“_Strictly private and confidential,_
“New Scotland Yard.
“Dear Dr. Philpot,—You will be surprised to hear from me, and
particularly to learn that I believe I have got my hands on the man
wanted for the affair I have been working on. I do not wish to give
details in a letter, but it is a man whom you know well and whom we
all thought to be dead. You can probably guess from this.
“We have found that under an alias he has been transferring his money
abroad, and in the name of the stockbrokers concerned I have asked
him to meet their junior partner at Waverley Station, Edinburgh, on
Tuesday next at 6.15 p.m. on the arrival of the 10.0 a.m. from
King’s Cross. The junior partner will not be there, but I shall, and
I hope to make the arrest.
“My difficulty is that I cannot myself identify the wanted man. In
this I want your kind help. Will you please meet me under Scott’s
Monument at 5.0 p.m.? I shall then ask you to accompany me to the
station and from some inconspicuous place keep a look-out for him.
When you see him you will tell me and I shall do the rest.
“I ask you to assist me in this, and feel sure that when you
consider all the circumstances of the case you will agree to do so.
“Will you please wire your decision on receipt of this letter.
“Yours faithfully,
“Joseph French.”
For the next few hours French was like the proverbial hen on the hot
griddle. Every time his telephone bell rang he snatched up the
receiver hoping that the caller was the post office from which he had
sent his message. Every time the door opened he looked up eagerly to
see if it was not an orange coloured telegraph message that was being
brought in. He found it hard to settle to work, so much depended on
his plans succeeding.
When, therefore, about four in the afternoon a wire was brought to
him, he had to exercise real self-control not to snatch the paper from
the messenger. And then he could have laughed with delight. The
message had been handed in at the General Post Office in Edinburgh,
and read:—
“To Dashwood and Munce,
“Dover House,
“Gracechurch Street,
“Your wire. Will meet Munce as suggested.
“Whitman.”
So far, so very excellent! Here was the major difficulty overcome! On
Tuesday evening the public career of John Roper would come to a sudden
stop. The end of the case was at last in sight.
Early the next morning a second telegram was handed to French, which
gave him almost equally great satisfaction. It was from Philpot and
read:—
“Will meet you place and time stated.”
There was now just one other point to be settled. Roper was coming to
the station to meet Munce. But Munce was not going to Edinburgh. Some
one must therefore take his place.
It would be better to have some one as like Munce in appearance as
possible. In spite of the statement of the partners, Roper might have
got a glimpse of Munce or at least have had his description. In view
of this very summons he might make it his business to learn what the
man was like. French considered his brother officers and he soon saw
that Inspector Tanner, with a slight make-up, could present himself as
a very passable imitation of the junior partner. The men were about
the same build and colouring, and an alteration in the cut of Tanner’s
hair, a pair of spectacles, different clothes and a change of manner
would do all that was necessary.
French went to Tanner’s room and arranged the matter. Tanner was to
call and see Munce on some matter of a prospective investment which
would afterwards fall through, and while there observe his model. He
would then make himself up and travel to Edinburgh by the 10.0 a.m.
from King’s Cross. On reaching Waverley he would co-operate with
French as circumstances demanded.
To enable him to keep his appointment with Philpot, French found he
must leave London on the Monday night. He therefore took the 11.35
p.m. from Euston, and about eight o’clock the next morning reached
Princess Street Station. He had not been to Edinburgh for years, and
emerging from the station, he was struck afresh with the beauty of the
gardens and the splendour of the Castle Rock. But Princess Street
itself, which he had once thought so magnificent, seemed to have
shrunk, and its buildings to have grown smaller and plainer. “Too much
foreign travel,” he thought, vaguely regretful of his change of
outlook; “the towns abroad certainly spoil one for ours.”
He spent most of the day in exploring the historic buildings of the
old town, then as five o’clock approached he entered the Princess
Street Gardens, and strolling towards Scott’s Monument, took his stand
in an inconspicuous place and looked around him.
Almost immediately he saw Philpot. The doctor was muffled in a heavy
coat, a thick scarf high about his ears, and fur-lined gloves—a
get-up, French shrewdly suspected, intended more as a disguise from
Roper than a protection from the cold. He was approaching from the
Waverley Station direction, walking slowly, as if conscious that he
was early. French moved to meet him.
“Well, doctor, this is very good of you. A surprising development,
isn’t it?”
Philpot shook hands, and glancing round, said eagerly:
“Look here, I want to understand about it. I was quite thrilled by
your letter. You tell me you know the Starvel murderer, and you seem
to hint that it is Roper—at least, I don’t know whom else you can
refer to. But surely, Inspector, you couldn’t mean that?”
“Why not?”
“Why not? Why, because— I don’t know, but the idea seems absolutely
absurd. Roper’s dead. If he is not dead, whose was the third body
found? Are you really serious?”
“Yes,” French said in a low tone. “I am quite satisfied that Roper
escaped from that house and that some poor devil was murdered and
buried in his place. And what’s more, I’ll have him in an hour’s time.
Come. Let us walk to the station and take up a position before he
arrives.”
They moved off, while Philpot clamoured for further details. French,
true to his traditions of caution, was not overcommunicative, but he
explained some of the reasons which had led him to believe in Roper’s
guilt, and told of the purchases of rings which the man had made to
get rid of his tainted money. Philpot evinced the keenest interest and
plied the other with questions.
French told him as much as his training would allow, which was as
little as he conveniently could, and then he switched the conversation
on to the coming scene. Did Philpot know the station? If so, where had
they best hide so as to see the train arrive while remaining
themselves unobserved?
On reaching the platform French introduced himself to the
station-master and explained his business. He had arranged for Tanner
to travel in the last first-class compartment in the train, and he now
found out from the station-master where this coach would stop.
Opposite was the window of one of the offices, and on French asking
whether they might use it for reconnoitring purposes, the
station-master at once gave them the unrestricted use of the room.
There, hidden from view by a screen, the two men took up their
positions and began to scrutinise those who were assembling on the
platform to meet the train.
Philpot was fidgety and nervous, and from one or two remarks that he
made, French saw the direction in which his thoughts were running.
Evidently he was afraid that if he assisted in Roper’s capture, the
man would round on him and try to make trouble for him about Mrs.
Philpot’s death. In vain French attempted to reassure him. He was
clearly uneasy in his mind, but presently he seemed to master his
fears and concentrated his attention on the platform outside.
Time passed slowly until the train was almost due. A large number of
persons had collected and were strolling slowly up and down or
standing talking in little groups. French and his companion watched
the moving throng from behind their screen, but no one resembling
Roper put in an appearance. This, however, was not disconcerting. It
was not unlikely that the man had also taken cover and was waiting
until he saw some one who might be Munce before coming out into the
open.
French, as the time dragged slowly away, was conscious of the thrill
of the hunter who waits before a clump of jungle for a hidden
man-eater. The crisis that was approaching was almost as important to
him as the tiger’s exit to the sportsman. This was the last lap of his
case, the climax of the work of many weeks. If he carried off his
_coup_ all would be well; it would bring the affair to a triumphant
conclusion, and to himself possibly the reward he coveted. But if any
slip took place it would be a bad look-out for him. There was his and
Tanner’s time besides the expense of these journeys to Scotland, not
to speak of his own loss of prestige. No, French felt he could not
afford to miss this chance, and insensibly his brows contracted and
his lips tightened as he stood waiting for what was coming.
Presently a movement amongst the passengers on the platform and a
heavy rumble announced the advent of the express. The huge engine with
its high-pitched boiler and stumpy funnel rolled slowly past, followed
by coach after coach, brightly lighted, luxurious, gliding smoothly
by. A first-class coach stopped opposite the window and French, gazing
eagerly out, presently saw Tanner descend and glance up and down the
platform.
Now was the moment! Roper could not be far away.
But Tanner continued to look searchingly about him. The additional
bustle of the arrival waxed and waned and the platform began to clear,
people drifting away towards the exit or clustering round carriage
doors close to the train. And still no sign of Roper.
The express was timed to wait for eighteen minutes, and of these at
least fifteen had slipped away. Porters were already slamming doors,
and the guard was coming forward, lamp in hand, ready to give the
right away signal. Tanner stepped forward clear of the train and once
again gazed up and down the platform, then as the hands of the clock
reached the starting time he turned back and retrieved his suitcase
from the compartment. The guard whistled and waved his green lamp, the
coaches began to glide slowly away, the dull rumble swelled up and
died away, and in a second or two some rapidly dwindling red lights
were all that were left of the train.
French was almost speechless from chagrin. Had his plan failed? Was it
possible that Roper had been one too many for him? Had the man
suspected a plant and kept away from the station? Or was he even now
in some hidden nook on the platform doubtful of Tanner’s identity and
waiting to see what would materialise?
As the minutes slipped away French, unspeakably disappointed, found
himself forced to the conclusion that the affair had miscarried. Roper
must have become alive to his danger. Perhaps he had suspected
French’s wire and had replied as he did merely in order to gain time
to disappear. Perhaps by this time the clue of the tobacconist’s shop
itself was a washout. French swore bitterly.
But they could not remain in the office for ever, nor could Tanner be
left to pace the platform indefinitely. With a word of explanation to
Philpot, French passed out, and the two men strolled in the direction
of Tanner. French greeted him quietly and introduced Philpot, and the
three stood talking.
“Washout?” Tanner said laconically, glancing at his colleague.
“Looks like it,” French admitted, and turning to Philpot, began to
apologise for having brought him from Glasgow on a wild goose chase.
“I’m sorry that I can’t stay and offer you hospitality either,” he
went on. “I must get round to police headquarters and start some
further inquiries. But let us go and have a parting drink to our
mutual good luck in the future.”
They passed into the refreshment room, French pre-occupied and, for
him, somewhat brusque, Tanner frankly bored, and Philpot showing
evidences of mixed feelings of disappointment and relief.
“I wish you people weren’t so infernally close about your business,”
the doctor complained as they stood at the bar waiting for the three
small Scotches and sodas French had ordered. “Here am I, vastly
interested in the affair and anxious to know what your further chances
are, and you’re as close as a pair of limpets. Surely I know so much
that a little more won’t hurt. Do you think you’ll get him soon?”
French laughed disagreeably.
“I don’t say exactly how soon,” he answered grimly, “but you may take
it from me that we’ll get him all right. We have a hot scent. We’ll
have the man before any of us are much older. Well, doctor, here’s
yours.”
He tossed off his whisky, while Philpot, picking up his glass,
murmured his toast. And then suddenly French stiffened and stood
motionless, staring at the other’s hand. There in the flesh at the
right hand side of his right thumb and projecting slightly on to the
nail was an almost healed cut of a peculiar shape: a shape which
French had had described and sketched for him by seven of the men who
had sold rings to the changer of twenty-pound notes in London!
French’s brain whirled. Surely, surely, it couldn’t be!
Philpot noted the other’s change of expression and followed the
direction of his gaze. Then with a sudden gesture of rage and despair
he dropped his glass, and his left hand flashed to the side pocket of
his coat. French had noticed that this pocket bulged as if it
contained some round object of fair size such as an apple or an
orange. Philpot drew out a dark-coloured ball of some kind and began
desperately fumbling at it with his right hand. And then French saw
what the man was doing. The object was a Mills’ bomb and he was
pulling out the pin!
With a yell to Tanner for help, French flung himself on the doctor,
and clutching his left hand, squeezed it desperately over the bomb.
The pin was out, but the man’s hand prevented the lever from moving.
If his grasp were relaxed for even an instant nothing could save all
three from being blown to atoms!
Philpot’s mild and gentle face was convulsed with fury. His lips
receded from his teeth and he snarled like a wild beast as he
struggled wildly to release his grip. His right fist smashed furiously
into French’s face and he twisted like an eel in the other’s grasp.
Then Tanner also seized him and the three men went swinging and
rolling and staggering about the room, knocking over tables and chairs
and sweeping a row of glasses from the bar. Philpot fought with the
fury of desperation. To the others it seemed incredible that so slight
a man could show such strength. He strove desperately to free his left
hand from French’s clasp, while French with both hands tried for
nothing but to keep it tightly closed on the bomb.
But the struggle was uneven and only one end was possible. Gradually
Tanner improved his grip until at last he was able to use a kind of
jiu-jitsu lock which held the other steady at the risk of a broken
right arm. This lock he was able to maintain with his left hand, while
with the other he took the pin of the bomb from the now nerveless
fingers and with infinite care, French shifting his hands to allow of
it, slipped the pin back into place. A moment later the bomb lay
safely on the counter, while its owner sat faint and exhausted and
securely handcuffed.
By the good offices of the barmaid French was able to wash the blood
from his face, and a few minutes later a taxi was procured, and almost
before the excited throng on the platform had learnt what was amiss,
the three actors in the little drama had vanished from their ken.