The officer expressed surprise, but the merry chauffeur of the rich American exclaimed: "Don't worry. The Americano is very rich; I only wish there were more of his sort about. He's the great Headon, the meat-canner of Chicago. You see his name on the tins."
The man recognized the name, and at once desisted in his examination.
Then to the two police officers who came to his side, he explained: "The American gentleman inside is an invalid, going to Turin to Professor Landrini. He wants to get off at once, for he has a long journey over the Alps."
The French agent of police grunted suspiciously. Both the French and Italian police are very astute, but money always talks. It is the same at a far-remote frontier station as in any circle of society.
Here was a well-known American--the Customs officer had mentioned the name of Headon, which both police officers recognized--an invalid sent with all haste to the famous surgeon in Turin. It was not likely that he would be carrying contraband, or be an escaping criminal.
Besides, the chauffeur, in full view of the two police agents, slipped a second note into the hand of the Customs officer, and said: "So all is well, isn't it, signori? Just visa my papers, and we'll get along. It looks as though we're to have a bad thunderstorm, and, if so, we shall catch it up on the Col di Tenda!"
Thus impelled, the quartette went back to the well-lit little building, where the beetle-browed driver again chaffed the police-agents, while the Customs officer placed his rubber stamp upon the paper, scribbled his initials and charged three-lire-twenty as fee.
All this was being watched with breathless anxiety by the supposed invalid reclining against the cushion with his crutches at his side.
Again the mysterious chauffeur reappeared, and with him the French police officer in plain clothes.
"We are keeping watch for a young Englishman from Monte Carlo who has shot a woman," remarked the latter.
"Oh! But they arrested him to-night in Mentone," replied the driver. "I heard it half an hour ago as I came through."
"Are you sure?"
"Well, they told me so at the Garage Grimaldi. He shot a woman known as Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo--didn't he?"
"Yes, that's the man! But they have not informed us yet. I'll telephone to Mentone." Then he added: "As a formality I'll just have a peep at your master."
The chauffeur held his breath.
"He's pretty bad, I think. I hope we shall be in Turin early in the morning."
Advancing to the car, the police officer opened the door and flashed his torch upon the occupant.