The Cheyne mystery

by Freeman Wills Crofts

But heroics were all very well: what, in point of fact was he to do? He sat considering the problem for an hour, and at the end of that time he had decided to go to Brussels, borrow or buy a Belgian hotel guide, and go through it page by page until he found what he wanted. If none of the hotels given suited, he would go on to Paris and try a similar experiment.

This decision he reached only after long consideration, not because it was not obvious—it had instantly occurred to him—but because he was convinced that the methods he had already tried had completely covered the ground. He had proved that there was no hotel whose name ended in . . . lon in a fair-sized town whose name ended in . . . s in all the district in question, other than the Grand Hôtel du Sablon at Bruges. There still remained, however, the chance that it might be a southern French or Swiss hotel, and he saw that he would have to make sure of this before returning to London.

Still buried in thought, he walked slowly back to the station to look up trains to Brussels. The fact that he was in the most interesting town in Belgium no longer stirred his pulse. His disappointment and anxiety about his case drove all irrelevant matters from his mind, and he felt that all he wanted now was to be at work again to retrieve his error.

He reached the station, and began searching the huge timetable boards for the train he wanted. He was interested to notice that the tables were published in two languages, French and what he thought at first was Dutch, but concluded later must be Flemish. Idly he compared the different spelling of the names of the towns. Brugge and Bruges, Gent and Gand, Brussel and Bruxelles, Oostende and Ostende, and then suddenly he came up as it were all standing, and a sudden wave of excitement passed over him as he stood regarding another pair of names. Antwerpen and Anvers! Anvers! A six lettered town ending in s! He cursed himself for his stupidity. He had always thought of the place as Antwerp, but he ought to have known its French name. Anvers! Once more he was alert and full of eager optimism. Had he got it at last?

He passed through on to the platform, and making for a door headed “Chef de Gare,” asked for the stationmaster. There, after a moment’s delay, he was shown into the presence of an imposing individual in gold lace, who, however, was not too important to listen to him carefully and reply courteously in somewhat halting English. Monsieur wished to know if there was an hotel whose name ended in . . . lon in Antwerp? He could not recall one off hand, but he would look up the advertisements in his guides and tourist programs. Ah, what was this? The Grand Hôtel du Carillon. Was that what monsieur required?

A name of twenty letters—which would exactly fill the space on the receipt stamp! It certainly was what monsieur required! The very idea raised monsieur to an exalted pitch of delighted enthusiasm. The stationmaster was gratified at the reception of his information.

“I haf been at the ’otel myself,” he volunteered. “It is small, but vair’ goot. It is in the Place Verte, near to the Cathedral. Does monsieur know Antwerp?”

Monsieur did not, but he expressed the pleasure it would give him to make its acquaintance, and thanking the polite official he returned to the timetables to look up the trains thither.

His most direct way, it appeared, was through Ghent and Termonde, but on working out the services he found he could get quicker trains via Brussels. He therefore booked by that route, and at 11:51 he climbed into a great through express from Ostend to Brussels, Aix-la-Chapelle, Strasbourg, and, it seemed to him, the whole of the rest of Europe. An hour and a half’s run brought him into Brussels-Nord, and from there he wandered out into the Place Rogier for lunch. Then returning to the station he took an express for Antwerp, arriving in the central terminus of that city a few minutes after three o’clock.

He had bought a map of Antwerp at a bookstall in Brussels, from which he had learned that the Place Verte was nearly a mile away in the direction of the river. His traveling impedimenta consisting of a handbag only, he determined to walk, and emerging from the great marble hall of the station, he passed down the busy Avenue de Keyser, and along the Place de Meir into the older part of the town. As he walked he was immensely impressed by the fine wide streets, the ornate buildings, and the excellence of the shops. Everywhere were evidences of wealth and prosperity, and as he turned into the Place Verte, and looked across at the huge bulk of the Cathedral with its soaring spire, he felt that here was an artistic treasure of which any city might well be proud.