Inspector French and the Cheyne Mystery

by Freeman Wills Crofts

  For a moment no one moved, and then there came a rush of feet from without, and a number of persons burst into the room. Porters, ticket collectors, a guard and several members of the public came crowding in, staring with round eyes and open mouths at the debris. Eager hands helped to raise the prostrate man, who appeared to be more or less seriously injured, while hurried questions were bandied from lip to lip.

  It did not need the barmaid’s half-hysterical cry: ‘Why, it was your purse; I saw it go,’ to make clear to Cheyne what had happened, and as he grasped the situation his heart melted within him and a great fear took possession of his mind. Once again these dastardly scoundrels had hoaxed him! Their oaths, their protestations of friendship, their talk of an alliance—all were a sham! They were out to murder him. The purse they had evidently stolen from Joan, filling it with explosives, with some time agent—probably chemical—to make it go off at the proper moment. They had given it to him under conditions which made it a practical certainty that at that moment it would be in his pocket, when he would be blown to pieces without leaving any clue as to the agency which had wrought his destruction. He suddenly felt sick as he thought of the whole hideous business.

  But it was not contemplation of the fate he had so narrowly escaped that sent his heart leaping into his throat in deadly panic. If these unspeakable ruffians had tried to murder him with their hellish explosives, what about Joan Merrill? All the talk about driving her back to her rooms must have been mere eyewash. She must be in deadly peril—if it was not too late: if she was not already—Merciful Heaven, he could not frame the thought!—if she was not already dead! He burst into a cold sweat, as the idea burnt itself into his consciousness. And then suddenly he knew the reason. He loved her! He loved this girl who had saved his life and who had already proved herself such a splendid comrade and helpmeet. His own life, the wretched secret, the miserable pursuit of wealth, victory over the gang—what were these worth? They were forgotten—they were nothing—they were less than nothing! It was Joan and Joan’s safety that filled his mind. ‘Oh, God,’ he murmured in an agony, ‘save her, save her! No matter about anything else, only save her!’

  He stood, leaning against the counter, overcome with these thoughts. Then the need for immediate action brought him to his senses. Perhaps it was not too late. Perhaps something might yet be done. Scotland Yard! That was his only hope. Instantly he must go to Scotland Yard and implore the help of the authorities.

  He glanced round. Persons in authority were entering and pushing to the front of the now dense crowd. That surely was the station-master, and there was a policeman. Cheyne did not want to be detained to answer questions. He slipped rapidly into the throng, and by making way for those behind to press forward, soon found himself on its outskirts. In a few seconds he was on the platform and in a couple of minutes he was in a taxi driving towards Westminster as fast as a promise of double fare could take him.

  He raced into the great building on the Embankment and rather incoherently stated his business. He was asked to sit down, and after waiting what seemed to him interminable ages, but what was really something under five minutes, he was told that Inspector French would see him. Would he please come this way.

  13

  Inspector French Takes Charge

  Cheyne was ushered into a small, plainly furnished room, in which at a table-desk was seated a rather stout, clean-shaven man with a cheerful, good-humoured face and the suggestion of a twinkle about his eye. He stood up as Cheyne entered, looked him over critically with a pair of very keen dark blue eyes, and then smiled.

  ‘Mr Maxwell Cheyne?’ he said genially. ‘I am Inspector French. You wish to consult us? Now just sit down there and tell me your trouble, and we’ll do what we can for you.’

  His manner was kindly and pleasant and did much to set Cheyne at his ease. The young man had been rather dreading his visit, expecting to be met with the harsh, incredulous, unsympathetic attitude of officialdom. But this inspector, with his easy manners, and his apparently human outlook, was quite different from his anticipation. He felt drawn to him and realised with relief that at least he would get a sympathetic hearing.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, trying to speak calmly. ‘It’s very good of you, I’m sure. I’m in great trouble—not about myself, that is, but about my—my friend, a lady, Miss Joan Merrill. I’m afraid she is in terrible danger, if indeed it is not too late.’

  ‘Tell me the details.’ The man was all attention, and his quiet decisive manner induced confidence.

  Curbing his impatience, Cheyne related his adventures. In the briefest outline he told of the drugging in the Plymouth hotel, of the burglary at Warren Lodge, of his involuntary trip on the Enid, of his journey to London and his adventure in the house in Hopefield Avenue. Then he described Joan Merrill’s welcome intervention, his convalesence in the hospital, the compact between himself and Joan, his visit to Speedwell and his burglary of Earlswood. He recounted Dangle’s appearance as an envoy, the meeting with the gang and the explosion at Marylebone, and finally voiced the terrible suggestion which this latter contained as to the possible fate of Joan.

  Inspector French listened to his recital with an appearance of the keenest interest.

  ‘You have certainly had an unusual experience, Mr Cheyne,’ he remarked. ‘I don’t know that I can recall a similar case. Now I think we may take it that Miss Merrill’s safety is our first concern. We shall go out to this house, Earlswood, and see if we can learn anything about her there. The other activities of the gang must wait. Excuse me a moment.’ He gave some orders through his desk telephone, resuming: ‘I should think the house has probably been vacated: these people would cover their traces until they learnt from the papers that you had been killed. However, we’ll soon know that. Wait here until I arrange about warrants, and then we’ll start.’

  He disappeared for some minutes, while Cheyne fretted and chafed and tried to control his impatience. Then he returned, and slipping an automatic pistol into his pocket, invited Cheyne to follow him.

  He led the way downstairs and out into a courtyard in the great building. Two motor-cars were just drawing up at the curb, while at the same moment no less than eight plain clothes men appeared from another door. The party having taken their places, the two vehicles slid out through a covered way into the traffic of the town.

  ‘We shall go round to Chelsea first,’ French explained, ‘and make sure there is no news of Miss Merrill.’

  As they ran quickly through the busy streets, French asked a series of questions on points of Cheyne’s statement upon which he desired further information. ‘If this trip draws blank, as I fear it will,’ he observed, ‘I shall want you to tell me your story again, this time with all the detail you can possibly put into it. For the moment there’s not time for that.’

  At Horne Terrace there was no trace or tidings of Joan. It was by this time half-past twelve, half an hour after the time at which Blessington had promised she should be there, and Cheyne felt all his forebodings confirmed. But he was not surprised, feeling but the more eager to push on to Wembley.

  On the way French made him draw a sketch map of the position of Earlswood, and on nearing his goal he stopped the cars, and calling his men together, explained exactly what was to be done. Then telling Cheyne to sit with the driver and direct him to the front gate, they again mounted and went forward. At a good rate they swung into Dalton Road, and Cheyne pointing the way, his car stopped at the gate, while the other ran on down the cross-road to the lane at the back. The men sprang out, and in less time than it takes to tell, the house was surrounded.

  Cheyne followed French as he hurried up to the door and gave a thundering knock. There was no answer, and walking round the house, the two men examined the windows. These being all fastened, French turned his attention to the back door, and after two or three minutes’ work with a bunch of skeleton keys the bolt shot back, and followed by Cheyne and two of his men, he entered the house.

 
A short search revealed the fact that the birds had flown, hurriedly, it seemed, as everything had been left exactly as during Cheyne’s visit. On the table in the sitting-room stood the glasses from which they had drunk their whisky, the box of cigars lay open beside them and the chairs were still drawn up to the table. But there was no sign of Sime or Dangle, and a hurried look round revealed no clue to their whereabouts.

  ‘I feared as much,’ French commented, as he sent a constable to call in the men who were surrounding the house, ‘but we have still two strings to our bow.’ He turned to the others, and rapidly gave his orders. ‘You, Hinckston and Tucker, remain here and arrest anyone who enters this house. Simmons, go to Locke Street, off Southampton Row, and find Speedwell, of Horton & Lavender’s Detective Agency. You know him, don’t you? Well, find him and tell him this affair has developed into attempted murder and abduction, and ask him can he give any information to the Yard. Tell him I’m in charge. The rest of you come with me to—what did Speedwell give you as Sime’s address, Mr Cheyne? … All right, I have it here—to 12 Colton Street, Putney. We shall carry out the same plan there, surround the house, and then enter and search it. All got that? Come along, Mr Cheyne.’

  They hurried back to the cars and were soon running—somewhat over the legal speed—back to town. French, though he had shown energy enough at Earlswood, was willing to chat now in a pleasant, leisurely way, though he continued to interlard his remarks with questions on the details of Cheyne’s story. Then he took over the tracing, and examined it curiously. ‘I’ll have a go at this later,’ he said, as he put it in his pocket, ‘but I can scarcely believe they would have given you the genuine article.’

  Cheyne would have questioned this opinion, reminding his companion he had seen the tracing pinned up to be photographed in the house in Hopefield Avenue, but just then they swung into Colton Street, and the time for conversation had passed. Contrary to his expectation they ran past No. 12 without slackening, turned down the first side street beyond it, and there came to a stand.

  ‘There’s the end of the passage behind the house,’ French pointed when his men had dismounted. ‘Carter and Jones and Marshall go down there and watch the back. No doubt you counted and know it’s the eighth house. You other two men and you, Mr Cheyne, come with me.’

  He turned back into Colton Street and with his three followers strode rapidly up to No. 12. It was like its neighbours, a small two-storied single terrace house of old-fashioned design. Indeed the narrow road, with its two grimy rows of almost working-class dwellings, seemed more like one of those terrible streets built in the last century in the slum districts of provincial towns, than a bit of mid-London.

  A peremptory knock from French producing no result, he had once more recourse to his skeleton keys. This door was easier to negotiate than the last, and in less than a minute it swung open and the four men entered the house.

  On the right of the hall was a tiny sitting-room, and there they found the remains of what appeared to have been a hastily prepared meal. Four chairs were drawn up to the small central table, on which were part of a loaf, butter, an empty sardine tin, eggshells, two cups containing tea leaves and two glasses smelling of whisky. French put his hand on the tea-pot. ‘Feel that, Mr Cheyne,’ he exclaimed. ‘They can’t be far away.’

  The tea-pot was warm, and when Cheyne looked into the kitchen adjoining, he found that the kettle on the gas ring was also warm, though the ring itself had grown cold. If the four lunchers were Blessington and Co., as seemed indubitable, they must indeed be close by, and Cheyne grew hot with eager excitement as he thought that French and he might be within reasonable sight of their goal.

  Meanwhile French and his men had carried out a rapid search of the house, without result except to prove that once more the birds had flown. But as to the direction which their flight had taken there was no clue.

  ‘I don’t expect we’ll see them back,’ French said to Cheyne, ‘but we must take no chances.’ He turned to his men. ‘Jones and Marshall, stay here in the house and arrest anyone who enters. You, Carter, make inquiries in these houses to the right, and you, Hobbs, do the same to the left. Come, Mr Cheyne, you and I will try the other side of the street.’

  They crossed to the house opposite and French knocked. The door was opened by a young woman who seemed thrilled by French’s statement that he was a police officer making inquiries about the occupiers of No. 12, but who was unable to give him any useful information about them. A man lived there—she believed his name was Sime—but she did not know either himself nor anything about him. No, she hadn’t seen any recent arrivals or departures. She had been engaged at the back of the house during the whole morning and had not looked out across the street. Yes, she believed Sime lived alone except for an elderly housekeeper. As far as she knew he was quite respectable, at least she had never heard anything against him.

  Politely thanking her, French tried the next house. Here he found a small girl who said she had looked out some half an hour previously and had seen a yellow motor standing before No. 12. But she had not seen it arrive or depart, nor anyone get in or out.

  French tried five houses without result, but at the sixth he had a stroke of luck.

  In this house it appeared that there was a chronic invalid, a sister of the woman who opened the door. This poor creature was confined permanently to bed, and in the hope of relieving the tedium of the days, she had had the bed drawn close to her window, so as to extract what amusement she could from the life of the street. If there had been any unusual happenings in front of No. 12, she would certainly have witnessed them. Yes, the woman was sure her sister would see the visitors.

  ‘Lucky chance, that,’ French said, as they waited to know if they might go up. ‘If this woman’s eyes and brain are unaffected she’ll have become an accurate observer, and we’ll probably learn all there is to know.’

  In a moment the sister appeared beckoning, and going upstairs they found in a small front room a bed drawn up to the window, in which lay a superior looking elderly woman with a pale patient face, lined by suffering, in which shone a pair of large dark intelligent eyes. She was propped up the better to see out, and her face lighted up with interest at her unexpected callers, as she laid down among the books on the coverlet an intricate looking piece of fancy sewing.

  Inspector French bowed to her.

  ‘I’d like to say how much I appreciate your kindness in letting us come up, madam,’ he said with his pleasant kindly smile, ‘but when you hear that we are trying to find a young lady who we fear has been kidnapped, I am sure you will be glad to help us. The matter is connected with No. 12, opposite. Can you tell me if any persons arrived or left it this morning?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I can,’ the invalid replied in cultivated tones—a lady born, though fallen on evil days, thought Cheyne—‘I like to watch the people passing and I did notice arrivals and departures at No. 12. About, let me see—half-past eleven, or perhaps a minute or two later a motor drove up to No. 12, a yellow car, fair size and covered in. Three men got out and went into the house. One was Mr Sime, who lives there, the others I didn’t know. Mr Sime opened the door with his latch-key. In a couple of minutes one of the strangers came out again, got into the car, and drove off.’

  ‘That the car you saw outside Earlswood, Mr Cheyne?’ asked French.

  ‘Certain to be,’ Cheyne nodded. ‘It was a yellow covered-in car of medium size, No. XL7305.’

  ‘I didn’t observe the number,’ the lady remarked. ‘The bonnet was facing towards me.’

  ‘What was the driver like, madam?’ queried Cheyne.

  ‘One of Mr Sime’s companions drove. He was short and rather stout, with a round face, and what, I believe, is called a tooth-brush moustache.’

  ‘That’s Blessington all right. And was the third man of medium height and build, with a clean-shaven, somewhat rugged face?’

  ‘Yes, that exactly describes him.’

  ‘And that’s Dangle. There’s
no question about the party, Inspector.’

  ‘None. Then, madam, you saw—?’

  ‘That, as I said, was about half-past eleven. About half past one the man you have called Blessington came back with the car. He got out, left it, and went into the house. In about a quarter of an hour he came out again and started his engine. Then the other two men followed, assisting a young lady who appeared to be very weak and ill. She seemed scarcely able to walk, and they almost carried her. Another girl followed, who drew the door of the house after her.’

  Cheyne started on hearing these words, and looked with an agonised expression at the inspector. ‘What were they like, these women?’ he breathed through his dry lips.

  But both men knew the answer. The girl assisted out by Sime and Dangle was undoubtedly Joan Merrill, and the other equally certainly was Susan Dangle.

  ‘She was lame—the one you thought ill?’ Cheyne persisted. ‘She had twisted her ankle.’

  ‘Perhaps so,’ the lady returned, ‘but I do not think so. She seemed to me to step equally well on each foot. It was more as if she was half asleep or very weak. Her head hung forward and she did not seem to notice where she was going.’