III
The guards were shouting “All aboard.” Siwash turned and sprang into his car, while the skinny man strode towards the exit. Clement picked up his bag and went in the same direction. Gatineau cried softly, “Say, we can’t monkey about; we’ll miss that train.”
“I’m going to,” said Clement grimly. “I want to find out why that fellow is here.”
“But——”
“And I don’t like him being here,” said Clement. “I’m not going to leave anybody here to wait for Miss Reys unless I know the exact why and the wherefore of his waiting.”
Gatineau was by his side now; he was smiling. “Yep, I rather want to look at that paper myself. Say, if you catch hold of this grip I’ll trail that lad. Best be me—he may have recollections of your outline.”
An hour later Gatineau rejoined Clement in the lounge of the hotel. “That’s the sort of job that makes a feller ashamed to draw his pay,” he grinned, as he sat down. “Easy—made me cry, it was so easy!”
“You’ve got that paper?”
“No, sir; I’m not little Xavier miracle worker yet. But I’ve got him located. He’s in a rooming house in the dark areas off Portage Avenue—room 163 is his number. And he hasn’t the slightest fear that evil men like us are here and interested in him. Walked all the way to his dive without so much as a look round.”
“That’s good; that means that Siwash don’t know we’re here either. He’s gone off to Banff and Neuburg without a suspicion. Well, what next?”
“We just go an’ call on our lean friend—he calls himself Jean Renadier, he’s a French-Canadian all right, though he says he comes from Montreal, not Quebec. I’ve got a man there spotting for me already, one of our local men, an’ I’ve arranged with the police to pull him on the Empress of Prague robbery charge—in silence. Shall we go?”
They went. On the way Gatineau told his plan: “I’ve arranged that we tackle him first, so that he don’t have any chance of destroying any paper. Then when we’ve got him, we call in the police. We’ll just walk up to his room, see? I’ll go in an’ you stay outside, because the sight of you might make him do things to his papers. When I’ve got him you can come in. Is that good?”
The spotter outside the rather dingy rooming house told them that Renadier had not left the building. As they went into it, he drew in, ready to help effect the arrest. Walking in boldly, and with a casual, “Renadier—room 163, ain’t he?” from Gatineau, they were able to mount to the man’s room as though they were friends of his. It was high up in the building, and at the dark end of a corridor. Gatineau softly tried the handle, found the door yielded, strode boldly in, shutting the door behind him—for the man must not catch a glimpse of Clement.
He went in, and there was silence.
Clement heard Gatineau say something, and then the silence came down. It was a curious silence, intense, deep—disturbing. It seemed to draw itself out. It became full of significance. Clement pressed close to the door, listened—nothing! What was happening? Why did not Gatineau give some signal? Why should there be this appalling quiet in that room? It was uncanny, it was unreal—it was ugly.
He bent down in a sudden anxiety and put his ear to the keyhole. Nothing! There was no sound from the room. The room was apparently dead, vacant—a tomb.
He put his hand on the door. As he did so, two sounds came from the room, two soft sounds.
One was a soft knock—it might have been the heel of a boot kicking against the carpeted floor. The other was a slow, animal sound, low, guttural, choking.
With a spasm of fear Clement dashed open the door.