‘Got those cars? Right. I want you to ring up the police station at Elmford, near Guildford. Tell them to take the message Mr Boland is bringing them seriously; they’ll understand. Tell them that I’ll be with them in an hour and that in the meantime they are to surround Mr Trevellian’s house and allow no one to leave; let them detain on suspicion anyone who tries to. Explain that we think these people have a girl in their power and say that if the sergeant has any reason to suspect foul play he’s not to wait for authority, but to break in. I’ll stand the racket.’
A minute later two fast cars left the Yard. In the first were French, Carter and two other men. The second contained Sergeant Harvey and another two assistants. Contrary to custom all were armed. French had with him the warrants he had previously obtained for the arrest of the members of the gang and he was determined, if necessary, to strain a point and use these to cover the search of the house.
‘Don’t kill anybody,’ he told the driver, ‘but don’t be longer in one place than you need,’ and they roared on, their speed increasing continually as they left London farther behind.
The night was calm but dark. The light which should have come from the quarter moon was obscured by clouds. It was now fine, but there had been a shower earlier and the roads were heavy. Five-and-twenty minutes after leaving the Yard they ran through Kingston and in another twenty Ripley was left behind. From Ripley to Guildford they had a clear road and they fairly hummed along, but they had an exasperating slack through the town. Then for the remaining three miles they were able to put on another spurt, reaching the police station at Elmford just an hour and three minutes after starting. A constable hurried out and saluted.
‘Inspector French, sir?’ he said. ‘The sergeant’s at Mr Trevellian’s. First turn to the left and first house on the left-hand side.’ He pointed down the street.
A couple of minutes brought them to the place. As they drew up at the entrance to the drive two shadows moved forward.
‘Inspector French, sir?’ said the larger of the two. ‘I’m Sergeant Biggle and this is Mr Boland. No one has entered or left the house since we got your ’phone, but one of our men saw a car leave as he was on his rounds.’
‘At what hour was that?’
‘Eleven-forty, sir. It was too dark to see details, but he believed it was Mr Trevellian’s green Armstrong-Siddeley. They turned in the direction of Farnham.’
‘Could he say how many people were in it?’
‘No, it is a saloon and it was too dark to see more than the outline.’
French nodded. ‘Now as to Mr Trevellian. Describe him, please.’
‘A rather stout, undersized man with bright red hair, a pale complexion and blue eyes.’
French felt a sudden thrill. This could surely be none other than that Jim Sibley of whom Cullimore and Dove had spoken, the engineer who had been dismissed from the Mint for theft.
‘Anyone else live here?’
‘Mrs Trevellian. She’s a tall, well-built woman with fair hair and complexion, blue eyes and a strong chin.’
Better and better! Gwen Lestrange, for a certainty!
‘Right. They’re the people we want. Anyone else?’
‘There’s. Mr Marwood, Mr Elmer Marwood. He’s brother to Mrs Trevellian, and lives with them. He goes into town every day, mostly in Mr Trevellian’s car. A thinnish, pale-complexioned man with a small straw-coloured moustache and glasses. That’s all.’
Style! That made four, including Welland. French would have betted long odds it was the lot. He turned to Carter.
‘Take charge, Carter,’ he directed. ‘Surround the house and go in and search it. If they don’t open immediately, break in. You needn’t mind making a noise. Only look sharp. Now, Mr Boland, you told me your son found these darts between eight and nine, but you didn’t ring up till after eleven. I’m not finding fault, sir, but could you not have done better than that?’
‘Awfully sorry, Inspector, but you see I didn’t know about it. My wife and I were dining out and the servant was on leave. The boy was alone in the house. He’s only eight. Against orders he waited up for me, and though I thought it was a hoax, I rang you up at once.’
‘I understand, sir. It was not your fault, but it was a pity all the same. Now, Sergeant,’ he went on to Biggle, ‘I want you to go back to your office and put through a general call to all surrounding stations. Describe the car and the party and give their direction as far as we know it. Where would you get to if you went through Farnham?’
‘Southampton or Salisbury, I should think, sir.’
‘Southampton it’ll be,’ said French. ‘They’re making for the ships. Well, ring up, will you, especially to Southampton and places on the way there. Tell them to report to you if there is news, and stand by to repeat it to me when I ring up. That all clear?’
The sergeant repeated his instructions, and French hurried after Carter. In some way the latter had obtained entrance, for a constable stood guarding the open hall door. Within a rapid search was in progress.
‘Got through the pantry window, sir,’ said Carter, appearing suddenly in the hall. ‘The house is deserted, but they’ve been coining in the cellar, though the machines are gone. Down there, if you’d like to have a look.’
‘I’ll run down for a moment. Make sure that girl’s not in the house and meet me in the hall.’
French’s ‘look,’ brief though it was, left him still more impressed with the amount of labour which had been put into the coining scheme. The cellar, a large, white-washed room, had been fitted up elaborately. The windows had been built up, but a system of Tobin’s tubes had been installed for ventilation, and the place was brilliantly lit with electric light. On the benches lay hundreds of partially finished coins, bits of tools and other debris. The place where presses had stood were clearly marked, but all the machines had been removed. There had been several of these, some, the foundations suggested, of a considerable size.
The sight cleared up a point which had been bothering French, namely, why the gang had not made off more quickly after becoming suspicious that the police were on their track. The removal of these machines supplied the reason. These people were not going to give up coining because that particular pitch had grown too hot for them. Clearly they were going to break fresh ground and start again. In some other great city the mortality among box office girls would soon be on the up-grade—unless he, French, stopped it.
When he reached the hall Carter was descending the stairs. No, there was no trace of anyone in the house, but there was a partially furnished attic, the only room above the ground floor which showed signs of recent occupation, in which the young lady might have been imprisoned.
‘And that,’ went on Carter, ‘is next the field where Mr Boland said the darts were found. I expect she was there all right.’
‘Very well; let’s get on.’
As none of French’s party knew the roads, they took a local constable as guide. Warned of the urgency of the case, the driver put on every ounce of power and they snored on at a breakneck pace through the night. Fortunately the road was good and other traffic practically non-existent, or disaster might have overtaken them. French sat in front, tense and watchful, though with his mind full of the problems which still remained. He believed that this was the last lap and that the party in front represented the entire gang. He could now see the function of each. Trevellian, or Sibley, to make the stuff; Style to take it to town and to obtain and bring down the raw materials; Welland to see to its distribution; Gwen to trap the necessary girls and doubtless do other odds and ends as might be required. And Sibley’s guise of an author was just what might have been expected. It would account for his living in the country as well as for his long absences during the day. French could imagine the casual caller. ‘Where is Mr Trevellian? I should like to ask him so and so.’ ‘Oh, he’s writing. He doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s at work.’ It was a good, well-thought-out scheme. These people had deserved to succee
d.
Presently there came houses—Farnham.
A hurried call to Elmford told them that there was no news and the chase was resumed. French was now much more anxious. He was running on towards Southampton on the mere strength of his summing of the probabilities. But he might be wrong. That start towards Farnham might have been a blind, and every mile might easily be increasing his distance from the quarry. If so, Molly Moran’s chances would be pretty thin—assuming, indeed, that she were still alive.
But there was nothing else for it, and they hurried on. French glanced at his watch; it was just past two o’clock. If the gang had gone this way, they must have passed nearly two hours earlier and nearly half an hour before he telephoned. If they had been seen it would only have been by the merest chance.
At five minutes past two they ran into Alton and stopped at the police station. Again no luck! The Elmford sergeant telephoned that he had heard nothing.
The difficulty of French’s problem was now increased tenfold. Should he go on? If the others were not making for Southampton, to do so would probably mean losing them altogether. But there was no time for hesitation. Rightly or wrongly he would back his judgment.
‘On towards Southampton,’ he ordered, and once again they began their mad rush through the endless night.
At twenty minutes to three they reached the suburbs of Winchester and a couple of minutes later French was again ringing up Elmford. Then his weight of fear and doubt was suddenly eased and he felt a thrill of the keenest satisfaction. There was news!
On receiving Sergeant Biggle’s call, the officer in charge at Southampton had instantly sent round the roads in the vicinity to warn the patrols who were already out on their beats. Just five minutes earlier one of these men had returned to say that a car answering the description in question had passed through the village of Old Netley at about 2.00 a.m. It had come from the direction of Hedge End and gone on towards the sea. Hedge End was in a direct line from Winchester to Netley.
‘Netley! Hard as you like!’ French cried as he swung himself back into the car.
Luckily their guide had once been stationed at Southampton and knew the district. They ran on at full speed to Botley, then turning back west, went south through Hedge End. There they left the main road and at a necessarily reduced speed ran through Old Netley and down to the shore of Southampton Water at the end of the little town of Netley.
Here was another problem for French. The road down which they had come debouched at right angles into a road running parallel to the shore. Should they turn up or down channel?
‘Where does that road go to?’ he asked the guide, pointing down towards the sea.
‘Just to Netley town and the hospital, sir, though you can get on to Hamble. But they wouldn’t have gone that way because there’s a direct road from Winchester to Hamble through Hound.’
‘Very well; turn to the right.’
This, the guide explained, would bring them in a couple of miles to Southampton, through the suburb of Woolston. French, deciding that he would make for the police station, nodded.
After passing a grove of trees at Hilton the road ran down along the sea, being separated from the actual beach by a strip of unfenced grass, some thirty yards wide. To be so near a great port, the place was extraordinarily secluded. The clouds had now uncovered the quarter moon and so far as French could see in the dim light, there was not a house in sight. Away in front were the lights of Southampton and out on the water were the riding lights of steamers, with an occasional twinkle from the Hythe shore opposite. But the nearer shore was dark and deserted. Anything, thought French, might go on there and no one would be a bit the wiser.
As he looked out over the black water his face suddenly grew grim. He thought he could now account for the route the others had taken. They were going to Southampton all right, but they had something to do first. There was dangerous evidence—to be destroyed. There in the water, somewhere out in the darkness towards Hythe he dared swear was now floating the body of the poor little Irish girl. He sighed as he thought of the narrow chance on which the thing had turned. If only that man Boland had not been out when his son found the darts! Ah well, it couldn’t be mended now. But there was still one thing to be seen to and French set his teeth as he thought of it. They should pay, these ruffians, pay in full measure, pressed down and running over. Until all four were either in gaol or dead, he would not rest. Poor little Molly!
And then something happened which completely altered his outlook and set him thinking furiously. The road turned sharply inland and as they swung round the bend they passed a man.
He was walking to meet them and owing to the curve he momentarily got the full benefit of their headlights. But that moment was enough. In spite of the fact that his hat was pulled down over his eyes and his collar turned up about his cheeks, French recognised him. It was Style!
French had never seen Style, but he had had so many descriptions of him that no doubt was possible. The man was walking quickly as if late for an appointment.
For five seconds French thought hard. Then as they passed round the curve out of Style’s view he stopped the cars and hurriedly assembled his men.
‘Style!’ he explained rapidly. ‘After him, but on your lives not a sound!’
For big men, as most of the officers were, their movements were surprisingly silent as they followed French at the double. When they regained the shore the grass muffled their footsteps and such slight sounds as they made were lost in the dreary moaning of the wind and the plash of the waves on the beach. Presently they caught sight of Style. He had left the road and was picking his way down to the water’s edge. French and his followers dropped on their hands and knees and crawled on till they were directly behind him.
Style, having reached the edge, stopped and stood looking out over the water. He seemed to be doing something with his hands, but French could not imagine what.
Then he knew. From the sea came three flashes as from an electric torch, and with these as a guide, French found he could detect a blacker smudge against the dark water. A vessel of some kind, close inshore and showing no lights.
As they watched, a second smaller smudge detached itself from the other. Someone was coming ashore.
Almost instinctively a plan flashed into French’s mind. After a whispered word to his men he began slowly to creep up behind Style. Style seemed uneasy, but it was not till French was beside him that he turned. At the same instant French sprang and with a muffled cry the man came down.
He fought like a maniac, but Carter and Harvey had come up and he had no chance. In a few seconds he was helpless, bound and gagged.
‘Once again,’ whispered French.
He had snatched off Style’s hat and putting this on and turning up his collar, he stood waiting as the other had done. The boat was now close inshore and revealed itself as a collapsible punt with a capacity for two. A short, stout man was rowing.
‘Thought you’d never be back,’ the stout man grumbled as the punt touched the ground. ‘For heaven’s sake look alive now. We don’t want to be here all night.’
Further remark died off into a kind of gurgle. French had seized him by the throat. This man also after the first moment of surprise fought like a tiger, but once again the odds were too heavy. In a few seconds he lay bound beside his accomplice.
‘Now, Carter, it’s you and me for it,’ French panted. ‘However many there may be they’re two fewer for this. You, Harvey, get the others and have those two men into one of the cars. Then come down and be prepared to lend a hand.’
Rapidly they righted and emptied the boat, which had been upset in the struggle, and French and Carter got in.
‘I’ll row,’ French decided. ‘I’m more the size of that second fellow. You take Style’s hat and turn up your collar. And have your gun ready.’
Old hand as he was, French’s heart was beating more rapidly than could be accounted for by his scrap as he pulled out towards the launch
. These were desperate men, their escape almost consummated. They would not lose their freedom for the sake of the lives of a couple of policemen. French had no delusions as to the possibility that neither he nor Carter might ever see another sunrise.
‘We want to take them alive,’ he said in low tones, ‘but if you see them going to shoot get in first.’
The boat was closer inshore than French had supposed. As they came they saw that she was a motor launch of some forty-five feet long. She seemed a sea boat, well decked over forward. On her deck astern stood a man and woman.
‘It’s about time you thought of coming,’ called out the man when they were within earshot. ‘What the—hell were you monkeying about ashore? We’ll not be clear of the Island by daylight at this rate.’
Welland! And the woman was certainly Gwen Lestrange! French murmured a husky reply in a tone as like that of the former oarsman as he could. But his effort was not good enough. The two started and called out simultaneously in tones of urgent anxiety.
‘Sibley!’ cried Welland. ‘Speak clearly, can’t you!’ while Gwen shouted: ‘Jim. Is that you? Answer!’
French put down his head and pulled with all his might. The boat bounded forward. There was a sudden scuffle on deck. ‘Look out, it’s French,’ came in a shrill scream from Gwen, while with a savage oath Welland roared: ‘Start the—engine! For your life, Gwen! I’ll pot them if they try to come aboard!’ The voices of both had an edge of desperate urgency.
Like a flash the girl leaped to the cabin door, and after fumbling at its lock, disappeared within. Welland at the same time dashed across the deck, seized what appeared to be a top coat and began hurriedly searching its pockets. At that moment the boat came alongside and both French and Carter sprang at the rail and began to climb aboard. But they were too late. Before French reached the deck Welland found what he wanted. His hand flew up and in it was something shining. And then, just as he was about to fire, a flying figure appeared from the cabin—the figure of a girl. She dashed to Welland and as the jet of flame spurted from the pistol, struck desperately at his arm. French felt a searing pain in his head, but he was not disabled and he sprang across the deck to Welland. He had a vision of the girl reeling wildly back, and with her scream ringing in his ears, he closed. For a moment it seemed as if things would go badly with him. Welland was the bigger man and he was evidently in excellent training. He got in a left-hander over French’s heart which left the latter sick and quivering. But French concentrated his whole will-power on holding his grip of the other’s wrist and preventing him turning the pistol inwards. Then Carter joined in and the thing was a matter of time. In three minutes Welland was bound like his confrères ashore.
Inspector French and the Box Office Murders Page 20