Chapter VIII: Part 8

It was a fine evening, but cold. The last glimmerings of daylight were disappearing from the sky and outside the radius of the street lamps stars began to show. It looked as if there would be frost later.

To keep a secret watch on a house in a city street is a feat requiring no little skill. Though French had reached the stage in which he left most of such work to his underlings, he was a past master in the art. Yet as first seven, then eight, then nine struck from the surrounding clocks it required all his ingenuity to give the appearance of being detained on some ordinary and unimportant business. He strolled up and down, hiding in alley ways and behind projecting corners and moving on at intervals from one such place of vantage to another. He had engaged a taxi in case his quarry should do the same, and for a good part of the time he employed the old device of sitting back in its deepest recesses while the driver gave a lengthy first aid to his refractory engine.

At last, when he had become stiff with cold and was cursing mentally but steadily at the delay, Pyke appeared and started off quickly towards Russell Square. French drew back into the entry in which he was taking cover and allowed him to pass, then having signed to his driver to keep him in sight, he followed the quarry as closely as he dared. Pyke turned down Montague Street, walking by New Oxford Street and Charing Cross Road to Charing Cross Station. He seemed about to enter the station, but, suddenly glancing round, he turned to the right and dived down the steps to the Hampstead and Highgate tube. French had already settled up with his driver and he followed without delay.

Keeping close behind, French shadowed his man to the platform and entered the next coach of the Hampstead train which the other boarded. At each station he watched the alighting passengers, but it was not until Hampstead was reached that Pyke appeared. Twenty feet apart, the two men passed out into the street and up the hill towards the Heath.

At the wide space at the entrance to the Heath French fell further behind. Pyke was now strolling easily along, as if out for a breath of air before bed. He passed in towards the left near Jack Straw’s Castle, taking one of the side paths which led to the wilder areas. Here were fewer people, and French dropped back till he could just see the man’s light fawn coat like a faint smudge against the dark background of the trees.

Some four or five hundred yards from the entrance, down in the hollow, there are a number of thick clumps of bushes. Round one of these Pyke passed and instantly became invisible. French stopped in his turn and, tiptoeing to the nearer side of the clump, began stealthily to creep nearer. Though a certain amount of starlight showed in the open, among the bushes it was pitchy black. There was no wind, and in spite of the vast city surrounding the place, scarcely a sound broke the stillness. French crept on, stopping every few seconds to listen intently. Presently he heard movements close by. There were faint footsteps as if of a man pacing up and down, and occasional soft scraping of leaves and snapping of small twigs. Crawling under a bush, French crouched down and waited.

For close on fifteen minutes the man paced backwards and forwards, while French grew stiff in his cramped position. Then light footsteps were heard on the path alongside the clump and a woman cleared her throat. The man moved out and said something in a low voice, to which the other replied. Then French heard Pyke say: “Come behind the shrubs. There is no one about and we shan’t be heard.”

They moved close to French, though not so near as he would have liked. Listening intently, he could hear a good deal, though not all, of their conversation. The woman was Mrs. Berlyn and she was saying: “He suspects something; I’m sure of it. I’ve been just sick with terror all day. I thought I must see you, and this seemed the only way. I was afraid he might follow me if I met you publicly.”

There was a murmur of Pyke’s voice, but French could not distinguish the words nor could he hear Mrs. Berlyn’s reply. Then he heard Pyke say: “I don’t think so. The note was there on the chimneypiece, but I’m quite certain it hadn’t been opened. I examined it carefully.”

Mrs. Berlyn’s intonation sounded like a question.

“Yes, I rang up Ganope and he said that no enquiries had been made,” Pyke rejoined. “It’s all right, Phyllis, I’m sure. Why, French explained that he had frightened you deliberately in order to find out your real opinion of Domlio.”

They seemed to turn away, for during some moments French could only hear the murmur of their voices. Then apparently they approached again.

“. . . I thought it was Charles he suspected,” Mrs. Berlyn was saying; “then to-day I thought it was myself. He knows a lot, Jeff. He knows about Colonel Domlio’s letter and the photograph.”

“Yes, but that’s all immaterial. He doesn’t know what really happened that night and he won’t know.”

“But if he arrests us?”

“Let him! As far as I am concerned, he can do nothing. He can’t break down the evidence of all those people in Manchester with whom I spent the night of the murder. You, I admit, haven’t such a watertight alibi, but it is impossible that he can prove you committed a crime of which you are absolutely innocent. And he can’t connect you with Charles. Remember that we’ve no reason to suppose he has the least idea that Charles is alive.”

“If he finds that out, he’ll suspect Charles, and then he’ll suspect me as his accomplice.”

“I dare say,” Pyke admitted, “but he won’t find out. Poor old Charles! I said to him on that last day . . .”

The two moved off again, for Pyke’s voice died down into an unintelligible murmur. Again for some moments French could not distinguish what was said, then the words came more clearly.

“No,” Pyke was saying. “I have a better plan than that. To-morrow I’ll call at the Yard to see French and I’ll confess to the murder. I’ll say that my misery through remorse and suspense is worse than anything I could afterwards suffer, and that I just can’t bear it any longer. Lots of murderers have done that and he’ll suspect nothing. He’ll of course arrest me. Admittedly, he may arrest you also. This, of course, I should infinitely regret, but you will agree there is no other way. He’ll then think he has solved his problem and he’ll look no further afield. Before going to the Yard I’ll communicate with Charles and Charles can make his getaway. Then when Charles has had time to get out of the country I shall produce my Manchester witnesses and prove my innocence. The case against you will then break down.”

“That’s all right except for two things,” Mrs. Berlyn returned. “If Charles believed he could get out of the country he would have done it long ago. Secondly, why, if you prove your innocence, will the case against me break down?”

“Those are easily answered. By the time Charles was well enough to travel suspicion had been aroused and every policeman in the country was on the lookout for the Ashburton murderer. If I confess, the watch at the ports will be relaxed. Besides . . .”

Again the words became unintelligible. There was a faint sound of slowly pacing feet and the voice dwindled. But after a short time the footsteps again grew louder.

“. . . under the circumstances,” Mrs. Berlyn was saying, “but, of course, if Charles is taken we shall be accused of being his confederates.”

“Very possibly. But, Phyllis, what can we do? We know old Charles is innocent, though things look so badly against him. We can’t let him down. We must do what we can to help him and take the risk.”

“I know. I know. But isn’t the whole thing just _awful_! What have we done that we should get into such a position? It’s too much!”

Her voice, though carefully repressed, was full of suffering, and French could picture her wringing her hands and on the verge of tears. Pyke comforted her, though not at all in the tone of a lover, then went on:

“It’s time that we went back, old girl. Until I get the warning to Charles we mustn’t risk being seen together, therefore you’d better go on by yourself. I’ll follow in ten minutes.”

They bade each other an agitated farewell and then Mrs. Berlyn’s light footsteps sounded on the path. For another quarter of an hour Pyke remained among the trees, his presence revealed by occasional movements and by the whistling under his breath of a melancholy little tune. Then at last he also moved away and French was able to stretch his aching limbs. Carefully he followed his man back to the tube station and eventually to his rooms in Kepple Street.

He did not know what to make of the conversation to which he had just listened. The statements made were so surprising and unexpected that at first sight he was inclined to dismiss the whole thing as a blind, deliberately arranged to throw him off the scent. Then he saw that for several reasons this could not be. In the first place, Phyllis and Pyke did not know he was listening. In the second; such a plan would require careful prearrangement, and since his visit to Pyke the latter had had no opportunity of communicating with Phyllis Berlyn. Then there would be no object in such a scheme. They surely did not imagine that because of it French would relax his watch on them. Moreover, if it were false, its falseness would be demonstrated on the very next day. No, French felt the interview must be genuine.

And if so, what a completely new view it gave of the crime! Berlyn, Phyllis, and Jefferson Pyke all apparently mixed up in the affair and all innocent! Who, then, could be guilty? French had to own himself completely puzzled. If this view were correct, the murderer must be some one whom he had not yet seriously considered.

Unless it could be Domlio, after all. Nothing that the two had said directly precluded the possibility. Of course, in this case it was difficult to see why they should not denounce Domlio, if it would free themselves and Berlyn from suspicion. But then again, they might suspect Domlio, even perhaps be reasonably certain of his guilt, and yet unable to prove it.

French continued to turn the matter over in his mind, and the more he did so the more he leaned to the opinion that Domlio must be, after all, the murderer. All the arguments which had before led him to this conclusion recurred to him with redoubled force and the difficulties in the theory seemed more and more easily surmountable. Domlio’s motor drive on the night of the crime, his denial of the trip, the hiding of the clothes and duplicator parts in the well, his depressed and absorbed manner—these really were not accounted for by any theory other than that of the man’s guilt. And Domlio might easily have invented the story of the photograph and produced the letter to account for his nocturnal excursion.

Puzzled and worried, French began to believe that he was on the wrong track in London and that he must return to Devon and try once more to get the truth from Domlio. But he would not relax his watch on Mrs. Berlyn and Pyke. Pyke he would himself shadow next day, so that if he communicated with Berlyn he, French, would learn the latter’s whereabouts.

He turned into the nearest telephone booth, and ringing up the Yard, arranged for reliefs for himself and Sergeant Carter. Then, Sergeant Deane having taken over the watch in Kepple Street, he went home.

Next morning he called at the Yard for Carter, and about nine o’clock the two men reached Kepple Street.

“That’ll do, Deane. You may get away,” French greeted the night man. “Nothing stirred, I suppose?”

“Nothing, sir. No one in or out the whole night.”

“Now, Carter,” French went on, “it’s your show mostly to-day. Pyke knows me and I’ll have to keep in the background. You stay about here and I’ll get a taxi and wait round the corner. If I see your signal I’ll come along.”

Time soon began to drag for the watchers. Evidently their man was in no hurry. Ten o’clock came, then eleven, then eleven-thirty, and still he made no sign. French began to grow seriously uneasy.

At last he could stand it no longer. He got out of his taxi and strolled up to Carter.

“Go up to the door and ask for him, Carter. If he sees you say I sent you to ask if he would call round at the Yard any time this afternoon.”

Taking his subordinate’s place, he watched him walk up to the door and knock. In a moment the door was opened and Carter disappeared.

For several minutes he remained inside, while French, growing more and more anxious every second, remained pacing impatiently up and down. Then Carter reappeared, and without any attempt at secrecy beckoned to French.

“What is it?” the latter whispered, sharply, as he joined the sergeant on the doorstep. “Anything wrong?”

“I’m afraid so, sir. We can’t make him hear.”

French swore. A wave of misgiving swept over him. Why in Heaven’s name hadn’t he arrested the man last night when he had the chance? He pushed into the house to meet an anxious-looking landlady in the hall.

“I am Inspector French of Scotland Yard,” he explained, quickly. “Where is Mr. Pyke?”

“Lawks!” said the landlady, recognising her former visitor. “Are you police? And I thinking you were a friend of Mr. Pyke’s all the time.”

“Yes, madam, I am a police officer and I want to see Mr. Pyke at once. Where is he?”

The anxious look returned to the woman’s face.

“He’s in his room,” she explained. “But he’s not had his breakfast and he won’t answer my knocking. He said last night that he had a chill and that he wouldn’t get up this morning, and for me not to disturb him. But that’s no reason why he shouldn’t answer a knock.”

“Which is his room?” said French, grimly. This should be a lesson to him to avoid his confounded trick of waiting till he was sure. If this man had slipped through his hands, any chance of that chief inspectorship was gone—if his job itself remained.

They went to a first-floor room at the back of the house and French knocked peremptorily. There was no reply.

“Down with the door, Carter. Put your shoulder to it with me.”

Despite the protests of the landlady, both men threw themselves on the door. With a tearing sound the screws of the keeper drew out and the door swung open.

The room was empty.

It was a large room, comfortable furnished as a bed-sitting room. It was not disarranged in any way, but the lower sash of the window was fully up. French hurriedly crossed to it and looked out. It gave on the yard, and about four feet below the sill was the roof of a small shed. This shed ran along the side of the yard at right angles to the main house, its further gable being against the wall between the yard and the lane which passed at the back of the houses. The roof of the shed formed a direct passage from the room to the lane.

Though French had no doubt that Pyke had escaped by this route, he dropped out of the window and crawled over the roof tiles, searching for traces. These he speedily discovered. Some one had passed a short time previously.

His chagrin was too deep for words. Even the lurid phrase with which in times of stress he was wont to relieve his feelings now proved utterly inadequate. He was aghast at the extent to which he had been hoodwinked.

For it was now evident that Pyke had known he had been shadowed to Hampstead Heath and that the whole conversation there had been designed to put him, French, off the track. Pyke was a cleverer man than he had thought. It seemed scarcely possible that the interview had been prearranged, and yet French could not imagine its being an improvisation. The whole thing was very puzzling.

However, at least one thing was clear. Jefferson Pyke and Mrs. Berlyn were the criminals for whom he was seeking. And he was on a hot scent. He would get Mrs. Berlyn at once, and Pyke with very little delay. The man had less than twelve hours’ start. He turned to Carter.

“Wait here for me, Carter,” he directed. “Have a look round and learn anything you can, but without disturbing things. I shall be back presently.”

He ran out of the house, and calling up his taxi, was driven to Park Walk. There he soon spotted the man who was shadowing Mrs. Berlyn.

“Anything to report, Jefferies?” he demanded, quickly. “She’s still there, all right?”

“Still there, Mr. French. No one left the house since I came on duty.”

“Good. Then come with me.”

He rang at the door and, when the servant opened, asked for Mrs. Berlyn.

“She’s not up, sir,” the girl returned. “Last night she said she had a chill and did not want to be called or disturbed this morning. She said she probably wouldn’t want anything until lunch and not to bring up breakfast, as she was going to take a sleeping-draught and might not be awake.”

Though still inadequate to relieve his feelings, French swore his lurid oath.

“Go and wake her now,” he ordered the scandalised girl. “Here, I’ll go to the door with you.”

The girl seemed about to object, but French’s tone over-awed her. Hesitatingly she led the way.

“Knock,” said French. “Or wait. I will.” He gave a rousing knock at the door.

There was no answer.

“She, too, by thunder!” he growled, rattling the handle. The door was locked.

“Your shoulder, Jefferies!” and for the second time in half an hour French burst open the door of a bedroom. As in the former case, the room was empty.

But here there was no open window. Not only was the sash latched, but when French opened it and looked out he found that it was thirty feet above the pavement and that there was nothing to assist a descent.

A glance at the door explained the mystery. The key was missing. Evidently the occupant had left the room by the door, locking it behind her and removing the key. And the maid was able to supply the further information required. The girl, on coming down that morning, had found the yard door unlocked. Though she thought she had fastened it on the previous evening, she had supposed she must have overlooked it.

French hurried down the narrow yard to the door which led out on the passage behind the houses, only to find that here again the door was locked and the key missing. Again and again he cursed himself for having underestimated the ability of these two people. Had he had the slightest idea that they had followed his progress so minutely, he would have employed very different methods. Even if he had not arrested them, he would have seen to it that they did not escape. The shadowing he had adopted would have been effective under normal conditions, but not where the victims were alive to their danger and ready to make a desperate bid for safety.

But French was too sensible to cry over spilt milk. He had blundered. Very well, it could not be helped. What he had to do now was to retrieve his error, at the earliest moment possible. How could he most quickly get on the track of these criminals?

He returned to the house and made a rapid search for any clue that the lady might have left, but without result. Then leaving Jefferies in charge, he drove back to Kepple Street.

Chapter Nineteen

The Bitterness of Death

“Any luck, Carter?” French asked, quietly, as he reëntered Pyke’s room.

“No, sir. He has taken a suitcase with him, a brown leather one of medium size. I got the description from Mrs. Welsh. She says she noticed it here yesterday afternoon and it’s gone now. And he has taken all his outer clothes, his suits and overcoats and shoes, but most of his socks and underclothing are here in these drawers. I’ve been through everything, but I’ve not found anything useful.”

“Let’s have a look.”

French hastily ran through the missing man’s effects. “Most of this stuff is foreign,” he observed, as he glanced over the clothes. “You see the Argentine marking on the collars and shirts. No, I don’t think there’s much to help us there. No books or papers?”

“None, sir. But there’s a big heap of burnt paper in the grate.”

“So I saw. We’ll go through it later on. Now ask the landlady to come here. Just sit down, Mrs. Welsh, will you? I want to know if you can tell me anything to help me to find your lodger. I’m sorry to say he is wanted on a very serious charge—murder, in fact. Therefore, you will understand how necessary it is that you should tell me all you know.”

Mrs. Welsh was thunderstruck, declaring again and again that she would not have believed it of so nice a gentleman. She was also terrified lest her rooms should suffer through the inevitable publicity. But she realised her duty and did her best to answer French’s questions.

For a long time he gained no useful information, then at last an important point came out, though not in connection with his immediate objective.

Having given up for the moment the question of Pyke’s destination, French was casting around to see if he could learn anything connecting him with the crime, when he chanced to ask, had Mr. Pyke a typewriter?

“Not lately, he hadn’t,” Mrs. Welsh answered, “but he did have one for a time. I don’t know why he got it, for I never knew him to use it. But he had it there on the table for about three weeks.”

“Oh!” said French, interested. “When was that?”

“I couldn’t say exactly. Three months ago or more, I should think. But my daughter might remember. Vera is a typist and she was interested in the machine more than what I was. I’ll call her, if you like. She is at home on holidays.”

Vera Welsh was the pretty girl with fair hair and blue eyes whom French had already seen. She smiled at him as she appeared in answer to her mother’s call.

“We were talking of Mr. Pyke’s typewriter,” he explained. “Can you tell me what make it was?”

“Yes. I noticed it when I was dusting the room. It was a Corona Four.”

“And when did he get it?”

The girl hesitated. “Between three and four months ago,” she said at last, with a reserve which aroused French’s interest.

“Between three and four months?” he repeated. “How are you so sure of that? Was there anything to fix it in your mind?”

There was, but for some time the girl would not give details. Then at last the cause came out.

It seemed that on the day after Vera had first noticed the machine she had had some extra typing to do in the office which would have necessitated her working late. But on that day her mother had not been well and she had particularly wanted to get home at her usual time. The thought of Mr. Pyke’s typewriter occurred to her, together with the fact that he had left that morning on one of his many visits to the country. She had thereupon decided to borrow the machine for the evening. She had brought her work home and had done it in his sitting room. She did not remember the actual day, but could find it from her records in the office.

“Very wise, if you ask me,” French said, sympathetically. “And what was the nature of the work you did?” He found it hard to keep the eagerness out of his voice.

“Just a copy of some tenders we had from America. I am in a hardware shop in Tottenham Court Road and it was about American lawnmowers and other gardening machines.”

“I understand. I suppose you don’t know what the copies were required for?”

“Just for filing. The originals had to be sent away, and these were wanted for reference.”

French rose to his feet. Certainly the luck was not entirely against him.

“Put your hat on, if you please, Miss Welsh, and come along with me to your office. I must see that copy. I can’t tell you how much you have helped me by telling me of it.”

The girl at first demurred, as she feared her employer might have views of his own as to the taking of important papers home from the office. But French assured her that he would see she did not suffer for her action. In fact, before she knew what was happening to her she was in a taxi on the way to the place.

On reaching the senior partner’s office, French was as good as his word. He explained the importance of his seeing the typescript, and saying that Miss Welsh had risked her job in the interests of justice, begged that the matter might not be held against her.

Mr. Cooke shook his head over the incident, but, admitting to French that the girl was satisfactory, he agreed to overlook it. Then he rang for the papers in question.

Ten seconds with his lens was enough for French. Here at last was the proof he had been looking for! The typing was that of the notes to the Veda works, to the Swansea garage, and to the magneto company.

“I’m pretty glad to get this paper, Mr. Cooke,” he declared. “Now do you think you could let me keep it? Miss Welsh could perhaps type another copy for you?”

Mr. Cooke was obliging, and in ten minutes the precious document was handed over. Stopping only to get the girl to certify on it that she had made it with Pyke’s machine, French hurried her away.

“I’ll drive you home, Miss Welsh,” he said, with his pleasant smile. “You have been of the greatest help. Now I wonder if you could do something else for me,” and he began repeating the questions he had already put to her mother.

Almost at once he got valuable information, though once again not on the matter immediately at issue.

It appeared that on the previous afternoon Pyke had called the girl into his room and asked her if she would do a small commission for him. It was to take a letter to a lady in Chelsea. It concerned, so he said, an appointment to dine that evening, so that she would see that it was urgent. The matter was private and she was not to give the note to any one but the lady herself, nor was she to mention it. To compensate her for her trouble and to cover the cost of taxis and so on he hoped she would accept a ten-shilling note. She had not thought this strange, as she knew him to be liberal in money matters. But she had wondered that a note about a dinner appointment should be so bulky. The envelope was of foolscap size and must have contained at least a dozen sheets. She had taken it to the address it bore and handed it to the lady—Mrs. Berlyn at 70b Park Walk, Chelsea. She had not mentioned the matter to anyone.

Here was the explanation of the conversation French had overheard on Hampstead Heath. With a little thought he was able to follow the man’s mental processes.

In the first place, it was evident that Pyke had realised that he was suspected, as well as that French had opened Ganope’s note. He would guess, therefore, that French would shadow him continually until his meeting with Mrs. Berlyn, and would try to overhear what passed thereat. He would also see that for that very reason he was safe from arrest till the meeting had taken place, when this immunity would cease.

But he wanted the night in which to escape. How could he stave off arrest until the following day?

Clearly he had solved his problem by writing out the conversation, possibly with stage directions, as a playwright writes out the dialogue in his play. In it he had pledged himself to a visit to Berlyn on the morrow. If he could make French swallow the yarn he knew that arrest would be postponed in order that French might learn the junior partner’s whereabouts. He had then sent Mrs. Berlyn her “lines” and she had learnt them like any other actress. French ruefully admitted to himself that in spite of the absence of a rehearsal, the two had presented their little piece with astonishing conviction.

On reaching the Yard, French’s first care was to set the great machine of the C.I.D. in operation against the fugitives. Among his notes he already had detailed descriptions of each, and he thought he would be safe in assuming that Pyke would wear his collar up and his hat pulled low over his eyes. Mrs. Welsh had described the suitcase, and burdened by this, French thought there was a reasonable chance of the man having been noticed.

A number of helpers were soon busy telephoning the descriptions to all the London police stations as well as to the ports. Copies were also sent for insertion in the next number of the _Police Gazette_. In a day or so all the police and detectives in the country would be on the lookout for the couple.

With Mrs. Welsh’s help French made a list of the clothes likely to be in the suitcase. As these would have had a considerable weight, he thought it unlikely that Pyke would have walked very far. He therefore despatched three sets of men, one to make enquiries at the adjoining railways and tube stations, another to comb the neighbouring hotels and boarding-houses, and the third to search for a taxi driver who might have picked up such a fare in one of the near-by streets.

It was not until these urgent matters had been dealt with that he turned to consider his second line of enquiry. Of Jefferson Pyke himself he knew practically nothing. What was the man’s history? Why was he remaining in England? Particularly, where had he been at the time of the crime and while the crate was at Swansea.

He began operations by writing to the Lincoln police for all available information about Phyllis Considine, as well as Stanley and Jefferson Pyke. Then he sent a cable to the Argentine, asking the authorities there for details about Jefferson. He wired to the police at San Remo, Grasse, and in Paris, asking whether the cousins had stayed during the month of July at the various hotels Jefferson had mentioned. Lastly he rang up the Bibby Line offices to know if they could help him to trace two passengers named Pyke who had sailed from Liverpool to Marseilles on their _Flintshire_ about four months previously.

The Bibby people replied that the _Flintshire_ had been home, but had left again for Rangoon. However if Mr. French would call at their office they would show him the passenger list and perhaps give him other required information.

In an hour French was seated with the manager. There he inspected the list, which bore the names of Stanley and Jefferson Pyke, and he was assured that two gentlemen answering to these names had actually sailed.

“If that is not sufficient for you, it happens that you can get further evidence,” the manager went on. “Mr. Hawkins, the purser of the _Flintshire_, broke his arm on the homeward trip. He went off on sick leave and if you care to go down to Ramsgate you can see him.”

“I shall be only too glad,” French said.

Armed with an introduction from the manager, French travelled down next morning to the Isle of Thanet. Mr. Hawkins was exceedingly polite and gave him all the information in his power. He remembered the Pykes having sailed on the last trip from Birkenhead to Marseilles. Stanley Pyke he had not come in contact with more than in the normal way of business, though they had once chatted for a few moments about the day’s run. But he had seen a good deal of Jefferson. He, Mr. Hawkins, had spent a year in the Argentine in Jefferson’s district and they had found they had many acquaintances in common. He had formed a high opinion of Jefferson, both as a man of the world and as a rancher. Both the cousins had seemed in every way normal, and several of the passengers had expressed regret when the two left the ship at Marseilles.

On reaching London, French drove to the Houston. Showing his credentials, he asked whether two gentlemen, a Mr. Stanley and a Mr. Jefferson Pyke, had stayed there for one night towards the end of the previous July.

It was not to be expected that the reception clerk would remember either visitor. But she soon turned up the register. The names appeared on July 21st, both having been written by Stanley.

“That’s scarcely good enough for me,” said French. “It doesn’t prove that they were both here.”

“Practically it does,” the clerk returned. “You see, each was allotted a room. If the rooms had not been occupied the allocation would have been cancelled, for at that time we were turning people away every night. But we can soon settle it.” She looked up her account books. “Here,” she went on after a moment, “are the accounts in question. Mr. Stanley occupied Number Three Forty-six and Mr. Jefferson Number Three Fifty-one. The accounts were paid separately. I receipted Mr. Stanley’s, and Miss Hurst, another of our staff, receipted Mr. Jefferson’s. Curiously,” she went on, “I remember Mr. Stanley paying. He broke the basin in his room and we had some discussion as to whether he would be charged for it. He was, in the end.”

This would have seemed ample confirmation of Jefferson’s statement to most people, but French, with his passion for thoroughness, decided to see the chambermaid. She remembered the incident and remembered also that the gentleman’s friend had occupied No. 351, as on her bringing his hot water in answering to his ring, he had said he was late and would she go and wake his friend in No. 351. She had done as requested, but the friend was already up.

From the Houston, French walked to Kettle Street. Yes, Mr. Jefferson had taken the rooms on the 22nd July last, and though he had been frequently away for a day or two at a time, he had lived there ever since. Moreover, Mrs. Welsh’s records enabled her to say that he had been absent not only on the night of the crime, but also on the date when the crate was disposed of at Swansea.

On his return to the Yard, French found that replies had come in from Paris and the Riviera. Stanley and Jefferson Pyke had stayed at the three hotels in question.

The next post brought a letter from the Lincoln police. It appeared that the three young people about whom enquiries had been made had lived in the district at the time mentioned. Dr. Considine was a well-known practitioner in the town until his death in 1912, but little was known of his daughter Phyllis save the mere fact of her existence. Stanley and Jefferson Pyke had lived with a relative in the suburbs and had attended a private school kept by a Dr. Oates. The relations between the girl and boys were not known, but it was probable that they had met, as they were in the same social set. More could probably be learned by further enquiries.

This seemed to French sufficient to corroborate the statements of Jefferson Pyke and Mrs. Berlyn, and he advised the Lincoln police not to trouble further in the matter.

He had scarcely written his note when a cable from the Argentine police was handed to him. Jefferson Pyke was well known as the owner of an _estancia_ in the Rosario district. He was believed to be comfortably off, though not wealthy. He answered the description given in the wire from Scotland Yard and had left for England on the boat mentioned.

With the exception of the fact that Jefferson was away from his rooms at the time of the crime, all this was disappointing to French. So far he had learned little to help in the building up of his case. On the contrary, the tendency was in Jefferson Pyke’s favour. He did not appear to be of the stuff of which murderers are made. Nor, from the purser’s description, did it seem likely that he was hatching a crime while on the _Flintshire_. On the other hand, there was no knowing what even the mildest man might do under the stress of passion.

But what really worried French was the fact that he had made no progress towards the tracing of his suspects’ present whereabouts. In vain he urged his men on to more intensive efforts. Nowhere could they learn anything to help.

But he realised that there was nothing for it but patience. The business was necessarily slow, as it meant individual enquiries from everyone concerned. French did not dare to advertise, lest Pyke should see the notice and take still further precautions against discovery.

The third day passed and the fourth, French growing more restless every hour. He now began to consider publicity—broadcast descriptions, advertisements in the papers, even the offer of a reward for secret information. Finally he decided that if by the following evening no news had come in, he would put these agencies in operation.

But the men of the C.I.D. are marvellously efficient and persistent. On returning from lunch on the fifth day, French learned, to his infinite satisfaction, that a taximan whose information might prove valuable had been found and was on his way to the Yard. Ten minutes later an intelligent-looking man in a driver’s uniform was shown in.

“Good afternoon,” said French. “You have something to tell me? Just let me have your name and address and then go ahead.”

William Service explained that he was the driver of a taxi in the employment of Metropolitan Transport, Ltd. On Monday night, the night in question, he had driven a fare to Euston for the 12.25 express. On leaving the station he was returning through Russell Square to his garage when, near the end of Kepple Street, he was hailed by a man from the sidewalk. He had not wished to take another fare, but the man had offered him an extra five shillings to do so and he had then agreed. The man was of medium height and build and dressed in a fawn coat and soft hat. Service could not describe his features, the brim of his hat being pulled low to meet his upturned collar. He was carrying a largeish suitcase.

He desired Service to drive to The Boltons, which, the Inspector probably knew, was an oval with a church not far from Chelsea. (The Inspector knew it and recognised with delight that it was just beside Park Walk). There he was to pick up a lady and to drive them both to a house in Victory Place, not far from the Elephant and Castle. The lady had been waiting. As far as he could see, she answered the Inspector’s description. He had driven both parties to the address mentioned. It was a big house of working-class flats.

“Good! You’ve told your story well,” French approved. “Now I want you to drive me to the place. I shall be ready in a moment.”

The last lap! A kind of cold excitement took possession of French. It had been a long and troublesome case, but it was over now. Another fine feather in his cap; another step to that somewhat overdue chief-inspectorship for which he had been so long hoping! A few minutes, an hour at most, and the thing would be an accomplished fact.

Hastily calling his two assistants, Carter and Harvey, he set off with them for Victory Place. “It’s a big thing, this,” he explained. “There must be no mistake about it. If we let these people slip through our fingers we needn’t go back to the Yard.”

They drove to the end of the block containing the house, and, Carter and Harvey remaining in the taxi, French went alone to reconnoitre. He rang at a door in the basement and asked the woman who opened if she could direct him to the caretaker.

“My husband’s the caretaker, sir,” she answered, “but he’s out at present. Is it anything I can do?”

“Probably you can,” said French, with his most winning smile. “I’m looking for the lady and gentleman who came in on last Monday night. They arrived by a late train and weren’t here till after midnight.”

“Oh yes. Mr. and Mrs. Perrin?”

“That’s right. Which flat have they taken?”

“Number Nineteen. That’s the top one on the right of the stairs.”

“Thank you. Do you know if they are in at present?”

“Mrs. Perrin is out. I saw her go about half an hour ago. So far as I know, Mr. Perrin is in.”

“Thanks. I’ll just go up and see.”

French returned to the taxi.

“The woman is out, but Pyke is supposed to be upstairs in Number Nineteen flat. You, Harvey, will stay in the entrance hall and watch the stairs and lift. Take him without fail if we miss him above. If the woman appears, don’t show up, but let her go in. Carter, you come upstairs with me.”

Harvey strolled to the door and became immersed in the list of flat-holders, while French and Carter began to climb the stairs. There were two flats on each storey, to right and left of the flights. When they reached the first landing French pointed to a fire-escape notice. They followed the pointing hand to the back of the house along a passage between the two flats, and, silently pushing open a door fitted with panic fastenings, saw an iron staircase leading down outside of the wall from the top storey to a paved yard.

“You’ll have to stay and watch that, Carter. I can manage the blighter upstairs.”

For a moment French wished he had brought another man. Then he thought of how many times he had carried out arrests single-handed. There was no difficulty. A whistle would bring his two men at top speed, and if by some incredibly unlikely accident he let Pyke slip through his hands, one or other of them would certainly take him on his way down.

He silently mounted the stairs to the tenth storey. No. Nineteen was the top flat, but the stairs led on to a door on to the roof. French knocked at No. Nineteen. There was no answer. In a moment he knocked again, then after waiting a few seconds, he turned the handle.

The door was unlocked and French pushed it open and looked in. Through a tiny hall he could see into a living room, small and poorly furnished, and with a kitchenette in the rear. Other partially open doors from the hall led into bedrooms. So far as he could see, the place was deserted.

Softly closing the outer door, he passed into the living room, and standing in its centre, looked round. Opposite him was the fireplace with a gas fire turned low. In the right wall was the window and against the left stood a table with a chair at each end. Two wicker armchairs were drawn up to the fireplace, and to the right of the door was a dresser containing crockery. Some books lay on the floor in a corner, but the centre of the room was clear of furniture.

French could see everything in the room with one exception. At the side of the fireplace was a closed cupboard. Possibly this might contain something useful.

He had stepped across the room and put his hand on the cupboard door knob, when the feel of a presence, rather than an actual sound, caused him to swing suddenly round. A man had entered and was watching him.

French stared in his turn. This was not Pyke. This was a smaller man and hollow of cheek, dark in colouring, and with a pair of keen eyes uncovered by glasses. A friend of Pyke’s, no doubt.

But this man was vaguely familiar. That he had seen him at no distant time French felt certain. Then the man moved slightly and French noticed the marks of _pince-nez_ on his nose. As he did so he remembered where he had seen, not him, but his photograph, and he stared spellbound in speechless amazement.

For a moment neither moved, then French recovered himself. With a step forward he cried, “Stanley Pyke, I arrest you on a charge of——”

He stopped. Had he gone mad? Wasn’t the dead man Stanley Pyke? How could he be charged with murdering himself?

French felt his brain reel. But he grew more and more convinced that the man was indeed Stanley Pyke. Therefore the victim must have been—of course!—Berlyn. How the whole thing had happened French could not form an idea, but he saw that this could be straightened out later. For the moment his course was clear. He must arrest this man.

Though these thoughts flashed through French’s mind at lightning speed, in his extremity of surprise he remained for a moment speechless, his eyes fixed on the other’s face. Then a slight movement of the man’s right arm attracted his attention and he glanced downwards. Pyke had taken an automatic pistol from his coat pocket and was holding it steadily pointed at French’s heart.

“No, Mr. French,” he said, quietly, “I don’t think so. You’ve not got me, but I’ve got you. Put up your hands.”

As he slowly obeyed, French saw that he was in imminent danger of his life. Pyke’s features were set in an expression of ruthless determination and there was murder in his eyes. He went on speaking in quiet, grim tones.

“It’s true that I may not get away with it, but I’m going to have a try. You won’t, anyway. I suppose you have men posted below?”

“I’ve men coming up the stairs after me,” French lied.

“That so? They’re not hurrying. I shall have plenty of time before they get to the top. I’m going to shoot you now, Mr. Joseph French. The upper part of this building is deserted; no one across the way and only a couple of old women on the floor below. The rest are all out at work. I shall be across the roof and down the next stairs before your men are halfway up these. I may carry it off and I may not, but I’ll not be taken alive.”

“And Mrs. Berlyn?”

Pyke’s eyes flashed.

“They’ll not get her, either. I know where she is and I’ll pick her up. Say your prayers, Mr. French. You’ve only got seconds to live.”

He slowly raised the pistol from the level of his side pocket to that of his eyes, keeping it first directed to French’s heart and then to his head. In those few moments French tasted the bitterness of death. He knew instinctively that the man meant to carry out his threat and he was powerless to prevent him. Covered by Pyke’s steady gaze as well as by his pistol, no sudden spring would help him. They were only about five feet apart, but the man would fire before he could reach across half the distance. Carter and Harvey were at the bottom of a hundred feet of stairs. They wouldn’t even hear the shot. A numbing fear crept into French’s heart, while thoughts of his wife and visions of scenes in his past life floated before his mind’s eye. And all the time he was desperately, despairingly racking his brains to find a way of escape.

An instinctive urge that he must gain time at all costs took possession of him. Then, as he was trying to evolve some further bluff, an idea shot into his mind which suggested a glimmering of hope. It was a terribly faint glimmering; the chances were a thousand to one against him. Almost a forlorn hope, but it was all he could think of.

Neither man had moved during the interview. French had swung round from the cupboard and was still facing the door through which the other had entered. Pyke on his part had his back to the door and was facing the cupboard.

French instantly began to act a part. First he wished to show fear. Here he had not to act—the emotion was only too genuine. Indeed, had he let himself go he would have been paralysed with terror. Therefore, as he spoke his eyes were agonised, his features distorted, and his voice thick and trembling.

“Don’t be a fool, Pyke. You can do better than that. I’ve sense enough to know when I’m beaten. My life’s of more value to me than success in a case. You want your liberty and I want my life. I see a way in which we can each get what we want.”

Pyke did not relax his attitude.

“I believe you’re a damned liar,” he said, only with a stronger adjective. “However, shove ahead with your plan. And any tricks or movements and you’re a dead man.”

“If you were once clear of me,” French went on, evincing the most transparent evidences of terror, “you could walk out of the building past my men and they’d never suspect you. They’re here to look for a quite different man. And the mere fact that you walked quietly downstairs after I had gone up to look for Jefferson would show that you were not the man I was after. That all right so far?”

“Well?”

French allowed his eyes to roam over the room, but without making any change in his expression. After the briefest pause he went on:

“Now to get away from me is the difficulty, for while I should be willing to give you my oath not to interfere, I don’t suppose you would accept it. Well, this is my plan.”

Calling all his histrionic powers to his aid, French again glanced round the room, suddenly staying his gaze on the door. Then with the whole strength of his will he pretended to himself that he saw Carter entering. On this he fixed his mind, with the result that his eyes took on the appearance of definitely looking at something, while an expression of the utmost thankfulness and relief showed on his features. But he was quick to add the idea that Pyke must not follow what was in his mind, and he at once looked away and back to Pyke’s face. With a fine effect of recovering a line of thought which had been disturbed, he continued, now trying to give the impression of faked fear.

“I propose that I withdraw to the kitchenette and there gag myself and tie myself up to your satisfaction. You, of course, would keep me covered all the time and it would be quite impossible for me to play you any trick. Or, if you preferred it, I could do the tying up in this room.”

Again he glanced at the door as if he could not keep his eyes off it. This time he slowly shifted the point at which he was looking to just behind Pyke, while he allowed relief and satisfaction to grow on his face. Once more he hurriedly withdrew his gaze and looked at Pyke.

“I noticed a clothes line in the kitchenette which would do,” he went on, but now absent-mindedly, and giving quick, as if involuntary, glances behind Pyke. “If you agree, I’ll back in there and get it down. If I attempt to play you false you can shoot.”

He paused, and looking directly behind Pyke, allowed a slight triumphant smile to appear on his lips.

Pyke had obviously followed the direction of his glances and he had been getting more and more uneasy. At French’s smile he could stand it no longer. For the tenth of a second he glanced behind him. And at that moment, French, standing braced and ready, sprang. Like lightning he dropped his head while his left fist struck the other’s right wrist upwards.