But what really worried French was the fact that he had made no progress towards the tracing of his suspects’ present whereabouts. In vain he urged his men on to more intensive efforts. Nowhere could they learn anything to help.
But he realised that there was nothing for it but patience. The business was necessarily slow, as it meant individual inquiries from everyone concerned. French did not dare to advertise, lest Pyke should see the notice and take still further precautions against discovery.
The third day passed, and the fourth, French growing more restless and nervy every hour. He now began to consider publicity; broadcast descriptions, advertisements in the papers, even the offer of a reward for secret information. Finally, he decided that, if by the following evening no news had come in, he would put these agencies in operation.
But the men of the C.I.D. are marvellously efficient and persistent. On returning from lunch on the fifth day French learned to his infinite satisfaction that a taximan whose information might prove valuable had been found and was on his way to the Yard. Ten minutes later an intelligent looking man in a driver’s uniform was shown in.
‘Good afternoon,’ said French. ‘You have something to tell me? Just let me have your name and address and then go ahead.’
William Service explained that he was the driver of a taxi in the employment of Metropolitan Transport, Ltd. On Monday night, the night in question, he had driven a fare to Euston for the 12.25 a.m. express. On leaving the station, he was returning to his garage through Russell Square, when near the end of Kepple Street he was hailed by a man from the sidewalk. He had not wished to take another fare, but the man had offered him an extra five shillings to do so, and he had then agreed. The man was of medium height and build and dressed in a fawn coat and soft hat. Service could not describe his features, the brim of his hat being pulled low to meet his upturned collar. He was carrying a largish suitcase.
He desired Service to drive to The Boltons, which, as the inspector probably knew, was an oval with a church not far from Chelsea. (the inspector knew it and recognised with delight that it was just beside Park Walk.) There he was to pick up a lady and to drive them both to a house in Victory Place, not far from the Elephant and Castle. The lady had been waiting. As far as he could see, she answered the inspector’s description. He had driven both parties to the address mentioned. It was a big house of working-class flats.
‘Good! You’ve told your story well,’ French approved. ‘Now, I want you to drive me to the place. I shall be ready in a moment.’
The last lap! A kind of cold excitement took possession of French. It had been a long and troublesome case, but it was over now. Another fine feather in his cap; another step to that somewhat overdue chief-inspectorship for which he had been so long hoping. A few minutes, an hour at most, and the thing would be an accomplished fact.
Hastily calling his two assistants, Carter and Harvey, he set off with them for Victory Place. ‘It’s a big thing, this,’ he explained. ‘There must be no mistake about it. If we let these people slip through our fingers we needn’t go back to the Yard.’
They drove to the end of the block containing the house, and Carter and Harvey remaining in the taxi, French went alone to reconnoitre. He rang at a door in the basement and asked the woman who opened if she could direct him to the caretaker.
‘My husband’s the caretaker, sir,’ she answered, ‘but he’s out at present. Is it anything I can do?’
‘Probably you can,’ said French with his most winning smile. ‘I’m looking for the lady and gentleman who came in on last Monday night. They arrived by a late train and weren’t here till after midnight.’
‘Oh, yes. Mr and Mrs Perrin?’
‘That’s right. Which flat have they taken?’
‘Number 19. That’s the top one on the right of the stairs.’
‘Thank you. Do you know if they are in at present?’
‘Mrs Perrin is out. I saw her go about half an hour ago. So far as I know, Mr Perrin is in.’
‘Thanks. I’ll just go up and see.’
French returned to the taxi.
‘The woman is out, but Pyke is supposed to be upstairs in No. 19 flat. You, Harvey, will stay in the entrance hall and watch the stairs and lift. Take him without fail, if we miss him above. If the woman appears, don’t show up, but let her go in. Carter, you come upstairs with me.’
Harvey strolled to the door and became immersed in the list of flat holders while French and Carter began to climb the stairs. There were two flats on each storey, to right and left of the flights. When they reached the first landing French pointed to a fire escape notice. They followed the pointing hand to the back of the house along a passage between the two flats, and silently pushing open a door fitted with panic fastenings, saw an iron staircase leading down outside of the wall from the top storey to a paved yard.
‘You’ll have to stay and watch that, Carter. I can manage the blighter upstairs.’
For a moment, French wished he had brought another man. Then he thought of how many times he had carried out arrests single-handed. There was no difficulty. A whistle would bring his two men at top speed, and if by some incredibly unlikely accident he let Pyke slip through his hands, one or other of them would certainly take him on his way down.
He silently mounted the stairs to the tenth storey. No. 19 was the top flat, but the stairs led on to a door on to the roof. French knocked at No. 19. There was no answer. In a moment he knocked again, then after waiting a few seconds, he tried the door.
It was unlocked and French pushed it open and looked in. Through a tiny hall he could see into a living-room, small and poorly furnished, and with a kitchenette in the rear. Other partially open doors led from the hall into bedrooms. So far as he could see, the place was deserted.
Softly closing the outer door, he passed into the living-room, and standing in its centre, looked round. Opposite him was the fireplace with a gas fire turned low. In the right wall was the window and against the left stood a table with a chair at each end. Two wicker arm-chairs were drawn up to the fireplace and to the right of the door was a dresser containing crockery. Some books lay on the floor in a corner, but the centre of the room was clear of furniture.
French could see everything in the room with one exception. At the side of the fireplace was a closed cupboard. Possibly this might contain something useful.
He had stepped across the room and put his hand on the cupboard door knob when the feel of a presence, rather than an actual sound, caused him to swing suddenly round. A man had entered and was watching him.
French stared in his turn. This was not Pyke. This was a smaller man and hollow of cheek, dark in colouring and with a pair of keen eyes uncovered by glasses. A friend of Pyke’s, no doubt.
But this man was vaguely familiar. That he had seen him at no distant time French felt certain. Then the man moved slightly and French noticed the marks of pince-nez on his nose. As he did so he remembered where he had seen, not him, but his photograph, and he stared spellbound in speechless amazement.
For a moment neither moved, then French recovered himself. With a step forward he cried: ‘Stanley Pyke, I arrest you on a charge of—’
He stopped. Had he gone mad? Wasn’t the dead man Stanley Pyke? How could he be charged with murdering himself?
French felt his brain reel. But he grew more and more convinced that the man was indeed Stanley Pyke. Therefore the victim must have been, of course, Berlyn! How the whole thing had happened French could not form an idea, but he saw that this could be straightened out later. For the moment, his course was clear. He must arrest this man.
Though these thoughts flashed through French’s mind at lightning speed, in his extremity of surprise he remained for a moment speechless, his eyes fixed on the other’s face. Then a slight movement of the man’s right arm attracted his attention and he glanced downwards. Pyke had taken an automatic pistol from his coat pocket and was holding it steadily pointed at French’s he
art.
‘No, Mr French,’ he said quietly, and the voice was the voice of the man he had believed was Jefferson. ‘I don’t think so. You’ve not got me, but I’ve got you. Put up your hands.’
As he slowly obeyed, French saw that he was in imminent danger of his life. Pyke’s features were set in an expression of ruthless determination and there was murder in his eyes. He went on speaking in quiet, grim tones.
‘It’s true that I may not get away with it, but I’m going to have a try. You won’t, anyway. I suppose you have men posted below?’
‘I’ve men coming up the stairs after me,’ French lied.
‘That so? They’re not hurrying. I shall have plenty of time before they get to the top. I’m going to shoot you now, Mr Joseph French. The upper part of this building is deserted; no one across the way and only a couple of old women on the floor below. They’re all out at work. I shall be across the roof and down the next stairs before your men are half-way up these. I may carry it off and I may not, but I’ll not be taken alive.’
‘And Mrs Berlyn?’
Pyke’s eyes flashed.
‘They’ll not get her, either. I know where she is and I’ll pick her up. Say your prayers, Mr French. You’ve only got seconds to live.’
He slowly raised the pistol from the level of his side pocket to that of his eyes, keeping it first directed to French’s heart and then to his head. In those few moments French tasted the bitterness of death. He knew instinctively that the man meant to carry out his threat and he was powerless to prevent him. Covered by Pyke’s steady gaze as well as by his pistol no sudden spring would help him. They were only about five feet apart, but the man would fire before he could reach across half the distance. Carter and Harvey were at the bottom of a hundred feet of stairs. They wouldn’t even hear the shot. A numbing fear crept into French’s heart while thoughts of his wife and visions of scenes in his past life floated before his mind’s eye. And all the time he was desperately, despairingly racking his brains to find a way of escape.
An instinctive urge that he must gain time at all costs took possession of him. Then, as he was trying to evolve some further bluff, an idea shot into his mind which suggested a glimmering of hope. It was a terribly faint glimmering; the chances were a thousand to one against him. Almost a forlorn hope, but it was all he could think of.
Neither man had moved during the interview. French had swung round from the cupboard and was still facing the door through which the other had entered. Pyke, on his part, had his back to the door and was facing the cupboard.
French instantly began to act a part. First, he wished to show fear. Here he had not to act; the emotion was only too genuine. Indeed, had he let himself go he would have been paralysed with terror. Therefore, as he spoke his eyes were agonised, his features distorted, and his voice thick and trembling.
‘Don’t be a fool, Pyke. You can do better than that. I’ve sense enough to know when I’m beaten. My life’s of more value to me than success in a case. You want your liberty and I want my life. I see a way in which we can each get what we want.’
Pyke did not relax his attitude.
‘I believe you’re a damned liar,’ he said, only with a stronger adjective. ‘However, shove ahead with your plan. Any tricks or movements and you’re a dead man.’
‘If you were once clear of me,’ French went on, evincing the most transparent evidences of terror, ‘you could walk out over the roof, or even past my men, and they’d never suspect you. They’re here to look for a quite different man. And the mere fact that you walked quietly downstairs after I had gone up to look for Jefferson would show that you were not the man I was after. That all right, so far?’
‘Well?’
French allowed his eyes to roam over the room, but without making any change in his expression. After the briefest pause, he went on:
‘Now, to get away from me is the difficulty, for while I should be willing to give you my oath not to interfere, I don’t suppose you would accept it. Well, this is my plan.’
Calling all his histrionic powers to his aid, French again glanced round the room, suddenly staying his gaze on the door. Then, with the whole strength of his will, he pretended to himself that he saw Carter entering. On this he fixed his mind, with the result that his eyes took on the appearance of definitely looking at something, while an expression of the utmost thankfulness and relief showed on his features. But he was quick to add the idea that Pyke must not follow what was in his mind, and he at once looked away and back to Pyke’s face. With a fine effect of recovering a line of thought which had been disturbed, he continued, now trying to give the impression of faked fear.
‘I propose that I withdraw to the kitchenette and there gag myself and tie myself up to your satisfaction. You, of course, would keep me covered all the time and it would be quite impossible for me to play you any trick. Or, if you preferred it, I could do the tying up in this room.’
Again he glanced at the door as if he could not keep his eyes off it. This time he slowly shifted the point at which he was looking to just behind Pyke, while he allowed relief and satisfaction to grow on his face. Once more he hurriedly withdrew his gaze and looked at Pyke.
‘I noticed a clothes line in the kitchenette which would do,’ he went on, but now absent-mindedly and giving quick, as if involuntary, glances behind Pyke. ‘If you agree, I’ll back in there and get it down. If I attempt to play you false you can shoot.’
He paused, and looking directly behind Pyke, allowed a slight triumphant smile to appear on his lips.
Pyke had obviously followed the direction of his glances and he had been getting more and more uneasy. At French’s smile he could stand it no longer. For the tenth of a second he glanced behind him. And at that moment French, standing braced and ready, sprang. Like lightning he dropped his head while his left fist struck the other’s right wrist upwards.
Instantly Pyke fired and a hot iron seemed to sear the crown of French’s head. But he was not disabled. Seizing Pyke’s right wrist with his left hand he drove with his right for the man’s chin.
But Pyke ducked and he missed. Then the two men, clinching with their free hands, began a voiceless struggle for their lives. Pyke’s desperate efforts were to turn the pistol inwards, French’s to prevent him. Locked together, they swayed backwards and forwards. Then French tripped over a chair and they swung with a crash against the table. It gave way, and staggering across its wreckage, they fell. French found himself underneath and redoubled his efforts, but he was hampered by the blood from his wound, which ran down and blinded one of his eyes. Fortunately he was the stronger man, and in spite of his handicap slowly his strength and weight began to tell. Gradually he forced Pyke’s arm round until the other had to roll over on his back to save its dislocation.
Both men were now gasping and sobbing from want of breath. But French, with a superhuman effort, dropped Pyke’s left arm, and seizing his collar, twisted it tight. Pyke laid out with his free arm, but he was weakening, and French, spent and giddy, but thankful, felt he could hold on in spite of the blows and that the affair was now only a matter of time.
And then, lying grimly clinging to the choking man’s collar, he felt a real thrill of delight as he saw the door slowly open, just as he had pictured it. Carter at last! It was over.
But it was not Carter who appeared. There, gazing down on them with amazement printed on her features, was Mrs Berlyn.
It did not take her long to appreciate the situation and with a muffled scream she threw herself on the heaving mass.
‘Give me the pistol, Stanley,’ she cried softly. ‘I’ll settle him.’
But Pyke was beyond coherent thought. Half-insensible, he still kept his hand locked and she could not release the fingers. French, seeing the end, put all his remaining strength into a shrill cry of ‘Help,’ before he felt the woman’s fingers tighten round his throat.
Letting go of the now unconscious Pyke, he tried desperately to loosen their clin
ging grip. But he was too weak. Choking, he struggled impotently, while gradually it grew darker and he sank slowly into a roaring abyss of nothingness.
20
Conclusion
When French struggled back into consciousness he found himself lying on the floor of that upper room with Sergeant Carter bending solicitously over him.
‘He’s coming to,’ he heard him say as if from a great distance. ‘He’ll be none the worse in a few minutes.’
‘I’m all right,’ French whispered faintly.
‘What about—’
‘Both safe as a house,’ Carter answered. ‘I thought you were taking too long over the job and was coming up the fire escape when I heard you shout. I whistled down the stairs for Harvey and ran on. Lucky, I got up in time. But it was a near thing, Mr French; just as near a thing as I should like to see. Don’t you be in any hurry, you’ve all the day before you. Take a nip of this brandy that Harvey has brought.’
The stimulant made French once again feel his own man and he sat up to find that his assailants had been safely handcuffed. Mrs Berlyn sat in one of the wicker arm-chairs, deadly pale and with an expression of murderous hate in her eyes. Pyke was still unconscious and the others at once turned their attention to him, with the result that presently he too revived. The taxi was waiting and before many minutes had passed both prisoners were lodged in the cells.
When French sat down in his own room to think over this unexpected development he very soon saw that he had made a terrible error in his handling of the case. Never before had he blundered so inexcusably! The clue to the truth was there in his hand and he had missed it. Though, even now, he could not understand all that had happened, he saw enough to appreciate his mistake, to locate the point at which he had strayed from the right path.
Inspector French and the Sea Mystery Page 22
