The Property Adjoining
The two men halted when they had relocked the door behind them,
looking around and listening.
The night was intensely dark. There was no moon and a thick pall of
cloud cut off even the meagre light of the stars. Above the wall
bounding Tate’s Lane they could see the upper stories of the houses
opposite lit up faintly by the street lamps. Elsewhere not a gleam of
light showed. It was silent also. Save for the complaining call of a
marauding cat and the distant whistle of a train, no sound broke the
stillness.
Satisfied that they were unobserved, Ormsby made a “back” and French
swung himself up on to the wall dividing the two properties. Ormsby
followed and both men dropped softly to the ground at the other side.
“This is what we want,” whispered French as he felt along a building
beside them. “Here’s where our pipe goes to all right.”
It was another shed, identical, so far as they could make out in the
darkness, with the garage and set end to end with it.
“We must get in,” went on French. “Have a try at the lock.”
“It’s a chubb like the other,” returned Ormsby. “There’s not much
chance of getting it open.” He fumbled for a moment, then: “By Jove! I
can do it after all. The same key fits both. Here you are, Mr. French.
A bit of luck, that is.”
“It’s proof the same parties are running the two, though we scarcely
needed that. Come in and close the door.”
The door shut, French cautiously turned on his torch. The shed was a
garage, identical in design with Welland’s. Here were the same cement
finished walls and floor, the same window, pit and bench, the same
manhole cover and ventilating pipe. There was no car, but there was
something a good deal more interesting. Hanging from hooks beneath the
bench was a twelve-foot sewer cleaners’ “serpent,” a flexible rod with
a pair of toothed jaws at one end operated by a bowden wire from the
other.
“There,” said French, pointing to the rod. “There’s the proof we
wanted. That’s what he uses to get the bags of half crowns through the
pipe. But to set the thing beyond doubt, Ormsby, you better go back
into that other garage and flash your light into the pipe. I’ll watch
this end.”
While he was away French made a sketch of the pipes for his report. A
copy is given here.
[Illustration: A schematic diagram showing a cross section of the two
garages, separated by a wall, but with an underground pipe
communicating between them. The pipe connects the inspection chamber
and vent pipe of each garage in a straight line.]
Presently a muffled voice came from the drain and French, crouching
down in the inspection chamber, saw Ormsby’s torch in the distance.
“That’s that,” French whispered down the pipe. “Come back and we’ll
have a look round here.”
They now essayed a more difficult task. Starting from the garage, they
felt their way along the various walls, pacing their lengths and
estimating the angles between them. It was not easy work in the dark,
but French was too much afraid of being overlooked to use his torch.
When they had worked round to their starting point they returned to
the garage, where French made a sketch from his measurements.
The area appeared to be a yard, irregular in shape and surrounded by
buildings. From the nature of the debris which filled one corner, old
crates mostly, the place seemed more like a shop or works than a
private house. Opposite the garage an arched roadway passed under one
of the buildings, ending in a pair of close-sheeted gates. A gleam of
light beneath the gates indicated that they opened on to a street.
“I want to mark that entrance gate,” French said as he put away his
sketch. “We must locate it in the street outside.” He paused in
thought. “I have it,” he went on. “Here is a penny. We’ll push it out
underneath and then go round and see if we can find it.”
They carried out this programme. Having made sure that they had left
no traces of their visit, they locked the garage, pushed the penny
beneath the large gate, and climbed back, first into the builder’s
yard and then into Tate’s Lane. Then walking round the block to the
parallel street, Killowen Street, they began searching for a likely
gateway. There were a number of such, but at the third they found
their penny and knew that they had reached their goal.
The entrance stood beside a shop, and when French read its signboard
he felt amazed and puzzled. It bore the legend, “Theobald & Grudgin.
Working Silversmiths.”
“Je-hoshaphat! Can it be coining after all?” he whispered in
bewilderment. If so, what about the report from the Mint? That report
amounted to practical proof that counterfeit coins were not being
passed. And now here was at least extremely suggestive evidence that
they were! He swore his comprehensive oath, but it scarcely brought
its customary relief.
“Looks to me as if those Mint people had been diddled like ourselves,”
he muttered. “Well, Ormsby, that’s all we can do now. We’ll get off
home.”
He wondered if it would be wise after all to return to the
silversmiths’ next morning, or rather that morning, for it was after
four o’clock. What he wanted was to get his hands on Style; the
activities at the silversmiths’ could wait. If he went to Theobald &
Grudgin’s he might be seen by some member of the gang. The alarm would
then be given and the members might disperse, greatly increasing the
difficulties of rounding them up. No, on second thoughts he would lie
low for the morning. He would visit the bank at two o’clock and there
either arrest Style or shadow him to his home, the latter probably, as
it might lead him to Gwen Lestrange and perhaps still other members of
the gang.
But next morning a fresh development took place which banished all
thoughts of finesse and sent him hotfoot to the silversmiths’ and any
other place from which news of the trio might be obtained.
He had been busy at routine work in connection with the case. He had
begun by ringing up the inspector of the York Road district to ask for
such information as might be available about Messrs. Theobald &
Grudgin and their establishment. Then he had gone down to the Mint to
report his discovery and to ask as tactfully as he could whether a
mistake might not have been made in their half crown diagnosis.
The very senior officer who received him had been emphatic in his
reply. No mistake could possibly have been made. The tests gave
absolutely conclusive results. Silversmiths or no silversmiths, the
coins he had sent them were genuine.
Scarcely had French returned to the Yard when the blow fell. As he sat
down at his desk his telephone rang.
“Is that Mr. French, the inspector?” asked a woman’s voice which
French vaguely remembered, but could not place. “I’m Mrs. Creuse, of
27 Nelson Street.”
Nelson Street! Of course, the proprietor of Molly Moran’s boarding
house.
“Yes, Mrs. Creuse. Inspector French speaking. Anything I can do for
you?”
“It’s about Miss Moran,” the voice went on. “She did not come back
after the performance last night and I’m anxious about her. I
shouldn’t have thought anything about it only for your inquiries here.
A girl sometimes goes home with friends and is not always careful to
ring up her boarding house. But she was always careful that way.”
French’s heart almost stood still for a moment. Was it possible. . . ?
Could these infernal scoundrels have got hold of her as they got hold
of Thurza Darke and her two unhappy predecessors?
“Did you not ring up the cinema?” he asked quickly.
“Yes, but by the time I began to get anxious it was too late. You see,
it’s often nearly twelve before Miss Moran gets home, and it was only
by chance that I was up myself about one and discovered she had not
arrived. I rang up the cinema first thing this morning, but I’ve only
just got through. They say she never turned up to business yesterday.
I hope she’s all right.”
French stiffened, sure that this confirmed his worst fears. Why, _why_
had not the Panopticon people rung him up? Grimly he promised himself
a straight talk with the manager. But that could wait. Now the urgent
matter was to organize a search.
In times of emergency French always rose to the occasion. Pausing only
to ring up the Panopticon for confirmation of the landlady’s
statement, he set to work. For some thirty seconds he sat motionless,
staring with unseeing eyes at the polished wood of his desk, while he
rapidly considered the measures he would take. Then deliberately, but
without the loss of a moment, he proceeded to put his plans into
operation.
His first step was to hurry to Chief Inspector Mitchell’s room, tell
him the news, and outline his proposals for dealing with the
situation. French already held warrants for the arrest of all three
known members of the gang, but he now wanted search warrants for
Welland’s house and office as well as for the premises of the
silversmiths, Messrs. Theobald & Grudgin. With all his proposals
Mitchell expressed his agreement.
French next summoned a number of men to his room.
“I think you all know something of the case I’m on,” he began,
speaking in quiet but impressive tones. “Starting with the Portsmouth
murder, I have found that a gang of crooks have murdered three cinema
pay-box girls who they feared were about to give away their secrets to
the police. Now I’ve just had a phone that a fourth girl has
disappeared—a Miss Molly Moran, employed in the box office of the
Panopticon Cinema in Leicester Square. You have seen her, Carter, and
you also, Harvey. She got into the clutches of the gang, same as the
other three girls, and has been working for them. Only the day before
yesterday she told me her story, and it looks as if they may have got
wise to it and done her in.”
He paused and the men nodded in silence.
“She left her boarding house in Nelson Street, so I am advised, at her
usual time yesterday morning and has not been heard of since. If these
people have got her you will see that we can’t lose any time.”
Again the men nodded, and French went on with his directions.
“You, Carter, will take two men and bring in Curtice Welland. Here is
a warrant which I have had ready for some time. Here is his
description and the places, so far as we know, where he is likely to
be found. I leave all the details to you. But no bungling! Bring him
in, and quickly.”
Sergeant Carter promptly disappeared and French turned to the next in
the line.
“I want you, Harvey, to go into the affair at the Panopticon Cinema.
You may get a line on some caller or hear of a letter or telephone.
Advise the Yard if you have any luck.”
Harvey disappeared in his turn, and French resumed.
“You, Pickford, try the boarding house. Here is the address and all
particulars. I need scarcely prompt you. You know what to do.”
So the wheels of the ponderous machine of the C.I.D. began to creak
and relentlessly the great trap was set. In addition to Carter and his
helpers, men were sent to watch all the places which Welland was known
to frequent: his house, his office, the garage, his golf club.
Inquiries were to be made from his housekeeper, the other occupiers of
the office buildings, the staff in the coachbuilder’s yard and the
secretary and other members of the golf club. The three other girls
known to be in the clutches of the gang were to be shadowed and any
member of the gang seen approaching them was instantly to be secured.
Men were despatched to each of the six banks at which Style had lodged
half crowns, in case he should be seized with a desire to withdraw his
money. The last inquiry French reserved for himself. “Ormsby,” he
concluded, “you and I will go and have a look round that silversmiths’
yard. I’ve got a search warrant, but I’ll not use it if I can avoid
it. Better get a couple of men to watch the door while we’re inside.”
Fifteen minutes later French and Ormsby turned into Killowen Street
and walked in a leisurely way towards Messrs. Theobald & Grudgin’s
establishment. The big gate under which they had pushed the penny was
open and without hesitation they entered. The entry led through the
house to the yard at the back. In the corner immediately opposite
stood the garage, and from it, across the back end of the yard, ran
the wall separating the premises from the coachbuilder’s establishment
adjoining. The remaining sides were bounded by buildings, all dirty
and in bad repair. Three doors, one open, gave on the yard. Another
door, apparently from the office or shop, opened into the side wall of
the entry. The yard also was dirty and heaps of old boxes and other
rubbish lay in corners.
French stood for a moment motionless, taking in these details and
noting with satisfaction the accuracy of his sketch plan. Then he
walked slowly to the open door.
He found himself on the threshold of a fair-sized workshop, fitted up
with several benches and a few simple looking machines. In one corner
stood a gas oven with crucibles, presumably for melting the silver.
Close by was what looked like a tiny foundry. Several of the benches
bore small lathes but most of the simple machinery was for smoothing
and polishing. The place looked as if at one time it might have been
busy and successful, but now it had been allowed to go to seed. Like
the yard it was dirty and untidy and its entire staff consisted of
three old men, dirty and untidy also and clearly past their work. One
was busy at the gas oven as if about to make a cast, the others were
filing up and polishing silver ornaments.
“Could I see the manager?” French asked after giving the men a
pleasant good morning.
The man from the gas oven turned off a tap and slowly approached.
“’E ain’t in yet, so far as I knows,” he said. “You’ve tried the
office?”
“Not there,” French declared mendaciously.
“Aye. Well, ’e ain’t come in. ’E usually comes in in ’is car abaht ten
or ’alf past, but this morning ’e ain’t turned up yet. Was you wanting
anything?”
“Yes. I want a quotation for a silver trowel and casket for laying a
foundation stone. But I expect I’d better see the boss about it.”
“Aye,” said the man again. “There ain’t no one ’ere as could tell you
abaht that. Take a seat in the office, mister. The boss won’t be
long.”
“I can wait. I’m not in a hurry.” French took out his cigarette
case and held it out. “I think I know your boss,” he resumed
conversationally, “but I’m hanged if I haven’t forgotten his name.
He’s a rather slight man of middle height with a pale complexion and a
small fair moustache, isn’t he? Rather staring eyes?”
“That’s ’im, mister. You’ve ’it ’im off abaht proper. Welland, they
calls ’im. Mr. Curtice Welland.”
“Welland! Of course. I remember now. Lives out at Harrow?”
“Blowed if I could tell. ’E ain’t never asked me ’ome to dinner.”
“That’s his loss,” said French with a smile. He glanced casually round
the workshop. “Fine place you have here. Too big for three men
surely?”
The old man shook his head despondingly.
“It were a good shop once, but times is not wot they were. I’ve seen
the day when there were twenty men working in this ’ere shop and doing
good work and plenty of it. And now there’s only three of us left and
there ain’t much for us to do neither. It were a bad day for us when
the old master sold out.”
“Then the works have changed hands?”
“Aye, abaht a year ago. Old Mr. Grudgin ’ad it; Mr. Theobald, ’e were
dead this five year. I s’pose Mr. Grudgin were feeling it too much for
’im; ’e were seventy if ’e were a day. So ’e sold it to this ’ere Mr.
Welland, and”—the old man paused, finally adding—“some’ow the work
fell off and most of the men were sacked. But Lord knows I ain’t got
no cause to complain! I’m ’ere still, though younger men than me got
the boot.”
“It’s been a terrible time for trade right enough,” French declared
sympathetically. “And yours is what you might call a luxury trade, so
you would feel bad times worse than most.”
“That’s right, mister.”
“What kind of work do you do mostly?” went on French with the forced
interest of a man who has time to put away.
“We used to do all kinds, statuettes and plaques and trophy cups and
vases and medallions and such like. But we don’t do much now; lids for
inkpots and penholders and backs for fancy clothes brushes and
stoppers for toilet bottles for suitcases: that’s abaht all.”
“I suppose Mr. Welland looks after sales himself? You haven’t a
traveller?”
“No, there ain’t nobody now but Mr. Welland and the boy wot you saw in
the office.”
French chatted on in a leisurely way, moving about the shop as he did
so. He did not learn much from the man’s conversation, but he
satisfied himself that, except possibly in some secret cellar, no
coining was in progress. Such articles as still were being made, so
the old man assured him, went from the workshop to the office, where
Welland, to give him that name, disposed of them. Of this side of the
business the workman knew nothing. The silver came in the form of bars
or ingots, usually by motor lorry. It was stored in the shed adjoining
Welland’s garage, a strongly built shed of which only Welland had the
key. Where it came from the man did not know.
Seeing that no further information was to be had, French explained
that he did not think he could wait for Mr. Welland that day, but that
he would call again. Then wishing the old man good day, he left the
yard.
Ormsby was waiting for him in the archway.
“Style’s running this place under the name of Welland,” French said to
him in a low tone. “Took it over about a year ago. It seems there’s a
boy in the office. I’m going to make a search. Come in with me.”
Ormsby nodded and the two men, passing out into the street, turned
into the shop.
A glass door, which rang a bell on being opened, led into a dark and
untidy showroom. Across the front was a counter, with behind it a row
of show cases containing plaster models. These cases acted as a
screen, cutting off the office portion behind. In the background were
a small green safe, a letter file and two desks. One, a roll-top, was
closed, the other was a high desk with a brass rail bookstand above.
The back wall was pierced by a window giving on to the yard, while in
the side wall was the door leading to the entry. Some dirty calendars
and advertisement plates hung crookedly here and there.
At the high desk sat a youth of about twenty with a pen in his hand
and a ledger spread out before him. French thought he had never seen
anyone in the position of clerk who looked so utterly devoid of
intelligence. He watched him make a clumsy attempt to hide a
well-thumbed novelette with a lurid picture on the cover, then said
pleasantly: “Could I see Mr. Welland, please?”
The youth pushed the novelette into his pocket and slowly advanced to
the counter.
“’E ain’t ’ere,” he replied succinctly.
“So I observe,” said French, looking carefully round the room. “Do you
know when he will be in?”
“Naw.”
French fixed the youth with a severe eye.
“Now, sonny,” he said sharply. “We’re police officers and we’re
looking for Mr. Welland. When was he here last?”
The youth gaped and it took a repetition of the question in a still
sharper tone to wake him up.
“Yesterday morning,” he answered sullenly.
Style, it appeared, had arrived at the works at his usual hour, about
half past ten. Customarily he remained till one o’clock, when he left
for lunch. But on this occasion he had only waited a few minutes. He
had sent the youth out on a message, and when the latter returned half
an hour later he had disappeared. The youth had not seen him since.
French was not satisfied.
“What was the message?” he asked.
It was a bow drawn at a venture with the general object of amassing
detailed knowledge, but to his amazement the arrow got in between the
joints of Style’s armour.
“Postal order for two bob,” the youth returned.
“That shouldn’t have taken you half an hour.”
“’E didn’t want no order,” the youth declared, and his eyes looked sly
and furtive. “’E only wanted me out of the way.”
“What makes you think that?”
The youth smiled, a sort of sickly leer, unpleasant to look upon.
“The gal,” he remarked laconically.
“The girl? What girl?”
“The gal as came in with him.”
“A tall, strong, well-built girl with fair hair and complexion and
blue eyes?” French suggested eagerly, believing he was on the track of
Gwen Lestrange.
“Naw. Small and dark.”
French leaped to his feet.
“What!” he roared, scaring the youth almost into fits.
Molly Moran! He paused, thrilled at the thought, then sat down again.
“That’s all right,” he declared. “I was surprised for the moment. Now
tell me all about this girl. When did she come?”
Getting information from the youth was like getting treacle out of a
test tube, but by the exercise of all his patience French managed it.
It seemed that when Style arrived he had driven his car into the yard
in accordance with his usual custom. It was a dark green Armstrong
Siddeley saloon. But instead of garaging it he had turned it and run
it back into the entry, stopping opposite the office door. Then he had
hurried back to the street. Evidently Molly—further questions had left
French in no doubt as to the “gal’s” identity—had been waiting for
him, for both came at once into the office. Style had asked her to sit
down and had then excused himself on urgent business in the workshops.
A few moments later the speaking tube from the workshops had whistled.
It was Style and he had instructed the youth to go out immediately and
buy a two-shilling postal order. Such a thing had never been asked for
before and the youth did not believe it was required. He had therefore
assumed that the errand was to get him out of the way in order to
allow the tender passages between Style and his caller which he
imagined were desired. In this belief he had improved the opportunity
to visit a friend, the message boy in a neighbouring shop, and he was
not back for half an hour. Style and the young lady had then gone.
French made a despairing gesture.
“After my warning! After my warning!” he lamented in a low voice to
Ormsby. “How under the sun did that scoundrel get her into his power?”
He turned again to the youth.
“We’re going to search this place,” he said sharply. “Here’s our
warrant, if you’d like to see it. Now hand over any keys you have,
then sit down there and don’t interfere.”
As he spoke he shut and bolted the heavy outer door. Then ruthlessly
silencing the clerk’s timid protests, the two men began the search.
The safe was beyond them and French put through a call to the Yard for
an expert. The roll-top desk, however, was easily overcome by means of
French’s skeleton keys. Quickly but thoroughly the two men turned the
place out. For a couple of hours they worked, first in the office and
then in the workshops behind, before French announced that he was
satisfied.
Though the search had yielded little, that little was important. No
hint as to Style’s possible whereabouts had been gained nor any
information as to the remaining members of the gang. Still less was
there any hint as to what might have happened to Molly Moran, though
French’s sketch of the tracks of Style’s car and its detailed
description, obtained from the old workman, might later on help in
tracing her. But two things had been made clear beyond possibility of
doubt. First, the silversmiths’ business was practically non-existent.
It was evidently a mere blind to cover more serious and lucrative
operations. Secondly, though scarcely any silver articles had been
sold, the purchase of bar silver had been very large.
Report from the Mint or no report, there could no longer be any doubt
as to what was being done. Coining on an enormous scale was in
progress. The next thing for French must be to find the plant. Or
rather the next thing but one. At all costs Molly Moran’s life must be
saved, were this humanly possible.
While French was sitting in the office turning these matters over in
his mind, the Yard expert had not been idle. He now called to them
that he had just succeeded in opening the safe. French began eagerly
to go through its contents. But he found only one thing of interest,
four little leathern bags shaped to fit the divisions in the vanity
bags, each containing from a hundred to a hundred and fifty half
crowns.
Sure that at last he held the key to the affair, he poured the coins
out on to the desk and examined them minutely. Immediately he was once
again disappointed. All of them, he was prepared to swear, were
genuine. Every test he applied proved them so. And then suddenly he
wondered. All of them were dated 1921!
Whether this meant anything or not he did not know, but it was at
least certain that they must at once be sent to the Mint for an
authoritative opinion.
More anxious than ever as to Molly’s fate, French returned to the
Yard, hoping against hope that some useful information might have come
in.