'The devil you did!' exclaimed Gregory.
'Yes. Wells got away all right and naturally he gave us details of the occurrence in his report. He'll be glad to have his pocketbook back. The woman's not French, but Hungarian, and you're right about her being a good looker. He laid stress on that in his description of her.'
'If you had it already why on earth did you bother me for it then?'
'Just a matter of routine, sir. We have rather a habit here of checking up as often as possible.'
'Checking up whether I was lying to you, eh?'
The big man's eyes twinkled. 'I wouldn't exactly say that, but I always like to establish the mental orientation of my visitors as far as possible; if you understand what I mean. Now, what can you tell me about the elderly man who was with the girl at the Casino?'
'I don't think you'll need any description of him. It was Lord Gavin Fortescue.'
For a second the Superintendent's blue eyes went curiously blank, but not a muscle of his face betrayed his sudden interest, and a less acute observer than Gregory would have missed his carefully concealed reaction.
'Lord Gavin Fortescue,' he repeated casually. 'Yes, we can get particulars of him easily enough, as we can of most well-known people. Are you quite sure though that it was Lord Gavin?'
'Certain. I could hardly be mistaken could I?'
'No. Once seen never forgotten, as the saying goes/ the Superintendent replied, admitting that he was quite well acquainted with Lord Gavin's strikingly unusual appearance. 'Strange, though, to find a gentleman like him mixed up in an affair like this isn’t it?'
'Is it?' Gregory countered. 'He's such a queer bird I should have thought it quite possible you had him on your records already.'
'Really now.' Marrowfat's eyebrows shot up in bland surprise. 'I can't imagine why you should think that. We know nothing of him officially.' He lowered his voice and leaned forward confidentially. 'Now, just what's your view of this business, sir?'
Gregory shrugged. 'I'm afraid I haven't got one at the moment. It's clear, of course, that the girl lured your man down to that cafe where the thugs set on him.'
'Very interesting,' nodded the Superintendent. 'In your view, then, Lord Gavin Fortescue sent those thugs to lay out our man?'
'That's about the size of it.'
'What d'you think he was after?'
'I haven't the faintest idea, but I hope to find out in the course of the next few days.'
Superintendent Marrowfat raised his carroty eyebrows again. 'But what's your interest in the matter, outside the lady, may I ask? It's hardly your business to ferret out Lord Gavin Fortescue's affairs.'
'No, but I'm engaged on a private investigation for Sir Pellinore Gwaine-Cust at the moment and the two things may link up together.'
'What sort of thing are you investigating?'
'That is Sir Pellinore's affair, and if he hasn't told you it's hardly my place to do so. He was hoping though, I think, that you might agree to my working with your people.'
Superintendent Marrowfat shook his large round head. 'I'm sorry sir: I'm afraid we can't agree to that. You see it would be quite contrary to regulations and I don't think the matter Inspector Wells was sent over to look into can have any bearing on a private issue which appears to rest between Sir Pellinore Gwaine-Cust and Lord Gavin Fortescue. We're very much obliged for the information you've brought us all the same.'
The Superintendent was glancing through the papers in the wallet. 'You didn't happen to find a telegram in this by any chance did you?' he asked after a moment.
'I'm afraid not.' Gregory lied glibly. He had never been particularly keen on police cooperation and since his offer of assistance had been rejected he had no intention of letting them have a sight of what he considered to be his best card.
'Pity,' said the big man, searching Gregory's face with innocent blue eyes. 'Wells had no time to make a copy of it and the thugs must have got it back after all.'
'That's what they were after then. Well, if you'd prefer that I should continue to act on my own I'm afraid there's no more to be said is there?'
'That's so, sir. Of course, if you tumble across any criminal activities during your investigations you're entitled to call upon the assistance of the police. In fact, it's your duty to do so, but it wouldn't do for us to mix ourselves up with Sir Pellinore's private concerns. If we once started doing that sort of thing we should never hear the end of it.'
'Right oh! Superintendent. Maybe you'll be hearing from me again later on.'
The Superintendent extended a large plump hand. 'That's it, sir. Much obliged to you I'm sure. I don't think there's any necessity to inform the French police that you concealed the lady for the night and I'm very grateful to you for having come to Wells's help so promptly when they were giving him a rough house. Good morning to you; and thank you.'
As the door closed behind Gregory the big Superintendent suddenly became amazingly active. He grabbed his desk telephone and, after a moment, bellowed down it.
'That you Wells? I've just had that bird here who helped you out at Trouville. Gregory Sallust's his name a clever devil if ever there was one he wanted to work in with us but, of course, I couldn't have that. Listen though, you're the lucky one. Lord Gavin Fortescue's in this. It'll be the biggest thing that's happened in years and it means promotion for you if you handle it right. Come up to me at once, but put some good men on to trail Sallust as he leaves the building. He's not to be lost sight of day or night. He's pinched that telegram, but he's going to lead us to something or my name's not Marrowfat.'
6
The Secret of Mont Couple
From Scotland Yard Gregory walked round the corner to Westminster Bridge and took the underground down to Gloucester Road, where he had rooms comprising the first floor of No. 272.
He could well have afforded better quarters but the building was the property of one, George Rudd, who had been his batman in the war and had ever since remained his devoted henchman.
Mr. Rudd eked out a precarious living by letting the upper floors of his house, generally to students at the London University, and doing odd jobs for the retail grocer who had the old-fashioned little shop on the ground floor.
When Gregory returned he found Rudd in his sitting room polishing some eighteenth century silver hilted rapiers. Rudd was a great polisher and always seemed to find some difficulty in disposing of his hands unless he had something to occupy them. He was a medium sized man with yellowish hair, close cropped and bristling at the top of his head, but allowed to grow into a lock in front, which he carefully trained in a well greased curve across his forehead. A small fair moustache graced his upper lip but, as he always kept it neatly trimmed, it failed to hide the fact that his teeth badly needed the attention of the dentist. His eyes were blue quick, humorous and. friendly.
'Like to come on a trip with me to France?' Gregory asked him.
'Not 'arf sir.' The ex-soldier removed the butt of a Goldflake that dangled from his lower lip. 'Is it gay Paree, or one of them places on the coast, where the girls from the Folley Berjares disports themselves in pocket handkerchiefs during the summer months?'
'No, this is business. I've got a private war on.' 'S'treuth! Who are we going to cosh this time?' 'That's the devil of it: I don't quite know.' 'Well it's all the same to me sir but I pity the poor devils if you've got it in for 'em. Shall we be taking the armaments?'
'May as well. We'll probably need them before we're through.'
Rudd replaced the rapiers above the mantelpiece and took two big automatics from a drawer in the writing table. They were greased and polished to a superb degree of oily efficiency and he fondled them with loving pride.
'A bag apiece is all we'll need,' Gregory went on. 'Just in. case we have to stay the night anywhere. By the bye, we shall be flying.'
'Must we go risking our necks that way as well, sir?' asked Rudd ruefully. 'No nasturtions on you as a pilot sir, but I always feel it's more homely like in a ni
ce comfortable train me self.'
Gregory grinned. 'No, we've got to be birdmen this trip and it's probable we shall be flying backwards and forwards across the Channel until we're sick of the sight of the damn thing.'
'Very good, Mr. Gregory, just as you say,' agreed Rudd philosophically. 'But 1 hopes we has long enough on the other side between trips to knock off a bottle or two of that vin rooge in one of them estaminaies.'
'Do you ever remember me going hungry or thirsty in all' the years you've known me?'
'No sir, and pray God I never will. You've always been a rare one for your victuals; though a bit queer in your tastes, if I may say so.'
Gregory refilled his case with cigarettes then picked up his hat. 'I'm going to lunch now. Have everything packed by three o'clock and the car here ready to run us down to Heston.'
'Right you are sir, and if there's any time over I'll be rubbin' up me French.'
Rudd's French was mainly English, shouted very loudly and clearly with the addition of 'Kompronevous' at the end of every other sentence, so it was not greatly improved by the time Gregory returned and found him seated outside the grocer's in the car, with the bags strapped on behind.
The afternoon was the sort one always hopes for in early
August, but rarely gets; sunshine so brilliant that the passing people were walking perceptibly slower than usual; the women were in their lightest frocks and nearly all the men had abandoned their waistcoats. The ice-cream vendors, beside their tricycles, were doing a roaring business, and that lazy hush filled the air which made London seem temporarily a city of the tropics.
At Heston many people were taking advantage of the fine spell. Quite a crowd was gathered on the flying ground watching the planes come and go. Gregory presented his credentials at the office, while Rudd garaged the car, and a few moments later an official led them over to a hangar in which reposed a very up-to-date looking monoplane.
It was an enclosed two-seater Miles Hawk, cruising speed 180 m.p.h., but as it was fitted with a retractable undercarriage Gregory knew that would give it an extra 15 and by the use of the supercharger he could rev her up to a good bit over 200.
For twenty minutes he discussed its engine, speed, and capacity with one of the mechanics then he took it up for a trial flight. When he landed again Rudd knew from his expression that he was satisfied. Sir Pellinore had functioned with his usual reliability and provided a machine which met entirely with Gregory's requirements. At a quarter to five, with Rudd in the observer's seat, Gregory called 'contact'" and took the air.
He headed straight for Calais, but did not descend at the landing ground; instead, he turned eastwards and followed the coastline as far as Dunkirk, carefully scrutinising the ground beneath him. There, he turned on his track and flew south-westward until he reached Cape Gris Nez, then he turned once more and finally came down at the Calais airport a little before seven o'clock.
Having parked the plane, and refuelled it to capacity, he left instructions that he might be returning in it to England that night. Then, in a taxi, he drove to the Maine and inquired the whereabouts of the Cafe de la Cloche.
54
At first no one seemed to know it but, having penetrated at last to a musty little bureau, where an old woman sat writing a spidery hand in a well thumbed ledger, he learned that the place was a poor sort of estaminet a kilometre outside the town on the road to Boulogne.
As they came out again from the Maine in the evening sunlight he remarked to Rudd: 'Our birds won't operate until after dark in any case so there's no sense in making ourselves conspicuous. We'll go to the Hotel Terminus. So few people stop in Calais that I cannot think why it should be worth the proprietor's while, but it's a fact that it has a first-class cellar, and the fresh caught local soles cooked a special way are a thing to dream over.'
'That's O.K. by me, sir,' agreed Rudd, 'although I'd rather have a good steak and chips. I never was one for these frenchified foods, in a manner of speaking.'
'You shall have a Chateau Briand, which is French for an outsize steak, to your own cheek, and a bottle of vin rouge to wash it down.'
The queerly assorted couple obtained an excellent meal, entirely satisfactory to both their divergent tastes and, by the time they had finished, darkness had fallen.
During dinner Gregory had been carefully considering the problem of how he could best install himself at the Cafe de la Cloche without arousing suspicion. To visit it was simple enough, but he might have to remain there for several hours, and from the description which the old woman at the Maine had given him of the place, it hardly seemed one at which a well dressed traveller would choose to linger. True, he had brought a disreputable looking old raincoat for just such a possibility the pockets of which bulged with his gun, night glasses, and a big torch but that hardly seemed enough.
The fact that Rudd was so obviously an Englishman, and could hardly speak a word of French was also certain to raise comment in such an out-of-the-way spot. He could leave Rudd outside, of course, but he preferred to have him with him so that he could send him off at once to shadow anybody whom he wished to have followed. Moreover, if this estaminet were the headquarters of a gang there was a possibility that one of the thugs who he had come up against in Trouville might be there and, if he were recognised, a rough house was certain to ensue. Gregory was perfectly capable of taking care of himself but all the same it would be a comfortable thought to know that Rudd was with him. From past experience he knew well that the excellent Mr. Rudd could prove a magnificent ally and an extremely ugly sort of customer in any fracas.
After dinner, by an offer of lavish payment, he managed to hire a car to drive himself from a garage. It was a Citroen and had seen better days but that suited his purpose admirably.
At ten o'clock they packed themselves into its worn seats and Gregory drove slowly out of the town; explaining to Rudd his plan of campaign as he did so.
'I want to snoop around at this place a bit,' he said, 'and unless I can get what I'm after I don't want to leave until they chuck us out. We're on a motoring holiday you and I and another bloke named Brown. We intended to move on to Boulogne tonight, but this wretched old bus let us down a few hundred yards from the estaminet. We've sent poor old Brown to footslog it back into Calais and come out with a mechanic to do the necessary repairs.
'In the meantime we've dined damn well, and that's the truth God knows, but we'll give them the impression we've dined a damn' sight better; not tight you know, but just about half a one over the odds, so what's more natural than we should knock off a few more drinks at this place while we're waiting for old Brown and the motor merchant.
'If he fails to turn up in an hour or so we may think it a bit strange, in fact even funny that the poor blighter's lost his way, but by that time we'll be fairly well ginned up and not caring two hoots in hell for anybody. We'll start talking of making a night of it as we refresh ourselves with further potions of the local poison. Round about midnight we'll agree that old Brown's lost himself and obviously returned to the hotel in Calais, where we spent last night. Then we'll say, for the benefit of anyone who's listening, that we'll do the same ourselves and foot it back when we feel like bed. It's not likely they'll turn us out as long as we look like buying another drink off them since there are none of these fool early closing laws in France. If they do, we'll know that there's something fishy going on, then we'll have to continue our watch outside. Get the idea?'
'Yes, sir. Sounds like a first-class pub crawl, without the crawl in it, ter me. I've often wished there weren't no early closing hours in England.'
While Gregory was speaking they had driven clear of the last houses of the town and were now out in the open country with the rolling down land all about them. A few minutes later a solitary building came into view at the roadside on the brow of a low hill.
'That'll be it, unless I'm much mistaken,' said Gregory, 'so I think it's about here we'll ditch the car.'
He slowed down and ran
it off the road into a shallow gully, then climbed out, remarking: 'I don't want to leave her on the road in case some fool breaks his neck by crashing into her. We'll say we had to run into the bank to avoid a speed maniac and that the jolt snapped something. We don't know what as we're not mechanics, only holidaymakers who've bought a cheap car for our trip.'
Side by side they trudged up the slope to the solitary building. It proved to be no more than a couple of ancient flint walled cottages knocked into one, but a creaking sign above the doorway established the fact that it was the Cafe de la Cloche. Before it, on the stony ground, stood a few rusty iron tables and battered chairs. The place was shuttered but lights came through the cracks of two windows and from beneath the heavy door. No other sign of life showed about the place and it was wrapped in a deep silence.
It was so old and tumbledown that Gregory allowed his vivid imagination to play upon it. He felt that it had probably already been an inn in Napoleon's day, frequented by gay Hussars and Chasseurs of the Guard from that mighty 'Army of the Ocean' that the Emperor had assembled on the nearby downs for his projected invasion of England in 1802. It was just the sort of place too, where spies might have met by night in those far-off times, to exchange secret intelligence about activities in the Channel ports after having run the gauntlet of the British fleet in some lightless lugger, while ten years earlier, aristocrats escaping from the Red Terror might have made rendezvous there before their final dash into exile and safety.
Dismissing his romantic speculations, Gregory kicked open the door and walked in with Rudd behind him. Inside, the place was like a hundred small estaminets which they had visited behind the lines, years before in the Great War. A bar ran down one side of the room; behind it on the shelves was a meagre collection of bottles, mostly fruit syrups, many of which, from their tattered labels, looked as though they had stood there for generations. A dark, blowzy, sullen eyed French girl sat behind the bar knitting. A handful of men occupied three out of the five cheap wooden tables covered with red and white checked clothes. One group was playing dominoes;, the rest were talking in subdued voices. All of them had the appearance of French peasants or fishermen. The air was heavy with stale tobacco smoke, the fumes of cheap spirits, and the odour of unwashed humanity.
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