When Greek Meets Greek
It was shortly after eleven o’clock on that same night that news came
to Inspector French. Fed up with the whole business and tired out, he
was actually on his way upstairs when his telephone rang.
“News of Miss Moran, sir,” came the voice of the sergeant on duty at
the Yard. “Hold the line and I’ll put you through.” There was a pause
and then another voice sounded.
“Is that Victoria 7000? If so, I have a message for you.”
“That’s right. Repeat your message, please.”
“I’m speaking from near Guildford. Between eight and nine my little
nipper was coming home through a field and he found some paper darts
with this message written on each: ‘Finder for God’s sake phone
Victoria 7000 that Molly Moran is in this big house. Her life at
stake.’ We took it for a joke, but I am ringing up on chance.”
French wiped a film of sweat off his forehead.
“It’s no joke I can assure you. This is Scotland Yard and we know
something of the affair. Tell me, please, who you are and where you’re
speaking from.”
An expression of amazed concern came through, then the voice went on:
“I am Mr. Edward Boland, speaking from my house, Dehra Dun, Elmford.
I—I hope it’s all right?”
“I hope so,” French returned grimly. “Tell me, where is the big house
mentioned?”
“It’s at the other end of the village; Mr. Trevellian’s, the
novelist’s.”
“Now, Mr. Boland, could you lend me a hand at your end? It may save
the girl’s life. How far are you from the police station?”
“It’s in the village, five minutes’ walk from here.”
“Good. Will you take the darts there and hand them to whoever is on
duty and tell him your story. Tell him that you have rung me up,
Inspector French, C.I.D., and say that I shall be going down
immediately. Can you manage that?”
“Of course, Inspector. I’ll do it now.”
Ten seconds after Boland had rung off French was talking to the Yard.
“Get six men together at once, Deane, and two cars with petrol for a
long run. I want to go to near Guildford. I’ll be with you by the time
you’re ready. And look sharp, for goodness’ sake! It’s more than
urgent.”
By a lucky chance French picked up a taxi almost at his own door, and
soon he was giving his instructions to Deane in person.
“Got those cars? Right. I want you to ring up the police station at
Elmford, near Guildford. Tell them to take the message seriously that
Mr. Boland is bringing them: they’ll understand. Tell them that I’ll
be with them in an hour and that in the meantime they are to surround
Mr. Trevellian’s house and allow no one to leave; let them detain on
suspicion anyone who tries to. Explain that we think these people have
a girl in their power and say that if the sergeant has any reason to
suspect foul play he’s not to wait for authority, but to break in.
I’ll stand the racket.”
A minute later two fast cars left the Yard. In the first were French,
Carter, and two other men. The second contained Sergeant Harvey and
another two assistants. Contrary to custom all were armed. French had
with him the warrants he had previously obtained for the arrest of the
members of the gang and he was determined if necessary to strain a
point and use these to cover the search of the house.
“Don’t kill anybody,” he told the driver, “but don’t be longer in one
place than you need,” and they roared on, their speed increasing
continually as they left London farther behind.
The night was calm but dark. The light which should have come from the
quarter moon was obscured by clouds. It was now fine, but there had
been a shower earlier and the roads were heavy. Five and twenty
minutes after leaving the Yard they ran through Kingston and in
another twenty Ripley was left behind. From Ripley to Guildford they
had a clear road and they fairly hummed along, but they had an
exasperating slack through the town. Then for the remaining three
miles they were able to put on another spurt, reaching the police
station at Elmford just an hour and three minutes after starting. A
constable hurried out and saluted.
“Inspector French, sir?” he said. “The sergeant’s at Mr. Trevellian’s.
First turn to the left and first house on the left-hand side.” He
pointed down the street.
A couple of minutes brought them to the place. As they drew up at the
entrance to the drive two shadows moved forward.
“Inspector French, sir?” said the larger of the two. “I’m Sergeant
Biggle and this is Mr. Boland. No one has entered or left the house
since we got your phone, but one of our men saw a car leave as he was
on his rounds.”
“At what hour was that?”
“Eleven-forty, sir. It was too dark to see details, but he believed it
was Mr. Trevellian’s green Armstrong Siddeley. They turned in the
direction of Farnham.”
“Could he say how many people were in it?”
“No, it is a saloon and it was too dark to see more than the outline.”
French nodded. “Now as to Mr. Trevellian. Describe him, please.”
“A rather stout, undersized man with bright red hair, a pale
complexion, and blue eyes.”
French felt a sudden thrill. This could surely be none other than that
Jim Sibley of whom Cullimore and Dove had spoken, the engineer who had
been dismissed from the Mint for theft.
“Anyone else live here?”
“Mrs. Trevellian. She’s a tall, well-built woman with fair hair and
complexion, blue eyes, and a strong chin.”
Better and better! Gwen Lestrange, for a certainty!
“Right. They’re the people we want. Anyone else?”
“There’s Mr. Marwood, Mr. Elmer Marwood. He’s brother to Mrs.
Trevellian and lives with them. He goes into town every day, mostly in
Mr. Trevellian’s car. A thinnish, pale-complexioned man with a small
straw-coloured moustache and glasses. That’s all.”
Style! That made four, including Welland. French would have betted
long odds it was the lot. He turned to Carter.
“Take charge, Carter,” he directed. “Surround the house and go in and
search it. If they don’t open immediately, break in. You needn’t mind
making a noise. Only look sharp. Now, Mr. Boland, you told me your son
found these darts between eight and nine, but you didn’t ring up till
after eleven. I’m not finding fault, sir, but could you not have done
better than that?”
“Awfully sorry, Inspector, but you see I didn’t know about it. My wife
and I were dining out and the servant was on leave. The boy was alone
in the house. He’s only eight. Against orders he waited up for me, and
though I thought it was a hoax, I rang you up at once.”
“I understand, sir. It was not your fault, but it was a pity all the
same. Now, sergeant,” he went on to Biggle, “I want you to go back to
your office and put through a general call to all surrounding
stations. Describe the car and the party and give their direction as
far as we know it. Where would you get to if you went through
Farnham?”
“Southampton or Salisbury, I should think, sir.”
“Southampton it’ll be,” said French. “They’re making for the ships.
Well, ring up, will you, especially to Southampton and places on the
way there. Tell them all to report to you if there is news, and do you
stand by to repeat it to me when I ring up. That all clear?”
The sergeant repeated his instructions, and French hurried after
Carter. In some way the latter had obtained entrance, for a constable
stood guarding the open hall door. Within a rapid search was in
progress.
“Got in through the pantry window, sir,” said Carter, appearing
suddenly in the hall. “The house is deserted, but they’ve been coining
in the cellar, though the machines are gone. Down there, if you’d like
to have a look.”
“I’ll run down for a moment. Make sure that girl’s not in the house
and meet me in the hall.”
French’s “look,” brief though it was, left him still more impressed
with the amount of thought and labour that had been put into the
coining scheme. The cellar, a large, whitewashed room, had been fitted
up elaborately. The windows had been built up, but a system of Tobin’s
tubes had been installed for ventilation, and the place was
brilliantly lit with electric light. On the benches lay hundreds of
partially finished coins, tools and other debris. The places where
presses had stood were clearly marked, but all the machines had been
removed. There had been several of these, some, the foundations
suggested, of a considerable size.
The sight cleared up a point which had been bothering French, why the
gang had not made off more quickly after becoming suspicious that the
police were on their track. The removal of these machines supplied the
reason. These people were not going to give up coining because that
particular pitch had grown too hot for them. Clearly they were going
to break fresh ground and start again. In some other great city the
mortality among box office girls would soon be on the up-grade—unless
he, French, stopped it.
When he reached the hall Carter was descending the stairs. No, there
was no trace of anyone in the house, but there was a partially
furnished attic, the only room above the ground floor which showed
signs of recent occupation, in which the young lady might have been
imprisoned.
“And that,” went on Carter, “is next the field where Mr. Boland said
the darts were found. I expect she was there all right.”
“Very well; let’s get on.”
As none of French’s party knew the roads, they took a local constable
as guide. Warned of the urgency of the case, the driver put on every
ounce of power and they snorted on at a breakneck pace through the
night. Fortunately the road was good and other traffic practically
non-existent, or disaster might have overtaken them. French sat in
front, tense and watchful, though with his mind full of the problems
which still remained. He believed that this was the last lap and that
the party in front represented the entire gang. He could now see the
function of each. Trevellian, or Sibley, to make the stuff; Style to
take it to town and to obtain and bring down the raw materials;
Welland to see to its distribution; Gwen to trap the necessary girls
and doubtless do other odds and ends as might be required. And
Sibley’s guise of an author was just what might have been expected. It
would account for his living in the country as well as for his long
absences during the day. French could imagine the casual caller.
“Where is Mr. Trevellian? I should like to ask him so and so.” “Oh,
he’s writing. He doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s at work.” It
was a good, well-thought-out scheme. These people had deserved to
succeed.
Presently there came houses—Farnham.
A hurried call to Elmford told them that there was no news and the
chase was resumed. French was now much more anxious. He was running on
towards Southampton on the mere strength of his summing of the
probabilities. But he might be wrong. That start towards Farnham might
have been a blind, and every mile might easily be increasing his
distance from the quarry. If so, Molly Moran’s chances would be pretty
thin—assuming, indeed, that she were still alive.
But there was nothing else for it, and they hurried on. French glanced
at his watch; it was just past two o’clock. If the gang had gone this
way they must have passed nearly two hours earlier and nearly an hour
before he telephoned. If they had been seen it would only have been by
the merest chance.
At five minutes past two they ran into Alton and stopped at the police
station. Again no luck! The Elmford sergeant telephoned that he had
heard nothing.
The difficulty of French’s problem was now increased tenfold. Should
he go on? If the others were not making for Southampton, to do so
would probably mean losing them altogether. But there was no time for
hesitation. Rightly or wrongly, he would back his judgment.
“On towards Southampton,” he ordered, and once again they began their
mad rush through the endless night.
At twenty minutes to three they reached the suburbs of Winchester and
a couple of minutes later French was again ringing up Elmford. Then
his weight of fear and doubt was suddenly eased and he felt a thrill
of the keenest satisfaction. There was news!
On receiving Sergeant Biggle’s call the officer in charge at
Southampton had instantly sent men round the roads in the vicinity to
warn the patrols who were already out on their beats. Just five
minutes earlier one of these men had returned to say that a car
answering the description in question had passed through the village
of Old Netley at about two a.m. It had come from the direction of
Hedge End and gone on towards the sea. Hedge End was in a direct line
from Winchester to Netley.
“Netley! Hard as you like!” French cried as he swung himself back into
the car.
Luckily their guide had once been stationed at Southampton and knew
the district. They ran on at full speed to Botley, then turning back
west, went south through Hedge End. There they left the main road and
at a necessarily reduced speed ran through Old Netley and down to the
shore of Southampton Water at the end of the little town of Netley.
Here was another problem for French. The road down which they had come
debouched at right angles into a road running parallel to the shore.
Should they turn up or down channel?
“Where does that road go to?” he asked the guide, pointing down
towards the sea.
“Just to Netley town and the hospital, sir, though you can get on to
Hamble. But they wouldn’t have gone that way because there’s a direct
road from Winchester to Hamble through Hound.”
“Very well; turn to the right.”
This, the guide explained, would bring them in a couple of miles to
Southampton, through the suburb of Woolston. French, deciding that he
would make for the police station, nodded.
After passing a grove of trees at Hilton the road ran down along the
sea, being separated from the actual beach by a strip of unfenced
grass some thirty yards wide. To be so near a great port, the place
was extraordinarily secluded. The clouds had now uncovered the quarter
moon and so far as French could see in the dim light, there was not a
house in sight. Away in front were the lights of Southampton and out
on the water were the riding lights of steamers, with an occasional
twinkle from the Hythe shore opposite. But the nearer shore was dark
and deserted. Anything, thought French, might go on there and no one
would be a bit the wiser.
As he looked out over the black water his face suddenly grew grim. He
thought he could now account for the route the others had taken. They
were going to Southampton all right, but they had something to do
first. There was dangerous evidence—to be destroyed. There in the
water, somewhere out in the darkness towards Hythe he dared swear was
now floating the body of the poor little Irish girl. He sighed as he
thought of the narrow chance on which the thing had turned. If only
that man Boland had not been out when his son found the darts! Ah,
well, it couldn’t be mended now. But there was still one thing to be
seen to and French set his teeth as he thought of it. They should pay,
these ruffians, pay in full measure, pressed down and running over.
Until all four were either in jail or dead, he would not rest. Poor
little Molly!
And then something happened which completely altered his outlook and
set him thinking furiously. The road turned sharply inland and as they
swung round the bend they passed a man.
He was walking to meet them and owing to the curve he momentarily got
the full benefit of their headlights. But that moment was enough. In
spite of the fact that his hat was pulled down over his eyes and his
collar turned up about his cheeks, French recognized him. It was
Style!
French had never seen Style, but he had had so many descriptions of
him that no doubt was possible. The man was walking quickly as if late
for an appointment.
For five seconds French thought hard. Then as they passed round the
curve out of Style’s view he stopped the cars and hurriedly assembled
his men.
“Style!” he explained rapidly. “After him, but on your lives not a
sound!”
For big men, as most of the officers were, their movements were
surprisingly silent as they followed French at the double. When they
regained the shore the grass muffled their footsteps and such slight
sounds as they made were lost in the dreary moaning of the wind and
the plash of the waves on the beach. Presently they caught sight of
Style. He had left the road and was picking his way down to the
water’s edge. French and his followers dropped on their hands and
knees and crawled on till they were directly behind him.
Style, having reached the edge, stopped and stood looking out over the
water. He seemed to be doing something with his hands, but French
could not imagine what.
Then he knew. From the sea came three flashes as from an electric
torch, and with these as a guide French found he could detect a
blacker smudge against the dark water. A vessel of some kind, close
inshore and showing no lights.
As they watched, a second smaller smudge detached itself from the
other. Some one was coming ashore.
Almost instinctively a plan flashed into French’s mind. After a
whispered word to his men he began slowly to creep up behind Style.
Style seemed uneasy, but it was not till French was beside him that he
turned. At the same instant French sprang and with a muffled cry the
man came down.
He fought like a maniac, but Carter and Harvey had come up and he had
no chance. In a few seconds he was helpless, bound and gagged.
“Once again,” whispered French.
He had snatched off Style’s hat and putting this on and turning up his
collar, he stood waiting as the other had done. The boat was now close
inshore and revealed itself as a collapsible punt with a capacity for
two. A short, stout man was rowing.
“Thought you’d never be back,” the stout man grumbled as the punt
touched the ground. “For heaven’s sake look alive now. We don’t want
to be here all night.”
Further remark died off into a kind of gurgle. French had seized him
by the throat. This man also after the first moment of surprise fought
like a tiger, but once again the odds were too heavy. In a few seconds
he lay bound beside his accomplice.
“Now, Carter, it’s you and me for it,” French panted. “However many
there may be they’re two fewer for this. You, Harvey, get the others
and have those two men into one of the cars. Then come down and be
prepared to lend a hand.”
Rapidly they righted and emptied the boat, which had been upset in the
struggle, and French and Carter got in.
“I’ll row,” French decided. “I’m more the size of that second fellow.
You take Style’s hat and turn up your collar. And have your gun
ready.”
Old hand as he was, French’s heart was beating more rapidly than could
be accounted for by his scrap as he pulled out towards the launch.
These were desperate men, their escape almost consummated. They would
not lose their freedom for the sake of the lives of a couple of
policemen. French had no delusions as to the possibility that neither
he nor Carter might ever see another sunrise.
“We want to take them alive,” he said in low tones, “but if you see
them going to shoot get in first.”
The boat was closer inshore than French had supposed. As they came
close they saw that she was a motor launch of some forty-five feet
long. She seemed a sea boat, well decked over forward. On her deck
astern stood a man and woman.
“It’s about time you thought of coming,” called out the man when they
were within earshot. “What the —— hell were you monkeying about
ashore? We’ll not be clear of the Island by daylight at this rate.”
Welland! And the woman was certainly Gwen Lestrange! French murmured a
husky reply in a tone as like that of the former oarsman as he could.
But his effort was not good enough. The two started and called out
simultaneously in tones of urgent anxiety.
“Sibley!” cried Welland. “Speak clearly, can’t you!” While Gwen
shouted: “Jim! Is that you? Answer!”
French put down his head and pulled with all his might. The boat
bounded forward. There was a sudden scuffle on deck. “Look out, it’s
French!” came in a shrill scream from Gwen, while with a savage oath
Welland roared: “Start the —— engine! For your life, Gwen! I’ll pot
them if they try to come aboard!” The voices of both had an edge of
desperate urgency.
Like a flash the girl leaped to the cabin door, and after fumbling at
its lock, disappeared within. Welland at the same time dashed across
the deck, seized what appeared to be a top coat and began hurriedly
searching its pockets. At that moment the boat came alongside and both
French and Carter sprang at the rail and began to climb aboard. But
they were too late. Before French reached the deck Welland found what
he wanted. His hand flew up and in it was something shining. And then,
just as he was about to fire, a flying figure appeared from the
cabin—the figure of a girl. She dashed to Welland and as the jet of
flame spurted from the pistol, struck desperately at his arm. French
felt a searing pain in his head, but he was not disabled and he sprang
across the deck to Welland. He had a vision of the girl reeling wildly
back, and with her scream ringing in his ears, he closed. For a moment
it seemed as if things would go badly with him. Welland was the bigger
man and he was evidently in excellent training. He got in a lefthander
over French’s heart which left the latter sick and quivering. But
French concentrated his whole will power on holding his grip of the
other’s wrist and preventing him turning the pistol inwards. Then
Carter joined in and the thing was a matter of time. In three minutes
Welland was bound like his confrères ashore.
“Look out for Gwen,” gasped French, as he dragged himself over to
where Molly Moran lay in a motionless heap against the deckhouse wall.
Carter locked the cabin door, then turned to help French with the
unconscious girl. They stretched her out on the deck and bathed her
face and hands.
“Only stunned, I think,” French went on hoarsely. “I suppose you
realize, Carter, that if she hadn’t been such a plucky one you and I
would be down in Davy Jones’s locker now. You owe your life to her,
man, and so do I.”
“I didn’t see just what happened. It was all over and we were
scrapping round before I knew where I was.”
“It’s clear enough what happened. They had locked her in the cabin and
when Gwen went to start the engine she didn’t wait to close the door.
Molly dashed out and knocked up this beauty’s hand as he was firing.
It was a close thing, Carter. I felt a bullet pass my head. Ah, there.
Thank God for that!”
Molly had opened her eyes and was making a pathetic attempt to smile.
At sight of it French forgot himself in the most lamentable manner.
Fortunately no one who mattered was there to see his lapse.
French—alas that it must be recorded!—caught the girl up in his arms
and implanted not one but two hearty kisses on her mouth.
“My word, Molly, but you’re the goods!” he declared in rather shaky
tones. “If I was about a hundred years younger and there was no Mrs.
French you’d be listening to a proposal of matrimony. You’re really
nothing the worse, child?”
And the abandoned creature, instead of indignantly protesting against
his conduct and demanding a commission of inquiry into the whole
circumstances, smiled up into his face and agreed that, everything
considered, she was really very well indeed.