Ormsby shook his head. He could try, but he wouldn’t go nap on the result.
‘Then better take a pane with you.’
‘Are you sure of the size?’
‘No, but take it big and take a diamond as well. You’ll want the usual things, and some reddish brown paint and dust. We’ll try and get the lock off from the inside and then perhaps you could cut a key.’
Ormsby was dubious as to the possibilities, but delighted at the prospect of adventure, and departed jubilantly to get his paraphernalia together.
It was getting on towards two o’clock next morning when the two men set out. Both were wearing dark clothes, caps and rubber shoes. Except for Ormsby’s pane of glass, wrapped up neatly in dark coloured paper, there was nothing to draw an observer’s attention to them. In addition to the glass Ormsby had a small kit of tools, while French carried two electric torches and a large black overcoat.
Tate’s Lane, when they reached it, was deserted save for a single policeman patrolling slowly towards its far end.
‘When he goes round the corner we’ll have our opportunity,’ said French, who had looked up the areas covered by all the adjacent beats.
They waited in York Street until the man disappeared, then followed him down Tate’s Lane. Two minutes later they were at the coachbuilder’s.
‘Now for it,’ said French, glancing quickly round.
No one was in sight. Opposite, the houses were in darkness except for a single lighted window, which showed a dull yellow square against the surrounding gloom. Rather a nuisance, French thought. Someone over there was awake and might chance to look out.
‘I’ll go first,’ he whispered.
Ormsby laid his glass against the wall, and forming a back, gave French a hoist up on to the wall. A moment later French had dropped softly to the ground within. Quickly the glass and tools were handed over, and in ten seconds more Ormsby also was inside.
They stood listening, but the silence was reassuring, and they tiptoed to the garage and set to work on the window. French directed the beam from his torch and held up the coat to screen the light, while Ormsby tackled the removal of the glass.
The night was ideal for their purpose. There was no moon, but the light of the stars showed up faintly the larger objects, while allowing the men to work unseen. It was calm and sounds carried far. In the street they could hear the footsteps of the returning policeman ring sharply.
Soon the putty was cut away and the sprigs withdrawn. Then, affixing rubber suckers to the corners, Ormsby pulled. This was the critical operation, but he worked skilfully and gradually one corner after another came away and he was able to lift out the pane.
‘Fine,’ French whispered. ‘Now a hand in.’
A flash from the torch showed that there was a small bench beneath the window. With difficulty French squeezed through on to the bench and dropped noiselessly to the floor. Immediately he opened the door, Ormsby slipped in, and the door was shut.
Their first care was to rig the coat over the window lest the light should betray them. Then while Ormsby started on his door key, French with the other torch examined the car.
His search was extraordinarily thorough. From tyres to roof and from headlights to rear number-plate he went over every detail. But absolutely without result. The car was a perfectly normal 15/20 Mercury saloon, probably worth £450 when new. It was upholstered in grey leatherette and the small fittings were complete and excellent in quality.
With a helpless, baffled feeling, French stood pondering. Were all his ideas of the affair erroneous? Did these girls really use the car only to register bets with the driver?
For a moment he thought it must be so. Then the face of poor pretty Thurza Darke came up before his imagination as he had seen it in the Portsmouth police station. No. There was something in their drives more deadly and sinister than gambling. Crime, terrible and dastardly, lurked there.
Setting his jaw grimly, he turned back to the car. There must be something.
He sat down once more on the back seat, and stooping forward as the girls had done, marked the arcs which his fingers could reach. On that space he worked, examining joints, testing for secret springs, measuring cubic capacities. And then suddenly he found what he wanted.
Beneath the back seat was the petrol tank. This he had already measured and dipped, and it had seemed to fill the entire space. But now he found that a thin steel plate, hinged along the floor, turned up in front of the tank. It fitted so well that at first he had taken it for the front of the tank itself. But he had accidentally pressed a secret spring, and the plate had moved forward. Attached to the inside of the plate, and fitting into a recess in the tank, was a small steel pocket, lined with velvet. The recess was triangular in cross section, which explained the fact that he had been able to push Ormsby’s steel rule right down to the bottom of the tank, and even feel round its edges, without discovering the trick.
French breathed a sigh of relief. At last the action of the girls was clear. On entering the car they had stooped down, lowered the plate, put in or taken out some object, raised the plate again and dismounted. After arrival from his round, or before starting, Welland had emptied or filled the pocket.
But beyond the admittedly crucial point that his suspicions had been proved justified, French had learned nothing. That the objects transmitted were small was now certain, but this had been probable from the first.
In vain he searched for some fragment in the velvet lining of the pocket which might indicate the nature of the transitory contents. In vain he longed for the skill of Dr Thorndyke, who might have been able with his vacuum extractor to secure microscopic dust from its fibres which would have solved the problem.
Satisfied that he had learnt all he could from the car, he turned to the examination of the building itself.
There was not much to examine. The four walls, unbroken save for door and window, were finished smoothly with cement. Under the window was the bench, a plain structure offering no hiding-place. The roof was not ceiled, the rafters, slating laths and slates being visible. The floor was of concrete, sloping slightly towards the central pit. A four-inch drain level with the bottom of the pit led away through the end wall opposite the door, and above it, let into the garage floor, was a cast-iron inspection chamber cover. A four-inch metal pipe rose up the wall and passed through the roof. All was perfectly normal and in order.
French glanced at his watch.
‘Nearly finished, Ormsby?’
‘Just about, Mr French. See here.’
He turned his new key in the lock and the bolt shot back.
‘Good. We can get in now any time.’ French pointed to the pipe which ran up the wall. ‘What’s that thing for?’
‘Vent pipe,’ Ormsby returned. ‘That’s all right. Required to ventilate the drain.’
‘I’m satisfied with everything here except the drains. Best have this inspection chamber cover off and see that all is O.K.’
Beneath the cover the drain from the pit ran across the cement bottom in a channel, ending up in a drop or well full of water, above which was a round plug about four inches in diameter. Still higher up an open four-inch pipe led to the base of the vertical one.
‘All perfectly O.K.,’ Ormsby pronounced. ‘Here is the drain from the pit leading into its disconnecting trap, and here,’ he pointed to the plug, ‘is the inlet for clearing out the pipe if it should get stopped. This,’ indicating the high-level open pipe, ‘is the vent pipe. It turns up the wall and has an outlet above the roof. All perfectly correct.’
With a sigh French helped him to lift the inspection chamber cover into place. On the whole he was disappointed with his visit. He had hoped that it would have given him the solution of the mystery, but beyond proving that there really was a mystery, he had learnt nothing.
‘Get that glass in,’ he said shortly.
Once again he held the torch and coat while Ormsby worked. Quickly the window was glazed and the fresh work painted with rapidly d
rying paint, which in its turn was dusted over with various coloured powders until it had practically resumed its original appearance. Then watching their chance, the two men climbed back into Tate’s Lane and so to their respective homes.
The discovery of the secret pocket in the car seemed to French to rule out one of his theories. The scheme was not for the purpose of keeping members of an organisation in touch with headquarters. Something material was being handed over. What could it be?
The girls’ occupation suggested money, some scheme for robbing the tills of their various establishments. But then, so far as his information went, they weren’t robbing their tills.
There were two ways, French saw, to settle the matter. The first was to arrest two of the girls on some trumped-up charge, one just before she was picked up by the car, and the other immediately after she was set down. One or other would necessarily be carrying the stuff. The second way was to shadow Welland more closely than ever and take him in the act of receiving or parting with it.
Of the two, French preferred the second. To take the girls to the Yard on suspicion would precipitate events too rapidly. He would no doubt find out what was being passed as well as getting Welland, but Style and the girl Lestrange would probably give him the slip. And he must get all three, for all, he felt positive, were concerned in the murders. No, he was not yet ready to take action. He must first find out what was going on.
A more intense shadowing of Welland seemed therefore to be indicated. French went over in his mind what he had already learnt of the man’s movements.
Observation had shown that on his journeys between his house, his office, his garage and the golf links he had held no communication with any other person. His entire time, therefore, was accounted for except the periods spent in those four places.
French called in two of his men and instructed them to get what help they required and watch the office and garage day and night, shadowing to his home anyone other than Welland who might enter either.
The house and links, he decided, he would tackle himself, and he settled down to think out a scheme for doing so.
11
The Happy Paterfamilias
Some fifteen minutes later he sent once more for Sergeant Ormsby.
‘You have a son, haven’t you, Ormsby?’ he asked. ‘A nipper of about ten?’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘A smart lad, able to put through a bit of play-acting?’
Ormsby smiled.
‘If you had seen him doing Tom Mix in “Miss Hook of Hollywood” at a children’s show out our way you wouldn’t need to ask.’
‘The very thing. Could you spare him for an hour or two tomorrow?’
‘Of course, Mr French. He’s on holidays now in any case.’
‘Then how would this work?’ French outlined his plan and the other laughed.
‘Suit the boy first-class,’ he observed with a chuckle, ‘and suit me too for the matter of that.’
‘Good, then we’ll leave in time to be at Harrow Station before the 9.17 in the morning.’
Next day French and an intelligent but somewhat mischievous looking boy alighted at Harrow shortly before nine. They were dressed for their parts. French was obviously a landed proprietor on a visit to town, while Freddy Ormsby was a convincing study of a preparatory schoolboy. Having seen Welland leave by the 9.17, they strolled into the town.
‘Now, sonny, we’ve got to kill an hour or two. What would you like? Coffee or an ice?’
Freddie’s predilection being for ices, they found a shop and gave a bumper order. French sipped coffee and smoked a lengthy pipe, and then they went for a walk. It was not till nearly eleven that they found themselves at the end of Acacia Avenue.
‘Now, Fred, here we are. Do your best, like a good chap.’
They strolled down the road, evidently strangers to the place, and as evidently father and son. At all vacant lots they stopped, clearly discussing a possible dwelling. Next door to No. 39 was such a lot, and at this they halted in its turn.
‘That bow window on the ground floor,’ French said in low tones, as he demonstrated with gestures how the ground might be terraced.
On his previous visit he had noted the exterior of the house, and by plotting the various elevations, he had deduced its probable plan. From this he was satisfied that the window in question belonged to Welland’s sitting-room. No other had a large enough expanse of blank wall beside it for the necessary size of the room.
Freddie Ormsby acted with promptitude.
‘Oh, daddy, see!’ he cried in shrill tones. ‘Look where the cat is!’ and before his scandalised parent could intervene, he had picked up a stone and sent it whizzing with unerring aim through the largest pane.
‘Played, sir! Fine shot!’ French whispered, then in loud tones: ‘Well, upon my soul, you little rascal! Look what you’ve done. What do you mean, sir, by such conduct?’
The door of No. 39 was opened by an elderly woman with an indignant countenance as an angry but apologetic gentleman and a scared, woebegone boy approached up its tiny drive.
‘I’m afraid, madam,’ said French, taking off his hat politely, ‘that an accident has occurred for which I am responsible. My son has so far forgotten himself as to throw a stone which unfortunately has broken your window. He had been warned about stone-throwing again and again, and I’ll see that this time it will be a lesson to him. I can only offer you, madam, my apologies, and go at once for a glazier to make good the damage.’
The good lady, who had evidently been prepared to breathe threatenings and slaughter, on finding the wind thus taken out of her sails, became somewhat mollified.
‘Oh, well, if that’s the way you put it, it will be all right,’ she admitted, ‘though it did give me a start and no mistake, the stone coming through. But there,’ she went on magnanimously, glancing at the frightened culprit, ‘you don’t need to say too much to ’im. Boys will be boys, that’s what I say. Boys will be boys.’
‘It’s excessively kind of you to look at it like that,’ French declared. ‘As I said, I can assure you it will be a lesson to him he will not forget. I hope nothing has been damaged inside the room?’
‘Well, I ’aven’t looked yet. Better come in and see for yourself.’
‘Thank you. And I think it will save time if I get a sample of the glass and measure the window.’
Having adjured ‘Cecil’ to wait for him and not to get into any more mischief while his back was turned, French followed the housekeeper. The room, as he had imagined, was Welland’s sitting-room. It was comfortably though not luxuriously furnished. In the window was a deep saddlebag armchair with beside it a table bearing some papers. Against one wall was a roll-top desk, with the cover down. A tantalus and a cigar cabinet stood on a second table. Many shelves of books hung on the wall.
‘The desk,’ thought French, as he expressed his relief that no further damage had been done and took his measurements. Two minutes later he withdrew in an atmosphere of politeness and regrets.
‘You did that well, old man,’ he congratulated his now grinning companion, when at last they were clear of Acacia Avenue. ‘You shall have five bob and the best lunch I can get you.’
At the station they met Ormsby, clad in a glazier’s well-worn overalls and with smudges of paint on his cap.
‘He did it fine,’ French greeted him, ‘you’ll be having the lad on the films yet. There’s the size of the pane and there’s what it was glazed with. Have you got what’ll do it?’
‘No,’ said Ormsby, ‘but there’s a glazier’s down the street. I’ll get it there. It was the room you wanted all right?’
‘Yes, and there’s a desk in it that you’ll have to go through. How’ll you do if the old woman sticks in the room?’
Ormsby smiled. ‘Trust me for that, Mr French. You may not have known it, but it sometimes takes a terrible lot of hot water to glaze a pane. I’ll keep her boiling up fresh kettles.’
Three hours late
r Ormsby knocked at the door of French’s room at the Yard.
‘There’s absolutely nothing there, Mr French,’ he began, as he took the seat to which the other pointed. ‘I had a bit of luck, and I’ve been through practically the whole house and there’s not a thing that you could get hold of. In the first place that woman’s a bit deaf and that helped me.’
‘I noticed it,’ said French.
‘Yes. Well, I went to the door and said I was the man come to glaze the pane and she had me in at once and I got to work. She hung about for a minute or two, but I didn’t speak, and when she saw me getting at it, she said she would be next door in the kitchen if I wanted anything and went out.’
‘Lucky for you.’
‘Wasn’t it, sir? But better than that, she was washing clothes and as long as I could hear the suds going I knew I was safe. I made some mess round the window to show I was working and then I went for the desk. It was an easy lock and I had it open in twenty seconds. I went through everything and there’s not a paper nor any other thing that shouldn’t be there. All absolutely O.K.’
‘Pity,’ French interjected.
‘Isn’t it? Then I made some more mess and had a look round the room and a quick run through the books. Then the old lady came in to see how I was getting on.’
He paused, and French nodded his appreciation of the situation.
‘She seemed satisfied with the amount of the mess and went back to the kitchen without speaking and I heard the washing start again. I thought I might take a bit of risk, so I slipped upstairs and found the man’s bedroom. I was afraid to stay too long, but I was long enough to make sure there was nothing there either. So then I came down and finished up the pane and painted the putty and came away.’
‘Well, that’s that, Ormsby.’
‘Sorry I couldn’t get more, Mr French.’
‘We may do our best to cook evidence,’ French said, with the twinkle in his eye showing even more clearly than usual, ‘but I draw the line at inventing it if it’s not there.’
Here was another disappointment. French had been building more even than he knew on Ormsby’s search of the house, and when this also had drawn blank, his chagrin was correspondingly great. The affair was certainly exasperating. It was a long time since he had felt so completely puzzled.
Inspector French and the Box Office Murders Page 11