The barman of the “Shaftesbury” placed Jerry’s drink before him and winked covertly.
“Friend of yourn left a message fer you, Jerry,” he whispered significantly.
“‘And it over,” directed Jerry, and a white envelope changed hands.
Jerry did not read the message at once. He stood at the bar for some time sipping his drink thoughtfully, at the same time covertly studying those present. Apparently he was satisfied by his scrutiny. He had his own reasons for not wishing to see either of the two people most interested in his comings and goings—Inspector Elveden and Jimmy Craven, particularly the former. Since his unfortunate meeting with the Inspector on the eve of the robbery at Loseley House, Jerry had been expecting to encounter the sweet-voiced Elveden at every corner. So far he had eluded him.
He stared down at the envelope which he still held. The day before an announcement of the theft had appeared in the papers and with it a statement to the effect that the stolen tiara was a paste imitation. On the whole, Jerry was not looking forward to the interview with the Squid and he had little doubt that this message was to make an assignation. The words—“It would be unfortunate if you made any mistakes, Jerry. Very unfortunate, for you”—stuck in his memory unpleasantly.
With another covert glance round the bar, he retired to a secluded seat and opened the envelope. As usual, the message was printed in block letters. He read—
“WATERLOO STATION. YORK ROAD ENTRANCE.
TONIGHT. EIGHT-THIRTY.”
Jerry lit a cigarette and applied the match to the message, grinding the ashes to dust beneath his heels as a final precaution.
He had only a quarter of an hour. With a slight tensing of his muscles he rose to his feet, buttoned his shabby coat and slouched out of the public-house. He made his way towards Charing Cross and, turning down Villiers Street, crossed Hungerford Bridge and slouched across the road to the iron gates leading to the main entrance of the station.
Placing his back to one of the iron uprights, he lit another cigarette and disposed himself to wait.
As he had expected, he had no long vigil. At a few minutes past the half-hour a taxi drew up on the other side of the road in front of the coffee stall. Almost at once a black glove showed at the window and, with a hasty glance round, Jerry crossed the road swiftly and leapt into the cab.
“Drive like ‘ell!” he snapped, as he sank into the seat. “Elv’den!”
His survey had shown him that for once in a way he had been outmatched. A figure had come from the tobacconist’s on the corner as he crossed the road and he had recognized Inspector Elveden.
The taxi shot forward immediately and the barrel of a revolver dug into his side.
“Most unfortunate,” said the Squid in his habitual flat monotone. A black-gloved hand reached out and picked up the speaking-tube. “Make for King’s Cross,” he instructed impassively, and threw a glance over his shoulder.
“Our dear friend, Inspector Elveden, is following in a taxi,” he observed calmly, “but something tells me that this will not be his lucky night.”
Jerry turned round hastily, conscious of a pair of cold eyes that regarded him unswervingly, and stared out of the little window at the back of the cab. Another taxi was coming in their wake.
“Streuth!” he muttered nervously. “I didn’t know that lousy tyke was follerin’ me, Squid!”
“A compliment, my dear Jerry, a compliment,” remarked the Squid disinterestedly. “Quite flattering to receive the attention of an inspector of the C.I.D.”
A low laugh broke from him.
“We can only pray that his ill-advised interest in us will not result in a regrettable—accident,” he murmured, and abruptly his tone hardened.
“I take it you have seen the notice regarding the tiara. A nasty blunder, Jerry.”
Jerry tautened and stared round quickly.
“Honest ter Gawd, Squid,” he said, speaking with nervous haste, “I wouldn’t try ter twist yer. I ain’t no judge o’ sparklers. ‘Ow the ‘ell was I ter know they was duds?”
“You have them with you?” pursued the Squid coolly.
“Yus, ‘ere,” and Jerry removed his bowler swiftly.
The gleaming tiara encircled his tousled head and he hastily placed it in the Squid’s outstretched hand.
The Squid accepted it silently and in the light of a lamppost that flashed by Jerry caught a glance of the huge head and the two gleaming eyes.
He shivered and drew away a little from the other.
“I never noo it, Squid,” he said huskily. “Cut me froat if I tell a He.”
“I should,” answered the Squid placidly. “Fortunately, I believe that for once you have departed from your usual inaccuracy.”
Jerry drew a breath of relief. In the darkness he could hear the Squid turning the tiara over in his hand.
“I got ‘em out o’ Sir Markis’ safe two days ago,” whined Jerry, striving to catch a glimpse of the other’s face. “An’ I mucked the room abaht like what you said I was to.”
A low laugh answered him.
“Exactly. I think I believe you, Jerry. The error is mine. I made the mistake of underestimating our friend Sir Marcus. Obviously he believes in the old saw—Praemonitus praemunitus. You wouldn’t understand, Jerry. Knowing the attraction that diamonds have for me, he prepares to meet any—er—untoward contingency. I shall give myself the pleasure of dealing with Sir Marcus at some future date.”
Jerry did not find the statement hard to believe.
He peered out of the window again. Elveden’s taxi had not gained during the past few minutes.
“‘E’s still follerin’, Squid,” he said.
“Naturally. What do you expect him to do? Go the other way?”
The Squid turned to observe the pursuing taxi and then picked up the speaking tube again.
“A little more speed,” he directed, and sat back.
Jerry spoke nervously.
“‘Ere, I want ter git outer this,” he whined. “Elveden an’ I don’t love each other much lately. This’d put the lil’ tin ‘at on it.”
“Cold feet, Jerry?” asked the Squid softly. “Do you really imagine I care what happens to you, or that I am likely to imperil my own safety, for your sake? Believe me, no. But if it will reassure you, allow me to say that nothing is further from my thoughts than a premature encounter with Mr. Elveden.”
“Well, lemme drop orf at Holborn Circus. I’ll tike me chanct, I will.”
“As you please,” purred the Squid, and Jerry rose to his feet.
As the taxi swept across the Circus, Jerry opened the door and, steadying himself, dropped into the road.
Staggering violently, he rolled sideways and collapsed into the arms of an astonished policeman on point duty.
The Squid’s taxi swept on and Jerry caught a brief glance of a black-gloved hand closing the door.
“Here, hold up,” grunted the policeman, and swung Jerry to his feet, holding him out at arms’ length. “What’s the big idea?”
With a furious glance at his captor, Jerry wrenched himself free and swung on his heel, but the man on point duty was too quick. His foot shot out and Jerry pitched forward over it.
As the policeman swung him to his feet for the second time, the other cab shot into the curb and the Inspector leaned out of the window, showing a small badge in his hand.
“Get in, Jerry,” he invited quietly and, helped by his captor’s none too gentle hand, the Lag stumbled into the taxi.
“Put it on,” directed the Inspector and leant forward to peer ahead at the back of the Squid’s taxi, by now holding a substantial lead.
He turned to the Lag and his white teeth gleamed as he smiled in his own peculiar way.
“Come into some money lately, Jerry?” he asked casually. “Or found some before it was lost?”
“No, I ain’t,” snarled the Lag. “Ain’t all got the luck to be per-lice inspectors. An’ ‘oo do yer think yer luggin’ abaht? This ‘ere’s a free country—almost.”
“Taxis cost money,” continued the Inspector in the same silky tone. “Fond of taxis, Jerry?”
“Fonder’n I am o’ your society,” growled the Lag.
“Would it be indiscreet to say you preferred the Squid’s company?”
But the old Lag was not caught so easily. He knew how to hide his emotions when necessary and Elveden looked for a betraying sign in vain.
“No, it wouldn’t,” Jerry answered curtly. “I prefer anyone’s society ter yours.”
“Obviously,” sighed the Inspector regretfully. “That was the Squid you were driving with, I believe?”
“You’d believe anything, you would,” grunted the Lag, “ ‘cept the truf!”
Elveden looked ahead impatiently. The two taxis were still the same distance apart.
“Get a move on.”
“Move on it is, sir,” answered the chauffeur obediently and accelerated. Almost at once a traffic jam made them slow down. A blue arm barred their progress. Elveden looked out of the window and gritted his teeth. The small badge came into evidence again and the taxi shot forward.
Another two minutes wasted.
“Interested in diamonds, Jerry?” asked Elveden at length.
“Not arf,” grinned the Lag, “wallows in ‘em, I does.”
“Where were you on the night that Sir Marcus had the misfortune to lose his tiara? Foolish of me, but I seem to connect you with that evening.”
“Lunching at the Ritz with Baldwin,” jeered the Lag.
“Really? Now I shouldn’t have thought——”
“You wouldn’t,” interposed the Lag with grim satisfaction-”Can’t break the ‘abits of a lifetime, can yer?”
Elveden, peering ahead, could find no reply.
At that moment the taxi in front slowed suddenly and came to a standstill before King’s Cross Station.
“Quick!” snapped Elveden, leaning forward and watching intently.
His own taxi accelerated immediately and the distance lessened rapidly. As they closed in, a puzzled expression crossed the Inspector’s face. No one had descended from the taxi save the chauffeur and he was leaning against the door smoking calmly.
Elveden’s cab came alongside and the Inspector jumped out, dragging the Lag with him.
The Inspector leapt to the door of the Squid’s taxi, swung the chauffeur out of the way and wrenched it open.
The taxi was empty.
“Where’s your fare?” demanded Elveden, turning swiftly on his heel and eyeing the driver.
The latter, an undersized man, removed his cap and scratched his head thoughtfully.
“I suppose you ain’t by any chance a Mister Elveden?” he ventured diffidently.
The Inspector started. “I am Inspector Elveden.”
The little man whistled and surveyed the other interestedly.
“Inspector, is it? That explains it. The bloke I was driving dropped orf at the traffic jam at the corner of Sidmouth Street. He told me to drive on to King’s Cross and wait there for him. Anything fishy about him, sir?
“Decidedly,” replied Elveden, smiling faintly, “but I think you mentioned my name, just now?”
The other shifted his feet uneasily and reddened slightly.
“You see, sir,” he said confusedly, “My fare told me if anyone asked me any questions—and he seemed to think they might—I was to ask if they was Mr. Elveden and if they said they was——”
He paused and looked even more uncomfortable.
“Go on,” directed the Inspector.
“Well, I was to say, ‘Not tonight, Mr. Elveden.’ No offense meant and none taken, I hopes, sir?”
He stared anxiously at the inspector.
Elveden bit his lip and frowned.
“No, that’s all right,” he answered. “Did you manage to get a look at his face?”
“No, sir. He had a black scarf round his face and I couldn’t see anything but his eyes.”
“Anything else you noticed? Any little detail, no matter how irrelevant it may seem.”
The man scratched his head and appeared to be debating.
“Medium height, sir,” he answered. “Dressed in black—black gloves and carrying a brown paper parcel in his hand.”
“Describe it.”
The chauffeur indicated its size and general appearance.
Had Jerry been present, he would have recognized it as one containing the Squid’s waxen head.
But he was not present, a fact that Elveden discovered two minutes later.
Whilst interrogating the driver, the Inspector had momentarily relaxed his hold on the old Lag and Jerry had been swift to disappear. It did not greatly worry the Inspector; he could lay hands on the Lag whenever he wanted him; but the fact that he had lost the man whom he confidently believed to be the Squid, incensed him.
Two days of incessantly watching Jerry in the hope that sooner or later the Lag would lead him to the Squid had had the desired result. And then to lose his man...
“All right, that’s all,” he nodded to the chauffeur.
Ramming his hands into his pockets, he turned on his heel and strode back by the way he had come.
Behind him the chauffeur resumed his position against the door of the taxi.
Lighting a cigarette, he smiled ironically after the retreating figure of the Scotland Yard man.
“Lumme, the boss is a cute hand,” he informed the sky, softly. “Not tonight, Mr. Elveden! Not likely, nor any other night either!”
He chuckled, much amused.