Inspector French Takes Charge
Cheyne was ushered into a small, plainly furnished room, in which at a
table-desk was seated a rather stout, clean-shaven man with a
cheerful, good humored face and the suggestion of a twinkle about his
eye. He stood up as Cheyne entered, looked him over critically with a
pair of very keen dark blue eyes, and then smiled.
“Mr. Maxwell Cheyne?” he said genially. “I am Inspector French. You
wish to consult us? Now just sit down there and tell me your trouble,
and we’ll do what we can for you.”
His manner was kindly and pleasant and did much to set Cheyne at his
ease. The young man had been rather dreading his visit, expecting to
be met with the harsh, incredulous, unsympathetic attitude of
officialdom. But this inspector, with his easy manners, and his
apparently human outlook, was quite different from his anticipation.
He felt drawn to him and realized with relief that at least he would
get a sympathetic hearing.
“Thank you,” he said, trying to speak calmly. “It’s very good of you,
I’m sure. I’m in great trouble—not about myself, that is, but about
my—my friend, a lady, Miss Joan Merrill. I’m afraid she is in terrible
danger, if indeed it is not too late.”
“Tell me the details.” The man was all attention, and his quiet
decisive manner induced confidence.
Curbing his impatience, Cheyne related his adventures. In the briefest
outline he told of the drugging in the Plymouth hotel, of the burglary
at Warren Lodge, of his involuntary trip on the _Enid_, of his journey
to London and his adventure in the house in Hopefield Avenue. Then he
described Joan Merrill’s welcome intervention, his convalescence in
the hospital, the compact between himself and Joan, his visit to
Speedwell, and his burglary of Earlswood. He recounted Dangle’s
appearance as an envoy, the meeting with the gang, and the explosion
at Euston, and finally voiced the terrible suggestion which this
latter contained as to the possible fate of Joan.
Inspector French listened to his recital with an appearance of the
keenest interest.
“You have certainly had an unusual experience, Mr. Cheyne,” he
remarked. “I don’t know that I can recall a similar case. Now I think
we may take it that Miss Merrill’s safety is our first concern. We
shall go out to this house, Earlswood, and see if we can learn
anything about her there. The other activities of the gang must wait.
Excuse me a moment.” He gave some orders through his desk telephone,
resuming: “I should think the house has probably been vacated: these
people would cover their traces until they learned from the papers
that you had been killed. However, we’ll soon know that. Wait here
until I arrange about warrants, and then we’ll start.”
He disappeared for some minutes, while Cheyne fretted and chafed and
tried to control his impatience. Then he returned, and slipping an
automatic pistol into his pocket, invited Cheyne to follow him.
He led the way downstairs and out into a courtyard in the great
building. Two motorcars were just drawing up at the curb, while at the
same moment no less than eight plain clothes men appeared from another
door. The party having taken their places, the two vehicles slid out
through a covered way into the traffic of the town.
“We shall go round to Chelsea first,” French explained, “and make sure
there is no news of Miss Merrill.”
As they ran quickly through the busy streets, French asked a series of
questions on points of Cheyne’s statement upon which he desired
further information. “If this trip draws blank, as I fear it will,” he
observed, “I shall want you to tell me your story again, this time
with all the detail you can possibly put into it. For the moment
there’s not time for that.”
At Horne Terrace there was no trace or tidings of Joan. It was by this
time half past twelve, half an hour after the time at which
Blessington had promised she should be there, and Cheyne felt all his
forebodings confirmed. But he was not surprised, feeling but the more
eager to push on to Wembley.
On the way French made him draw a sketch map of the position of
Earlswood, and on nearing his goal he stopped the cars, and calling
his men together, explained exactly what was to be done. Then telling
Cheyne to sit with the driver and direct him to the front gate, they
again mounted and went forward. At a good rate they swung into Dalton
Road, and Cheyne pointing the way, his car stopped at the gate, while
the other ran on down the cross-road to the lane at the back. The men
sprang out, and in less time than it takes to tell, the house was
surrounded.
Cheyne followed French as he hurried up to the door and gave a
thundering knock. There was no answer, and walking round the house,
the two men examined the windows. These being all fastened, French
turned his attention to the back door, and after two or three minutes’
work with a bunch of skeleton keys the bolt shot back, and followed by
Cheyne and two of his men, he entered the house.
A short search revealed the fact that the birds had flown, hurriedly,
it seemed, as everything had been left exactly as during Cheyne’s
visit. On the table in the sitting room stood the glasses from which
they had drunk their whisky, the box of cigars lay open beside them
and the chairs were still drawn up to the table. But there was no sign
of Sime or Dangle, and a hurried look round revealed no clue to their
whereabouts.
“I feared as much,” French commented, as he sent a constable to call
in the men who were surrounding the house, “but we have still two
strings to our bow.” He turned to the others, and rapidly gave his
orders. “You, Hinckston and Tucker, remain here and arrest any one who
enters this house. Simmons, go to Locke Street, off Southampton Row,
and find Speedwell, of Horton & Lavender’s Detective Agency. You know
him, don’t you? Well, find him and tell him this affair has developed
into attempted murder and abduction, and ask him can he give any
information to the Yard. Tell him I’m in charge. The rest of you come
with me to—what did Speedwell give you as Sime’s address, Mr.
Cheyne? . . . All right, I have it here—to 12 Colton Street, Putney.
We shall carry out the same plan there, surround the house, and then
enter and search it. All got that? Come along, Mr. Cheyne.”
They hurried back to the cars and were soon running—somewhat over the
legal speed—back to town. French, though he had shown energy enough at
Earlswood, was willing to chat now in a pleasant, leisurely way,
though he continued to interlard his remarks with questions on the
details of Cheyne’s story. Then he took over the tracing, and examined
it curiously. “I’ll have a go at this later,” he said, as he put it in
his pocket, “but I can scarcely believe they would have given you the
genuine article.”
Cheyne would have questioned this opinion, reminding his companion he
had seen the tracing pinned up to be photographed in the house in
Hopefield Avenue, but just then they swung into Colton Street, and the
time for conversation had passed. Contrary to his expectation they ran
past No. 12 without slackening, turned down the first side street
beyond it, and there came to a stand.
“There’s the end of the passage behind the house,” French pointed when
his men had dismounted. “Carter and Jones and Marshall go down there
and watch the back. No doubt you counted and know it’s the eighth
house. You other two men and you, Mr. Cheyne, come with me.”
He turned back into Colton Street and with his three followers strode
rapidly up to No. 12. It was like its neighbors, a small two-storied
single terrace house of old-fashioned design. Indeed the narrow road,
with its two grimy rows of almost working-class dwellings, seemed more
like one of those terrible streets built in the last century in the
slum districts of provincial towns, than a bit of mid-London.
A peremptory knock from French producing no result, he had once more
recourse to his skeleton keys. This door was easier to negotiate than
the last, and in less than a minute it swung open and the four men
entered the house.
On the right of the hall was a tiny sitting room, and there they found
the remains of what appeared to have been a hastily prepared meal.
Four chairs were drawn up to the small central table, on which were
part of a loaf, butter, an empty sardine tin, egg shells, two cups
containing tea leaves and two glasses smelling of whisky. French put
his hand on the teapot. “Feel that, Mr. Cheyne,” he exclaimed. “They
can’t be far away.”
The teapot was warm, and when Cheyne looked into the kitchen
adjoining, he found that the kettle on the gas ring was also warm,
though the ring itself had grown cold. If the four lunchers were
Blessington and Co., as seemed indubitable, they must indeed be close
by, and Cheyne grew hot with eager excitement as he thought that
French and he might be within reasonable sight of their goal.
Meanwhile French and his men had carried out a rapid search of the
house, without result except to prove that once more the birds had
flown. But as to the direction which their flight had taken there was
no clue.
“I don’t expect we’ll see them back,” French said to Cheyne, “but we
must take no chances.” He turned to his men. “Jones and Marshall, stay
here in the house and arrest any one who enters. You, Carter, make
inquiries in these houses to the right, and you, Hobbs, do the same to
the left. Come, Mr. Cheyne, you and I will try the other side of the
street.”
They crossed to the house opposite, and French knocked. The door was
opened by a young woman who seemed thrilled by French’s statement that
he was a police officer making inquiries about the occupiers of No.
12, but who was unable to give him any useful information about them.
A man lived there—she believed his name was Sime—but she did not know
either himself or anything about him. No, she hadn’t seen any recent
arrivals or departures. She had been engaged at the back of the house
during the whole morning and had not looked out across the street.
Yes, she believed Sime lived alone except for an elderly housekeeper.
As far as she knew he was quite respectable, at least she had never
heard anything against him.
Politely thanking her, French tried the next house. Here he found a
small girl who said she had looked out some half an hour previously
and had seen a yellow motor standing before No. 12. But she had not
seen it arrive or depart, nor anyone get in or out.
French tried five houses without result, but at the sixth he had a
stroke of luck.
In this house it appeared that there was a chronic invalid, a sister
of the woman who opened the door. This poor creature was confined
permanently to bed, and in the hope of relieving the tedium of the
days, she had had the bed drawn close to her window, so as to extract
what amusement she could from the life of the street. If there had
been any unusual happenings in front of No. 12, she would certainly
have witnessed them. Yes, the woman was sure her sister would see the
visitors.
“Lucky chance, that,” French said, as they waited to know if they
might go up. “If this woman’s eyes and brain are unaffected she’ll
have become an accurate observer, and we’ll probably learn all there
is to know.”
In a moment the sister appeared beckoning, and going upstairs they
found in a small front room a bed drawn up to the window, in which lay
a superior looking elderly woman with a pale patient face, lined by
suffering, in which shone a pair of large dark intelligent eyes. She
was propped up the better to see out, and her face lighted up with
interest at her unexpected callers, as she laid down among the books
on the coverlet an intricate looking piece of fancy sewing.
Inspector French bowed to her.
“I’d like to say how much I appreciate your kindness in letting us
come up, madam,” he said with his pleasant kindly smile, “but when you
hear that we are trying to find a young lady who we fear has been
kidnaped, I am sure you will be glad to help us. The matter is
connected with No. 12 opposite. Can you tell me if any persons arrived
or left it this morning?”
“Oh, yes, I can,” the invalid replied in cultivated tones—a lady born,
though fallen on evil days, thought Cheyne—“I like to watch the people
passing and I did notice arrivals and departures at No. 12. About, let
me see—half past eleven, or perhaps a minute or two later a motor
drove up to No. 12, a yellow car, fair size and covered in. Three men
got out and went into the house. One was Mr. Sime, who lives there,
the others I didn’t know. Mr. Sime opened the door with his latch-key.
In a couple of minutes one of the strangers came out again, got into
the car, and drove off.”
“That the car you saw outside Earlswood, Mr. Cheyne?” asked French.
“Certain to be,” Cheyne nodded. “It was a yellow covered-in car of
medium size, No. XL7305.”
“I didn’t observe the number,” the lady remarked. “The bonnet was
facing towards me.”
“What was the driver like, madam?” queried Cheyne.
“One of Mr. Sime’s companions drove. He was short and rather stout,
with a round face, and what, I believe, is called a toothbrush
mustache.”
“That’s Blessington all right. And was the third man of medium height
and build, with a clean-shaven, somewhat rugged face?”
“Yes, that exactly describes him.”
“And that’s Dangle. There’s no question about the party, Inspector.”
“None. Then, madam, you saw—?”
“That, as I said, was about half-past eleven. About half-past one the
man you have called Blessington came back with the car. He got out,
left it, and went into the house. In about a quarter of an hour he
came out again and started his engine. Then the other two men
followed, assisting a young lady who appeared to be very weak and ill.
She seemed scarcely able to walk, and they almost carried her. Another
girl followed, who drew the door of the house after her.”
Cheyne started on hearing these words, and looked with an agonized
expression at the Inspector. “What were they like, these women?” he
breathed through his dry lips.
But both men knew the answer. The girl assisted out by Sime and Dangle
was undoubtedly Joan Merrill, and the other equally certainly was
Susan Dangle.
“She was lame—the one you thought ill?” Cheyne persisted. “She had
twisted her ankle.”
“Perhaps so,” the lady returned, “but I do not think so. She seemed to
me to step equally well on each foot. It was more as if she was half
asleep or very weak. Her head hung forward and she did not seem to
notice where she was going.”
Cheyne made a gesture of despair.
“Heavens above!” he cried hoarsely. “What have they done to her?”
“Drugged her,” French answered succinctly. “But you should take
courage from that, Mr. Cheyne. It looks as if they didn’t mean to do
her a personal injury. Yes, madam?”
Before the invalid could speak Cheyne went on, a puzzled note in his
voice.
“But look here,” he said slowly, “I don’t understand this. You say
that the sick lady was wearing a fur coat?”
“Yes, a musquash fur.”
“But—” He looked at French in perplexity. “Miss Merrill has a fur coat
like that—I’ve seen it. But she wasn’t wearing it last night. Can it
be someone else after all?” His voice took on a dawning eagerness.
French shook his head.
“Don’t build too much on that, Mr. Cheyne. They may have lent her a
coat.”
“Yes, but why should they? She had a coat last night, a perfectly warm
coat of brown cloth. She wouldn’t want another.”
“Perhaps her own got muddy when she fell. We’ll have to leave it at
that for the moment. We’ll consider it later. Let’s get on now and
hear what this lady can tell us. Yes, madam, if you please?”
“I am afraid there is not much more to be told. All five got into the
car and drove off.”
“In which direction?”
“Eastwards.”
“That is to say, they have just left about half an hour. We were only
fifteen minutes behind them, Mr. Cheyne.”
He got up to go, but the lady motioned him back to his seat.
“There is one other thing I have just remembered,” she said. “It may
or may not have something to do with the affair. Last night—it must
have been about half-past eleven—I heard a motor in the street. It
stopped for about ten minutes, though the engine ran all the time,
then went off again. I didn’t look out, but now that I come to think
about it it sounded as if it might be standing at No. 12. Of course
you understand that is only a guess, but motorcars are somewhat rare
visitors to this street, and there may have been some connection.”
“Extremely probable, I should think, madam,” French commented. He
rose. “Now we must be off to act on what you have told us. I needn’t
say that you have placed us very greatly in your debt.”
“It was but little I could do,” the lady returned. “I do hope you may
be able to help that poor girl. I should be so glad to hear that she
is all right.”
Cheyne was touched by this unexpected sympathy.
“You may count on my letting you know, madam,” he said, and then
thinking of the terribly monotonous existence led by the poor soul, he
went on warmly: “I should like, if I might, to call and tell you all
about it, but if I am prevented I shall certainly write. May I know
what name to address to?”
“Mrs. Sproule, 17 Colton Street. I should be glad to see you if you
are in this district, but I couldn’t think of taking you out of your
way.”
A few moments later French had collected his three remaining men, and
was being driven rapidly to the nearest telephone call office. There
he rang up the Yard, repeated the descriptions of the car and of each
of its occupants, and asked for the police force generally to be
advised that they were wanted, particularly the men on duty at railway
stations and wharves, not only in London, but in the surrounding
country.
“Now we’ll have a shot at picking up the trail ourselves,” he went on
to Cheyne when he had sent his message. He re-entered the car, calling
to the driver: “Get back and find the men on point duty round about
Colton Street.”
Of the four men they interviewed, three had not noticed the yellow
car. The fourth, on a beat in the thoroughfare at the eastern end of
Colton Street, had seen a car of the size and color in question going
eastwards at about the hour the party had left No. 12. There seeming
nothing abnormal about the vehicle, he had not specially observed it
or noted the number, but he had looked at the driver, and the man he
described resembled Blessington.
“That’s probably it all right,” French commented, “but it doesn’t help
us a great deal. If they were going to any of the stations or
steamers, or to practically anywhere in town, this is the way they
would pass. Let us try a step further.”
Keeping in the same general direction they searched for other men on
point duty, but though after a great deal of running backwards and
forwards, they found all in the immediate neighborhood that the car
would have been likely to pass, none of them had noticed it.
“We’ve lost them, I’m afraid,” French said at last. “We had better go
back to the Yard. As soon as that description gets out we may have
news at any minute.”
A quarter of an hour later they passed once more through the corridors
of the great building which houses the C.I.D., and reached French’s
room. There sitting waiting for them was the melancholy private
detective, Speedwell. He rose as they entered.
“Afternoon, Mr. French. Afternoon, Mr. Cheyne,” he said
ingratiatingly, rubbing his hands together. “I got your message, Mr.
French, and I thought I’d better call round. Of course I’ll tell you
anything I can to help.”
French beamed on him.
“Now that was good of you, Speedwell; very good. I’ll not forget it.
Did Simmons tell you what had happened?”
“Not in detail—only that Blessington, Sime, and the Dangles were
wanted.”
“Well, Mr. Cheyne here and Miss Merrill were out there last night,” he
shook his head reproachfully at Cheyne while a twinkle showed in his
eyes, “and your friends got hold of Miss Merrill and we can’t find
her. Mr. Cheyne they enticed into the house with a fair story. They
led him to believe that Miss Merrill would be in her studio when he
got back to town and gave him her purse, which they said she had
dropped. It contained a time bomb, and only the merest chance saved
Mr. Cheyne from being blown to bits. There are charges against the
quartet of attempted murder of Mr. Cheyne, and of abduction of Miss
Merrill. Can you help us at all?”
Speedwell shook his head.
“I doubt it, Mr. French, I doubt it, sir. I found out a little, not
very much. But all the information I have is at your disposal.”
Cheyne stared at him.
“But how can that be?” he exclaimed. “You were in their confidence—to
some extent at all events. Surely you got some hint of what they were
after?”
Speedwell made a deferential movement, and his smile became still more
oily and ingratiating.
“Now, Mr. Cheyne, sir, you mustn’t think too much of that. That was
what we might call in the way of business.” He glanced sideways at
Cheyne from his little foxy close-set eyes. “You can’t complain, sir,
but what I answered your questions, and you’ll admit you got value for
your money.”
“I don’t understand you,” Cheyne returned sharply. “Do you mean that
that tale you told me was a lie, and that you weren’t employed by
these people to find the man who burgled their house?”
Speedwell rubbed his hands together more vigorously.
“A little business expedient, sir, merely an ordinary little business
expedient. It would be a foolish man who would not display his wares
to the best advantage. I’m sure, sir, you’ll agree with that.”
Cheyne looked at him fiercely for a moment.
“You infernal rogue!” he burst out hotly. “Then your tale to me was a
tissue of lies, and on the strength of it you cheated me out of my
money! Now you’ll hand that £150 back! Do you hear that?”
Speedwell’s smile became the essence of craftiness.
“Not so fast, sir, not so fast,” he purred. “There’s no need to use
unpleasant language. You asked for a thing and agreed to pay a certain
price. You got what you asked for, and you paid the price you agreed.
There was no cheating there.”
Cheyne was about to retort, but French, suave and courteous, broke in:
“Well, we can talk of that afterwards. I think, Mr. Cheyne, that Mr.
Speedwell has made us a satisfactory offer. He says he will tell us
everything he knows. For my part I am obliged to him for that, as he
is not bound to say anything at all. I think you will agree that we
ought to thank him for the position he is taking up, and to hear what
he has to say. Now, Speedwell, if you are ready. Take a cigar first,
and make yourself comfortable.”
“Thank you, Mr. French. I am always glad, as you know, sir, to assist
the Yard or the police. I haven’t much to tell you, but here is the
whole of it.”
He lit his cigar, settled himself in his chair, and began to speak.