Steadman read the note over twice. Was it possible that they had an
unknown friend in this haunt of the Yellow Gang? Or was it just
another trap laid for them like the other communications that the
inspector had received?
However, there was no time for deliberation. He turned to the
inspector, knife in hand. To cut the bonds that bound the detective
was an easy matter, even for his stiffened hands, in comparison with
the difficulty of freeing himself. Then, taking the gag from his
mouth, he saw that the lips were bruised and swollen both inside and
out, and the gag had been thrust in with such brutality that the
tongue had been forced backwards and several teeth loosened. As the
inspector began to breathe more freely the blood poured from his
mouth. But there was no time to be lost.
Steadman left his fellow-prisoner to recover himself while he padded
across to the bars. In a moment he saw that his unknown informant was
right. The bars would move upwards in their groove, easily enough.
Evidently this window was used as a means of egress to the river.
Inconvenient things could be pushed through and lost too! When the
bars had gone, the window frame was quite wide enough to let a man get
through. He leaned out. The moon was shining brightly, and he could
see various small craft riding at anchor. As he spoke he heard the
splash of oars and realized that at all hazards they must get into the
river while the boat was about. Therein lay their hope of safety. He
turned to the inspector, who had just struggled to his feet.
“Can you swim, Furnival?”
“Got the swimming medal at the Force Sports in 1912,” the detective
replied tersely. “I haven't quite forgotten the trick.”
“I wasn't bad as a young man,” the barrister said modestly. “We must
do our best, you see.” He held out the note. “There is no time to be
lost.”
“If we are to turn the tables on the Yellow Dog,” the inspector said,
speaking as plainly as his sore mouth would allow. He looked at the
note. “Who wrote this?”
“I haven't the least idea,” Steadman replied truthfully.
The inspector stooped stiffly and picked up the knife. Then he looked
at the door which opened inwards.
“We might keep them back for a bit with this, perhaps.” He went back
and stuck the knife under the door, so that anybody trying to open it
would inevitably jam it on the handle.
In the meantime Steadman had twisted himself, not without difficulty,
up to the window frame. He peered down. The water was still some
distance below them, and it looked particularly dark and gloomy, but
at any rate it was better than falling alive into the hands of the
Yellow Dog. He tore the note into tiny fragments and let them fall
into the river. Then he called out:
“Come along, inspector. Pile up the rugs. They will give you a bit of
a leg up.”
Furnival pushed them along before him.
“Now, Mr. Steadman, are you going first?”
“I suppose so,” said the barrister dubiously. “You had better look
sharp after me, inspector. They may hear the first splash, and then——”
At this moment they became aware of steps and voices in the passage.
The inspector almost pushed his companion off and hoisted himself in
his place on the window frame. Steadman had no time to dive. He went
down, it seemed to him, with a deafening splash and a roar of churning
paddles. The inspector came down at once almost on top of him. The
water felt bitterly cold, but after the first shock it braced their
jangled nerves; its very cold was grateful to their bruised bodies.
The two men came up almost together, and moved by the same impulse
struck out for the middle of the river. The moonshine was lying like
silver sheen on the surface of the water. Steadman realized that their
heads must afford a capital target to any members of the Yellow Gang
who were in the house they had left. The thought had barely formulated
itself before a shot rang out and he felt something just rush by his
ear and miss it. There came another shot and another, and a groan from
the inspector. Steadman realized that he was hit, but the injury must
have been slight, for the inspector was swimming onwards. Meanwhile
the shots were not passing unnoticed. From the small craft around,
from the houses on the bank there came shouts; lights were flashed
here, there and everywhere. Steadman became conscious of a familiar
sound—that of the rhythmic splash of oars working in concert. He trod
water and listened.
There came a gasping shout from the detective.
“The police patrol from the motor-launch down the river! They have
heard the shots.”
He struck out towards the on-coming boat, Steadman following to the
best of his ability. The inspector's shout was answered from the boat.
It lay to and waited, and the two in the river could see the men in
the boat leaning over peering into the water. There came no more
shots, but as the inspector swam forward Steadman knew that the police
boat had sighted them, and in another moment they were alongside.
Willing hands were stretched out, and they were hauled up the boat's
side. The inspector's first proceeding as soon as he had got his
breath was to order the boat to lie to so that he might locate the
house and if possible the window by which they had escaped. The police
officer in charge looked at him curiously; it was evident that he
resented the authoritative tone; and as he met his glance Steadman at
any rate realized something of the extraordinary figures they must
present to his eyes. Stark naked, bruised from head to foot, with
faces bleeding and in the inspector's case swollen out of all
recognition they looked singularly unlike Inspector Furnival, the
terror of the criminal classes, or John Steadman, the usually
immaculately attired barrister.
But they were being offered overcoats; as the inspector slipped into
his, he said sharply:
“Inspector Furnival, of the C.I.D., Scotland Yard.”
The police officer's manner underwent an instant modification.
“I beg your pardon, sir. You have been conducting a raid down here?”
The inspector would have smiled if his bruised face had allowed him.
“I fancy the raid has been rather the other way about,” he said
ruefully. “We have been trying to make some discoveries about the
Yellow Gang, laying a trap for the Yellow Dog, but unluckily we fell
into the trap ourselves, as you see. Now, will you give me a bit of
paper, officer. I want to take the bearings of this place. It is
evidently one of the outlets of the Yellow Gang.”
He looked across; on that side for quite a considerable distance the
buildings abutted right on to the river. Farther along there appeared
to be small boat-building plants, but just here there seemed to be
only tall warehouses, and in almost every case the doors and windows
were barred. Look as they would neither Steadman nor the inspector
could identify the building from which they had sprung, and curiously
enough no one in the boat had seen them until they were in the water.
Some little time was spent in making fruitless inquiries of the small
craft at hand. Though it would seem impossible that their plunge had
been absolutely unseen, yet to discover any witnesses would evidently
be a work of time and time was just then particularly precious to the
inspector. Giving the search up as useless he had the boat rowed back
to the police launch. Distinct as the C.I.D. is from the River Police,
the different branches of the service are frequently brought into
contact. Inspector Furnival found friends on the motor-launch at once,
and he and Steadman were soon supplied with clothes and everything
they needed. Then, declining the police officer's offer of rest, the
inspector asked to be put on land. It was still dark but for the
moonlight, but their various adventures had taken time. It was later
than the inspector thought, and all along the river bank the various
activities were awaking.
The inspector chartered a taxi; when they were both inside he turned
to Steadman.
“I believe I owe you my life, Mr. Steadman. But I think I shall have
to defer my thanks until—I am out to catch the Yellow Dog and I mean
to have another try this morning before he has had time to get away.”
“I am with you,” John Steadman said heartily. “And as for thanks,
inspector, why, when we have caught the Yellow Dog we will thank one
another.”
The inspector had directed their taxi to drive to Scotland Yard, but
half-way there he changed his mind and told the man to drive to the
scene of their late experience.
They got out as nearly as possible at the same place, but from there
the inspector only went a little distance before he blew his whistle.
It was answered by another and a couple of men in plain clothes
appeared.
“Ah, Murphy, Jackson,” said the inspector. “Well, what news?”
The men stared at him in a species of stupefaction, then the one whom
he had addressed as Murphy spoke with a gasp:
“Why, inspector, we have been round the house all night—every means of
egress watched. And yet—here you are!”
“Umph! You didn't see me come out, did you?” the inspector said
gruffly. “Never mind, Murphy, you are not to blame. What have you to
report?”
Murphy saluted.
“Nothing, sir. No one has come in or out since you were admitted last
night.”
“Good!” The inspector turned to Steadman. “Now, I think we will go in
again by the front door, sir. And come out the same way this time, I
hope. Murphy, bring six of your best men along, and post others all
round the house. We shall probably have to rush it.”
He and Steadman walked on, realizing to the full how stiff and bruised
their limbs were as they went. Once the inspector spat out a couple of
teeth. Steadman's sides and back felt absolutely raw. His borrowed
clothes chafed them unbearably.
The _cul-de-sac_ looked absolutely quiet and deserted when they
entered it. The inspector's thunderous knock at the door roused the
echoes all round, but it brought no reply. In the meantime Murphy and
his men had marched in behind them.
The inspector knocked again. This time as they listened they heard
lumbering steps coming down the passage. There was a great withdrawal
of bolts and unlocking of locks and the door was opened a very little
way, just enough to allow a man's face, heavy, unshaven, to peer
forth.
“Now what is the—all this 'ere noise abaht?” a rough voice demanded.
The inspector put his foot between the door and the post.
“Stand aside, my man!” he commanded sternly. “I hold a warrant to
search this house.”
“Wot?” The door opened with such suddenness that the inspector almost
fell inside. “Wot are you a goin' to search for? We are all honest
folk here. Anyway, if you was King George 'imself you will have to
give my missis and the kids time to get their duds on, for decency's
sake.”
This eloquent appeal apparently produced no effect upon the inspector.
He stepped inside with a slight motion of his hand to the men behind.
Four of them followed with Steadman, the others stood by the door in
the _cul-de-sac_. The man who had opened the door backed against the
wall, and stood gazing at them in open-mouthed astonishment.
Meanwhile the inspector was looking about him with sharp observant
eyes. He threw back the doors one on each side of the passage. The
first opened into a small room with a round table in the middle, a few
books that looked like school prizes ranged at regular intervals round
a vase of wax flowers in the middle, and an aspidistra on a small
table in front of the window, from which light and air were rigorously
excluded by the heavy shutters.
With a hasty glance round the inspector and his satellites went on,
speaking not at all, but with eyes that missed no smallest detail. Not
that there was any detail to be observed, as far as Steadman could
see. This commonplace little house was absolutely unlike that other
which had been but the threshold of the headquarters of the Yellow
Gang—as unlike as its stupid-looking tenant was to the silky-voiced,
slippery-handed members of the Yellow Gang. The passage into which
that first door of mystery had opened had been much longer than this,
which was just a counterpart of thousands of houses of its type.
The passage, instead of lengthening out as that one of Steadman's
recollection had done, ended with the flight of narrow stairs that led
to the upper regions and over the balustrade of which sundry undressed
and grimy children's heads were peering. The barrister began to tell
himself that in spite of the certainty the inspector had displayed
they must have made a mistake. Doubtless in this unsavoury part of the
metropolis there must be many _culs-de-sac_ the counterpart of the one
in which was the entrance to the home of the Yellow Gang. The master
of the house began to rouse himself from his stupor of astonishment.
“This 'ere's an outrage, that's wot it is,” he growled. “Might as well
live in Russia, we might. No! You don't go upstairs, not if you was
King George and the Pope of Rome rolled into one.”
This to the inspector who was crawling up the staircase as well as his
stiffened limbs would allow. He looked over the side now.
“Don't trouble yourself, my man. I have no particular interest in the
upper part of your house at present.”
Something in his tone seemed to cow the man, who opened the kitchen
door and slunk inside.
The inspector beckoned to the man behind Steadman.
“Simmonds, tell Gordon to come inside, then send a S.O.S. message to
headquarters.” Then he hobbled downstairs again. “This grows
interesting, Mr. Steadman.”
The barrister looked at him.
“It seems pretty obvious to me that we have made a mistake. And I
can't say that standing about in cold passages at this hour in the
morning is exactly an amusement that appeals to me; especially after
our experiences in the night.”
The inspector looked at him curiously.
“You think we have made a mistake in the house?”
The barrister raised his eyebrows.
“What else am I to think?”
For answer the inspector held out his hand, palm uppermost. It was
apparently empty, but as Steadman, more short-sighted than ever
without his monocle, stared down at it he saw that in it lay a tiny
yellow fragment. For a moment the full significance of that bit of
silk did not dawn on John Steadman, but when he looked up his face was
very stern.
“Where did you find this?”
“Wedged in between the stairs and the wall,” the inspector answered.
“There is a larger piece higher up, but this is enough for me.”
“And for me!” Steadman said grimly.
“Gordon is the best carpenter and joiner I know,” the inspector went
on. “We keep him permanently available for our work. He will soon find
the way to the Yellow Room and then—well, some of the Yellow Gang's
secrets will be in our hands at any rate.”
As the last word left his lips Gordon came in with another man. Both
carried bags of tools. The inspector gave them a few instructions in a
low tone, then he pointed to the staircase.
“Last night that was not there. Where it stands an opening went
straight through to the next house.”
Gordon touched his head in salute.
“Very good, sir!” He looked in his basket and chose out a couple of
tools—chisels, and a strange-looking bar, tapering down to a point as
fine as a knife, but very long and several inches thick most of the
way to the other end. Then, apparently undeterred by the magnitude of
his task, he walked up to the top of the staircase and sat down on the
top step. His assistant followed with a collection of hammers ranging
from one small enough for a doll's house to the size used by colliers
in the pits. They held a consultation together, and then Gordon
inserted his chisel in a crack. The other man raised one of the mighty
hammers and brought it down with a crash that rang through the house.
It did not rouse the master of the dwelling, however. He seemed to
have taken permanent refuge in the kitchen. There were no children's
heads hanging over the banisters now. The house might have been
absolutely deserted but for the inspector and his party. Presently the
inspector went up to the couple on the stairs and after talking to
them for a minute or two came back to Steadman.
“The whole staircase is movable, Mr. Steadman. They have loosened it
at the top. Stand aside in one of the rooms in case it comes down
quicker than we expect. No doubt the Yellow Gang had some way of
opening it which we have not discovered, but this will serve well
enough.”
“What about the children upstairs?” Steadman asked.
The inspector smiled in a twisted fashion.
“Little beggars! They will be taken care of all right. The parents
were well prepared for some such eventuality as this, you may be
sure.”
Steadman said no more. He stood back with the inspector, while the
others of their following went to Gordon's help. There was more
crashing, quantities of dust and a splintering of wood, and at last
the staircase came suddenly away. Behind it a locked door the width of
the passage blocked their way.
To open it was only the work of a minute, and then the inspector and
Steadman found themselves in the scene of last night's exploits. The
Yellow Room looked garish and shabby with the clear morning light
stealing in. The chairs in which they had sat had gone, otherwise
everything looked much the same.
But time was too precious to be spent in examining the Yellow Room,
interesting though it might be. The inspector was out to catch the
members of the Yellow Gang; but, though, once the staircase was down,
to get from one room to the other of the perfect rabbit warren of
small houses which had been devised for the safety of the Yellow Gang
and its spoils presented little difficulty, the inspector, standing in
that room by the river, had to acknowledge that the Yellow Dog and his
satellites had outwitted him again. The only member of the Gang that
remained in their hands was the man who had opened the first door to
them. Not a sign of any other living creature was to be seen. Even the
wife and children had disappeared.
But, as Furnival and John Steadman stood there talking, a tiny wisp of
grey vapour came floating down the passage, another came, and yet
another.
“Smoke!” the inspector cried.
And as the two men turned back, and heard the clamour arise, while the
smoke seemed to be everywhere at once, and over all sounded the
crackling of the flames and the ringing of the alarm bells, they
realized that the Yellow Gang was not done with yet.