‘This is what we want,’ whispered French as he felt along a building beside them. ‘Here’s where our pipe goes to all right.’
It was another shed, identical, so far as they could make out in the darkness, with the garage and set end to end with it.
‘We must get in,’ went on French. ‘Have a try at the lock.’
‘It’s a chubb like the other,’ returned Ormsby. ‘There’s not much chance of getting it open.’ He fumbled for a moment, then: ‘By Jove! I can do it after all. The same key fits both. Here you are, Mr French. A bit of luck, that is.’
‘It’s proof the same parties are running the two, though we scarcely needed that. Come in and close the door.’
The door shut, French cautiously turned on his torch. The shed was a garage, identical in design with Welland’s. Here were the same cement-finished walls and floor, the same window, pit and bench, the same manhole cover and ventilating pipe. There was no car, but there was something a good deal more interesting. Hanging from hooks beneath the bench was a twelve-foot sewer cleaners’ ‘serpent,’ a flexible rod with a pair of toothed jaws at one end operated by a bowden wire from the other.
‘There,’ said French, pointing to the rod, ‘there’s the proof we wanted. That’s what he uses to get the bags of half-crowns through the pipe. But to set the thing beyond doubt, Ormsby, you better go back into the other garage and flash your light into the pipe. I’ll watch this end.’
While he was away, French made a sketch of the pipes for his report. A copy is given here.
Presently a muffled voice came from the drain and French, crouching down in the inspection chamber, saw Ormsby’s torch in the distance.
‘That’s that,’ French whispered down the pipe. ‘Come back and we’ll have a look round here.’
They now essayed a more difficult task. Starting from the garage, they felt their way along the various walls, pacing their lengths and estimating the angles between them. It was not easy work in the dark, but French was too much afraid of being overlooked to use his torch. When they had worked round to their starting point they returned to the garage, where French made a sketch from his measurements.
The area appeared to be a yard, irregular in shape and surrounded by buildings. From the nature of the debris which filled one corner, old crates mostly, the place seemed more like a shop or works than a private house. Opposite the garage an arched roadway passed under one of the buildings, ending in a pair of close-sheeted gates. A gleam of light beneath the gates indicated that they opened on to a street.
‘I want to mark that entrance gate,’ French said as he put away his sketch. ‘We must locate it in the street outside.’ He paused in thought. ‘I have it,’ he went on. ‘Here is a penny. We’ll push it out underneath and then go round and see if we can find it.’
They carried out this programme. Having made sure that they had left no traces of their visit, they locked the garage, pushed the penny beneath the large gate, and climbed back, first into the builder’s yard and then into Tate’s Lane. Then walking round the block to the parallel street, Killowen Street, they began searching for a likely gateway. There were a number of such, but at the third they found their penny and knew that they had reached their goal.
The entrance stood beside a shop, and when French read its signboard he felt amazed and puzzled. It bore the legend, ‘Theobald & Grudgin. Working Silversmiths.’
‘Je-hosaphat! Can it be coining after all?’ he whispered in bewilderment. If so, what about the report from the Mint? That report amounted to practical proof that counterfeit coins were not being passed. And now here was, at least, extremely suggestive evidence that they were! He swore his comprehensive oath, but it scarcely brought its customary relief.
‘Looks to me as if those Mint people had been diddled—like ourselves,’ he muttered. ‘Well, Ormsby, that’s all we can do now. We’ll get off home.’
He wondered if it would be wise after all to return to the silversmiths’ next morning, or rather that morning, for it was after four o’clock. What he wanted was to get his hands on Style; the activities at the silversmiths’ could wait. If he went to Theobald & Grudgin’s he might be seen by some member of the gang. The alarm would then be given and the gang might disperse, greatly increasing the difficulties of rounding them up. No, on second thoughts he would lie low for the morning. He would visit the bank at two o’clock and there either arrest Style or shadow him to his home, the latter probably, as it might lead him to Gwen Lestrange and perhaps still other members of the gang.
But next morning a fresh development took place which banished all thoughts of finesse and sent him hotfoot to the silversmiths’ and any other place from which news of the trio might be obtained.
He had been busy at routine work in connection with the case. He had begun by ringing up the inspector of the York Road district to ask for such information as might be available about Messrs Theobald & Grudgin and their establishment. Then he had gone down to the Mint to report his discovery and to ask as tactfully as he could whether a mistake might not have been made in their half-crown diagnosis.
The very senior officer who received him had been emphatic in his reply. No mistake could possibly have been made. The tests gave absolutely conclusive results. Silversmiths or no silversmiths, the coins he had sent them were genuine.
Scarcely had French retured to the Yard when the blow fell. As he sat down at his desk his telephone rang.
‘Is that Mr French, the inspector?’ asked a woman’s voice which French vaguely remembered, but could not place. ‘I’m Mrs Creuse, of 27 Nelson Street.’
Nelson Street! Of course, the proprietor of Molly Moran’s boarding house.
‘Yes, Mrs Creuse. Inspector French speaking. Anything I can do for you?’
‘It’s about Miss Moran,’ the voice went on. ‘She did not come back after the performance last night and I’m anxious about her. I shouldn’t have thought anything about it only for your inquiries here. A girl sometimes goes home with friends and is not always careful to ring up her boarding house. But she was always careful that way.’
French’s heart almost stood still for a moment. Was it possible …? Could these infernal scoundrels have got hold of her as they got hold of Thurza Darke and her two unhappy predecessors?
‘Did you not ring up the cinema?’ he asked quickly.
‘Yes, but by the time I began to get anxious it was too late. You see, it’s often nearly twelve before Miss Moran gets home, and it was only by chance that I was up myself about one and discovered she had not arrived. I rang up the cinema first thing this morning, but I’ve only just got through. They say she never turned up to business yesterday. I hope she’s all right.’
French stiffened, sure that this confirmed his worst fears. Why, why had not the Panopticon people rung him up? Grimly he promised himself a straight talk with the manager. But that could wait. Now the urgent matter was to organise a search. In times of emergency French always rose to the occasion. Pausing only to ring up the Panopticon for confirmation of the landlady’s statement, he set to work. For some thirty seconds he sat motionless, staring with unseeing eyes at the polished wood of his desk, while he rapidly considered the measures he would take. Then deliberately, but without the loss of a moment, he proceeded to put his plans into operation.
His first step was to hurry to Chief Inspector Mitchell’s room, tell him the news and outline his proposals for dealing with the situation. French already held warrants for the arrest of all three known members of the gang, but he now wanted search warrants for Welland’s house and office as well as for the premises of the silversmiths, Messrs Theobald & Grudgin. With all his proposals Mitchell expressed his agreement.
French next summoned a number of men to his room.
‘I think you all know something of the case I’m on,’ he began, speaking in quiet but impressive tones. ‘Starting with the Portsmouth murder, I have found that a gang of crooks have murdered three cinema pay-box girls who
m they feared were about to give away their secrets to the police. Now I’ve just had a ’phone that a fourth girl has disappeared—a Miss Molly Moran, employed in the pay office of the Panopticon Cinema in Leicester Square. You have seen her, Carter, and also you, Harvey. She got into the clutches of the gang, same as the other three girls, and has been working for them. Only the day before yesterday she told me her story, and it looks as if they may have got wise to it and done her in.’
He paused and the men nodded in silence.
‘She left her boarding house in Nelson Street, so I am advised, at her usual time yesterday morning and has not been heard of since. If these people have got her you will see that we can’t lose any time.’
Again the men nodded and French went on with his directions.
‘You, Carter, will take two men and bring in Curtice Welland. Here is a warrant which I have had ready for some time. Here is his description and the places, so far as we know, where he is likely to be found. I leave all the details to you. But no bungling! Bring him in, and quickly.’
Sergeant Carter promptly disappeared and French turned to the next in the line.
‘I want you, Harvey, to go into the affair at the Panopticon Cinema. You may get a line on some caller or hear of a letter or telephone. Advise the Yard if you have any luck.’
Harvey disappeared in his turn and French resumed.
‘You, Pickford, try the boarding house. Here is the address and all particulars. I need scarcely prompt you. You know what to do.’
So the wheels of the ponderous machine of the C.I.D. began to creak and relentlessly the great trap was set. In addition to Carter and his helpers, men were sent to watch all the places which Welland was known to frequent: his house, his office, the garage, his golf club. Inquiries were to be made from his housekeeper, the other occupiers of the office buildings, the staff in the coach builder’s yard and the secretary and other members of the golf club. The three other girls known to be in the clutches of the gang were to be shadowed, and any member of the gang seen approaching them was instantly to be secured. Men were to be despatched to each of the six banks at which Style had lodged half-crowns, in case he should be seized with a desire to withdraw his money. The last inquiry French reserved for himself. ‘Ormsby,’ he concluded, ‘you and I will go and have a look round that silversmiths’ yard. I’ve got a search warrant, but I’ll not use it if I can avoid it. Better get a couple of men to watch the door while we’re inside.’
Fifteen minutes later French and Ormsby turned into Killowen Street and walked in a leisurely way towards Messrs Theobald & Grudgin’s establishment. The big gate under which they had pushed the penny was open and without hesitation they entered. The entry led through the house to the yard at the back. In the corner immediately opposite stood the garage, and from it, across the back end of the yard, ran the wall separating the premises from the coachbuilder’s establishment adjoining. The remaining sides were bounded by buildings, all dirty and in bad repair. Three doors, one open, gave on the yard. Another door, apparently from the office or shop, opened into the side wall of the entry. The yard also was dirty and heaps of old boxes and other rubbish lay in corners.
French stood for a moment motionless, taking in these details and noting with satisfaction the accuracy of his sketch plan. Then he walked slowly to the open door.
He found himself on the threshold of a fair-sized workshop, fitted up with several benches and a few simple looking machines. In one corner stood a gas oven with crucibles, presumably for melting the silver. Close by was what looked like a tiny foundry. Several of the benches bore small lathes but most of the simple machinery was for smoothing and polishing. The place looked as if at one time it might have been busy and successful, but now it had been allowed to go to seed. Like the yard, it was dirty and untidy and its entire staff consisted of three old men, dirty and untidy also, and clearly past their work. One was busy at the gas oven as if about to make a cast, the others were filing up and polishing silver ornaments.
‘Could I see the manager?’ French asked after giving the men a pleasant good morning.
The man from the gas oven turned off a tap and slowly approached.
‘’E ain’t in yet, so far as I knows,’ he said. ‘You’ve tried the office?’
‘Not there,’ French declared mendaciously.
‘Aye. Well, ’e ain’t come in. ’E usually comes in in ’is car abaht ten or ’alf past, but this morning ’e ain’t turned up yet. Was you wanting anything.’
‘Yes. I want a quotation for a silver trowel and casket for laying a foundation stone. But I expect I’d better see the boss about it.’
‘Aye,’ said the man again. ‘There ain’t no one ’ere as could tell you abaht that. Take a seat in the office, mister. The boss won’t be long.’
‘I can wait. I’m not in a hurry.’ French took out his cigarette case and held it out. ‘I think I know your boss,’ he resumed conversationally, ‘but I’m hanged if I haven’t forgotten his name. He’s a rather slight man of middle height with a pale complexion and a small fair moustache, isn’t he? Rather staring eyes?’
‘That’s ’im, mister. You’ve ’it ’im off ’bout proper. Welland, they calls ’im. Mr Curtice Welland.’
‘Welland! Of course. I remember now. Lives out at Harrow?’
‘Blowed if I could tell. ’E ain’t never asked me ’ome to dinner.’
‘That’s his loss,’ said French with a smile. He glanced casually round the workshop. ‘Fine place you have here. Too big for three men surely?’
The old man shook his head despondingly.
‘It were a good shop once, but times is not wot they were. I’ve seen the day when there were twenty men working in this ’ere shop and doing good work and plenty of it. And now there’s only three of us left and there ain’t much for us to do neither. It were a bad day for us when the old master sold out.’
‘Then the works have changed hands?’
‘Aye, abaht a year ago. Old Mr Grudgin ’ad it; Mr Theobald, ’e’s dead this five year. I s’pose Mr Grudgin were feeling it too much for ’im; ’e were seventy if ’e were a day. So ’e sold it to this ’ere Mr Welland and,’ the old man paused, finally adding, ‘some’ow the work fell off and most of the men were sacked. But Lord knows I ain’t got no cause to complain! I’m ’ere still, though younger men than me got the boot.’
‘It’s been a terrible time for trade right enough,’ French declared sympathetically. ‘And yours is what you might call a luxury trade, so you would feel bad times worse then most.’
‘That’s right, mister.’
‘What kind of work do you do mostly?’ went on French with the forced interest of a man who has time to put away.
‘We used to do all kinds, statuettes and plaques and trophy cups and vases and medallions and such like. But we don’t so much now; lids for inkpots and penholders and backs for fancy clothes brushes and stoppers for toilet bottles for suitcases: that’s abaht all.’
‘I suppose Mr Welland looks after sales himself? You haven’t a traveller?’
‘No, there ain’t nobody now but Mr Welland and the boy wot you saw in the office.’
French chatted on in a leisurely way, moving about the shop as he did so. He did not learn much from the man’s conversation, but he satisfied himself that, except possibly in some secret cellar, no coining was in progress. Such articles as still were being made, so the old man assured him, went from the workshop to the office, where Welland, to give him that name, disposed of them. Of this side of the business the workmen knew nothing. The silver came in the form of bars or ingots, usually by motor lorry. It was stored in the shed adjoining Welland’s garage, a strongly built shed of which only Welland had the key. Where it came from the man did not know.
Seeing that no further information was to be had, French explained that he did not think he could wait for Mr Welland that day, but that he would call again. Then wishing the old man good day, he left the yard.
/> Ormsby was waiting for him in the archway.
‘Style’s running this place under the name of Welland,’ French said to him in a low tone. ‘Took it over about a year ago. It seems there’s a boy in the office. I’m going to make a search. Come in with me.’
Ormsby nodded and the two men, passing out into the street, turned into the shop.
A glass door which rang a bell on being opened, led into a dark and untidy showroom. Across the front was a counter, with behind it a row of show cases containing plaster models. These cases acted as a screen, cutting off the office portion behind. In the background were a small green safe, a letter file and two desks. One, a roll top, was closed, the other was a high desk with a brass rail bookstand above. The back wall was pierced by a window giving on to the yard, while in the side wall was the door leading to the entry. Some dirty calendars and advertisement plates hung crookedly here and there.
At the high desk sat a youth of about twenty with a pen in his hand and a ledger spread out before him. French thought he had never seen anyone in the position of clerk who looked so utterly devoid of intelligence. He watched him make a clumsy attempt to hide a well-thumbed novelette with a lurid picture on the cover, then said pleasantly: ‘Could I see Mr Welland, please?’
The youth pushed the novelette into his pocket and slowly advanced to the counter.
‘’E ain’t ’ere,’ he replied succinctly.
‘So I observe,’ said French, looking carefully round the room. ‘Do you know when he will be in?’
‘Naw.’
French fixed the youth with a severe eye.
‘Now, sonny,’ he said sharply. ‘We’re police officers and we’re looking for Mr Welland. When was he here last?’
The youth gaped and it took a repetition of the question in a still sharper tone to wake him up.
‘Yesterday morning,’ he answered sullenly.
Inspector French and the Box Office Murders Page 15
