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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75488 ***


The Purple Sickle Murders

by Freeman Wills Crofts

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, in arrangement with Harper Brothers
Copyright, 1929, by Freeman Wills Crofts



CONTENTS

     I. The Purple Sickle
    II. French Makes an Assignation
   III. The Inquest
    IV. French Makes a Start
     V. Lee-on-the-Solent
    VI. The Supreme Appeal Court
   VII. Fair Passengers
  VIII. The Grey Car’s Round
    IX. French Makes a Second Assignation
     X. Mr. Cracksman French
    XI. The Happy Paterfamilias
   XII. The Car’s Freight
  XIII. The Transport of Supplies
   XIV. The Property Adjoining
    XV. Mr. Cullimore Expounds
   XVI. In the Net
  XVII. The Shadows Loom Nearer
 XVIII. When Greek Meets Greek
   XIX. Conclusion



CHAPTER I

The Purple Sickle

Inspector Joseph French, of the Criminal Investigation Department of
New Scotland Yard, sat writing in his room in the great building on
Victoria Embankment. Before him on his desk lay sheet after sheet of
memorandum paper covered with his small, neat writing, and his pen
travelled so steadily over the paper that an observer might have
imagined that he had given up the detection of crime and taken instead
to journalism.

He was on a commonplace job, making a _précis_ of the life history of
an extremely commonplace burglar. But though he didn’t know it, Fate,
weighty with the issues of life and death, was even then knocking at
his door.

Its summons was prosaic enough, a ring on his telephone. As he picked
up the receiver he little thought that that simple action was to be
his introduction to a drama of terrible and dastardly crime, indeed
one of the most terrible and dastardly crimes with which he had ever
had to do.

“That Inspector French?” he heard. “Arrowsmith speaking—Arrowsmith of
Lincoln’s Inn.”

A criminal lawyer with a large practice, Mr. Arrowsmith was well known
in the courts. He and French were on friendly terms, having had
tussles over the fate of many an evildoer.

“Yes, Mr. Arrowsmith. I’m French.”

“I’ve a young lady here,” Mr. Arrowsmith went on, “who has just
pitched me a yarn which should interest you. She has got into the
clutches of a scoundrel who’s clearly up to no good. I don’t know what
he’s after, but it looks mighty like a scheme of systematic theft. I
thought you might like to lay a trap and take him redhanded.”

“Nothing would please me better,” French returned promptly. “Shall I
go across to your office?”

“No, it’s not necessary. I’ll send the girl to the Yard. Thurza Darke
is her name. She’ll be with you in half an hour.”

“Splendid! I’ll see her directly she comes. And many thanks for your
hint.”

Though he spoke cordially, French was not impressed by the message.
Communications purporting to disclose clues to crimes were received at
the Yard every day. As a matter of principle all were investigated,
but not one in a hundred led to anything. When therefore some half
hour later Miss Darke was announced, French greeted her courteously,
but without enthusiasm.

She was a pretty blonde of about five and twenty, with a good manner
and something of a presence. Well but plainly dressed in some light
summery material, she looked what she evidently was, an ordinary,
pleasant, healthy young woman of the lower middle classes. French put
her down as a typist or shopgirl or perhaps a bookkeeper in some small
establishment. In one point only did she seem abnormal. She was
evidently acutely nervous. There was panic in her eyes, tiny drops of
perspiration stood on her face, and the hand in which she grasped her
vanity bag trembled visibly.

“Good morning, Miss Darke,” said French, rising as she entered and
pulling forward a chair. “Won’t you sit down?” He gave her a keen
glance and went on: “Now, if you’ll excuse me for two or three minutes
I’ll be quite at your service.”

He busied himself again with his papers. If her nervousness were due
to her surroundings she must be allowed time to pull herself together.

“Ready at last,” he went on with his pleasant smile. “Just take your
time and tell me your trouble in your own way and it’ll be a strange
thing if between us all we’ll not be able to help you out.”

The girl looked at him gratefully and with some surprise. Evidently
she had expected a different kind of reception. French noted the
glance with satisfaction. To gain the confidence of those with whom he
had to deal was his invariable aim, not only because he valued
pleasant and friendly relations for their own sake, but because he
felt that in such an atmosphere he was likely to get more valuable
details than if his informant was frightened or distrustful.

“So you know Mr. Arrowsmith?” he prompted, as she seemed to have a
difficulty in starting. “A good sort, isn’t he?”

“He seems so indeed, Mr. French,” she answered with a suggestion of
Lancashire in her accent. “But I really can’t say that I know him. I
met him this morning for the first time.”

“How was that? Did you go to consult him?”

“Not exactly: that is, it was through Miss Cox, Miss Jennie Cox, his
typist. She is my special friend at the boarding house we live at. She
told him about me without asking my leave. He said he would hear my
story and then she came back to the boarding house and persuaded me to
go and tell it to him.”

“She thought you were in some difficulty and wanted to do you a good
turn?”

“It was more than that, Mr. French. She knew all about my difficulty,
for I had told her. But she believed I was in danger and thought
somebody should be told about it.”

“In danger? In danger of what?”

The girl shivered.

“Of my life, Mr. French,” she said in a low tone.

French looked at her more keenly. In spite of this surprising reply,
there was nothing melodramatic in her manner. But he now saw that her
emotion was more than mere nervousness. She was in point of fact in a
state of acute terror. Whatever this danger might be, it was clear
that she was fully convinced of its reality and imminence.

“But what are you afraid may happen to you?” he persisted.

Again she shivered. “I may be murdered,” she declared, and her voice
dropped to a whisper.

“Oh, come now, my dear young lady, people are not murdered in an
offhand way like that! Surely you are mistaken? Tell me all about it.”
His voice was kind, though slightly testy.

She made an obvious effort for composure.

“It was Eileen Tucker. She was my best friend. They said she committed
suicide. But she didn’t, Mr. French! I’m certain she never did. She
was murdered. As sure as we’re here, she was murdered! And I may be
too!” In spite of her evident efforts for self-control, the girl’s
voice got shrill and she began jerking about in her chair.

“There now,” French said soothingly. “Pull yourself together. You’re
quite safe here at all events. Now don’t be in a hurry or we’ll get
mixed up. Take your own time and tell me everything from the
beginning. Start with yourself. Your name is Thurza Darke. Very good
now; where do you live?” He took out his notebook and prepared to
write.

His quiet, methodical manner steadied the girl and she answered more
calmly.

“At 17 Orlando Street, Clapham. It’s a boarding house kept by a Mrs.
Peters.”

“You’re not a Londoner?”

“No. I come from Birkenhead. But my parents are dead and I have been
on my own for years.”

“Quite. You are in some job?”

“I’m in charge of one of the box offices at the Milan Cinema in Oxford
Street.”

“I see. And your friend, Miss Jennie Cox, who also lives at Mrs.
Peters’ boarding house, is typist to Mr. Arrowsmith. I think I’ve got
that straight. Now you mentioned another young lady—at least I presume
she was a young lady—a Miss Eileen Tucker. Who was she?”

“She was in one of the box offices at the Hammersmith Cinema.”

“Same kind of job as your own?”

“Yes. I met her at an evening class in arithmetic that we were both
attending and we made friends. We were both bad at figures and we
found it came against us at our work.”

French nodded. The name, Eileen Tucker, touched a chord of memory,
though he could not remember where he had heard it. He picked up his
desk telephone.

“Bring me any papers we have relative to the suicide of a girl called
Eileen Tucker.”

In a few moments a file was put before him. A glance through it
brought the case back to him. It was summarized in a cutting from the
_Mid-Country Gazette_ of 10th January of that year. It read:

    “TRAGIC DEATH OF A YOUNG GIRL

  “Dr. J. S. Jordan, deputy coroner for South Eastern Surrey, held an
  inquest at the Crown Inn, Caterham, yesterday morning on the body of
  a young girl which was found in a quarry hole about a mile from the
  town and not far from the road to Redhill. The discovery was made by
  a labourer named Thomas Binks, who was taking a short cut across the
  country to his work. Binks reported the affair to the police and
  Sergeant Knowles immediately visited the scene and had the body
  conveyed to the town. The remains were those of a girl of about
  twenty-five, and were clothed in a brown cloth coat with fur at the
  collar and cuffs, a brown skirt and jumper and beige shoes and
  stockings. A brown felt hat lay in the water a few feet away and in
  the right hand was clasped a vanity bag, containing a cigarette case
  and holder, some loose coins and a letter. This last was practically
  illegible from the water, but enough could be made out to show that
  it was from a man of undecipherable name, breaking off an illicit
  relation as he was going to be married. Dr. Adam Moody, Caterham, in
  giving evidence stated that death had occurred from drowning, that
  there were no marks of violence, and that the body had probably been
  in the water for two or three days. At first the identity of the
  deceased was a mystery, but Sergeant Knowles handled the affair with
  his usual skill and eventually discovered that she was a Miss Eileen
  Tucker, an employee in the box office of the Hammersmith Cinema in
  London. She seemed to have been alone in the world, having lived in
  a boarding house and no relatives being discoverable. After
  considering the evidence, the jury, with Mr. John Wells acting as
  foreman, brought in a verdict of suicide while of unsound mind.”

“A sad case,” said French sympathetically, when he had finished the
paragraph. “I see that the jury brought in a verdict of suicide, but
you think the poor young lady was murdered? Now just tell me why you
think so.”

“I know it! I’m sure of it! She wasn’t the kind of girl to commit
suicide.”

“That may be, but you’ve surely something more definite to go on than
that?”

“No proof, but I’m as certain of it as if I had been there. But what
she told me about the man shows it wasn’t what they said.”

“I don’t quite follow you. What did she tell you?”

“She was in trouble through some man, but not the kind of trouble the
letter said. There was no love affair or anything of that kind. It was
money.”

“Money?”

“Yes. I thought at first she had got into debt to this man and
couldn’t pay and I offered to lend her what I could; it wasn’t very
much. But she said it wouldn’t help her; that the man had her in his
power and that she was frightened. I begged her to tell me
particulars, but she wouldn’t. But she was frightened all right.”

“I don’t want to suggest anything bad about the poor young lady, but
doesn’t it look as if he had found her out in something that she
shouldn’t have done? Tampering with the cinema cash, for example?”

Miss Darke looked distressed.

“That was what I feared,” she admitted, “but of course I didn’t let
her know I suspected it. And of course I don’t know that it was that.”

French was frankly puzzled.

“Well, but if all that’s true, it surely supplies a motive for
suicide?”

“It might have with another girl, but not with her. Besides, there was
the letter.”

“Yes, you mentioned the letter before. Now how does the letter prove
that it wasn’t suicide?”

Miss Darke paused before replying and when at last she spoke it was
with less conviction.

“I looked at it like this,” she said. “From the letter it would be
understood that some man had got her into trouble and then deserted
her. From what she told me that wasn’t so and from what I know of her
it wasn’t so. But if that’s right there couldn’t have been any
letter—not any real letter, I mean. I took it the letter had been
written by the murderer and left in her bag to make it look like
suicide.”

In spite of himself French was interested. This was a subtle point for
a girl of the apparent mentality of this Miss Darke to evolve from her
own unaided consciousness. Not, he felt, that there was anything in
it. The probabilities were that the unfortunate Eileen Tucker had been
deceived and deserted by the usual callous ruffian. Naturally she
would not tell her friend. On the other hand, he considered that Miss
Darke was surprisingly correct in her appreciation of the
psychological side of the affair. The older French grew the more
weight he gave to the argument that X hadn’t performed a certain
action because he “wasn’t the sort of person to do it”: with due
reservation, of course, and granted an adequate knowledge of X’s
character.

“That’s a very ingenious idea, Miss Darke,” he said. “But it’s only
speculation. You don’t really know that it is true.”

“Only from what she said,” returned the girl. “But I believed her.”

“Now, Miss Darke,” French said gravely, “I am afraid I have a serious
question to ask you. If you knew all these material facts, why did you
not come forward and give evidence at the inquest?”

The girl hung her head.

“I know I should have,” she admitted sadly, “but I just didn’t. I did
not hear of Eileen’s death till I saw it in the paper the day after
and it didn’t say where the inquest would be. I ought to have gone to
Caterham and asked, but I just didn’t. No one asked me any questions
and—well, it seemed easier just to say nothing. It couldn’t have
helped Eileen anyway.”

“It might have helped the police to capture her murderer, if she was
murdered,” French returned. “And it might have saved you from your
present difficulties. You were very wrong there, Miss Darke; very
wrong indeed.”

“I see that now, Mr. French,” she repeated.

“Well,” said French, “that’s not what you called to talk about. Go on
with your story. What can you tell me about the man? Did Miss Tucker
mention his name or describe him?”

Miss Darke looked up eagerly, while the expression of fear on her
features became more pronounced.

“No, but she said there was something horrible about him that just
terrified her. She hated the sight of him.”

“But she didn’t describe him?”

“No, except that he had a scar on his wrist like a purple sickle. ‘A
purple sickle,’ were her exact words.”

“H’m. That’s not much to go on. But never mind. Tell me your own
story. Try to put the events in the order in which they happened. And
don’t be in a hurry. We’ve all the day before us.”

Thurza Darke paused, presumably to collect her thoughts, then went on:

“The first thing, I think, was my meeting Gwen Lestrange in the
train.”

“What? Still another girl? I shall be getting mixed among so many.
First there is yourself, then Miss Jennie Cox, Mr. Arrowsmith’s
typist, then poor Miss Eileen Tucker, who died so sadly at Caterham.
And now here’s another. Who is Gwen Lestrange?”

“I met her first in the train,” Miss Darke repeated. “I go to my work
most days by the Bakerloo tube from the Elephant to Oxford Circus. One
day a strange girl sitting beside me dropped a book on to my knee and
we began to talk. She said she came by that train every day. A couple
of days later I met her again and we had another talk. This happened
two or three times and then we began to look out for each other and
got rather friends. She was a very pleasant girl; always smiling.”

“Did you find out her job?”

“Yes, she said she was a barmaid in the Bijou Theatre in Coventry
Street.”

“Describe her as well as you can.”

“She was a big girl, tall and broad and strong looking. Sort of
athletic in her movements. She had a square face, if you know what I
mean; a big jaw, determined looking.”

“What about her colouring?”

“She was like myself, fair with blue eyes and a fair complexion.”

“Her age?”

“About thirty, I should think.”

French noted the particulars.

“Well, you made friends with this Miss Lestrange. Yes?”

“The thing that struck me most about her was that she seemed so well
off. She was always well dressed, had a big fur coat and expensive
gloves and shoes. And once when I lunched with her we went to Fuller’s
and had a real slap-up lunch that must have cost her as much as I
could spend in lunches in a week. And she didn’t seem the type that
would be getting it from men.

“I said that I couldn’t return such hospitality as that and she
laughed and asked me what I was getting at the Milan. Then she said it
was more than she got, but that there were ways of adding to one’s
salary. When I asked her how, she smiled at first, but afterwards she
told me.”

French’s quiet, sympathetic manner had evidently had its effect. Miss
Darke had lost a good deal of her terror, and her story was coming
much more spontaneously. French encouraged her with the obvious
question.

“She said she had got let in on a good thing through a friend. It was
a scheme for gambling on the tables at Monte Carlo.”

“At Monte Carlo?”

“Yes. It was run by a syndicate. They had a man there who did the
actual playing. They sent him out the money and he sent back the
winnings. You could either choose your number or colour or you could
leave it to him to do the best he could for you. If you won you got
your winnings less five per cent for expenses: if you lost, of course
you lost everything. But the man did very well as a rule. He worked on
a system and in the long run you made money.”

In spite of himself French became more interested. The story, he felt,
was old—as old as humanity. But the setting was new. This Monte Carlo
idea was ingenious, though it could take in only the ignorant.
Evidently it was for this class that the syndicate catered.

“And that was how Miss Lestrange had made her money?”

“Yes.” Apparently Miss Darke had not questioned the fact. “She said
that as a rule she made a couple of pounds a week out of it. I said it
was well for her and that I wished that I had an obliging friend who
would let me into something of the kind. She didn’t answer for a while
and then she said that she didn’t see why I shouldn’t get in if I
wanted to. If I liked she would speak to her friend about it.

“I wasn’t very keen at first for at one time or another I had seen a
deal of trouble coming through gambling. But I thought a little fling
wouldn’t do me any harm so I thanked her and asked her to go ahead. If
she won, why shouldn’t I?”

“Why, indeed? And did she arrange it?”

“Yes. I didn’t see her for three or four days, then I met her in the
train. She said she had fixed up the thing for me and if I would come
in early next morning she would introduce me to the man who took the
stakes. Our jobs started about one o’clock, you will understand, Mr.
French, so we had plenty of time earlier.”

“Of course. I suppose you both worked on till the places closed in the
evening.”

“That’s right. We were done about eleven or a little later. Well, next
morning I met her at eleven and we saw the bookmaker, Mr.
Westinghouse. Gwen had told me that his office was rather far away and
that he would meet us in the Embankment Gardens at Charing Cross. And
so he did.”

“Now before you go on you might describe Mr. Westinghouse.”

“I can tell you just what he was like,” the girl returned. “You know
those big American business men that you see on the films? Clean
shaven and square chins and very determined and all that? Well, he was
like that.”

“I know exactly. Right, Miss Darke. You met Mr. Westinghouse?”

“Yes. Gwen introduced me, and he asked me my name and a lot of
questions about myself and he wrote down the answers in a notebook.
Then he said he would agree to act for me, but that I was to promise
not to mention the affair, as they wanted to keep it in the hands of a
few. I promised and he took my stake. It was only five shillings, but
he took as much trouble over it as if it had been pounds. He wanted to
know if I would like to choose my number, but I said I would leave it
to the man on the ground.”

“And what was the result?”

“Mr. Westinghouse said that he couldn’t undertake to let me know
before the end of a week, on account of the time it took to write out
and back again, and also because the man did not always play, but only
when he felt he was going to win. He had a sort of sense for it, Mr.
Westinghouse said. So I met him a week later. He said I had done well
enough for a start. I had won three times my stake. He gave me
nineteen shillings, the fifteen shillings win and my five shillings
back, less five per cent. I was delighted and I put ten shillings on
and kept the nine. That time I doubled my ten and got another nineteen
shillings. The next time I lost, but the next I had a real bit of
luck.”

“Yes?” French queried with as great a show of interest as he could
simulate. The tale was going according to plan. He could almost have
told it to Miss Darke.

“That fourth time,” the girl went on, “Mr. Westinghouse seemed much
excited. He said I had done something out of the common and that it
was only the second case which had occurred since they started. I had
won maximum, that meant thirty-five times my bet. I had put on ten
shillings and he handed me sixteen pounds twelve and sixpence.”

“A lot of money,” said French gravely.

“Wasn’t it? Well, you may imagine, Mr. French, that after that I went
ahead with the thing. But I never had another bit of luck like that,
though on the whole I did fairly well, at least until lately.”

That, of course, was the next step. She had still to tell of her loss
and the penalty. But that, French felt sure, was coming.

“About a month ago,” the girl went on, “Gwen told me she was leaving
town. She had got a better job in the Waldorf Theatre in Birmingham.
But I carried on the gambling all the same. But somehow after she left
my luck seemed to desert me. I began to lose until at last I had lost
everything I had won and all my small savings as well.”

“And what did Mr. Westinghouse say to that?”

“I told him what had happened and that I couldn’t go on betting. He
seemed cut up about it and said that if he had foreseen that result he
wouldn’t have taken me on. Then he said it was a real pity I couldn’t
go on a little longer. The luck at the tables came in cycles and they
had been passing through a specially bad cycle. Several other people
had lost as well as me. He said the luck was due to turn and that if I
could hold on I would be sure to win back all that I had lost and
more. I said I couldn’t as I hadn’t the money and that was all there
was to it. He said to let things stand for a week and then to come
back to him and he would see what could be done.”

“And you did?”

“Yes. Mr. Westinghouse told me he was glad to see me as the luck had
turned. If I could manage a really good bet he was certain that I
should win handsomely. I said I hadn’t the money. Then he hummed and
hawed and at last said that he couldn’t see me stuck; that he felt
responsible for me and that he would help me out. If I would undertake
to let him have half the profits, he would lend me enough to clear a
good round haul. He took two notes out of his pocket and said here was
ten pounds. I could put it on in one bet if I liked, but he advised me
to put on four bets of two-pound-ten each instead. Some one or two
were sure to get home.

“I didn’t like the idea, but I was sure he wouldn’t have offered such
a thing unless there really was a good chance. So after some time I
thanked him and agreed. I know I shouldn’t have done it, but there it
is. I’m telling you just what happened.”

French smiled.

“If we were all as wise as we should be, Miss Darke, there would be no
stories to tell. Never mind. Just go on with yours.”

“Well, you can guess what happened. I lost every single one of my
bets! There was I without a penny left and owing Mr. Westinghouse ten
pounds.”

Miss Darke evidently had something of the dramatic sense. She paused
unconsciously to give point to her climax, then went on:

“He was very nice about it at first, but soon I saw a different side
to his character. He began to press for the money and the more I told
him I couldn’t pay and asked for time, the more persistent he got. At
last about ten days ago he said that he would give me a fortnight more
and that if I had not paid by then he would go to my employers and
ruin me. When I said that it was his own fault for tempting me to
borrow he got furious and said I’d see whose fault it was and for me
to look out for myself.

“I was in a terrible state of mind, Mr. French. I didn’t know what
would happen to me or who to turn to. And then the night before last
who should I meet when I was going home in the tube but Gwen
Lestrange.”

Again Miss Darke paused at her climax, and French, who had been
listening carefully though without a great deal of interest to the
commonplace little story, offered a sympathetic comment. How many
times had just such a little drama been enacted, and how many times it
would again! Probably since before the dawn of history gambling had
been used to get the fools of the human race into the power of the
knaves. There was only one point in the episode still unrevealed—the
source of wealth to which this silly girl had access and from which
Westinghouse expected to be paid. That, however, would no doubt soon
be disclosed. For French could not bring himself to believe that it
was anything so crude as robbing the till in the cinema, the only
thing which appeared to follow from the story.

“Gwen seemed pleased to see me. She said her mother had been ill and
she had got a couple of days’ leave from Birmingham. She asked me to
have coffee with her next morning at Lyons’ Corner House, so that we
could have a chat.

“I think I told you I started work about one o’clock, and shortly
before twelve next day I joined her at Lyons’. She exclaimed at once
about my looks. ‘Why, what on earth’s wrong with you?’ she cried.
‘You’re in trouble of some kind.’

“I didn’t want to talk about myself, but she insisted on hearing, and
when she learned what had happened she was very angry. ‘That old
scoundrel!’ she cried, ‘and I used to think he was straight!’ She got
quite excited about it. She advised me to tell Westinghouse to go to
hell and dare him to do his worst. He couldn’t do me any harm, she
said. I had only to deny the story and say he had been persecuting me
and he could produce no proof. But I knew that was no good and that
the mere raising of the question with the cinema manager would lose me
my job. And it would have, Mr. French.”

“I dare say it would,” French admitted.

“Well, I wasn’t on for it anyway, and when she saw I wasn’t she let
that drop. Then she said that she felt sort of responsible for me,
seeing that it was through her I got into the thing, and that she
would therefore try and help me out. There was a cousin of hers, a
really good sort, who might be able to help me. He had helped her at
one time when she was in the same trouble herself. She would stake her
reputation that he at all events was straight, and if I wished she
would introduce me to him.

“Well, I needn’t take up your time by telling you all our
conversation. It ended in my agreeing to go to Mr. Style, as the
cousin was called. Gwen fixed up a meeting. I was to be at St. Pancras
when his train came in from Luton, where he lived, and he would talk
to me on the platform. I went there and he found me at once.”

“You might describe Mr. Style also.”

The girl shivered as if at an unpleasant memory.

“I can easily do that,” she said, and her expression became almost
that of horror. “As long as I live I’ll remember his appearance. He
was thin and tall and sallow, with a small, fair moustache. But his
eyes were what struck you. He had such queer, staring eyes that you
would think they could see right into your mind. They made me feel
quite queer. Sort of uncanny, if you understand what I mean.”

French nodded and she went on:

“He said that his cousin, Miss Lestrange, had told him of me and the
fix I was in, and he thought he could do something to help me. He said
he had a job which he thought I could do and which would pay me well.
It was easy as far as actual work was concerned, but it required a
young lady of good appearance and manner and some shrewdness to carry
it through. Also it was highly confidential and the lady must be above
suspicion as to character and discretion. Those were his words as far
as I remember.”

Again French nodded.

“I said I already had a job which I didn’t want to give up, but he
said I could do his job at the same time as they didn’t clash. It was
perfectly easy and perfectly safe, but old-fashioned people mightn’t
altogether approve of it and he was glad to know that I had no
prejudices in that respect.

“As you may imagine, Mr. French, I wasn’t very pleased at this, and I
asked him rather sharply what he meant. And then he said something
which upset me horribly and made me wish I had never seen him. I
scarcely like to repeat it.”

“I’m afraid you must.”

“He asked me what I thought of a young lady who gambled on borrowed
money which she couldn’t repay if she lost. Then always with his
horrible smile he went on to say that a potential thief could scarcely
be tied down by out-of-date ideas of morality.”

“Plain speaking.”

The girl made a hopeless little gesture.

“You may say I should have got up and walked away,” she continued,
“but I just couldn’t. Somehow I felt as if I had no strength left to
do anything. But I was terribly upset. I had not realized that I had
done anything so serious and I grew sort of cold when I thought of it.
He watched me for a moment, then he laughed and said not to be a fool,
that I had done what anyone would have done in my place, and that he
only mentioned the matter so that I might not imagine that I was above
the little weaknesses of ordinary people. I said I had never imagined
anything of the sort, and he answered that that being so we might get
to business.”

Though Miss Darke was now telling her story as clearly and collectedly
as French could have wished, it was evident that the personality of
Style had profoundly impressed her. The more she spoke of him, the
more nervous and excited she grew. But French’s sympathetic bearing
seemed to steady her and after a short pause she continued.

“He said then that he would make me a confidential offer. He would
take over all my liabilities and make me an immediate advance to get
me out of my present difficulties. He would also guarantee me a
substantial increase to my income, without in any way prejudicing my
present job, if I would do as he asked. He assured me that what he
would ask was absolutely safe if I was careful, and that though it
might not exactly accord with certain strait-laced ideas, it would not
injure anyone or cause any suffering. He also declared on his honour
it was nothing immoral or connected with sex. But he said he had no
wish to coerce me. I could think the offer over and I was perfectly
free to take it or leave it as I thought best.”

“A plausible ruffian.”

“I asked him then what the job actually was. But he said there was
time enough for that, and he began to ask me about the cash at the
Milan and how it was checked, and if I was overlooked in the box
office and how often the manager came round, and so on. I can tell you
I didn’t like it, Mr. French, and I began to feel I just couldn’t have
anything to say to his job.”

“Yes?” French queried as the girl stopped. “And then?”

“And then,” repeated Miss Darke excitedly and with an unconscious
dramatic effort, “then he raised his arm and I saw his wrist. Mr.
French, it had a purple scar like a sickle on the inside!”



CHAPTER II

French Makes an Assignation

If Thurza Darke had surprised French by her dramatic declaration, he
surprised her even more by his reply.

“Miss Darke,” he said gravely, though the irrepressible twinkle showed
in his eye, “you’re a born story-teller!”

The girl started and flushed angrily, but he held up his hand.

“No,” he said with a smile, “I don’t mean it that way. I believe
everything that you have said. But I really must compliment you on the
way you’re telling the story. You did that climax uncommonly well. And
I’m not laughing at you either,” he went on as her expression changed
once more. “I can assure you I consider your statement very important
and am following it closely. Go on now and tell me what happened after
that. By the way, do you smoke?” He took a box of cigarettes from a
drawer of his desk and held it out.

His little ruse succeeded. Miss Darke had become very much excited,
and though he liked artistic narrative, he felt it would be too dearly
purchased at the price of accuracy. His intervention brought her back
to earth. She lit a cigarette and went on more soberly.

“I just sat and stared at the mark while I thought what poor Eileen
Tucker had said. This must be the man she had described. I thought of
what had happened to her and I shivered with fear. It was clear what
her trouble had been.”

“Well, now, it’s not so clear to me. Just what did you think it was?”

The girl looked at him in surprise.

“I supposed that Style had made her rob the till of the Hammersmith
Cinema, and I supposed he would try and make me rob the Milan.”

“Not so easy as it sounds,” French declared. “But perhaps you are
right. Yes?”

“Mr. Style evidently saw me looking at the mark for he seemed annoyed
and he covered it up with his sleeve. I felt I had been rude and I
looked away. But his manner was not so pleasant afterwards.”

“Do you think he had any idea you had known Eileen Tucker?”

“He asked me the question. That was afterwards, after we had talked
for some time. Just as I was going away he said: ‘By the way, about a
year ago I met a young lady in your line of business—a Miss Eileen
Tucker. A very nice girl she was, too. I suppose you never came across
her?’”

“And what did you say?”

“At first I was going to say yes, then something came over me and I
thought it might be safer if I said nothing about it. So I said no,
that the name was strange to me.”

“H’m. Do you think he believed you? Did you hesitate before you
answered him?”

“I don’t think I hesitated, or not very much at all events. He seemed
to believe me all right.”

Ugly, thought French. If this somewhat rambling statement were true,
it looked distinctly ugly. Indeed, Thurza Darke’s fears as to her
personal safety might not be so misplaced after all. If this Style had
murdered Eileen Tucker, Thurza’s obvious recognition of the scar would
give him a nasty jar. He would realize that she must have heard of it
from Eileen herself, and the very fact that she had denied
acquaintanceship with the deceased girl would tell him that she
suspected him. For the first time French began to think the matter
might be serious.

“Before Style asked you if you knew Miss Tucker you say you had talked
for some time,” he went on. “Tell me what you said.”

“Not very much, Mr. French. I didn’t like his questions about the cash
arrangements at the Milan and he saw I didn’t. He said he would like
an answer from me, as if I didn’t want the job he could find plenty of
others glad of it. I mightn’t like the feeling it was something I
couldn’t tell my friends about, but that was what the pay was for. The
actual work was nothing.”

“He made no secret that it was criminal?”

Miss Darke seemed shocked.

“Such a thing never entered my mind,” she declared. “The worst I
thought was that it wouldn’t be quite straight.”

“Well, what did you say?”

“I said I didn’t like it, and he replied that was perfectly all right
and that he respected people who said what they meant. Then he got up
and said good-bye and began to walk off.”

“But you didn’t let him go?”

“I didn’t,” Miss Darke admitted. “While I had been talking to him I
had almost forgotten about my debt to Mr. Westinghouse. But when I saw
him going the remembrance of it seemed to come down over me like a
great cloud. I said to myself: ‘If I do what Mr. Style wants I may be
ruined, but if I don’t I shall be ruined without any doubt.’ It seemed
the lesser evil and I called him back intending to agree.”

“And did you not agree?”

“No. When it came to the point I just couldn’t, and I begged for a day
or two to think it over. He said certainly, and for me to meet him at
twelve o’clock on Friday—that’s tomorrow—in the small room to the left
of the Turner Room in the National Gallery. I could give him my answer
then.”

“Well,” said French, “there’s one thing certain and that is that
you’ve done a wise thing by coming here and telling your story. And
you’ve told it exceedingly well, if I may say so again. Go on,
please.”

“That’s about all there is. I was in absolute misery all that day. In
the evening my friend at the boarding house, Jennie Cox, noticed that
there was something wrong with me and pestered me so much about it
that at last I told her everything. She said I should ask Mr.
Arrowsmith’s advice, but I said I would do nothing of the kind. That
was all last night.

“This morning about half past ten she came back to the boarding house
and said that in spite of my objection she had told Mr. Arrowsmith the
whole story. At first I was real mad with her, then I saw that Mr.
Arrowsmith might help me out. So I went to his office with Jennie and
told him everything, just as I have to you.”

French nodded. For a moment he remained silent, then leaning forward,
he spoke with decision.

“Now, Miss Darke, I may tell you at once that you’re not to be alarmed
about yourself. We’ll see you through. But you must do exactly what I
tell you.”

“You may trust me, Mr. French,” the girl answered earnestly.

“Very well. Tomorrow you must go to the National Gallery, as Style
asked you. You will tell him that you have thought over what he said
and that you have decided to do as he asked, provided he will give you
an undertaking to pay you the money he promised. Don’t show any
hesitation so far as the moral side of the matter is concerned, but be
stiff about the payment. You understand what I’m after? I want him to
think he has got you. Finally agree to his terms and say you are
willing to start at once.”

Miss Darke looked rather scared as she promised.

“Please remember that you have nothing to fear. As a matter of fact
you will be watched at the National Gallery by one of our men and you
will be perfectly safe. But don’t go away anywhere either with Style
or Westinghouse or Miss Lestrange. Just do as I’ve said and I’ll look
after the rest. Now I’ll say good day, and again I congratulate you on
your wisdom in coming to tell me your story.”

That he really was on to something serious French was now inclined to
believe. It was worth looking into at all events, and he determined he
would not only follow up Miss Darke’s adventures, but also investigate
the death of Eileen Tucker.

His first inquiry could be made immediately. Picking up his telephone,
he put through a call.

“That the Bijou Theatre in Coventry Street? Scotland Yard speaking. I
am trying to trace the movements of a young lady called Gwen
Lestrange. She states she was barmaid with you up till about a month
ago. Can you give me any information about her?”

“Must be some mistake,” came the reply. “There never was anyone of the
name here.”

“She might have been with you under another name,” French went on.
“She was tall and well built and fair with blue eyes and a heavy chin.
Always well dressed—a fur coat and so on.”

“No, we had no one answering to that description. Besides, no barmaid
left here about a month ago.”

French next repeated his inquiry to the Waldorf Theatre in Birmingham.
But no one of the name was known there either, nor had a new barmaid
been employed within the last four months.

It was what he had expected to hear. Methodically he turned to the
next obvious inquiry. Sending the descriptions of the three suspects
to the Record Department, he asked if anything was known of them.

But here again he drew blank. The gang was not known to the police nor
was any of the three an habitual criminal.

So far as he could see nothing more could be done till next day. He
therefore put the affair out of his mind and took up routine matters.

About 11.30 next morning French, after an interview with his immediate
superior, Chief Inspector Mitchell, left the Yard and turned his steps
in the direction of Trafalgar Square. As he walked his thoughts were
occupied with a revolting and mysterious murder which had taken place
the previous evening near Skipton. He thought it was not unlikely that
the help of the Yard would be requisitioned, and he wondered, if so,
whether the case would fall to him. None of the other men, so far as
he knew, was disengaged, while he, except for this trifling business
he was now concerned with, was at a loose end. He hoped he would get
it. He liked the country, especially in summer, and he was getting
accustomed to working away from his base. His last two big cases, at
Starvel* in Yorkshire and down in Devonshire at that Dartmoor affair,
had been completed without the help of his staff at headquarters, and
he had found little difficulty in working alone.

   * _The Starvel Hollow Tragedy_, published 1927, in which Inspector
   French uncovered a crime of extraordinary brutality from a little
   heap of ashes.

He reached the National Gallery, and going to the Turner Room,
immersed himself in the splendid exhibits hung therein. Though
technically ignorant of art, he liked pictures, and of all the
pictures he had ever seen, Turner’s gave him most pleasure. The fact
that Miss Darke’s interview was to take place in the adjoining room
did not prevent him making the most of his opportunities before she
and her dubious acquaintance arrived.

He moved round, looking at canvas after canvas, and returning again
and again to the “Fighting Temeraire,” which was to him a source of
never ending delight. But all the time he kept half an eye on the
door, resolved that when once Mr. Style should appear, he should be
kept in sight until he reached his office or his dwelling or some
place from which he could be picked up again if and when he was
required.

Time passed quickly under such pleasant conditions and soon twelve
o’clock, the hour of the interview, arrived. But there was no sign of
either of the principals. As the minutes slipped away French suddenly
grew anxious. Had he bungled the affair already?

He had chosen the room beyond that of the interview in the hope that
Style would not see him, so that he could trail him with more ease and
security. Now he began to wonder if Style had met the girl at the door
and altered the venue to some other room. If so, he might pick them up
as they were leaving the building. He therefore strolled to the
entrance, and there taking up an inconspicuous position, watched those
departing.

For over half an hour he waited, then remembering that Miss Darke
began work at the Milan at one o’clock, he concluded his luck was out
and went along to the cinema.

It was a fine new building in Oxford Street, not more than a hundred
yards west of the Circus. Palatial was scarcely the word with which to
describe it, as it was built in a vastly more lavish and ornate manner
than ninety per cent of the palaces of the world. French entered a
huge hall of marble and gold in which were a row of box offices and
from which massive bronze doors led to the auditorium. Only two of the
six box offices were open. French glanced into each, but in neither
was his friend.

Having learnt from an attendant that though the girl was due for duty,
she had not yet arrived, he sat down to wait. Time crawled slowly on.
One-thirty came, then one-forty-five, then two, and still she did not
appear.

At two o’clock French could stand it no longer. He saw the manager.
But from him he learnt nothing. Miss Darke had no leave of absence nor
had she sent any apology. She was a reliable girl and had never before
missed an attendance. The manager had no explanation to offer.

“I should be obliged if you would let me know at the Yard if she turns
up,” said French as he took his leave.

He was now acutely anxious. Fears of the worst filled his mind as he
drove rapidly to the boarding house in Orlando Street, Clapham.

In a few minutes he was sitting with Mrs. Peters, the landlady. At
once he obtained news. On the previous evening about half past eleven
an attendant had rung up from the Milan. He had explained that Miss
Darke had asked him to say that her sister had unexpectedly turned up
from Manchester and that she was going to spend the night with her at
her hotel.

As a matter of form French rang up the Milan. But the reply was only
what he expected. Miss Darke had left at her usual time without giving
any message to anyone. Sadly French found himself forced to the
conclusion that there could no longer be any doubt that the gang had
got her.

The thought of her disappearance profoundly upset him. It hurt like a
personal affront. An appeal had been made to him for help. He had
promised help. And he had not given it. . . .

“They’ve been too much for her,” he thought. “That ruffian Style saw
that she suspected him of Eileen Tucker’s murder and no doubt he
shadowed her to the Yard. He’s told his friends that she’ll blow the
gaff and they’ve done her in, or I’m a Dutchman.”

In accordance with his usual custom he had added a description of his
caller to the papers which already formed the beginning of the dossier
of the case. It was the work of a few seconds to call up the Yard and
direct that an urgent call for four wanted persons should be
circulated—those described under the names of Thurza Darke, Gwen
Lestrange, —— Westinghouse and —— Style in the file in the top
left-hand drawer in his desk. Then he turned back and with the
landlady’s permission made a detailed search of the missing girl’s
bedroom. But with the exception of a photograph of the girl herself,
he found nothing useful.

On his way back to the Yard he called at Mr. Arrowsmith’s and
interrogated Miss Cox, Miss Darke’s boarding-house friend, once again
without result. Nor did a visit to telephone headquarters in the hope
of tracing the mysterious call lead to anything.

By the time he had completed these inquiries it was getting on towards
eight o’clock. As the hours passed he had been growing more and more
despondent. But there was nothing more he could do that night. By now
the description would be in the hands of the police within at least
fifty miles of London, and that he had not heard from any of them
seemed to confirm his worst fears.

He was just about to leave the Yard when the telephone in his room
rang.

“Call through from Portsmouth about that Thurza Darke case,” said the
officer in the Yard private exchange. “Will you take it, Mr. French?”

“Right,” said French, an eager thrill passing through him. “Scotland
Yard. Inspector French speaking.”

“Portsmouth Police Station. Sergeant Golightly speaking. Relative to
the inquiry as to the whereabouts of a young lady named Thurza Darke
received this evening, I think we have some information.”

“Right, sergeant. Go ahead.”

“At about nine-thirty a.m. today a report was received here that the
body of a girl had been found in the sea at Stokes Bay, some three
miles east of Portsmouth. A party of yachtsmen leaving for a day’s
sail had seen it floating about a mile from the shore. They brought it
in and we had it medically examined. The cause of death was drowning.
So far we have been unable to identify the remains or to find out how
the girl got into the sea. It looks like suicide. We had already
issued a circular when we saw yours. The remains answer the
description you give.”

“Girl been in the water long?”

“Six or seven hours, the doctor thought.”

“Has the inquest taken place?”

“It’s arranged for ten tomorrow morning.”

“Right, sergeant. I’ll go down—tonight, if possible. Wait a moment
till I look up the trains.”

“There’s an eight and a nine-fifty, sir, from Waterloo.”

French glanced at his watch.

“I’ll get the eight. Can you meet me?”

“Certainly, sir.”

The hands of the station clock were pointing to ten minutes before ten
when French, armed with his emergency suitcase, left the train at
Portsmouth. A smart-looking sergeant of police was waiting on the
platform and to him French introduced himself.

“The girl was in with me on the previous day, sergeant, so I can
identify her myself. Otherwise I should have brought someone who knew
her.”

“Quite so, sir.” The sergeant was deferential. “We believe she was a
stranger. At least, we haven’t been able to hear of anyone missing
from anywhere about this district. And your description just covers
her. The body’s lying at the station, so you’ll know in a few
minutes.”

“Right, sergeant. Let’s walk if it’s not too far. I’m tired sitting in
that blessed train.”

French chatted pleasantly as they stepped along, true to his
traditional policy of trying to make friends and allies of those with
whom he came in contact. The sergeant was evidently curious as to what
there might be in this girl’s death which so keenly interested the
great “Yard.” But French forbore to satisfy his curiosity until he
should himself know whether or not he was on a wild goose chase.

The remains lay on a table in a room off the yard of the police
station. The moment French raised the sheet with which the head was
covered he recognized the features of the girl he sought. Poor pretty
little Thurza lay there still and peaceful, her small peccadillos and
troubles, her hopes and her joys over and done with. As French gazed
upon her pathetic features, he grew hot with rage against the people
whose selfish interests had led to the snuffing out of this young
life, before its owner had had her chance to make what she could of
existence. That she had been deliberately murdered there could be
little doubt, and he silently registered a vow that he would not cease
until he had avenged her. He gave a short sigh as he banished his
feelings from his mind and became once more the efficient, unemotional
officer from Scotland Yard.

“It’s the girl right enough,” he declared. “Now, sergeant, as you may
have guessed, there is more in this than meets the eye. I have reason
to suppose that this is neither accident nor suicide.”

“What, sir? You mean murder?”

“I mean murder. As I understand it, this girl was in the power of a
gang of sharpers. She got to know more about them than was healthy for
her and this is the result. I may be wrong, but I want to be sure
before I leave here.”

The sergeant looked bewildered.

“There is no sign of violence, as you can see,” he suggested
hesitatingly. “And the doctor had no suspicion of murder.”

“There has been no post-mortem?”

“No, sir. It wasn’t considered necessary.”

“We’ll have one now. Can you get the authority from your people? It
should be done at once.”

“Of course, sir, if you say so it’s all right. There will be no
difficulty. But as a matter of form I must ring up the superintendent
and get his permission.”

“Certainly, sergeant, I recognize that. Can you do it now? I should
like to see the doctor as soon as possible.”

While the necessary authorization was being obtained French examined
the body and clothes in detail. But except that a tiny bit of the
skirt had been torn out, as if it had caught on a splinter or nail, he
found nothing to interest him.

A few minutes later he and the sergeant were being shown into the
consulting room of Dr. Hills, the police surgeon.

The doctor was a short man with a pugnacious manner. To French’s suave
remarks he interposed replies like the barks of a snapping Pekinese.

“Murder?” he ejaculated when French had put his views before him.
“Rubbish! There were no marks. No physical force. No resistance. Not
likely at all.”

“What you say, doctor, certainly makes my theory difficult,” French
admitted smoothly. “But the antecedent circumstances are such that
murder is possible, and I’m sure you will agree that the matter must
be put beyond any doubt.”

“No doubt now. Made my examination. What do you want next?”

“A post-mortem, doctor. Awfully sorry to give you the trouble and all
that, but Superintendent Hunt agrees that it is really necessary.”

The doctor was full of scorn at the idea. He had made an examination
of the remains in his own way and that should be sufficient for any
layman.

But it was not sufficient for French. He held to his point and it was
arranged that the post-mortem should take place immediately.

“A word in your ear, Dr. Hills,” French added. “Keep the idea of
subtle murder before you. These are clever people, these three whom I
suspect, and they’ll not have adopted anything very obvious.”

“Teach grandmother . . . suck eggs,” barked the doctor, but there was
a humorous twinkle in his eyes at which French could smile back with a
feeling of confidence that the work would be done thoroughly and
competently.

“He’s always like that,” the sergeant volunteered. “He pretends to be
annoyed at everything, but he’s really one of the best and a dam’ good
doctor too. He’ll make that examination as carefully as the best
London specialist and you’ll get as good an opinion when he’s
finished.”

If time was a criterion, the job was certainly being done well.
French, sitting in the nearest approach to an easy-chair that the
sergeant’s office boasted, had read the evening paper diligently, had
smoked three pipes, and finally had indulged in a good many more than
forty winks, before Dr. Hills returned.

“Kept you up, Inspector?” he remarked, glancing at the clock, whose
hands registered half past three. “Ah, well. Been worth it. Found
something. You’ll not guess. No sign of murder. No force applied. No
resistance made. Death by drowning only. All as I said. _But_——” He
paused in his stream of explosives and waited impressively. “But—water
in lungs and stomach—_fresh_, Inspector, _fresh_. What you make of
that?”

French was considerably impressed.

“What do you make of it yourself, doctor?” he asked.

“Drowned in the sea. Fresh water in lungs. Pretty problem. Your
funeral.” He shrugged his shoulders, gave a quick, friendly smile,
barked “Night!” and was gone.



CHAPTER III

The Inquest

The problem with which Dr. Hills had presented French was not so
difficult as it appeared at first sight. There could indeed be only
one solution, but that solution carried with it the proof of what
French had up to then only suspected, that Thurza Darke’s death was
the result of neither accident nor suicide, but definitely of murder.

If the water which the poor girl had swallowed were fresh, it
obviously followed that she had been drowned in fresh water, her body
having afterwards been put into the sea. Why the three fiends had
committed their revolting crime in this way French did not know, but
it was clear that the placing of the body in the sea could have been
done with but one object—to conceal the fact of murder by creating the
appearance of accident. And had it not been for the special knowledge
which French possessed, it was more than likely that the trick would
have been successful.

A further problem immediately arose, trifling in comparison to that of
the girl’s death, but still requiring a decision. Should the discovery
be mentioned at the inquest?

To allow the conspirators to suppose that their scheme had succeeded
would have the obvious advantage of making them less careful. In the
course of his career French had many times experienced the value of
lulling his adversary to complacency, if not to sleep.

On the other hand, it would be difficult to keep the matter quiet. The
doctor would certainly refuse to hold back such material evidence.
This would involve confiding in the coroner and adjourning the inquiry
on some technical ground, as that official would not allow a verdict
inconsistent with the facts to be returned. But an adjournment would
not have the effect desired by French. Until the case was finally
disposed of and a verdict of accidental death returned, the murderers
would remain on tenterhooks, alert and careful.

Eventually French came to the conclusion that it would be best to let
matters take their own course. At the same time he would try to keep
out of the affair, so that Scotland Yard’s interest in it might remain
a secret.

In this case he would not give evidence of identity. His decision
therefore plunged Sergeant Golightly into an orgy of telephoning, in
order that the inquest might be postponed until he could secure the
attendance of Mrs. Peters, the deceased girl’s landlady.

The proceedings opened in the early afternoon. French had taken his
seat amongst the crowd of loafers and other casuals who invariably
attend such gatherings, and held no converse with the police. The room
was crowded, the affair having produced a mild sensation.

The first witness was a tall, bronzed man of about thirty, named
Austin Munn. He deposed that he lived at Lee-on-the-Solent and he was
owner of the schooner yacht _Thisbe_. At about 6.30 on the previous
morning he and three yachting friends had started off in the _Thisbe_
for a long day’s sail. They were going east through Spithead and
towards Brighton. When they were passing through Stokes Bay, some
three or four miles from Lee he saw something in the water. He was at
the tiller and he altered course to pass it closely. When they came
near they saw that it was the body of a young woman. They hove to
immediately and brought it aboard. They tried artificial respiration
for over an hour, though none of them thought it would be any good.
The girl looked as if she had been dead for some hours. The body was
that on which the inquest was being held. They turned into Portsmouth
and on arrival one of his friends had gone to inform the police. The
sergeant had come down at once and arranged for the removal of the
remains.

Sergeant Golightly stated that about 8.30 on the previous morning Mr.
Lewis Pershaw, one of Mr. Munn’s yachting party, reported that his
yacht had picked up the body of a young woman when starting out for a
cruise. He, Golightly, had gone down and taken charge of the remains.
The deceased was dressed in a light fawn coat and skirt, with a white
silk blouse, flesh-coloured stockings and black patent shoes. She had
no hat. On her left wrist was a watch which had stopped at seven
minutes past one. She wore a necklace and ear-rings of imitation
pearls. Her face was calm and peaceful.

As a result of his inquiries he had learnt that the deceased was a
Miss Thurza Darke, an employee at the Milan Cinema in Oxford Street,
London. She lodged in a boarding house in Clapham and the landlady was
present and would give evidence of identity. He had been unable to
find out how the body had reached the place in which it was found.

Mrs. Peters was then called. She deposed that the remains were those
of her late lodger, Thurza Darke. The girl had lived with her for
nearly a year. She was quiet and well conducted, prompt in payment,
and popular with the other boarders. She, Mrs. Peters, had become
quite fond of her and this tragedy had come as a terrible shock.

Further questions elicited the fact that the witness believed that her
boarder had recently been in some serious trouble. For the last couple
of weeks in particular she had lost a good deal of her brightness and
seemed to have some worry on her mind. But she had not said anything
on the subject and Mrs. Peters had not tried to force her confidence.

The witness then told of the telephone call. Though this had surprised
her, never having heard Miss Darke mention any of her relations, she
had not doubted its genuineness at the time. It was not till
afterwards that she had learnt from the police that Miss Darke had not
sent it.

The fat was then in the fire. When Mrs. Peters left the box Sergeant
Golightly was recalled and asked if he had made inquiries into the
authorship of the message. His reply that he had ascertained that it
had not been sent by any of the officials at the cinema was the first
hint those present had received that the case might not be quite so
straightforward as up to then it had seemed. Interest in the
proceedings perceptibly quickened and the spectators leant forward and
fixed their eyes more intently on the witness. But except to obtain
the statement that Golightly had been unable to trace the call and had
no idea who sent it, the coroner had no further questions to ask.

Dr. Hills was the next witness. He deposed that he had at first made
an external examination of the remains, by means of which he had
satisfied himself that the deceased had died from drowning. He gave
technical details as to the condition of the body, stating that in his
opinion death had taken place some eight to nine hours previous to his
inspection. That had been made about ten o’clock and this, if he was
correct in his opinion, would place the hour of death somewhere
between one and two in the morning.

“That would agree with the time at which the watch stopped,” the
coroner remarked, turning over his notes. “The hands were pointing to
one-seven, Sergeant Golightly has told us. Now, Dr. Hills, you said
that at first you made an external examination of the remains. What
exactly did you mean by ‘at first’?”

“Last night late police came to my house. Said they were not
satisfied. Had an idea there might be foul play. Wanted a post-mortem.
I made it with Dr. Carswell.”

“And did you find anything which might be taken to support their
idea?” the coroner asked, while the recently aroused interest
intensified.

The doctor hesitated.

“Found a peculiar fact,” he answered. “Outside my province to draw
inferences.”

“And the fact?”

“Water in the lungs and stomach was fresh.”

The statement produced something in the nature of a sensation. The
faces of most of those present assumed an expression of bewilderment,
but a few seemed instantly to grasp its significance.

“And what,” went on the coroner smoothly, “did this fact convey to
you?”

Dr. Hills shrugged. “Girl was drowned,” he declared, “but not in sea.
Couldn’t have put herself into sea. Body must have been put in by
someone else. Least, strikes me that way.”

“Did the remains show any sign of force or compulsion?”

“None.”

For a moment the coroner hesitated when he had written down this
reply, his forehead wrinkled from thought.

“Now, doctor,” he said at last, “you know this country pretty well, I
take it?”

“Lived here all my life.”

“Is there, so far as you know, any river or fresh water area into
which this poor girl could have fallen and from which her body could
have been carried to the sea where it was found?”

“Don’t know of any.”

Again the coroner hesitated.

“It must be evident to you, Dr. Hills, that your evidence suggests at
least the possibility of foul play. I want to ask you now, not only
from a medical point of view, but also from your experience as a man
of the world, whether you can suggest any explanation of the facts
other than that of the murder of the deceased?”

At the ominous word a little ripple of movement passed over the
assembly, followed immediately by a silence as those present settled
down to listen even more intently. Dr. Hills shrugged again.

“Utmost respect: scarcely my province. Since you ask: private opinion:
girl was murdered.”

“But there is no definite medical evidence for that view?”

“None. Girl was drowned in fresh water. That is all.”

The coroner looked round.

“Would any member of the jury like to ask the witness a question
before he stands down?”

A small foxy-faced man like a tradesman or small shopkeeper rose to
his feet.

“I would like to ask the doctor just what the police said to him about
foul play, and then I would like to ask the sergeant just what made
him say it.”

“That is an important point and one I have already noted,” the coroner
replied. “Dr. Hills stated,”—he referred to his notes—“that he was
asked to make a post-mortem, as the police had an idea there might be
foul play. Have you anything further, Dr. Hills, to add to that
statement?”

“Nothing. That covers everything.”

“The nature of the police suspicion was not revealed?”

“No. Not in detail.”

“And was the doctor not curious? Did he not ask?” interjected the
foxy-faced juror.

The coroner frowned. “The witness has said the nature of the
suspicions was not revealed in detail,” he said coldly, glancing at
the juror. “Were you told in a general way that murder was feared?”

“In a general way, yes. No details.”

“Who spoke to you on the subject?”

This was the question French was dreading. If the matter were pressed,
there would be nothing for it but for him to give evidence.

The doctor looked as if he were going to hedge, then he seemed to
think better of it and answered:

“Sergeant Golightly and a representative, as I understood it, from
Scotland Yard.”

At this a little ripple of movement swept over the assembly. From the
spectators’ point of view things were going better and better.

“And it was the Scotland Yard man, I presume, who promulgated the
suspicion?”

“That is so.”

“You may stand down, doctor, but please don’t go away. Recall Sergeant
Golightly. You didn’t tell us, sergeant, that you had received a visit
from an officer of Scotland Yard.”

“You may rest assured, sir, that all the essential facts would have
been put before the court. As you know, sir, it is not customary for
the police to state the sources of their information.”

“I am not criticizing your conduct, sergeant, nor do I wish to
embarrass your handling of the case, but if there is further
information as to how your suspicions became aroused which you can
properly give us, we should be glad to hear it.”

The sergeant glanced at French. To the latter it seemed that less harm
would now be done if he himself gave evidence than if a mystery were
made of the affair. He therefore nodded and the sergeant replied:

“There is no mystery in the matter, sir. I can tell you everything
that occurred. I admit that no suspicion of foul play was aroused by
the finding of the body. It seemed to me a case of either accident or
suicide. But that afternoon a call was received from Scotland Yard, a
general call, sent, I understand, to all stations. This said that a
young lady was missing, giving her description and asking for a
lookout to be kept for her. When I read it I thought it probably
referred to the deceased. I telephoned so to the Yard and there was a
reply that an inspector would come down by the evening train to see if
he could identify the remains. Inspector French arrived and did so. He
said that the possibility of foul play must not be overlooked and
suggested that a post-mortem should be made. With the consent of my
superiors the matter was arranged. Inspector French then told me who
the deceased was and where I should go to get a witness of identity.”

“Has Inspector French returned to London?”

“No, sir. He’s here.”

“Here now? Then call him.”

As French entered the box the little ripple of excitement was
repeated. A full-fledged inspector of the famous C.I.D. was an
unwonted sight in the local courts and people craned forward to see
what manner of man he might be.

In the meantime French had made up his mind as to what he would say.
He would of course tell the truth, but perhaps not the whole truth. In
such matters his conscience was a trifle elastic. He justified his
conduct by considering the admirable end for which his evasions were
invariably made.

“Now, Mr. French,” the coroner went on when he had noted the witness’s
name and occupation. “Will you please tell us all you properly can of
this matter.”

“There is not much to tell, sir,” French replied in his pleasant but
respectful manner. “Some time ago I had occasion to visit the Milan
Cinema in Oxford Street, and I became acquainted with one of the young
ladies in the box office, a Miss Thurza Darke.”

French, with an admirable air of candour, made a slight pause as if he
had reached the end of a paragraph. Immediately he went on:

“Yesterday I was again at the Milan, and I noticed that Miss Darke’s
place was empty. I asked about her and what I was told did not seem
quite satisfactory. As a result I made some inquiries and learned that
Miss Darke had left the Milan at her usual time on the previous
evening, quite in her ordinary frame of mind and without making any
special remark to anyone there. From Mrs. Peters, her landlady, who
gave evidence here today, I learnt about the telephone message. The
fact that this message was a false one confirmed my suspicion that all
might not be well, particularly as no reason could be suggested for
the girl’s disappearance. Considering all the circumstances it was
judged wise to issue a circular that she was missing. This was done
and there was a reply from here, as you have heard. I came down and
saw that the deceased was Miss Darke.”

“And have you any idea as to how her body got into the sea?”

“None, sir.”

“What does the fact that fresh water was found in the deceased’s lungs
convey to you, Inspector?”

“Just what the doctor has said, sir; that she was drowned in fresh
water and that her body was afterwards put into the sea.”

“Can you account for that in any way other than that the girl was
murdered?”

“That is certainly the most probable explanation, though I think there
are others. For instance, the girl might have been drowned
accidentally or committed suicide and her body might have been found
by someone who feared that he might be accused of murder and therefore
in a moment of panic tried to get rid of it in a way that he hoped
would keep him from suspicion.”

“That doesn’t seem very probable.”

“It does not, sir, but one has to consider all possibilities.”

The coroner continued asking questions, but without learning anything
further of interest. Then he turned to the jury and made a short
speech. Having surveyed the evidence he continued:

“The questions which you have now to consider, gentlemen, are three in
number. First, you have to find the cause of death, if in your opinion
the evidence justifies you in doing so. Now to my mind there can be no
doubt of this. Dr. Hills has told us definitely that it was drowning.
Secondly, you have to decide whether this drowning was caused
accidentally or whether it was suicide or whether it was murder. Here
the evidence is not so direct. It has been established, however, that
the girl was drowned in fresh water and the body afterwards placed in
the sea, because apart from Dr. Hills’ testimony, we all know that
there is no river hereabouts into which the deceased could fall and in
that space of time be carried by the current to where she was found.
It is difficult to see with what object this could have been done save
that of hiding a crime. If you think that these views are borne out by
the evidence you will return a verdict of wilful murder. If, on the
other hand, you consider some other explanation tenable, such as the
ingenious one advanced by Inspector French, you may return that of
accidental death. If you consider that the evidence points to suicide
you will find accordingly.

“Your third question follows from the answer you give to the second.
If you find that murder has been committed you must state, if you can,
the guilty party or parties. As to this it appears to me that no
evidence of any kind has been placed before you. But here again you
must form your own opinion.”

Contrary to French’s opinion, the jury elected to retire. For half an
hour they considered the matter, then at last brought in the verdict
which had seemed to him self-evident—wilful murder by some person or
persons unknown.



CHAPTER IV

French Makes a Start

“I should like to introduce you to Major Bentley, our chief
constable,” said Sergeant Golightly to French as they left the
courthouse.

The major was a small dark man with a rather Jewish cast of
countenance. French had noticed him come in late to the inquest and
had imagined he was a police official.

“I was talking over this affair with the superintendent this morning,”
the major began. “He’s knocked up at present and I went to his house.
That’s why you haven’t met him. In the absence of complete knowledge
we rather took the view that the key to the matter lay in London and
that Portsmouth came into it only as the result of an accidental
selection. I should like to know, Inspector, if that’s your view
also?”

“As a matter of fact, it is, sir. I have some further information
which I didn’t think it necessary to lay before the coroner, but which
I should be pleased to give to you. It tends in that direction.”

The chief constable smiled.

“I rather imagined your evidence was—shall I say?—bowdlerized. It
occurred to me that you were mighty quick in assuming that the girl
had disappeared. All the details strictly accurate?”

“Strictly, sir.” French smiled also. “But if a meaning other than that
I intended were taken from what I said, that would not be my fault,
would it?”

“Of course not. Naturally the energies of the police must be directed
towards hoodwinking the courts, eh?”

French laughed outright.

“It has its uses,” he admitted, glancing with amusement at the
sergeant’s scandalized countenance. “But this time I fear our
adversaries are too wide awake to be taken in by it.”

“That so? Well, come along, will you, to the sergeant’s office and
let’s have our chat.”

When they were seated and had lit up three of the chief constable’s
Egyptian cigarettes French told in detail about his interview with the
dead girl and the inquiries he had already made. Both men listened
with keen attention and without interrupting.

“What’s it all about, Inspector?” Major Bentley asked when he had
finished. “Those three ruffians get these girls into their power, or
try to. But what for? Have you any theory?”

“I’ve not,” French admitted. “At first it looked like an attempt to
rob the tills of the cinemas, but all they’d get from that wouldn’t be
worth their while. It might, of course, be for immoral purposes, but
somehow I don’t think so. In any case the motive for this second
murder is clear. This Style believed that the girl Darke connected him
with the first crime, the murder of Eileen Tucker.”

“Possibly they found out that she had gone to the Yard and thought she
had given them away?”

“That’s my view. Probably they shadowed her. If so, they would see
that her ability to identify three of their members would make her so
dangerous that their only policy would be to make away with her.”

“Quite. That’s clear enough. But it doesn’t explain the first murder.”

“It does not, sir. It looks as if there was some game going on to get
the cash out of those cinemas, but how it would be done I can’t see.”

“Nor I.” The chief constable shrugged his shoulders. “Well, that’s all
very interesting, but the point about which I really wanted to consult
you is this: If the key to the matter lies in London, as I think we
are agreed that it must, the matter is one for you and not for us.”

“The body was found here, sir. It is technically a matter for you.”

“I know, but that is a detail which can easily be put right. If we
apply for help from the Yard you can sail ahead without delay?”

“That’s true, sir, or at least the Yard can. I should have to report
and wait for orders. But as I’m mixed up with the case already and as
I have no other job on hand I am sure I should be the man sent. Shall
I get on the phone to the Yard?”

“I think you should. Tell them we’re applying to the Home Office for
help from them, and that I’ve suggested that as you’re here you might
carry on.”

“Right, sir. I’ll do it now.”

But when French got through to Chief Inspector Mitchell he was
surprised by receiving a recall.

“Come and see me first, French, at all events,” said his chief. “We’ll
fix it up then.”

French travelled to Waterloo by the 8.06 p.m. from Portsmouth, and
early next morning knocked at the Chief Inspector’s door.

“Morning, French,” Mitchell greeted him. “I was a good deal interested
by the summary of those proceedings down at Portsmouth. I fancy
there’s more in this thing than we’ve got down to yet. Just start in
and give me details of what took place at the inquest.”

French obeyed. Mitchell listened without interrupting and nodded his
head when his subordinate had finished.

“I sat here,” he said slowly, “last night for a solid hour after I had
received your telephone, trying to remember a name. At last I got it.
Does Arundel convey anything to you?”

“Arundel?” French repeated. “Near Eastbourne that is, isn’t it?”

“Eastbourne your grandmother. It’s ten miles east of Chichester and
some four miles from the coast. That help you?”

French slowly shook his head. “Afraid not, sir.”

“Well, I’ll tell you. Past that little town there flows a river, the
Arun, and in that river one day last October was found the body of a
young woman. The medical evidence was that she had been drowned and as
there were no signs of violence or other suspicious circumstances a
verdict of accidental death was returned. But, French,”—Mitchell
leaned forward and became very impressive—“she was employed in the box
office of a big London cinema!”

French stared.

“Good Lord, sir! Another one?”

“Well, what do you think? And there’s more in it than that. This girl,
Agatha Frinton, was alone in the world, at least no relatives could be
discovered; she was living in a boarding house, and the landlady
stated that she had seemed very depressed for some ten days before her
death.”

“It’s another case of the same,” French declared with an oath. “As
sure as we’re alive, it is! Don’t you think so, sir?”

“It’s certainly suggestive. It looks to me like the last time your
friends wanted a recruit for their little scheme, whatever it is.”

“That’s what I think. It’s going to be a big case, this. The further
you go into it, the bigger it grows. That’s three girls we believe
they’ve murdered and goodness knows how many more there may be that we
haven’t got on to yet.”

“I have a man on that,” Mitchell declared. “He’s looking up the files.
I told him to go for any cases of the death of girls in box offices of
places of amusement, including accidents, suicides, and murders. That
should cover it?”

“That’ll cover it all right. But there’s another point, sir. We
believe they murdered Thurza Darke because they found out that she had
been at the Yard and they suspected she was going to give them away.
Had this other girl, this Agatha Frinton, been to the Yard?”

“Quite right, French,” Mitchell approved. “I have a man on that too.
He’s making a list of girls who lodged complaints which might apply.
There’s this girl, Agatha Frinton, and also that other, Eileen Tucker,
to start with. But it doesn’t follow that they need have actually
called here. A first step might have been what Sherlock Holmes used to
call oscillation on the pavement. They might have come and looked at
the door and their courage might have failed them at the last minute.
But if the gang saw them do that it might be enough.”

“It would indicate what was in the girl’s mind,” French agreed.

“Quite. Now there is another thing, French. Can we learn anything from
the geography of the affair?”

French looked his question.

“Here we have murders taking place at Caterham, Arundel, and
Lee-on-the-Solent. As geography doesn’t seem to be your long suit,
hand over the atlas and let’s look them up. See,” he went on when the
places had been found, “when you add London they make a curve: London,
Caterham, Arundel, and Lee: something like three, four, five, and six
on a clock. Anything in that?”

French pondered, then slowly shook his head.

“Well, bear it in mind,” Mitchell advised. “Later it may give you a
hint as to this precious gang’s headquarters.”

“Then, sir, I am to take up the case?”

“Certainly. Get right on with it at once.”

“Very good, sir. I’ll go round to the cinema and Thurza Darke’s
boarding house again now I’m here, but I fancy my best hopes are at
Portsmouth. There’s quite a chance that they may have left traces when
they were getting the body into the sea.”

“Quite. It shouldn’t take you long to bring them in. You’ve plenty to
go on. You have the descriptions of at least three of the gang and you
have these three murders to go into, for I think we may take it this
Arundel affair was part of it.”

“I’ll get at it immediately. I suppose,” French hesitated, “you’ve no
idea what they might be up to?”

“I’m afraid not. Some way of robbing the cinemas occurs to one at
once, but I don’t see how it could be done on a big enough scale to be
worth while.”

“That’s what I thought. In fact I don’t see how it could be done at
all.”

“You’ll get an idea before long, I fancy. Well, get ahead, French. If
you get tied up at Portsmouth you can try Arundel and if you make a
mess of that you can move on to Caterham. Between them all you should
pull the job off.”

French felt a small glow of appreciation for his chief as he left the
room. Mitchell was certainly a man to work for. He knew his job from A
to Z and his power of getting straight to the heart of things was
little short of uncanny. He was as straight as they are made and when
he could legitimately do so he always supported his men. Moreover he
made allowances for human weakness and beneath his somewhat short
manner there was a very real vein of kindliness. French had never met
anyone whom he would rather serve under.

He lost no time in getting to work. Beginning with the boarding house,
he interviewed not only Mrs. Peters, but the servants and some of the
boarders with whom the deceased girl had been on specially intimate
terms. Unfortunately from them he learnt nothing. Nor did a meticulous
search of Miss Darke’s belongings give better results. Then he drove
to Mr. Arrowsmith’s office and interrogated the typist, Jennie Cox.
From her he obtained a good deal of information as to the dead girl’s
life, but again none of it threw light on his present problem.

By the time he had finished with Miss Cox the Milan was open and after
lunch he went there to continue his inquiries. Here after considerable
trouble he learned one new fact, not indeed an important one, but
still something.

An attendant whom he had not seen on his previous visit had been on
duty in the entrance hall on the night on which Miss Darke had
disappeared. About quarter before eleven a young lady had come in. As
the show was nearly over he had wondered what she wanted and had
watched her particularly. She had gone to Miss Darke’s box and a short
but animated conversation had taken place between the two ladies. He
had overheard the stranger say as she was leaving: “Cheerio, then.
I’ll wait for you at the corner.” She was a tall, good-looking girl,
stylishly dressed, with a fur coat, and she seemed eager and excited
and as if pleased about something. The attendant had noticed also that
Miss Darke had hurried away as soon as she could.

In spite of the man’s somewhat meagre description, French had little
doubt of the visitor’s identity. That she was Gwen Lestrange he would
have bet long odds. He immediately set to work on the clue. After
examining the remainder of the cinema staff he arranged for the
interrogation of the police who had been on duty in the immediate
neighbourhood on the night in question, and circulated an inquiry
among the taximen of the district in the hope that the girls might
have engaged a vehicle.

The great machine of the C.I.D. having thus been set in motion in
London, he returned at eight o’clock to Portsmouth. Smoking a
meditative after-dinner pipe in the train, he set himself to take
stock of the facts which he had already learnt and to see if they
would yield any deductions which might indicate the way in which he
should go.

He saw at once that the inquiry resolved itself into two separate and
distinct problems. There was the immediate question of the identity of
the trio who had murdered these poor girls. For French believed with
his chief that all three crimes were the work of the same parties. But
behind that there was the further problem of motive. What were these
three people doing that should lead them to so terrible an expedient?

It did not require much thought to show French that he must
concentrate on the first of these questions. Until the criminals were
discovered the second question could scarcely be approached. Indeed,
the establishment of their identity might lead directly to the
discovery of their motive.

Of the murder of Thurza Darke therefore, just what did he know?

She had left the Milan at 11.15 in her usual health and spirits and
her dead body was found in the Solent at about 7.00 the next morning.
The evidence of her watch tended to the belief that she was murdered
at 1.07 and this was supported by the doctor’s statement.

French wondered if he could make a provisional time-table of the
happenings on that tragic night. Again and again he had found that
nothing had so cleared up his views on a case as the fixing of a
duration to each incident. Perhaps in this case also it would give
light.

In the first place he considered the time which he should allow for
the actual murder. Even with his case-hardened mind he did not care to
dwell on the ghastly details. But he felt sure that it could not have
been completed in less than half an hour. When he added the time
necessary for the kidnapping he felt sure a good deal longer would
have been required. Assume however half an hour: 11.15 to 1.07, less
half an hour was about 80 minutes.

It was evident in the next place that the journey from London must
have been made by car. There was no train and the difficulties of
using an aeroplane would have been overwhelming. Moreover, the fastest
motor launch would have taken too long for a sea passage to have been
taken.

He had brought a map and guide-book of the district and these gave the
distance from London to Lee as something like 78 miles. From the above
facts it followed that the crime could not have been committed at Lee.
It must have been done within an 80-minute journey from London.

In 80 minutes French thought it unlikely that more than thirty miles
could have been done. With such a freight no driver would have run the
risk of being held up by the police for speeding. Thirty miles from
London in the general direction of Portsmouth brought him to the
district containing Wokingham, Aldershot, Godalming, Horsham, and
Ashdown Forest. He thought that a provisional assumption was justified
that the murder had been committed either in London or somewhere on
the London side of this circle.

Some fifty miles had then to be covered. On these country roads a
higher speed might be admitted. Still French did not believe Lee could
have been reached before about half past three in the morning.

The remains would then have to be put into the sea, an operation which
would also have taken time. Suppose it took half an hour. This would
have brought the time to four o’clock. About four it would be
beginning to get light, and French was sure the criminals would do
their utmost to get away as soon as possible from a place with such
dangerous associations.

When the train ran into Portsmouth station French was smiling
contentedly. He was pleased with his progress. From nothing whatever
he had evolved the definite concept of a car arriving at a point near
Lee at some time between, say, 3.00 a.m. and 5.00 a.m. on the morning
of Tuesday, the 19th of June, and of the carrying of the body from
this point to the sea. Possibly a study of the shore and currents
might enable him to fix that point within short limits. If so, it
would be strange indeed if he did not find some further clues. In a
hopeful frame of mind he put up at the Splendid at Southsea, his plans
for the next day settled.



CHAPTER V

Lee-on-the-Solent

When French woke next morning he found a brilliant sun pouring in
through his window. A good omen, he thought, as he gazed out on a sea
just as blue and sparkling as the Mediterranean had looked from the
hotel in Nice at which he had stayed when investigating the wanderings
of the Pyke cousins. With luck he would make progress today.

A short journey through Portsmouth and Gosport brought him to
Lee-on-the-Solent, a pleasantly situated little town of new houses,
stretched out along the shore. Five minutes later he was turning in at
the gate of Mr. Austin Munn’s neat villa.

There the first instalment of his luck materialized. Mr. Munn, clad in
white yachting flannels, was reading the paper on a rustic seat in a
shady nook. French went over to him.

“Oh,” said Munn, getting up. “You’re the inspector, aren’t you? Lovely
morning. Do you wish to see me?”

“For a few moments, if you please.”

“Certainly. Shall we sit here or would you rather go into my study?”

“I can’t imagine anything better than this. A delightful place you
have here, Mr. Munn.”

“Not too bad on a fine morning,” Munn admitted. “Will you smoke,
Inspector?” He held out a gold cigarette case. “Terrible business
about that poor girl.”

“That of course is what I want to see you about,” French returned,
selecting an opulent looking Turkish cigarette. “The local police have
called in Scotland Yard and I’ve been put in charge of the case. I
want to ask you for some help.”

“Only too glad if I can do anything, but I’ve already told all I
know.”

“I’m in hopes that you can help me all the same. First I’d like to fix
just where you picked the body up. I have an Ordnance map here and
perhaps you could mark the spot.”

French unrolled the 6-inch map he had brought from London. Munn bent
over it.

“It was about here,” he pointed, “to the east of Stokes Bay almost off
Gilkicker Point.”

“And how far from the shore?”

“A mile, I should say. Not less, possibly more.”

“Here?” French made a cross at the place. “Now how was the tide
running?”

“Flowing, but the current was running out. You see, we have rather
peculiar tides here. The run in and out doesn’t exactly correspond
with the rise and fall.”

“I didn’t know that ever obtained.”

“Oh, yes. It’s caused, of course, by the configuration of the coast.
It’s a bit confusing at first. For about two and a half hours after
high water the current continues to run up the estuary, though the
actual level is falling. Then for some eight hours it runs out. Now on
that Monday night it was high water shortly after one o’clock, summer
time. After that the tide level began to fall, but the current was
still running up towards Southampton. About three-thirty in the
morning the current changed and began to run out towards the sea. Low
water was about seven-thirty on Tuesday morning, but the current
continued to run out for another four hours. That’s roughly what
happens, though if you want stricter accuracy you would say ‘westerly
and easterly’ instead of ‘up and down the estuary.’”

“I think I follow you. At what time did you find the body?”

“About seven.”

“Then if I have understood you correctly, when the body was found
about seven the tide current was running seawards, and had been since
three-thirty?”

“That’s right.”

“Now, Mr. Munn, this is where I want your help. Rightly or wrongly I
have formed the opinion that the body was placed in the sea at some
time between three and five that morning, most probably about four
o’clock. Assuming that is so, where do you think it might have been
put in?”

History seemed to French to be repeating itself as he asked the
question. It was not so long since he had sat on the stones at the end
of the pier at Burry Port in South Wales and asked stout Coastguard
Tom Manners how the tides ran in the Burry Inlet and where a crate
which had been found off Llanelly might have been dropped into the
water.* If this went on, he thought, he might set up as a tide
specialist. He only hoped that today’s inquiries would have as
satisfactory results as those on that former occasion.

   * _The Sea Mystery_, published 1928, in which Inspector French,
   with no evidence to go by but the naked body of a man washed up
   from the sea, solved a crime of amazing ingenuity.

Like Tom Manners, Munn hesitated over his answer, whistling the while
under his breath.

“I should say,” he replied at last, “a short way above Lee. Perhaps at
Lee, perhaps at Hill Head, probably somewhere between the two. It’s
not easy to say with any degree of accuracy.”

“That’s good enough, Mr. Munn. You see what I’m after? If I search the
coast where you suggest I may find some kind of clue.”

Munn shook his head. “I rather question it,” he answered slowly.

French’s eyes narrowed. “Now just why do you say that?”

“I’ll tell you. It hadn’t occurred to me before, but your question
suggested it. I don’t believe the body was put in from the shore at
all.”

“But——”

“I think it was too far out,” Munn went on. “I don’t mean that the
tide runs exactly parallel to the shore. It doesn’t. But an object put
in at the shore near Hill Head or Lee would not have got so far out
from the land as the distance to Stokes Bay.”

French nodded.

“I follow you. You mean that the body must have been thrown in at some
considerable distance from the shore?”

“Either that or it must have been thrown in earlier and come down from
nearer Southampton.”

“It couldn’t have been much earlier,” French objected. “Remember the
poor girl was alive and well in London at eleven-fifteen that night.”
He paused in his turn, then went on: “Any chance of getting a boat
along there?”

Munn gave him a sharp glance.

“On compulsory loan? Yes, I believe that would be possible, Inspector.
Several of the residents along the shore have boats which lie out at
night in the summer. I should think one could be borrowed. But your
criminals couldn’t get any oars. They’re always taken in when the
boats are out of use.”

“That may prove an additional clue,” French declared. “I’m sure I’m
greatly obliged, Mr. Munn. Thanks to you, my next move is clear. I
shall search this stretch of coast in the hope of finding that a boat
and oars were tampered with. If I am lucky enough to find them it may
lead me on to something else.”

The day was living up to its early promise as he took leave of Munn
and set off on foot along the shore. The prospect was charming. Across
the blue, sparkling waters of the Solent lay Cowes, peeping out behind
the Osborne Woods, while upstream, on the opposite side of Southampton
Water, the long, low coastline rose dark and tree clad from shore to
serrated horizon. The sea was dotted with the white sails of pleasure
craft, and close under the island a great liner moved rapidly up
towards Southampton. At intervals along the road were villas, opposite
many of which were boats. To “borrow” one of these during the hours of
darkness should certainly be easy.

But how was he to find out whether or not it had been done? He could
see but one way and that long and tedious. He must make house to house
inquiries as to whether, first, any trace had been found of the taking
out of a boat, and second, anyone had been heard or seen on the shore
about the time in question.

Soon he found his premonition justified. A longer or more tedious job
he had seldom tackled. At house after house he called, waited
interminably until some responsible person could see him, talked that
person into a sympathetic frame of mind and then put his questions.
With one inquisitive and voluble householder after another he searched
boats, investigated the hiding places of oars and questioned servants.
All to no purpose. Nothing helpful was to be learnt. He carried on
while the day wore slowly away, growing more tired and dispirited with
each fruitless repetition. At last only one group of houses was left
and he began rather despairingly to wonder what he would do if he did
not get news at one of them.

But just as he was losing hope the luck turned. In this case the owner
was at home and on learning French’s business became interested. He
had, he said, been shocked to read of the murder and would be glad to
do anything to bring the criminals to justice. He at once called the
members of his household that French might put his questions. And when
this led to no result he went down with French to examine the boat.

It was moored off the end of a slip. A short painter was made fast to
the bight of an endless rope which passed through pulleys fixed to the
end of the slip and to a pole driven into the beach some eighty or a
hundred feet farther out to sea. This arrangement enabled the boat to
be kept clear of slip and pole, while by pulling on the rope the
painter could be drawn to the slip. A cord, lapping the parallel parts
of the rope at the pulley, prevented accidental movement.

The moment the owner, Mr. Farrar, saw this cord he exclaimed:

“Hullo! Some one has been here! I never left that cord like that!”

“No?” French answered, his spirits rising with a bound. “How did you
leave it?”

“I don’t know if you know anything about knots,” Mr. Farrar went on.
“If you do you will see that this is an ordinary clove hitch such as a
skilful landsman might make. Now I always use what is called a ratline
lock. It was shown to me by a Norwegian sailor whom I once met.”

“Pretty conclusive,” French admitted. “How long is it since you had
the boat out?”

“Must be over a week,” Farrar said. “I have been in town for the last
four days and I am sure it was four days before that.”

“Very satisfactory. Might we have the boat in? I should like a look at
it.”

Farrar loosened the cord, and pulling on the rope, drew the boat in to
the slip. It was about twelve feet long and strongly built and wide in
the beam. A good sea boat, French thought.

He got in and began one of his meticulous examinations. Almost at once
his efforts were rewarded.

Caught in a splinter of one of the stern bottom boards was a tiny
scrap—little more than a thread—of fawn coloured material. It was just
the shade of Miss Darke’s coat and skirt and French had not the
slightest doubt that it would match the slight tear he had noticed.

“That fixes the matter, I fancy,” he said as he put his find carefully
away in an envelope. “Part of the dead girl’s skirt. I noticed it had
been torn. Now let’s see if there is anything else.”

Never since it had left the builder’s hands, if then, had that boat
had such an examination as it got that afternoon. But it contained
nothing else which might form a clue nor could French find any
fingerprints.

This matter of the boat seemed to him to supply the answer to a
question which had puzzled him from the first. If the criminals’
object had been to dispose secretly of the body, why had they chosen a
landlocked piece of water like the Solent, particularly one so alive
with shipping? The answer was evident: the boat. On no part of the
open coast could they find boats so conveniently placed for
“borrowing.” The ease of getting the boat would clearly outweigh the
increased risk that the body might be found.

He rejoined Farrar on the slip.

“That’s really excellent,” he said with ill repressed delight. “It
shows that I am on the right track.”

“But I don’t see how finding this will help you. There is nothing here
to indicate who used the boat.”

French did not feel called on to deliver a dissertation on the science
of detection.

“It may be a help. You never can tell,” was his summary of the
situation. “By the way what about oars? Where do you keep yours?”

“They couldn’t have got the oars. They are never left in the boat. We
take them up to the house when we’ve finished with them. The criminals
must have stolen oars elsewhere or brought their own.”

“One other question. You’ve told me you didn’t see anyone about on
that Monday night or hear a car. Now can you suggest anyone who might
possibly have been out?”

Farrar shrugged.

“How could I?”

“Well, who are the doctors in this part of the world? Was there a
dance in the neighbourhood? You see what I mean?”

Farrar saw, but couldn’t help. He gave the names of four medical men,
any one of whom might have been called in by residents in the
district. But he didn’t know of anyone who had been. And then suddenly
he slapped his thigh.

“But I do though, after all,” he exclaimed. “Findlay’s wife had a son
that morning! You bet Findlay was out for the doctor. You should go
and see him; he’s an architect in Portsmouth. Or if you like you can
come back to the house and ring him up. I’ll introduce you.”

French accepted gratefully and in a few minutes the call was put
through. Findlay was equally ready to help. Yes, his wife had been
confined on the night in question and he had gone for the doctor
shortly before four—Dr. Lappin, of Lee. But he had met no one on the
road nor had he seen a car.

“A call on Dr. Lappin seems to be indicated,” French declared as he
once again thanked Farrar for his help.

“Well,” said the latter with a sidelong look, “since you mention it,
do you know why I told you about Findlay?”

“Why?”

“For this reason. I know something about the police and I may tell you
that you’re the first officer who has ever come to ask me a question
in what I may call a really civil way. It is generally: ‘Tell me or
it’ll be the worse for you.’ But when you treated me as a friend who
might be able to help you, why, I thought I’d do it.”

“I don’t think our people are as bad as you make out, Mr. Farrar. But
I’m much obliged to you all the same.”

After a hurriedly snatched cup of tea French presented himself at Dr.
Lappin’s door. The doctor was just going out, but he turned back with
his visitor.

“Yes,” he agreed, “I left here shortly after four. It is about five
minutes’ run to Mr. Findlay’s and I should say that I got there about
four-fifteen.”

“And did you notice a car?”

“As a matter of fact I did. Now let me see where it was. Yes, I
remember it distinctly. It was about half a mile on the Hill Head side
of the wireless station, where the road turns inland. I can show you
the very place if you wish me to.”

“It passed you there?”

“I passed it. It was standing at the side of the road and the driver
was working at the engine. He had the lid of the bonnet raised and was
bending over it. I slowed up and called out to know if there was
anything wrong, but he replied only a dirty plug and that he had got
it right.”

This was good news. French felt that he was on the trail once more.
With his interest aroused to the keenest pitch he went on with his
questions.

“There was only one man there?”

“I saw only one. The car was a fairly large one, a saloon. It was not
lighted up and there might have been others inside, but I didn’t see
anyone.”

“Was there a moon?”

“No, but dawn was breaking. I could see objects fairly clearly, but no
more.”

“Now, what about the man outside? Could you describe him?”

“Not well. He was muffled up in a coat and had a soft hat pulled down
over his eyes. As far as I could see he was a tallish, thin man with a
pale face and small moustache. But I couldn’t be sure of that.”

“Anything peculiar about his accent?”

“It occurred to me that he had a sort of inflexion in his voice such
as you hear in Ireland or South Wales. I don’t know about North Wales,
as I’ve never been there.”

“High pitched or low?”

“Rather high of the two.”

Better and better! If this was not Style, French would, so he said to
himself, eat his hat.

“I see. Now, doctor, can you describe the car more fully?”

“I really don’t think I can, except that it was a middle-sized, grey
saloon. Possibly a Daimler, though really I have no right to give such
an opinion. But it seemed rather that shape. Of course that’s the
shape of a lot of other makes as well. But I saw the number.”

“The number! Why, sir, you did well. What was it?”

The doctor smiled thinly.

“I’m afraid I don’t deserve as much credit as you seem to think,” he
protested. “It happened to be the number of my own car, less one
figure. Mine is 7385 and this one was 7395—one figure different, you
see. But whereas my car is registered in Hampshire, this one had a
Surrey initial.”

“This is valuable information, Dr. Lappin,” French declared. “Now
before I go do you think there is anything else that you can tell me?
You didn’t see anyone on the road, for instance?”

But Dr. Lappin had not noticed anyone. The facts he had mentioned he
was sure of, but he knew no others. When he had returned about seven
the car was gone. He promised French to give any evidence that might
be required and that in the meantime he would say nothing of what he
knew.

On his return to Portsmouth French drafted a police circular. It was
believed that a middle-sized, grey saloon car, possibly a Daimler and
possibly registered in Surrey and numbered 7395, had travelled from
London to Lee and back during the night of the 18th/19th inst. Had
anyone seen or heard of such a vehicle? Three persons were believed to
have been in the car—here followed descriptions of Westinghouse,
Style, and Gwen Lestrange. Had these persons been noticed? Had anyone
been seen taking out or replacing a boat between Lee and Hill Head
during the same night?

From the police station French went to interview the coastguards, but
unfortunately without result.

Delighted with the result of his first day’s work, he went early to
bed and slept the sleep of the weary.



CHAPTER VI

The Supreme Appeal Court

Though self-congratulation is not precisely the same as pride, common
experience teaches us that it is usually followed, if not by a fall,
at least by a disappointment. French’s satisfaction at his rapid
progress was no doubt natural, but its sequel proved an illustration
of this unhappy principle.

After his first day’s achievement there followed a period of
stagnation. It was not that he did not show energy and industry. On
the contrary no one could have done more. Rather was it as if the
Fates disapproved his frame of mind and withheld the success which his
efforts deserved.

And yet the second day began well. On reaching the Portsmouth police
station the next morning news was awaiting him, news moreover which at
first sight seemed valuable enough. Shortly before four on the morning
of the crime a motor car resembling in every respect that described in
his circular was seen passing through Titchfield in the direction of
Lee. It was driving fast, but not fast enough to provoke the
interference of the constable who observed it. There being nothing to
call the man’s special attention to it, he had unfortunately omitted
to note its number. But he had noticed on the left running board an
object some four or five feet long by six inches in diameter, tied up
in canvas and not unlike a bag of large golf clubs.

A second report had come in from Fareham. At about five or a little
later a similar car had passed through the town. It had been seen
twice, first approaching from the direction of Gosport, and a few
moments later leaving on the road towards Bishop’s Waltham. Both the
men who had seen it believed that it contained two persons besides the
driver, and both had seen the canvas package.

That this car had carried the body of the murdered girl, French had
little doubt. It was true that Dr. Lappin had not observed the
package. But French believed that this was for the excellent reason
that when the doctor passed the car it was not there. For he felt sure
that he knew what that package contained. In this carefully planned
crime the murderers knew that though they could “borrow” a boat there
would be no oars in it. French had little doubt that beneath the
canvas cover lay a pair of oars divided into two by some form of
socketed joint.

After it had left Fareham the car seemed to have vanished into thin
air. In spite of French’s most persistent inquiries no further trace
of it could be found. Nor did a single one of the vast army of men who
were on the lookout ever identify anyone as a possible actor in the
terrible drama.

The clue of the car number had also petered out, though as French had
not expected much from it he was the less disappointed. Inquiries had
shown that the car bearing the number seen by Dr. Lappin belonged to a
well-known Surrey resident of unimpeachable character. There was
moreover ample proof that the car had been in the owner’s garage
during the entire night of the crime.

As soon as he was satisfied that every agency which could be directed
towards the tracing of the car or the gang was working at highest
pressure, French went down to Arundel and made exhaustive inquiries
into the tragic death of Agatha Frinton. But though he was untiring in
his efforts, he found out nothing more than the local police had
already reported.

After a week of fruitless work he transferred his activities to
Caterham. Here almost immediately he learned an interesting fact. On
the third night before the discovery of the tragedy there had been a
dance. One of the guests’ homeward way lay past the quarry hole in
which the body of Eileen Tucker had been found. There, at about three
in the morning he had passed a car standing at the side of the road,
the driver bending over his engine. He had stopped and asked if
anything was wrong and the man had replied that it was only a dirty
plug and that he would have it changed in a few minutes. But though
the night was calm he had not heard the car start. Unfortunately he
could not describe the driver, except to say that he was tall and
spoke with a rather high-pitched voice.

These facts tended to confirm French’s theory that the crime was the
work of the same trio as were guilty in the Portsmouth case. But
beyond that they helped him not at all. No further trace of the car or
its occupant could be found.

Then ensued a period of waiting, heartbreaking to French. In spite of
his own efforts and those of his army of helpers no further facts were
discovered. No irregularities had taken place in connection with the
box office cash at any London cinema. No box office girls had left
unexpectedly. Day after day French had to report failure, and each day
Chief Inspector Mitchell shook his head and looked grave. “We must get
them,” the Chief would say. “If we don’t some other poor girl’s death
may lie on our consciences.” To which French could only reply that he
knew it, but that everything he could think of was being done.

The strain began to affect his nerves and it must be admitted that not
infrequently “Soapy Joe” was anything but saponaceous in manner. Mrs.
French soon noticed it and it annoyed her.

“What on earth’s bitten you, Joe?” she asked one evening when
absent-mindedness and short answers were all that she could extract by
a thrilling tale of the next door neighbour’s servant’s delinquencies.

“Nothing,” said French.

“Nothing,” she repeated scornfully. “Don’t tell me a pack of lies.
You’ve had something on your mind for the last fortnight. What’s the
matter?”

“Well,” French admitted, “I suppose it’s this confounded case. I don’t
seem to get any forrader with it. I should have had those three people
long before this and I can’t get a line on them anywhere.”

“I thought it was that. Now, I’ll tell you what you’ll do. You’ll put
the thing out of your head and take me to the Palladium. Then when we
come home I’ll make some tea and you’ll tell me the whole story.
Telling it like that will perhaps clear it up in your mind and you’ll
see how to get on.”

French did not often bring his business into his home or discuss his
cases with his wife. But on certain occasions when he had felt utterly
up against it he had put his difficulties before her in detail, and it
had not seldom happened that she had made some remark or thrown out
some suggestion which when followed up had led him to his goal. He
remembered particularly one case when she had practically told him the
solution of a problem which he himself had been utterly unable to
imagine—that worrying conundrum of the identity of the mysterious Mrs.
X in the Gething murder case of Hatton Garden. Suddenly a wave of hope
flowed over him. Perhaps in this case also she would, as he put it,
“take a notion.”

With a sudden recrudescence of his old energy he jumped to his feet,
crossed the room and implanted a whole-hearted and resounding kiss on
the good lady’s cheek.

“Bless you, Em,” he cried. “You’re not such a bad old sort. We just
will. Come along.”

They went along; he, throwing off his depression and in better heart
than he had been for many days, enjoying the programme, laughing
unaffectedly over the jokes; she, saying little and caring nothing for
the show, but full of a tender maternal feeling for this great child
in whom all her life was centred.

When they reached home she made the promised tea, but French with
amazing sleight of hand managed to transform his portion into a glass
of whisky and hot water during its passage from the kitchen. He was
not a drinker, but occasionally of an evening or if he met a friend he
would take what he called “half a peg.” This evening somehow seemed to
require some such form of celebration.

For, illogical though it might be, he had suddenly become wholly
optimistic. Far more than he realized he was building on the chance of
his wife’s “taking one of her notions.”

Presently they began to discuss the affair, she seated and bending
over a piece of sewing, he on his feet and moving restlessly about.

“I don’t see, Emily, that I can tell you very much more about it,” he
declared. “I explained it to you before. There have been no fresh
developments since then.”

“Huh,” she returned as she drew back her head and looked critically at
her work. “Then tell me again.”

Pacing slowly up and down the room, French retold the whole story: the
call from Arrowsmith, the interview with Thurza Darke, the checking up
of the girl’s story, the appointment in the National Gallery which she
failed to keep, the search for her and its tragic end at Portsmouth,
the crimes at Arundel and Caterham, and lastly the means which were
still in operation to find the criminals.

To all this she seemed to pay but scant attention, eyes and fingers
being concentrated on her work. From her manner French never could
tell whether she was really listening to him or not, though afterwards
he usually found she had grasped every detail. When he had finished he
waited eagerly for her comment. But she still remained silent, folding
and tacking the corners of her work with apparently no thought for
anything else in the world. At last however she spoke, and as her
remark took the form of a question, his hopes bounded up.

“You think those three poor girls were all murdered by the same
people?” she said slowly.

“Well, don’t you?” he answered. “All three were employed——”

“And Mr. Mitchell thinks so too?”

“Certainly he does. You see, if——”

“And both you and Mr. Mitchell think that they were murdered because
they got hold of the secret of this gang?”

“To all intents and purposes, yes. We can’t tell whether the girls
actually knew the secret, but they knew enough to be dangerous. We
think Thurza Darke may have been followed to the Yard.”

Mrs. French slowly threaded her needle, giving to the operation
immense thought and care. Then as if once again able to attend to
trifles, she went on:

“If you’re right in that, it follows that these three are up to some
pretty serious business. If they would sacrifice three lives to
preserve their secret it must be a pretty dangerous or a pretty
valuable one?”

“Well, of course, Emily. There can’t surely be any doubt of that?”

French was feeling slightly disappointed and a trifle irritated. This
was not like his wife. He had hoped for something more illuminating.
But he was not prepared for her next question.

“Have they stopped it?” she asked abruptly.

“Eh?” he returned. “Stopped it? Why, that’s just it. We have no reason
to think so. And that’s what’s bothering us most of all. If some other
poor girl——”

“Because if they haven’t stopped it it must still be going on.”

“Of course it’s going on, or at least we think so,” he said
impatiently. What did she mean by harping on with these obvious facts?
“What’s in your mind, Emily? I don’t see what you’re after.”

“Well, if it’s going on now, that should surely give you all you
want.”

“All I want?” He stared at her with a sudden thrill. Something was
going to come out of this after all! “For heaven’s sake, Emily, what
do you mean?”

But Mrs. French was not to be hurried. Deliberately she rearranged her
work and started on a new corner.

“Wasn’t that Darke girl upset when you saw her?” she went on slowly.

“Very much so. She thought she——”

“And she had been upset for some time before you saw her?”

“Yes. She thought those ruffians Westinghouse and Style were——”

“And those other two girls? They were upset too before they
disappeared?”

“Yes, I found that both had evidently had something on their minds for
a considerable time. The people at their boarding houses and at the
cinemas had noticed it. But how does that help? It only means that all
three knew they were in a tight place.”

“It means far more than that. It gives you all you want so far as I
see.”

French swung round in his walk with a gesture of impatience.

“For the love of heaven, Emily, can’t you say what’s in your mind? How
does it give me anything?”

“I’ve a good mind to let you think for yourself. You’re not shining
just at present, Joseph French.”

He recognized “her way.” Exasperated by it, but thrilled by the
possibility of some light really coming, he answered eagerly: “Don’t
worry about me, old lady. Get on and let’s have the big idea.”

“Surely it’s simple enough. Cinema box office girls are necessary to
this thing, whatever it is. All the girls whom you found mixed up in
it showed unmistakable signs of being upset. The thing is still going
on. Other girls will therefore be mixed up in it. These girls will
therefore be upset. Well, find them.”

For the second time that evening French strode over to his wife and
implanted a hearty kiss on her cheek.

“By Jove, old girl, but you lick creation! It’s an idea, that is.
Quite an idea.” He swung up and down the room, enthusiastic, then
hesitated as a wave of misgiving swept over him.

“Well, what is it?”

The phrase about marriage being the domestication of the Recording
Angel passed inconsequently through his mind. He hoped his Emily
didn’t _always_ read his thoughts as he answered:

“When those first two girls were put away some crisis in the gang’s
affairs must surely have arisen. When the business is running normally
they may not be upset at all. It may be running normally now.”

“Well, if it’s running normally there won’t be any more murders, which
is what you say you want to guard against,” she answered drily. “If
murder is threatened the girls will be upset and that’ll give you
warning. Don’t go out of your way to _make_ difficulties.”

It was his only chance. As he lay awake that night thinking over the
conversation and viewing his wife’s suggestion more soberly than in
his first flush of delight, he felt that, while unpromising, it
offered at least a possibility of progress. At all events he decided
that next morning he would begin to work on the idea.

He found his new quest a more difficult job than he had anticipated.
There was no use in asking the managers of the various London cinemas
whether any of the girls under their charge had lately displayed signs
of hidden anxiety. So long as the work was done, the managers would
neither know nor care. He must in some way observe the girls
themselves.

But this was no more easy. It was out of the question for him to
scrape acquaintance with all the cinema box office girls in London. It
would take him a year. There must be some quicker way.

At last he decided that inquiries from the door porters was his most
promising plan. Accordingly he spent some days going round the
cinemas. At each he drew the most likely looking man aside and pledged
him to secrecy.

“I may tell you,” he began confidentially in each case, “that I am a
detective from Scotland Yard and that I am looking for a certain girl
who has got into the hands of a gang of crooks. You will understand
that it is not the girl personally that we’re after, but the crooks.
Got that?”

The men got it without difficulty.

“We don’t know who the girl is, but we know two things about her.
First, she is employed in the box office of a London cinema, and
second, because of her association with the crooks she will be
considerably worried and troubled.

“Now I can’t go round all the box office girls in London to see if
they are showing signs of mental trouble. And that is where you come
in. You know the girls in your box office. I want you to tell me
whether any of them have become worried looking lately as if they were
in some trouble. That’s all.”

Upon this the idiosyncrasies of the various men came out. Some were
satisfied with the story and immediately gave an intelligent answer.
Others required further explanation and much questioning and
suggestion before risking an opinion. Still others were suspicious and
gave French a lot of trouble before he managed to get their views.
Lastly, some were simply stupid. Of these he could make little.

At last after immense labour he obtained the names and addresses of
eleven girls, all of whom, according to the porters, seemed to be in
trouble of some kind.

His next business was to find out the cause in each case. Here again
the problem was horribly difficult. No doubt it could be done by
scraping acquaintance with each and in time forcing a confidence. But
French had not time for such methods. He had spent long enough on the
case as it was, and Mitchell was beginning to hint that he would not
stand for his remaining on it much longer.

He began by sending a man round the addresses. Five of them were
boarding houses. Other things being equal, he believed the gang would
select girls from boarding houses. They had done so before and the
reason was not far to seek. Girls who were alone in the world were
more defenceless and easier prey than those who had a family behind
them. Therefore it would be wise to start with these five girls.

Calling at the boarding houses in turn when the girls would be on
duty, he asked to see the landladies.

“I’m sorry to trouble you,” he began in each case, “but I am making
some inquiries about Miss Dash, who, I understand, lives here and is
employed in the Asterisk Cinema. I advertised recently for a cashier
for my business and she has applied. She seems suitable except for one
thing. She gives me the impression of being very depressed and
melancholy, as if something were preying on her mind. Now I would not
care for a girl of that kind. I called therefore to ask whether you
could tell me if her depression is temperamental or whether it is
caused by some passing trouble from which she is likely to recover.”

Like the porters, the landladies reacted differently to this stimulus.
One accepted French’s statement without hesitation and replied volubly
that Miss Dash was the best and brightest of girls, but that owing to
the recent death of her young man she was temporarily below her usual
form. Another was circumspect, but allowed French to understand that
it was believed that the course of true love was not running as
smoothly as it might be desirable. A third was even more discreet,
regretting that she was not in the confidence of her young ladies,
while the remaining two evidently assumed sinister designs on French’s
part, and would give nothing away.

He realized that he had not gained much from his visits. Even the
first two girls were not out of the running, as were they in the
clutches of the gang, they might easily have invented the stories told
by their landladies in order to prevent suspicion attaching to their
manner. But this was not likely and French decided that he would first
investigate the lives of the other three, those about whose depression
their respective landladies would not talk. These were Miss Lillian
Burgess of the Cosmopolitan Cinema in the Haymarket, Miss Molly Moran
of the Panopticon in Leicester Square, and Miss Esther Isaacs of the
Venetian in the Strand. It wasn’t perhaps very likely, but from one of
these he _might_ learn something.



CHAPTER VII

Fair Passengers

Once he had decided his course of action, French was not the man to
let the grass grow under his feet. On that very same evening on which
he had learnt of the existence of the three box office girls, he began
his investigation into their lives.

His first move was to warn his helpers, Sergeants Carter and Harvey,
for duty at nine o’clock. Promptly at the hour the trio sallied forth
from the Yard and turned their steps in the direction of the
Haymarket.

“It’s in connection with that Portsmouth murder,” French explained as
they walked. “I want three girls shadowed. We’ll do one each. But I
want each of you to recognize all three, so we’ll go round first and
I’ll point them out.”

The façade of the Cosmopolitan blazed with coruscations of flaming
lights as they ascended the marble steps to its doors. Just inside
stood French’s friend, the porter.

A word from French and he pointed to the pay box over which Miss
Lillian Burgess presided.

“Girl in this box is Number One,” French whispered, then going to the
window he put down a pound.

“Three stalls, please.”

The girl dropped out the three metal disc tickets and rapidly laid a
ten-shilling note and a shilling on the ledge.

“Could you spare me silver?” French asked her. “I’m short of change.”

Without replying, Miss Burgess took back the note and replaced it with
a small pile of coins.

The whole transaction was a matter of seconds, yet in the time each
member of the trio had carefully observed the young woman and
impressed her features on his memory. As they passed into the
auditorium and out again into the street via the bar each could have
creditably passed an examination as to her face, dress, and to some
extent, manners.

“Now for Number Two,” said French.

They repeated their proceedings at the gorgeous Panopticon in
Leicester Square, where, unknown to the lady herself, they made the
acquaintance of Miss Molly Moran. Then they went down to the Strand
and similarly “met” Miss Esther Isaacs at the Venetian.

“That’s all right until shortly before eleven,” French declared. “I
want each of these girls followed home. If they meet anyone get his or
her description. I’ll do the Cosmopolitan, Carter the Panopticon, and
Harvey this place. Here are the girls’ addresses. As soon as they get
home you may drop it for the night. But I’ll want you at eight-thirty
in the morning at the Yard. We’re carrying on tomorrow.”

The three men separated. Harvey suggested that as they were in the
cinema they might as well see the programme, and settled down to enjoy
himself. Carter was not on for pictures and went to look up a friend
who lived close by, while French, feeling restless and unsettled, set
off for a stroll through the crowded streets.

Though a Londoner, French could never get over his wonder at the
streets, especially at night. The blazing lights, the flashing sky
signs, the endless streams of vehicles on the polished asphalt surface
of the roadway, the sauntering or hurrying crowds on the pavements,
the life and movement and yet the orderliness, the surprising silence
of it all, struck him afresh as one of the wonders of the world. In
Paris and other cities he had visited they had the life and the
movement, but compared with London the streets were filled with the
blare of a thousand noises, while the traffic seemed to rush
chaotically in every direction. But here it was as if some great
machine were functioning, quietly, efficiently, inexorably.

The air was mild and pleasant as he crossed Trafalgar Square and
reached the comparative solitude of the Mall. He sat down on one of
the seats to rest after the fatigue of the day, smoking placidly until
time, acting through the hands of his watch, called him back once more
from refreshment to labour. Then knocking out his pipe he returned to
the Haymarket and took up his stand behind one of the great vestibule
pillars of the Cosmopolitan. From here he had a good view of the door
by which, according to the porter, Miss Lillian Burgess invariably
left.

Soon he saw her. She tripped out and ran rapidly down the steps in the
direction of Piccadilly Circus. French, hurrying after her, was just
in time to see her disappearing into the tube station. He sprinted
forward, picking her up among the crowd, and kept behind her as she
took a south-bound Bakerloo train. From the next compartment he kept
her in view, and when she passed out of the Elephant station he was
within twenty feet of her. She led the way down New Kent Road,
straight to her address in Theobald Street.

As far as that evening was concerned, therefore, he had drawn blank.
He did not think she would reappear that night, so after waiting on
chance for a few minutes, he went home.

After interviews with Carter and Harvey next morning, at which he
learned that their experiences had been precisely similar to his own,
the shadowing was resumed. As the three girls did not begin work until
one o’clock and were kept late at night, it was unlikely that they
would be early risers. Nevertheless, French was leaving nothing to
chance and before nine he and his lieutenants were at the scenes of
their various labours. In French’s case there was a rather shabby
restaurant across the road from Miss Burgess’ boarding house and
there, hidden behind the dilapidated window blind, he toyed with
breakfast and watched the street. But he had to read the paper very
thoroughly and smoke a number of pipes before he saw his quarry. No
less than two hours passed before she left the house and walked in a
leisurely way down the street. French in an even more leisurely way
walked after her.

She went straight to Westminster Bridge Road, crossed the river, and
passing through into Great George Street, entered St. James’s Park. At
a steady pace she crossed the Mall and the Green Park and reached Hyde
Park. There she went up one side of the Serpentine, round the top of
the Bayswater Road, and down the other side to Hyde Park Corner.
French had fallen far behind, but when he saw her start off along
Piccadilly he closed up and kept about twenty feet off. She led him
along Piccadilly to the Circus, then turning down the Haymarket, she
disappeared into the Cosmopolitan.

In spite of the fact that he had been expecting some such
_dénouement_, French swore. There was his whole morning gone and
nothing to show for it! He had an accurate knowledge of where the
young lady had taken her morning exercise, but that was all he had
learnt. It looked as if he was on the wrong track and that this girl
at least had no connection with the gang.

But such had not been proved. It would require a much longer and more
detailed investigation to set the point at rest. Shrugging his
shoulders, he went back to the Yard to hear how Carter and Harvey had
fared.

He overtook Harvey at the door. Miss Isaacs had spent her morning in a
very similar way to Miss Burgess. She had left her boarding house
about eleven and gone for a walk. Harvey had kept her in sight during
the whole period and was satisfied that she had not communicated with
any other person.

In a few minutes Carter came in. Molly Moran had left her boarding
house in Nelson Street, a small street running between High Street and
Arlington Road, at 11.30. She had taken a Hampstead and Highgate train
at Mornington Crescent station and had travelled to Charing Cross. On
emerging from the station she had strolled slowly about, first under
the Southern Railway bridge, and then up and down Craven Street.
Carter had had considerable difficulty in keeping her under
observation without revealing his objective. But he had imagined that
she was waiting for someone and had not let her out of his sight for a
moment.

After about ten minutes a grey saloon car had come quickly down the
street, and pulling in to the pavement, had stopped beside Miss Moran.
She had immediately jumped in and the car had swung off towards the
Strand. Carter had raced for a taxi. By a stroke of luck he had got
one without having to go to the rank under the bridge and when he had
reached the Strand the grey car was still in sight, circling Trafalgar
Square. But his luck had then given out. In the press of traffic his
taxi had been held back, and by the time it had got free the quarry
had disappeared up Cockspur Street. After fruitless attempts to find
it, Carter had driven to Leicester Square and taken up a position from
which he could watch the doors of the Panopticon. In some forty
minutes Miss Moran had arrived, walking slowly. As it was then twenty
minutes to one, Carter had assumed that she would not again leave the
building, and had returned to the Yard.

“What was the number of the car?” French asked.

“MX1382. As far as I could see it answered the description of the one
you heard of in Hampshire.”

French nodded.

“I was going to ask you that. Did you see anyone in it?”

“Only the driver. I couldn’t see him clearly through the glass, but he
seemed a big, stout, clean-shaven man. He wore a soft felt hat; looked
like grey, but I couldn’t be sure of the colour.”

“Did the girl get in beside him?”

“No. She didn’t seem to speak to him, but jumped in behind and he
drove off at once. The thing seemed arranged and they hurried it
through as quickly as possible.”

This hurry seemed significant to French. Moreover, the driver was
suggestively like Thurza Darke’s description of Westinghouse.

“Same thing tonight and tomorrow morning,” he said to his satellites,
“only that we’ll change round. We don’t want those girls to spot that
they’re being shadowed. You, Carter, can take the Isaacs girl and
Harvey, Miss Burgess and I’ll shadow this Molly Moran.”

That night the three young women went quickly home as before and next
morning at nine o’clock French found himself trying to kill time
unostentatiously in Nelson Street until Miss Moran should take it into
her rather pretty head to sally forth on the day’s adventures. There
was here no convenient restaurant and he found himself hard put to it
to keep an eye on the boarding house without attracting the attention
of the curious. But French was an expert at his job, and by buying
innumerable boxes of matches and cigarettes at the neighbouring
tobacconists and making indefatigable inquiries for one Mrs.
Entwhistle, a mythical dressmaker whom he had invented for the
occasion, he contrived to fill in the time.

At just half past eleven, the same hour as on the previous day, the
young lady in question emerged from the boarding house and turned her
unhurried steps towards Mornington Crescent tube station. Again she
took a south-bound train. French expected that she would alight at
Charing Cross as before, but she nearly gave him the slip by jumping
out of the train just before it started from the Strand. However, he
managed to follow her and when she reached the courtyard of the main
line station he was not more than ten yards behind.

Determining that he should not be left in the lurch like Carter, he
engaged a taxi, telling the driver to follow the young lady in blue.
The man, allowing himself the suspicion of a wink, started off as if
the following of pretty young women was a matter in which he had
considerable experience. Whether or not this was so, he performed his
task with practised skill, stopping at times to adjust his engine or
ask a direction or to allow French to buy a paper, so as to keep his
speed down to that of his quarry’s.

The chase led across the Strand and up Chandos Street, and there at
the quiet end next Bedford Street the previous day’s performance was
repeated. Miss Moran walked slowly up and down until suddenly a grey
saloon car appeared, drew in to the footpath beside her, and stopped.
It was driven by an elderly, clean-shaven man of the successful
American business type. So far as French could see it contained no one
else. Miss Moran stepped quickly forward and got into the tonneau and
immediately the vehicle slid away.

“Follow the car,” French told the driver.

The journey was short. From Chandos Street the grey saloon turned up
Bedford Street and into Garrick Street. There it stopped and Miss
Moran got out. Immediately it drove quickly away.

“After the car,” cried French. “Never mind the girl.”

But just as Carter had been held up on the previous day, so now
French’s luck deserted him. The grey car, passing along Cranbourne
Street, just crossed Charing Cross Road when the officer on point duty
closed the road and French was held up.

Seeing that to follow the car was out of the question, he was about to
shout to his man to try to find the girl again, when glancing through
the back window, he saw her approaching. He therefore paid his man off
and when she had passed, slipped out of the taxi and followed her.

But she merely walked on aimlessly through the streets, evidently
killing time, until some forty minutes later she reached Leicester
Square and turned into the Panopticon.

French walked slowly back to the Yard, pondering over what he had
seen. The whole proceeding was certainly very suggestive. He didn’t
believe there could be any innocent explanation. Something shady, he
felt sure, was in progress.

Next morning he had another try. This time he waited at Mornington
Crescent and picked up Miss Moran as she was entering the train. He
followed her to Charing Cross, where she changed and took an
east-bound Circle train to the Temple. There she got out, and turning
away from the river, began pacing up and down Norfolk Street. French
hailed the first taxi he saw, and instructing his man as before, sat
back in it to await events.

In about five minutes he saw the proceedings of the previous day
repeated. The grey car appeared, driven, as far as he could see, by
the same man. It picked Miss Moran up, crossed the Strand, and passed
up Aldwych and into Kingsway. Then turning down a street to the left,
it ran into Wild Street. There the young lady got out.

French had told his driver what to expect, and as the grey car ran on
into Drury Lane, French’s vehicle was close behind. Through Broad
Street and High Street it passed and then along Oxford Street to North
Audley Street, down which it turned. And then in Grosvenor Square the
whole thing was repeated.

On the footpath in Grosvenor Square stood a young woman. French could
not see much of her, but he noticed that she was well dressed and that
her bobbed hair was flaming red. The car stopped, she jumped into the
back seat, and once again the car swung on.

More interested than ever, French continued the chase. The grey car
passed on down South Audley Street and along South Street into
Waverton Street. There it stopped and the girl got out, the car
turning on down Charles Street.

For a moment French hesitated as to which of his two quarries he
should follow. He would have given a good deal not to have been
playing a lone hand at that moment. Rightly or wrongly, he decided on
the car.

Once again to his amazement a similar scene was enacted. From Charles
Street the car ran by Berkeley Street, Piccadilly, Grosvenor Place,
and Vauxhall Bridge Road to Tachbrook Street. There another girl was
waiting who in her turn jumped into the back of the car. She was
driven through Bessborough street to Grosvenor Road, and set down at
the end of Page Street.

Still another time French followed the car and still another time the
same thing happened. A fourth girl was picked up in Darwin Street, off
the Old Kent Road and near Bricklayers’ Arms goods station. She was
taken to Long Lane in Bermondsey and there set down, while the car
went on to Newington Causeway.

French began to wonder if the whole day was to be spent in giving
rides to girls. It was now nearly one, the hour at which most of the
cinemas opened, and if the girls picked up were engaged in cinema box
offices there would scarcely be time to deal with any more. With keen
interest he settled back in his taxi, anxious to learn the next
development.

But this fourth girl, it turned out, was the last. The grey car ran on
westwards till it reached Waterloo. Then it turned to the left into
York Road and again to the right into a narrow street labelled Tate’s
Lane, disappearing finally into a gateway about half-way down the
street. French’s car ran on past the gateway, and turning into the
cross street at the end of Tate’s Lane, stopped. Telling his driver to
keep him in sight, French walked back to the corner and watched the
gateway.

He had noticed as he came past that the latter was surmounted by a
signboard bearing the legend: “Thos. Cullan, Coachbuilder.” A glimpse
through the open gate revealed a dilapidated yard in which stood a
number of carts and lorries. Evidently Mr. Thos. Cullan was not in too
successful a way of business. French wondered if the man he had
shadowed was Cullan himself. At first he thought not. That untidy,
ineffective looking yard did not accord with the forceful, decided
face of the driver of the car. Then he saw that if the business with
the girls was the serious factor in the man’s life, coachbuilding
might be merely a blind to mask his other activities.

For fifteen minutes or more French hung about the corner. Then the man
appeared, well dressed and prosperous looking, and set off striding
with assured steps down the Lane to York Road. He turned to the right
into Waterloo Road, and French had to sprint at his highest speed to
avoid losing him at the corner. He was just in time to see him
disappearing into the station and with a rapidly increasing sense of
satisfaction he followed him to the restaurant.

At opposite ends of the big room French and his quarry lunched, then
the chase was once more resumed. This time the trail led down Waterloo
Road, past the Old Vic and into Webber Street, where the man vanished
into a doorway.

French hung back until he thought the coast was clear, then lounged
forward and entered also. The doorway led into a dilapidated passage
with a flight of stairs rising at the end to offices above. On the
jambs were the names of the occupants. Seven persons or firms French
counted. There were two solicitors, an estate agent, an engineer and
architect, a commission agent, a wholesale tea merchant, and a firm of
electrical suppliers. Having noted the names, French passed back to
the street and took up a position from which he could keep the
entrance in view.

For the best part of an hour he waited, sitting in his taxi for the
most part, while the driver busied himself with his engine. Then
suddenly the quarry reappeared and strode off in the same forceful and
determined way. French shadowed him to Waterloo and down to the
Bakerloo tube. Booking to Watford, which he thought should cover any
journey that the unknown might make, French followed him to the
platform. The man took a north-bound train and French, slipping in his
usual way into the next carriage, settled down to await developments.

At Harrow the man got out. French noted that he was evidently a
“season” and a man of some standing, for the ticket collector touched
his cap respectfully. He turned out of the station on the down side of
the line and set off towards the Hill.

“Can you tell me if that is Mr. Pointer?” French asked the collector
as he gave up his own ticket.

“No, sir. Mr. Welland is his name.”

Curtice Welland, Commission Agent, was one of the names on the office
door in Webber Street. So far, so good.

On these comparatively deserted roads shadowing was no easy task.
French had to drop a long way behind to avoid attracting his quarry’s
attention. Every time the man turned a corner French was therefore at
a disadvantage and had to run to reach the cross-road before the other
disappeared from view. This again brought him too close and he had
suddenly to loiter until the necessary distance again intervened—a by
no means unobtrusive mode of progression.

The last turn led into a recently made road. Its end, in fact,
vanished into the fields and fresh earthwork showed that it was in
process of being extended. The houses along it were all quite new.
Several were unfinished, while a few vacant building lots still
remained.

About half-way down on the right were a couple of small semi-detached
houses, mere bungalows. Into one of these the man turned, letting
himself in with a latchkey.

French was approaching a cross lane, and down this he immediately
turned. So far he felt satisfied with his progress. The man, he was
sure, had not seen him. Now he must find some cover from which he
could keep the house under observation.

Right at the end of the unfinished portion of the road, a couple of
hundred yards beyond the house, he had noticed a small clump of low
growing trees. He thought if he could reach this it would suit his
purpose.

Passing down the cross lane to the back of the row of houses, he came
into open fields. These were separated by thorn hedges, one of which
ran parallel to the street. French crept along behind the hedge until
he came to the clump. There he found that, while himself completely
hidden from view, he had an excellent view of the house.

He lay down at his ease on the soft grass, and taking out his pipe,
began a leisurely smoke. It was a perfect summer’s day, warm and
balmy, with a bright sun, a brilliantly blue sky and in the distance a
few faint, fairy-like streaks of cirrus cloud. The meadow behind him
had recently been cut and the soft breeze bore a delightful scent of
fresh hay. The air was quivering with the songs of birds, with as a
pedal bass the hum of innumerable insects. It was all so peaceful and
soporific that after a few minutes. French deliberately sat up in a
somewhat strained position lest he should fall asleep and miss his
quarry.

Up to the present he had been too busy to think over what he had seen,
but now he began to turn the facts over in his mind. That he was on to
some very peculiar happenings there could be no doubt, but as yet
there was no evidence to show that these were criminal. Still less was
there proof that they were connected with the murders. But he was at
least satisfied that the affair was sufficiently suspicious to warrant
further investigation.

What, he wondered, could be going on? It looked as if the unknown man
had an interview each day with each of these four girls. This, of
course, was not proved, as you could not argue to the general from two
days’ experience. But it seemed likely; and if so, what could be the
object of these interviews?

It was improbable, he thought, that the man could be interested in the
girls themselves. Rather he imagined that they must represent channels
by which something was passed between the man and still other
unknowns. Whether that something was material, such as stolen goods or
money, or whether information was being conveyed between the members
of some organization and headquarters, he could not imagine. In any
case it was desirable that Scotland Yard should know more about it.

It would not be his fault, he resolved grimly, if before long Scotland
Yard did not know all there was to be known.



CHAPTER VIII

The Grey Car’s Round

The remainder of that day came to French as a sort of anticlimax. He
put in a wearisome afternoon’s work with, so far as he could see, no
result whatever.

After some half hour in the clump of trees he suddenly saw his man
appear at the door of the house, wearing plus fours and with a bag of
golf clubs over his shoulder. He turned towards French and when he
reached the end of the road, struck off along a footpath across the
fields. This brought him near French’s retreat, not so near as to risk
discovery, but near enough to allow French to fall in behind him with
the minimum of trouble.

The chase lasted for nearly a mile, the unknown striding easily along
as if he enjoyed the walk. At last they reached the links for which
the other had been aiming. Welland disappeared into the club-house,
emerging a few minutes later with a companion. The two strolled to an
adjoining green, teed off and in a leisurely way followed the balls.

That a round of golf offered a favourable opportunity for the
interchange of small objects or of confidences between conspirators
French was well aware. He therefore hesitated as to whether he should
try to keep the men in view with the object of seeing whether they
acted suspiciously and of learning the identity of the partner.
Eventually he decided that the game would probably prove to be a side
issue and that he would be better employed in finding out as much
about Welland as he could.

Returning to Harrow, he called at the police station and asked the
sergeant for information.

“I can’t give you much, I’m afraid, sir,” the man answered, “but if
you can wait a little I’ll make a few inquiries.” He called a
subordinate. “Here, Colgate, you know that man Curtice Welland, of 39
Acacia Avenue? Isn’t his housekeeper a local?”

“Yes, sir. Sister of Jacques, the confectioner.”

“I thought so. Then go down to Jacques and pick up anything you can
about Welland. Quietly, you understand. Or would you rather go
yourself Mr. French?”

“No,” said French, “I’m supposed to be shadowing the man himself. I
left him on the links and I’ll get back there.”

“Very good, sir. Nothing wrong, I hope?”

“I don’t know yet. He’s been acting suspiciously, but it may not
amount to anything. Well, sergeant, I’ll call in later on for your
man’s news.”

Arming himself with a packet of raisins and chocolate, French returned
to the approach road to the golf links and settled down to wait his
man’s appearance. It was nearly seven before he saw him and then the
earlier proceedings were reversed. French shadowed him back to his
house along the path over the fields. Once more French hid in the
clump of trees and once more he settled down to watch.

Fortunately the magnificent day had turned into an equally delightful
evening or French’s lot would have been less pleasant than it actually
proved. Hour passed after hour and Welland made no sign. Hungrily
French consumed the last fragments of his raisins and chocolate and
slowly smoked pipe after pipe. As it grew dark he left his retreat and
drew nearer and nearer the house. But his man remained hidden and when
half past ten arrived he decided that nothing more was to be learned
that night and gave up his vigil.

On his way back to town he called at the police station to learn the
result of the pumping of Jacques. It had not proved very successful.
All that the sergeant had discovered was that Curtice Welland had come
to the neighbourhood some twelve months previously, buying the house
in which he lived. He was believed to be well to do, for though he had
some job in town and went in every day, he was able to get home early
and to play a lot of golf. Apparently he was unmarried, at least no
woman other than his elderly housekeeper had been seen about the
place. He lived a retired life, going out but little in the evenings
and doing practically no entertaining. He took no part in the public
life of the place, but was understood to be popular among the golfing
set and to be generous in the matter of subscriptions to charity. So
far as the sergeant knew he was not connected with any church or other
local organizations. He went to town daily by the 9.17 train and
usually returned about four.

With this French had to be content. Admittedly it did not back up his
suspicion that the man was a criminal. But he reminded himself that if
a criminal were wishing to lie low he would comport himself in just
such a way.

Next morning French had three helpers, Carter, Harvey, and a third man
called Pickford. At 9.17 they boarded the Bakerloo train at Harrow,
having first seen Mr. Curtice Welland seat himself in a first-class
carriage. They were close behind him when he left the train at
Waterloo and separately followed him to his office in Webber Street.
There he disappeared while the four made themselves as inconspicuous
as possible, French engaging a taxi to wait within call.

About eleven their man appeared and strode off in his slightly
important, prosperous-looking way. He followed the route he had
covered on the previous evening until he reached York Road and Tate’s
Lane. The coachbuilder’s yard gate was open and he turned in and was
lost to view. French and his helpers thereupon got into their taxi and
making a circuit through the neighbouring street drew up at the far
end of Tate’s Lane, ready to follow the saloon car should it make its
appearance.

For half an hour they waited, which suggested to French that Welland
did his own chauffeuring. Then the grey car came slowly out of the
yard and turned towards York Street. Immediately the taxi followed.
The chase led northwards. Over Waterloo Bridge it passed into the
Strand, and turning to the right through King William Street, led into
Orange Street. There the proceedings of the previous day were
repeated. On the footpath stood Molly Moran. The car drew in opposite
her, she stepped into the tonneau, and the car drove off. It turned
into Whitcomb Street, crossed Coventry Street, and in Wardour Street
stopped. Miss Moran got out and it drove on.

French’s bewilderment was reflected in the faces of his companions as
the taxi followed. This thing, whatever it was, happened day after day
and was apparently carried out on a definite system. For four
consecutive days Welland had picked this girl up in his car, carried
her for a few hundred yards, and set her down again. Each day it was
in the same part of London, but in a different street. What could the
object be?

As on the previous day the car now drove westward. Its second stop had
then been in Grosvenor Square. This time it stopped in Berkeley
Square, five minutes’ walk away. There the girl with the red hair was
waiting. She jumped in and two minutes later, in Grafton Street,
jumped out again, while once more the car drove off.

“Now, Carter, your shot. Follow her,” French directed, and Carter,
slipping out of the taxi, vanished.

The third girl, who had been picked up in Tachbrook Street on the
previous day, was waiting in Rochester Row, scarcely five minutes
away. She had a three-minute run, alighting in Regency Street. As she
walked off Harvey slouched after her. Then the car crossed the river
and stopped for the fourth girl in Upper Grange Road, again close to
Bricklayers’ Arms station. She and Sergeant Pickford got out five
minutes later, while French cautiously trailed the car back to Tate’s
Lane and Mr. Curtice Welland from there to his lunch and then to his
office.

Shortly before three Welland reappeared and walked, precisely as on
the previous day, to the tube station at Waterloo. After a momentary
hesitation French, on seeing him enter the Harrow train, gave up the
chase. He thought he could do better elsewhere.

He returned to Webber Street, and mounting the stairs, took quick
stock of his surroundings. The house was five stories high and on each
upper floor were two sets of tiny offices. “Curtice Welland,
Commission Agent” was housed on the third floor, with “Harold Tozer,
Engineer and Architect” opposite. The whole place was dirty and
dilapidated and suggestive of unprofitable businesses.

French approached Welland’s door and knocked. There was no response.
Guardedly he examined the lock. It was old and he thought it might
prove amenable to the persuasion of a bent wire. But obviously he
could not attempt any burglarious exploits at the moment, even if
sounds of movement in the engineer’s office had not warned him off.

For a moment he paused, then crossing the landing, he knocked at the
engineer’s door. A lanky young man opened.

“Sorry to trouble you,” French apologized, “but I am looking for a Mr.
Fairchild, an engineer. I’m afraid I’ve been misdirected. Do you by
any chance know him?”

“No,” said the young man, “there’s no one of that name here. Sorry I
can’t help you.”

French replied conventionally and retreated down stairs. He had
obtained the look at the occupant of the engineer’s office which he
had wanted. Moreover, he had seen enough to convince him that the
young man was alone.

Once again he took up his weary vigil in the street below. For nearly
an hour he killed time before he saw his new acquaintance leave. Then
he quickly re-entered the building and climbed to Welland’s office.

With considerable misgiving he had determined to do a dangerous and
prohibited thing—to search the premises without a warrant. He felt
sure he could do so without discovery. The whole of the floor itself
was unoccupied, and the wooden steps of the stairs would give plenty
of notice of anyone’s approach. Unless some extraordinarily
unfortunate accident should bring Welland himself back, he should be
quite safe.

As an additional precaution he knocked once more on both Welland’s and
Tozer’s doors. When he had waited a moment he clattered down stairs,
then creeping silently up again, he took his bent wire from his pocket
and set to work on the lock. In a very few minutes it yielded to his
treatment, and passing softly through the door, he closed it behind
him.

The room was fitted up in the barest way as an office. In the centre
stood a roll-top desk with an Austrian bentwood chair behind it. A
second chair faced the desk. In one corner was a cupboard of painted
deal. And that was all. There was not even a blind on the window, nor
a waste-paper basket. And the second room was entirely empty.

The doubt of the commission agency business which all this suggested
was increased by a rapid search of the desk. It contained only some
financial newspapers, a notebook with records of stock and share
transactions, and a number of novels of the more modern and
intellectual type. The cupboard, which was not locked, was empty.

In spite of the speed at which French worked, his search was amazingly
thorough. Every leaf in the notebook was turned over and its contents
examined, every novel was gone through lest letters or loose sheets
might have been left between the pages, the walls and floor was
examined for secret hiding places. In short, when he concluded that
there was nothing in the rooms to interest him, it was because he had
made absolutely certain of the fact.

Only once had he had a bad moment, when he had heard laboured steps
ascending the stairs. Silently he had withdrawn to the inner room, in
the hope that even were it Welland, he might still escape discovery.
But the steps had passed on to one of the offices above, and again
breathing freely, he had resumed his work.

In his withdrawal also he was fortunate. Having looked round to make
sure that no signs of his visit remained, he drew the office door
silently after him, and gained the street unseen.

It was by this time after six o’clock and French felt that he had done
enough for the day. But he went back to the Yard, not only as a matter
of routine, but to receive the reports of his three men.

For the first time since he returned from Portsmouth French felt a
sudden thrill of delightful excitement as he listened to these
reports. It looked as if at long last he really was on the right
track. For each of the three girls was employed in a box office!

The red-haired girl, it seemed, worked in the box office of the Royal
Cinema in Edgware Road and the other two in those of Theatres in
Vauxhall Bridge Road and Old Kent Road respectively. Each had walked
from the point at which she had been set down to her place of
business, directly or by a circuitous route as was necessary to bring
her there at the required time. None of them had held any
communication with any other person during the walk. In each case the
shadower had found out his quarry’s name, but not her address, as all
three men were afraid of calling attention to their activities by too
persistent questioning.

“Well,” said French, “get back again this evening and shadow them
home.”

Though French himself had been looking forward to a quiet evening in
the bosom of his family, his eagerness was now so great that after
supper he sallied forth once more to try to push the case a step
further. After considerable trouble he succeeded in obtaining
interviews with the managers of all four places of amusement—the two
cinemas and the two theatres. To each he explained his official
position, and having made it clear that nothing was suggested against
the girls personally, he put his questions.

But as he had foreseen, the managers were not helpful. None of them
had noticed anything abnormal or suspicious in the conduct of the girl
in his company’s employment, nor had there been any irregularity about
her cash.

Next day French carried his routine inquiries a step further. Armed
with the addresses which his three assistants had discovered on the
previous evening, he interviewed the landladies of the three new
girls’ boarding houses. In each case he was assured that the girl in
question had been in evident trouble during the previous six months.
But the landladies did not think it was financial. At least none of
the girls had shown a difficulty in meeting her bill.

The result of these inquiries left French more than ever determined to
probe the affair to the bottom. But when he came to consider this next
step he found it was not so obvious. At last he decided to get hold of
the girls one by one, and try to force a confidence. This of course
had the serious drawback of being a virtual warning to the gang that
the police were on their track, but he could see no other way that
held out so promising a result.



CHAPTER IX

French Makes a Second Assignation

About ten o’clock the next day French knocked at the door of No. 27
Nelson Street, and sending in a card inscribed “Mr. Joseph French,”
asked if he could see Miss Molly Moran.

He sat waiting in the plain, somewhat comfortless sitting room until
after some minutes the girl he had shadowed entered.

“Miss Moran?” he asked, with his pleasantest smile. “My business will
not take long. Will you sit down, please?”

She was a prettier girl than he had realized. Rather below middle
height, she had a graceful figure, with small shapely hands and feet.
Her hair and eyes were dark, her nose tilted delightfully, while a
stubborn little chin showed she had no lack of character.

“First,” French went on in low tones, glancing at the door, “I must
tell you that I am a detective officer from Scotland Yard,” and he
handed her his official card.

He was accustomed to seeing apprehension appear in the faces of those
to whom he made this announcement, both innocent and guilty, but he
was not prepared for its effect upon Miss Moran. For a moment an
expression of absolute terror twisted her features. Her eyes dilated
and her face became a chalky white. Then with an obvious effort she
pulled herself together and murmured “Yes?”

“You were expecting a visit of this kind, were you not?” French went
on. “You felt that sooner or later it must come?”

“Oh, no, no, no,” she cried hoarsely, but with delightful suggestion
of an Irish brogue. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I think you know. If you didn’t, why should my visit terrify you?”

“I am not terrified,” she declared in tremulous tones which belied her
words. “Why should you think a thing like that anyway?”

“How can I think anything else, Miss Moran? There is no use in your
taking that line. Your manner leaves no doubt of your feelings.”

She made a determined effort to pull herself together.

“Well,” she retorted with more confidence, “and can’t you understand
that the very appearance of a detective gentleman like yourself would
be enough to frighten anyone?”

French shook his head.

“It won’t do, Miss Moran,” he said, not unkindly. “You apprehend
danger to yourself from my call. You cannot deny anything so obvious.
But I want you to understand I’m not here to harm you. You have some
information that I require. That is all.”

She waited without speaking, evidently in no way reassured.

“First,” went on French, still speaking in low tones, “my business is
private. Are you sure we shall not be overheard? If there is any
chance of that I shall ask you to come out with me and we can discuss
the matter on a seat in one of the parks.”

She nodded quickly. “That’d be better,” she agreed. “If you go on,
I’ll follow.”

French rose. “Right then. What about the Charing Cross Gardens near
the Villiers Street entrance?” He remembered that this was where poor
Thurza Darke had met Westinghouse.

To his delight the shot told. She gave him a quick, terrified glance
as she faltered: “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

“Good.” Then loudly for the benefit of anyone who might be listening.
“Well, good-bye, Miss Moran. I’m glad to have had the pleasure of
meeting you.”

He had little doubt that the girl would keep her appointment, but he
was not so sure that she would not first communicate with some member
of the gang. Therefore as soon as he was out of sight of the house in
the direction she would expect him to take, he turned quickly down a
side street, and by making a short detour, regained Nelson Street on
the opposite side of the boarding house. Stepping into a shop, he laid
a shilling on the counter and asked if he might use the telephone.

“Scotland Yard speaking,” he called softly. “Please keep a note of any
calls from Gerrard 4763C during the next few minutes. Official demand
to your headquarters following.”

He had noticed the telephone in the hall of the boarding house.
Luckily for him it was one of those old-fashioned instruments which
bore a plate with the words “Your number is——,” followed by the digits
in question.

He left the shop quickly, so as to make sure that Miss Moran should
not give him the slip. She had not appeared, and once more becoming an
aimless lounger, he watched the boarding house door.

In about ten minutes she emerged and set off down the road. Slowly
French followed. But she attempted no excursions aside and within a
minute of the time appointed they met in the Gardens.

“Here is an empty seat,” French said, when he had gravely complimented
her on her punctuality. “Do you smoke?”

She accepted a cigarette, which he lit in silence, only continuing
when she was comfortably settled.

“Now, Miss Moran, you mustn’t be alarmed, but I have to tell you this
is a serious matter that you’ve got mixed up in. And I may tell you
too that your only chance of keeping out of personal trouble is to be
frank with me. If you tell me everything, I’ll do my level best for
you. But I assure you that I’m not threatening when I say that if you
mislead me you’ll bitterly regret it.”

The girl had evidently been thinking during her walk, and she replied
with some show of assurance.

“Och sure, Mr. French, I wouldn’t dream of not being frank with you.
But there’s nothing I have to tell.”

“I’m sorry to hear you say so,” French returned, “because your face
shows me the exact opposite. However, pass that for the moment. Will
you tell me why you travel every morning for a few hundred yards in
Mr. Curtice Welland’s car?”

The girl’s white face paled still further, but she made no reply.

“Do take my advice, Miss Moran,” French went on earnestly. “I may tell
you in confidence it is not you that I want, but Welland. But if you
persist in putting me off you’ll be in the same trouble yourself.
Believe me, you’re playing a more dangerous game than you know.”

For a few moments further she hesitated, then said sullenly:

“I’m not doing anything against the law.”

“In that case, Miss Moran, you can’t have any real objection to
telling me all about it.”

“You can’t make me say a single word if I don’t want to.”

“Perfectly true. But I can arrest you on a charge of criminal
conspiracy with Welland and certain other parties, and the public
prosecutor will make you tell in open court at your trial.”

“But you wouldn’t do a thing like that?” She spoke half coaxingly, but
the look of fear flashed again in her eyes.

“Not if you didn’t force me to.” French leant towards her and spoke
very earnestly. “Don’t you make any mistake, Miss Moran. It’s my
business to get this information and I’m going to get it. And what’s
more, you’re going to give it me. You can please yourself whether you
do it now or at Scotland Yard or at the Old Bailey. But you’re going
to give it to me.” His voice became coaxing in its turn. “Why not now,
just privately here between the two of us? I promise to help you and
to protect you from your accomplices.” He paused, then as she did not
speak, went on: “Do be sensible, Miss Moran. You’ll never get such a
chance again. Remember, it would be a hundred times worse in open
court with everyone against you.”

French felt that he was sailing rather near the wind in speaking in
this way. His justification to himself was that he was convinced of
the girl’s innocence, or rather that if guilty of crime, she had been
terrorized into it and wished to escape. But he was not in a position
to say this to her in so many words. He remained silent for a few
minutes, then just as he was about to resume his arguments, she spoke,
her emotion accentuating her brogue.

“I don’t think that’s a fair way you’re speaking to me at all,” she
said in a low tone, “but how am I going to stand up against the whole
British police? Sure I see that you’ve got me and I’ll have to tell
you what you want to know.”

“Believe me, you won’t regret it.”

“Well, then, if you must know, it’s about money,” she began with a
rush, as if, having decided to speak, she was now only anxious to get
her recital over. “I’ve been hard up for money. And you’ll be saying
it’s very wrong and foolish of me, but I’ve taken to gambling to raise
the wind. That Mr. Welland is a bookmaker. He has a scheme by which
you can stake on the tables at Monte Carlo, and you here in London all
the time. A girl I met told me about it. That’s what I’m doing in the
car. Mr. Welland said it was against the law to bet in the street and
that his office was too far away, so he would lift me for a moment in
his car while he took the money.”

French could scarcely restrain a chuckle of sheer delight as he
listened to this statement. It was even more gratifying news than that
the girls with whom Welland was dealing were employed in box offices.
For here was actual proof that he really was on the right track. The
scheme for betting on the Monte Carlo tables connected the cases. When
therefore he was investigating the affairs of Curtice Welland, he was
on the way to learning who murdered Thurza Darke and her fellow
victims. For the second time in two days he experienced that
delightful feeling of enthusiasm which came from progress and success.

At the same time he was puzzled by the girl’s manner. Experience told
him that a true confession produced symptoms of relief. But Miss Moran
had shown no such feeling. Indeed, she seemed more uneasy and
apprehensive than ever. Gradually an opinion crystallized in French’s
mind. He had not heard the truth. This story was an invention and the
girl was terrified lest he should see through it. A small test,
however, should settle the matter.

“Gambling may or may not be wise, Miss Moran,” he said gravely, “but
it is certainly not illegal and you have nothing to fear from the
police because of it. There surely must be something else. Has your
betting tempted you towards the till of the Panopticon?”

For a moment an indignant denial seemed imminent, then a fresh idea
appeared to dawn on the girl’s mind and she checked herself.

“Maybe there was something of the kind,” she said, averting her face
as if from shame. But French was certain she was now feeling relief.

So the little test had worked, and out of her own mouth the girl stood
convicted. French’s previous inquiries had proved that she was not
stealing from the till. But she had seen that her story lacked motive
and to bolster it up she had admitted a theft of which she was
innocent.

The business, then, was even more serious than he had supposed. This
girl was willing to risk arrest rather than reveal it. But French saw
that for the moment he would get no more out of her, and he set
himself to dispel her fears, so that the story she would almost
certainly tell to Welland would do as little harm as possible.

One other point, however, he did learn. At the moment he did not
appreciate its importance, but afterwards he saw that its discovery
formed an essential link in the chain by which he eventually
unravelled the mystery.

While going over with Miss Moran the places at which she had been
picked up and set down, he remembered that she had not been seen to
speak to Welland, and asked how she knew where to wait for the car.
Without hesitation she told him that five different places had been
chosen, which were used in rotation. This avoided stopping at the same
point each day, which might be noticeable, and the number five insured
a different place being used on the same day of each week.

“For example,” she said, “today I’ll be waiting for him at the corner
of Old Compton Street and Greek Street and he’ll run me to Green
Street. That’ll give me three or four minutes to fix up about the
stakes. Tomorrow I start again where you saw me first, and so on.”

From such slight threads are the webs of justice woven!

Before parting with her French became the heavy father. He told her he
was satisfied that she was doing something which she would be wiser to
leave alone, and though of course she was a free agent, he urged her
for her own sake to give it up. At all events, if she found herself in
any danger or difficulty she was to apply to the Yard, when he would
see that she got the help she needed.

“And don’t wait till it’s too late,” he concluded earnestly. “I don’t
want to frighten you, but I warn you very seriously to be careful.
Keep this interview secret from Welland. You may be in real personal
danger if you don’t. Other girls in your position have been indiscreet
and have paid for it with their lives—I’m not exaggerating, Miss
Moran—_with their lives_. So keep your mouth shut and if you are in
any danger don’t hesitate to ring up the Yard—Victoria 7000.”

She seemed considerably impressed as she gave him her promise. But she
had kept her secret and French, despondent over his failure, told
himself that his efforts had done nothing more than to put the
conspirators on their guard.

He wished her good day, and returned to the Yard. There he sent for no
less than five men.

“Three of you men get yourselves up as taximen,” he told them, “and
take out cars. The other two and myself will be your passengers. You
will stop in sight of the corner of Old Compton Street and Greek
Street and watch for a grey saloon car lifting a girl. All of you
follow this car. Drive as near it as possible and watch every motion
that the girl makes. See if she speaks to the driver and if possible
lip-read what she says. After she is set down in Green Street you are
finished and can come back to the Yard.”

This programme was carried out. When Molly Moran appeared at the end
of Greek Street three cars were standing before offices in different
parts of the street. On the appearance of Welland’s car they started
up their engines, and as he moved off they followed. One was slightly
in front with its occupant watching out of the back window by means of
a periscope, a second was almost abreast, while the third ran on ahead
to Charing Cross Road, ready to fall into place as Welland turned the
corner.

French’s three drivers showed immense skill in manœuvring their
vehicles into places of vantage. During the whole period in which Miss
Moran remained in the car, an observer was never more than ten feet
away. Sometimes one of the three would be nearest, sometimes another,
but none ever left the side of the grey car until the next was ready
to take its place.

The result both pleased and puzzled French. It pleased him because it
proved him correct in assuming the story of the gambling to be a
fabrication. After a brief good morning, lip-read by Carter, the girl
did not speak to Welland during the whole trip, nor did money or
letters pass between them. But French was puzzled by what she did. For
at least a minute she leant forward and appeared to feel at something
at her feet.

He pondered over this for some time, but could think of no explanation
but the obvious one that the girl was putting something into or taking
something out of a hidden receptacle. If so, he must inspect the car
and find it. Should this be his next step?

He thought so except for one point. Would it not be better to see
first if he could get anything out of the other three girls?

Eventually he decided that it would. If his inquiries were reported to
Welland it could scarcely matter whether it was by one girl or four.
If he, French, knew as much as he evidently did know about the
movements of Molly, Welland would recognize that he must know of the
other girls also.

Next morning therefore he made his three calls, in every case
unfortunately without result. All the girls showed signs of anxiety,
amounting almost to terror, on learning his business. But all, after
the application of a varying amount of pressure, told the story of the
gambling. He was satisfied that each was lying and that the story had
been rehearsed beforehand for use in just such an emergency.

There remained then the search of the car. To arrange an opportunity
was not an easy proposition. For a time he considered means of getting
it to the Yard, such as the arrest of Welland “by error,” followed by
an apology and an immediate release. But he thought that as long as
any other way remained, his superiors would not stand for such a
method. Besides, if by some remote chance the girls had not reported
his activities to Welland, it would put the man on his guard.

At last he decided that there was nothing for it but for him once
again to play the burglar. He must somehow get into the garage at
night, when he would have plenty of time to make an exhaustive
examination.

Though he did not see just how he was going to manage it, he decided
that the very next day he would make the attempt.



CHAPTER X

Mr. Cracksman French

The first step which French took to meet his new problem was to make a
reconnaissance of the enemy’s country. He went early next morning to
Tate’s Lane, so as to get the job over before Welland should turn up.
The gate of the coachbuilder’s yard was open and he walked boldly in
and had a look round.

A closer inspection confirmed the impression of a small, moribund
business which the view from the street had suggested. The
establishment covered a narrow frontage, but stretched a good way
back. In the foreground stood a number of horse carts and lorries,
awaiting the scrapheap, if one were to judge by appearances. These
with some spare parts filled up all the open space to the high
boundary wall on the left, except for a narrow passage to the back of
the yard. Along the right ran a grimy brick building from which came
sounds of hammering. The only structure with a well-to-do appearance
was a new shed of about twenty feet by ten, built as a lean-to in the
back lefthand corner. Numerous pneumatic tire tracks leading to the
large door in the gable showed that this was Curtice Welland’s garage.

Though the sounds from the shed indicated that work was there in
progress, no one was to be seen in the yard. French therefore strolled
close up to the garage to see if he could find a way to break and
enter. But the more he saw the less easy this appeared. The building
was of solid brickwork with a slated roof. The large door was fastened
with the most modern form of chubb lock, against which French knew
that his bent wires and skeleton keys would have but little chance. In
the side wall was a small window with a fixed sash. The other two
sides were formed by the unbroken boundary walls of the yard.

Thinking he had better not be seen poking about, he turned back to the
shed and looked in. Three men were employed, one turning hubs at a
small lathe, the other two assembling lorry bodies. On seeing French
one of the latter came slowly forward.

“Morning,” said French. “You the boss?”

“’E’s out,” the man answered, adroitly expectorating. “’Oo want’s
’im?”

“I do,” French explained. “Name of Simkins. I want a garage for a car
I’ve got and I was told that you let them.”

The man shook his head.

“But I thought that garage in the corner was let to an outsider?”

“That’s right. But the boss ’e didn’t ’ave nothing to say to the
building. ’E only let the ground.”

“I follow you. Then it’s occupied, is it? I couldn’t get it, I
suppose?”

“Not likely, you couldn’t. The man wot keeps ’is car in that garage
’ad it specially built for ’im last year.”

“Any chance of my getting a bit of ground to build another?”

“You’d ’ave to see the boss abaht that,” the man declared. “I couldn’t
fix it for you.”

“I want one like that in the corner,” French persisted. “Could I see
into it?”

“Not without you got leave from Mr. Welland, you couldn’t. ’E keeps
the key. See ’ere, mister. You call back ’ere abaht three o’clock an’
you’ll see the boss. ’E’ll tell you all you wants to know.”

“That’s common sense.” French chatted pleasantly and a couple of
shillings changed ownership. Then on his way to the gate he made a bid
for the second piece of information he required.

“I wonder you don’t get your stuff stolen at night,” he said, after
leading up to the subject by remarks on the spare parts lying around.
“But then I suppose you have a watchman?”

“We don’t ’ave no watchman. It ain’t necessary. It wouldn’t be so easy
to steal anything as wot you’d think, mister. This is all ’eavyish
stuff, and if anyone was to pass it out over the wall, ten chances to
one but a bobby’d catch ’em on.”

In a thoughtful mood French returned to the Yard. By hook or by crook
he would examine that car, even if he had to commit a felony. He knew
that if he were found out he would get into trouble, but he felt the
case had dragged on so long that for his own reputation’s sake he must
get results without further delay.

On reaching the Yard he sent for Sergeant Ormsby. Ormsby had gone
through his apprenticeship as a carpenter before he joined the force,
and being skilful with his hands, he was in request where delicate
manual work was required.

“I want to do a burglary tonight, Ormsby,” French began. “Are you on
to give me a hand? I can’t tell you to, but I’d be glad of your help,
and if there’s trouble I’ll stand the racket.”

Ormsby grinned. “Right-ho, Mr. French. It won’t be the first time.”

“I want to break into a garage. There’s a heavy door with a chubb lock
that we can do nothing with. But there’s a window that we might get
the glass out of. The frame is glazed with a single pane of rough
rolled, about eighteen inches by twenty-four.”

“And you want me to take it out?”

“Right first shot. Can you do it, and put it back so’s it won’t be
noticed?”

Ormsby shook his head. He could try, but he wouldn’t go nap on the
result.

“Then better take a pane with you.”

“Are you sure of the size?”

“No, but take it big and take a diamond as well. You’ll want the usual
things, and some reddish brown paint and dust. We’ll try and get the
lock off from the inside and then perhaps you could cut a key.”

Ormsby was dubious as to the possibilities, but delighted at the
prospect of adventure, and departed jubilantly to get his
paraphernalia together.

It was getting on towards two o’clock next morning when the two men
set out. Both were wearing dark clothes, caps, and rubber shoes.
Except for Ormsby’s pane of glass, wrapped up neatly in dark coloured
paper, there was nothing to draw an observer’s attention to them. In
addition to the glass Ormsby had a small kit of tools, while French
carried two electric torches and a large black overcoat.

Tate’s Lane, when they reached it, was deserted save for a single
policeman patrolling slowly towards its far end.

“When he goes round the corner we’ll have our opportunity,” said
French, who had looked up the areas covered by all the adjacent beats.

They waited in York Street until the man disappeared, then followed
him down Tate’s Lane. Two minutes later they were at the
coachbuilder’s.

“Now for it,” said French, glancing quickly round.

No one was in sight. Opposite, the houses were in darkness except for
a single lighted window, which showed a dull yellow square against the
surrounding gloom. Rather a nuisance, French thought. Someone over
there was awake and might chance to look out.

“I’ll go first,” he whispered.

Ormsby laid his glass against the wall, and forming a back, gave
French a hoist up on to the wall. A moment later French had dropped
softly to the ground within. Quickly the glass and tools were handed
over, and in ten seconds more Ormsby also was inside.

They stood listening, but the silence was reassuring, and they tiptoed
to the garage and set to work on the window. French directed the beam
from his torch and held up the coat to screen the light, while Ormsby
tackled the removal of the glass.

The night was ideal for their purpose. There was no moon, but the
light of the stars showed up faintly the larger objects, while
allowing the men to work unseen. It was calm and sounds carried far.
In the street they could hear the footsteps of the returning policeman
ring sharply.

Soon the putty was cut away and the sprigs withdrawn. Then, affixing
rubber suckers to the corners, Ormsby pulled. This was the critical
operation, but he worked skilfully and gradually one corner after
another came away and he was able to lift out the pane.

“Fine,” French whispered. “Now a hand in.”

A flash from the torch showed that there was a small bench beneath the
window. With difficulty French squeezed through on to the bench and
dropped noiselessly to the floor. Immediately he opened the door,
Ormsby slipped in, and the door was shut.

Their first care was to rig the coat over the window lest the light
should betray them. Then while Ormsby started on his doorkey, French
with the other torch examined the car.

His search was extraordinarily thorough. From tires to roof and from
headlights to numberplate he went over every detail. But absolutely
without result. The car was a perfectly normal 15/20 Mercury saloon,
probably worth £450 when new. It was upholstered in grey leatherette
and the small fittings were complete and excellent in quality.

With a helpless, baffled feeling, French stood pondering. Were all his
ideas of the affair erroneous? Did these girls really use the car only
to register bets with the driver?

For a moment he thought it must be so. Then the face of poor pretty
Thurza Darke came up before his imagination as he had seen it in the
Portsmouth police station. No. There was something in their drives
more deadly and sinister than gambling. Crime, terrible and dastardly,
lurked there.

Setting his jaw grimly, he turned back to the car. There _must_ be
something.

He sat down once more on the back seat, and stooping forward as the
girls had done, marked the area which his fingers could reach. On that
space he worked, examining joints, testing for secret springs,
measuring cubic capacities. And then suddenly he found what he wanted.

Beneath the back seat was the petrol tank. This he had already
measured and dipped, and it had seemed to fill the entire space. But
now he found that a thin steel plate, hinged along the floor, turned
up in front of the tank. It fitted so well that at first he had taken
it for the front of the tank itself. But he had accidentally pressed a
secret spring, and the plate had moved forward. Attached to the inside
of the plate, and fitting into a recess in the tank, was a small steel
pocket, lined with velvet. The recess was triangular in cross-section,
which explained the fact that he had been able to push Ormsby’s steel
rule right down to the bottom of the tank, and even feel round its
edges, without discovering the trick.

[Illustration: A schematic diagram showing a cross section of the
petrol tank. The entire shape is square, but the actual tank is a
trapezoid, leaving a small triangular space at the front, with a hinge
on that side allowing access. Inside the triangular space is a large
container, or pocket.]

French breathed a sigh of relief. At last the action of the girls was
clear. On entering the car they had stooped down, lowered the plate,
put in or taken out some object, raised the plate again and
dismounted. After arrival from his round, or before starting, Welland
had emptied or filled the pocket.

But beyond the admittedly crucial point that his suspicions had been
proved justified, French had learned nothing. That the objects
transmitted were small was now certain, but this had been probable
from the first.

In vain he searched for some fragment in the velvet lining of the
pocket which might indicate the nature of the transitory contents. In
vain he longed for the skill of Dr. Thorndyke, who might have been
able with his vacuum extractor to secure microscopic dust from its
fibres, which would have solved the problem.

Satisfied that he had learnt all he could from the car, he turned to
the examination of the building itself.

There was not much to examine. The four walls, unbroken save for door
and window, were finished smoothly with cement. Under the window was
the bench, a plain structure offering no hiding place. The roof was
not ceiled, the rafters, slating laths, and slates being visible. The
floor was of concrete, sloping slightly towards the central pit. A
four-inch drain level with the bottom of the pit led away through the
end wall opposite the door, and above it, let into the garage floor,
was a cast iron inspection chamber cover. A four-inch metal pipe rose
up the wall and passed through the roof. All was perfectly normal and
in order.

French glanced at his watch.

“Nearly finished, Ormsby?”

“Just about, Mr. French. See here.”

He turned his new key in the lock and the bolt shot back.

“Good. We can get in now any time.” French pointed to the pipe which
ran up the wall. “What’s that thing for?”

“Vent pipe,” Ormsby returned. “That’s all right. Required to ventilate
the drain.”

French nodded.

“I’m satisfied with everything here except the drains. Best have this
inspection chamber cover off and see that all is O. K.”

Beneath the cover the drain from the pit ran across the cement bottom
in a channel, ending up in a drop or well full of water, above which
was a round plug about four inches in diameter. Still higher up an
open four-inch pipe led to the base of the vertical one.

“All perfectly O. K.,” Ormsby pronounced. “Here is the drain from the
pit leading into its disconnecting trap, and here”——he pointed to the
plug—“is the inlet for clearing out the pipe if it should get stopped.
This,” indicating the high level open pipe, “is the vent pipe. It
turns up the wall and has an outlet above the roof. All perfectly
correct.”

With a sigh French helped him to lift the inspection chamber cover
into place. On the whole he was disappointed with his visit. He had
hoped that it would have given him the solution of the mystery, but
beyond proving that there really was a mystery, he had learnt nothing.

“Get that glass in,” he said shortly.

Once again he held the torch and coat while Ormsby worked. Quickly the
window was glazed and the fresh work painted with rapidly drying
paint, which in its turn was dusted over with various coloured powders
until it had practically resumed its original appearance. Then
watching their chance, the two men climbed back into Tate’s Lane and
so to their respective homes.

The discovery of the secret pocket in the car seemed to French to rule
out one of his theories. The scheme was not for the purpose of keeping
members of an organization in touch with headquarters. Something
material was being handed over. What could it be?

The girls’ occupation suggested money, some scheme for robbing the
tills of their various establishments. But then, so far as his
information went, they _weren’t_ robbing their tills.

There were two ways, French saw, to settle the matter. The first was
to arrest two of the girls on some trumped-up charge, one just before
she was picked up by the car, and the other immediately after she was
set down. One or other would necessarily be carrying the stuff. The
second way was to shadow Welland more closely than ever and take him
in the act of receiving or parting with it.

Of the two, French preferred the second. To take the girls to the Yard
on suspicion would precipitate events too rapidly. He would no doubt
find out what was being passed as well as getting Welland, but Style
and the girl Lestrange would probably give him the slip. And he must
get all three, for all, he felt positive, were concerned in the
murders. No, he was not yet ready to take action. He must first find
out what was going on.

A more intense shadowing of Welland seemed therefore to be indicated.
French went over in his mind what he had already learnt of the man’s
movements.

Observation had shown that on his journeys between his house, his
office, his garage, and the golf links he had held no communication
with any other person. His entire time, therefore, was accounted for
except the periods spent in those four places.

French called in two of his men and instructed them to get what help
they required and watch the office and the garage day and night,
shadowing to his home anyone other than Welland who might enter
either.

The house and links he decided he would tackle himself, and he settled
down to think out a scheme for doing so.



CHAPTER XI

The Happy Paterfamilias

Some fifteen minutes later he sent once more for Sergeant Ormsby.

“You have a son, haven’t you, Ormsby?” he asked. “A nipper of about
ten?”

“That’s right, sir.”

“A smart lad, able to put through a bit of play-acting?”

Ormsby smiled.

“If you had seen him doing Tom Mix in ‘Miss Hook of Hollywood’ at a
children’s show out our way you wouldn’t need to ask.”

“The very thing. Could you spare him for an hour or two to-morrow?”

“Of course, Mr. French. He’s on holidays now in any case.”

“Then how would this work?” French outlined his plan and the other
laughed.

“Suit the boy first class,” he observed with a chuckle, “and suit me
too for the matter of that.”

“Good. Then we’ll leave in time to be at Harrow Station before the
seven-seventeen in the morning.”

Next day French, and an intelligent but somewhat mischievous looking
boy, alighted at Harrow shortly before nine. They were dressed for
their parts. French was obviously a landed proprietor on a visit to
town, while Freddie Ormsby was a convincing study of a preparatory
school boy. Having seen Welland leave by the 9.17, they strolled into
the town.

“Now, sonny, we’ve got to kill an hour or two. What would you like?
Coffee or an ice?”

Freddie’s predilection being for ices, they found a shop and gave a
bumper order. French sipped coffee and smoked a lengthy pipe, and then
they went for a walk. It was not till nearly eleven that they found
themselves at the end of Acacia Avenue.

“Now, Fred, here we are. Do your best, like a good chap.”

They strolled down the road, evidently strangers to the place, and as
evidently father and son. At all vacant lots they stopped, clearly
discussing a possible dwelling. Next door to No. 39 was such a lot,
and at this they halted in its turn.

“That bow window on the ground floor,” French said in low tones, as he
demonstrated with gestures how the ground might be terraced.

On his previous visit he had noted the exterior of the house, and by
plotting the various elevations, he had deduced its probable plan.
From this he was satisfied that the window in question belonged to
Welland’s sitting room. No other had a large enough expanse of blank
wall beside it for the necessary size of the room.

Freddie Ormsby acted with promptitude.

“Oh, daddy, see!” he cried in shrill tones. “Look where the cat is!”
and before his scandalized parent could intervene, he had picked up a
stone and sent it whizzing with unerring aim through the largest pane.

“Played, sir! Fine shot!” French whispered, then in loud tones: “Well,
upon my soul, you little rascal! Look what you’ve done. What do you
mean, sir, by such conduct?”

The door of No. 39 was opened by an elderly woman with an indignant
countenance as an angry but apologetic gentleman and a scared,
woebegone boy approached up its tiny drive.

“I’m afraid, madam,” said French, taking off his hat politely, “that
an accident has occurred for which I am responsible. My son has so far
forgotten himself as to throw a stone which unfortunately has broken
your window. He has been warned about stone throwing again and again,
and I’ll see that this time it will be a lesson to him. I can only
offer you, madam, my apologies, and go at once for a glazier to make
good the damage.”

The good lady, who had evidently been prepared to breathe threatenings
and slaughter, on finding the wind thus taken out of her sails, became
somewhat mollified.

“Oh, well, if that’s the way you put it, it will be all right,” she
admitted, “though it did give me a start and no mistake, the stone
coming through. But there,” she went on magnanimously, glancing at the
frightened culprit, “you don’t need to say too much to ’im. Boys will
be boys, that’s what I say. Boys will be boys.”

“It’s exceedingly kind of you to look at it like that,” French
declared. “As I said, I can assure you it will be a lesson to him he
will not soon forget. I hope nothing has been damaged inside the
room?”

“Well, I ’aven’t looked yet. Better come in and see for yourself.”

“Thank you. And I think it will save time if I get a sample of the
glass and measure the window.”

Having adjured “Cecil” to wait for him and not to get into any more
mischief while his back was turned, French followed the housekeeper.
The room, as he had imagined, was Welland’s sitting room. It was
comfortably though not luxuriously furnished. In the window was a deep
saddle-bag armchair with beside it a table bearing some papers.
Against one wall was a roll-top desk, with the cover down. A tantalus
and a cigar cabinet stood on a second table. Many shelves of books
hung on the wall.

“The desk,” thought French, as he expressed his relief that no further
damage had been done and took his measurements. Two minutes later he
withdrew in an atmosphere of politeness and regrets.

“You did that well, old man,” he congratulated his now grinning
companion, when at last they were clear of Acacia Avenue. “You shall
have five bob and the best lunch I can get you.”

At the station they met Ormsby, clad in a glazier’s well-worn overalls
and with smudges of paint on his cap.

“He did it fine,” French greeted him, “you’ll be having the lad in the
films yet. There’s the size of the pane and there’s what it was glazed
with. Have you got what’ll do it?”

“No,” said Ormsby, “but there’s a glazier’s down the street. I’ll get
it there. It was the room you wanted all right?”

“Yes, and there’s a desk in it that you’ll have to go through. How’ll
you do if the old woman sticks in the room?”

Ormsby smiled. “Trust me for that, Mr. French. You may not have known
it, but it sometimes takes a terrible lot of hot water to glaze a
pane. I’ll keep her boiling up fresh kettles.”

Three hours later Ormsby knocked at the door of French’s room at the
Yard.

“There’s absolutely nothing there, Mr. French,” he began, as he took
the seat to which the other pointed. “I had a bit of luck, and I’ve
been through practically the whole house and there’s not a thing that
you could get hold of. In the first place that old woman’s a bit deaf
and that helped me.”

“I noticed it,” said French.

“Yes. Well, I went to the door and said I was the man come to glaze
the pane and she had me in at once and I got to work. She hung about
for a minute or two, but I didn’t speak, and when she saw me getting
at it, she said she would be next door in the kitchen if I wanted
anything and went out.”

“Lucky for you.”

“Wasn’t it, sir? But better than that, she was washing clothes and as
long as I could hear the suds going I knew I was safe. I made some
mess round the window to show I was working and then I went for the
desk. It was an easy lock and I had it open in twenty seconds. I went
through everything and there’s not a paper nor any other thing that
shouldn’t be there. All absolutely O. K.”

“Pity,” French interjected.

“Isn’t it? Then I made some more mess and had a look round the room
and a quick run through the books. Then the old lady came in to see
how I was getting on.”

He paused, and French nodded his appreciation of the situation.

“She seemed satisfied with the amount of the mess and went back to the
kitchen without speaking and I heard the washing start again. I
thought I might take a bit of risk, so I slipped upstairs and found
the man’s bedroom. I was afraid to stay too long, but I was long
enough to make sure there was nothing there either. So then I came
down and finished up the pane and painted the putty and came away.”

“Well, that’s that, Ormsby.”

“Sorry I couldn’t get more, Mr. French.”

“We may do our best to cook up evidence,” French said, with the
twinkle in his eye showing even more clearly than usual, “but I draw
the line at inventing it if it’s not there.”

Here was another disappointment. French had been building more even
than he knew on Ormsby’s search of the house, and when this also had
drawn blank his chagrin was correspondingly great. The affair was
certainly exasperating. It was a long time since he had felt so
completely puzzled.

There was nothing for it, however, but to carry on with the plan he
had made, and five o’clock that afternoon saw him at the club-house of
Welland’s golf course, inquiring for the secretary.

“This is a confidential matter, Mr. Allan,” he began when he was
seated in that gentleman’s office, “and I do not know that I can claim
your help in it. I can however ask for it, and that I am going to do.”

The secretary murmured politely.

“It concerns a member of your club,” went on French, “Mr. Curtice
Welland. Now I may say in confidence that we have reason to suspect
that Mr. Welland may not be all that he appears to be. In fact we
think,” French dropped his voice, “that he is one of a trio involved
in no less a crime than murder.”

The secretary stared.

“Curtice Welland?” he repeated incredulously. “Surely not, Inspector.
Curtice Welland involved in a murder! You can’t ask me to believe
that.” He shook his head decisively.

“Then you know him well?”

“As a matter of fact, I don’t. I really scarcely know him at all. But
he has always seemed so quiet and inoffensive; the last type of man
that one would associate with such a crime.”

“So was Dr. Crippen, and so was many another murderer, Mr. Allan,”
French said seriously. “Manner and appearance are unfortunately no
guide, as you would know if you had my experience. But I make no
accusation against the man. It may be that the Yard is mistaken in its
view. And that’s what I have been sent here to find out. I am
investigating Mr. Welland’s life and character. And it is in that
capacity I have come to ask your help.”

Allan hesitated, frowning.

“Mr. Welland is a member of the club,” he said at last. “He is in a
sense my employer. I don’t know that I feel at liberty to discuss him
even if I knew anything against him, which thank heaven I don’t.”

“Well, sir,” said French with a smile, “if you don’t know anything
that settles the matter, doesn’t it?” Then he came to his real
objective. “But there is a bit of quite harmless information that
perhaps you could give me. It is a list of Mr. Welland’s particular
friends among the members or of anyone with whom he plays regularly.
This will not be giving anything away on your part, because you must
see that I could find it out for myself by simple observation.”

Allan replied with evident relief. He would be glad to help the
Inspector, but there were no such persons. Mr. Welland had catholic
tastes. He played with anyone who was available, not with any one in
particular.

French was more than ever worried as he returned to the Yard. Almost
in despair he redoubled his efforts. He put a number of men on to
watch Welland’s house, others he had shadow him while golfing and at
other free times, but all without avail. As the days passed and he
found that no one visited the garage or the office, and that Welland
came into no regular touch with any human being other than the four
girls, he became almost ill from anxiety. Gone was his usual cheery
optimism, his suavity, his pleasant words for his subordinates. “Soapy
Joe” was soapy no longer.

And then quite suddenly, as he lay one night racking his brains over
the problem, an explanation of the whole business shot into his mind.
Tremulously he considered the idea, and the more he thought over it
the more certain he grew that he was right.

Material objects were being carried in the secret pocket of the car.
Material objects were being put in by Welland and taken out by the
girls, and cash was being put in by the girls and taken out by
Welland. The affair was a commercial proposition of a highly
lucrative, but highly immoral and illegal type. These people were
selling prohibited drugs!

And a good scheme it certainly was! Welland in some way as yet unknown
was getting the “snow” or other stuff in bulk and making it up into
small packages. Every morning he would start out with four bundles of
such packages in the pocket of his car. Every day each girl would
remove a bundle and replace it with a roll of notes. Every night, on
some preconcerted signal from her customer, she would pass out with
the metal disc of entrance to the cinema a package of the stuff,
pocketing the notes given in exchange. The illicit sale of drugs had
increased by leaps and bounds, and of all the methods of which French
had yet heard, this was certainly the best.

Here was ample motive for murder! Let the gang get wind of
communication between any of their victims and Scotland Yard and the
victim’s fate was sealed. Both the gains of success and the penalties
of failure were too great to permit of any risks being run.

In a few moments French’s whole outlook on life had changed. Gone was
his weariness, his lassitude, his depression. Once more he was the
optimist, about to add one more laurel to the many he had achieved in
his career.

For this case would make a sensation. If there was one thing more than
another which the authorities were keen on suppressing, it was this
drug traffic. If he pulled off a big coup in this line it could not
fail to affect his prospects.

And then came the usual reaction. It was not all so clear as he had
imagined. How and from whom was Welland getting the stuff? How and to
whom was he passing on the money? French saw that he had a good way to
go before his case should be complete.

As he thought of this side of the affair he swore from vexation. Why,
every investigation that he had made had tended to show that the man
was neither obtaining drugs in bulk nor disposing of large sums of
money! Curse it all, he thought! Was there ever such a tangle?

Almost in despair he had just decided that he would have to fall back
on his alternative scheme and arrest and search two of the girls, when
a further possibility occurred to him. Could he not keep so close a
watch on the girls while in their box offices that he could not fail
to see small packages being passed out.

To think of the idea was to act on it. Early next morning French was
once again closeted with the manager of the Panopticon, in confidence
putting forward his suspicions and begging the other’s help towards
testing them.

As a result of their deliberations, three men in the garb of
electrical fitters arrived an hour later at the Cinema. The boss of
the little gang was named Ormsby, and his helpers were Carter and
Harvey. It seemed that an electric main in the corner of the entrance
hall had given indications of fusing and immediate repairs had become
necessary.

The defect, it appeared, was hidden in the wooden panelling alongside
the box office presided over by Molly Moran, and the first job of the
fitters was naturally to protect their work from passers-by. When
therefore the staff came on duty for the afternoon session they found
that a neat canvas structure had been erected beside the box office.
Behind this the men worked, and from this at five o’clock they went
home.

All but one. From twelve-thirty that morning till eleven-thirty that
night French sat behind the screen, his eyes glued to a hole in the
canvas. From this he could see every movement of Molly’s hands on the
little desk some five feet away.

His view of course was limited. His peep hole was but slightly in
front of the office and the side wall of the opening cut off all
movement on the back of the little counter. But he could not have
placed his observation point further forward, as his sight would then
have been impeded by the backs of the purchasers. But over a small
area he had a perfect view, and he did not believe that anything could
be slipped across unobserved by him.

The watch was tedious, but not so tedious as if he had had to be on
the strain all the time. He knew that no attempt such as he expected
could be made during periods of rush booking: it would be too
dangerous. It was therefore only the booking of isolated persons that
he had to watch. And there were other alleviations. The noise outside
was so great that he was able to change his position without fear of
discovery. Moreover he had taken in a goodly supply of food, which he
consumed at frequent intervals. But still he thought the time would
never come to an end. Stiff and sore and with a splitting headache he
waited, until at last after the performance, when all but the manager
had left, he crept out and thankfully stretched his cramped limbs.

His physical discomfort was however as nothing to his mental
perturbation. For he had seen nothing! Moreover, so good had been his
outlook, that he was satisfied that there had been nothing to see.
Nothing was being passed out with the entrance checks. Of that he
could swear.

His drug theory was therefore false. Whatever Welland was doing, it
was not peddling opium. Something else was being transferred through
the medium of the secret panel in the car.

French could have wept when he found himself forced to this
conclusion. Never in his life had he been up against anything which
had puzzled him more. He would give a month’s pay, he thought
savagely, to get the thing cleared up.

That evening he had recourse once more to his household oracle. Again
he put his difficulties before Mrs. French, and again light seemed to
come from doing so. Not that this time she made any suggestions.
Rather it was that his own mind clarified and he saw that there was
only one thing left for him to do.

The arrest of the girls would be too dangerous. He must therefore get
Molly Moran’s confidence. By hook or by crook he must force her to
tell her true story. And if he couldn’t frighten or cajole her into
keeping his interference secret from Welland, why then he must just
take the consequences. He determined he would see her again, first
thing next day.



CHAPTER XII

The Car’s Freight

At nine o’clock next morning French rang up the number he had noted on
the Nelson Street boarding house telephone, and asked for Miss Molly
Moran.

“It’s in connection with our previous conversation, Miss Moran,” he
explained. “There is a fresh development which I want to discuss with
you. Will you meet me in half an hour at the same place as before?”

Though she agreed, French could sense the unwillingness in her tones.
“Very good of you,” he declared. “I’ll not keep you long.”

He greeted her pleasantly when she appeared, led the way to a deserted
seat in the Charing Cross Gardens, supplied her with a cigarette, and
for a few moments chatted of everyday matters. Then when she seemed
more at her ease he turned to business.

“What I want to see you about is this, Miss Moran,” he said more
gravely. “Since our last interview I have learnt that this matter of
Mr. Welland is even more serious than I thought. I want to tell you
what I know and to ask your further help. And first, are you quite
satisfied that I really am from Scotland Yard? Would you like to go
with me to the Yard where I am known?”

“Oh, no, Mr. French,” she answered hastily, “that’s not necessary at
all. I am perfectly satisfied.”

“Very good. Now I told you before that I believed you were in personal
danger from your association with this man. I want to tell you why I
think so.”

She did not reply, but sat with a bored expression, evidently trying
to conceal her interest.

“Nearly three months ago,” went on French, “a young lady named Thurza
Darke was sent to the Yard by a solicitor. This man had found out that
she had got into the clutches of a gang of crooks, and he sent her to
us for protection. Now, Miss Moran, this young lady was employed in
the box office of the Milan Cinema in Oxford Street. That is the first
point.

“She said that on her way to business she had met a young lady in the
train, a Miss Gwen Lestrange. She was a wealthy young lady, or seemed
to be, and they got talking about her money. As Miss Lestrange said
she was only a barmaid in a theatre, Miss Darke asked where it came
from. With some appearance of hesitation she was told it was from
gambling at second hand on the Monte Carlo tables. After further
conversation Miss Lestrange suggested that Miss Darke should have a
fling in the same way, and agreed to introduce her to the man with
whom she herself dealt. He was then called Westinghouse. They met here
in this garden, and Westinghouse arranged the gambling.”

There was no question now of Miss Moran’s attention. She was watching
French with tense interest, in fact with an expression almost of
horror.

He glanced at her with satisfaction.

“Is there any need for me to go on, Miss Moran?” he said gently. “Can
you not imagine the rest? How Miss Darke won fair sums at first and
thought she was going to make her fortune. Then how she began to lose;
how at last she got into debt to Westinghouse; how he became
threatening and swore he would report her to the cinema authorities;
how he threatened prosecution, imprisonment, until the poor girl was
almost beside herself with terror. You can picture it, can you not,
Miss Moran?”

That she could picture it in vivid detail was evident. Her eyes were
dilating and her face had paled.

“The remainder I’m sure you can imagine also,” went on French. “How at
this crisis Miss Lestrange turned up unexpectedly; how she was
sympathetically concerned about Miss Darke’s woebegone appearance, and
how she recommended recourse to her cousin, who, she said, had helped
her out of a similar difficulty. Then how this man played on Miss
Darke’s fears in order to entrap her in his evil schemes. Ah, I see I
needn’t go into it further. You evidently know as much as I do about
it.”

In truth the girl’s appearance left no doubt on the point. French,
pausing for a moment, continued:

“Now I must tell you something that had happened before. A very great
friend of Miss Darke’s, a young lady also employed in the box office
of a cinema, had recently died. She was a jolly, gay young thing, but
for several weeks she had appeared to be in trouble. Then one day she
disappeared and later her body was found in a pool in a quarry. There
was a verdict of suicide, but Miss Darke never believed she had
committed suicide. She said she was not that kind of girl, and she was
convinced that she had been murdered.

“Now Miss Darke had tried to get out of her friend the cause of her
trouble, but beyond the fact that it was due to some man who had got
her into his power, the girl would not say. But she had described the
man, and what had terrified Miss Darke was that the man to whom Miss
Lestrange had sent her exactly answered the description.

“This was his description: middling tall, thinnish, fair haired,
rather terrifying eyes, and”—French paused for a moment, then added—“a
purple scar shaped like a sickle on the inside of his left wrist.”

Miss Moran gave a little gasping cry. She had gone dead white and
swayed as if faint.

“Steady on, Miss Moran,” French said sharply, but in low tones. “You
don’t want to attract attention. You’re all right and perfectly safe.
Pull yourself together.”

With an evident effort the girl did so. She did not belie the evidence
of her firm little chin. Again French told himself she was a young
woman of character.

“You mustn’t be alarmed,” he went on. “I’m here to help you out of
your difficulties. We’ll discuss that in a moment. Meanwhile I must
finish my story.

“As I say, Miss Darke recognized the man, and very wisely she
temporized. If he would give her a couple of days to think it over she
would come to a decision. He agreed. By friends about whom I needn’t
explain she was persuaded to report the circumstances at the Yard.
Miss Moran,” French’s voice became very grave, “she was evidently
watched. That night she disappeared, and two days later her body was
found in the sea near Portsmouth. In this case there was no question
of suicide. The poor girl had been murdered before being thrown into
the sea.”

Once again his listener’s pallor grew deathlike, and once again with
an evident effort she pulled herself together.

“I have one other thing to tell you. Inquiries revealed the fact that
some five months before Miss Darke’s friend’s murder another young
lady was found drowned under suspicious circumstances. She also was in
the box office of a cinema. Absolute proof was not obtainable, but
there is no reasonable doubt that she also was murdered by the same
gang.”

French paused, carefully lit a cigarette, glanced keenly around and
resumed.

“From all this, Miss Moran, you will see that when I said I thought
you might be in personal danger I was basing my opinion on something
very real. I do not wish to frighten you unduly, but you must see that
unless some steps are taken it may be your turn next. Now the question
is, are you going to be wise and confide in me?”

She did not answer and French also smoked in silence to let the
question sink into her mind. Presently he went on: “There is also
another side of the affair which you must not overlook and about which
it is only fair that I should warn you. We now know so much about what
is going on that it is only a question of time before we learn it all.
If you are then found to be doing something illegal you will
undoubtedly be charged with conspiracy in the crime. If, on the other
hand, you do all you can to help the authorities, I will do all I can
to help you. Even if the matter should be too serious for me to keep
you out of court, your having turned King’s evidence would get you
off.”

It was evident that this view had not occurred to the young lady. She
looked even more frightened and unhappy, though still she did not
speak.

French grew impatient.

“Very well,” he said in sharper tones, “I warn you again that your own
safety requires that you should tell what you know, but if you won’t
take my warning I can’t help it. I am of opinion that here and now you
are carrying with you the object or objects which you will shortly
place in the secret panel of Mr. Welland’s car. I shall have to take
you into custody on a charge of conspiracy and have you searched so as
to find out what that article is.”

His conscience pricked him slightly as he spoke. Was this strictly in
accordance with the rules for the interrogation of a possible witness?
Then he thought he was justified. This girl would not incriminate
herself. He could swear she was innocent. And anything was good enough
for the murderers of Thurza Darke.

The girl gave a little cry.

“Take me into custody!” she whispered hoarsely. “Surely you wouldn’t
do a thing like that?”

“I certainly would. I am going to find out about this business at
whatever cost. Come now,” he went on more coaxingly, “be wise and come
in on the side that must win. As you are, you are running a terrible
risk.”

Though he spoke gravely, with secret delight he noticed signs of
breaking down. Miss Moran shivered and slow, long sobs shook her
frame. He remained silent and then at last he heard what he had been
hoping for.

“Oh,” she cried piteously, “but this is terrible altogether! I never
thought anything like this would happen to me. I didn’t mean any harm
and now look at the trouble I’m in. You’ll make it as easy as you can
for me if I tell you?”

“I have already promised, Miss Moran. Not only that, but you’ll feel a
weight off your mind. You can’t have been happy with this going on.”

“Happy! I’ve been miserable. God only knows how miserable I’ve been.
And if I have been making money, sure I’ve paid for it by the terror
I’ve been in. I’ll tell you everything.”

She was now sobbing freely and French once more urged her to control
herself lest attention should be drawn to her. Presently, in rather
tremulous tones she began.

“The whole thing happened just as you say, Mr. French. Every day I go
to business by the tube and it was there I met the girl you spoke of.
We got to be the best of friends, but all the time I was wondering
where she got her money. One day I asked her, and then she told me
about the gambling at Monte Carlo. She said if I would like a go at it
she would arrange it for me, all just as you said. She said the
bookmaker would meet us here. He did and he was the very man you
described. Och, but he was the terrible man, Mr. French! There was
something about his eyes that would give you the cold shivers. He was
the man you mentioned anyway, for I saw the scar on his wrist.”

“Ah,” said French with satisfaction. “Did he tell you his name?”

“He did. It was Style.”

“Good! That’s the man. And did you stake?”

“I did, and I won first and then I lost. At that time Gwen Lestrange
had got a job out of London and had gone away, but I met her by chance
and she asked me how I was getting on. When I told her she said she
thought her cousin could help me and she introduced me to him. That
was Mr. Welland.”

French was highly pleased. At last he was making progress. Welland and
Style had been concerned in the death of Thurza Darke, and already he
had Welland under observation. A little more of that observation would
undoubtedly lead him to Style.

He wondered why the two scoundrels had changed their respective roles.
In Thurza Darke’s case Welland (or Westinghouse) had been the
bookmaker and Style the cousin. In Molly Moran’s, Style was the
bookmaker and Welland the cousin. Probably, thought French, to divide
equally both the risks and the responsibilities. With some surprise
also he noted that while Welland had taken the precaution to change
his name, Style had not troubled to do so. No doubt for this also
there was a reason.

“Well, and what did Mr. Welland say to you?”

The girl was evidently trying hard for self-control. She had succeeded
in choking down her sobs, but her voice was still tremulous as she
went on.

“He was as pleasant and friendly as you’d wish. He said he was sorry
about my difficulties and that he could offer me a job which would not
only get me out of them, but would pay me well besides. And it
wouldn’t interfere with my work at the cinema, for all he wanted could
be done between times when I wasn’t selling tickets. He said it was
the fine easy job, but it had one thing about it that I mightn’t like,
and then he looked at me and asked me was I very strait-laced in my
ideas.

“Well, as a matter of fact, Mr. French, I’m not strait-laced at all.
So I did not, and he said that that was fortunate, as it was the only
drawback the job had. There were some strait-laced people who might
object to it, but not ordinary men and women of the world. Anyway it
was safe enough and absolutely moral and no one would ever know
anything about it. Besides I needn’t go on with it unless I wanted to.

“I asked him what the job was and he said that was going too fast, he
would have to have my word first to carry it out for at least a week.
After that I could go on or not as I liked. He said that if I promised
he would begin by giving me enough to square Mr. Style. Then he said
that maybe I would like a day or two to think it over and that I could
come back and see him again.”

“A plausible ruffian,” French commented, now speaking in his
pleasantest tones. “I’m sure that’s just what he said to your
predecessors. And what did you answer?”

The girl hung her head.

“Well, Mr. French, I’m not pretending I didn’t do wrong, but just
think of my position. I had only my job to live by and I was going to
lose it in a way that would have prevented me getting another. Then
there was this job offered me, maybe not just all right, but safe
anyway. It was a choice of two evils; of possible ruin if I accepted
or of certain ruin if I didn’t. I took the chance.”

“Of course you did. I can see the fix you were in and I’m not blaming
you.”

“Well, to make a long story short, I told Mr. Welland I would take his
job. He smiled and shook hands and congratulated me. He said I’d never
be sorry for what I was doing and then he handed me ten pounds, saying
that here was part of the money I owed Mr. Style and that if I paid
this much Mr. Style would certainly give me time to meet the rest. He
made me sign an I.O.U. for it, and he said I had better go and pay Mr.
Style at once.

“Next time Mr. Style came to the Gardens I was waiting for him. He was
very threatening at first, but when I showed him the ten pounds it
changed his manner. He said he was glad I wasn’t going to make trouble
and that he would take that on account and give me three more weeks to
find the other fifteen. He was so pleasant that in spite of the job I
felt easier in my mind than I had for many a day.”

“I don’t wonder,” French commented. “I think you did what any other
girl would have done in your position, though I suppose I should not
say so.”

“Mr. Welland had given me an appointment for two hours later and I met
him in Hyde Park. He told me that one of his friends was in the Mint
and had unexpectedly found a crate full of old half crowns in a
disused cellar. He supposed they had been called in for renewal and
been forgotten. The friend did not see why they should lie there, and
he began taking some home every evening. But he was afraid to get rid
of them, for some of them bore the Mint rejection mark. He had
consulted Mr. Welland as to how this might be done, and that was where
I came in. My job would be to pass out the half crowns to the public.
Every morning Mr. Welland would give me so many and I was to pay them
out in change at the pay-box. For every half crown I paid out I was to
put another aside from the till for Mr. Welland, and when I met him
next day I was to hand these over to him, less a percentage.”

“And did you believe his story?”

The girl hung her head.

“No,” she admitted in a low voice, “but as he put it it didn’t seem so
bad. He said the whole business, so far as I was concerned, was
perfectly honest. The half crowns were good and worth their full
value. My cash at the cinema could be examined at any moment and would
be found O. K. The only thing the most strait-laced could object to
was his friend’s taking these old coins from the Mint in the first
instance. But I had nothing to do with that.”

“And once again, did you believe that?”

“No,” and the girl’s voice was very mournful, “and I said I didn’t to
Mr. Welland. But it was no good. He said that if I felt the slightest
qualms about the matter, not to go on with it on any account at all.
He would be the last person to press me to do what I thought was
wrong. If I didn’t like it I could drop it. I had only to hand him
back his ten pounds and I would be clear of it.”

“He had you there.”

“He had me so that I couldn’t wriggle. I begged him to let me go, but
he said ten pounds were ten pounds, and that he couldn’t afford to
lose all that money and get nothing against it. Then I said I would
tell the police the whole thing. That annoyed him. He advised me just
to try it. He asked me did I imagine my story would be believed? There
was I without a scrap of proof, but he had my I.O.U. He said if I went
to the police it would be me that would go to prison for perjury and
defamation of character.”

“So you agreed to pass the money?”

“What else could I do, Mr. French? I owed fifteen pounds to one of
these men and ten to the other, and both said they would get me the
sack if I didn’t pay. And I hadn’t any money and they wouldn’t give me
time.”

Here, thought French in high delight, was something tangible at last!
A gleam of light was beginning to illumine these mysterious
happenings. With a keener interest he went on.

“You said less a percentage?”

“Yes, ten per cent. One half crown in every ten they let me keep.”

“And how many do you change per day?”

“Well, of course it varies, but it would be a bad day that I wouldn’t
change a hundred. The most I ever did was a hundred and forty-five.”

“Bless my soul, you’ve not been doing so badly! What have you been
making? Eight or ten pounds a week?”

“About that. As I say, it varies, but I generally get at least eight.”

French was astonished. No wonder this gang secured loyal helpers! With
her ordinary wages this girl must be in receipt of something not far
short of six hundred a year. He had certainly frightened her to some
purpose if she was willing to risk the loss of such an income.

“H’m,” he said with grim pleasantry. “It really looks like a case of
your money or your life. But I don’t want to keep you here too long.
From what you tell me it would be better that we shouldn’t be seen
together. Just explain how you carry the half crowns to and from the
cinema.”

“In my vanity bag.” She was about to open it, but French checked her.

“Don’t show me,” he said. “Explain.”

“There are three compartments in this bag. The centre one is like an
ordinary bag, and I keep my own things in it, handkerchief and so on.
The two side ones shut with a spring, and unless you examined the bag
very carefully, you wouldn’t know they were there. One of these spring
compartments is coloured red inside and the other green. In the red
one are the half crowns from Mr. Welland. As I take them out I put
other half crowns from the till into the green one. Sometimes I don’t
get all Mr. Welland’s changed, and the colours keep them separate.”

“Why do you only put in half crowns? Wouldn’t two shillings and a
sixpence from the till do as well?”

“I don’t know. Mr. Welland told me to put in half crowns only.”

Evidently to keep the percentage of coins of various values normal in
the till, French imagined. If so, it showed an attention to detail
which deserved success. He thought rapidly whether he had got all the
information he could expect from this particular source, and decided
that he had.

“Now, Miss Moran,” he said earnestly, “you must be careful of yourself
for a few days. Go straight home after your show and keep to populous
streets. Even in the daytime avoid lonely places. Don’t accept a
message from anyone you don’t know. Most important of all, don’t get
into any kind of a private car or taxi. This is not to frighten you,
but to keep you safe. A few days and we’ll have the gang and then you
will be all right. One other thing: if you notice anything in the
least degree suspicious, ring me up—Victoria 7000. You will find
plenty of help if you’re in trouble. You understand all that?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. French. And I can’t say how glad I am to have told you.
I was making money all right, but no money would be worth the terror
I’ve endured. Mr. Welland was always telling me that if the thing
leaked out I was done for. It would be the sack for certain and maybe
prison as well. I’ve been perfectly wretched and the relief is just
beyond words.”

French nodded gravely as the girl finished speaking. Another
explanation of the affair had just flashed into his mind, an
explanation so obvious that he could not understand why he had not
instantly thought of it. These coins had never seen the Mint! They
were forgeries. He would have staked long odds that he was on a gang
of counterfeit coiners.

If so he must get hold of some samples without delay.

“What have you got in your bag now?” he asked. “Coins from Mr. Welland
or from the till?”

“From the till. These are the coins I changed yesterday. I’ll find Mr.
Welland’s parcel in the car in an hour’s time.”

“Of course. I should have known that. Now, I’ll see you again at the
Panopticon. You’ll be sent for by the manager. Take your bag with you.
Do you see?”

“Very good, Mr. French. I’ll remember all you have told me.”

“Well, my last word to you is three don’ts: don’t be frightened, don’t
let Mr. Welland suspect our meeting, and don’t do anything rash,” and
wishing her a pleasant good afternoon, he strolled out of the gardens.



CHAPTER XIII

The Transport of Supplies

Inspector French continued his stroll along the Embankment until he
reached the Yard. There, after an interview with his chief, he got a
cheque for ten pounds, and going to the nearest bank, asked for the
money to be paid in half crowns. With his pockets weighted down with
the silver he went on to the Panopticon and asked for the manager. As
a result of his conversation he was shown into a waiting room, where
presently he was joined by Molly Moran.

“You here already, Mr. French?” she greeted him.

“Yes. I want to get hold of some of those coins. Here is ten pounds’
worth of half crowns. Just count me out eighty of Mr. Welland’s.”

“But there’s nothing remarkable about them at all. They’re just
ordinary half crowns. I’ve shown them to a friend of mine in a bank,
and he said so too.”

“Oh,” said French, “so a bank clerk has seen them, has he? But were
you not afraid to tell him about them?”

“I didn’t tell him at all. What I thought was that maybe they weren’t
good, that maybe Mr. Welland’s friends was making them—counterfeit
coining, don’t you call it? So I showed my friend four and said they’d
been refused on the grounds that they weren’t good. He said they were
perfectly all right.”

“Oh,” French repeated more dubiously. “Well, I’ll have the eighty all
the same. You might let me see that bag now that we can’t be
overlooked.”

It was just what Miss Moran had described, a plain but large vanity
bag with a central compartment of normal appearance, and two side
ones, each capable of carrying some hundred and fifty half crowns and
fitted with an inside skin or bag which could be lifted out with the
coins. When these side compartments were closed by their spring
latches they were invisible to casual inspection, though if the bag
were handled their existence became obvious. French was not surprised
therefore to learn that Welland had given the strictest instructions
that the bag was to be carried looped on the girl’s arm and never
taken off except when she was actually working in the pay-box.

But his interest in the bag was but slight compared with that he felt
in the coins which Miss Moran had received from Welland. There were
130 and he tumbled them out on a table and began to turn them over.

His first glance surprised him and increased that feeling of
depression which the girl’s story of the bank clerk had aroused. That
they were not new was undoubted; all had clearly been in circulation.
Moreover the dates varied, and roughly speaking, the wear on any
individual coin corresponded with its age.

Welland’s story was unlikely enough at the best, but here already was
proof of its falsity. These coins had not been recalled from
circulation because of age or wear. They were still perfectly good.

French swore internally as he realized the conclusion to which he was
being forced. If these coins were of different dates and had been in
circulation they were not forgeries. Dies were expensive and difficult
to make and it was beyond belief that a series with different dates
should have been obtained. Again, once the coins had been got into
circulation the counterfeiters would have finished with them. They
would not be trying to get rid of them now.

He set himself to re-examine the samples with greater care. And the
more he did so, the more convinced of their genuineness he became. So
far as his lens revealed the design, the detail seemed perfect, the
colour, feel, and texture were normal, and every coin which he tested
gave a satisfactory ring. He would of course have them examined by the
experts at the Mint, but he had little doubt his own conclusion would
be confirmed.

If so, it seemed to follow that the coins had been stolen. But he
could not think of any source from which they might have been
obtained. It was absurd to suppose they had been taken from the Mint.
Coins of such an age and in such a condition would not be there. Nor
did it seem likely that a bank had been robbed. Such an operation
would be extremely difficult, and further, if it had been found
possible, it was difficult to see why half crowns alone had been
taken. The only explanation which French could devise was that some
eccentrically minded miser had spent his life hoarding them. But if
so, and Welland had stolen them, why should he hesitate to pay them
out himself?

On this latter point, however, a little further thought supplied an
explanation. The one feature of the affair which was clear beyond
doubt was that it was being carried out on a very large scale. If Miss
Moran changed eight hundred half crowns a week, it was to be presumed
that each of the other girls did the same. Say, three thousand half
crowns a week—150,000 a year! Nearly £19,000 worth. No one man could
do it. Without some such organization as had been devised, the thing
would be out of the question.

And then French saw that he had made a mistake. This consideration did
not answer his question. For every half crown Welland gave the girls,
he received one in exchange. How did he get rid of these latter? _How_
did he get rid of them?

He simply could not do it! He had been watched too carefully. French
did not believe he could have passed even small things like packages
of “snow.” How much less comparatively bulky bags of half crowns! Once
again French swore, this time half aloud.

“Beg pardon, Mr. French?”

His attention was recalled to the girl, whom in his abstraction he had
forgotten.

“Just a little habit of mine,” he said, the twinkle reappearing in his
eyes. “I think that’s all I want. I’ll take eighty of these half
crowns of Welland’s and give you eighty of mine in exchange. Then you
carry on as usual.”

“Very good, Mr. French.” She paused, then went on hesitatingly. “I
wish you would tell me something about it. I don’t suppose you could,
of course, but I’m frightfully interested.”

French glanced at her keenly, then smiled.

“I only wish I could,” he answered pleasantly. “If I knew enough to
answer your question I’d be a much happier man. But I’ll soon know all
about it and I’ll tell you then. In any case, the less you know, the
better for your own health.” Then an idea occurred to him and he went
on: “Tell me, do you go about London much?”

“Me? No, Mr. French. What do you mean?”

“I mean I should imagine that a young lady in your position with a
free forenoon should take some exercise in the form of walks. Do you
not explore the streets?”

“Oh, I see. Well, yes, I do a little, but I’m not a great walker.”

“Very well. Avoid the neighbourhood of Waterloo Station and also
Harrow.”

She looked interested.

“I’ll explain,” went on French. “Mr. Welland lives at Harrow and he
garages his car in Tate’s Lane off York Road. York Road is close to
Waterloo. Now it might be disastrous if he saw you near either place,
as he might imagine you were spying on him. So keep away from both
districts.”

French was in a thoughtful mood as he returned to the Yard. Seldom had
he been up against so clear-cut a problem. Welland was getting
hundreds of half crowns each day; he must be getting rid of them
somehow or he must be storing them somewhere; how, or where? It seemed
impossible that there could be a difficulty in finding the solution.
French was therefore the more exasperated by his failure to do so.

In a kind of dream he took the eighty half crowns to the Mint. To a
high official he told his story, with the result that immediate
investigations and tests were put in hand. He had a long wait, but
before he left he got his information. All the half crowns were
genuine; no such coins had been recalled to the Mint; no disused
cellar existed in which such coins might have been kept; no half
crowns had been stolen.

This of course was final proof of the falsity of the tale Welland had
told Molly, which so far as it went was to the good. But it made the
entire operations of the gang even more inexplicable. If they were not
getting rid of counterfeit coins, what under heaven were they doing?
French’s brain reeled as he faced the problem.

He walked slowly back to the Yard, full of bewilderment and baffled
rage. These people were changing one lot of perfectly good half crowns
for another. In spite of the magnitude of the numbers dealt with, they
were getting in no half crowns from outside nor were they disposing of
any. At least, they certainly were not obtaining nor distributing
anything like the number passed by the girls. What was it all for?

A sudden wild hooting of a motor horn and frenzied cries from
passers-by recalled French to his surroundings. He sprang practically
from beneath the bonnet of a heavily laden bus—only just in time. For
quite a hundred yards he forgot about Welland and his half crowns as
he meditated upon the undesirability of dreaming in the London
streets. Then his thoughts swung back again to his problem.

Whether it was due to the start he had received or whether it arose in
the normal processes of thought, he immediately found himself
considering a new idea. Suppose all these apparently contradictory
premises were true? Suppose Welland _was_ neither obtaining half
crowns nor disposing of them? Suppose he _was_ changing one perfectly
good lot of them for another? What if the half crowns he obtained from
the girls on one day were handed back to them on the next? What if
this elaborate machinery was simply a blind to cover some more
sinister proceedings? Had Molly Moran lied and were the gang selling
drugs after all?

Admittedly French did not see how such a scheme would facilitate the
distribution of cocaine or heroin, but this problem seemed to him the
lesser of the two. At all events there must be more in it than half
crowns.

But lengthy pondering over it produced no light. Every solution that
occurred to him seemed more improbable than the last.

In despair he returned to the idea that the disposal of the half
crowns was the essential. Suppose a hoard of half crowns had been
stolen, some of which were known to be marked? Most unlikely
admittedly, but at least this theory covered the facts.

In his efforts to carry the thing a step further he tried a trick
which had frequently helped him out of a similar tight place. If when
following a trail of footsteps he came to hard ground on which they
were not visible, he made a cast and went on to the next soft area in
the hope of picking them up again. Now he made a mental cast. Assuming
Welland were getting rid of these coins changed by the girls, and
leaving out the means by which it was being done, what must be their
eventual destination?

Long cogitation told him that the man’s only plan must be to pay them
in to a bank. In no other way that French could see could he realize
their value.

This at least opened out an obvious line of research. With a sense of
relief at renewed action he drafted a circular to the managers of the
various banks in London. He was anxious to trace a man who, he
believed, was paying in large numbers of half crowns to banks. He
would be grateful to the manager if he would make inquiries as to
whether such payments were being made at his bank, and if so, let him
have some particulars on the matter.

For the remainder of that day the inquiry hung fire, but next morning
French was called to the telephone. The manager of the Knightsbridge
Branch of the London and County Bank believed that he had some
information which might be useful to the inspector and would be glad
if he would call round.

Half-an-hour later French was seated in the manager’s private room.

“I do not know,” said Mr. Elwood, “whether I have brought you on a
wild goose chase, but for nearly a year a man has been paying in some
four to six hundred half crowns each Wednesday afternoon. It is common
enough to have a weekly payment of silver, but uncommon to have it
restricted to coins of one denomination. When therefore I received
your circular I thought that this might be the man you wanted.”

“Sounds hopeful,” French agreed cheerily. “Perhaps you would give me
the details?”

The manager touched a bell. “Mr. Whitley,” he said, as a dark,
keen-looking young man entered, “you might answer any questions that
Mr. French here asks you about Mr. Welland, of Acacia Avenue, Harrow.”

“Welland?” exclaimed French in amazement. “Is he a well-built,
prosperous looking man with the typical American business-man type of
face?”

“No, sir,” returned the clerk. “Mr. Welland is slight, with a pale
complexion and a small, fair moustache. He has peculiar eyes, light
blue and with a queer sort of stare.”

A wave of excitement swept over French. “Style!” he thought, in high
delight. Things were beginning to move at last!

“I think I recognize the man you mean, Mr. Whitley,” he said
pleasantly, “though I knew him under another name. Now what about this
Mr. Welland? When did you come across him first?”

“He came in one day about a year ago.” The clerk hesitated. “If I
might get my books I could give you the exact date.”

The manager nodded and in a few moments the young man returned with a
voluminous ledger.

“He first called on the seventeenth of August last and said he wished
to open an account. You may remember, sir,” Mr. Whitley turned to the
manager, “that I brought him in to you. He said that he carried on
business as a bookmaker and that he dealt particularly in betting on
dog races. He had worked out a scheme whereby his bets were limited to
half crowns and multiples of a half crown, with the result that he
found himself with large numbers of half crowns on his hands. His
lodgments would therefore be made in coins of this denomination. On
that day he lodged sixty pounds’ worth of half crowns. It was a
Wednesday and every Wednesday since then he has come in with amounts
varying from fifty to a hundred pounds all in half crowns.”

“I follow you,” said French. “I take it then that his account has been
steadily growing?”

“No,” the young man returned, “for he draws cheques for comparatively
large amounts at intervals. I do not think that his account has ever
stood at more than five hundred pounds. When it amounts to from four
to five hundred pounds he draws all out except a few pounds.”

“By cheque?”

“Yes, by cheque.”

“In whose favour?”

“In his own.”

“I suppose I need scarcely ask you, Mr. Whitley, if you were satisfied
that this business was perfectly in order? Did it not strike you as
strange that a man should lodge nothing but half crowns?”

“Well, you see,” the young man returned, “he explained that, otherwise
I probably would have thought it odd.”

“Then it is not an uncommon thing for silver to be lodged in that
way?”

“Oh, no, quite common. Small shopkeepers and persons of that class
generally make a weekly lodgment in silver, but of course it is in
coins of all denominations.”

“Quite. Does Mr. Welland call about the same time each Wednesday?”

“Yes, always about two o’clock.”

“Very good,” said French. “With your permission, sir,” he turned to
the manager, “I shall be here at two o’clock next Wednesday, that is
tomorrow, to meet Mr. Welland. I may say that I believe the
information you have given me will prove highly important and I need
scarcely impress on you both the absolute importance of saying nothing
of my visit and of giving no warning to Mr. Welland.”

French’s mind was in a whirl as he left the bank. Then it _was_ half
crowns! But what was the object of it all? He swore impotently as he
came up once more against the problem.

But one thing at least was altogether splendid! For some time past he
believed he had had sufficient evidence against Style to convict him
of murder, but his difficulty had been that Style had vanished. Now
Style was found, or at least he would be on the next day. That was two
of the known members of the gang. With luck the shadowing of Style
would lead him to the third, Gwen Lestrange. This morning had marked a
great forward step in the investigation.

But when he reached the Yard French’s delight increased tenfold. There
were awaiting him two other telephone messages and two letters, all
from the managers of banks and all containing similar news. In each
case the manager advised him that in reply to his circular he believed
the wanted man was dealing at his bank, and each suggested a call for
further information.

During the afternoon French was a busy man. Engaging a taxi, he drove
round the various branches and in each found that Style was making a
lodgment of half crowns, exactly as had been described by the clerk at
Knightsbridge. Only on one point did the stories differ. Each bank was
visited by Style on a different day of the week. Monday, Tuesday,
Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday’s visits were accounted for, and on
ringing up the Yard from the last branch he visited French was able to
place Thursday’s call also. A similar communication had come in from
still another bank.

With this information he felt that he should soon reach a decisive
stage in the case. Style once located, the end was in sight.

But he racked his brains in exasperation as his former problem
recurred to him. Again, how was Welland passing these coins to Style?
The more French thought over the investigation he had made, the more
impossible it seemed that the man could be doing it. And yet here was
definite proof that it was being done daily.

He sat down at his desk, and contrary to his usual custom in the
office, lit his pipe and began to smoke with long, steady pulls, as he
gave himself up to thought. For the _n_th time he visualized the whole
proceedings; the placing of the coins in the secret panel of the car
by the girls; the driving of the car to the garage; Welland’s walk to
his office; his journey to Harrow; his game of golf; his return next
day to his office; his walk to the garage and the taking out of the
car. Every one of these had been checked and rechecked so often that
it was impossible—_impossible_—that the coins could have been got rid
of. And yet they had been.

French wondered if he could not narrow the issue. The coins definitely
reached the garage because observation showed that they were not taken
out of the car in the streets. Though it was by no means demonstrated,
he inclined to the opinion that when Welland left the garage he did
not take the coins with him. The man seldom carried anything in his
hand, and so bulky a package could scarcely have been placed in the
pocket without causing a bulge. But no bulge had been observed. It
certainly looked, therefore, as if the coins were being left in the
garage.

Though his examination had been exhaustive, French again racked his
brains as to whether he could not have overlooked some means of access
to the garage. Then suddenly an idea occurred to him which filled him
once again with the eager enthusiasm which every forward step in an
investigation produced.

The drain! Could the drain be a fake? Could it represent the
communication he wanted? He determined that that very night he would
examine it again.

Accordingly two o’clock next morning saw him repeat with Sergeant
Ormsby the proceedings of three weeks earlier. Waiting until the
policeman had turned out of Tate’s Lane, they swarmed over the
coachbuilder’s wall, and creeping to the garage, let themselves in
with Ormsby’s key.

“I’m not satisfied about this drain, Ormsby,” French explained. “I
want to make sure that there is nothing more here than meets the eye.
Let’s have this cover up again.”

They raised the manhole cover and Ormsby got into the inspection
chamber and prepared to examine the three pipes in turn. French, lying
down in the pit, was able to put his eye to that connecting the pit to
the chamber. Ormsby’s torch lit it completely, so that every inch was
visible. It was a perfectly clear connection without any break or
junction and French had to admit that nothing was to be learned from
it.

The second pipe from the chamber was the outfall with the intercepting
trap attached. Here also investigation showed that everything was as
it should be. The trap was full of water, and on Ormsby’s removing the
disc sealing the pipe immediately above it, a rush of offensive gases
came out, proving that the connection to the sewer was genuine.

There remained therefore only the ventilating pipe and this, it was
obvious, passed under the floor to the vertical shaft and so to the
roof.

“That is all right, Mr. French. You needn’t worry about it. It is just
an ordinary vent pipe,” Ormsby declared.

But French still was not satisfied.

“I must make sure of the connection,” he said. “Couldn’t you get up on
the roof, Ormsby, and pour some water down and see if it comes out
here?”

The pipe passed out through the roof at the back of the garage,
opposite the door. With some difficulty Ormsby climbed on the wall
between the yard and the adjoining property, then shuffling up the
roof, poured down the pipe the canful of water which French handed up.
A gurgling sound followed by a rush of water into the inspection
chamber showed immediately that the connection was good.

“Curse it all,” thought French in disgust, “this darned thing is no
good either. I suppose it must be that confounded office after all.”

“Did it come all right?” said Ormsby, re-entering the garage and
looking into the inspection chamber. “I thought you wouldn’t get
anything there, Mr. French. The thing is perfectly normal.” He climbed
down once more into the inspection chamber and began pushing his rule
up the ventilating pipe.

French watched him idly while he stood racking his brains over the
problem. Then a sudden exclamation from Ormsby attracted his
attention.

“What’s the matter?” he asked sharply. “Got anything?”

“I’m not so sure, Mr. French. Here’s a queer thing and no mistake.”

“What is it?” said French, bending over the chamber.

“Why, here.” Ormsby measured the distance along the floor from the
chamber to the vertical pipe. It was just three feet four.

“Now see here,” he said.

Again he got into the chamber and pushed the rule into the horizontal
pipe. French watched breathlessly as the three-foot rule disappeared
and after it the man’s entire arm!

“There you are, Mr. French,” Ormsby declared. “That pipe goes through.
The vent pipe is only fixed on to a tee, not a bend. Let’s find how
far it goes.”

Eagerly Ormsby went out, and looking round the yard, brought in some
thin laths. One of these he pushed up the pipe, then tying on the
others, like the lengths of a fishing rod, pushed the whole in. It
made a length of about ten feet—three times the distance to the
vertical vent pipe. At the end of the ten feet it brought up against
something hard.

“What’s the idea, Ormsby? What can that pipe be for?”

“Not for ventilation, Mr. French, I’ll swear. If it only went a foot
beyond the vertical pipe I shouldn’t be so sure, for the builder might
have an old tee that he wanted to use. But this has been carried on
deliberately for at least another five feet.”

“Through the wall?”

“Through the wall. I’d like to see the end of that pipe in the next
lot.”

French swore delightedly.

“So you shall, Ormsby,” he chuckled. “We’ll get across now and have a
look. Get your sticks out and this manhole cover on so that the
place’ll be as we found it.”

They removed the traces of their visit, and shutting off their
torches, crept out once more into the darkness of the night.



CHAPTER XIV

The Property Adjoining

The two men halted when they had relocked the door behind them,
looking around and listening.

The night was intensely dark. There was no moon and a thick pall of
cloud cut off even the meagre light of the stars. Above the wall
bounding Tate’s Lane they could see the upper stories of the houses
opposite lit up faintly by the street lamps. Elsewhere not a gleam of
light showed. It was silent also. Save for the complaining call of a
marauding cat and the distant whistle of a train, no sound broke the
stillness.

Satisfied that they were unobserved, Ormsby made a “back” and French
swung himself up on to the wall dividing the two properties. Ormsby
followed and both men dropped softly to the ground at the other side.

“This is what we want,” whispered French as he felt along a building
beside them. “Here’s where our pipe goes to all right.”

It was another shed, identical, so far as they could make out in the
darkness, with the garage and set end to end with it.

“We must get in,” went on French. “Have a try at the lock.”

“It’s a chubb like the other,” returned Ormsby. “There’s not much
chance of getting it open.” He fumbled for a moment, then: “By Jove! I
can do it after all. The same key fits both. Here you are, Mr. French.
A bit of luck, that is.”

“It’s proof the same parties are running the two, though we scarcely
needed that. Come in and close the door.”

The door shut, French cautiously turned on his torch. The shed was a
garage, identical in design with Welland’s. Here were the same cement
finished walls and floor, the same window, pit and bench, the same
manhole cover and ventilating pipe. There was no car, but there was
something a good deal more interesting. Hanging from hooks beneath the
bench was a twelve-foot sewer cleaners’ “serpent,” a flexible rod with
a pair of toothed jaws at one end operated by a bowden wire from the
other.

“There,” said French, pointing to the rod. “There’s the proof we
wanted. That’s what he uses to get the bags of half crowns through the
pipe. But to set the thing beyond doubt, Ormsby, you better go back
into that other garage and flash your light into the pipe. I’ll watch
this end.”

While he was away French made a sketch of the pipes for his report. A
copy is given here.

[Illustration: A schematic diagram showing a cross section of the two
garages, separated by a wall, but with an underground pipe
communicating between them. The pipe connects the inspection chamber
and vent pipe of each garage in a straight line.]

Presently a muffled voice came from the drain and French, crouching
down in the inspection chamber, saw Ormsby’s torch in the distance.

“That’s that,” French whispered down the pipe. “Come back and we’ll
have a look round here.”

They now essayed a more difficult task. Starting from the garage, they
felt their way along the various walls, pacing their lengths and
estimating the angles between them. It was not easy work in the dark,
but French was too much afraid of being overlooked to use his torch.
When they had worked round to their starting point they returned to
the garage, where French made a sketch from his measurements.

The area appeared to be a yard, irregular in shape and surrounded by
buildings. From the nature of the debris which filled one corner, old
crates mostly, the place seemed more like a shop or works than a
private house. Opposite the garage an arched roadway passed under one
of the buildings, ending in a pair of close-sheeted gates. A gleam of
light beneath the gates indicated that they opened on to a street.

“I want to mark that entrance gate,” French said as he put away his
sketch. “We must locate it in the street outside.” He paused in
thought. “I have it,” he went on. “Here is a penny. We’ll push it out
underneath and then go round and see if we can find it.”

They carried out this programme. Having made sure that they had left
no traces of their visit, they locked the garage, pushed the penny
beneath the large gate, and climbed back, first into the builder’s
yard and then into Tate’s Lane. Then walking round the block to the
parallel street, Killowen Street, they began searching for a likely
gateway. There were a number of such, but at the third they found
their penny and knew that they had reached their goal.

The entrance stood beside a shop, and when French read its signboard
he felt amazed and puzzled. It bore the legend, “Theobald & Grudgin.
Working Silversmiths.”

“Je-hoshaphat! Can it be coining after all?” he whispered in
bewilderment. If so, what about the report from the Mint? That report
amounted to practical proof that counterfeit coins were not being
passed. And now here was at least extremely suggestive evidence that
they were! He swore his comprehensive oath, but it scarcely brought
its customary relief.

“Looks to me as if those Mint people had been diddled like ourselves,”
he muttered. “Well, Ormsby, that’s all we can do now. We’ll get off
home.”

He wondered if it would be wise after all to return to the
silversmiths’ next morning, or rather that morning, for it was after
four o’clock. What he wanted was to get his hands on Style; the
activities at the silversmiths’ could wait. If he went to Theobald &
Grudgin’s he might be seen by some member of the gang. The alarm would
then be given and the members might disperse, greatly increasing the
difficulties of rounding them up. No, on second thoughts he would lie
low for the morning. He would visit the bank at two o’clock and there
either arrest Style or shadow him to his home, the latter probably, as
it might lead him to Gwen Lestrange and perhaps still other members of
the gang.

But next morning a fresh development took place which banished all
thoughts of finesse and sent him hotfoot to the silversmiths’ and any
other place from which news of the trio might be obtained.

He had been busy at routine work in connection with the case. He had
begun by ringing up the inspector of the York Road district to ask for
such information as might be available about Messrs. Theobald &
Grudgin and their establishment. Then he had gone down to the Mint to
report his discovery and to ask as tactfully as he could whether a
mistake might not have been made in their half crown diagnosis.

The very senior officer who received him had been emphatic in his
reply. No mistake could possibly have been made. The tests gave
absolutely conclusive results. Silversmiths or no silversmiths, the
coins he had sent them were genuine.

Scarcely had French returned to the Yard when the blow fell. As he sat
down at his desk his telephone rang.

“Is that Mr. French, the inspector?” asked a woman’s voice which
French vaguely remembered, but could not place. “I’m Mrs. Creuse, of
27 Nelson Street.”

Nelson Street! Of course, the proprietor of Molly Moran’s boarding
house.

“Yes, Mrs. Creuse. Inspector French speaking. Anything I can do for
you?”

“It’s about Miss Moran,” the voice went on. “She did not come back
after the performance last night and I’m anxious about her. I
shouldn’t have thought anything about it only for your inquiries here.
A girl sometimes goes home with friends and is not always careful to
ring up her boarding house. But she was always careful that way.”

French’s heart almost stood still for a moment. Was it possible. . . ?
Could these infernal scoundrels have got hold of her as they got hold
of Thurza Darke and her two unhappy predecessors?

“Did you not ring up the cinema?” he asked quickly.

“Yes, but by the time I began to get anxious it was too late. You see,
it’s often nearly twelve before Miss Moran gets home, and it was only
by chance that I was up myself about one and discovered she had not
arrived. I rang up the cinema first thing this morning, but I’ve only
just got through. They say she never turned up to business yesterday.
I hope she’s all right.”

French stiffened, sure that this confirmed his worst fears. Why, _why_
had not the Panopticon people rung him up? Grimly he promised himself
a straight talk with the manager. But that could wait. Now the urgent
matter was to organize a search.

In times of emergency French always rose to the occasion. Pausing only
to ring up the Panopticon for confirmation of the landlady’s
statement, he set to work. For some thirty seconds he sat motionless,
staring with unseeing eyes at the polished wood of his desk, while he
rapidly considered the measures he would take. Then deliberately, but
without the loss of a moment, he proceeded to put his plans into
operation.

His first step was to hurry to Chief Inspector Mitchell’s room, tell
him the news, and outline his proposals for dealing with the
situation. French already held warrants for the arrest of all three
known members of the gang, but he now wanted search warrants for
Welland’s house and office as well as for the premises of the
silversmiths, Messrs. Theobald & Grudgin. With all his proposals
Mitchell expressed his agreement.

French next summoned a number of men to his room.

“I think you all know something of the case I’m on,” he began,
speaking in quiet but impressive tones. “Starting with the Portsmouth
murder, I have found that a gang of crooks have murdered three cinema
pay-box girls who they feared were about to give away their secrets to
the police. Now I’ve just had a phone that a fourth girl has
disappeared—a Miss Molly Moran, employed in the box office of the
Panopticon Cinema in Leicester Square. You have seen her, Carter, and
you also, Harvey. She got into the clutches of the gang, same as the
other three girls, and has been working for them. Only the day before
yesterday she told me her story, and it looks as if they may have got
wise to it and done her in.”

He paused and the men nodded in silence.

“She left her boarding house in Nelson Street, so I am advised, at her
usual time yesterday morning and has not been heard of since. If these
people have got her you will see that we can’t lose any time.”

Again the men nodded, and French went on with his directions.

“You, Carter, will take two men and bring in Curtice Welland. Here is
a warrant which I have had ready for some time. Here is his
description and the places, so far as we know, where he is likely to
be found. I leave all the details to you. But no bungling! Bring him
in, and quickly.”

Sergeant Carter promptly disappeared and French turned to the next in
the line.

“I want you, Harvey, to go into the affair at the Panopticon Cinema.
You may get a line on some caller or hear of a letter or telephone.
Advise the Yard if you have any luck.”

Harvey disappeared in his turn, and French resumed.

“You, Pickford, try the boarding house. Here is the address and all
particulars. I need scarcely prompt you. You know what to do.”

So the wheels of the ponderous machine of the C.I.D. began to creak
and relentlessly the great trap was set. In addition to Carter and his
helpers, men were sent to watch all the places which Welland was known
to frequent: his house, his office, the garage, his golf club.
Inquiries were to be made from his housekeeper, the other occupiers of
the office buildings, the staff in the coachbuilder’s yard and the
secretary and other members of the golf club. The three other girls
known to be in the clutches of the gang were to be shadowed and any
member of the gang seen approaching them was instantly to be secured.
Men were despatched to each of the six banks at which Style had lodged
half crowns, in case he should be seized with a desire to withdraw his
money. The last inquiry French reserved for himself. “Ormsby,” he
concluded, “you and I will go and have a look round that silversmiths’
yard. I’ve got a search warrant, but I’ll not use it if I can avoid
it. Better get a couple of men to watch the door while we’re inside.”

Fifteen minutes later French and Ormsby turned into Killowen Street
and walked in a leisurely way towards Messrs. Theobald & Grudgin’s
establishment. The big gate under which they had pushed the penny was
open and without hesitation they entered. The entry led through the
house to the yard at the back. In the corner immediately opposite
stood the garage, and from it, across the back end of the yard, ran
the wall separating the premises from the coachbuilder’s establishment
adjoining. The remaining sides were bounded by buildings, all dirty
and in bad repair. Three doors, one open, gave on the yard. Another
door, apparently from the office or shop, opened into the side wall of
the entry. The yard also was dirty and heaps of old boxes and other
rubbish lay in corners.

French stood for a moment motionless, taking in these details and
noting with satisfaction the accuracy of his sketch plan. Then he
walked slowly to the open door.

He found himself on the threshold of a fair-sized workshop, fitted up
with several benches and a few simple looking machines. In one corner
stood a gas oven with crucibles, presumably for melting the silver.
Close by was what looked like a tiny foundry. Several of the benches
bore small lathes but most of the simple machinery was for smoothing
and polishing. The place looked as if at one time it might have been
busy and successful, but now it had been allowed to go to seed. Like
the yard it was dirty and untidy and its entire staff consisted of
three old men, dirty and untidy also and clearly past their work. One
was busy at the gas oven as if about to make a cast, the others were
filing up and polishing silver ornaments.

“Could I see the manager?” French asked after giving the men a
pleasant good morning.

The man from the gas oven turned off a tap and slowly approached.

“’E ain’t in yet, so far as I knows,” he said. “You’ve tried the
office?”

“Not there,” French declared mendaciously.

“Aye. Well, ’e ain’t come in. ’E usually comes in in ’is car abaht ten
or ’alf past, but this morning ’e ain’t turned up yet. Was you wanting
anything?”

“Yes. I want a quotation for a silver trowel and casket for laying a
foundation stone. But I expect I’d better see the boss about it.”

“Aye,” said the man again. “There ain’t no one ’ere as could tell you
abaht that. Take a seat in the office, mister. The boss won’t be
long.”

“I can wait. I’m not in a hurry.” French took out his cigarette
case and held it out. “I think I know your boss,” he resumed
conversationally, “but I’m hanged if I haven’t forgotten his name.
He’s a rather slight man of middle height with a pale complexion and a
small fair moustache, isn’t he? Rather staring eyes?”

“That’s ’im, mister. You’ve ’it ’im off abaht proper. Welland, they
calls ’im. Mr. Curtice Welland.”

“Welland! Of course. I remember now. Lives out at Harrow?”

“Blowed if I could tell. ’E ain’t never asked me ’ome to dinner.”

“That’s his loss,” said French with a smile. He glanced casually round
the workshop. “Fine place you have here. Too big for three men
surely?”

The old man shook his head despondingly.

“It were a good shop once, but times is not wot they were. I’ve seen
the day when there were twenty men working in this ’ere shop and doing
good work and plenty of it. And now there’s only three of us left and
there ain’t much for us to do neither. It were a bad day for us when
the old master sold out.”

“Then the works have changed hands?”

“Aye, abaht a year ago. Old Mr. Grudgin ’ad it; Mr. Theobald, ’e were
dead this five year. I s’pose Mr. Grudgin were feeling it too much for
’im; ’e were seventy if ’e were a day. So ’e sold it to this ’ere Mr.
Welland, and”—the old man paused, finally adding—“some’ow the work
fell off and most of the men were sacked. But Lord knows I ain’t got
no cause to complain! I’m ’ere still, though younger men than me got
the boot.”

“It’s been a terrible time for trade right enough,” French declared
sympathetically. “And yours is what you might call a luxury trade, so
you would feel bad times worse than most.”

“That’s right, mister.”

“What kind of work do you do mostly?” went on French with the forced
interest of a man who has time to put away.

“We used to do all kinds, statuettes and plaques and trophy cups and
vases and medallions and such like. But we don’t do much now; lids for
inkpots and penholders and backs for fancy clothes brushes and
stoppers for toilet bottles for suitcases: that’s abaht all.”

“I suppose Mr. Welland looks after sales himself? You haven’t a
traveller?”

“No, there ain’t nobody now but Mr. Welland and the boy wot you saw in
the office.”

French chatted on in a leisurely way, moving about the shop as he did
so. He did not learn much from the man’s conversation, but he
satisfied himself that, except possibly in some secret cellar, no
coining was in progress. Such articles as still were being made, so
the old man assured him, went from the workshop to the office, where
Welland, to give him that name, disposed of them. Of this side of the
business the workman knew nothing. The silver came in the form of bars
or ingots, usually by motor lorry. It was stored in the shed adjoining
Welland’s garage, a strongly built shed of which only Welland had the
key. Where it came from the man did not know.

Seeing that no further information was to be had, French explained
that he did not think he could wait for Mr. Welland that day, but that
he would call again. Then wishing the old man good day, he left the
yard.

Ormsby was waiting for him in the archway.

“Style’s running this place under the name of Welland,” French said to
him in a low tone. “Took it over about a year ago. It seems there’s a
boy in the office. I’m going to make a search. Come in with me.”

Ormsby nodded and the two men, passing out into the street, turned
into the shop.

A glass door, which rang a bell on being opened, led into a dark and
untidy showroom. Across the front was a counter, with behind it a row
of show cases containing plaster models. These cases acted as a
screen, cutting off the office portion behind. In the background were
a small green safe, a letter file and two desks. One, a roll-top, was
closed, the other was a high desk with a brass rail bookstand above.
The back wall was pierced by a window giving on to the yard, while in
the side wall was the door leading to the entry. Some dirty calendars
and advertisement plates hung crookedly here and there.

At the high desk sat a youth of about twenty with a pen in his hand
and a ledger spread out before him. French thought he had never seen
anyone in the position of clerk who looked so utterly devoid of
intelligence. He watched him make a clumsy attempt to hide a
well-thumbed novelette with a lurid picture on the cover, then said
pleasantly: “Could I see Mr. Welland, please?”

The youth pushed the novelette into his pocket and slowly advanced to
the counter.

“’E ain’t ’ere,” he replied succinctly.

“So I observe,” said French, looking carefully round the room. “Do you
know when he will be in?”

“Naw.”

French fixed the youth with a severe eye.

“Now, sonny,” he said sharply. “We’re police officers and we’re
looking for Mr. Welland. When was he here last?”

The youth gaped and it took a repetition of the question in a still
sharper tone to wake him up.

“Yesterday morning,” he answered sullenly.

Style, it appeared, had arrived at the works at his usual hour, about
half past ten. Customarily he remained till one o’clock, when he left
for lunch. But on this occasion he had only waited a few minutes. He
had sent the youth out on a message, and when the latter returned half
an hour later he had disappeared. The youth had not seen him since.

French was not satisfied.

“What was the message?” he asked.

It was a bow drawn at a venture with the general object of amassing
detailed knowledge, but to his amazement the arrow got in between the
joints of Style’s armour.

“Postal order for two bob,” the youth returned.

“That shouldn’t have taken you half an hour.”

“’E didn’t want no order,” the youth declared, and his eyes looked sly
and furtive. “’E only wanted me out of the way.”

“What makes you think that?”

The youth smiled, a sort of sickly leer, unpleasant to look upon.

“The gal,” he remarked laconically.

“The girl? What girl?”

“The gal as came in with him.”

“A tall, strong, well-built girl with fair hair and complexion and
blue eyes?” French suggested eagerly, believing he was on the track of
Gwen Lestrange.

“Naw. Small and dark.”

French leaped to his feet.

“What!” he roared, scaring the youth almost into fits.

Molly Moran! He paused, thrilled at the thought, then sat down again.

“That’s all right,” he declared. “I was surprised for the moment. Now
tell me all about this girl. When did she come?”

Getting information from the youth was like getting treacle out of a
test tube, but by the exercise of all his patience French managed it.

It seemed that when Style arrived he had driven his car into the yard
in accordance with his usual custom. It was a dark green Armstrong
Siddeley saloon. But instead of garaging it he had turned it and run
it back into the entry, stopping opposite the office door. Then he had
hurried back to the street. Evidently Molly—further questions had left
French in no doubt as to the “gal’s” identity—had been waiting for
him, for both came at once into the office. Style had asked her to sit
down and had then excused himself on urgent business in the workshops.
A few moments later the speaking tube from the workshops had whistled.
It was Style and he had instructed the youth to go out immediately and
buy a two-shilling postal order. Such a thing had never been asked for
before and the youth did not believe it was required. He had therefore
assumed that the errand was to get him out of the way in order to
allow the tender passages between Style and his caller which he
imagined were desired. In this belief he had improved the opportunity
to visit a friend, the message boy in a neighbouring shop, and he was
not back for half an hour. Style and the young lady had then gone.

French made a despairing gesture.

“After my warning! After my warning!” he lamented in a low voice to
Ormsby. “How under the sun did that scoundrel get her into his power?”

He turned again to the youth.

“We’re going to search this place,” he said sharply. “Here’s our
warrant, if you’d like to see it. Now hand over any keys you have,
then sit down there and don’t interfere.”

As he spoke he shut and bolted the heavy outer door. Then ruthlessly
silencing the clerk’s timid protests, the two men began the search.

The safe was beyond them and French put through a call to the Yard for
an expert. The roll-top desk, however, was easily overcome by means of
French’s skeleton keys. Quickly but thoroughly the two men turned the
place out. For a couple of hours they worked, first in the office and
then in the workshops behind, before French announced that he was
satisfied.

Though the search had yielded little, that little was important. No
hint as to Style’s possible whereabouts had been gained nor any
information as to the remaining members of the gang. Still less was
there any hint as to what might have happened to Molly Moran, though
French’s sketch of the tracks of Style’s car and its detailed
description, obtained from the old workman, might later on help in
tracing her. But two things had been made clear beyond possibility of
doubt. First, the silversmiths’ business was practically non-existent.
It was evidently a mere blind to cover more serious and lucrative
operations. Secondly, though scarcely any silver articles had been
sold, the purchase of bar silver had been very large.

Report from the Mint or no report, there could no longer be any doubt
as to what was being done. Coining on an enormous scale was in
progress. The next thing for French must be to find the plant. Or
rather the next thing but one. At all costs Molly Moran’s life must be
saved, were this humanly possible.

While French was sitting in the office turning these matters over in
his mind, the Yard expert had not been idle. He now called to them
that he had just succeeded in opening the safe. French began eagerly
to go through its contents. But he found only one thing of interest,
four little leathern bags shaped to fit the divisions in the vanity
bags, each containing from a hundred to a hundred and fifty half
crowns.

Sure that at last he held the key to the affair, he poured the coins
out on to the desk and examined them minutely. Immediately he was once
again disappointed. All of them, he was prepared to swear, were
genuine. Every test he applied proved them so. And then suddenly he
wondered. All of them were dated 1921!

Whether this meant anything or not he did not know, but it was at
least certain that they must at once be sent to the Mint for an
authoritative opinion.

More anxious than ever as to Molly’s fate, French returned to the
Yard, hoping against hope that some useful information might have come
in.



CHAPTER XV

Mr. Cullimore Expounds

French was profoundly worried by the disappearance of Molly Moran. He
could not get out of his mind the thought that if anything happened to
her he was by no means free from responsibility. There could be no
doubt that it was through him that she had incurred the suspicion of
the gang, and he had led her to believe that she could confide in him
with perfect safety. Bitterly he regretted his oversight in not having
her shadowed so that her kidnapping would have been impossible. Again
and again he cursed his mistake and again and again he swore to leave
no stone unturned to save her, and if unhappily he failed in that, to
bring her murderers to justice.

There was little that he could do personally but remain in his room
and collate and sift the information which soon began to come in. A
good deal was obtained as a result of the inquiries which he had set
on foot, but unfortunately it was all negative.

The first news he had was from the men whom he had sent to the banks
at which Style got rid of his half crowns. At none of them had the man
been seen. This was Thursday and since Tuesday he had neither paid in
half crowns nor drawn cheques. The total sum standing to his credit in
all six was close on five hundred pounds. It was evident therefore
that he was badly frightened, if, as seemed likely, he had abandoned
the money.

Telephone reports from the other men engaged were equally
disappointing. Sergeant Harvey rang up to say that he had been unable
to learn anything at the Panopticon. Miss Moran had left at her usual
time on the Tuesday evening and an assistant with whom she had walked
to the tube said that her remarks showed that she intended to be at
work on the following day. Nor was any news available from her
boarding house. On the Wednesday evening she had not turned up after
the performance. That was the desolating fact. She had not sent any
message to explain her absence nor had she previously given a hint to
anyone there that she might not be home.

Even more disquieting was the report from Carter. He had been unable
to arrest Curtice Welland because Welland also had disappeared. The
man had not returned home on Wednesday evening nor had he been seen
since. His housekeeper, however, was not alarmed about him as he had
sent her a telegram on Wednesday afternoon to say that he was
unexpectedly called away on business and would be absent for a few
days. His usual haunts had been shadowed and exhaustive inquiries
made, but all to no purpose.

The three other box office girls who had been changing coins were
interrogated, also without result. At first all three had denied that
they had ever met Welland or were engaged in questionable practices
with half crowns, but the police examination had soon broken them down
and they had admitted their complicity. But all stated that Wednesday
was the last day on which they had seen Welland. None of them had seen
Style for many weeks.

One vitally important piece of information, however, came in, a piece
indeed fundamental to the whole inquiry. At any other time it would
have raised French to the pitch of exalted enthusiasm usual to him
under such circumstances. But now he was so worried about Molly
Moran’s safety that he took the news as a matter of course.

Returning to the Yard from a further visit to the girl’s boarding
house in Nelson Street, he found himself in demand. “Chief wants you,
sir,” he was told by the first three men he met, while Inspector
Tanner, whom he passed on the way to his room, hailed him with “Hullo,
French, my son! Now you’ve been and gone and done it! There has been
no peace here this morning looking for Brer French.”

Before French could reply a sergeant approached.

“Beg pardon, sir, but the Assistant Commissioner wishes to see you in
his room as soon as possible.”

“Lord!” said French. “What’s all the shindy about? Right, sergeant.
I’m going now.”

Sir Mortimer Ellison, the Assistant Commissioner, was seated at his
desk in his well but plainly furnished office when French entered.
With him were two other men, evidently from their dress and bearing
persons of importance. One was small, white-haired and precise
looking, the other, a younger man, was evidently his subordinate. All
three were smoking the opulent Turkish cigarettes which Sir Mortimer
affected. The elder of the visitors was speaking, the others listening
with every appearance of interest.

“Come along, French,” said Sir Mortimer, interrupting the other’s flow
of conversation. “You’ve turned up in the nick of time. This is the
inspector who has been handling the case, gentlemen. French, these are
Mr. Cullimore and Mr. Dove from the Mint. They’ve called about that
silver bombshell you sent down.”

“What, sir?” French exclaimed. “Then the coins were counterfeit all
right?”

“All right?” Sir Mortimer waved his hand towards French and looked
quizzically at the others. “Hear Scotland Yard speak! French, you’ve
got a distorted mind. Revelling in iniquity. Why should you be pleased
because the revered institution which our friends represent has been
the victim of a fraud?”

French knew his superior.

“Pleased to tell them, sir, that thanks to Scotland Yard the fraud is
at an end,” he said without a smile.

“There’s Scotland Yard again. When you have no answer, beg the
question. I do it myself, so I know. Now, French, sit down in that
chair and tell us all about it.”

But French remained standing with a puzzled expression on his face.

“But what about——” he began, then stopped.

“What is it, French?”

“Sorry, sir. But this can only refer to the second lot of coins. The
first lot were good.”

“That is so,” broke in Mr. Cullimore in thin, precise tones. “The
first batch was good. It is this second batch alone that is in
question.”

“A bit puzzling that, sir,” French went on to the Assistant
Commissioner. “I should have expected it the other way round. The
first batch was given to the girl Moran to pass out to the public, the
second was in Style’s safe. Why should they pass out good coins?”

“You’ve got them the wrong way round. That lot you got from the girl
must have been received from the public, not from the gang.”

French shook his head.

“No, sir, I’m quite sure of my ground there. Miss Moran put the coins
she got from the public in the car. What she gave me were taken from
the car for distribution.”

There was silence for a moment, then Sir Mortimer spoke.

“Well, if I can’t prove you in the wrong I must try something else.
How would this do? Those people are smarter than you’ve been giving
them credit for. They twigged you were on to them and went canny. Is
there any way they could have known what you were up to?”

“Through the girls, sir,” French admitted. “I saw the risk, but I had
to take it.”

“There you are then. The girls reported your activities, and Welland,
Style & Co. thought it healthier to trade good money. Well, French,
when these gentlemen rang me up to make an appointment I expected
Chief Inspector Mitchell would be here to post me in the affair until
you got back. But Mitchell has been detained at Croydon so that I have
been unable to tell them more than the main outlines. Now you start in
from the beginning and let us have all the details.”

“About the cinema girls, sir?”

“About the silver. I’ve explained the method of distribution through
the cinema girls and that is all these gentlemen require to know on
that point. You tell about everything connected directly with the
silver.”

“I’m afraid, sir, there’s not so much to be told. All I’ve found is——”
and French began explaining his investigations in detail. He told of
the distribution and transport of the coins, the vanity bags, the
secret panel beneath the seat of Welland’s car and the pipe connecting
the two garages. Then he read out his notes of what he had found in
the office, particularly the weights of silver and copper purchased
compared to the weight of silver ornaments sold. The three men
listened with keen attention, Mr. Cullimore congratulating him warmly
when he had finished.

“It’s the cleverest fraud I’ve come across for many a day,” he
declared. “Indeed I don’t mind admitting that if it hadn’t been for
our friend here it might have gone on almost indefinitely. It would
never have been discovered from mere inspection of the coins. They
look perfect. Only careful tests in our laboratories proved that they
were counterfeit.”

“Made by an expert?” Sir Mortimer prompted.

“Unquestionably. Perfectly marvellous the way they were turned out! I
have shown them to several of our people and they all said they were
good; men with wide experience too. I don’t wonder that Miss Moran’s
bank clerk friend was deceived. You see”—Mr. Cullimore monopolized the
conversation with evident pleasure—“there are four principal tests of
a silver coin: its appearance, by which I include feel and texture as
well as design; its weight, its composition, and its ring. All these
tests were met or discounted, except perhaps that of composition and
that was practically met.”

“I don’t know that I quite follow you,” said Sir Mortimer, and French
nodded his agreement.

“Well, take composition. The composition of these coins was the actual
composition of the coins we turn out from the Mint. In other words,
the fake coins were genuine as far as the material of which they were
made was concerned—at least, as nearly as it could be done without our
extraordinarily accurate system of proportioning the ingredients. In
fact it took our extraordinarily accurate system to discover the
inaccuracy. That is what I meant by saying that this test of
composition had been practically met.”

The Assistant Commissioner nodded.

“The proportions of metal in our silver at present,” went on Mr.
Cullimore, “are fifty per cent silver and fifty per cent alloy,
principally copper. You will see what I mean when I tell you that
these fake coins contained not less than forty-eight point sixty-three
nor more than fifty-one point twelve per cent of silver, the remainder
being alloy. Nothing there to call one’s attention to a fake!”

“That is so. Yet your people found the discrepancy.”

Mr. Cullimore shrugged his shoulders.

“We did, but we’re not proud of it. The less we say about that part of
the affair the better. My point is that no one would have suspected
anything wrong from the appearance of the coins.”

Sir Mortimer nodded again.

“You mentioned three other tests?”

“Yes, those of design, weight, and ring. Take the first of these. Now
I’m sure you know, Sir Mortimer, that no matter how carefully a coin
is copied, defects will creep in. Particles of dust or slight defects
in the original will make a difference. Admittedly these may be
invisible to the naked eye, but a microscope will reveal them. Any
coins struck as copies, that is, not from the original dies, will be
microscopically defective in the detail of the design. You follow me?”

“Quite.”

“Now take weight. This is dependent primarily on the thickness of the
coin and the correct thickness can only be produced by the elaborate
machines in the Mint. It is scarcely conceivable that a forger could
obtain one of these machines. These two tests together are therefore
very reliable and convincing.”

“Then surely the fake coins could have been discovered by these?”

“Ah,” Mr. Cullimore replied, making a little gesture of demonstration
as he reached his point, “that’s what I thought you’d say and that’s
where the cleverness of this gang comes in. They discounted these two
tests, and that in the simplest and most natural way imaginable. They
wore the coins.”

“Wore them?”

“Yes. In some way which we can only imagine they produced wear. Our
engineers imagine that they turned them with very fine sand in some
kind of a rotary churn, for the microscope shows that the wear is
really caused by numbers of very fine scores and cuts. Ordinary wear
from circulation, while it shows occasional cuts and scratches, leaves
a comparatively smooth surface on the higher parts of the design. But
even so, what I might call this counterfeiting of wear was uncommonly
well done. Here again only the microscope could have told the
difference.”

“And that had the effect——”

“Yes,” interrupted Mr. Cullimore, determined not to be cheated of his
climax. “Don’t you see? That had the effect of blurring the design so
that minor defects became invisible and also of lightening it so that
the weight test became inoperative. Clever, wasn’t it?”

“Rather an obvious precaution, I should say,” the Assistant
Commissioner commented, annoyed at having the words taken out of his
mouth.

“No doubt,” the other admitted, “but how to do it is not so obvious.”

“Well, it’s all very interesting at all events. What about the ring?”

Mr. Cullimore sat back and became less enthusiastic.

“The ring?” he repeated. “The ring is not so easy to explain. It
depends on a lot of things, such as the precise degree of hardness of
the coins. Even with the careful manufacture in the Mint we do not get
all coins to ring alike. All have to be tested individually, and those
which do not ring correctly are rejected. I fancy our counterfeiters
must have adopted the same plan.”

When Mr. Cullimore finished speaking there was silence for some
seconds. Sir Mortimer busied himself in handing round fresh
cigarettes. When they were lighted French said:

“There is one point which has been bothering me since I became
satisfied that these people were coining and that is, How does it pay
them? Surely it must cost at least nearly half a crown to produce a
half crown?”

“No,” returned Mr. Cullimore, “it doesn’t. That’s just the point. It
should pay them uncommonly well. You know, of course,” he went on,
addressing the company generally, “that during the war the price of
silver went up, so that coins were worth more when melted down than as
currency. This actually led to a considerable loss of coins. To meet
the difficulty the percentage of silver present was reduced. Formerly
it was ninety-two point five per cent, but in nineteen-twenty it was
reduced to the fifty per cent of which I spoke a moment ago. Since
nineteen-twenty the price of silver has fallen again. It is now
standing at about two shillings an ounce. The cost of the silver in a
half crown is therefore less than sixpence—let us assume sixpence. The
alloy and the manufacture, including overhead, might be at the very
most another sixpence. These people could therefore produce a half
crown at a cost of about a shilling, making eighteenpence profit on
each coin. As the law now stands, that’s the unhappy fact.”

“By Jove!” French turned to Sir Mortimer. “In that case, sir, it
prompts one to ask why the staple industry of the British Isles is not
counterfeit coining?”

“A pertinent question, French. I was considering it myself. Difficulty
of distribution, I presume.”

“That’s it, Sir Mortimer,” Mr. Cullimore declared. “Any skilful man
may produce sufficiently good coins to pass, but it takes a genius to
get rid of enough to pay for the plant. That’s why most people with
these ideas try printing notes. If you can make eight or nine
shillings for every ten-shilling note you pass the game becomes worth
while, particularly when changing notes is so easy. But you cannot
change half crowns in the same way. Some system of changing like that
of Mr. French’s friends becomes necessary and that’s where the trouble
arises.”

“That’s where it arose in this case anyway,” said French. “The
distribution was the weak link of the whole scheme.”

“So it has proved,” Mr. Cullimore admitted. “But I consider it an
extremely clever scheme all the same. The more you consider the
problem involved, the more you will realize, I think, its enormous
difficulty. Just think, Mr. French. How would you have done it?”

“Oh, come now, Mr. Cullimore,” Sir Mortimer said gravely. “Don’t make
him incriminate himself. If you ask him questions like that you will
have him telling you that things of the kind are not done at the
Yard.”

French grinned.

“That, sir, _is_ the answer to the question. All the same if I had to
find a scheme I should try to avoid one which left me in the hands of
four box office girls. That’s what gave the thing away. If the girls
had been members of the conspiracy it might never have come out. But
the fear that the girls would give the show away led to their doing
so.”

“I begin to appreciate the force of your remark, Sir Mortimer, about
the Yard’s habit of begging the question,” Mr. Cullimore declared
drily. “But I don’t quite appreciate Mr. French’s point. You say, Mr.
French, that the girls gave the scheme away. But I understood they
hadn’t?”

“Not directly, sir. But the gang were afraid they might and adopted
murder to safeguard themselves. The murder gave them away.”

“Oh, quite. I see what you mean.” Mr. Cullimore dismissed the point
airily and turned to a new one. “I suppose there is no way of
estimating how many of these faked half crowns are in existence?”

“You gave me some figures on that, French. Just turn them up, will
you?”

“All I can suggest is this, sir. Miss Moran told me that she passed
out from one hundred to one hundred and fifty a day. I took a minimum
of between seven and eight hundred a week. If all four girls were
doing the same that would be, say, three thousand a week or in round
numbers a hundred and fifty thousand a year. We understand that the
conspiracy has been running for about that time.”

“Nearly nineteen thousand pounds’ worth of spurious money in
circulation!” Mr. Cullimore shook his head. “It’s bad, but it might be
worse.”

“And nearly twelve thousand pounds a year netted,” Sir Mortimer added.
“Quite a profitable little enterprise, particularly if the profits had
only to be divided among three. What will your department do about it,
Mr. Cullimore?”

Mr. Cullimore glanced at him keenly.

“That really is rather a problem, Sir Mortimer,” he admitted. “To all
intents and purposes the money is good. Moreover, to recall it would
be a virtual impossibility. At present I may as well admit that I do
not see that we can do anything but accept it as genuine and let it
continue to circulate. Of course I am speaking offhand and without
proper consideration. But that is my present view.”

For some time they continued discussing the matter and then Mr.
Cullimore remarked: “The thing I cannot get over is the extraordinary
skill with which the coins were turned out. This gang must surely have
some technical training and it’s not a trade that many men follow. You
know nothing, of course, as to their identity?”

Sir Mortimer shook his head.

“We have their descriptions, though up to the present it hasn’t helped
us much. But I appreciate your point about technical training, and we
shall certainly make inquiries on these lines.”

“Just the sort of thing that one would expect from Jim Sibley. What do
you say, Mr. Cullimore?” said a new voice, and French looked with a
sort of surprised interest at Dove, who had not yet spoken.

“’Pon my soul, I shouldn’t be at all surprised to hear he had
something to do with it,” Mr. Cullimore returned. “He’s the only man I
know who could do such work. You haven’t come across a stout,
red-haired man in your inquiries, I suppose, Sir Mortimer?”

“Not so far. Who might Jim Sibley be, if it is not indiscreet to ask?”

“Up till three years ago he was an engineer employed at the Mint. He
was with us for about seven years and I don’t mind saying that,
present company excepted, he was the most brilliantly clever man it
has ever been my good fortune to meet. There was nothing about coining
he didn’t know and nothing he couldn’t do with his hands.
Extraordinarily resourceful too. It was a pleasure to see him tackle a
difficulty, especially one which required some ingenious adaptation of
some tool or machine for its solution. As Mr. Dove says, this coining
business certainly suggests his hand.”

“Why did he leave you, Mr. Cullimore?”

The little man shrugged his shoulders.

“Rejected coins were disappearing. We were satisfied that he was
stealing them, but we couldn’t prove it. We asked him to leave.”

“And did the thefts go on?”

“No, when he left there was no further trouble. There was not the
slightest doubt of his guilt, but he was clever enough to prevent us
getting proof.”

Sir Mortimer not commenting, French asked if Mr. Cullimore would
kindly explain what rejected coins were and what was the object of
stealing them.

“By rejected coins I mean those which are complete, but which fail to
pass some of the tests imposed. For instance, a half crown, otherwise
perfect, might not ring quite true. It would therefore be rejected and
would go back to the furnace to be remelted. Its value to the thief,
who would presumably put it into circulation, would be just two and
sixpence.”

“That seems a useful hint about this Sibley, sir,” French said to the
Assistant Commissioner. “With your permission I should like to ask
these gentlemen for further particulars about him.”

“By all means, French. Get what you can out of them while you have the
chance.”

But neither of the visitors could give information which seemed likely
to lead to Sibley’s apprehension. It was arranged therefore that
French should send a man to the Mint to look up records and learn what
he could from other members of the staff.

“I would go myself, sir,” French went on, “but I don’t want to leave
the Yard for the present. I want to be here if any news of that girl
should come in.”

“Quite.” Sir Mortimer turned to the others. “Inspector French is much
upset as to the possible fate of one of the four girls who were
changing coins for these ruffians. After worm—shall I say ‘obtaining
her confidence,’ French?—she has disappeared and there is evidence
that she has been kidnapped. Three of her predecessors were kidnapped
and, I regret to say, murdered, almost certainly under similar
circumstances.”

“When I asked her for her confidence I promised her protection,”
French explained in a low tone.

“You mustn’t blame yourself,” Sir Mortimer declared. “I appreciate
your feelings, but you mustn’t let sentiment run away with you. You
acted for the best and no one is omniscient.”

“Thank you, sir. But you see why I want to stay at the Yard?”

“Yes, I approve of that. Well, gentlemen,” he went on to the others,
who had risen, “we are much obliged for your call and information. You
may rest assured that we shall keep you posted in the developments of
the case, and I trust you will advise us if further information comes
to your knowledge.”

“You may depend on us.”

“Our friends are annoyed that we should have found out about this
fraud before they did,” Sir Mortimer remarked when the visitors had
gone. “It evidently hurts their pride. Now, French, tell me exactly
what you’re doing. You can have all the resources you want. I quite
agree that we must save that girl’s life if it is humanly possible.”

French detailed his plans.

“Is there anything else, sir, that you think I should do?” he asked.

“No, I think you have pretty well covered the ground. Carry on as
you’re doing and let me know directly anything comes in.”

But nothing did come in. Every hour that passed made the affair seem
more and more hopeless, while French grew more and more worried and
despondent. That night he scarcely closed an eye, lying with the
telephone beside him and hoping against hope to hear its bell
summoning him to the Yard to follow up some clue which had just been
reported. But though he had been disturbed on many a night when he was
tired and would have given a good deal to remain in bed, on this
occasion there was no call.

Next day at the Yard there was the same blank silence. He fretted and
fumed through its insufferable hours until at last he told himself
that he must give up hope and began to fear that the only news he
could expect would be that of the finding of the unhappy girl’s body.
And then late in the evening his weariness and lassitude changed to
fierce energy and excitement. News had come in!



CHAPTER XVI

In the Net

French’s conversation with Molly Moran had given that young lady very
seriously to think. From the beginning she had realized that the
undertaking in which she was assisting was unlawful, if not actually
criminal. She was not making a bid for French’s sympathy when she told
him that since she had become involved she had been miserable and in
terror. This was the literal truth. Continually she had felt as if she
were living on the edge of a volcano which might break out and
overwhelm her at any moment. Visions of dismissal, of imprisonment, of
ruin were constantly before her and in spite of the money she was
earning she would have been thankful if she could have given up the
whole thing and removed its evil shadow from her life.

But never in her wildest imaginings had she conceived that the affair
could be weighted with murder or she herself in actual physical
danger. The story of Thurza Darke and her two predecessors had
therefore come to her as an appalling shock. Indeed, she realized that
had it come alone she might easily have been driven by panic to take
some step which might have precipitated the very crisis she feared.

Fortunately it had not come alone. The same conversation had brought
her a feeling of overwhelming relief. She had confided her position to
Scotland Yard. She had made a clean breast of everything. And she had
not been arrested nor made to suffer any unpleasantness whatever. On
the contrary she had been met with a sympathetic understanding such as
she could not have expected from a police officer. She had been
promised escape from the toils in which she had been caught as well as
protection against her captors. In spite of the dark suggestion of
murder, as she returned from the manager’s room to her box office she
felt happier than she had done for months.

During the remainder of that day it must be confessed that her
thoughts were far from her job. Mechanically she counted change and
shot out disc tickets while she speculated as to the developments
which would take place as a result of her statement to French. Would
Westinghouse, Style, and Gwen Lestrange be arrested? If so, would she
be a witness at their trial? She had always heard that giving evidence
was a distressing ordeal, especially if one were cross-examined, as
she would be by the lawyers for the defence. However, she was sure
that French would see her through.

Excitement kept her awake for a good part of that night and next
morning she came down with her mind keyed up to a high pitch of
expectancy. What would the day bring forth? Surely with the knowledge
the police now had, some decisive step would be taken before night.

After breakfast she found herself with three hours on her hands before
she must present herself at the cinema. Too restless to settle down at
her boarding house, she determined to go for a walk in the parks, in
the hope that the exercise might calm her mind. She was bursting to
confide her story to all and sundry, but French’s warning as well as
her own fears deprived her of this relief.

As she walked, that other warning which French had given her seemed to
stand out in her mind with an ever growing insistence. Those
addresses, the two places to which she must not go! The further she
walked, the more powerfully they drew her thoughts. That at Harrow did
not so greatly interest her: it was far away. But Waterloo was near.
She had been there scores of times. Not indeed in York Road, but close
by. She would have liked . . . But of course she couldn’t dream of
going there after what Mr. French had said.

She turned resolutely into the Green Park, but ever her thoughts
reverted to the coachbuilder’s yard. Presently without conscious
volition on her part she found herself leaving the Park and walking in
the direction of the River. “This will never do,” she thought; then
she saw that it could not possibly be any harm for her just to walk
past the end of the street and look down. She had an uneasy twinge of
conscience as she crossed Westminster Bridge, but the place drew her
with extraordinary insistence.

Ten minutes later she found herself actually turning into Tate’s Lane.
But here she drew the line. French had said she was not to go and she
would not. Therefore contenting herself with a long, eager look down
the unattractive thoroughfare, she put temptation behind her and
passed on.

But still the place drew her. Aimlessly strolling on with time to
kill, she thought she would go down the next parallel street and have
a look at Tate’s Lane from the other end. Perhaps from there she would
see the builder’s yard.

Thus it came to pass that at just five and twenty minutes past ten she
was slowly sauntering along Killowen Street.

She had walked a hundred yards or more when she saw coming towards her
a green saloon car with a figure which looked familiar at the wheel.
No, she was not mistaken; it was indeed Mr. Style! He was alone, and
though he evidently did not see her, he was stopping, for he was
slowing down and signalling to following drivers. As she stared at
him, he turned the car into an entry almost beside where she was
standing.

Her heart beat fast. Here was news for Mr. French! Was it possible
that where the tremendous organization of Scotland Yard had failed,
she was going to succeed? Mr. French would revise his estimate of her.
She would prove herself less of a fool than he had supposed.

At this moment, as he was crossing the footpath, Style saw her. For
the fraction of a second an ugly gleam shone in his eyes, then he
smiled pleasantly.

“Good morning, Miss Moran,” he called. “This is an unexpected
pleasure. What are you doing in this part of the world?” His tone was
genial and he looked as if delighted by the meeting.

Molly felt a sudden urge to take to her heels. Then she saw that she
could not do so. Style must not be allowed to think that she suspected
him. She must satisfy him that the meeting was accidental and that she
did not connect him with the half crown affair, then pass on and ring
up French from the first shop she came to. If she played her part well
Style would suspect nothing and might stay where he was until French
arrived. She therefore smiled back at him and walked up to the car.

“Good morning, Mr. Style. I didn’t expect to see you either, though I
have often wanted to do so since our last meeting.”

This piece of mendacity was due to a sudden idea. If she could engage
Style in conversation she would probably be able to dispel any
suspicion he might have formed. She would tell him that, having come
into some money, she wished to resume betting on the Monte Carlo
tables.

“In that case I’m very pleased that you have found me. Will you excuse
me for one second till I get the car out of the way of the traffic and
then I shall be at your service.”

He drove the car through the entry, turned it in the yard, and driving
back, stopped inside the entry. Then he came out to Molly.

“Will you come into the office?” he invited. “Though I carry on
bookmaking as a spare-time job, I really work in this shop. I think
only one clerk is in at the moment, so that we can talk without being
disturbed.”

In spite of herself Molly hesitated. French’s warning recurred to her
with increased urgency. Was not this the very thing he had cautioned
her against? Then she told herself she must not be a coward. She could
see through the glass door into the office. There was nothing
terrifying about its appearance. She could also see the clerk. With
him there and in broad daylight and practically in a crowded street
nothing could possibly happen to her. Nevertheless it was with some
trepidation that she followed Style in.

He led her through the opening in the counter, drew a chair forward
near the roll-top desk, and asked her to sit down.

“I’m frightfully sorry,” he declared, “but there is a bit of business
I must attend to before we have our chat. Do you mind if I leave you
for a moment? The inscription on a football cup which we are making
has been changed and I want to stop them before they cut the
lettering.”

He went out through the door into the entry and she presently saw him
pass the window at the back. After a short stare the clerk had resumed
his occupation of transcribing entries into a book. His appearance
comforted her strangely. It was impossible, she felt instinctively,
that anyone as stupid looking as he could be a party to a plot. The
sight through the window of the stream of passers-by and the sound of
their feet on the pavement still further eased her mind. Reassured,
she set herself with a growing and wholly delicious excitement to
await Style’s return.

She was not impressed by the appearance of the office. It was
positively filthy. The floor looked as if it hadn’t been swept for
weeks and dust lay thick on the furniture and the calendars and
pictures on the walls. Compared with the spick and span establishment
at the cinema, with its typewriters, calculating machines, filing
cabinets, and busy air, this place seemed like a reversion to the
conditions of a century earlier. Molly smiled as she contrasted this
uncouth, almost imbecile looking youth, with his untidy clothes and
his inkstained fingers, with the neatly dressed, efficient staff to
which she was accustomed.

Presently there came the whistle of a speaking tube. The youth put
down his pen and slowly shuffled across the room to just behind where
Molly was sitting.

“Yeh,” he said. “Yeh. Two bob? Right.”

He plugged the speaking tube, and taking his cap, lounged slowly out
into the street.

Then Style re-entered. He in his turn went to the speaking tube.

“Just a moment, Miss Moran, and I shall be at your service,” he
apologized as he picked it up. Then he began to speak. “Jenkins . . .
Is that Jenkins? . . . Oh, Jenkins, I want you to get out that
presentation shield that we did last month for Mr. Hargreaves. I’ve
sold it to Otway’s people, and all we have to do is to change the
inscription. You might——”

The voice suddenly trailed away into silence, as a sickening blow
crashed down on Molly’s head. She gasped, while momentary stars
flashed before her eyes, then great waves of darkness seemed to rise
up round her and she felt herself sinking down, down, down, into the
blackness of unconsciousness.


Æons of time passed, and then slowly sensation began to return to
Molly Moran. First she realized only pain, indefinite but terrible
pain. Then this seemed to localize in her head and to pass from there
down through her whole body. Still she was in darkness, still a
roaring sounded in her ears, but gradually she became conscious of
movement. The place that she was in was shaking. At first she knew it
only as something which added to her misery, but as she slowly
regained her senses she realized where she was.

The sounds and the movement told her that she was in a motor car,
travelling at a fair rate of speed. She was lying on the floor of the
tonneau, entirely covered with a rug. This intelligence having sunk
into her brain, experiment told the rest. Attempted movement showed
her that her wrists and ankles were bound together and at the same
time she found that she was securely gagged. Recollection of the scene
in the silversmith’s office then returned to her and she knew what had
happened. She had been kidnapped by Style!

Cold terror took possession of her as she remembered the story French
had told her of the fate of the three girls who had attempted to
betray the gang to the police. Had Thurza Darke, she wondered, lain
bound in the tonneau of this terrible car as it jolted her on towards
her doom? And what had befallen her at the end of the journey? Was
drowning painful? As Molly pictured what might have happened a cold
sweat of fear broke out on her. It was too ghastly even to think of.
And yet before many hours, before many minutes perhaps . . . Almost
she swooned away again as she lay trembling in sick horror, her mind
numb and scarcely functioning.

But she was young and strong. Gradually the paralyzing sharpness of
the first shock passed. Whatever faults she had, cowardice was not one
of them, and soon she was striving desperately to pull herself
together and to put as brave a face on the situation as she could.
Things in her case were not quite so hopeless as in that of poor
Thurza Darke. French was looking after her and she would immediately
be missed. He would trace her to the silversmith’s and so learn what
had happened. With the great organization of the Yard behind him it
could not be long until he found her. In fact he had evidently
foreseen what might occur when he gave her his warning! Oh, that she
had taken that warning!

But suppose he didn’t trace her in time? Resolutely Molly shut her
mind to the suggestion. She was not dead yet. While there was life
there was hope.

To divert her mind from these harrowing thoughts she fixed her
attention more deliberately on her surroundings. Could she learn
anything as to her destination from the sounds she heard?

It was immediately clear to her that they were bowling along at a fair
speed on an extremely good road, asphalted, she thought. But she was
conscious also of a reduction in the sound. She wondered if this were
due to meeting fewer vehicles, as if so, it would indicate that they
were getting farther from London. As she was considering the point
they slowed down, and turning, she believed to the right, passed at a
slower speed over a road with a much worse surface. After a few
minutes they stopped altogether and she heard movements as if her
driver were performing some gymnastic feat in the front seat. Then he
got out and walked round the car and she heard a sort of click behind
it. A moment later he re-entered and again they drove off.

For what she judged as about ten minutes they drove slowly along the
bad road, then a slack, a sounding of the horn, another turn and they
were once more on the smooth surface of a main thoroughfare. A few
minutes of this, a few minutes of another byroad, and after another
slack and turn, the wheels grated on the gravel of a drive. It was
evidently a short one. Then they bumped over some kind of obstruction
and came to rest on a smooth surface. A rolling sound followed by a
clang gave the necessary hint. They had driven into a yard and the big
entrance gate had been shut behind them.

Presently she heard muffled voices and the door of the tonneau was
opened. Then she felt herself being lifted and carried, still rolled
in the rug, into some building and upstairs. One, two, three—six
flights they went up. A few steps more on the level and she was laid
down on something soft. Immediately the rug and gag were taken off and
her bonds loosed.

She found herself in a dingy, whitewashed attic with slanting ceilings
and a skylight. The lower walls were stained and dirty and the boarded
floor looked as if it had not been washed for a year. The furniture
consisted of the bed on which she was lying, a chair, a table, a
wash-basin and jug on an old box, a fireplace with fender and fire
irons but no fire, and in a corner a pile of old, untidy books. Over
her were bending Style and Gwen Lestrange. They watched her in silence
and at the look in their eyes a paralyzing fear again swept over her.

“So you thought you could get off with it,” Style said at last, and
his voice was like the snarl of some vicious animal. “You thought you
could play the traitor, speaking us fair and taking our money, and all
the time spying on us and telling that cursed French what we were
doing. You thought you could, did you?”

Molly was not prepared for this direct attack, but she countered as
well as she could.

“What do you mean? I didn’t tell anyone what you were doing. Sure how
could I when I didn’t know myself?”

Style shook his clenched fist in her face.

“None of that, you traitor!” he answered harshly. “You’ve made the
mistake of your life! You thought you had us, but we have you. You’ve
betrayed us to French, but French can’t help you now. You’re in our
power and you’re going to pay.”

Molly felt his gaze almost as a physical touch. It sapped her
strength, but she clutched her courage with both hands.

“I don’t know what you’re meaning. Who is French anyway?”

“Liar!” Style shouted savagely. “Do you think we’re fools? Do you
think we act before we’re sure? Let me tell you you’ve been watched.
When you were telling French about us on the seat in Charing Cross
Gardens yesterday our agent was reading the paper within twenty feet
of you! He saw you offering to show French your vanity bag and
French’s quick refusal. And we’ve watched you with him before. Fool!”
he glared at her, “to think that you could fool us!”

To Molly his abuse seemed to act as a stimulant. She felt her courage
coming back.

“Ah,” she retorted, “you’re a bit off the track, Mr. Style. That was
me uncle you saw me with. He often meets me and takes me out.”

Gwen Lestrange spoke for the first time.

“Little fool!” she said harshly. “Lies like that will only finish you
up.” But Style held up his hand.

“Just tell us his name,” he demanded with a suddenly ingratiating
manner and a sly look on his narrow face.

His friendliness terrified Molly even more than his anger. She
realized that she had made a mistake and tried to recover.

“French,” she admitted. “I see there’s no good trying to deceive you.
And he is an inspector at Scotland Yard. But he’s me uncle for all
that and he often takes me out and we’ve never discussed you or your
affairs at all.”

Style made a furious gesture.

“You ——!” He used a foul name. “Do you know what happens to liars and
traitors? Did you ever hear of Smith and the brides of the bath—how he
drowned his wives in a bath? Well, that’s what’ll happen to you.
There’s a bath in the next room all ready for you. The water rises
slowly, slowly, slowly; up to your mouth, up to your nose, over your
head. French won’t help you then. Uncle indeed!” He paused and gazed
gloatingly down at the helpless girl.

“He is me uncle,” Molly persisted, but in spite of herself her voice
faltered.

Again Style raved at her.

“Look here,” he shouted. “You’ll get one chance and one only. Tell us
everything that passed between you and French and we’ll let you go.”
He lowered his voice and spoke almost in persuasive tones. “Make a
clean breast of the whole thing and we’ll put you in the car and drive
you to some deserted place from which you can make your way home.
You’d like to be back in London, wouldn’t you?”

He paused expectantly, but Molly did not answer.

“I’m sure you’d like to be free and home again. Well, tell us
everything and you’ll be there in a couple of hours. Hold back the
least fact and you’ll never see London again. No power in heaven or
earth can save you. Tell me,” he bent forward again and stared fixedly
at her with his sinister eyes till she felt all the strength draining
out of her, “tell me, did you ever hear of a young lady named Thurza
Darke? Ah, I see you did. And no one but French could have told you.
You fool, to give that away! Well,” his look became indescribably
evil, “Thurza Darke wouldn’t tell either, and she went and lay in the
bath while the water slowly rose. . . . We had to stop her screams
lest they should be heard outside the house. Then after a long time
the water rose above her mouth and she didn’t scream any more. . . .
That’s what’ll happen to you. It’s just next door.” He motioned with
his hand.

Molly couldn’t speak. She felt too sick with horror. She lay gazing up
at that narrow face with its evil, staring eyes and its expression of
almost maniac hate. Presently Style went on:

“Perhaps you don’t believe me? I tell you there were more than Thurza
Darke. You never heard of Eileen Tucker, did you? Nor of Agatha
Frinton? You don’t know what happened to them? Well, you soon will.”
He pushed forward his face till Molly could scarcely refrain from
screaming. “They were drowned in the bath, and afterwards their bodies
were found in rivers and quarryholes. But yours won’t be found. We’re
going to hide it so that it’ll never be seen again. No one will ever
know what happened to you. Not even your beloved French will ever
know, you——”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake dry up and leave the girl till we’re ready for
her,” burst in Gwen impatiently. “You’ve something else to do than
stand here spouting like a bum actor in a circus! What about those
machines?”

There was hatred in the look Style turned on Gwen and something of
fear also. But his manner changed at once.

“You’re right. We must get on,” he said sullenly, then he turned again
to Molly.

“There’s a bell beside the fireplace. If you want to go back to town
ring and we’ll come to hear your statement. If not—there’s the bath in
the next room!”

He walked to the door, let himself and Gwen out and locked it. Molly
heard their steps descending the stairs and then all was still.



CHAPTER XVII

The Shadows Loom Nearer

For a few minutes after she had been left alone Molly lay motionless,
too full of horror even to think. She felt herself near death, and
with all the intensity of her being she longed to live. Never had life
seemed so sweet. She wanted to get out of this awful room, to see the
sun, the fields, the trees, to feel the fresh air blowing on her
cheeks, to hear the birds and the sounds of life around her. More than
that she wanted to see her friends and to be once again amid her
familiar surroundings in London. Even to be back in her box office,
weary of it though she often had been, would now be heaven! But death
was before her and at the very idea she grew once more sick and faint.

However in the course of time her youth and health once again
reasserted themselves. Things perhaps were not so bad after all. For
the time being at all events, she had a respite. It was evident that
Style and Gwen were profoundly anxious to find out how much French
knew. She believed they were going to keep her alive in the hope that
they could make her tell. If so, she had only to refuse to speak and
her life would be prolonged.

But this mood of optimism soon passed and terrible forebodings once
more filled her mind. Was she safe even for the time being? Even if
she told them everything, would she be safe? When they got all they
wanted out of her, would her fate not still be that of Thurza Darke?
For she did not believe their promise to free her if she did their
bidding. They had not liberated Thurza Darke or her two unfortunate
predecessors. These girls had almost certainly been forced to reveal
what they knew, but it hadn’t saved them.

The more she thought over her position the lower sank her heart. There
was just one ray of hope. She would be missed immediately. When she
didn’t turn up at the cinema they would phone to her boarding house.
And her landlady would certainly ring up the Yard. Mr. French would
know within an hour or at most two. Then he would begin without delay
to trace her. In fact he was probably doing it at that moment. She had
only to hold out so as to give him time. That was it. To hold out. She
steeled her mind to the idea. No matter what happened, at no matter
what cost to herself, she must hold out.

But would he trace her in time? She shivered as the thought forced
itself into her mind. Then resolutely she pulled herself together. She
must not allow herself to dwell on such a possibility.

To occupy her thoughts she got up from the bed and began to
investigate her surroundings. The room was certainly very dilapidated.
From the ceiling and walls hung festoons of cobweb, and dust and
scraps of old rubbish lay thick on the floor. The chair and table were
of the plainest kind and the table rocked on three legs. There was no
water in the jug and both it and the basin were thickly covered with
dust. The truckle bed bore blankets but no sheets, and one of its legs
was broken and tied together with string. In the otherwise empty grate
was an accumulation of dirty rubbish. The skylight was out of reach,
and there being no other window, she was unable to look out.

The pile of old books in the corner seemed to offer more promise of
distraction and on these she tried desperately to fix her attention.
All were dusty, but she turned them over in the hope of finding
something which she might force herself to read. They formed an
extraordinary collection, all very old and all well thumbed. There
were two Bibles, a large one with pictures and a small thin one on
India paper. There were _The Lamplighter_, _Queechy_, _The Fairchild
Family_, _The Scarlet Letter_, and a number of others of whose names
she had never heard. Most of them were without inscription, but in one
was written in a thin angular hand, “Christina Wyatt. February 1864.”
Molly dully wondered who Christina could have been and how her
_Pilgrim’s Progress_ had survived during the sixty odd years since she
had obtained it.

Among the collection was one book which might throw light on these
problems and Molly, desperately anxious to fill her mind with
something other than her own condition, picked it up and forced
herself to read. It was an old manuscript book, bearing on the flyleaf
the same name and containing notes in the same thin handwriting as
well as pasted-in cuttings of various kinds. The book was of fair
size, probably nine inches by six and an inch thick. Only about
quarter of it had been filled, the remaining pages being blank. The
notes took the form of a diary interspersed with moralizings after the
fashion of the period.

But Molly found it utterly impossible to fix her attention on it. Her
own position was too precarious to allow her to think of anything
else. Throwing the manuscript book back into the corner, she sat down
on the bed, buried her head in her hands and gave herself up to a
detailed consideration of the situation.

She was trapped. Could she do anything to help herself? That was the
burden of her thoughts. The problem had been in her mind
subconsciously since her capture, but now she set herself definitely
to think of ways of escape.

But the more she thought, the less hopeful the idea seemed. There was
first of all the door. She got up and examined it. Opening inwards, it
was strongly made and fitted with a mortise lock whose heavy bolt she
could see passing across the narrow slit between the edge and the
jamb. In no way could she force the door.

The chimney she could see at a glance was impossible. Even if she
could have climbed it, the opening above the fireplace was too small
to allow her to pass.

There being no windows, there remained only the skylight. Could she
get out through the skylight?

She lay back on the bed, gazing up at the cobweb covered square and
calculating her chances. If she moved the bed beneath it, put the old
box supplied as a washstand on the bed and put the chair on the box,
she might be able to reach high enough. Suddenly eager, she sat up,
listening intently. Not a sound reached her from the house. She
decided to try the experiment at once. Her head still throbbed from
the effects of the blow and she would rather have lain still. But the
faint hope which had been aroused nerved her to effort.

Moving quietly and making as little noise as possible, she pulled the
bed to the necessary position and built her tower. A moment later she
was looking through the glass.

But there was not much within view. A vast area of sky and the tops of
a row of distant trees alone were visible. And when she tried to push
up the skylight a further disappointment awaited her. It was fastened.
Through one of the holes in the handle a screw had been passed. She
tried to move the screw, but it was too firmly fixed.

For a moment she thought of breaking the glass, but she saw
immediately that the metal bars of the frame were too close for her to
squeeze between them. Baffled, she got down and stood thinking.

There seemed to be nothing that she could do. Slowly she took down the
chair and the table and pushed the bed back to its place. She lay
down, her thoughts approaching more nearly to despair than at any time
since her capture. _How_ she wished she had minded French’s warning!
What a fool she had been to imagine that she could stand up against
members of a gang of this kind! What reason had she to imagine she was
abler or cleverer than Thurza Darke? Oh, if when she saw Style she had
just passed on with a bow and smile! If only she had done that she
might now be sitting in her pay-box at the Panopticon! She had been
bored to tears with that box times without number, but now how she
longed for it! She would have given all she possessed to be once more
within its familiar walls. But no wishing would get her there.

Slowly the interminable hours dragged away, while the square of
sunshine from the skylight crept across the wall, narrowed to a line
and disappeared. Presently she realized that she was desperately
hungry. She had had no lunch and now it was after five o’clock. Surely
they couldn’t mean to starve her?

While she was considering the idea she dropped into a light sleep. She
was roused by the rattling of the key in the door and sat up blinking
as Style entered with a tray on which was set out a plain but
sufficient supper.

“Asleep?” he said in some surprise. “It’s well for you that you can
take your position so easily! Or is it that you have not realized its
seriousness?” He paused; then as Molly did not reply, went on: “Or
perhaps you have come to your senses and decided to tell what you
know?”

“I know nothing about what you have asked.”

Style shrugged. “Oh, very well,” he answered. “Have it your own way.
I’m sorry. We didn’t want any more cases like Thurza Darke’s, but it’s
your say.” He put down the tray, then suddenly spoke with extreme
earnestness. “For heaven’s sake, Molly Moran, don’t be such a fool!
Thurza Darke took the same line as you. She’s dead now. Don’t think
I’m bluffing when I assure you that you’ll die too if you don’t do
what we want. We offer you the choice of that or of freedom. Don’t be
such a darned fool!”

For a moment Molly was tempted to tell of her interviews with French.
Then something in his face, a look in his eyes, assured her that she
was being deceived. There was no mercy there. They would never let her
go. Her only chance was to keep them hoping for information as long as
possible, so as to give French time to trace her. She rallied her
courage.

“It’s your fate that is sealed,” she declared confidently. “Mr. French
knows all about you. You’ve been warning me, now I’ll warn you. If
anything happens to me, you’ll hang! That’s the way things are, Mr.
Style. Mr. French knows all about Thurza Darke and he’s taken
precautions to prevent you repeating that. There’s my warning to you.”

Brave words, and yet Molly had scarcely spoken them before she felt
sick with terror. It was a ghastly mistake to have said that about
Thurza Darke! If they believed it, it would remove her, Molly’s, chief
safeguard. If they thought the murder of Thurza could be brought home
to them it would not save them to spare Molly. The penalty was the
same for one murder as for two.

But this point of view did not seem to strike Style. He shook his head
regretfully.

“Very well, fool,” he snarled. “If you want to commit suicide, you
can,” and turning on his heel, he strode out, slamming and locking the
door.

In spite of her almost frantic state of mind Molly felt a good deal
better when she had finished the plate of cold roast beef and the
bottle of cider which she found on the tray. If she could but get the
news of her whereabouts through to French she would be almost happy.
Oh, to know that he was on the way to her help! Was there _nothing_
that she could do?

Once again she lay down on the bed while she racked her brains over
the problem. Was there _nothing_ that she could do?

For an hour and more she tossed, then once again she heard footsteps
and the door was unlocked. This time it was Gwen Lestrange. She
carried a pair of sheets, a can of hot water, soap and other toilet
requisites.

“Here you are, you little fool,” she said contemptuously as she dumped
her burden on the floor. “You don’t deserve these, but we are not so
bad as you imagine. But I warn you that unless you do as we want
you’ll not need them by tomorrow night.”

She did not wait for a reply, but went out quickly, locking the door
after her.

Though Gwen’s manner was so ungracious, the articles she had brought
made a deal of difference to Molly. After a wash and brush up she felt
so much happier than when a little later she spread the sheets on her
bed and turned in, she found herself actually comfortable. Then her
anxiety and fatigues brought their own recompense and she slept
dreamlessly. Indeed, when she woke it was broad daylight.

About eight o’clock Gwen brought her some breakfast and then began
another weary and interminable day. She would not have believed had
some one told her previously how slowly time could pass. Hour after
hour she lay on her bed racking her brains over the problem of escape.
Tales she had read of imprisoned heroines recurred to her, but in all
of them some valiant young man had invariably appeared in the nick of
time and had carried out the rescue. But in her case there was no such
hero. She had herself to depend on and no one else in the world.

Except French. Again and again she pictured French following along
that endless road from London. Momentarily she expected to hear the
tumult of his arrival. But still the interminable silence remained
unbroken.

Suddenly an idea flashed into her mind and she lay still, wondering
whether there could be anything in it. The more she thought, the less
sanguine she grew. However, it was better than nothing. A forlorn
hope, but still a hope.

Again eagerly listening, she once more built her tower on the bed.
Once more she climbed to the skylight. From her pocket she produced a
penny. Could she turn the screw with it?

Alas, no! The edge was too wide to enter the slot. One encouraging
fact, however, she noticed which she had missed before. The wood round
the screw was decayed. If only she could get something to fit the slot
she felt sure the screw would not be hard to turn.

Twenty minutes’ wrestling with the problem brought her another gleam
of hope. Going to the fireplace, she knelt down and began rubbing the
edge of the penny on the hearthstone. And then hope changed once more
to eagerness. The penny was deeply scratched. With perseverance she
was sure she could rub its edge thin enough.

But she had not counted on the labour involved. She rubbed till her
whole body ached before she succeeded. And then it was only to find
that owing to the curve of the penny’s edge it rose out of the slot
when she tried to turn it.

This problem, however, was easier. Another exhausting period of
rubbing on the hearthstone and she had ground a flat place on the
disc, long enough to meet her purpose.

Few would blame her that she shed a few tears when, after all her
weary work, she found she was still no nearer her goal. She could not
turn the screw. But once more she pulled herself together. She had
gone so far she _would not_ be beaten. And very little further thought
gave her the solution.

While she was considering some better way of gripping her penny, her
eyes fell on the tongs. They were old-fashioned with a hinge and flat
meeting faces, not the more modern spring kind with claw ends. It was
the work of a few seconds to grip the penny in the tongs and try
again.

But even yet she was not through. She found she could not hold the
tongs tightly enough to prevent them opening. But she _would not_ be
beaten. Looking round in desperation her eye fell on the broken leg of
the bedstead. In a moment she was kneeling on the floor unwinding the
cord which held it in place. Another few seconds and the legs of the
tongs were tied tightly on the penny and she was again trying the
great experiment. Her joy may be imagined when this time her
improvised screw-driver worked.

The screw removed, she eagerly raised the skylight and looked out. But
at the sight which met her eyes her tears once again overflowed. All
her work was unavailing. She was no better off.

Away from her the smooth slates of the roof stretched in every
direction, from the ridge above to the gutter beneath and to the
capping of the eaves to right and left. From where she stood the roof
seemed like a great sloping table-land suspended in mid-air. It had no
visible connection with the earth, which appeared beyond the gutter,
far below and a long way off. She thought she must be at the back of
the house for there was no road or drive in sight. She was looking
down into fields, behind which was a wood, forming the horizon. No
human being was in sight nor even a house. So far as she could see,
she might be the only remaining human being in the world.

No chance of escaping that way. She could not stand on that slope.
With a thrill of horror she imagined herself climbing out, letting go
the skylight frame, slipping down the smooth slates to the gutter,
gripping it frantically, missing it . . . She shuddered. No, there was
no hope that way. Nor was there any use in her making signals of
distress. No one was there to see them.

Bitterly disappointed, she stood staring out, watching lest by chance
some wanderer might appear in the fields whose attention she might be
able to attract. But no one came.

Presently it occurred to her that the time for the evening meal must
be near. Useless as this open skylight seemed, it would be wiser to
keep the knowledge of it to herself. She therefore closed the sash,
put back the screw loosely, replaced the furniture, took her
screw-driver to pieces, and lay down on the bed.

Only just in time! She had scarcely settled down when Gwen appeared
with the meal.

Then followed a perfectly interminable night. This time she had not
had the necessary physical fatigue to make her sleep and she tossed
restlessly during the long, dark hours. But morning came at last and
with it breakfast and the prospects of another endless day.

She wondered what the plans of the trio could be. Gwen’s threat as to
her end coming before the previous evening had not been fulfilled.
Either their plans had miscarried or Gwen had been bluffing.
Reassuring, for what it was worth. But they could not keep her alive
and a prisoner indefinitely. They must, she imagined, be waiting for
some development, though what form it might take she could not
imagine.

Like a century the day dragged out its weary course. Lunch came, then
Gwen with water, then supper, and still no ray of light or hope
appeared to the girl. Then just as she was preparing for another long
night of wakeful tossing, she got another idea.

It was far more in the nature of a forlorn hope than the last, still,
she reminded herself, it was a hope. But if she were to carry out her
plan she must lose no time. It would be dark in less than an hour.

Now breathlessly excited, she jumped from the bed, took Christina
Wyatt’s old manuscript book, and cutting the thread which bound it,
carefully withdrew some of the unused sheets. The double pages were of
fair size, some fifteen inches by nine. Now, could she remember how to
fold them? Once down the middle, the long way; then two corners back
to the middle fold; then . . . For a time she experimented until at
last there lay before her a dart like those she had made in hundreds
in her school-days. Eagerly she stood up and threw it. It floated
gently across the room.

Mass production was now the order of the day. There were thirty-seven
clean double pages in the book and in a few minutes thirty-seven darts
lay in a little pile on the bed. As she folded, Molly thought out the
message they would bear, so that by the time they were ready she had
decided on the wording. Taking her fountain pen, she wrote on the top
of each: “Finder for God’s sake phone Victoria 7000 that Molly Moran
is in this big house. Her life at stake.”

By this time it was getting dusk. As quickly and silently as possible
Molly rebuilt her tower beneath the skylight, withdrew the screw and
opened the frame. Then taking up a bunch of darts, she began to launch
them one by one.

There was a gentle wind blowing towards the left. This picked up the
darts and carried them well away from the house, over towards the
fields. They floated well, and though most of them disappeared from
view below the line of the roof, she saw some actually strike the
ground.

The thirty-seven disposed of, she stood looking out, hoping against
hope that some one would appear and get her message. But though she
waited till it was quite dark, no one appeared. At last with a
profound sigh she closed the skylight, put the furniture in its place
and lay down once more.

The reaction from her previous excitement had now set in and her
depression became greater than ever. The darts, she felt, were no
good. No one would find them and if anyone did he would think the
message some child’s prank and take no notice. Or, and this was a
disaster which she had not thought of before, Gwen or Style might find
them. What would happen to her then? And all the time in the
background was the feeling of sick dread and horror when she thought
of the fate of Thurza Darke. In the daytime there had been the
excitement of what was happening to keep her up. Now there was
nothing. She learned the awful loneliness of fear.

Fortunately from sheer exhaustion she fell asleep quite soon. But it
seemed to her that her eyes had scarcely closed when she was awakened
by a knocking at her door.

“Get up quickly,” came Gwen’s voice. “We’re moving on. You must be
ready in ten minutes. Here is a lamp.”

The door opened, a small electric lamp was pushed in and the door was
relocked.

Molly looked at her watch. It was still early—only half past eleven.
What was now afoot? Had her time come?

She had not fully undressed, and almost sick with terror, she put on
the remainder of her things. But she had not much time to think.
Before she was ready Gwen returned, accompanied by Style. In silence
they seized her and before she realized what was happening, her wrists
and ankles were rebound, the gag thrust into her mouth and a
handkerchief tied over her eyes. She felt herself being lifted and
carried down the six flights of stairs and along passages to what was
evidently a door, for the night air blew on her face. Then she was
placed on a seat, she imagined in the same car as before, the engine
was started up and they moved off. After a few yards they stopped and
she heard above the noise of the running engine the clang of a gate,
some one got in and sat down beside her, and they moved off.



CHAPTER XVIII

When Greek Meets Greek

It was shortly after eleven o’clock on that same night that news came
to Inspector French. Fed up with the whole business and tired out, he
was actually on his way upstairs when his telephone rang.

“News of Miss Moran, sir,” came the voice of the sergeant on duty at
the Yard. “Hold the line and I’ll put you through.” There was a pause
and then another voice sounded.

“Is that Victoria 7000? If so, I have a message for you.”

“That’s right. Repeat your message, please.”

“I’m speaking from near Guildford. Between eight and nine my little
nipper was coming home through a field and he found some paper darts
with this message written on each: ‘Finder for God’s sake phone
Victoria 7000 that Molly Moran is in this big house. Her life at
stake.’ We took it for a joke, but I am ringing up on chance.”

French wiped a film of sweat off his forehead.

“It’s no joke I can assure you. This is Scotland Yard and we know
something of the affair. Tell me, please, who you are and where you’re
speaking from.”

An expression of amazed concern came through, then the voice went on:
“I am Mr. Edward Boland, speaking from my house, Dehra Dun, Elmford.
I—I hope it’s all right?”

“I hope so,” French returned grimly. “Tell me, where is the big house
mentioned?”

“It’s at the other end of the village; Mr. Trevellian’s, the
novelist’s.”

“Now, Mr. Boland, could you lend me a hand at your end? It may save
the girl’s life. How far are you from the police station?”

“It’s in the village, five minutes’ walk from here.”

“Good. Will you take the darts there and hand them to whoever is on
duty and tell him your story. Tell him that you have rung me up,
Inspector French, C.I.D., and say that I shall be going down
immediately. Can you manage that?”

“Of course, Inspector. I’ll do it now.”

Ten seconds after Boland had rung off French was talking to the Yard.

“Get six men together at once, Deane, and two cars with petrol for a
long run. I want to go to near Guildford. I’ll be with you by the time
you’re ready. And look sharp, for goodness’ sake! It’s more than
urgent.”

By a lucky chance French picked up a taxi almost at his own door, and
soon he was giving his instructions to Deane in person.

“Got those cars? Right. I want you to ring up the police station at
Elmford, near Guildford. Tell them to take the message seriously that
Mr. Boland is bringing them: they’ll understand. Tell them that I’ll
be with them in an hour and that in the meantime they are to surround
Mr. Trevellian’s house and allow no one to leave; let them detain on
suspicion anyone who tries to. Explain that we think these people have
a girl in their power and say that if the sergeant has any reason to
suspect foul play he’s not to wait for authority, but to break in.
I’ll stand the racket.”

A minute later two fast cars left the Yard. In the first were French,
Carter, and two other men. The second contained Sergeant Harvey and
another two assistants. Contrary to custom all were armed. French had
with him the warrants he had previously obtained for the arrest of the
members of the gang and he was determined if necessary to strain a
point and use these to cover the search of the house.

“Don’t kill anybody,” he told the driver, “but don’t be longer in one
place than you need,” and they roared on, their speed increasing
continually as they left London farther behind.

The night was calm but dark. The light which should have come from the
quarter moon was obscured by clouds. It was now fine, but there had
been a shower earlier and the roads were heavy. Five and twenty
minutes after leaving the Yard they ran through Kingston and in
another twenty Ripley was left behind. From Ripley to Guildford they
had a clear road and they fairly hummed along, but they had an
exasperating slack through the town. Then for the remaining three
miles they were able to put on another spurt, reaching the police
station at Elmford just an hour and three minutes after starting. A
constable hurried out and saluted.

“Inspector French, sir?” he said. “The sergeant’s at Mr. Trevellian’s.
First turn to the left and first house on the left-hand side.” He
pointed down the street.

A couple of minutes brought them to the place. As they drew up at the
entrance to the drive two shadows moved forward.

“Inspector French, sir?” said the larger of the two. “I’m Sergeant
Biggle and this is Mr. Boland. No one has entered or left the house
since we got your phone, but one of our men saw a car leave as he was
on his rounds.”

“At what hour was that?”

“Eleven-forty, sir. It was too dark to see details, but he believed it
was Mr. Trevellian’s green Armstrong Siddeley. They turned in the
direction of Farnham.”

“Could he say how many people were in it?”

“No, it is a saloon and it was too dark to see more than the outline.”

French nodded. “Now as to Mr. Trevellian. Describe him, please.”

“A rather stout, undersized man with bright red hair, a pale
complexion, and blue eyes.”

French felt a sudden thrill. This could surely be none other than that
Jim Sibley of whom Cullimore and Dove had spoken, the engineer who had
been dismissed from the Mint for theft.

“Anyone else live here?”

“Mrs. Trevellian. She’s a tall, well-built woman with fair hair and
complexion, blue eyes, and a strong chin.”

Better and better! Gwen Lestrange, for a certainty!

“Right. They’re the people we want. Anyone else?”

“There’s Mr. Marwood, Mr. Elmer Marwood. He’s brother to Mrs.
Trevellian and lives with them. He goes into town every day, mostly in
Mr. Trevellian’s car. A thinnish, pale-complexioned man with a small
straw-coloured moustache and glasses. That’s all.”

Style! That made four, including Welland. French would have betted
long odds it was the lot. He turned to Carter.

“Take charge, Carter,” he directed. “Surround the house and go in and
search it. If they don’t open immediately, break in. You needn’t mind
making a noise. Only look sharp. Now, Mr. Boland, you told me your son
found these darts between eight and nine, but you didn’t ring up till
after eleven. I’m not finding fault, sir, but could you not have done
better than that?”

“Awfully sorry, Inspector, but you see I didn’t know about it. My wife
and I were dining out and the servant was on leave. The boy was alone
in the house. He’s only eight. Against orders he waited up for me, and
though I thought it was a hoax, I rang you up at once.”

“I understand, sir. It was not your fault, but it was a pity all the
same. Now, sergeant,” he went on to Biggle, “I want you to go back to
your office and put through a general call to all surrounding
stations. Describe the car and the party and give their direction as
far as we know it. Where would you get to if you went through
Farnham?”

“Southampton or Salisbury, I should think, sir.”

“Southampton it’ll be,” said French. “They’re making for the ships.
Well, ring up, will you, especially to Southampton and places on the
way there. Tell them all to report to you if there is news, and do you
stand by to repeat it to me when I ring up. That all clear?”

The sergeant repeated his instructions, and French hurried after
Carter. In some way the latter had obtained entrance, for a constable
stood guarding the open hall door. Within a rapid search was in
progress.

“Got in through the pantry window, sir,” said Carter, appearing
suddenly in the hall. “The house is deserted, but they’ve been coining
in the cellar, though the machines are gone. Down there, if you’d like
to have a look.”

“I’ll run down for a moment. Make sure that girl’s not in the house
and meet me in the hall.”

French’s “look,” brief though it was, left him still more impressed
with the amount of thought and labour that had been put into the
coining scheme. The cellar, a large, whitewashed room, had been fitted
up elaborately. The windows had been built up, but a system of Tobin’s
tubes had been installed for ventilation, and the place was
brilliantly lit with electric light. On the benches lay hundreds of
partially finished coins, tools and other debris. The places where
presses had stood were clearly marked, but all the machines had been
removed. There had been several of these, some, the foundations
suggested, of a considerable size.

The sight cleared up a point which had been bothering French, why the
gang had not made off more quickly after becoming suspicious that the
police were on their track. The removal of these machines supplied the
reason. These people were not going to give up coining because that
particular pitch had grown too hot for them. Clearly they were going
to break fresh ground and start again. In some other great city the
mortality among box office girls would soon be on the up-grade—unless
he, French, stopped it.

When he reached the hall Carter was descending the stairs. No, there
was no trace of anyone in the house, but there was a partially
furnished attic, the only room above the ground floor which showed
signs of recent occupation, in which the young lady might have been
imprisoned.

“And that,” went on Carter, “is next the field where Mr. Boland said
the darts were found. I expect she was there all right.”

“Very well; let’s get on.”

As none of French’s party knew the roads, they took a local constable
as guide. Warned of the urgency of the case, the driver put on every
ounce of power and they snorted on at a breakneck pace through the
night. Fortunately the road was good and other traffic practically
non-existent, or disaster might have overtaken them. French sat in
front, tense and watchful, though with his mind full of the problems
which still remained. He believed that this was the last lap and that
the party in front represented the entire gang. He could now see the
function of each. Trevellian, or Sibley, to make the stuff; Style to
take it to town and to obtain and bring down the raw materials;
Welland to see to its distribution; Gwen to trap the necessary girls
and doubtless do other odds and ends as might be required. And
Sibley’s guise of an author was just what might have been expected. It
would account for his living in the country as well as for his long
absences during the day. French could imagine the casual caller.
“Where is Mr. Trevellian? I should like to ask him so and so.” “Oh,
he’s writing. He doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s at work.” It
was a good, well-thought-out scheme. These people had deserved to
succeed.

Presently there came houses—Farnham.

A hurried call to Elmford told them that there was no news and the
chase was resumed. French was now much more anxious. He was running on
towards Southampton on the mere strength of his summing of the
probabilities. But he might be wrong. That start towards Farnham might
have been a blind, and every mile might easily be increasing his
distance from the quarry. If so, Molly Moran’s chances would be pretty
thin—assuming, indeed, that she were still alive.

But there was nothing else for it, and they hurried on. French glanced
at his watch; it was just past two o’clock. If the gang had gone this
way they must have passed nearly two hours earlier and nearly an hour
before he telephoned. If they had been seen it would only have been by
the merest chance.

At five minutes past two they ran into Alton and stopped at the police
station. Again no luck! The Elmford sergeant telephoned that he had
heard nothing.

The difficulty of French’s problem was now increased tenfold. Should
he go on? If the others were not making for Southampton, to do so
would probably mean losing them altogether. But there was no time for
hesitation. Rightly or wrongly, he would back his judgment.

“On towards Southampton,” he ordered, and once again they began their
mad rush through the endless night.

At twenty minutes to three they reached the suburbs of Winchester and
a couple of minutes later French was again ringing up Elmford. Then
his weight of fear and doubt was suddenly eased and he felt a thrill
of the keenest satisfaction. There was news!

On receiving Sergeant Biggle’s call the officer in charge at
Southampton had instantly sent men round the roads in the vicinity to
warn the patrols who were already out on their beats. Just five
minutes earlier one of these men had returned to say that a car
answering the description in question had passed through the village
of Old Netley at about two a.m. It had come from the direction of
Hedge End and gone on towards the sea. Hedge End was in a direct line
from Winchester to Netley.

“Netley! Hard as you like!” French cried as he swung himself back into
the car.

Luckily their guide had once been stationed at Southampton and knew
the district. They ran on at full speed to Botley, then turning back
west, went south through Hedge End. There they left the main road and
at a necessarily reduced speed ran through Old Netley and down to the
shore of Southampton Water at the end of the little town of Netley.

Here was another problem for French. The road down which they had come
debouched at right angles into a road running parallel to the shore.
Should they turn up or down channel?

“Where does that road go to?” he asked the guide, pointing down
towards the sea.

“Just to Netley town and the hospital, sir, though you can get on to
Hamble. But they wouldn’t have gone that way because there’s a direct
road from Winchester to Hamble through Hound.”

“Very well; turn to the right.”

This, the guide explained, would bring them in a couple of miles to
Southampton, through the suburb of Woolston. French, deciding that he
would make for the police station, nodded.

After passing a grove of trees at Hilton the road ran down along the
sea, being separated from the actual beach by a strip of unfenced
grass some thirty yards wide. To be so near a great port, the place
was extraordinarily secluded. The clouds had now uncovered the quarter
moon and so far as French could see in the dim light, there was not a
house in sight. Away in front were the lights of Southampton and out
on the water were the riding lights of steamers, with an occasional
twinkle from the Hythe shore opposite. But the nearer shore was dark
and deserted. Anything, thought French, might go on there and no one
would be a bit the wiser.

As he looked out over the black water his face suddenly grew grim. He
thought he could now account for the route the others had taken. They
were going to Southampton all right, but they had something to do
first. There was dangerous evidence—to be destroyed. There in the
water, somewhere out in the darkness towards Hythe he dared swear was
now floating the body of the poor little Irish girl. He sighed as he
thought of the narrow chance on which the thing had turned. If only
that man Boland had not been out when his son found the darts! Ah,
well, it couldn’t be mended now. But there was still one thing to be
seen to and French set his teeth as he thought of it. They should pay,
these ruffians, pay in full measure, pressed down and running over.
Until all four were either in jail or dead, he would not rest. Poor
little Molly!

And then something happened which completely altered his outlook and
set him thinking furiously. The road turned sharply inland and as they
swung round the bend they passed a man.

He was walking to meet them and owing to the curve he momentarily got
the full benefit of their headlights. But that moment was enough. In
spite of the fact that his hat was pulled down over his eyes and his
collar turned up about his cheeks, French recognized him. It was
Style!

French had never seen Style, but he had had so many descriptions of
him that no doubt was possible. The man was walking quickly as if late
for an appointment.

For five seconds French thought hard. Then as they passed round the
curve out of Style’s view he stopped the cars and hurriedly assembled
his men.

“Style!” he explained rapidly. “After him, but on your lives not a
sound!”

For big men, as most of the officers were, their movements were
surprisingly silent as they followed French at the double. When they
regained the shore the grass muffled their footsteps and such slight
sounds as they made were lost in the dreary moaning of the wind and
the plash of the waves on the beach. Presently they caught sight of
Style. He had left the road and was picking his way down to the
water’s edge. French and his followers dropped on their hands and
knees and crawled on till they were directly behind him.

Style, having reached the edge, stopped and stood looking out over the
water. He seemed to be doing something with his hands, but French
could not imagine what.

Then he knew. From the sea came three flashes as from an electric
torch, and with these as a guide French found he could detect a
blacker smudge against the dark water. A vessel of some kind, close
inshore and showing no lights.

As they watched, a second smaller smudge detached itself from the
other. Some one was coming ashore.

Almost instinctively a plan flashed into French’s mind. After a
whispered word to his men he began slowly to creep up behind Style.
Style seemed uneasy, but it was not till French was beside him that he
turned. At the same instant French sprang and with a muffled cry the
man came down.

He fought like a maniac, but Carter and Harvey had come up and he had
no chance. In a few seconds he was helpless, bound and gagged.

“Once again,” whispered French.

He had snatched off Style’s hat and putting this on and turning up his
collar, he stood waiting as the other had done. The boat was now close
inshore and revealed itself as a collapsible punt with a capacity for
two. A short, stout man was rowing.

“Thought you’d never be back,” the stout man grumbled as the punt
touched the ground. “For heaven’s sake look alive now. We don’t want
to be here all night.”

Further remark died off into a kind of gurgle. French had seized him
by the throat. This man also after the first moment of surprise fought
like a tiger, but once again the odds were too heavy. In a few seconds
he lay bound beside his accomplice.

“Now, Carter, it’s you and me for it,” French panted. “However many
there may be they’re two fewer for this. You, Harvey, get the others
and have those two men into one of the cars. Then come down and be
prepared to lend a hand.”

Rapidly they righted and emptied the boat, which had been upset in the
struggle, and French and Carter got in.

“I’ll row,” French decided. “I’m more the size of that second fellow.
You take Style’s hat and turn up your collar. And have your gun
ready.”

Old hand as he was, French’s heart was beating more rapidly than could
be accounted for by his scrap as he pulled out towards the launch.
These were desperate men, their escape almost consummated. They would
not lose their freedom for the sake of the lives of a couple of
policemen. French had no delusions as to the possibility that neither
he nor Carter might ever see another sunrise.

“We want to take them alive,” he said in low tones, “but if you see
them going to shoot get in first.”

The boat was closer inshore than French had supposed. As they came
close they saw that she was a motor launch of some forty-five feet
long. She seemed a sea boat, well decked over forward. On her deck
astern stood a man and woman.

“It’s about time you thought of coming,” called out the man when they
were within earshot. “What the —— hell were you monkeying about
ashore? We’ll not be clear of the Island by daylight at this rate.”

Welland! And the woman was certainly Gwen Lestrange! French murmured a
husky reply in a tone as like that of the former oarsman as he could.
But his effort was not good enough. The two started and called out
simultaneously in tones of urgent anxiety.

“Sibley!” cried Welland. “Speak clearly, can’t you!” While Gwen
shouted: “Jim! Is that you? Answer!”

French put down his head and pulled with all his might. The boat
bounded forward. There was a sudden scuffle on deck. “Look out, it’s
French!” came in a shrill scream from Gwen, while with a savage oath
Welland roared: “Start the —— engine! For your life, Gwen! I’ll pot
them if they try to come aboard!” The voices of both had an edge of
desperate urgency.

Like a flash the girl leaped to the cabin door, and after fumbling at
its lock, disappeared within. Welland at the same time dashed across
the deck, seized what appeared to be a top coat and began hurriedly
searching its pockets. At that moment the boat came alongside and both
French and Carter sprang at the rail and began to climb aboard. But
they were too late. Before French reached the deck Welland found what
he wanted. His hand flew up and in it was something shining. And then,
just as he was about to fire, a flying figure appeared from the
cabin—the figure of a girl. She dashed to Welland and as the jet of
flame spurted from the pistol, struck desperately at his arm. French
felt a searing pain in his head, but he was not disabled and he sprang
across the deck to Welland. He had a vision of the girl reeling wildly
back, and with her scream ringing in his ears, he closed. For a moment
it seemed as if things would go badly with him. Welland was the bigger
man and he was evidently in excellent training. He got in a lefthander
over French’s heart which left the latter sick and quivering. But
French concentrated his whole will power on holding his grip of the
other’s wrist and preventing him turning the pistol inwards. Then
Carter joined in and the thing was a matter of time. In three minutes
Welland was bound like his confrères ashore.

“Look out for Gwen,” gasped French, as he dragged himself over to
where Molly Moran lay in a motionless heap against the deckhouse wall.

Carter locked the cabin door, then turned to help French with the
unconscious girl. They stretched her out on the deck and bathed her
face and hands.

“Only stunned, I think,” French went on hoarsely. “I suppose you
realize, Carter, that if she hadn’t been such a plucky one you and I
would be down in Davy Jones’s locker now. You owe your life to her,
man, and so do I.”

“I didn’t see just what happened. It was all over and we were
scrapping round before I knew where I was.”

“It’s clear enough what happened. They had locked her in the cabin and
when Gwen went to start the engine she didn’t wait to close the door.
Molly dashed out and knocked up this beauty’s hand as he was firing.
It was a close thing, Carter. I felt a bullet pass my head. Ah, there.
Thank God for that!”

Molly had opened her eyes and was making a pathetic attempt to smile.
At sight of it French forgot himself in the most lamentable manner.
Fortunately no one who mattered was there to see his lapse.
French—alas that it must be recorded!—caught the girl up in his arms
and implanted not one but two hearty kisses on her mouth.

“My word, Molly, but you’re the goods!” he declared in rather shaky
tones. “If I was about a hundred years younger and there was no Mrs.
French you’d be listening to a proposal of matrimony. You’re really
nothing the worse, child?”

And the abandoned creature, instead of indignantly protesting against
his conduct and demanding a commission of inquiry into the whole
circumstances, smiled up into his face and agreed that, everything
considered, she was really very well indeed.



CHAPTER XIX

Conclusion

Little more remains to be told.

When Gwen Lestrange, to give her the name by which she had been known
to French—she was really Mrs. James Sibley—saw from the cabin the turn
affairs had taken, she surrendered at discretion. It appeared that
there were no other members of the gang, and before morning all four
prisoners were safely lodged in the cells.

With the additional knowledge he now possessed, French immediately
began a more detailed inquiry into their misdeeds and before long the
entire details of the coining scheme were revealed.

It seemed that Jim Sibley had long been convinced as to the
possibility of profitably counterfeiting silver coins. Even with these
composed of nearly pure silver he believed the thing could be done,
but the passing of the Act of 1920 reducing the proportion of pure
silver to fifty per cent and the subsequent fall in the price of
silver left no doubt in his mind. When therefore he found himself
dismissed from the Mint it had occurred to him that an auspicious time
had arrived to test the truth of his convictions.

He was up, however, against one overwhelming difficulty. He had no
capital and the inception of his scheme required what was to him a big
sum. For a time his plans hung fire and then he saw his way.

From some of his dubious acquaintances he had heard from time to time
of a Mr. Curtice Welland, or, as he then called himself, Hervey
Westinghouse. Welland, to give him the name he afterwards took, was
looked upon by the fraternity of the underworld as an example of a
strikingly successful career. He was reported to live by blackmail and
it was hinted that on different occasions he had paid large sums for
“jobs,” mostly the burglary of some well-known persons’ houses for
letters of a profitable type. Sibley came to the conclusion that if
Welland could be interested in his scheme, the necessary capital would
materialize. He introduced himself, sounded the other, and to make a
long story short, the firm of Sibley, Sibley & Welland came into
being.

When they came to work out the details they found that a fourth member
would be required. Here again Welland filled the breach. In his toils
was a man called Webster, afterwards “Style.” Owing to an irregularity
in connection with the signature of a cheque, Style had handed over
his freedom to Welland and he was now told what he must do.
Unwillingly Style came in and the quartet started work.

The necessary machines were ordered to be sent to certain ports in the
names of various foreign medal making firms, to be kept till called
for. There Style, in the guise of an emissary from the foreign firms,
obtained them, ostensibly to arrange for their shipment. In reality he
ran them in his car to the house near Guildford, which in the meantime
had been rented by the Sibleys.

Some means of buying silver without arousing suspicion in the trade
being an essential, the silversmiths’ works was purchased, Style
becoming the “manager.” All the members of the staff who showed any
intelligence were dispensed with, enough being retained merely to keep
the place open. Style bought the silver in the name of Theobald &
Grudgin and secretly transferred what Sibley required to his garage,
bringing it home to Guildford in the car.

The guise of an author enabled Sibley to withdraw himself during long
periods on each day, and his wife helped him with the manufacture of
the coins. It was considered unsafe for either of these two or Style
to take part in their distribution, so this was undertaken by Welland
in the way French had already discovered.

Every morning and night, while passing along a quiet stretch of
byroad, Style changed the number of his car and slightly altered his
appearance by putting in a different set of false teeth, brushing his
hair and moustache differently, and putting on glasses and a
differently shaped hat. Because of this and also of the fact that in
his earlier circulars French had described the grey car used by
Welland instead of Style’s green vehicle, he succeeded in avoiding
recognition.

It was part of Style’s duty to spend a good part of his time in
shadowing the four box office girls whom they had made their dupes.
French’s inquiries were thus early known to the gang. Welland
instantly saw through the trick of the broken window and this
convinced the gang that they were in dangerous waters. The manufacture
of coins was suspended while Sibley and his wife, both disguised,
shadowed the girls. French’s interview with Molly in the Charing Cross
Gardens thus became known to them and they saw that they were on the
eve of discovery. At once a message was got through to Style to supply
Welland with “good” coins for the girls. Style kept a supply in his
safe for this purpose, and he passed good bundles to Welland,
replacing them with the four faked lots he had brought to town. It was
in this way that the coins obtained by French from Molly proved to be
good, while those which he found in Style’s safe were faked.

The eventuality which the quartet found themselves up against they had
long foreseen and provided against. Their idea was that if England
should get too hot to hold them, they would transfer their activities
to France. Welland had therefore bought the launch, storing it at
Ryde. They were determined, however, not to go without their plant,
and preparations for the removal of this were in hand when the whole
situation was altered by Molly’s recognition of Style at the
silversmiths’.

Style instantly saw that if Molly were allowed to see French again
they were done for. French would get on his trail and would find the
house at Guildford before the plant had been got away. He therefore
decided to kidnap her, so as to gain the necessary time for this
operation.

The question of whether she should not be murdered like those of her
predecessors who had shown a desire to communicate with Scotland Yard
was carefully considered and her life was spared as a sort of forlorn
hope. If by some unlikely chance French should discover their flight
before they got clear away, Molly was to be exhibited and French was
to be told that if he attempted to prevent their escape she should be
shot then and there in cold blood. They thought this might make him
hesitate sufficiently to enable them to effect their purpose.

By the evening of the day on which Molly was kidnapped all the
preparations for the flight were complete and if the gang had then
bolted in all probability they would have got clear away. But an
unexpected hitch at the last minute delayed them for two days and led
to their undoing. Welland found that he could not start the engine of
the launch, and he lost two vital days at Ryde in getting the defect
put right.

The working out of a method of trans-shipping their plant from car to
launch proved one of their most difficult problems. The need for
secrecy forbade the use of a wharf and crane and they knew of no
natural harbour or rock from which the machines could be embarked.
They therefore chose the position on Southampton Water, one of the
rare “hards” on a shore of soft and sedgy flats. At low water they ran
the car down on the beach, unloaded and buoyed the machines, and when
the tide rose floated the launch to the place and hoisted the machines
on board. Two journeys of the car had been necessary to transport all
the plant, the second being that by which Molly had been taken. On
reaching the shore for the second time the balance of the machines had
been unloaded and the whole of the party except Style had gone on
board. Style utilized the time until the tide rose high enough to lift
the machines in attempting a further safeguard. With the object of
confusing the chase, should one materialize, he had run the car into
Southampton, and it was when walking back after abandoning it there
that French and his party met him.

Though French found out all these details without much difficulty, he
was at more of a loss to prove the responsibility of the gang for
Thurza Darke’s murder. But eventually he managed this also. The
attendant at the Milan identified Gwen Lestrange as the young woman
who had called for Thurza on the night of her disappearance, and Dr.
Lappin, of Lee-on-the-Solent, swore that Style exactly met the
description of the man who was attending to the engine of the grey car
on the road near Hill Head. This evidence, added to the rest that
French had collected, secured a verdict of guilty, and eventually all
four paid for their crimes, Welland and Sibley on the scaffold and the
other two with life sentences.

Before his death Welland made a full confession. In it he admitted
that he and Sibley had murdered all three girls in the horrible and
revolting way with which Style had threatened Molly. Following the
example of Smith, the “brides in the bath” murderer, they had drowned
their unfortunate victims in the bath in the house at Guildford before
disposing of their bodies in the quarry hole, the river, and the sea
respectively.

Of all the parties to the transaction, Molly came off the best. Not
only was she not prosecuted, but on the grounds that the amount was
unknown, the question of her ill-gotten gains was not raised. Most
immorally, therefore, she found herself in possession of the nice
little sum of nearly four hundred pounds as her share of the affair.

As for French, the consciousness of work well (if slowly) done was his
reward. The case had been an unusually troublesome and disappointing
one, but he had at least the satisfaction of knowing that he had not
only in all probability saved Molly Moran’s life and the lives of
other girls who might have fallen into the hands of the gang, but had
cleared out a nest of evildoers whose removal was essential to the
welfare of the entire country.


  The End



TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

This transcription follows the text of 1929 US edition published by
Grosset & Dunlap. (The book was published in England under the title
_The Box Office Murders_.) The following errors have been corrected
from the original text:

 * “She seem” was changed to “She seems” (Chapter VI).
 * “electrial” was changed to “electrical” (Chapter VII).
 * “chauffering” was changed to “chauffeuring” (Chapter VIII).
 * “musn’t” was changed to “mustn’t” (Chapter XII).
 * “Orsmby” was changed to “Ormsby” (Chapter XIV).
 * “consumated” was changed to “consummated” (Chapter XVIII).



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75488 ***