The New Firm Gets Busy
Cheyne and Joan Merrill took a Wembley Park train from Baker Street
shortly before nine that evening, and a few minutes later alighted at
the station whose name was afterwards to become a household word
throughout the length and breadth of the British Empire. But at that
time the Exhibition was not yet thought of, and the ground, which was
later to hum with scores of thousands of visitors from all parts of
the world, was now a dark and deserted plain.
When the young people left the station and began to look around them,
they found that they had reached the actual fringe of the metropolis.
Towards London were the last outlying rows of detached and
semidetached houses of the standard suburban type. In the opposite
direction, towards Harrow, was the darkness of open country. Judging
by the number of lights that were visible, this country was
extraordinarily sparsely inhabited.
Guarded inquiries from the railway officials had evoked the
information that Dalton Road lay some ten minutes’ walk from the
station in a northeasterly direction, and thither the two set off.
They passed along with circumspection, keeping as far as possible from
the street lamps and with their coat collars turned up and the brims
of their hats pulled down over their eyes. But the place was deserted.
During the whole of their walk they met only one person—a man going
evidently to the station, and he strode past with barely a glance.
Dalton Road proved, save for its street lamps and footpath, to be
little more than a lane. It led somewhat windingly in an easterly
direction off the main road. The country at this point was more
thickly populated and there was quite a number of houses in view. All
were built in the style of forty years ago, and were nearly all
detached, standing in small grounds or lots. Here and there were fine
old trees which looked as if they must have been in existence long
before the houses, and most of the lots were well supplied with shrubs
and with high and thick partition hedges.
Nearly all the gates bore names, and as the two young people walked
along, they had no difficulty in identifying Earlswood. There was a
lamp at the other side of the road which enabled them to read the
white letters on their green ground. Without pausing they glanced
around, noting what they could of their surroundings.
A narrow lane running north and south intersected Dalton Road at this
point, and in each of the four angles were houses. That in the
southwest corner was undergoing extension, the side next the lane
showing scaffolding and half-built brick walls. The two adjoining
corners were occupied by houses which presented no interesting
features, and in the fourth corner, diagonally opposite that of the
building operations, stood Earlswood. All four houses were surrounded
by unusually large lots containing plenty of trees. Earlswood was
particularly secluded, the hall door being almost hidden from both
road and lane by hedges and shrubs.
“Lucky it’s got all those trees about it,” Cheyne whispered as they
passed on down Dalton Road. “If we have to burgle it we can do it
without being overlooked by the neighbors.”
They continued on their way until they found that Dalton Road
debouched on a wide thoroughfare which inquiries showed was Watling
Street, the main road between London and St. Albans. Then retracing
their steps to Earlswood, they followed the cross lane, first south,
which brought them back to Wembley, and north, which after about a
mile brought them out on the Harrow Road. Having thus learned the lie
of the land so as to know where to head in case a sudden flight became
necessary, they returned once more to Earlswood to attempt a closer
examination of the house.
They had noticed when passing along the cross lane beside the house to
which the extension was being made that a gap had been broken in the
hedge for the purpose of getting in the building materials. This was
closed only by a wooden slat. With one consent they made for the gap,
slipped through, and crouching in the shadow of the shrubs within, set
themselves to watch Earlswood.
No light showed in any of the front windows, and as soon as Miss
Merrill was seated on a bundle of brushwood sheltered from the light
but rather chilly wind, Cheyne crept out to reconnoiter more closely.
Making sure that no one was approaching, he slipped through the hedge,
and then crossing both road and lane diagonally, passed down the lane
at the side of Earlswood.
There was no gap in the Earlswood hedge, but just as in the case of
that other similarly situated house which he had investigated, a
narrow lane ran along at the bottom of the tiny garden behind. Cheyne
turned into this and stood looking at the back of the house. The whole
proceeding seemed familiar, a repetition of his actions on the night
he traced the gang to Hopefield Avenue.
But the back of this house was in darkness, and pushing open a gate,
he passed from the lane to the garden and silently approached the
building. A path led straight from gate to door, a side door
evidently, as the walled-in yard was on his left hand. Another path to
the right led round the house to the hall door in the front.
Cheyne walked slowly round, examining doors and windows. All of these
were fastened and he did not see how without breaking the glass he
could force an entrance. But he found a window at the back, the sash
of which was loose and easy fitting, and decided that in case of need
he would operate on this.
Having learned everything he could, he retraced his steps to his
companion and they held a whispered consultation. Cheyne was for
taking the opportunity of the house being empty to make an attempt
then and there to get in. But Miss Merrill would not hear of it. Such
a venture, she said, would require very careful thought as well as
apparatus which they had not got. “Besides,” she added, “you’ve done
enough for one night. Remember you’re not completely well yet.”
“Oh, blow my health; I’m perfectly all right,” he whispered back, but
he had to admit her other arguments were sound and the two, cautiously
emerging from their hiding-place, walked back to Wembley and took the
next train to town.
She was silent during the journey, but as they reached Baker Street
she turned to him and said: “Look here, I believe I’ve got an idea.
Bring a long-burning electric torch with you tomorrow afternoon and
whatever tools you want to open the window, and perhaps we’ll try our
luck.” She would not explain her plan nor would she allow him to
accompany her to the studio, so with rather a bad grace he said good
night and returned to his hotel.
The next day he spent in making an assortment of purchases. These were
in all a powerful electric torch, guaranteed to burn brightly for a
couple of hours, a short, slightly bent lever of steel with a chisel
point at one end, a cap, a pair of thin gloves, a glazier’s diamond,
some twenty feet of thin rope and a five-inch piece of bright steel
tubing with a tiny handle at one side. These, when four o’clock came,
he took with him to Horne Terrace and spread in triumph on Miss
Merrill’s table.
“Good gracious!” cried the young lady as she stared wonderingly at the
collection. “Whatever are these? Another expedition to Mount Everest?”
“Torch: takes the place of the old dark lantern,” Cheyne answered
proudly, pointing to the article in question. “Jemmy for persuading
intractable doors, boxes and drawers; cap that will not drop or blow
off; gloves to keep one’s fingerprints off the furniture; diamond for
making holes in panes of glass; penknife for shooting back snibs of
windows; rope for escaping from upstairs windows, and this”—he picked
up the bit of tube and levelled it at her—“what price this for
bluffing out of a tight place? If the light’s not too good it’s a
pretty fair imitation. Also”—he pointed to his feet—“rubber-soled
shoes for silence.”
She gave a delightful little ripple of laughter, then became serious.
“Have you no anklets?” she asked anxiously. “Don’t say you have
forgotten your anklets!”
“Anklets?” he repeated. “What d’you mean? I don’t follow.”
“To guard against the bites of sharks, of course,” she declared.
“Don’t you remember the White Knight had them for his horse?”
Cheyne was so serious and eager that he felt somewhat dashed, but he
joined in the laugh, and when they had had tea they settled down to
talk over their arrangements. Then it seemed that she really had a
plan, and when Cheyne heard it he became immediately enthusiastic.
Like all good plans it was simple, and soon they had the details cut
and dry.
“Let’s try tonight,” Cheyne cried in excitement.
“Yes, I think we should. If these people have some scheme on hand
every day’s delay is in their favor and against you.”
“Against us, Joan, not against me,” he cried, then realizing what he
had said, he looked at her anxiously. “I may call you Joan, mayn’t I?”
he pleaded. “You see, we’re partners now.”
She didn’t mind, it appeared, what he called her. Any old name would
do. And she didn’t mind calling him Maxwell either. She hadn’t noticed
that Maxwell was so frightfully long and clumsy, but she supposed Max
_was_ shorter. So that was that. They returned to the Plan. Though
they continued discussing it for nearly an hour neither was able to
improve on it, except that they decided that the first thing to be
done if they got hold of the tracing was to copy their adversaries and
photograph it.
“Drat this daylight saving,” Cheyne grumbled. “If it wasn’t for that
we could start a whole hour earlier. As it is there is no use going
out there before nine.” He paused and then went on: “Queer thing that
these two houses should be so much alike—this Earlswood and the one in
Hopefield Avenue. Both at cross roads, both with lanes behind them,
and both surrounded by gardens and hedges and shrubs.”
“Very queer,” Joan admitted, “especially as there probably aren’t more
than a hundred thousand houses of that type in London. But it’s all to
the good. You’ll feel at home when you get in.”
They sparred pleasantly for some time, then after a leisurely dinner
they tubed to Baker Street and took the train to Wembley Park. It was
darker than on the previous evening, for the sky was thickly overcast.
There had been some rain during the day, but this had now ceased,
though the wind had turned east and it had become cold and raw.
Turning into Dalton Road, they reached the cross-lane at Earlswood,
passed through the gap in the hedge and took up their old position
among the shrubs. They had seen no one and they believed they were
unobserved. From where they crouched they could see that Earlswood was
again in darkness, and presently Cheyne slipped away to explore.
He was soon back again with the welcome news that the rear of the
house was also unlighted and that the Plan might be put into operation
forthwith. In spite of Joan’s ridicule he had insisted on bringing his
complete outfit, and he now stood up and patted himself over to make
sure that everything was in place. The cap, the gloves, and the shoes
he was wearing, the rope was coiled round his waist beneath his coat,
and the other articles were stowed in his various pockets. He turned
and signified that he was ready.
Joan opened the proceedings by passing out through the gap in the
hedge, walking openly across to the Earlswood hall door, and ringing.
This was to make sure that the house really was untenanted. If any one
came she would simply ask if Mrs. Bryce-Harris was at home and then
apologize for having mistaken the address.
But no one answered, and the demonstration of this was Cheyne’s cue.
When he had waited for five minutes after Joan’s departure and no
sound came from across the road, he in his turn slipped out through
the gap in the hedge, and after a glance round, crossed Dalton Road,
and passing down by the side of Earlswood, turned into the lane at the
back. On this occasion he could dimly see the gate into the garden,
which was painted white, and he passed through, leaving it open behind
him, and reached the house.
The point upon which Joan’s plan hinged was that, owing to the shrubs
in front of the building, it was possible to remain concealed in the
shadows beside the porch, invisible from the road. She proposed,
therefore, to stay at the door while Cheyne was carrying on operations
within, and to ring if any one approached the house, adding a double
knock if there was urgent danger. She would hold the newcomer with
inquiries as to the whereabouts of the mythical Mrs. Bryce-Harris,
thus insuring time for her companion to beat a retreat. She herself
also would have time in which to vanish before her victims realized
what had happened.
Feeling, therefore, that he would have a margin in which to withdraw
if flight became necessary, Cheyne set to work to force an entrance.
He rapidly examined the doors and windows, but all were fastened as
before. Choosing the window with the loose sash upon which he had
already decided, he took his knife and tried to open the catch. The
two sashes were “rabbitted” where they met, but he was able to push
the blade up right through the overhanging wood of the upper sash and
lever the catch round until it snapped clear. Then withdrawing the
knife, he raised the bottom sash. A moment later he was standing on
the scullery floor.
His first care was to unlock and throw open the back door, so as to
provide an emergency exit in case of need. Then he closed and
refastened the scullery window, darkening with a pencil the wood where
the knife had broken a splinter. As he said to himself, there was no
kind of sense in calling attention to his visit.
He crossed the hall and silently opened the front door to see that all
was right with Joan. Then closing it again, he began a search of the
house.
The building was of old-fashioned design, a narrow hall running
through its center from back to front. Five doors opened off this
hall, leading to the dining room and the kitchen at one side, a
sitting room and a kind of library or study at the other, and the
garden at the back. Upstairs were four bedrooms—one unoccupied—and a
servant’s room.
Cheyne rapidly passed through the house searching for likely hiding
places for the tracing. Soon he came to the conclusion that unless
some freak place had been chosen, it would be in one of two places:
either a big roll-top desk in the library or an old-fashioned
escritoire in one of the bedrooms. Both of these were locked.
Fortunately there was no safe.
He decided to try the desk first. A gentle application of the jemmy
burst its lock and he threw up the cover and sat down to go through
the contents.
Evidently it belonged to Blessington, and evidently also Blessington
was a man of tidy and businesslike habits. There were but few papers
on the desk and these from their date were clearly current and waiting
to be dealt with. In the drawers were bundles of letters, accounts,
receipts, and miscellaneous papers, all neatly tied together with tape
and docketed. In one of the side drawers was a card index and in
another a vertical numeralpha letter file. Through all of these Cheyne
hurriedly looked, but nowhere was there any sign of the tracing.
A few measurements with a pocket rule showed that there were no spaces
in the desk unaccounted for, and closing the top, Cheyne hurried
upstairs to the escritoire. It was a fine old piece and it went to his
heart to damage it with the jemmy. But he remembered his treatment
aboard the _Enid_, and such a paroxysm of anger swept over him that he
plunged in the point of his tool and ruthlessly splintered open the
lid.
The drawers were fastened by separate locks, and each one Cheyne
smashed with a savage satisfaction. Then he began to examine their
contents.
This was principally bundles of old letters, tied up in the same
methodical way as those downstairs. Cheyne did not read anything, but
from the fragments of sentences which he could not help seeing there
seemed ample corroboration of Speedwell’s statements that Blessington
lived by professional blackmail. He felt a wave of disgust sweep over
him as he went through drawer after drawer of the obscene collection.
But here also no luck met his efforts, and with a sinking heart he
took out his rule to measure the escritoire. And then he became
suddenly excited as he found that the thickness of the wood at the
back of the drawers, which normally should have been about half an
inch, measured no less than four inches. Here, surely, there must be a
secret drawer.
He examined the woodwork, but nowhere could he see the slightest trace
of an opening. He pressed and pulled and pushed, but still without
result: no knob would slide, no panel depress. But of the existence of
the space there was no doubt. There was room for a receptacle six
inches by twelve by three, and, moreover, all six sides of it sounded
hollow when tapped.
There was nothing for it but force. With a sharp stroke he rammed the
point of the jemmy into the side. It penetrated, he levered it down,
and with a grinding, cracking sound the wood split and part of it was
prised off. Eagerly Cheyne put the torch to the opening, and he
chuckled with satisfaction as he saw within the familiar lilac gray of
the tracing.
Once again he inserted the point of the jemmy to prise off the
remainder of the side, but the heavy wood at the top of the piece
prevented his getting a leverage. He withdrew the tool to find a fresh
purchase, but as he did so, the front door bell rang—several sharp,
jerky peals. Frantically he jammed in the jemmy, intending by sheer
force to smash out the wood, but his position was hampered, and it
cracked, but did not give. As he tried desperately for a fresh hold an
urgent double knock sounded from below. Sweating and tugging with the
jemmy he heard voices outside the window. And then with a resounding
crack the panel gave, he plunged in his hand, seized the tracing,
thrust it and the jemmy into his pocket and rushed out of the room.
But as he did so he heard the front door open and Dangle’s voice from
below: “It sounded in the house. Didn’t you think so?” and Susan’s:
“Yes, upstairs, I thought.”
Cheyne looked desperately round for a weapon. Near the head of the
stairs stood a light cane chair, and this he seized as he dashed down.
As he turned the angle of the stairs Dangle switched on the light in
the hall, and with a startled oath ran forward to intercept him. With
all his might Cheyne hurled the chair at the other’s head. Dangle
threw up his arms to protect his face, and by the time he recovered
himself Cheyne was in the hall, doubling round the newel post. Both
Dangle and Susan clutched at the flying figure. But Cheyne, twisting
like an eel, tore himself free and made at top speed for the back
door. This he slammed after him, rushing as fast as he could down the
garden. He slackened only to pull the gate to as he passed through it,
then sped along the lane, and turning at its end away from Dalton
Road, tore off into the night.
These proceedings were not in accordance with the Plan. The intention
had been that on either recovering the tracing or satisfying himself
that it was not in the house, Cheyne would close the back door, and
letting himself out by the front, would meet Joan, pull the door to
after them, walk round the house and quietly disappear via the garden
and lane. But the possibility of an unexpected flight had been
recognized. It had been decided that in such a case the first thing
would be to get rid of the tracing, so that in the event of capture,
the fruits of the raid would at least be safe. Therefore, on all the
routes away from Earlswood hiding places had been fixed on, from which
Joan would afterwards recover it. Along the lane the hiding place was
the back of a wall approaching a culvert, and over this wall Cheyne
duly threw the booty as he rushed along.
By this time Dangle was out on the road and running for all he was
worth. But Cheyne had the advantage of him. He was lighter and an
experienced athlete, and, except for his illness, was in better
training. Moreover, he was more lightly clad and wore rubber shoes.
Dangle, though Cheyne did not know it, was hampered by an overcoat and
patent leather boots. He could not gain on the fugitive, and Cheyne
heard his footsteps dropping farther and farther behind, until at last
they ceased altogether.
Cheyne slacked to a walk as he wiped the perspiration from his
forehead. So far as he was concerned he had now only to make his way
back to town and meet Joan at her studio. He considered his position
and concluded his best and safest plan would be to go on to Harrow and
take an express for Marylebone—if he could get one.
He duly reached Harrow, but he found there that he would have nearly
an hour to wait for a non-stop train for London. He decided, however,
that this would be better than risking a halt at Wembley Park, and he
hung about at the end of the platform until the train came along. On
reaching town he took a taxi to Horne Terrace and hurried up to No.
12. Joan had not returned!
He waited outside her room for a considerable time, then coming down,
began to pace the street in front of the house. Every moment he became
more and more anxious. It was now half past twelve o’clock and she
should have been back over an hour ago. What could be keeping her?
Merciful Heavens! If anything could have happened to her.
He wrote a note on a leaf of his pocketbook saying he would return in
the morning, and going once more up to her flat, pushed it under the
door. Then hailing a belated taxi, he offered the man a fancy price to
drive him to Wembley Park.
Some half-hour later he climbed over the wall across which he had
thrown the tracing. A careful search showed that it was no longer
there; moreover it revealed the print of a dainty shoe with a rather
high heel, such as he had noticed Joan wearing earlier in the evening.
He returned to the shrubs at the gap where they had waited, but there
he could find no trace of her at all. Then he walked all round
Earlswood, but it was shrouded in darkness. Finally, his taximan
having refused to wait for him and all traffic being over for the day,
he set out to walk to London, which he reached between three and four
o’clock.
He had some coffee at a stall and then returned to his hotel, but by
seven he was once more at Horne Terrace. Eagerly he raced up the steps
and knocked at No. 12. There was no answer.
Suddenly a white speck below the door caught his eye, and stooping, he
saw the note he had pushed in on the previous evening. Joan evidently
had not yet returned.