Chapter TWENTY-SEVEN: The Shop-Window Clue

Dressed in an old suit of Bruce’s, a pair of my oldest shoes, and wearing a golf cap and a flannel shirt without a collar, I presented a rough appearance as I entered the paved court before the big building known as New Scotland Yard, where Mr. Gell, attired in a butcher’s blue overall, and wearing a battered straw hat, which is the fashion of vendors of meat, awaited me.

“I think we’re in for some excitement to-night,” he said, in a low voice. “Nethersole says that if Owen is there and is cornered, he will probably show fight, so I’ve brought my pistol.”

“So have I,” I replied, feeling my trusty automatic in my hip-pocket. “I always carried it, too, on my journeys on the Continent.”

“The inquiries the police have made during the past month have proved that the little coterie in Hoxton are connected with a big gang of Continental thieves. The woman Bennett was one of them, without a doubt,” remarked my companion.

“But what is the use of it all if we cannot find Joan?” I asked despondently, for I must here confess that I trembled to think of the consequences for me if Illona were arrested and disclosed the truth.

A closed blue Buick stood in the courtyard close by, and a few seconds later Superintendent Nethersole--whom I had difficulty in recognizing as a pallid, consumptive-looking, ill-dressed man--together with three common laborers, emerged. And together we entered the conveyance, truly a rough looking party of hard-working denizens of the East End.

“O’Gorman, who is on duty, has just telephoned to say that Owen and Dufour are spending the evening together and that they have gone round to the bar of the King’s Arms, in the City Road,” Nethersole explained to Joan’s father as the car swung into Parliament Street. “We ought to make a good haul to-night. But our chief concern is to clear up the mystery as to who killed that young expert thief, Tuggy Wilson. Dufour was discharged, but there are still suspicions. The court dismissed him on account of insufficient evidence. But he can be arrested again, if we so decide.”

“Has anyone squealed?” asked Mr. Gell, using the thieves’ expression for giving information.

“Some woman has--but it was only a woman’s hatred,” he replied, glancing at me. And I felt very uncomfortable, to say the least.

“I feel certain that Owen knows the whereabouts of Joan Gell, dead or alive,” I said quickly. “We have to wring the truth from him. Poor girl! She must have suffered the tortures of the damned in these many weeks.”

“If Owen knows anything he shall be made to divulge it, I assure you, Mr. Hipwell,” declared the Superintendent. “Leave that to us,” he added confidently.

Along Theobald’s Road, the Clerkenwell Road, and Old Street we went until, at last gaining the busy City Road, we pulled up at the corner of Shepherdess Walk, not far from the blue lamp denoting the police-station. Nethersole alighted and, with one of his sergeants, strolled farther along the City Road to the corner of a narrow working-class thoroughfare, Windsor Terrace. Presently, from the shadow emerged a loafer who spoke a few hurried words to the Superintendent, and then ambled off. The man was Sergeant O’Gorman, whose duty had been to keep observation upon the house.

Turning back to us, Nethersole said:

“Owen and Dufour are still over there in the public-house. We’ll wait a bit and surround the house when they go back, as they are sure to do at closing-time. I’ve got a warrant for Owen charging him with being an accessory to the murder of Wilson. And we want Dufour because his description resembles that of the man who broke a pane of glass in the window of Appleyard’s, the jewelers in Old Bond Street, six months ago, while another man seized a tray of rings and got away in a car. They were no doubt working together. The man who took the tray was noticed by two passers-by, and I have a shrewd suspicion when I put Mr. Owen up for identification, he will be found to be the thief. They are all a pretty expert lot.”

Then, leaving us, he meandered away, while the sergeant with him crossed to the King’s Arms to have a drink and watch the wanted men, who were all unsuspicious that they had been traced to their humble hiding-place.

With Joan’s father I paced the streets unnoticed in the crowd of hurrying passers-by. None of us dared to enter the police-station; for, in the lower-class neighborhoods there are a hundred suspicious eyes on the alert for officers of the law in plain clothes.

Windsor Terrace did not bear the best of reputations. Many a thief or pilferer had been arrested there. Too, it was the abode of more than one pickpocket known to the police by previous convictions.

An hour full of suppressed excitement went by. At last the burly sergeant of the C.I.D. emerged from the public-house and went off in the opposite direction, subsequently doubling back, and meeting us outside the hospital in the City Road.

“They’re still there, sir,” he reported to his chief. “Another man is with them; but he is a stranger to me. They’ve just bought a bottle of whisky, so they’ll be going home with it in a minute.”

“Anything of any womenfolk?” asked Nethersole.

“No, sir. But I’ve overheard something they’ve been discussing. I believe it’s quite right about Appleyard’s, and that if we search, we’ll find the stuff at the house.”

“Splendid, Rayner!” declared the Superintendent. “Fade out now, but be in reach when we go to the house.”

“All right, sir,” replied the man, and he slunk away and quickly disappeared.

“Rayner is an excellent fellow--and has very long ears,” Nethersole remarked to us, and as I looked around I saw two of the men whom we had brought from the Yard waiting for a motor bus. A moment later they boarded it and went off.

I was surprised, but Nethersole remarked that the pair had evidently been observed and had gone. Ten minutes later they returned separately.

Suddenly from where we stood, we noticed another man come out of the King’s Arms and stand in hesitancy on the curb. As he did so he wiped his brow with a white handkerchief and then went off.

Nethersole’s quick eyes saw the signal, which told him that the men they wanted were about to come out.

Two minutes later they did so. I recognized both Owen and Dufour in the distance. With them was another man, tall and rather older, as far as I could discern.

At once they were followed at a respectful distance by one of the men who had exercised the ruse of leaving on the motor bus. We turned and walked away in the opposite direction. Presently we were overtaken in the crowd by the man who had come out of the bar and wiped his forehead. Addressing his chief, he said:

“All O.K., sir! They’re inside, and Sergeant Rayner is on duty. The third man they call Harry, and I overheard him tell Owen something about a woman--evidently a friend of theirs--that she might ‘peg out’ very soon.”

“Is the man known?” asked Nethersole quickly.

“No, sir. None of us knows him. He’s got a motor-bike in front of the house. So he doesn’t live here.”

“He’s evidently a friend of Owen’s. When he gets away on his bike, our car will follow him. See to that. We may want him.”

“Who is to go, sir?”

“Perry and Denham will go--with Rayner in charge.”

“May I go also?” I asked, eager for a chase. I saw that Owen and Dufour were to be arrested, and to follow the stranger would certainly be exciting.

“If you wish, Mr. Hipwell,” replied the pallid-looking man whom none would recognize as one of the “Big Four” of Scotland Yard.

“And I’ll go too,” said Mr. Gell. “You’ll no doubt deal with Dufour and his friend.”

Nethersole smiled, and then we turned and made our way back along the short street of drab, dilapidated old homes known as Windsor Terrace. As we approached, two other men came to meet us. Signals were given, and with two other men they retired into the shadows of adjacent doorways.

Outside the house there stood a fast “Indian” motor-cycle with its lamp lit, while at the end of the street, where we approached from the City Road, stood our car with the chauffeur, who had already received instructions.

While we drew back Nethersole ascended the steps and knocked loudly at the door, two of his own men standing close behind him. After several repeated knocks the door was at last opened, and the three men from Scotland Yard rushed into the dark passage.

Next moment we heard rapid automatic shots and the loud scream of a woman--probably Dufour’s wife.

In a flash pandemonium was at its height.

At once two other detectives ran into the house and from nowhere there appeared a constable in uniform guarding the door. The raid had certainly been well arranged, to the minutest detail.

Already we were near the car when we saw a tall figure exit hurriedly up the area steps from the basement, mount the motor-cycle, and speed away. Seeing that our car was turned in the opposite direction, I cried out that we should lose sight of him.

“No, sir. I don’t think we shall,” replied the well-trained police chauffeur, who knew all the main roads of London like a map. “He’ll no doubt get out on to the New North Road and into the country. We shall overtake him very soon, I think.”

Then, as we all jumped in, the car quickly sped back along the City Road to the New North Road and was soon traveling at high speed towards the Holloway Road. We were quickly at Holloway Station, but had seen no sign of the fugitive. Therefore our chauffeur slackened speed, saying:

“He won’t think he is being followed. He’ll pass us in a minute or two, and then he’ll believe us to be an ordinary party on the road.”

His prophecy proved true; for, within a few moments the fast “Indian” passed us traveling at about thirty miles an hour, and upon it was the escaping suspect.

In a moment we were after him, allowing him to get well ahead of us. He accelerated wherever he could. And, as there was but little traffic on the road at that hour, we soon found ourselves going through St. Albans and on our way to Dunstable, strangely enough on the same road over which I had traveled with my two friends, the lorry-drivers, on the night of my great misfortune. Up the long main street of Dunstable we passed, and then out on the straight road leading to Fenny Stratford.

“I wonder where the fellow is bound for,” asked Mr. Gell, as he sat resignedly in the back of the car at my side.

“And I’m wondering what dirty work has been done in Windsor Terrace,” I remarked. “Nethersole had an inkling that they would show fight.”

“Oh! Both of them are safe in Shepherdess Walk Police Station by this time,” he said with a laugh. “Trust Nethersole to take care of himself and his men. Our chief interest just now is in this fleeing stranger. Who can he be, and where is he bound for?”

“He may turn off the road,” remarked Sergeant Rayner. “If so we can’t follow in the car. It would arouse his suspicions and he wouldn’t go to his destination. If he does that, we must descend and travel on foot. We shall find his bike outside some house or other.”

“Have you orders to arrest him?” asked Mr. Gell.

“Certainly I have, sir. We only want to know who he is, and where he lives. That’s why we’re here. My orders are to arrest him on suspicion of being implicated in the theft at Appleyard’s.”

Suddenly, on arrival at the dark little village of Hockliffe, where the road from Bedford to Aylesbury crosses the main road from London to Birmingham, the fugitive turned off to the right towards Woburn.

Noticing this, our driver, an expert in following a car, slowed down. “This road leads past Battlesden up to Woburn and Northampton,” he said. “Shall we follow quietly?”

“Yes,” said Rayner, who had been placed in charge. “Put out your lights and creep along after him.”

This we did, and as we descended a hill, we heard the noise of his engine. Without slackening, he went on. Indeed, across the brow of the hill we saw his lights in the distance. Then our driver speeded up, his eyes keen before him in the chase.

We were afraid lest our turning off the main road after him might not arouse his suspicions. In that case we should never trace him to his home.

Proceeding slowly, the driver suddenly exclaimed:

“He’s stopped down in the hollow yonder. Or else he’s had a breakdown. I think it best if you all got down and took a walk. If he goes on I’ll follow and pick you up.”

“I agree,” replied the expert detective Rayner. “He can’t get over the brow of the next hill to Woburn without being heard or seen.”

So, we all alighted and went along at a good pace in the half-light of the crescent moon. The whole countryside was in silence, save now and then the hoot of an owl in the oaks by the roadside. From far off came the sound of heavily-laden lorries, going to and fro, on the main road to the North.

As we walked, there was a slight breeze. And above us the leaves rose and fell with a noise as of lazily-lapping waves upon a sandy shore.