Unconscious of the fact that she had been shadowed, Mary Lane reached
her objective. She was in a small paved courtyard which was made faintly
malodorous by the presence of an ash-can that had not been emptied for a
week. She moved cautiously, finding her way forward step by step with
the aid of a tiny electric torch which she had taken from her hand-bag.
At the end of the courtyard was a small door, flanked on one side by a
window.
For a little while she stood on the doorstep, listening. Her heart was
beating faster; she was curiously short of breath. Her early morning
resolution to abandon her ridiculous quest came back with a stronger
urge. It was absurd of her, and a little theatrical (she told herself)
to continue these excursions into a realm in which she had no place.
Police work was, in its most elementary phase, men's work.
The quietness of the night, the sense of complete isolation, the gloom
and drabness which the falling rain seemed to emphasise, all these
things worked on her nerves.
She took from her bag the replica key that Surefoot had had cut for her,
and, finding the keyhole, pushed in the key. The truth or futility of
her theory was to be put to the test.
For a moment, as she tried to turn the key, it seemed that she had made
a mistake, and she was almost grateful. And then, as she slightly
altered its position, she felt it turn and the lock snapped back with a
loud "click!"
She was trembling; her knees seemed suddenly incapable of supporting the
weight of her body; her breathing became painfully shallow. Here her
experiment should have ended, and she should have gone back the way she
came, but the spirit of adventure flickered up feebly and she pushed
open the door. It opened without sound, and she peered into the dark
interior fearfully. Should she go in? Reason said "No!" but reason might
be womanly cowardice--a fear of the dark and the bogies that haunt the
dark.
She pushed the door open wider and went in one step. She flashed the
lamp around and saw nothing.
Then out of the darkness came a sound that froze her blood--the
whimpering of a woman.
Her scalp tingled with terror; she thought she was going to faint. It
came from below her feet, and yet from somewhere immediately before her,
as though there were two distinct sounds.
The beam of light she cast ahead wobbled so that she could not see what
it revealed. She steadied her arm against the wall and saw what looked
like a cupboard door. To this she crept and listened.
Yes, the sound came from there and below. It was the entrance to a
cellar. She tried the cupboard door; it was locked. And then there came
to her an unaccountable fear, greater than any she had experienced
before--there was danger, near, very near; a menace beyond her
understanding.
She turned and stood, petrified with horror. The door was slowly
closing. She leaped forward and caught its edge, but somebody was
pressing it, and that somebody was in the room, had been standing behind
the opened door all the time she had been there.
As she opened her lips to scream a big hand closed over her mouth,
another gripped her shoulder and jerked her back violently, as the door
closed with a crash.
"Oh, Miss Lane, how could you?"
The mincing tone, the falsetto voice, the artificial refinement of it
were unmistakable. She had heard that voice at Kellner's Hotel when she
had met Mr. Washington Wirth. She struggled madly, but the man held her
without difficulty.
"May I suggest, my dear young friend, that you keep quiet and save me
from the necessity of cutting your darling little throat?"
Behind the spurious courtesy of that hateful voice lay a threat,
horribly, significantly sincere. She knew him now: he would kill her
with as little compunction as he would slaughter a rabbit. It was not
perhaps expedient to carry out this threat immediately, and her only
hope of salvation lay with her wits.
With a moan she went limp in his arms, and he was so unprepared for this
that he nearly dropped her and dropped with her, for the sudden collapse
almost threw him off his balance. Clumsily he laid her down on the stone
floor.
She heard his exclamation of anger, and, after a while the jingle of
keys. He was unlocking the cupboard door.
Noiselessly she rose and felt for the door knob. It turned without a
sound, and in a second she had flung open the door and was racing across
the courtyard. He was too late to stop her, and she was in the deserted
side street before he recovered from his surprise. A few minutes later
she had reached a main road; ahead of her she saw two policemen, and her
first instinct was to fly to them and tell them of her adventure. She
hesitated; they would think she was mad, and besides----
"Hullo, Miss Lane! You gave me a fright."
It was the detective who had been following her all the evening, and he
did not hide his relief.
"Where on earth did you get to? I'm Stenford from Scotland Yard. Mr.
Smith told me that you knew I was trailing you."
She could have fallen on his neck in her gratitude--she was horrified to
discover that she was hysterical. She gasped her story; he listened,
incredulous.
"Have you got the key?"
She shook her head: she had left it in the door.
"I'll take you home, Miss Lane, and then I'll report to Mr. Smith."
He was a young detective, full of zeal, and he had hardly left her at
the door of her flat before he was racing back to conduct a little
investigation on his own before reporting the sum of his discovery to
Surefoot Smith.
Mary made herself a cup of tea and sat down to steady her nerves before
she went to bed. The flat seemed terribly lonely. Odd noises, common to
all houses, kept her jumping. She realised that she would not sleep that
night except in other and less nerve-wearing surroundings, and was
reaching for the telephone when its bell rang sharply--so unexpectedly
that she jumped.
It was the voice of Surefoot Smith, urgent and anxious.
"That you, Miss Lane? Listen--and get this quickly! Go to your front
door and bolt it! You're not to open the door until I come--I'll be with
you in ten minutes."
"But----"
"Do as I tell you!"
She heard a click as he rang off. She was in a panic. Surefoot would not
have been so alarming unless her situation was a perilous one.
She went out into the hall. It was in darkness. She knew that she had
left a light burning. Acting on blind impulse, she darted back into the
room she had left, slammed the door and shot home a bolt. As she did so
a heavy weight was flung against the door, the weight of a man's body.
There were no arms in the room--nothing more formidable than a pair of
scissors.
Crash!
The door shook; one of the panels bulged. She turned quickly and
switched out the light.
"I have a revolver and I'll fire if you don't go away!" she cried.
There was a silence. She flung up the window. She must be a good actress
or die.
"Mr. Smith! Is that you? Come up the fire escape!" She screamed the
words.
Again the door crashed, and she had an inspiration. She took up the
telephone.
"Get the police station--tell them a man named Moran is trying to break
into my room--Leo Moran--please remember the name in case anything
happens...."
She left the receiver off and crept to the door. Stealthy feet were
moving along the corridor; the sound became less audible and ceased.
Mary Lane sank down on to the floor, and this time there was nothing
theatrical in her swoon. It was the frantic knocking on the door and the
voice of Dick Allenby that brought her, reeling, to her feet. She drew
the bolt to admit him and the detective. She had hardly begun to tell
her story when she fainted again.
"Better get a nurse," said Surefoot. "Phew! I never expected to find her
alive!"
An agitated Dick, engaged in bathing the white face of the girl, was not
even interested to ask how Surefoot learned of the girl's danger. Mr.
Smith's officer had found him at his club and the two men had arrived
simultaneously.
"I got a 'phone call from the detective who was shadowing her, giving me
the story she had told. I told him to go straight back to her flat and
stay there till I came. About half an hour later the simpleton called me
up and said he'd searched the place and found nobody. Can you beat that?
And then, of course, a trunk call from Birmingham came on the line and
cut me off. I got rid of it and called Miss Lane--I should have called
the nearest police station, but I worked it out that I'd be at the flat
before they could deal with the matter. My officer called you at your
club and got you?"
Mary had opened her eyes, and a few minutes later was sitting up, very
white and shaken, but calm enough to tell her story. Throughout that
night Scotland Yard officers combed London and the suburbs for their
man. "May be accompanied by a woman," the official warning ran, and
there was added a description of the wanted pair.
On the advice of Surefoot, Mary moved into an hotel. It was a quiet
hostelry near the Haymarket. Surefoot had an idea that no harm would
come to the girl now that Mr. Washington Wirth's secret was out. He
might kill her to avoid the embarrassment of identification, but now
that she had spoken she was no longer a menace to his security.
"I hope so, at any rate," she said ruefully. "I am a failure as a
detective."
Surefoot sniffed.
"I'm a bad man to ask for compliments," he said. "Beyond the fact that
you've found our man and proved it, and apart from what I might call the
circumstance that you've discovered how the forgeries were wangled,
you've been perfectly useless!"
On the night of the girl's adventure Surefoot had cabled to his friend
in New York the particulars of the English gangster who was at large in
England. He went farther and arranged for the New York Police Department
to cable the photograph of the man to Scotland Yard. A description would
have been sufficient. There was no mistaking. The day the photograph
was received, Surefoot had gone to call on the directors of Moran's
bank. A very careful audit had been made of the bank accounts, but no
further defalcations had been unearthed.
He was leaving when the general manager, who had placed the facts before
him, remarked:
"By the way, I suppose you know that Moran's service in the bank was
interrupted when he went to America? He was there three or four years.
We have reason to believe that he was engaged in some sort of
speculative business--he never gave us any particulars about it."
"That's odd," said Surefoot.
He did not explain where the oddness lay.
"He has also a large interest in Cassari Oils, which have had such a
sensational rise," said the manager. "I only discovered this a few days
ago."
"I have known it for quite a long time," said Surefoot grimly, "and I
can tell you something: he has made nearly a million out of the stock."
The man's eyebrows rose.
"So there was no need for him to be dishonest?"
"There never was," said Surefoot cryptically.
In these days Dick Allenby was a busy man. As principal heir to his
uncle he had an immense amount of work to do. The late Mr. Lyne had
certain interests in France which had to be liquidated. Dick took the
afternoon boat express to Paris.
Between Ashford and Dover there had been a derailment on the day before,
and the passenger trains were being worked on a single line. There was
very little delay occasioned by this method of working the traffic,
except that it necessitated the boat train being brought to a standstill
at a little station near Sandling Junction.
The Continental train drew slowly into the station and stopped. There
was another train waiting to proceed in the opposite direction. As they
were going to move Dick turned his head idly, as passengers will, and
scrutinised the other passengers.
The Pullman car was passing at a snail's pace. The long body drew out of
view and there came a coupé compartment at the end of the car. A man was
sitting in the corner, reading a newspaper. As the trains passed he put
the paper down and turned his head. It was Leo Moran!