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.