Chapter XIX

With her heart beating a little faster, Margaret passed down the stairs. When she reached the street she found that the driver of the police car had summoned a taxi, which was drawn up behind the tender.

“Is anybody there, miss?” asked a police officer.

“Yes, I think there is,” she said breathlessly. “At least, the inspector thinks so.”

“You’d better get into the cab, miss,” said the police officer. “I suppose Mr. Gorton expects a bit of a fight.”

“Do you often have cases like this?”

“About every other day,” he said cheerfully. “We’re one of the Flying Squads.”

Apparently it was quite usual for the Squad to be called to buildings where suspected burglars were. They moved with the celerity of a fire engine and were as alert.

Inspector Gorton waited until Margaret had left the building, and then he rapped again on the panel.

“Open this door, my son.”

The bolt was slipped back, the door flung open. The inspector saw a man with grimy face and disordered clothing standing in the doorway, and instantly he was seized.

Luke was taken aback. He had expected an opportunity of parleying, even of taking the detective into his confidence. Resenting the sudden seizure, he tried to shake off the detaining hands, and in the next instant was flung violently to the floor. Somebody passed their hands scientifically behind his coat.

“He’s got a gat,” said a voice.

The pistol was passed to Inspector Gorton.

“I can explain the gun,” said Luke.

“I dare say you can.” Gorton snapped back the jacket of the automatic and detached the magazine. “Loaded--you’ll get a ten stretch for this, my lad. Fan him, one of you: he may have another.”

In two minutes Luke was searched and everything was taken from him.

“Where did you get this money?” asked the inspector.

“It was given to me----” began Luke, and there was a roar of laughter.

“What is this?” said Gorton, examining something in his hand.

That morning, before he had left on his fatal expedition, Mrs. Fraser had handed him a little blue-covered book.

“A driving license, eh? You weren’t by any chance driving a car to-day round about Bond Street, were you?”

Luke’s heart sank within him. And then he heard one of the detectives say:

“That’s the fellow! He had a beard this afternoon. I saw him driving with a woman in the park.”

He whispered something to Gorton and the inspector nodded. All the time Luke was thinking rapidly. That simple explanation of his was no longer possible. If he declared himself to be Luke Maddison, he must also explain what he had been doing since he disappeared. The realization of that came with shocking emphasis. And he knew that below, Margaret was waiting and would recognize him instantly in spite of his moustache.

Ahead of him was the open door leading to the hall. To the right the little room he had used as a dressing room. The window was right above the first landing of the fire escape. Luke had a horror of fires, and it was his favourite amusement to plan out how he would escape from a burning building. If he could get to that room.… It did not seem possible.

Somebody spoke from the landing outside. It was the hall porter, who had called to discover what the commotion was about. The two detectives who were guarding the door turned their backs for a moment, and in that instant Luke Maddison leaped. He was something of an athlete; had played for his fifteen at college, and had nothing to learn about the art of avoiding a tackle. He dashed through the door of the dressing room, banged it tight, and shot in the bolt as the weight of two men was flung against it.

This was no moment for caution. He flung up the window and his legs went out almost in the same motion. In another second he dropped into the darkness. He had calculated well. The steel platform of the fire escape clanged under his feet. In another instant he was flying down the steps and was over the wall before the first of the detectives reached the head of the escape.

A man was lounging in the mews: he turned with a shout as Luke dropped. But Luke was off like the wind. His long stay in the hospital had thrown him out of condition, but he had all the technique of a runner. As he emerged from the narrow entrance of the mews he saw a cab passing, and leaped on the running board.

“Paddington,” he said, and swung himself deftly inside.

Evidently the driver was in some doubt as to whether he should continue. He went about two blocks and then pulled the car up by the side of the curb.

“Where have you come from?” he asked. “I can’t take you, guv’nor. You look as if you were running away from somebody.”

“I was,” said Luke.

It was not a moment to argue. He threw a two-shilling piece into the man’s hand, turned down a narrow street conveniently near, and doubling back, reached the main road. Here he found a taxi moving at leisure, and a driver who did not question his _bona fides_.

“Scotland Yard,” he said.

He had made a sudden resolution. He would go to the Sparrow, tell him the truth, and trust to that shrewd man to see him through his troubles.

The cab drew up at the entrance of Scotland Yard and Luke went swiftly down the declivity and into the gloomy entrance hall. A police officer on duty challenged him and he stated his requirements.

“Mr. Bird’s been gone for two hours, sir. I think he’s gone into the country. Would you like to see anybody else?”

Groaning inwardly, Luke shook his head.

“No, I don’t think anybody else would be of much use to me,” he said.

“You wouldn’t like to see Mr. Gorton? He’ll be back soon,” said the police officer, quite ignorant of the fact that the one person in the world whom Luke did not wish to see was that same Gorton.

He came out on to the Thames Embankment at one end of the Yard as Gorton and his Flying Squad came in at the other. Turning left, he walked toward Waterloo Bridge. At Charing Cross Underground he made another attempt to get into touch with the Sparrow. There was a chance that the policeman was wrong and that Bird was still in town. He went to the telephone directory, but there were so many Birds that it was impossible to tell which was which. And then he remembered one of his initials--an unusual “Z” (Mr. Bird’s middle name was Zachariah). He scanned the list again and going into the telephone booth, gave a number.

At first he thought his luck was in.

“Yes, this is Mr. Bird’s house,” said a voice, “but he’s out of town. Who is it speaking?”

“It is vitally necessary that I should get in touch with him as soon as possible,” said Luke urgently. “Can you tell me where I can find him?”

“Who are you?”

“Will you tell him it’s Mr. Maddison speaking? I have been to Scotland Yard…”

He felt a sudden draught. The door of the telephone booth was ajar; an unconcerned man was standing near by, and apparently had no interest either in him or his conversation. Luke shut the door again, and then, to his annoyance, found that whoever had spoken for Mr. Bird had hung up her receiver. Still, that was a start. He almost felt a sense of relief as he came out on to the cold Embankment and pursued his way toward Waterloo.

He had not gone twenty yards before two men, walking quickly, overtook him and fell in one at each side.

“Hullo, Smith! Connor wants to see you.”

He had never seen the man before. His tone was offensive and peremptory.

“And who may Mr. Connor be?” asked Luke coolly. “My name is not Smith, it is Maddison.”

“That’s all right, sir,” said the other more respectfully, “but Mr. Connor does want to see you pretty badly.”

“Where is he?” asked Luke after a moment’s thought.

“At the top of Savoy Hill--there goes the Squad.”

A car flashed past at that moment; the red light disappeared along the Embankment.

“They call ’em busies and they _are_ busy,” said the second man bitterly.

They did not go up Savoy Hill but turned aside, passed one entrance of the Savoy Hotel and up a steep and narrow street. They turned again to the right.

“Where is Connor?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute, when I’ve got a light for my fag,” said the smaller of the two.

He struck a match, and Luke’s eyes instinctively went to it. That is all he remembered. He did not feel the pain of any blow, but dropped limply to the pavement under the impact of a rubber cosh.

His head was splitting when he came to his senses. He was lying on the hard floor of a jolting motor car; he discovered afterwards it was a tilting Ford wagon that bore innocuously enough the name of a respectable firm of greengrocers. The two men were squatting by his side; one was smoking, and they were carrying on a conversation in a low voice.

“… That’s what Connor told me,” said one. “But then, Connor always thought this nut would put up a squeal.”

Luke lay motionless; his head was throbbing, but he felt no other discomfort. Apparently, although he could guess there was a bump as big as an egg on his skull, the blow had not drawn blood.

The car stopped. There was the creak of a gate being opened, and then they went forward again, jolting over uneven ground; presently the car stopped and the engine was shut off.

“Are you awake?” asked a voice.

“I’m awake all right,” said Luke.

“Then get out of this. Why was you so foolish, Smith?”

A mild question from a man who, only ten minutes before, had stunned him.

He slithered out of the back of the car and came to his feet on soft, muddy ground. The cold night air made him reel; one of the men caught him by the arm and guided him into what looked to be a small cottage. To the right he saw the gleam of the river. A tug was moving, her green starboard light reflected in the water. So quickly she was moving that he guessed she was going downstream. He must therefore be on the Surrey side of the Thames.

He could see nothing but a high wall to his right, and far away a blood-red advertisement sign. The door banged on him. There was a smell of dampness, but apparently the cottage had some sort of furnishing, for he walked upon something that might have been a carpet, and when a door was opened on his right and he was pushed in, he found himself in a room not only furnished but overfurnished.

Connor was sitting at a table shuffling a pack of cards. He looked up as Luke entered the room.

“Did you have to cosh him?” he asked pleasantly.

The man who held Luke’s arm grinned.

“He wouldn’t be sensible,” he said.

“Sit down.” Connor pointed to a horsehair sofa against the wall, and Luke was glad to accept the invitation. “Tried to put up a squeal, did you, Smith?”

There was nothing unfriendly in Connor’s tone, but he did not cease shuffling the cards as he spoke.

“I thought you were a man when you did that bust--yes, one of my lads saw you get into that flat, and saw you when you bolted. But you’re nothing better than a dirty squealer. Went into the Yard and asked for the Sparrow, did you? Is he a pal of yours?”

“I know him,” said Luke.

Mr. Connor nodded pleasantly.

“And then you tried to get him on the ’phone--what was the squeal about? Don’t trouble to tell me: I know. I never trusted you from the first, Smith--I don’t trust Australians.”

Despite his aching head, Luke could not but smile at this libel.

“I shouldn’t think they trust you a great deal, do they?” he asked.

“Not much,” said Connor.

He cut the pack into two, shuffling them scientifically, and all the time his eyes were on Luke.

“So you know the Sparrow? That’s good. I’ll bet you know Danty, too.”

Luke started.

“Danty Morell?” he asked.

Why had Danty gone out of his mind? Why had he forgotten that Danty was the confidant of his wife--that his one desire, in seeking freedom from the sinister environment in which he found himself, had been to expose that confidence man?

“Know Danty, too!” Connor’s voice was almost admiring. “And Pi Coles?”

Luke nodded.

“Yes, Coles--that’s his servant.”

Connors smiled broadly, and there were grins on the faces of the other two men.

“Pi is his servant all right. You seem to know the whole darn shoot! I’m telling you, Smith, that a man that knows Danty and the Lewing gang, and calls at Scotland Yard to see his friend the Sparrow, isn’t a healthy fellow to have around the house.”

There was a long pause, and then he added:

“That’s why you’re not going to be around the house.”

He looked up at one of the men thoughtfully.

“When is high tide?”

“Four o’clock.”

Connor nodded. Again his dark eyes fell on Luke.

“You a good swimmer?”

“Fair,” said Luke coolly.

“We’ll give you a little dip to-night,” said Connor. “Put him in the cooler, Harry.”

The man who had struck him gripped Luke by the arm and pulled him to his feet. The throbbing was easier now; he did not reel, had recovered something of his strength; but this was not a moment for its exhibition.

Evidently the building was not an extensive one. It had been the weighing room of a company that had once owned the wharf and small warehouse which Connor used as a headquarters.

Connor carried on a legitimate if unprofitable business. He was a dealer in certain building material, and barges came regularly but at rare intervals to this wharf and were unloaded. He bought and sold scrap iron, cement, any commodity which offered an immediate profit. The wharf could be, and was, hired for a fee.

A few paces from the door of the sitting room they came to another. Luke could not help wondering whether the little chamber into which he was thrust had been used before for the same purpose. It had no windows, but in other respects was curiously like a prison cell. It might have been employed for the storage of coal, but there was nothing in it now, not even a bed or a stool. In the light of the man’s electric torch he saw that the walls were of brick and whitewashed. Then the door slammed on him; he heard a bolt shot, and he was left alone with the unpleasant knowledge that it would be high tide in five hours, and that Mr. Connor, in his amiable way, had planned “a dip” for him.