‘Very good, Mr French.’ She paused, then went on hesitatingly. ‘I wish you would tell me something about it. I don’t suppose you could, of course, but I’m frightfully interested.’
French glanced at her keenly, then smiled.
‘I only wish I could,’ he answered pleasantly. ‘If I knew enough to answer your questions I’d be a much happier man. But I’ll soon know all about it and I’ll tell you then. In any case, the less you know, the better for your own health.’ Then an idea occurred to him and he went on: ‘Tell me, do you go about London much?’
‘Me? No, Mr French. What do you mean?’
‘I mean, I should imagine that a young lady in your position with a free forenoon should take some exercise in the form of walks. Do you not explore the streets?’
‘Oh, I see. Well, yes, I do a little, but I’m not a great walker.’
‘Very well. Avoid the neighbourhood of Waterloo Station and also Harrow.’
She looked interested.
‘I’ll explain,’ went on French. ‘Mr Welland lives at Harrow and he garages his car in Tate’s Lane off York Road. York Road is close to Waterloo. Now it might be disastrous if he saw you near either place, as he might imagine you were spying on him. So keep away from both districts.’
French was in a thoughtful mood as he returned to the Yard. Seldom had he been up against so clear-cut a problem. Welland was getting hundreds of half-crowns each day; he must be getting rid of them somehow or he must be storing them somewhere; how, or where? It seemed impossible that there could be a difficulty in finding the solution. French was therefore the more exasperated by his failure to do so.
In a kind of dream he took the eighty half-crowns to the Mint. To a high official he told his story, with the result that immediate investigations and tests were put in hand. He had a long wait, but before he left he got his information. All the half-crowns were genuine; no such coins had been recalled to the Mint; no disused cellar existed in which such coins might have been kept; no half-crowns had been stolen.
This, of course, was final proof of the falsity of the tale Welland had told Molly, which so far as it went was to the good. But it made the entire operations of the gang even more inexplicable. If they were not getting rid of counterfeit coins, what under heaven were they doing? French’s brain reeled as he faced the problem.
He walked slowly back to the Yard, full of bewilderment and baffled rage. These people were changing one lot of perfectly good half-crowns for another. In spite of the magnitude of the numbers dealt with, they were getting in no half-crowns from outside nor were they disposing of any. At least, they certainly were not obtaining nor distributing anything like the number passed by the girls. What was it all for?
A sudden wild hooting of a motor horn and frenzied cries from passers-by recalled French to his surroundings. He sprang practically from beneath the bonnet of a heavily laden bus—only just in time. For quite a hundred yards he forgot about Welland and his half-crowns as he meditated upon the undesirability of dreaming in the London streets. Then his thoughts swung back again to his problem.
Whether it was due to the start he had received or whether it arose in the normal processes of thought, he immediately found himself considering a new idea. Suppose all these apparently contradictory premises were true? Suppose Welland was neither obtaining half-crowns nor disposing of them? Suppose he was changing one perfectly good lot of them for another? What if the half-crowns he obtained from the girls on one day were handed back to them on the next? What if this elaborate machinery was simply a blind to cover some more sinister proceedings? Had Molly Moran lied and were the gang selling drugs after all?
Admittedly, French did not see how such a scheme would facilitate the distribution of cocaine or heroin, but this problem seemed to him the lesser of the two. At all events, there must be more in it than half-crowns.
But lengthy pondering over it produced no light. Every solution that occurred to him seemed more improbable than the last.
In despair he returned to the idea that the disposal of the half-crowns was the essential. Suppose a hoard of half-crowns had been stolen, some of which were known to be marked? Most unlikely admittedly, but at least this theory covered the facts.
In his efforts to carry the thing a step further he tried a trick which had frequently helped him out of a similar tight place. If when following a trail of footsteps he came to hard ground on which they were not visible, he made a cast and went on to the next soft area in the hope of picking them up again. Now he made a mental cast. Assuming Welland were getting rid of these coins changed by the girls, and leaving out the means by which it was being done, what must be their eventual destination?
Long cogitation told him that the man’s only plan must be to pay them into a bank. In no other way that French could see could he realise their value.
This at least opened out an obvious line of research. With a sense of relief at renewed action he drafted a circular to the managers of the various banks in London. He was anxious to trace a man who, he believed, was paying in large numbers of half-crowns to banks. He would be grateful to the manager if he would make inquiries as to whether such payments were being made at his bank, and if so, let him have some particulars on the matter.
For the remainder of that day the inquiry hung fire, but next morning French was called to the telephone. The manager of the Knightsbridge Branch of the London and County Bank believed that he had some information which might be useful to the inspector and would be glad if he would call round.
Half an hour later French was seated in the manager’s private room.
‘I do not know,’ said Mr Elwood, ‘whether I have brought you on a wild-goose chase, but for nearly a year a man has been paying in some four to six hundred half-crowns each Wednesday afternoon. It is common enough to have a weekly payment of silver, but uncommon to have it restricted to coins of one denomination. When, therefore, I received your circular I thought that it might be the man you wanted.’
‘Sounds hopeful,’ French agreed cheerily. ‘Perhaps you will give me the details?’
The manager touched a bell. ‘Mr Whitley,’ he said, as a dark, keen looking young man entered, ‘you might answer any questions that Mr French here asks you about Mr Welland, of Acacia Avenue, Harrow.’
‘Welland?’ exclaimed French in amazement. ‘Is he a well-built, prosperous looking man with the typical American business-man type of face?’
‘No, sir,’ returned the clerk. ‘Mr Welland is slight, with a pale complexion and a small, fair moustache. He has peculiar eyes, light blue and with a queer sort of stare.’
A wave of excitement swept over French. ‘Style!’ he thought, in high delight. Things were beginning to move at last!
‘I think I recognise the man you mean, Mr Whitley,’ he said pleasantly, ‘though I knew him under another name. Now what about this Mr Welland? When did you come across him first?’
‘He came in one day about a year ago.’ The clerk hesitated. ‘If I might get my books I could give you the exact date.’
The manager nodded and in a few minutes the young man returned with a voluminous ledger.
‘He first called on the 17th of August last and said he wished to open an account. You may remember, sir,’ Mr Whitley turned to the manager, ‘that I brought him in to you. He said that he carried on business as a bookmaker and that he dealt particularly in betting on dog-races. He had worked out a scheme whereby his bets were limited to half-crowns and multiples of a half-crown, with the result that he found himself with large numbers of half-crowns on his hands. His lodgments would therefore be made in coins of this denomination. On that day he lodged £60 worth of half-crowns. It was a Wednesday, and every Wednesday since then he has come in with amounts varying from fifty to a hundred pounds all in half-crowns.’
‘I follow you,’ said French. ‘I take it then that his account has been steadily growing?’
‘No,’ the young man returned, ‘for he draws ch
eques for comparatively large amounts at intervals. I do not think that his account has ever stood at more than £500. When it amounts to from £400 to £500 he draws all out except a few pounds.’
‘By cheque?’
‘Yes, by cheque.’
‘In whose favour?’
‘In his own.’
‘I suppose I need scarcely ask you, Mr Whitley, if you were satisfied that this business was perfectly in order? Did it not strike you as strange that a man should lodge nothing but half-crowns?’
‘Well, you see,’ the young man returned, ‘he explained that, otherwise I probably would have thought it odd.’
‘Then it is not an uncommon thing for silver to be lodged in that way?’
‘Oh, no, quite common. Small shopkeepers and persons of that class generally make a weekly lodgment in silver, but of course it is in coins of all denominations.’
‘Quite. Does Mr Welland call about the same time each Wednesday?’
‘Yes, always about two o’clock.’
‘Very good,’ said French. ‘With your permission, sir,’ he turned to the manager, ‘I shall be here at two o’clock next Wednesday, that is tomorrow, to meet Mr Welland. I may say that I believe the information you have given me will prove highly important and I need scarcely impress on you both the absolute importance of saying nothing of my visit and of giving no warning to Mr Welland.’
French’s mind was in a whirl as he left the bank. Then it was half-crowns! But what was the object of it all? He swore impotently as he came up once more against the problem.
But one thing at least was altogether splendid! For some time past he believed he had had sufficient evidence against Style to convict him of murder, but his difficulty had been that Style had vanished. Now Style was found, or at least he would be on the next day. That was two of the known members of the gang. With luck the shadowing of Style would lead him to the third, Gwen Lestrange. This morning had marked a great forward step in the investigation.
But when he reached the Yard, French’s delight increased tenfold. There were there awaiting him two other telephone messages and two letters, all from the managers of banks and all containing similar news. In each case the manager advised him that in reply to his circular he believed the wanted man was dealing at his bank, and each suggested a call for further information.
During the afternoon French was a busy man. Engaging a taxi, he drove round the various branches and in each found that Style was making a lodgment of half-crowns, exactly as had been described by Whitley at Knightsbridge. Only on one point did the stories differ. Each bank was visited by Style on a different day of the week. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday’s visits were accounted for, and on ringing up the Yard from the last branch he visited French was able to place Thursday’s call also. A similar communication had come in from still another bank.
With this information he felt that he should soon reach a decisive stage in the case. Style once located, the end was in sight.
But he racked his brains in exasperation as his former problem recurred to him. Again, how was Welland passing these coins to Style? The more French thought over the investigation he had made, the more impossible it seemed that the man could be doing it. And yet here was definite proof that it was being done daily.
He sat down at his desk and, contrary to his usual custom in the office, lit his pipe and began to smoke with long, steady pulls, as he gave himself up to thought. For the nth time he visualised the whole proceedings; the placing of the coins in the secret panel of the car by the girls; the driving of the car to the garage; Welland’s walk to his office; his journey to Harrow; his game of golf; his return next day to his office; his walk to the garage and the taking out of the car. Every one of these had been checked and rechecked so often that it was impossible—impossible—that the coins could have been got rid of. And yet they had been.
French wondered if he could not narrow the issue. The coins definitely reached the garage, because observation showed that they were not taken out of the car in the streets. Though it was by no means demonstrated, he inclined to the opinion that when Welland left the garage he did not take the coins with him. The man seldom carried anything in his hand, and so bulky a package could scarcely have been placed in his pocket without causing a bulge. But no bulge had been observed. It certainly looked, therefore, as if the coins were being left in the garage.
Though his examination had been exhaustive, French again racked his brains as to whether he could not have overlooked some means of access to the garage. Then suddenly an idea occurred to him which filled him once again with the eager enthusiasm which every forward step in an investigation produced.
The drain! Could the drain be a fake? Could it represent the communication he wanted? He determined that that very night he would examine it again.
Accordingly two o’clock next morning saw him repeat with Sergeant Ormsby the proceedings of three weeks earlier. Waiting until the policeman had turned out of Tate’s Lane, they swarmed over the coachbuilder’s wall, and creeping to the garage, let themselves in with Ormsby’s key.
‘I’m not satisfied about this drain, Ormsby,’ French explained. ‘I want to make sure that there is nothing more here than meets the eye. Let’s have this cover up again.’
They raised the manhole cover and Ormsby got into the inspection chamber and prepared to examine the three pipes in turn. French, lying down in the pit, was able to put his eye to that connecting the pit to the chamber. Ormsby’s torch lit it completely, so that every inch was visible. It was a perfectly clear connection without any break or junction and French had to admit that nothing was to be learned from it.
The second pipe from the chamber was the outfall with the intercepting trap attached. Here also investigation showed that everything was as it should be. The trap was full of water, and on Ormsby removing the disc sealing the pipe immediately above it, a rush of offensive gases came out, proving that the connection to the sewer was genuine.
There remained therefore only the ventilating pipe and this, it was obvious, passed under the floor to the vertical shaft and so to the roof.
‘That is all right, Mr French. You needn’t worry about it. It is just an ordinary vent pipe,’ Ormsby declared.
But French still was not satisfied.
‘I must make sure of the connection,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t you get up on the roof, Ormsby, and pour down some water and see if it comes out here?’
The pipe passed out through the roof at the back of the garage, opposite the door. With some difficulty Ormsby climbed on the wall between the yard and the adjoining property, then shuffling up the roof, poured down the pipe the canful of water which French handed up. A gurgling sound followed by a rush of water into the inspection chamber showed immediately that the connection was good.
‘Curse it all,’ thought French in disgust, ‘this darned thing is no good either. I suppose it must be that confounded office after all.’
‘Did it come all right?’ said Ormsby, re-entering the garage and looking into the inspection chamber. ‘I thought you wouldn’t get anything there, Mr French. The thing is perfectly normal.’ He climbed down once more into the inspection chamber and began pushing his rule up the ventilating pipe.
French watched him idly while he stood racking his brains over the problem. Then a sudden exclamation from Ormsby attracted his attention.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked sharply. ‘Got anything?’
‘I’m not so sure, Mr French. Here’s a queer thing and no mistake.’
‘What is it?’ said French, bending over the chamber.
‘Why here.’ Ormsby measured the distance along the floor from the chamber to the vertical pipe. It was just three feet four.
‘Now see here,’ he said.
Again he got into the chamber and pushed the rule into the horizontal pipe. French watched breathlessly as the three-foot rule disappeared and after it was the man’s entire arm!
; ‘There you are, Mr French,’ Ormsby declared. ‘That pipe goes through. The vent pipe is only fixed on to a tee, not a bend. Let’s find how far it goes.’
Eagerly Ormsby went out, and looking round the yard, brought in some thin laths. One of these he pushed up the pipe, then tying on the others, like lengths of a fishing rod, pushed the whole in. It made a length of about ten feet—three times the distance to the vertical pipe. At the end of the ten feet it brought up against something hard.
‘What’s the idea, Ormsby? What can that pipe be for?’
‘Not for ventilation, Mr French, I’ll swear. If it only went a foot beyond the vertical pipe I shouldn’t be so sure, for the builder might have had an old tee that he wanted to use. But this has been carried on deliberately for at least another five feet.’
‘Through the wall!’
‘Through the wall. I’d like to see the end of that pipe in the next lot.’
French swore delightedly.
‘So you shall, Ormsby,’ he chuckled. ‘We’ll get across now and have a look. Get your sticks out and this manhole cover on so that the place’ll be as we found it.’
They removed the traces of their visit, and shutting off their torches, crept out once more into the darkness of the night.
14
The Property Adjoining
The two men halted when they had relocked the door behind them, looking around and listening.
The night was intensely dark. A thick pall of cloud cut off all light from the sky, even the meagre light of the stars. Above the wall bounding Tate’s Lane they could see the upper stories of the houses opposite, lit up faintly by the street lamps. Elsewhere not a gleam of light showed. It was silent also. Save for the complaining call of a marauding cat and the distant whistle of a train, no sound broke the stillness.
Satisfied that they were unobserved, Ormsby made a ‘back’ and French swung himself up on the wall dividing the two properties. Ormsby followed and both men dropped softly to the ground at the other side.
Inspector French and the Box Office Murders Page 14