An Amateur Sleuth
Cheyne’s great idea was that instead of proceeding directly to the
police station and lodging an information against his captors, as he
had at first intended, he should himself attempt to follow them to
their lair. To enter upon a battle of wits with such men would be a
sport more thrilling than big game hunting, more exciting than war,
and if by his own unaided efforts he could bring about their undoing
he would not only restore his self-respect, which had suffered a nasty
jar, but might even recover for Arnold Price the documents which he
required for his claim to the barony of Hull.
Whether he was wise in this decision was another matter, but with
Maxwell Cheyne impulse ruled rather than colder reason, the desire of
the moment rather than adherence to calculated plan. Therefore
directly a way in which he could begin the struggle occurred to him,
he was all eagerness to set about carrying it out.
The essence of his plan was haste, and he therefore bent lustily to
his oars, sending the tiny craft bounding over the wavelets of the
estuary and leaving a wake of bubbles from its foaming stem. In a few
minutes he had reached the shore immediately beneath Warren Lodge,
tied the painter round a convenient boulder, and racing over the rocky
beach, had set off running towards the house.
It was a short though stiff climb, but he did not spare himself, and
he reached the garden wall within three minutes of leaving the boat.
As he turned in through the gate he looked back over the panorama of
sea, the whole expanse of which was visible from this point, measuring
with his eye the distance to Inner Froward Point, the headland at the
opposite side of the bay, around which the _Enid_ had just
disappeared. She was going east, up channel, but he did not think she
was traveling fast enough to defeat his plans.
Another minute brought him to the house, and there, in less time than
it takes to tell, he had seen his sister, explained that he might not
be back that night, obtained some money, donned his leggings and
waterproof, and starting up his motor bike, had set off to ride into
Dartmouth.
Pausing for a moment at the boat slip to tell Johnson of the
whereabouts of his dinghy, he reached the ferry and got across the
river to Kingswear with the minimum of delay possible. Then once more
mounting his machine, he rode rapidly off towards the east.
The land lying eastward of Dartmouth forms a peninsula shaped roughly
like an inverted cone, truncated, and connected to the mainland by a
broad isthmus at the northwest corner. The west side is bounded by the
river Dart, with Dartmouth and Kingswear to the southwest, while on
the other three sides is the sea. Brixham is a small town at the
northeast corner, while further north beyond the isthmus are the
larger towns of Paignton and, across Tor Bay, Torquay.
Most of the ground on the peninsula is high, and the road from
Kingswear in the southwest corner to Brixham in the northeast crosses
a range of hills from which a good view of Tor Bay and the sea to the
north and east is obtainable. Should the _Enid_ have been bound for
Torquay, Teignmouth, Exmouth, or any of the seaports close by, she
would pass within view of this road, whereas if she was going right up
Channel past Portland Bill she would go nearly due east from the
Froward Points. Cheyne’s hope was that he should reach this viewpoint
before she would have had time to get out of sight had she been on the
former course, so that her presence or absence would indicate the
route she was pursuing.
But when, having reached the place, he found that no trace of the
_Enid_ was to be seen, he realized that he had made a mistake. From
Inner Froward Point to Brixham was only about seven miles, to Paignton
about ten, and to Torquay eleven or twelve. The longest of these
distances the launch should do in about twenty-five minutes, and as in
spite of all his haste no less than forty-seven minutes had elapsed
since he stepped into the dinghy, the test was evidently useless.
But having come so far, he was not going to turn back without making
some further effort. The afternoon was still young, the day was fine,
he had had his lunch and cycling was pleasant. He would ride along the
coast and make some inquiries.
He dropped down the hill into Brixham, and turning to the left, pulled
up at the little harbor. A glance showed him that the _Enid_ was not
there. He therefore turned his machine, and starting once more, ran
the five miles odd to Paignton at something well above the legal
limit.
Inquiries at the pier produced no result, but as he turned away he had
a stroke of unexpected luck. Meeting a coastguard, he stopped and
questioned him, and was overjoyed when the man told him that though no
launch had come into Paignton that morning, he had about
three-quarters of an hour earlier seen one crossing the bay from the
south and evidently making for Torquay.
Quivering with eagerness, Cheyne once more started up his bicycle. He
took the three miles to Torquay at a reckless speed and there received
his reward. Lying at moorings in the inner harbor was the _Enid_.
Leaving the bicycle in charge of a boy, Cheyne stepped up to a group
of longshoremen and made his inquiries. Yes, the launch there had just
come in, half an hour or more back. Two men had come off her and had
handed her over to Hugh Leigh, the boatman. Leigh was a tall stout man
with a black beard: in fact, there he was himself behind that yellow
and white boat.
Impetuous though he was, Cheyne’s knowledge of human nature told him
that in dealing with his fellows the more haste frequently meant the
less speed. He therefore curbed his impatience and took a leisurely
tone with the boatman.
“Good-day to you,” he began. “I see you have the _Enid_ there. Is she
long in?”
“’Bout ’arf an hour, sir,” the man returned.
“I was to have met her,” Cheyne went on, “but I’m afraid I have missed
my friends. You don’t happen to know which direction they went in?”
“Took a keb, sir: taxi. Went towards the station.”
The station! That was an idea at least worth investigating. He slipped
the man a couple of shillings lest his good offices should be required
in the future, and hurrying back to his bicycle was soon at the place
in question. Here, though he could find no trace of his quarry, he
learned that a train had left for Newton Abbot at 3:33—five minutes
earlier. It looked very much as if his friends had traveled by it.
For those who are not clear as to the geography of South Devon, it may
be explained that Newton Abbot lies on the main line of the Great
Western Railway between Paddington and Cornwall, with Exeter twenty
miles to the northeast and Plymouth some thirty odd to the southwest.
At Newton Abbot the line throws off a spur, which, passing through
Torquay and Paignton, has its terminus at Kingswear, from which there
is a ferry connection to Dartmouth on the opposite side of the river.
From Torquay to Newton Abbot is only about six miles, and there is a
good road between the two. Cheyne, therefore, hearing that the train
had left only five minutes earlier and knowing that there would be a
delay at the junction waiting for the main line train, at once saw
that he had a good chance of overtaking it.
He did not stop to ask questions, but leaping once more on his
machine, did the six miles at the highest speed he dared. At precisely
4:00 P.M. he pushed the bicycle into Newton Abbot station, and handing
half a crown to a porter, told him to look after it until his return.
Hasty inquiries informed him that the train with which that from
Torquay connected was a slow local from Plymouth to Exeter. It had not
yet arrived, but was due directly. It stopped for seven minutes, being
scheduled out at 4:10 P.M. On chance Cheyne bought a third single to
Exeter, and putting up his collar, pulling down his hat over his eyes
and affecting a stoop, he passed on to the platform. A few people were
waiting, but a glance told him that neither Price nor Lewisham was
among them.
As, however, they might be watching from the shelter of one of the
waiting rooms, he strolled away towards the Exeter end of the
platform. As he did so the train came in from Plymouth, the engine
stopping just opposite where he was standing. He began to move back,
so as to keep a sharp eye on those getting in. But at once a familiar
figure caught his eye and he stood for a moment motionless.
The coach next the engine was a third, and in the corner of its fourth
compartment sat Lewisham!
Fortunately he was sitting with his back to the engine and he did not
see Cheyne approaching from behind. Fortunately, also, the opposite
corner was occupied by a lady, as, had Price been there, Cheyne would
unquestionably have been discovered.
Retreating quickly, but with triumph in his heart, Cheyne got into the
end compartment of the coach. It was already occupied by three other
men, two sitting in the corner seats next the platform, the third with
his back to the engine at the opposite end. Cheyne dropped into the
remaining corner seat—facing the engine and next the corridor. He did
not then realize the important issues that hung on his having taken up
this position, but later he marveled at the lucky chance which had
placed him there.
As the train proceeded he had an opportunity, for the first time since
embarking on this wild chase, of calmly considering the position, and
he at once saw that the fugitives’ moves up to the present had been
dictated by their circumstances and were almost obligatory.
First, he now understood that they _must_ have landed at Brixham,
Paignton, or Torquay, and of these Torquay was obviously most suitable
to their purpose, being larger than the others and their arrival
therefore attracting correspondingly less attention. But they must
have landed at one of the three places, as they were the only ports
which they could reach before he, Cheyne, would have had time to give
the alarm. Suppose he had lodged information with the police
immediately on getting ashore, it would have been simply impossible
for the others to have entered any other port without fear of arrest.
But at Paignton or Torquay they were safe. By no possible chance could
the machinery of the law have been set in motion in time to apprehend
them.
He saw also how the men came to be seated in the train from Plymouth
when it reached Newton Abbot, and here again he was lost in admiration
at the way in which the pair had laid their plans. The first station
on the Plymouth side of Newton Abbot was Totnes, and from Torquay to
Totnes by road was a matter of only some ten miles. They would just
have had time to do the distance, and there was no doubt that Totnes
was the place to which their taxi had taken them. In the event,
therefore, of an immediate chase, there was every chance of the scent
being temporarily lost at Torquay.
These thoughts had scarcely passed through Cheyne’s mind when the
event happened which caused him to congratulate himself on the seat he
was occupying. At the extreme end of the coach, immediately in advance
of his compartment, was the lavatory, and at this moment, just as they
were stopping at Teignmouth, a man carrying a small kitbag passed
along the corridor and entered. Approaching from behind Cheyne, he did
not see the latter’s face, but Cheyne saw him. It was Price!
Cheyne took an engagement book from his pocket and bent low over it,
lest the other should recognize him on his return. But Price remained
in the lavatory until they reached Dawlish, and here another stroke of
luck was in store for Cheyne. At Dawlish, at which they stopped a few
moments later, his vis-à-vis alighted, and Cheyne immediately changed
his seat. When, therefore, just before the train started, Price left
the lavatory, he again approached Cheyne from behind and again failed
to see his face.
As he passed down the corridor Cheyne stared at him. While in the
lavatory he had effected a wondrous change in his appearance. Gone now
was the small dark mustache and the glasses, his hat was of a
different type and his overcoat of a different color. Cheyne watched
him pause hesitatingly at the door of the next compartment and finally
enter.
For some moments as the train rattled along towards Exeter, Cheyne
failed to grasp the significance of this last move. Then he saw that
it was, as usual, part of a well-thought-out scheme. Approaching
Teignmouth, Price had evidently left his compartment—almost certainly
the fourth, where Lewisham sat—as if he were about to alight at the
station. Instead of doing so, he had entered the lavatory. Disguised,
or, more probably, with a previous disguise removed, he had left it
before the train started from Dawlish, and appearing at the door of
the second compartment, had attempted to convey the idea, almost
certainly with success, that he had just joined the train.
A further thought made Cheyne swing across again to the seat facing
the engine. They were approaching Starcross. Would Lewisham adopt the
same subterfuge at this station? But he did not, and they reached
Exeter without further adventure.
The train going no further, all passengers had to alight. Cheyne was
in no hurry to move, and by the time he left the carriage Price and
Lewisham were already far down the platform. He wished that he in his
turn could find a false mustache and glasses, but he realized that if
he kept his face hidden, his clothes were already a satisfactory
disguise. He watched the two men begin to pace the platform, and soon
felt satisfied that they were proceeding by a later train.
They had reached Exeter at 5:02 P.M. Two expresses left the station
shortly after, the 5:25 for Liverpool, Manchester and the north, and
the 5:42 for London. Cheyne sat down on a deserted seat near the end
of the platform and bent his head over his notebook while he watched
the others.
The 5:25 for the north arrived and left, and still the two men
continued pacing up and down. “For London,” thought Cheyne, and
slipping off to the booking hall he bought a first single for
Paddington. If the men were traveling third, he would be better in a
different class.
When the London express rolled majestically in, Price and Lewisham
entered a third near the front of the train. Satisfied that he was
still unobserved, Cheyne got into the first class diner farther back.
He had not been very close to the men, but he noticed that Lewisham
had also made some alteration in his appearance, which explained his
not having changed in the lavatory on the local train.
The express was very fast, stopping only once—at Taunton. Here Cheyne,
having satisfied himself that his quarry had not alighted, settled
himself with an easy mind to await the arrival at Paddington. He dined
luxuriously, and when at nine precisely they drew up in the terminus,
he felt extremely fit and ready for any adventure that might offer
itself.
From the pages of the many works of detective fiction which he had at
one time or another digested, he knew exactly what to do. Jumping out
as the train came to rest, he hurried along the platform until he had
a view of the carriage in which the others had traveled. Then, keeping
carefully in the background, he awaited developments.
Soon he saw the men alight, cross the platform and engage a taxi. This
move also he was prepared for. Taking a taxi in his turn, he bent
forward and said to the driver what the sleuths of his novels had so
often said to their drivers in similar circumstances: “Follow that
taxi. Ten bob extra if you keep it in sight.”
The driver looked at him curiously, but all he said was: “Right y’are,
guv’nor,” and they slipped out at the heels of the other vehicle into
the crowded streets.
Cheyne’s driver was a skillful man and they kept steadily behind the
quarry, not close enough to excite suspicion, but too near to run any
risk of being shaken off. Cheyne was chuckling excitedly and hugging
himself at the success of his efforts thus far when, with the
extraordinary capriciousness that Fate so often shows, his luck
turned.
They had passed down Praed Street and turned up Edgware Road, and it
was just where the latter merges into Maida Vale that the blow fell.
Here the street was up and the traffic was congested. Both vehicles
slackened down, but whereas the leader got through without a stop,
Cheyne’s was held up to give the road to cross traffic. In vain Cheyne
chafed and fretted; the raised arm of the law could not be
disregarded, and when at last they were free to go forward, all trace
of the other taxi had vanished.
In vain the driver put on a spurt. There were scores of vehicles ahead
and a thousand and one turnings off the straight road. In a few
minutes Cheyne had to recognize that the game was up and that he had
lost his chance.
He stopped and took counsel with his driver, with the result that he
decided to go back to Paddington in the hope that when the other taxi
had completed its run it would return to the station rank. He had been
near enough to take its number, and his man was able to give him the
other driver’s address, in case the latter went home instead of to the
station.
Having reserved a room at the Station Hotel and written a brief note
to his sister saying that his business had brought him to London and
that he would let her know when he was returning, he lit his pipe, and
turning up the collar of his coat, fell to pacing up and down the
platform alongside the cab rank. He was relieved to find that vehicles
were still turning up and taking their places at the end of the line,
and he eagerly scanned the number plate of each arrival. For endless
aeons of time he seemed to wait, and then at last, a few minutes
before ten, his patience was rewarded. Taxi Z1729 suddenly appeared
and drew into position.
In a moment Cheyne was beside its driver.
“Ten bob over the fare if you’ll take me quickly to where you set down
those two men you got off the Cornish express,” he said in a low eager
voice.
This man also looked at him curiously and answered, “Right y’are,
guv’nor,” then having paused to say something to the driver of the
leading car on the rank, they turned out into Praed Street.
The man drove rapidly along Edgware Road, through Maida Vale and on
into a part of the town unfamiliar to Cheyne. As they rattled through
the endless streets Cheyne instructed him not to stop at the exact
place, but slightly short of it, as he wished to complete the journey
on foot. It seemed a very long distance, but still the man kept
steadily on. The town was now taking on a suburban appearance and here
and there vacant building lots were to be seen.
Presently they passed an ornate building which Cheyne recongized as
the tube station at Hendon, and shortly afterwards the vehicle
stopped. Cheyne got out and looked about him, while the driver
explained the lie of the land.
They had turned at right angles off the main thoroughfare leading from
town into a road which bore the imposing title of “Hopefield Avenue.”
This penetrated into what seemed to be an estate recently handed over
to the jerry-builder, for all around were small detached and
semi-detached houses in various stages of construction. Many were
complete and occupied, but in scores of other cases the vacant lots
still remained, untouched save for their “To let for building”
signboards.
Leaving the taxi in a deserted crossroad, the driver signified to
Cheyne that they should go forward on foot. A hundred yards farther on
they reached another cross-road—the place was laid out in squares like
an American city—and there the driver pointed to a house in the
opposite angle, intimating that this was their goal.
It was a small detached villa surrounded by a privet hedge and a few
small trees and shrubs, evidently not long planted. The two adjoining
lots, both along Hopefield Avenue and down the crossroad—Alwyn Road,
Cheyne saw its name was—were vacant. Facing it on both streets were
finished and occupied houses, but in the angle diagonally opposite was
a new building whose walls were only half up.
Thrilled with eager anticipation and excitement, Cheyne dismissed the
driver with his ten-shilling tip and then turned to examine his
surroundings more carefully, and to devise a plan of campaign for his
attack on the enemy’s stronghold.
He began by crossing Alwyn Road and walking along Hopefield Avenue
past the house, while he examined it as well as he could by the light
of the street lamps. It was a two-story building of rather pleasing
design, apparently quite new, and conforming to the type of small
suburban villas springing up by thousands all around London. As far as
he could make out it had the usual rectangular plan, a red-tiled roof
with deep overhanging eaves and a large porch with above it a balcony,
roofed over but open in front. A narrow walk edged with flower beds
led across the forty or fifty feet of lawn between the road and the
hall door. On the green gate Cheyne could just make out the words
“Laurel Lodge” in white letters. So far as he could see the house
appeared to be deserted, the windows and fanlight being in darkness.
After the two vacant lots was a half-finished house.
Returning presently, he passed the house again, this time rounding its
corner and walking down Alwyn Road. Between the first vacant lot and
Laurel Lodge ran a narrow lane, evidently intended to be the approach
to the back premises of the future houses.
Glancing round and seeing that no one was in sight, Cheyne slipped
into this lane, and crouching behind a shrub, examined the back of
Laurel Lodge.
It was very dark in the lane. Presently it would be lighter, as a
quadrant moon was rising, but for the moment everything outside the
radius of the street lamps was hidden in a black pall. The outline of
the house was just discernible against the sky, though Cheyne could
not from here make out the details of its construction. But, standing
out sharply against its black background, was one brightly illuminated
rectangle—a window on the first floor.
The window was open at the top, and the light colored blind was pulled
down, though even from where he stood Cheyne could see that it did not
entirely reach the bottom of the opening. Even as he watched a shadow
appeared on the blind. It was a man’s head and shoulders and it
remained steady for a moment, then moved slowly out of sight.
Stealthily Cheyne edged his way forward. The back premises of Laurel
Lodge were separated from the lane by a gate, and this Cheyne opened
silently, passing within. Gradually he worked his way round a tiny
greenhouse and between a few flower beds until he reached the wall of
the house. There he listened intently, but no sound came from above.
“If only I could get up to the window,” he thought, “I could see in
under the blind.”
But there was no roof or tree upon which he might have climbed, and he
stood motionless, undecided what to do next.
Suddenly an idea occurred to him, and full once more of eager
excitement, he carefully retraced his steps until he reached the lane.
It ran on between rough wire palings, past the two vacant lots and
behind the adjoining half-finished house. Cheyne followed it until he
reached the half-completed building, and then entering, he began to
search for a short ladder.
Every moment the light of the rising moon was increasing, and after
stumbling about and making noises which sent him into a cold sweat of
apprehension, he succeeded, partly by sight and partly by feeling, in
finding what he wanted. Then with great care he lifted it into the
lane and bore it back to Laurel Lodge.
With infinite pains he carried it through the gate, round the
greenhouse, and past the flower beds to the house. Then fixing the
bottom on the grass plot which surrounded the building, he lowered it
gently against the wall at the side of the window.
A moment later he reached the slot of clear glass showing beneath the
blind and peered into the room. There he saw a sight so unexpected
that in spite of his precarious position a cry of surprise all but
escaped him.