French telephoned for a relief to take over the shadowing of Pyke
during the afternoon, but by six o’clock he was back in Kepple Street,
with the intention of being, if possible, present at the rendezvous of
his new suspects.
“He’s not shown up since,” Sergeant Harvey explained. “No one called,
but one person left the house, a girl of about twenty. She returned in
about two hours.”
“Tall, good-looking girl, fair hair and blue eyes?” French suggested.
“I know her—the landlady’s daughter. I saw her when I called. That’ll
do, Harvey. You can get away. I shall manage alone.”
It was a fine evening, but cold. The last glimmerings of daylight were
disappearing from the sky and outside the radius of the street lamps
stars began to show. It looked as if there would be frost later.
To keep a secret watch on a house in a city street is a feat requiring
no little skill. Though French had reached the stage in which he left
most of such work to his underlings, he was a past master in the art.
Yet as first seven, then eight, then nine struck from the surrounding
clocks it required all his ingenuity to give the appearance of being
detained on some ordinary and unimportant business. He strolled up and
down, hiding in alley ways and behind projecting corners and moving on
at intervals from one such place of vantage to another. He had engaged
a taxi in case his quarry should do the same, and for a good part of
the time he employed the old device of sitting back in its deepest
recesses while the driver gave a lengthy first aid to his refractory
engine.
At last, when he had become stiff with cold and was cursing mentally
but steadily at the delay, Pyke appeared and started off quickly
towards Russell Square. French drew back into the entry in which he
was taking cover and allowed him to pass, then having signed to his
driver to keep him in sight, he followed the quarry as closely as he
dared. Pyke turned down Montague Street, walking by New Oxford Street
and Charing Cross Road to Charing Cross Station. He seemed about to
enter the station, but, suddenly glancing round, he turned to the
right and dived down the steps to the Hampstead and Highgate tube.
French had already settled up with his driver and he followed without
delay.
Keeping close behind, French shadowed his man to the platform and
entered the next coach of the Hampstead train which the other boarded.
At each station he watched the alighting passengers, but it was not
until Hampstead was reached that Pyke appeared. Twenty feet apart, the
two men passed out into the street and up the hill towards the Heath.
At the wide space at the entrance to the Heath French fell further
behind. Pyke was now strolling easily along, as if out for a breath of
air before bed. He passed in towards the left near Jack Straw’s
Castle, taking one of the side paths which led to the wilder areas.
Here were fewer people, and French dropped back till he could just see
the man’s light fawn coat like a faint smudge against the dark
background of the trees.
Some four or five hundred yards from the entrance, down in the hollow,
there are a number of thick clumps of bushes. Round one of these Pyke
passed and instantly became invisible. French stopped in his turn and,
tiptoeing to the nearer side of the clump, began stealthily to creep
nearer. Though a certain amount of starlight showed in the open, among
the bushes it was pitchy black. There was no wind, and in spite of the
vast city surrounding the place, scarcely a sound broke the stillness.
French crept on, stopping every few seconds to listen intently.
Presently he heard movements close by. There were faint footsteps as
if of a man pacing up and down, and occasional soft scraping of leaves
and snapping of small twigs. Crawling under a bush, French crouched
down and waited.
For close on fifteen minutes the man paced backwards and forwards,
while French grew stiff in his cramped position. Then light footsteps
were heard on the path alongside the clump and a woman cleared her
throat. The man moved out and said something in a low voice, to which
the other replied. Then French heard Pyke say: “Come behind the
shrubs. There is no one about and we shan’t be heard.”
They moved close to French, though not so near as he would have liked.
Listening intently, he could hear a good deal, though not all, of
their conversation. The woman was Mrs. Berlyn and she was saying: “He
suspects something; I’m sure of it. I’ve been just sick with terror
all day. I thought I must see you, and this seemed the only way. I was
afraid he might follow me if I met you publicly.”
There was a murmur of Pyke’s voice, but French could not distinguish
the words nor could he hear Mrs. Berlyn’s reply. Then he heard Pyke
say: “I don’t think so. The note was there on the chimneypiece, but
I’m quite certain it hadn’t been opened. I examined it carefully.”
Mrs. Berlyn’s intonation sounded like a question.
“Yes, I rang up Ganope and he said that no enquiries had been made,”
Pyke rejoined. “It’s all right, Phyllis, I’m sure. Why, French
explained that he had frightened you deliberately in order to find out
your real opinion of Domlio.”
They seemed to turn away, for during some moments French could only
hear the murmur of their voices. Then apparently they approached
again.
“. . . I thought it was Charles he suspected,” Mrs. Berlyn was saying;
“then to-day I thought it was myself. He knows a lot, Jeff. He knows
about Colonel Domlio’s letter and the photograph.”
“Yes, but that’s all immaterial. He doesn’t know what really happened
that night and he won’t know.”
“But if he arrests us?”
“Let him! As far as I am concerned, he can do nothing. He can’t break
down the evidence of all those people in Manchester with whom I spent
the night of the murder. You, I admit, haven’t such a watertight
alibi, but it is impossible that he can prove you committed a crime of
which you are absolutely innocent. And he can’t connect you with
Charles. Remember that we’ve no reason to suppose he has the least
idea that Charles is alive.”
“If he finds that out, he’ll suspect Charles, and then he’ll suspect
me as his accomplice.”
“I dare say,” Pyke admitted, “but he won’t find out. Poor old Charles!
I said to him on that last day . . .”
The two moved off again, for Pyke’s voice died down into an
unintelligible murmur. Again for some moments French could not
distinguish what was said, then the words came more clearly.
“No,” Pyke was saying. “I have a better plan than that. To-morrow I’ll
call at the Yard to see French and I’ll confess to the murder. I’ll
say that my misery through remorse and suspense is worse than anything
I could afterwards suffer, and that I just can’t bear it any longer.
Lots of murderers have done that and he’ll suspect nothing. He’ll of
course arrest me. Admittedly, he may arrest you also. This, of course,
I should infinitely regret, but you will agree there is no other way.
He’ll then think he has solved his problem and he’ll look no further
afield. Before going to the Yard I’ll communicate with Charles and
Charles can make his getaway. Then when Charles has had time to get
out of the country I shall produce my Manchester witnesses and prove
my innocence. The case against you will then break down.”
“That’s all right except for two things,” Mrs. Berlyn returned. “If
Charles believed he could get out of the country he would have done it
long ago. Secondly, why, if you prove your innocence, will the case
against me break down?”
“Those are easily answered. By the time Charles was well enough to
travel suspicion had been aroused and every policeman in the country
was on the lookout for the Ashburton murderer. If I confess, the watch
at the ports will be relaxed. Besides . . .”
Again the words became unintelligible. There was a faint sound of
slowly pacing feet and the voice dwindled. But after a short time the
footsteps again grew louder.
“. . . under the circumstances,” Mrs. Berlyn was saying, “but, of
course, if Charles is taken we shall be accused of being his
confederates.”
“Very possibly. But, Phyllis, what can we do? We know old Charles is
innocent, though things look so badly against him. We can’t let him
down. We must do what we can to help him and take the risk.”
“I know. I know. But isn’t the whole thing just _awful_! What have we
done that we should get into such a position? It’s too much!”
Her voice, though carefully repressed, was full of suffering, and
French could picture her wringing her hands and on the verge of tears.
Pyke comforted her, though not at all in the tone of a lover, then
went on:
“It’s time that we went back, old girl. Until I get the warning to
Charles we mustn’t risk being seen together, therefore you’d better go
on by yourself. I’ll follow in ten minutes.”
They bade each other an agitated farewell and then Mrs. Berlyn’s light
footsteps sounded on the path. For another quarter of an hour Pyke
remained among the trees, his presence revealed by occasional
movements and by the whistling under his breath of a melancholy little
tune. Then at last he also moved away and French was able to stretch
his aching limbs. Carefully he followed his man back to the tube
station and eventually to his rooms in Kepple Street.
He did not know what to make of the conversation to which he had just
listened. The statements made were so surprising and unexpected that
at first sight he was inclined to dismiss the whole thing as a blind,
deliberately arranged to throw him off the scent. Then he saw that for
several reasons this could not be. In the first place, Phyllis and
Pyke did not know he was listening. In the second; such a plan would
require careful prearrangement, and since his visit to Pyke the latter
had had no opportunity of communicating with Phyllis Berlyn. Then
there would be no object in such a scheme. They surely did not imagine
that because of it French would relax his watch on them. Moreover, if
it were false, its falseness would be demonstrated on the very next
day. No, French felt the interview must be genuine.
And if so, what a completely new view it gave of the crime! Berlyn,
Phyllis, and Jefferson Pyke all apparently mixed up in the affair and
all innocent! Who, then, could be guilty? French had to own himself
completely puzzled. If this view were correct, the murderer must be
some one whom he had not yet seriously considered.
Unless it could be Domlio, after all. Nothing that the two had said
directly precluded the possibility. Of course, in this case it was
difficult to see why they should not denounce Domlio, if it would free
themselves and Berlyn from suspicion. But then again, they might
suspect Domlio, even perhaps be reasonably certain of his guilt, and
yet unable to prove it.
French continued to turn the matter over in his mind, and the more he
did so the more he leaned to the opinion that Domlio must be, after
all, the murderer. All the arguments which had before led him to this
conclusion recurred to him with redoubled force and the difficulties
in the theory seemed more and more easily surmountable. Domlio’s motor
drive on the night of the crime, his denial of the trip, the hiding of
the clothes and duplicator parts in the well, his depressed and
absorbed manner—these really were not accounted for by any theory
other than that of the man’s guilt. And Domlio might easily have
invented the story of the photograph and produced the letter to
account for his nocturnal excursion.
Puzzled and worried, French began to believe that he was on the wrong
track in London and that he must return to Devon and try once more to
get the truth from Domlio. But he would not relax his watch on Mrs.
Berlyn and Pyke. Pyke he would himself shadow next day, so that if he
communicated with Berlyn he, French, would learn the latter’s
whereabouts.
He turned into the nearest telephone booth, and ringing up the Yard,
arranged for reliefs for himself and Sergeant Carter. Then, Sergeant
Deane having taken over the watch in Kepple Street, he went home.
Next morning he called at the Yard for Carter, and about nine o’clock
the two men reached Kepple Street.
“That’ll do, Deane. You may get away,” French greeted the night man.
“Nothing stirred, I suppose?”
“Nothing, sir. No one in or out the whole night.”
“Now, Carter,” French went on, “it’s your show mostly to-day. Pyke
knows me and I’ll have to keep in the background. You stay about here
and I’ll get a taxi and wait round the corner. If I see your signal
I’ll come along.”
Time soon began to drag for the watchers. Evidently their man was in
no hurry. Ten o’clock came, then eleven, then eleven-thirty, and still
he made no sign. French began to grow seriously uneasy.
At last he could stand it no longer. He got out of his taxi and
strolled up to Carter.
“Go up to the door and ask for him, Carter. If he sees you say I sent
you to ask if he would call round at the Yard any time this
afternoon.”
Taking his subordinate’s place, he watched him walk up to the door and
knock. In a moment the door was opened and Carter disappeared.
For several minutes he remained inside, while French, growing more and
more anxious every second, remained pacing impatiently up and down.
Then Carter reappeared, and without any attempt at secrecy beckoned to
French.
“What is it?” the latter whispered, sharply, as he joined the sergeant
on the doorstep. “Anything wrong?”
“I’m afraid so, sir. We can’t make him hear.”
French swore. A wave of misgiving swept over him. Why in Heaven’s name
hadn’t he arrested the man last night when he had the chance? He
pushed into the house to meet an anxious-looking landlady in the hall.
“I am Inspector French of Scotland Yard,” he explained, quickly.
“Where is Mr. Pyke?”
“Lawks!” said the landlady, recognising her former visitor. “Are you
police? And I thinking you were a friend of Mr. Pyke’s all the time.”
“Yes, madam, I am a police officer and I want to see Mr. Pyke at once.
Where is he?”
The anxious look returned to the woman’s face.
“He’s in his room,” she explained. “But he’s not had his breakfast and
he won’t answer my knocking. He said last night that he had a chill
and that he wouldn’t get up this morning, and for me not to disturb
him. But that’s no reason why he shouldn’t answer a knock.”
“Which is his room?” said French, grimly. This should be a lesson to
him to avoid his confounded trick of waiting till he was sure. If this
man had slipped through his hands, any chance of that chief
inspectorship was gone—if his job itself remained.
They went to a first-floor room at the back of the house and French
knocked peremptorily. There was no reply.
“Down with the door, Carter. Put your shoulder to it with me.”
Despite the protests of the landlady, both men threw themselves on the
door. With a tearing sound the screws of the keeper drew out and the
door swung open.
The room was empty.
It was a large room, comfortable furnished as a bed-sitting room. It
was not disarranged in any way, but the lower sash of the window was
fully up. French hurriedly crossed to it and looked out. It gave on
the yard, and about four feet below the sill was the roof of a small
shed. This shed ran along the side of the yard at right angles to the
main house, its further gable being against the wall between the yard
and the lane which passed at the back of the houses. The roof of the
shed formed a direct passage from the room to the lane.
Though French had no doubt that Pyke had escaped by this route, he
dropped out of the window and crawled over the roof tiles, searching
for traces. These he speedily discovered. Some one had passed a short
time previously.
His chagrin was too deep for words. Even the lurid phrase with which
in times of stress he was wont to relieve his feelings now proved
utterly inadequate. He was aghast at the extent to which he had been
hoodwinked.
For it was now evident that Pyke had known he had been shadowed to
Hampstead Heath and that the whole conversation there had been
designed to put him, French, off the track. Pyke was a cleverer man
than he had thought. It seemed scarcely possible that the interview
had been prearranged, and yet French could not imagine its being an
improvisation. The whole thing was very puzzling.
However, at least one thing was clear. Jefferson Pyke and Mrs. Berlyn
were the criminals for whom he was seeking. And he was on a hot scent.
He would get Mrs. Berlyn at once, and Pyke with very little delay. The
man had less than twelve hours’ start. He turned to Carter.
“Wait here for me, Carter,” he directed. “Have a look round and learn
anything you can, but without disturbing things. I shall be back
presently.”
He ran out of the house, and calling up his taxi, was driven to Park
Walk. There he soon spotted the man who was shadowing Mrs. Berlyn.
“Anything to report, Jefferies?” he demanded, quickly. “She’s still
there, all right?”
“Still there, Mr. French. No one left the house since I came on duty.”
“Good. Then come with me.”
He rang at the door and, when the servant opened, asked for Mrs.
Berlyn.
“She’s not up, sir,” the girl returned. “Last night she said she had a
chill and did not want to be called or disturbed this morning. She
said she probably wouldn’t want anything until lunch and not to bring
up breakfast, as she was going to take a sleeping-draught and might
not be awake.”
Though still inadequate to relieve his feelings, French swore his
lurid oath.
“Go and wake her now,” he ordered the scandalised girl. “Here, I’ll go
to the door with you.”
The girl seemed about to object, but French’s tone over-awed her.
Hesitatingly she led the way.
“Knock,” said French. “Or wait. I will.” He gave a rousing knock at
the door.
There was no answer.
“She, too, by thunder!” he growled, rattling the handle. The door was
locked.
“Your shoulder, Jefferies!” and for the second time in half an hour
French burst open the door of a bedroom. As in the former case, the
room was empty.
But here there was no open window. Not only was the sash latched, but
when French opened it and looked out he found that it was thirty feet
above the pavement and that there was nothing to assist a descent.
A glance at the door explained the mystery. The key was missing.
Evidently the occupant had left the room by the door, locking it
behind her and removing the key. And the maid was able to supply the
further information required. The girl, on coming down that morning,
had found the yard door unlocked. Though she thought she had fastened
it on the previous evening, she had supposed she must have overlooked
it.
French hurried down the narrow yard to the door which led out on the
passage behind the houses, only to find that here again the door was
locked and the key missing. Again and again he cursed himself for
having underestimated the ability of these two people. Had he had the
slightest idea that they had followed his progress so minutely, he
would have employed very different methods. Even if he had not
arrested them, he would have seen to it that they did not escape. The
shadowing he had adopted would have been effective under normal
conditions, but not where the victims were alive to their danger and
ready to make a desperate bid for safety.
But French was too sensible to cry over spilt milk. He had blundered.
Very well, it could not be helped. What he had to do now was to
retrieve his error, at the earliest moment possible. How could he most
quickly get on the track of these criminals?
He returned to the house and made a rapid search for any clue that the
lady might have left, but without result. Then leaving Jefferies in
charge, he drove back to Kepple Street.