The Grand Hôtel du Carillon was an old, quaint looking building looking out over the Place Verte. French, entering, called for a bock in the restaurant, and after he had finished, asked to see the manager. A moment later a small, stout man with a humorous eye appeared, bowed low, and said that he was M. Marquet, the proprietor.
“A word with you in private, M. Marquet,” French requested, when they had exchanged confidences on the weather. “Won’t you take something with me?”
The proprietor signified his willingness in excellent English, and when further drinks had been brought, and French had satisfied himself that they were alone, he went on:
“I am a detective officer from the London police, and I am trying to trace an Englishman called Dangle. I have reason to suppose he stayed at this hotel recently. There is his photograph. Can you help me at all?”
At the name Dangle, M. Marquet had nodded, and when he saw the photograph he beamed and his whole body became affirmation personified. But certainly, he knew M. Dangle. For several weeks—he could not say how many, but he could ascertain from his records—for several weeks M. Dangle had been his guest at intervals. Sometimes he had stayed one night, sometimes two, sometimes three. Yes, he was usually alone, but not always. On three or four occasions he had been accompanied by another gentleman—a tall, well-built, clean-shaven man, and once a third man had come, a short man with a fair mustache. Yes, that was the photograph of the short man, M.—? Yes; Blessington. The other man’s name he could not remember, but it would appear in the register: Sile, Site—something like that. Yes, Sime: that was it. No, he was afraid he knew nothing about these gentlemen or their business, but he would be glad to do everything in his power to assist monsieur.
French, his enthusiasm and delight remaining at fever heat, was suitably grateful. He wished just to ask M. Marquet a few more questions. He would like to know the last occasion on which M. Dangle had stayed.
“Why,” M. Marquet exclaimed, “he just left yesterday. He came here, let me see, on Tuesday night quite late, indeed it was nearly one on Wednesday morning when he arrived. He came, he said, off the English boat train which arrives here about midnight. He stayed here two days—till yesterday, Thursday. He left yesterday shortly after déjeuner.”
“He was alone?”
“Yes, monsieur. This time he was alone.”
French, metaphorically speaking, hugged himself on hearing this news. Through his brilliant work with the torn bill, he had added one more fine achievement to the long list of his successes. He could not but believe that the most doubtful and difficult step of the investigation had now been accomplished. With a trail only twenty four hours old, he should surely be able to put his hands on Dangle with but little delay. Moreover, from the fact that so many visits had been paid to Antwerp it looked as if the secret of the gang was hidden in the city. Greatly reassured, he proceeded to acquire details.