The Transport of Supplies
Inspector French continued his stroll along the Embankment until he
reached the Yard. There, after an interview with his chief, he got a
cheque for ten pounds, and going to the nearest bank, asked for the
money to be paid in half crowns. With his pockets weighted down with
the silver he went on to the Panopticon and asked for the manager. As
a result of his conversation he was shown into a waiting room, where
presently he was joined by Molly Moran.
“You here already, Mr. French?” she greeted him.
“Yes. I want to get hold of some of those coins. Here is ten pounds’
worth of half crowns. Just count me out eighty of Mr. Welland’s.”
“But there’s nothing remarkable about them at all. They’re just
ordinary half crowns. I’ve shown them to a friend of mine in a bank,
and he said so too.”
“Oh,” said French, “so a bank clerk has seen them, has he? But were
you not afraid to tell him about them?”
“I didn’t tell him at all. What I thought was that maybe they weren’t
good, that maybe Mr. Welland’s friends was making them—counterfeit
coining, don’t you call it? So I showed my friend four and said they’d
been refused on the grounds that they weren’t good. He said they were
perfectly all right.”
“Oh,” French repeated more dubiously. “Well, I’ll have the eighty all
the same. You might let me see that bag now that we can’t be
overlooked.”
It was just what Miss Moran had described, a plain but large vanity
bag with a central compartment of normal appearance, and two side
ones, each capable of carrying some hundred and fifty half crowns and
fitted with an inside skin or bag which could be lifted out with the
coins. When these side compartments were closed by their spring
latches they were invisible to casual inspection, though if the bag
were handled their existence became obvious. French was not surprised
therefore to learn that Welland had given the strictest instructions
that the bag was to be carried looped on the girl’s arm and never
taken off except when she was actually working in the pay-box.
But his interest in the bag was but slight compared with that he felt
in the coins which Miss Moran had received from Welland. There were
130 and he tumbled them out on a table and began to turn them over.
His first glance surprised him and increased that feeling of
depression which the girl’s story of the bank clerk had aroused. That
they were not new was undoubted; all had clearly been in circulation.
Moreover the dates varied, and roughly speaking, the wear on any
individual coin corresponded with its age.
Welland’s story was unlikely enough at the best, but here already was
proof of its falsity. These coins had not been recalled from
circulation because of age or wear. They were still perfectly good.
French swore internally as he realized the conclusion to which he was
being forced. If these coins were of different dates and had been in
circulation they were not forgeries. Dies were expensive and difficult
to make and it was beyond belief that a series with different dates
should have been obtained. Again, once the coins had been got into
circulation the counterfeiters would have finished with them. They
would not be trying to get rid of them now.
He set himself to re-examine the samples with greater care. And the
more he did so, the more convinced of their genuineness he became. So
far as his lens revealed the design, the detail seemed perfect, the
colour, feel, and texture were normal, and every coin which he tested
gave a satisfactory ring. He would of course have them examined by the
experts at the Mint, but he had little doubt his own conclusion would
be confirmed.
If so, it seemed to follow that the coins had been stolen. But he
could not think of any source from which they might have been
obtained. It was absurd to suppose they had been taken from the Mint.
Coins of such an age and in such a condition would not be there. Nor
did it seem likely that a bank had been robbed. Such an operation
would be extremely difficult, and further, if it had been found
possible, it was difficult to see why half crowns alone had been
taken. The only explanation which French could devise was that some
eccentrically minded miser had spent his life hoarding them. But if
so, and Welland had stolen them, why should he hesitate to pay them
out himself?
On this latter point, however, a little further thought supplied an
explanation. The one feature of the affair which was clear beyond
doubt was that it was being carried out on a very large scale. If Miss
Moran changed eight hundred half crowns a week, it was to be presumed
that each of the other girls did the same. Say, three thousand half
crowns a week—150,000 a year! Nearly £19,000 worth. No one man could
do it. Without some such organization as had been devised, the thing
would be out of the question.
And then French saw that he had made a mistake. This consideration did
not answer his question. For every half crown Welland gave the girls,
he received one in exchange. How did he get rid of these latter? _How_
did he get rid of them?
He simply could not do it! He had been watched too carefully. French
did not believe he could have passed even small things like packages
of “snow.” How much less comparatively bulky bags of half crowns! Once
again French swore, this time half aloud.
“Beg pardon, Mr. French?”
His attention was recalled to the girl, whom in his abstraction he had
forgotten.
“Just a little habit of mine,” he said, the twinkle reappearing in his
eyes. “I think that’s all I want. I’ll take eighty of these half
crowns of Welland’s and give you eighty of mine in exchange. Then you
carry on as usual.”
“Very good, Mr. French.” She paused, then went on hesitatingly. “I
wish you would tell me something about it. I don’t suppose you could,
of course, but I’m frightfully interested.”
French glanced at her keenly, then smiled.
“I only wish I could,” he answered pleasantly. “If I knew enough to
answer your question I’d be a much happier man. But I’ll soon know all
about it and I’ll tell you then. In any case, the less you know, the
better for your own health.” Then an idea occurred to him and he went
on: “Tell me, do you go about London much?”
“Me? No, Mr. French. What do you mean?”
“I mean I should imagine that a young lady in your position with a
free forenoon should take some exercise in the form of walks. Do you
not explore the streets?”
“Oh, I see. Well, yes, I do a little, but I’m not a great walker.”
“Very well. Avoid the neighbourhood of Waterloo Station and also
Harrow.”
She looked interested.
“I’ll explain,” went on French. “Mr. Welland lives at Harrow and he
garages his car in Tate’s Lane off York Road. York Road is close to
Waterloo. Now it might be disastrous if he saw you near either place,
as he might imagine you were spying on him. So keep away from both
districts.”
French was in a thoughtful mood as he returned to the Yard. Seldom had
he been up against so clear-cut a problem. Welland was getting
hundreds of half crowns each day; he must be getting rid of them
somehow or he must be storing them somewhere; how, or where? It seemed
impossible that there could be a difficulty in finding the solution.
French was therefore the more exasperated by his failure to do so.
In a kind of dream he took the eighty half crowns to the Mint. To a
high official he told his story, with the result that immediate
investigations and tests were put in hand. He had a long wait, but
before he left he got his information. All the half crowns were
genuine; no such coins had been recalled to the Mint; no disused
cellar existed in which such coins might have been kept; no half
crowns had been stolen.
This of course was final proof of the falsity of the tale Welland had
told Molly, which so far as it went was to the good. But it made the
entire operations of the gang even more inexplicable. If they were not
getting rid of counterfeit coins, what under heaven were they doing?
French’s brain reeled as he faced the problem.
He walked slowly back to the Yard, full of bewilderment and baffled
rage. These people were changing one lot of perfectly good half crowns
for another. In spite of the magnitude of the numbers dealt with, they
were getting in no half crowns from outside nor were they disposing of
any. At least, they certainly were not obtaining nor distributing
anything like the number passed by the girls. What was it all for?
A sudden wild hooting of a motor horn and frenzied cries from
passers-by recalled French to his surroundings. He sprang practically
from beneath the bonnet of a heavily laden bus—only just in time. For
quite a hundred yards he forgot about Welland and his half crowns as
he meditated upon the undesirability of dreaming in the London
streets. Then his thoughts swung back again to his problem.
Whether it was due to the start he had received or whether it arose in
the normal processes of thought, he immediately found himself
considering a new idea. Suppose all these apparently contradictory
premises were true? Suppose Welland _was_ neither obtaining half
crowns nor disposing of them? Suppose he _was_ changing one perfectly
good lot of them for another? What if the half crowns he obtained from
the girls on one day were handed back to them on the next? What if
this elaborate machinery was simply a blind to cover some more
sinister proceedings? Had Molly Moran lied and were the gang selling
drugs after all?
Admittedly French did not see how such a scheme would facilitate the
distribution of cocaine or heroin, but this problem seemed to him the
lesser of the two. At all events there must be more in it than half
crowns.
But lengthy pondering over it produced no light. Every solution that
occurred to him seemed more improbable than the last.
In despair he returned to the idea that the disposal of the half
crowns was the essential. Suppose a hoard of half crowns had been
stolen, some of which were known to be marked? Most unlikely
admittedly, but at least this theory covered the facts.
In his efforts to carry the thing a step further he tried a trick
which had frequently helped him out of a similar tight place. If when
following a trail of footsteps he came to hard ground on which they
were not visible, he made a cast and went on to the next soft area in
the hope of picking them up again. Now he made a mental cast. Assuming
Welland were getting rid of these coins changed by the girls, and
leaving out the means by which it was being done, what must be their
eventual destination?
Long cogitation told him that the man’s only plan must be to pay them
in to a bank. In no other way that French could see could he realize
their value.
This at least opened out an obvious line of research. With a sense of
relief at renewed action he drafted a circular to the managers of the
various banks in London. He was anxious to trace a man who, he
believed, was paying in large numbers of half crowns to banks. He
would be grateful to the manager if he would make inquiries as to
whether such payments were being made at his bank, and if so, let him
have some particulars on the matter.
For the remainder of that day the inquiry hung fire, but next morning
French was called to the telephone. The manager of the Knightsbridge
Branch of the London and County Bank believed that he had some
information which might be useful to the inspector and would be glad
if he would call round.
Half-an-hour later French was seated in the manager’s private room.
“I do not know,” said Mr. Elwood, “whether I have brought you on a
wild goose chase, but for nearly a year a man has been paying in some
four to six hundred half crowns each Wednesday afternoon. It is common
enough to have a weekly payment of silver, but uncommon to have it
restricted to coins of one denomination. When therefore I received
your circular I thought that this might be the man you wanted.”
“Sounds hopeful,” French agreed cheerily. “Perhaps you would give me
the details?”
The manager touched a bell. “Mr. Whitley,” he said, as a dark,
keen-looking young man entered, “you might answer any questions that
Mr. French here asks you about Mr. Welland, of Acacia Avenue, Harrow.”
“Welland?” exclaimed French in amazement. “Is he a well-built,
prosperous looking man with the typical American business-man type of
face?”
“No, sir,” returned the clerk. “Mr. Welland is slight, with a pale
complexion and a small, fair moustache. He has peculiar eyes, light
blue and with a queer sort of stare.”
A wave of excitement swept over French. “Style!” he thought, in high
delight. Things were beginning to move at last!
“I think I recognize the man you mean, Mr. Whitley,” he said
pleasantly, “though I knew him under another name. Now what about this
Mr. Welland? When did you come across him first?”
“He came in one day about a year ago.” The clerk hesitated. “If I
might get my books I could give you the exact date.”
The manager nodded and in a few moments the young man returned with a
voluminous ledger.
“He first called on the seventeenth of August last and said he wished
to open an account. You may remember, sir,” Mr. Whitley turned to the
manager, “that I brought him in to you. He said that he carried on
business as a bookmaker and that he dealt particularly in betting on
dog races. He had worked out a scheme whereby his bets were limited to
half crowns and multiples of a half crown, with the result that he
found himself with large numbers of half crowns on his hands. His
lodgments would therefore be made in coins of this denomination. On
that day he lodged sixty pounds’ worth of half crowns. It was a
Wednesday and every Wednesday since then he has come in with amounts
varying from fifty to a hundred pounds all in half crowns.”
“I follow you,” said French. “I take it then that his account has been
steadily growing?”
“No,” the young man returned, “for he draws cheques for comparatively
large amounts at intervals. I do not think that his account has ever
stood at more than five hundred pounds. When it amounts to from four
to five hundred pounds he draws all out except a few pounds.”
“By cheque?”
“Yes, by cheque.”
“In whose favour?”
“In his own.”
“I suppose I need scarcely ask you, Mr. Whitley, if you were satisfied
that this business was perfectly in order? Did it not strike you as
strange that a man should lodge nothing but half crowns?”
“Well, you see,” the young man returned, “he explained that, otherwise
I probably would have thought it odd.”
“Then it is not an uncommon thing for silver to be lodged in that
way?”
“Oh, no, quite common. Small shopkeepers and persons of that class
generally make a weekly lodgment in silver, but of course it is in
coins of all denominations.”
“Quite. Does Mr. Welland call about the same time each Wednesday?”
“Yes, always about two o’clock.”
“Very good,” said French. “With your permission, sir,” he turned to
the manager, “I shall be here at two o’clock next Wednesday, that is
tomorrow, to meet Mr. Welland. I may say that I believe the
information you have given me will prove highly important and I need
scarcely impress on you both the absolute importance of saying nothing
of my visit and of giving no warning to Mr. Welland.”
French’s mind was in a whirl as he left the bank. Then it _was_ half
crowns! But what was the object of it all? He swore impotently as he
came up once more against the problem.
But one thing at least was altogether splendid! For some time past he
believed he had had sufficient evidence against Style to convict him
of murder, but his difficulty had been that Style had vanished. Now
Style was found, or at least he would be on the next day. That was two
of the known members of the gang. With luck the shadowing of Style
would lead him to the third, Gwen Lestrange. This morning had marked a
great forward step in the investigation.
But when he reached the Yard French’s delight increased tenfold. There
were awaiting him two other telephone messages and two letters, all
from the managers of banks and all containing similar news. In each
case the manager advised him that in reply to his circular he believed
the wanted man was dealing at his bank, and each suggested a call for
further information.
During the afternoon French was a busy man. Engaging a taxi, he drove
round the various branches and in each found that Style was making a
lodgment of half crowns, exactly as had been described by the clerk at
Knightsbridge. Only on one point did the stories differ. Each bank was
visited by Style on a different day of the week. Monday, Tuesday,
Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday’s visits were accounted for, and on
ringing up the Yard from the last branch he visited French was able to
place Thursday’s call also. A similar communication had come in from
still another bank.
With this information he felt that he should soon reach a decisive
stage in the case. Style once located, the end was in sight.
But he racked his brains in exasperation as his former problem
recurred to him. Again, how was Welland passing these coins to Style?
The more French thought over the investigation he had made, the more
impossible it seemed that the man could be doing it. And yet here was
definite proof that it was being done daily.
He sat down at his desk, and contrary to his usual custom in the
office, lit his pipe and began to smoke with long, steady pulls, as he
gave himself up to thought. For the _n_th time he visualized the whole
proceedings; the placing of the coins in the secret panel of the car
by the girls; the driving of the car to the garage; Welland’s walk to
his office; his journey to Harrow; his game of golf; his return next
day to his office; his walk to the garage and the taking out of the
car. Every one of these had been checked and rechecked so often that
it was impossible—_impossible_—that the coins could have been got rid
of. And yet they had been.
French wondered if he could not narrow the issue. The coins definitely
reached the garage because observation showed that they were not taken
out of the car in the streets. Though it was by no means demonstrated,
he inclined to the opinion that when Welland left the garage he did
not take the coins with him. The man seldom carried anything in his
hand, and so bulky a package could scarcely have been placed in the
pocket without causing a bulge. But no bulge had been observed. It
certainly looked, therefore, as if the coins were being left in the
garage.
Though his examination had been exhaustive, French again racked his
brains as to whether he could not have overlooked some means of access
to the garage. Then suddenly an idea occurred to him which filled him
once again with the eager enthusiasm which every forward step in an
investigation produced.
The drain! Could the drain be a fake? Could it represent the
communication he wanted? He determined that that very night he would
examine it again.
Accordingly two o’clock next morning saw him repeat with Sergeant
Ormsby the proceedings of three weeks earlier. Waiting until the
policeman had turned out of Tate’s Lane, they swarmed over the
coachbuilder’s wall, and creeping to the garage, let themselves in
with Ormsby’s key.
“I’m not satisfied about this drain, Ormsby,” French explained. “I
want to make sure that there is nothing more here than meets the eye.
Let’s have this cover up again.”
They raised the manhole cover and Ormsby got into the inspection
chamber and prepared to examine the three pipes in turn. French, lying
down in the pit, was able to put his eye to that connecting the pit to
the chamber. Ormsby’s torch lit it completely, so that every inch was
visible. It was a perfectly clear connection without any break or
junction and French had to admit that nothing was to be learned from
it.
The second pipe from the chamber was the outfall with the intercepting
trap attached. Here also investigation showed that everything was as
it should be. The trap was full of water, and on Ormsby’s removing the
disc sealing the pipe immediately above it, a rush of offensive gases
came out, proving that the connection to the sewer was genuine.
There remained therefore only the ventilating pipe and this, it was
obvious, passed under the floor to the vertical shaft and so to the
roof.
“That is all right, Mr. French. You needn’t worry about it. It is just
an ordinary vent pipe,” Ormsby declared.
But French still was not satisfied.
“I must make sure of the connection,” he said. “Couldn’t you get up on
the roof, Ormsby, and pour some water down and see if it comes out
here?”
The pipe passed out through the roof at the back of the garage,
opposite the door. With some difficulty Ormsby climbed on the wall
between the yard and the adjoining property, then shuffling up the
roof, poured down the pipe the canful of water which French handed up.
A gurgling sound followed by a rush of water into the inspection
chamber showed immediately that the connection was good.
“Curse it all,” thought French in disgust, “this darned thing is no
good either. I suppose it must be that confounded office after all.”
“Did it come all right?” said Ormsby, re-entering the garage and
looking into the inspection chamber. “I thought you wouldn’t get
anything there, Mr. French. The thing is perfectly normal.” He climbed
down once more into the inspection chamber and began pushing his rule
up the ventilating pipe.
French watched him idly while he stood racking his brains over the
problem. Then a sudden exclamation from Ormsby attracted his
attention.
“What’s the matter?” he asked sharply. “Got anything?”
“I’m not so sure, Mr. French. Here’s a queer thing and no mistake.”
“What is it?” said French, bending over the chamber.
“Why, here.” Ormsby measured the distance along the floor from the
chamber to the vertical pipe. It was just three feet four.
“Now see here,” he said.
Again he got into the chamber and pushed the rule into the horizontal
pipe. French watched breathlessly as the three-foot rule disappeared
and after it the man’s entire arm!
“There you are, Mr. French,” Ormsby declared. “That pipe goes through.
The vent pipe is only fixed on to a tee, not a bend. Let’s find how
far it goes.”
Eagerly Ormsby went out, and looking round the yard, brought in some
thin laths. One of these he pushed up the pipe, then tying on the
others, like the lengths of a fishing rod, pushed the whole in. It
made a length of about ten feet—three times the distance to the
vertical vent pipe. At the end of the ten feet it brought up against
something hard.
“What’s the idea, Ormsby? What can that pipe be for?”
“Not for ventilation, Mr. French, I’ll swear. If it only went a foot
beyond the vertical pipe I shouldn’t be so sure, for the builder might
have an old tee that he wanted to use. But this has been carried on
deliberately for at least another five feet.”
“Through the wall?”
“Through the wall. I’d like to see the end of that pipe in the next
lot.”
French swore delightedly.
“So you shall, Ormsby,” he chuckled. “We’ll get across now and have a
look. Get your sticks out and this manhole cover on so that the
place’ll be as we found it.”
They removed the traces of their visit, and shutting off their
torches, crept out once more into the darkness of the night.