OTHER EYES WATCHED MICHAEL
Michael Pretherston was back at the Yard in time to catch his chief
before he departed for the day.
Commissioner T.B. Smith, to whose recommendation this young scion of
the aristocracy owed his promotion, was not helpful.
“If we took Kate on any charge it would not prevent the swindle going
forward,” he said; “you may be sure she has mobilized all her
resources and her little army is ready to the last button of the last
gaiter. There is supposed to be a fellow watching her all the time,
but he seems to have missed her rather cleverly. Anyway, I don’t think
there is much to be gained from shadowing her, because she knows she
is under observation and acts accordingly. But I have a word of advice
to you, my young Hibernian friend, and that is to keep a sharp eye on
your own precious life. Kate is afraid of you.”
“She didn’t give me that impression this afternoon,” said Michael
sadly.
“Kate is a bluff; you mustn’t take any notice of what she says. You
accept a friend’s advice and go very carefully to work. I am not so
sure that you didn’t behave indiscreetly this afternoon.”
“That is impossible!” said Michael stoutly, and T.B. Smith laughed.
“The thing to have done was not to have recognized her and to have
kept her under observation, pursuing your enquiries in the usual way.”
“If you can suggest any method by which I could have prevented her
from recognizing me and recognizing the fact that I recognized her I
will admit that I was wrong,” and T.B. Smith agreed.
“You may be right,” he said; “anyway, look after yourself.”
Michael promptly forgot his chief’s advice and spent his evening
making a solitary reconnaissance of Crime Street. Crime Street does
not appear upon any plan of London, but if you will look at any large
survey of the Hampstead district, you will find in a somewhat
irregular tangle of buildings within a stone’s throw of the Heath, a
curious oval which is conspicuous on the plan, not only by its own
symmetry but by the graceful lines of the thoroughfares which radiate
therefrom.
This is Amberscombe Gardens. The centre of the oval is occupied by
four houses, Numbers Two, Four, Six and Eight; the northern side of
the gardens by five houses, Numbers One, Three, Five, Seven and Nine.
Into Amberscombe Gardens from the north run three roads, the first of
which (opening into the oval between Numbers One and Three) being
called The Approach; the second, dividing Numbers Five and Seven,
called Bethburn Avenue; the third between Numbers Seven and Nine,
Coleburn Avenue. On the south side of the oval the arrangement of the
streets is very similar. Originally, the central space had been
occupied by nine houses but these had been pulled down by the
proprietors of the remaining four and a private garden, common to all
four houses, had been laid out by the owners of these properties. So
that on the southern side of the central oval, there were no
buildings, but a wall bisected at regular intervals by plain garden
doors which form such a common feature of London suburban residences.
In reality, the roadway to the north and south of the plot is all
Amberscombe Gardens, but the oval which curves round to the north was,
at the period this story covers, known to the police as “Crime
Street,” and in this description the nine houses on both sides of the
northern curve were involved.
Number One, the most modest of all the buildings, was in the
occupation of Dr. Philip Garon, an American practitioner who made
frequent visits across the Atlantic and invariably returned to deposit
a very handsome surplus in the local branch of the London and Western
Counties Bank. Dr. Garon was successful as a result of the sublime
assurance of all ocean-going passengers, that the notice,
conspicuously displayed in the smoking-room warning passengers not to
play cards with strangers, did not apply to them.
Number Three, a pretty house smothered in clematis in the proper
season of the year, with its white window sashes and its sober red
front, was the town house of Mr. Cunningham, who, apparently, had no
initial and no Christian name. He was known to his intimate friends as
Mush, the derivation of which is a little obscure. Mr. Cunningham
described himself as independent, which meant no more than that he was
independent of the ordinary necessities of making an honest living. In
a sense, he was by far the best known of the Colony, for Mush had
served two terms of penal servitude, one in an English and one in a
French prison. He had the reputation of being able to cut holes in
steel safes with a greater rapidity than any other gentleman in his
profession, and it is said, probably with truth, that he had improved
upon the oxy-hydrogen jet and had introduced a new element which
shortened the work by half.
The tenant of Number Five was a gentleman, benign of countenance and
very good to the poor. He was called the Bishop by friends and foes
alike. His real name was Brown and he had been concerned in more bank
swindles than any of the other colonists, though he had only one
conviction to his discredit and that a comparative flea-bite of nine
months’ hard labour.
The owner of Number Seven was described as “Mr. Colling Jacques, Civil
Engineer,” in the local directories. The official police “Who’s Who”
noted that he was a wonderful pistol shot, and recorded, in
parenthesis, that on the occasion of his arrest in connection with the
smashing of the Bank of Holland, no weapon was found upon him. It was
also added that there was no conviction against him in England, though
he, too, had seen the inside of a French prison.
Number Nine was pointed out to sightseers, with a certain amount of
local pride by the guide, as the home of Millet the forger, who had
received on one occasion a fifteen years’ sentence, but had been
released after serving two years, an act of grace on the part of the
authorities which earned for him a certain unpopularity with his peers
and was held to be not unconnected with the subsequent arrest of a few
of his former associates, the suggestion being that Mr. Millet had
turned King’s evidence.
At Number Two, on the “oval” side of the street, lived H. Mulberry, a
respectable and methodical man, who went to his little office in
Chancery Lane every morning of his life by the 9:15 and returned to
his home at exactly 5:30 P.M. year in and year out. Mulberry was a
begging letter writer on a magnificent scale. He had a wonderful
literary style which seldom failed to extract the necessary emolument
which he sought.
Number Four, a much larger house, indeed the second largest in Crime
Street, was the habitat of “Señor Gregori, a teacher of languages.”
Unfortunately for him, he had in the course of his thrilling career
taught other things than the liquid tongue of Spain. For example, he
had taught the Bank of Chili that their “unforgeable” notes which, it
was boasted, defied photographic reproduction could be turned out by
the tens of thousands and that the six tints in which a gold bond was
printed offered no insuperable difficulty to a clever craftsman with
an artist’s eye and a sense of colour.
In Number Eight lived the two brothers Thomas and Francis Stockmar of
Austrian extraction, who were described as political refugees but were
undoubtedly criminals of a peculiarly dangerous type. The Stockmars
were dour, white-faced men with short bristling hair and were
certainly the least presentable of all the colonists.
Number Six has been left to the last, for this was the most important
house in Crime Street. It was a story higher than any other, built
squarely, with no attempt at beauty. It is said that the third floor
consisted of one room and that from its many windows it was possible
to command, not only all the approaches to the northern side of the
gardens, but those to the south; it has even been suggested that it
was so planned, that, in case of necessity, the house could be
converted into a fortress, from the third floor of which a last
desperate stand might be made. This then was Number Six, the abiding
place of Colonel Westhanger and his brilliant niece.
Michael Pretherston was no stranger to Crime Street. He had made many
visits to this locality, and it had been at his initiative that the
roadway of Amberscombe Gardens had been dug up one fine morning by a
gang of road-breakers and there had been revealed that remarkable
subterranean passage which connected the one side of the street with
the other. The passageway led from the summer house in the gardens of
the oval to a stable in Number Three.
The Colonists, however, swore stoutly that they knew nothing whatever
of the existence of this passage and that it must have existed years
before they came to the street. The civil engineer, Colling Jacques,
pointed out to the district surveyor that the very character of the
passage suggested that this was some storm water drain which had been
laid down and forgotten by the contractor. Or else it had been laid
down in error and the contractor had been either too lazy or too
rushed to break it up. There were many other explanations, none of
which was wholly acceptable.
Michael, swinging his stick, passed that portion of the road in which
the passage had run and wondered with a reminiscent smile where the
new tunnel was, for that there was a new one, he did not doubt.
Night was falling, and Dr. Philip Garon’s dining-room windows blazed
with light. Mr. Mulberry’s, on the right, was more modestly
illuminated. Mr. Cunningham’s house was in darkness, as also was “The
Bishop’s.” There were lights in the bedroom at Number Seven but Number
Six was black as also was Number Eight.
He saw Millet standing at his garden gate, smoking, and crossed the
road toward him, realizing that the keen-eyed gentleman had already
observed his presence. Millet, a florid man with a genial, almost
fulsome, manner met him with a friendly nod.
“Good evening, Mr. Pretherston,” he said. “I hope you are not looking
for trouble.”
Michael leant on the top bar of the gate and shook his head.
“I shouldn’t come here for trouble,” he said; “this is the most
law-abiding spot in London.”
Mr. Millet sighed and murmured something about misfortunes which
overtake mankind and added a pious expression of his desire to forget
the past and to end his days in that security and peace which sin
denies its votaries.
“Very pretty,” said Michael blandly, “and how are all our good
neighbours? I was thinking of taking a house here myself. By-the-way,”
he added innocently, “I suppose you don’t know any that are to be
let?”
Mr. Millet shook his head.
“I am all alone here,” he said, “if you were really serious about
wishing to live in this neighbourhood, I should be honoured to act as
your host, Mr. Pretherston.”
“And how is Kate?” demanded Michael, ignoring the invitation.
“Kate?” asked the puzzled Mr. Millet; “oh, you mean, Miss Westhanger.
I haven’t seen her for several days--I think it was last Tuesday
afternoon I saw her last.”
“Yes, at 2:30 in the afternoon,” mocked Michael, “she was wearing a
blue dress with white spots and a green hat with an ostrich feather.
You remember her distinctly because she dropped her bag and you
crossed to pick it up. You needn’t start the alibi factory working,
Millet; I have nothing against Kate for the moment.”
Mr. Millet laughed softly.
“You will have your joke,” he said.
“I will,” said Michael with grim emphasis, “but it is going to be a
long time developing. I haven’t seen the Stockmars lately either.”
“I never see them at all,” Mr. Millet hastened to state. “I have very
little in common with foreigners. Whatever there is against me, Mr.
Pretherston, I am a patriot through and through. I am proud to be
English and I don’t take kindly to foreign gentlemen and never will.”
“Your patriotism does you credit, Millet,” said the detective dryly as
he prepared to move on. “I wish you would be patriotic enough to give
me a tip as to what game is on,” he lowered his voice. “You know all
that is happening here and you might do yourself a little bit of
good.”
“If I knew anything,” said the other earnestly, “I would tell you in a
moment, Mr. Pretherston, but here I am, out of the world, so to speak.
Nobody ever consults me and I am glad they don’t. I want to be left
alone to forget the past--”
“Cut all that Little Eva stuff out, Uncle Tom,” said Michael coarsely.
Other eyes had watched Michael, from behind blinds, through
unsuspected peep-holes, a dozen pairs of eyes had followed him as he
took his slow promenade along Crime Street.
Colonel Westhanger, a tall, grey man, stood in that big room on the
third floor of his house, his hands folded behind him, his chin upon
his breast, following every movement of the detective. Gregori,
handsome and lithe, stood at his elbow, shading the glow of his
cigarette in the palm of his hand.
“Colonel _mio_,” he said softly, “I would give much for an opportunity
of meeting that gentleman in a nice dark passage, in one of those old
Harrison Ainsworth houses which were providentially built over a
river.”
“You will have your wish one of these days,” said the Colonel gruffly;
“I don’t like that fellow. He is not one of the ordinary run of
policemen. They are bad enough, but this fellow knows too much.”
He nibbled his white moustache, shook his head and turned away from
the window as Michael took his farewell of the forger.
“Watch him on the other side,” he said, “and send one of the boys out
to follow him.”
He descended the thickly carpeted stairs to the first floor, which was
the living suite. The drawing-room in which he turned was a
beautifully furnished apartment, and the girl who had been sitting at
the piano, her nimble hands running over the keys, looked up as he
entered.