uneventfully. Then M. Brissard heard from Brussels to the effect that Morant's daughter had gone to Paris to visit her mother, and also that she had paid several visits to Ostend. Following immediately on this came word to Dessaure that Morant had been seen in London and also in Ostend. Then came another piece of conclusive evidence. A man named O'Keefe, who travelled to and from Tilbury Docks in charge of cattle, was arrested in New York for creating a disturbance while under the influence of liquor. On him was found a valuable unset emerald. O'Keefe admitted stealing the jewel from a man who had worked his passage over on a cattle-boat, saying the stone had been dropped by this man. He, O'Keefe, had picked it up and kept it. He described the man, and beyond question it was Morant. Brissard and Dessaure at once crossed the Channel and looked up Dessaure's informant in London. The latter told them he had seen the wanted man in a restaurant, where he received a letter addressed to him. The proprietor of the eating-house, on being questioned, remembered the letter, and also that it bore a Belgian stamp. Furthermore, he said Morant had looked up the time of the boat-trains, and he was certain that he had gone to Ostend. Thither the searchers now went, and one of the first persons they saw after arriving was M. Morant's daughter. She was taking the train for Brussels, and M. Brissard at once went up to her. "Madame," he said, "you will at once tell me where your father is, or I must have you arrested."
The young woman staggered and would have fallen had not the detective assisted her. "Believe me, I do not know," she answered, piteously. "My mother sent me here with a message. I was to meet my father at the station. I have been here all day and have not seen him, so am returning."
Brissard hurriedly spoke to Dessaure, and then boarded the train which carried the young woman to Brussels. Dessaure now wore a full beard, and was not recognised by his former sweetheart. He went to a small hotel and had some food, then returned, as he had been told to do, to the railway station, to await word from M. Brissard at the telegraph office.
At a late hour this arrived, telling Dessaure to go on to Paris at once. This he did, meeting the detective the next day at the latter's rooms. Brissard seemed in very good spirits. "Our man is here in Paris," he said; "he is human, and has followed his wife. The son-in-law is an honourable fellow, and, although he has helped his father-in-law, is desirous of putting an end to all this. He will induce Morant to give himself up. I have every faith in him."
"But what about the reward?" asked Dessaure.
"We will see to that," replied the detective, confidently.
At nine o'clock the two men walked down the boulevards to the Montmartre district. Arriving in the vicinity of a wine-shop there, M. Brissard stationed himself directly opposite. Dessaure did not quite understand all this, nevertheless he did as he was told. Looking up casually toward a cross street, he saw approaching on the opposite side a man whom he thought he recognised. The man wore a light overcoat and a straw hat, and seemed to be looking for someone. With a cry Dessaure, unable to restrain himself, rushed across the street, and grasping the man by the throat struck him repeatedly in the face. It was the long-sought Morant! The men were separated by Morant's son-in-law, who had been waiting for him, and who upbraided M. Brissard for being there. He said he had given his word that he would bring Morant to the police, and that Brissard had broken faith with him.
"You are quite welcome to carry out your agreement," replied the detective. "All I want is the jewels this man has in his possession, and I thought it advisable to get them in case—well, in case he decided to leave them elsewhere before giving himself up."
The four men now proceeded to the Prefecture of Police, where Morant, on being searched, was discovered to have on his person more than half of the twice-stolen jewels.
He now told his story. How his wife, sitting at a third-storey window, drying her hair after a shampoo, had been an interested spectator of Dessaure's manœuvres in burying the box, and after his departure had informed her husband. Morant had promptly dug the case up and, on discovering what it contained, at first intended to hand it over to the police. Then greed overcame him, and, despite the protestations of his wife, he decided to keep them. He narrated how he reburied the jewels in another spot, in case Dessaure should divulge their original hiding-place to the police, and how he waited for some months alter Dessaure's conviction before selling his café. Then he departed for London and opened a restaurant there. He knew the detectives in America were searching for him, he said, and so took a situation as chef in another name. The jewels had proved a curse to him throughout. Morant's story was listened to by the Prefect, and he was then placed under arrest as an "accessory after the fact."
He was tried some weeks later, convicted, and sent to prison for a term of three years. His nerves had been completely shattered by his long ordeal, however, and five weeks after his reception at the Santé Morant died in the prison hospital.
"GRASPING THE MAN BY THE THROAT, HE STRUCK HIM REPEATEDLY IN THE FACE."