ROCKWARD’S hand was shaking, and his strong, heavy face was quivering as he finished. Yet he was held by common repute a man completely beyond human emotion—a man whose soul was wrapped in the collection of millions.
‘If it is blackmail, why haven’t they demanded money in the letter? I’d have paid anything—anything rather than the girl should run the risk. Here’s three days gone since she vanished.’ He was working himself into a petulant anger, unusual for a man of his temperament. ‘If your people had taken it in hand at the first you might have done something. As it is, I’ve employed two confounded agencies, and we’re not an inch nearer finding her.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Rockward,’ said Barraclough. ‘If we had known when you first reported it that your daughter had been abducted we might have handled it. You see,’ he went on soothingly, ‘more than ten thousand people are reported missing to the police every year. Very few of them have committed any criminal offence, and in the majority of cases there is some perfectly natural explanation of why they went away. There’d be no end of trouble if the department went chasing after each one. All that can be done is to circulate a description and have men keep their eyes open. But you can rely that now we have something to go upon in Miss Rockward’s case she will turn up safe and well in the end.’
The millionaire proffered his cigar-case.
‘Forgive me, Mr Barraclough, I’m a little over-strained. I know you will do your utmost, and if you want money, call upon me—never mind for how much.’
Detective-Inspector Barraclough did not often smoke half-crown Havanas, and he took one now with gratitude. He could understand the millionaire’s feeling in the circumstances and make allowances. But in spite of his professional optimism—a detective, like a doctor, is bound to have a surface optimism in dealing with outsiders—it was with a perplexed mind that he made his way back to headquarters to lay the matter before his chief.
‘It’s a bit out of the ordinary run, sir,’ he said in the privacy of the superintendent’s room. ‘Rockward’s half off his head, and I don’t wonder. Miss Elsie Rockward’s a young girl—she’ll be nineteen next June—and the old man would have spoilt her if he could. That’s nothing to the point, though. As a matter of fact, she went out, according to the servants, at eleven o’clock on Monday morning—three days ago. She was believed to have been going to Regent Street. Anyhow, she’s not been seen since. This morning Mr Rockward had a letter. This is what it says.’ He produced it from his pocket, and read:
‘“SIR,—This is to inform you that your daughter is safe and well. She will be permitted to return to you unharmed in probably less than a week from today, provided you comply with a certain request which may be made to you, and which will cost you nothing. This is not blackmail. You will be wise to remain quiet and not approach the police.”
‘The letter is unsigned and in palpably disguised handwriting. It was posted at Winchmore Hill, and is postmarked midnight yesterday. That, of course, only means that the one place we’re certain the writer will not be found is Winchmore Hill.’
‘There’s more than one kind of blackmail,’ commented the chief. ‘In some City deals, for instance, if Rockward could be induced to throw his weight one way or the other it would tip the balance.’
‘Yes.’ Barraclough sucked in his lower lip. ‘Of course, I’ve not lost sight of that. I suppose I have a free hand?’
‘Entirely. Go ahead and good luck to you.’
Barraclough went away to begin pulling the obvious wires necessary to an investigation. There was the already circulated description of Miss Rockward to be gone over, to see that nothing was omitted, from the colour of her eyes to the texture of her stockings. Two photographs of the lady he sent down to have sufficient copies made to supply every divisional section of the Criminal Investigation Department, to say nothing of the more important provincial police forces.
In their little studio on the second story the staff photographers were busy with the letter that had been sent to Rockward. One of the shirt-sleeved assistants came to tell Barraclough that all was ready. He followed the man up to a windowless room, at one end of which stood a square white screen. The photographer touched a switch and the screen alone remained illuminated. Then he inserted a slide in the magic-lantern, and the letter, magnified enormously, leaped into being.
Very carefully Barraclough examined the enlargement, word by word and letter by letter. He had had the thing thrown on the screen, not because he had any definite idea as to what he was to look for, but on the general principle that it should be submitted to the minutest possible examination. At last he came to the final word and drew back.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t help much, but that isn’t your fault. By the way, have you got the focus right? The edges of the letter seem to be in the shade.’
The photographer switched on the light.
‘That’s not the focus, sir. That’s on the letter itself. There’s a kind of pinkish shade on the margin.’
‘Oh, yes! I was forgetting,’ said Barraclough.
The tint around the margin of the letter had not escaped his notice, but it had not impressed him particularly. He went back to his own room and considered the original closely. There was a decided, uneven pink border, shading off irregularly into the cream colour of the paper itself. Moreover, the envelope showed the same peculiarity.
He called Cranley, the first-class detective sergeant who was his invariable assistant in his investigations, and handed the sheet to him.
‘Notepaper good—vellum, very best quality, I should say,’ commented Cranley. ‘It’s an educated writing, though it’s disguised. No fingerprints, sir? That’s a pity. I imagine whoever wrote this is not an ordinary crook. Maybe one of Rockward’s friends in the City.’
‘Oh, shut up!’ said Barraclough irritably. ‘It may be the butler of one of Rockward’s friends, or it may be the Lord Chancellor, but we don’t know. You’re a good chap, Cranley, but carrying deductions too far will bring you into trouble one day. An anchor tattooed on a man’s hand doesn’t prove that he is, or has been, a sailor, but it’s a mark of identification.’
All of which Cranley knew as well as Barraclough. Being a wise man, however, he recognised that he had laid himself open to rebuke, and apologised with a certain degree of humility.
‘What we want,’ went on the inspector, ‘is something that’ll save us guessing. I don’t object to guessing when you can’t do anything else, but if it’s possible to know, I prefer that. Who’s a good paper manufacturing firm?’
‘I’ll go and find out,’ said Cranley.
He went away, and in a little returned with a ponderous directory. He planked it on the table, and with a stubby forefinger turned over the leaves till he came to the trade section.
‘There’s Rogerfelt’s in Upper Thames Street,’ he said. ‘They’re about the biggest people in the trade.
‘Right you are. I’ll go along to see them. You’d better stay on tap here till I come back. I may want you.’
When Inspector Barraclough emerged from behind the yellow-stained partition which shielded off the sanctum of one of the departmental managers of Rogerfelt’s from the common herd, his face betrayed a supreme content. The most hardened campaigner does not seek discomfort. If he can sleep on a bed instead of the bare ground he does so. Equally so a detective does not enjoy being baffled. He prefers to see his way as clearly as possible. He does not climb a fence if he can open a gate.
Barraclough knew that his quest was still far from simple. Nevertheless, he had at last something to go upon, something definite to unravel. He made his way to a public telephone call office and called up Cranley.
‘Yes, it’s me, Barraclough. I want you to get through to the division. Find out if they know of any wrong ’un who’s been ill lately, or who’s had illness in the place where he’s staying—it doesn’t matter what for. I can’t tell you over the wire. Get on to it as soon as you can, sonny. Get someone to help you if you can. Me? Oh, yes, oh, yes, I’ll be about. I’ll either drop in or ring up. I’ve got a lot of business to do.’
He hung up the receiver and wended his way eastwards. It was a warm day, and by the time he had reached the Convent and Garter off the Commercial Road he was glad to turn into the gilded and plated saloon. He ordered a lime-juice and soda, and leant against the bar with the air of a man to whom nothing mattered. All the while his eyes were quietly searching the groups of customers.
Presently he beckoned to a group of three, and they greeted him with deference. One would never have guessed from their joyous manner and their anxiety to pay for his drinks—which he would not permit—that they were each mentally checking off any secret exploit of theirs that might have excited the attention of a staff man from Scotland Yard.
Something of the same scene was enacted at Blackfriars, at Islington, Brixton, and half a dozen other districts of London. Barraclough was always genial, willing to buy drinks and talk over affairs. There was nothing of the stern, iron-handed, clumsy officer of police, beloved of the novelist, about him. Had he not strictly confined himself to non-intoxicating drinks it would have been a drunken man who reeled back to headquarters. As it was, disappointment and physical weariness were plain on his face when he dropped into his chair.
‘If you offer me a drink, Cranley, I’ll hit you,’ he said. ‘I’m full up to the lid with lime-juice and ginger-ale, and ten thousand other poisons. Who says we don’t earn our pay?’
‘Any luck, sir?’ queried Cranley.
Barraclough shook his head.
‘Not a ha’p’orth. How about you?’
His subordinate handed him a sheet of paper, which the inspector perused with wrinkled brows. Ultimately he crushed it up and, with a gesture of disgust, threw it into the wastepaper-basket.
‘Not a bit of good,’ he declared. Then, as Cranley’s puzzled gaze met his: ‘I meant some infectious disease—I ought to have made that clear. Ah, well!’ He yawned wearily and drew out his watch. ‘Feel inclined to make a night of it, Cranley? It’s eight o’clock. Let’s have a bit of dinner and drop into the Alhambra and forget all about things for an hour.’
Doggedness is one of the most valued attributes a member of the Criminal Investigation Department can possess, and Barraclough had a reputation for that quality. He had a bull-dog tenacity in following up the case until he had shaken it to pieces that had on occasion served better than a thousand brilliant inspirations.
At ten o’clock he and Cranley had commenced a fresh tour—this time of the supper-rooms and restaurants of the West End. Cranley was puzzled—more puzzled than he would have cared to admit. He could have grasped it if they had been seeking some particular crook who could have given definite information. But apparently Barraclough was merely questing around in search of a scent. With the reticence which he sometimes displayed even to his most intimate colleagues, he would vouchsafe nothing beyond that he wanted to find a criminal who had recently been in some house where there was an infectious disease. For the life of him Cranley could not see how an infectious disease could be connected with the threatening letter that had been written to the millionaire.
But everything has an end. A string band was making an undercurrent of melody to the laughter and conversation of hundreds of men and women clustered in twos and threes about little tables under shaded lights, as they descended into the basement of one of the great supper-rooms—where no one ever dreamt of taking supper. A frock-coated under-manager caught a glimpse of them out of the tail of his eye, and promptly threaded his way towards them. Barraclough laughed.
‘Just having a look round, that’s all,’ he explained. ‘Nothing to get alarmed about. We know you’re always pleased to see us.’
The official smiled and rubbed his hands. The proprietors liked to be on good terms with the police.
‘We’re very careful. You know that, Mr Barraclough.’
‘Of course,’ agreed the detective cheerfully. ‘You’ve got your licence to consider. I suppose you’ll give a certificate of character to every one here—men and women?’
‘We see that every one behaves themselves,’ said the under-manager. ‘Where would you like to sit?’
Cranley was looking over Barraclough’s shoulder into one of the big mirrors.
‘There’s Big Billy sitting at the eighth table on your right,’ he said.
‘We’ll go and have a talk with Billy,’ said Barraclough.
He picked his way along the tier of tables and dropped a hand heavily on the shoulder of the fat man who was seated with his back towards them.
Big Billy sprang to his feet with a start, and a liqueur-glass tinkled in fragments on the carpet.
‘Snakes!’ he ejaculated. ‘Is it you, Mr Barraclough? You shouldn’t do that. You gave me the jumps.’
‘Sorry, Billy,’ said the detective penitently. ‘I’ll be more careful another time.’ He sat down and indicated another chair for Cranley. ‘How’s things? I haven’t had a talk with you on business for a long time.’
The twinkling little ferret eyes set in the heavy, broad face became a trifle apprehensive. Big Billy did not like the officer’s tone. His nerves had been a little shaken by the sudden manner in which Barraclough had announced his arrival.
‘Business!’ he said, with a laugh that ill concealed his nervousness. ‘I didn’t know that you wanted to talk business with me or I’d have called on you before this.’
Barraclough crossed his legs.
‘Oh, it isn’t exactly business, Billy. We spotted you just now, and we thought we’d like a talk over old times. I’m sure your lady friends will excuse us for ten minutes.’
‘Right you are. Run away for a little while, kids,’ said Billy.
The two girls who had been enjoying Billy’s hospitality seemed inclined to resent this abrupt dismissal. Cranley, however, had half turned his head, and the under-manager was rapidly approaching. They rose, and swept away, haughtily contemptuous.
‘And now what’ll you have?’ said Barraclough.
‘Absinthe will do me,’ said Billy. And as the detective gave the order: ‘Now, gov’nor, what’s the lay?’
There are few more hoary untruths than that which insists that there is honour among thieves. If the axiom held, the work of the professional detective forces of the world would be tenfold more anxious and arduous than it is. In isolated cases now and again criminals will keep faith one with another. But such occasions are very rare. Weakness, jealousy, revenge, the mere desire to curry favour with the police are motives upon which it is possible for the tactful detective to play. The devious channels of information that run to Scotland Yard from the underworld are a great asset in the preservation of law and order.
‘Oh, nothing much, Billy.’ Barraclough lay idly back and began to toy with an empty glass. ‘Seen anything of Dongley Green lately?’
The fat man wrinkled his brows. He was all alert to fathom the detective’s intentions, and whether any harm to himself was coming. He sipped his absinthe.
‘Dongley!’ he repeated. ‘Why, Dongley went down at Nottingham for six years three months ago. Didn’t you know that?’
‘Come to think of it, so he did,’ said Barraclough. ‘It had slipped my mind. He always was unlucky, was Dongley. Do you remember that jewel business in Bond Street? You were on top then?’
The reminiscence was apparently not pleasing to Big Billy. He shot a malevolent glance at the detective. He remembered how Dongley and he had concocted a neat little scheme to attack a certain five-hundred-guinea ring; how Dongley, in the neatest of morning dress and with a small piece of chewing gum in his mouth, had walked into the shop inspecting trays and trays of gems; and how he had at last failed to properly fix the ring he had abstracted to the ledge of the counter with the chewing gum, whence Billy was later on to take it when he strolled in as an independent customer after the trouble had died down. Dongley had worked all right up to a point, but while he was being searched the ring and the chewing gum had dropped from their hiding-place. It had been a narrow shave for Billy, against whom nothing could be proved.
‘He was a clumsy dog,’ he growled.
‘Wasn’t he in with Gwennie Lynn for a time?’ queried Barraclough, with the air of one trying to keep up a languishing conversation.
Big Billy settled himself heavily.
‘That old hag always seems to slide along, but anyone who works with her seems to catch it,’ he growled. ‘There was Dongley. Now, poor old Brixton George is in for it. Yid Foster has been staying at her place down at Tooting, and he pretty well died of typhoid or measles or something. I’d like to wring her neck.’
Cranley shot a glance significant at his superior, who seemed to be suppressing a yawn. Here was the information that Barraclough had been seeking, and yet it seemed to make little impression on him.
‘Ah, yes!’ he said. ‘Brixton George! He was committed for trial a week or two back with one of the bank clerks. The Great Southern Bank forgery, wasn’t it?’
‘That was a neat job,’ broke in Billy. ‘Someone’s split up a hundred and twenty odd thousand, and all you get is George and the stool-pigeon. That is, unless you’ve got someone in line.’ He looked cunningly across the table.
Barraclough smilingly shook his head.
‘I’m not handling that case. Well, we won’t keep you any longer from your friends. So long!’
He thrust his arm through Cranley’s as they got outside, and hurried him with long, quick steps to Trafalgar Square, where they picked up a taxi. ‘The best piece of luck I’ve had today,’ insisted the inspector, more than once.
At Great Derby Street the cab halted, and Barraclough hurried into headquarters. When he returned ten minutes later he brought with him a third man, a sloping-shouldered individual with shrewd eyes and a light moustache.
‘Three of us ought to be enough even for Gwennie,’ he said. ‘I’ve sent someone to drag Watford out of bed—he’s looking after the Great Southern Bank case. But I doubt if we shall want him.’
Cranley tugged at his moustache.
‘I’m not quite clear what the point is yet, sir,’ he said.
Barraclough’s eyes twinkled and he regarded the other whimsically.
‘I’m too old a bird to show my hand until I’m dead sure,’ he smiled. ‘I’ll tell you all about it sometime—when it’s needful for you to know.’
The car whizzed on and conversation languished. In half an hour it drew up panting at the corner of one of the neat, respectable streets of villas that fringe Tooting Common. Barraclough laughed as he got out, and cast a glance down the row of tiny front gardens arranged in geometrical designs of calceolarias and geraniums.
‘Civil service clerks, small business men, and maiden ladies,’ he commented. ‘Wonder what some of the neighbours will say when they learn who Gwennie is? Come on, boys. You’d better wait, driver.’
Not a soul did they meet as they sauntered down the dimly-lighted street, scrutinising the numbers on each side. At last Cranley lifted his hand in signal and his companions joined him outside the gate at which he was standing.
‘No. 107, sir,’ he said.
They advanced up the path and Barraclough plied knocker and bell. In a little a light was switched on at an upper window. They heard footsteps. Then a light sprang up in the hall and the door opened.
A skeleton of a man with deep-sunken eyes and a dressing-gown hanging lankly about him stood peering out at them. ‘Well,’ he demanded curtly, ‘what is it?’
Cranley leant nonchalantly against the doorpost so that it was impossible to shut the door. Barraclough, dazzled somewhat by the sudden glare of electric light, wrinkled his brows at the interlocutor.
‘That you, Velson?’ he said, as he picked out the features of the man. ‘How’s Gwennie?’
‘I don’t know you,’ retorted the other. ‘And my name’s not Velson.’
Barraclough stepped inside.
‘No, very likely not,’ he admitted coolly. ‘Shall we cut all that out?’
A sudden blaze of wrath flamed in the dull, sunken eyes of the little man. He withdrew his right hand from beneath the folds of his dressing-gown, and the blue barrel of a revolver showed in the electric light.
‘No funny business!’ he warned them. ‘You guys can’t play it on me.’
Cranley leapt swiftly. The revolver crackled noisily as he overbore the little man, and they fell a wriggling heap on the tiles. But Velson stood no chance. In rather less than sixty seconds he was disarmed, pulled to his feet, and handcuffed.
Barraclough picked up the revolver.
‘I knew you were a gun man, Velson,’ he observed quietly, ‘but I didn’t think you were a fool. You wouldn’t have pulled out the weapon unless you were mighty frightened that something was going to happen.’
‘You go to blazes!’ said the prisoner sulkily.
‘All right.’ The inspector added the formal warning. ‘No need to tell you we’re police officers. Anything you say may be used as evidence, you know. You look after him, Conder. Take him into the dining-room. Cranley, you’d better stay at the door.’
There were movements upstairs, the shuffling of footsteps, the sound of voices. Then the authoritative tone of a woman could be heard apparently ordering the frightened servants to bed.
As Barraclough reached the foot of the stairs the woman descended, dignified and self-possessed. She was somewhere about fifty years of age, not uncomely—indeed, at one time she must have been possessed of striking beauty. Her complexion was as delicate as a child’s, and only the grim mouth and an indefinable quality about the velvety-blue eyes gave any plausibility to the supposition that she was a crook.
There had been plenty of time for her alert wits to gather what had happened. Her face showed no sign of perturbation. She smiled sweetly at Barraclough.
‘Good-morning, Gwennie!’ he said urbanely. ‘It’s a pity to wake you up. Suppose you know what we’ve come about?’
The smile persisted.
‘Good-morning, Mr Barraclough! I see it’s gone one, so it is good-morning!’
If Barraclough had hoped to surprise any admission out of her, he was disappointed.
‘Is there anyone else in the house?’ he asked.
She shook her head.
‘Only the two servant maids. But you won’t take my word for it, I know. You’ll search anyway.’
‘That’s so. You’re a sensible woman. Come on.’
He half led, half pulled her into the dining-room, where Conder and the other prisoner were seated. She took a chair with composure.
‘You’ve overdone it this time, Mr Barraclough,’ she said. ‘What are you pulling us for?’
Barraclough shrugged his shoulders.
‘You’ll learn that a little later on,’ he said. In point of fact, he was still uncertain himself as to what the charge might be. ‘Meanwhile, if you will tell us where Miss Rockward is it may save trouble.’
She elevated her eyebrows.
‘Miss Rockward! Who is she?’
The detective turned abruptly away.
‘I’m going to search the house,’ he said. He went through all the twelve rooms that composed the villa to make certain that Gwennie was speaking the truth when she said that there was no one else in the place but the maid-servants.
From the two servants, all in a flutter by the unexpected raid, he extracted little. Mrs Frankton—which was the name by which they knew Gwennie—had employed them for about six weeks—that was since she had taken the house. They understood that she was going to conduct it as a boarding-house. There had been only two boarders so far—Mr Green (Barraclough understood that Velson was meant) and a Mr Shilworth. Mr Shilworth was a commercial traveller. He was now away on business—had been away for four days.
Here was food for thought. Miss Rockward had been missing for three days. Barraclough shot a question at the more intelligent and least flustered of the two girls. Yes, Mr Shilworth had been away before—sometimes for one day, never more than two. He was a middle-aged man with a scar on the right temple, had a pointed beard, slightly auburn, and light hair, tow-coloured.
Barraclough got them to point out the rooms which had been occupied by Gwennie herself, by ‘Green,’ and by ‘Shilworth.’ It was in the drawer of a writing-table in the apartment of the commercial traveller that he came across what he wanted. He descended to the dining-room and addressed the two prisoners.
‘See here, you two people. You know as well as I do that I’ve no right to question you, but I may as well tell you that I’m not on the bluff. I’ve got evidence that you were concerned in the abduction of Miss Rockward, and I know why. You can’t do any good by holding her up any longer. We’re bound to find her—and Yid Foster. Now, where is she?’
‘You’re a wise guy,’ sneered Velson.
‘Shut up,’ ordered Gwennie imperatively, and the little man relapsed into scowling silence. She fixed an appraising gaze on Barraclough. ‘You’re a gentleman, Mr Barraclough,’ she said. ‘Will you let up on us if we put you on the line?’
‘I can’t make bargains, I’m afraid,’ said Barraclough.
Gwennie placidly crossed her arms.
‘Then you’ll have to work out your own business,’ she observed.
Detective-Inspector Watford faced Detective-Inspector Barraclough as they sat in two of Gwennie’s softly-cushioned arm-chairs. Gwennie and Velson were safely on their way by taxi-cab to King Street police station, and a more minute search of the house than Barraclough had been able to make was being systematically conducted by the three men Watford had brought with him.
The latter tapped the bowl of an empty pipe thoughtfully upon the heel of his boot.
‘I wish I was sure you hadn’t dragged me out of bed on a wild-goose chase,’ he observed. ‘It seems to me like a dead end. We can’t prove that they had anything to do with the Great Southern Bank business, and that’s my funeral. You may feel sure about the abduction, but you haven’t got the lady. I’m not quite comfortable. I own it freely.’
Barraclough stood up.
‘Of all the infernal gratitude! Why, man, it’s as clear as crystal! Here’s this forgery committed. You suspect one of the bank clerks and keep young Elsleigh under observation. You find him colloquing with Brixton George, and, like a sensible man, you send ’em both down. They’re both as tight as oysters, and there’s a hundred thousand of the best stowed away somewhere that you can’t lay your finger on.’
‘Well?’ said Watford dryly.
‘Well, it stands to reason that there’s something behind it. They’ve briefed Luton, K.C., to defend them at the trial. Somebody’s finding the money, and that somebody has got the hundred thousand stowed away in an old stocking. Now, you told me the other day that the defence intend to apply for an adjournment to the next sessions when the case comes up at the Old Bailey.’
‘Well?’ repeated Watford.
‘There’ll be an application for bail,’ went on Barraclough. ‘The rest of the gang know Brixton George. They’ve got to get him out if they want him to save their own skins. He would talk too much if they deserted him. That’s what Luton is for—to get bail—and then George could slip the country. Now the judge is bound to want a person of reputation as well as financial standing for bail—a man like Rockward, for instance.’
His colleague moved till he was upright in his chair.
‘I see your theory. Miss Rockward has been abducted to force Rockward to go bail for Brixton George.’
‘That’s it. It’s certain that Brixton George has been in close touch with Gwennie and Yid Foster. Add it all together, and you couldn’t get a likelier gang than Gwennie, the Yid, Velson, and George for a job of this kind. And why did Velson draw a gun?’
A tap at the door and the entry of one of his men prevented Watford from answering. He took from him a couple of letters and three bank pass-books, and looked them through. The creases smoothed out of his bronzed face.
‘By the great horn spoon, you’re right!’ he cried. ‘Here’s letters from the Yid. Why on earth Gwennie kept them I don’t know. Where did you find then?’
‘Stuffed between the mattress and the springs of her bed,’ replied the other.
‘Listen to this,’ said Watford. He read: ‘“You’re a real wonder, Gwennie. After you had given the girl the dope in the tea-room in Bond Street I got her away to Charing Cross as simply as A.B.C. She kept up her daze right across the water, though I got a bit of a shock at Boulogne when I thought she was coming round. However, it was a false alarm. We got here safe enough to your friend at Rue Vaillant 24.”
‘Then there’s the other letter: “I went round to see the kid this morning. She’s a little tartar, but I guess T. will learn her to be good. I am staying at the Bristol, and am feeling a heap better. Have you fixed up about Chelsea yet?”’
‘The Bristol!’ remarked Barraclough. ‘That’s going some. I suspect the Yid will have worse lodgings before long. Will you go out and burn up the wires, or shall I?’
‘I’ll go,’ said Watford.
The unravelling of a skein, once the right end of a mystery is found, proceeds rapidly. It was ten o’clock in the morning when Barraclough and his assistants finished ransacking the house at Tooting. A bath and a shave effaced the traces of a sleepless night, and Barraclough made his way to Scotland Yard. He found Watford in his room with a packed bag in one corner.
‘Paris?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ replied his friend. ‘I’m off to fetch the Yid. The business is well weighed up now. Those bank-books show that all the money has been paid into the account of Gwennie and her pals, and we shall have no difficulty in proving the case. The Brigade de Sûreté have nobbled Foster and found the girl. She was in a little house cooped up with an old hag named Templeton, who was with Gwennie in a swindling ladies’ bank in the States some years ago. Rockward is going over with me. He asked to be remembered to you, and said that if the commissioner approved he would like to hand you over a cheque.’
‘That so?’ said Barraclough wearily. ‘Good!’
Watford tapped him on the shoulder.
‘See here, old man, I’m puzzling how you got on to this in the first place. You might tell.’
Barraclough sighed, and dragged the note that had been sent to Rockward out of his pocket.
‘See how that’s edged with pink?’ he said. ‘That’s what got me on to it. Of course, that edging was bound to attract anyone’s attention. I didn’t know whether it was important or not, so I took it to the people most likely to know—a firm of paper merchants. They told me that the paper—technically a cream-tinted vellum—was made of esparto grass, and that aniline sulphate solution would turn it pink. That didn’t seem to help much. I asked if anything else would have done it. Then I got my tip. It seemed that sulphur fumes might have done the trick—they had heard of a case where it had happened when a room had been fumigated.
‘I hit right on to that. A room would probably be fumigated after some infectious disease, and that was what I had to look for. I had gone right over London before I hit Big Billy and got the straight tip. That’s all there was to it.’
‘Quite simple, my dear Barraclough,’ grinned Watford. ‘There’s the guv’nor in his room waiting to pat you on the back.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Crikey! I’ll have to run to catch that train. Good-bye.’
‘Good-bye,’ said Barraclough.