‘That’s all right until shortly before eleven,’ French declared. ‘I want each of these girls followed home. If they meet anyone, get his or her description. I’ll do the Cosmopolitan, Carter the Panopticon, and Harvey this place. Here are the girls’ addresses. As soon as they get home you may drop it for the night. But I’ll want you at eight-thirty in the morning at the Yard. We’re carrying on tomorrow.’
The three men separated. Harvey suggested that as they were in the cinema they might as well see the programme, and settled down to enjoy himself. Carter was not inclined for pictures and went to look up a friend who lived close by, while French, feeling restless and unsettled, set off for a stroll through the crowded streets.
The air was mild and pleasant as he crossed Trafalgar Square and reached the comparative solitude of the Mall. He sat down on one of the seats to rest after the fatigue of the day, smoking placidly until time, acting through the hands of his watch, called him back once more from refreshment to labour. Then knocking out his pipe he returned to the Haymarket and took up his stand behind one of the great vestibule pillars of the Cosmopolitan. From here he had a good view of the door by which, according to the porter, Miss Lilian Burgess invariably left.
Soon he saw her. She tripped out and ran rapidly down the steps in the direction of Piccadilly Circus. French, hurrying after her, was just in time to see her disappearing into the tube station. He sprinted forward, picking her up among the crowd, and kept behind her as she took a south-bound Bakerloo train. From the next compartment he kept her in view, and when she passed out of the Elephant station he was within twenty feet of her. She led the way down New Kent Road, straight to her address in Theobald Street.
As far as that evening was concerned, therefore, he had drawn blank. He did not think she would reappear that night, so after waiting on chance for a few minutes, he went home.
After interviews with Carter and Harvey next morning, at which he learnt that their experiences had been precisely similar to his own, the shadowing was resumed. As the three girls did not begin work until one o’clock and were kept late at night, it was unlikely that they would be early risers. Nevertheless, French was leaving nothing to chance and before nine he and his lieutenants were at the scenes of their various labours. In French’s case there was a rather shabby restaurant across the road from Miss Burgess’s boarding house and there, hidden behind the dilapidated window blind, he toyed with breakfast and watched the street. But he had to read the paper very thoroughly and smoke a number of pipes before he saw his quarry. No less than two hours passed before she left the house and walked in a leisurely way down the street. French, in an even more leisurely way, walked after her.
She went straight to Westminster Bridge Road, crossed the river, and passing through into Great George Street, entered St James’s Park. At a steady pace she crossed the Mall and the Green Park and reached Hyde Park. There she went up one side of the Serpentine, round the top at Bayswater Road, and down the other side to Hyde Park Corner. French had fallen far behind, but when he saw her start off along Piccadilly, he closed up and kept about twenty feet off. She led him along Piccadilly to the Circus, then turning down the Haymarket, she disappeared into the Cosmopolitan.
In spite of the fact that he had been expecting some such denouement, French swore. There was his whole morning gone and nothing to show for it! He had an accurate knowledge of where the young lady had taken her morning exercise, but that was all he had learnt. It looked as if he was on the wrong track and that this girl at least had no connection with the gang.
But such had not been proved. It would require a much longer and more detailed investigation to set the point at rest. Shrugging his shoulders, he went back to the Yard to hear how Carter and Harvey had fared.
He overtook Harvey at the door. Miss Isaacs had spent her morning in a very similar way to Miss Burgess. She had left her boarding house about eleven a.m. and gone for a walk. Harvey had kept her in sight during the whole period and was satisfied that she had not communicated with any other person.
In a few minutes Carter came in. Molly Moran had left her boarding house in Nelson Street, a small street running between High Street and Arlington Road, at 11.30 a.m. She had taken a Hampstead and Highgate train at Mornington Crescent station and had travelled to Charing Cross. On emerging from the station she had strolled slowly about, first under the Southern Railway bridge, and then up and down Craven Street. Carter had had considerable difficulty in keeping her under observation without revealing his objective. But he had imagined that she was waiting for someone and had not let her out of his sight for a moment.
After about ten minutes, a grey saloon car had come quickly down the street, and pulling in to the pavement, had stopped beside Miss Moran. She had immediately jumped in and the car had swung off towards the Strand. Carter had raced for a taxi. By a stroke of luck he had got one without having to go to the rank under the bridge, and when he had reached the Strand the grey car was still in sight, circling Trafalgar Square. But his luck had then given out. In the press of traffic his taxi had been held back, and by the time it had got free the quarry had disappeared up Cockspur Street. After fruitless attempts to find it, Carter had driven to Leicester Square and taken up a position from which he could watch the doors of the Panopticon. In some forty minutes Miss Moran had arrived, walking slowly. As it was then twenty minutes to one, Carter had assumed that she would not again leave the building, and had returned to the Yard.
‘What was the number of the car?’ French asked.
‘MX1382. As far as I could see it answered the description of the one you heard of in Hampshire.’
French nodded.
‘I was going to ask you that. Did you see anyone in it?’
‘Only the driver. I couldn’t see him clearly through the glass, but he seemed a big, stout, clean-shaven man. He wore a soft felt hat; looked like grey, but I couldn’t be sure of the colour.’
‘Did the girl get in beside him?’
‘No. She didn’t seem speak to him, but jumped in behind and he drove off at once. The thing seemed arranged and they hurried through it as quickly as possible.’
This hurry seemed significant to French. Moreover the driver was suggestively like Thurza Darke’s description of Westinghouse.
‘Same thing tonight and tomorrow morning,’ he said to his satellites, ‘only that we’ll change round. We don’t want those girls to spot that they’re being shadowed. You, Carter, can take the Isaacs girl and Harvey Miss Burgess and I’ll shadow this Molly Moran.’
That night the three young women went quickly home as before, and next morning at nine o’clock French found himself trying to kill time unostentatiously in Nelson Street until Miss Moran should take it into her rather pretty head to sally forth on the day’s adventures. There was here no convenient restaurant and he found himself hard put to it to keep an eye on the boarding house without attracting the attention of the curious. But French was an expert at his job, and by buying innumerable boxes of matches and cigarettes at the neighbouring tobacconists and making indefatigable inquiries for one, Mrs Entwhistle, a mythical dressmaker whom he had invented for the occasion, he contrived to fill in the time.
At just half past eleven, the same hour as on the previous day, the young lady in question emerged from the boarding house and turned her unhurried steps towards Mornington Crescent tube station. Again she took a south-bound train. French expected that she would alight at Charing Cross as before, but she nearly gave him the slip by jumping out of the train just before it started from the Strand. However, he managed to follow her, and when she reached the courtyard of the main line station he was not more than ten yards behind.
Determining that he should not be left in the lurch like Carter, he engaged a taxi, telling the driver to follow the young lady in blue. The man, allowing himself the suspicion of a wink, started off as if the following of pretty young women was a matter in which he had considerable experience. Whether or not this we
re so, he performed his task with practised skill, stopping at times to adjust his engine or ask a direction or allow French to buy a paper, so as to keep his speed down to that of his quarry’s.
The chase led across the Strand and up Chandos Street, and there at the quiet end next Bedford Street the previous day’s performance was repeated. Miss Moran walked slowly up and down until suddenly a grey saloon car appeared, drew in to the footpath beside her, and stopped. It was driven by an elderly, clean-shaven man of the successful American business type. So far as French could see it contained no one else. Miss Moran stepped quickly forward and got into the tonneau and immediately the vehicle slid away.
‘Follow the car,’ French told the driver.
The journey was short. From Chandos Street the grey saloon turned up Bedford Street and into Garrick Street. There it stopped and Miss Moran got out. Immediately it drove quickly away.
‘After the car,’ cried French. ‘Never mind the girl.’
But just as Carter had been held up on the previous day, so now French’s luck deserted him. The grey car, passing along Cranbourne Street, just crossed Charing Cross Road when the officer on point duty closed the road and French was held up.
Seeing that to follow the car was out of the question, he was about to shout to his man to try to find the girl again, when glancing through the back window, he saw her approaching. He therefore paid his man off and, when she had passed, slipped out of the taxi and followed her.
But she merely walked on aimlessly through the streets, evidently killing time, until some forty minutes later she reached Leicester Square and turned into the Panopticon.
French walked slowly back to the Yard, pondering over what he had seen. The whole proceeding was certainly very suggestive. He didn’t believe there could be any innocent explanation. Something shady, he felt sure, was in progress.
Next morning he had another try. This time he waited at Mornington Crescent and picked up Miss Moran as she was entering the train. He followed her to Charing Cross, where she changed and took an East bound Circle train to the Temple. There she got out, and turning away from the river, began pacing up and down Norfolk Street. French hailed the first taxi he saw, and instructing his man as before, sat back in it to await events.
In about five minutes he saw the proceedings of the previous day repeated. The grey car appeared, driven, as far as he could see, by the same man. It picked Miss Moran up, crossed the Strand, and passed up Aldwych and into Kingsway. Then turning down a street to the left, it ran into Wild Street. There the young lady got out.
French had told his driver what to expect, and as the grey car ran on into Drury Lane, French’s vehicle was close behind. Through Broad Street and High Street it passed and then along Oxford Street to North Audley Street, down which it turned. And then in Grosvenor Square the whole thing was repeated.
On the footpath in Grosvenor Square stood a young woman. French could not see much of her, but he noticed that she was well dressed and that her bobbed hair was flaming red. The car stopped, she jumped into the back seat, and once again the car swung on.
More interested than ever, French continued the chase. The grey car passed on down South Audley Street and along South Street into Waverton Street. There it stopped and the girl got out, the car turning on down Charles Street.
For a moment French hesitated as to which of his two quarries he should follow. He would have given a good deal not to have been playing a lone hand at that moment. Rightly or wrongly he decided on the car.
Once again to his amazement a similar scene was enacted. From Charles Street the car ran by Berkeley Street, Piccadilly, Grosvenor Place and Vauxhall Bridge Road to Tachbrook Street. There another girl was waiting who in her turn jumped into the back of the car. She was driven through Bessborough Street to Grosvenor Road, and set down at the end of Page Street.
Still another time French followed the car and still another time the same thing happened. A fourth girl was picked up in Darwin Street, off the Old Kent Road and near Bricklayers’ Arms Goods Station. She was taken to Long Lane in Bermondsey and there set down, while the car went on to Newington Causeway.
French began to wonder if the whole day was to be spent in giving rides to girls. It was now nearly one, the hour at which most of the cinemas opened, and if the girls picked up were engaged in cinema box offices there would scarcely be time to deal with any more. With keen interest he settled back in his taxi, anxious to learn the next development.
But this fourth girl, it turned out, was the last. The grey car ran westwards till it reached Waterloo. There it turned to the left into York Road and again to the right into a narrow street labelled Tate’s Lane, disappearing finally into a gateway about half-way down the street. French’s car ran on past the gateway, and turning into the cross street at the end of Tate’s Lane, stopped. Telling his driver to keep him in sight, French walked back to the corner and watched the gateway.
He had noticed as he came past that the latter was surmounted by a signboard bearing the legend ‘Thos. Cullan, Coachbuilder.’ A glimpse through the open gate revealed a dilapidated yard in which stood a number of carts and lorries. Evidently Mr Thos. Cullan was not in too successful a way of business. French wondered if the man he had shadowed was Mr Cullan himself. At first he thought not. That untidy, ineffective looking yard did not accord with the forceful, decided, face of the driver of the car. Then he saw that if the business with the girls was the serious factor in the man’s life, coach building might be merely a blind to mask his other activities.
For fifteen minutes or more French hung about the corner. Then the man appeared, well dressed and prosperous looking, and set off striding with assured steps down the lane to York Road. He turned to the right into Waterloo Road, and French had to sprint at his highest speed to avoid losing him at the corner. He was just in time to see him disappearing into the station, and with a rapidly increasing sense of satisfaction he followed him to the restaurant.
At opposite ends of the big room French and his quarry lunched, then the chase was once more resumed. This time the trail led down Waterloo Road, past the Old Vic. and into Webber Street, where the man vanished into a doorway.
French hung back until he thought the coast was clear, then lounged forward and entered also. The doorway led into a dilapidated passage with a flight of stairs rising at the end to offices above. On the jambs were the names of the occupants. Seven persons or firms French counted. There were two solicitors, an estate agent, an engineer and architect, a commission agent, a wholesale tea merchant and a firm of electrical suppliers. Having noted the names, French passed back to the street and took up a position from which he could keep the entrance in view.
For an hour he waited, sitting in his taxi for the most part, while the driver busied himself with his engine. Then suddenly the quarry reappeared and strode off in the same forceful and determined way. French shadowed him to Waterloo and down to the Bakerloo tube. Booking to Watford, which he thought should cover any journey that the unknown might make, French followed him to the platform. The man took a north-bound train and French, slipping in his usual way into the next carriage, settled down to await developments.
At Harrow the man got out. French noted that he was evidently a ‘season’ and a man of some standing, for the ticket collector touched his cap respectfully. He turned out of the station on the down side of the line and set off towards the Hill.
‘Can you tell me if that is Mr Pointer?’ French asked the collector as he gave up his own ticket.
‘No, sir. Welland is his name.’
Curtice Welland, Commission Agent, was one of the names on the office door in Webber Street. So far, so good.
On these comparatively deserted roads, shadowing was no easy task. French had to drop a long way behind to avoid attracting his quarry’s attention. Every time the man turned a corner French was therefore at a disadvantage, and had to run to reach the cross road before the other disappeared from view. This again brou
ght him too close and he had suddenly to loiter until the necessary distance again intervened—a by no means unobtrusive mode of progression.
The last turn led into a recently made road. Its end, in fact, vanished into the fields and fresh earthwork showed that it was in process of being extended. The houses along it were all quite new. Several were unfinished, while a few vacant building lots still remained.
About halfway down on the right were a couple of small semi-detached houses, mere bungalows. Into one of these the man turned, letting himself in with a latchkey.
French was approaching a cross lane, and down this he immediately turned. So far he felt satisfied with his progress. The man, he was sure, had not seen him. Now he must find some cover from which he could keep the house under observation.
Right at the end of the unfinished portion of the road, a couple of hundred yards beyond the house, he had noticed a small clump of low-growing trees. He thought if he could reach this it would suit his purpose.
Passing down the cross lane to the back of the row of houses, he came into open fields. These were separated by thorn hedges, one of which ran parallel to the street. French crept along behind the hedge until he came to the clump. There he found that while himself completely hidden from view, he had an excellent view of the house.
He lay down at his ease on the soft grass, and taking out his pipe, began a leisurely smoke. It was a perfect summer’s day, warm and balmy, with a bright sun, a brilliantly blue sky and in the distance a few faint, fairy-like streaks of cirrus cloud. The meadow behind him had recently been cut and the soft breeze bore a delightful scent of fresh hay. The air was quivering with the songs of birds, with as a pedal bass the hum of innumerable insects.
It was all so peaceful and soporific that after a few minutes French deliberately sat up in a somewhat strained position lest he should fall asleep and miss his quarry.
Up to the present he had been too busy to think over what he had seen, but now he began to turn the facts over in his mind. That he was on to some very peculiar happenings there could be no doubt, but as yet there was no evidence to show that these were criminal. Still less was there proof that they were connected with the murders. But he was at least satisfied that the affair was sufficiently suspicious to warrant further investigation.
Inspector French and the Box Office Murders Page 8
