by Molly Thynne
“It’s up to us to get him now if he does come,” was all he said, but there was a note of comradeship, in his voice that brought a new light to the detective’s eyes.
On his way out Arkwright had a few words with the porter.
“See anything of Mr. Civita this evening?” he asked.
“Not till about half an hour before he went out,” answered the man. “He called me up on the house telephone and asked me to up to his flat.”
“What did he want?”
The porter looked uncomfortable.
“He wanted to know whether anyone had been here while he was away. While he was in quod, he meant, but he didn’t say so! I couldn’t help but mention you and the old gentleman. Till this evening I’d kept my mouth shut about it, remembering what you’d said, but when he asked me outright I didn’t know rightly what to do.”
If Arkwright wondered what Civita had paid for the information he did not say so.
“He hadn’t asked you before?” he contented himself with asking.
“I haven’t had a word with him till now. Been keeping to himself, he has. Wasn’t any too anxious to show himself after what had happened, I should say.”
“Did he ask you anything else?”
“He did ask had I noticed whether anything had been removed from the flat, and I told him you’d had a parcel with you. He didn’t say anything to that, just thanked me and told me that was all.”
“How was he dressed?”
“Evening dress, like he always wears at this time of night. He mostly comes in and changes about this time, before going round to the Trastevere Restaurant.”
“What happened after that?”
“I came downstairs, and about half an hour later he rang for the lift and I took him down. He hung about in the hall outside my office for a bit. I thought he was waiting for a taxi, but all of a sudden he seemed to make up his mind and went out. That was just before your man came in with the cigarette-case.”
Arkwright picked up a taxi and drove to the Trastevere. It was easy enough to guess what had happened. Something had inspired Civita to go to the cupboard, and, once he missed the curtains, he would realize his danger. His interrogation of the porter had done rest. After that he would be bound to guess that the flats were being watched. He had shown both resource and ingenuity in making his getaway, but made a slip that looked as though it might prove undoing in leaving his money behind. There was a faint chance that the mysterious business that had taken him out might be connected with the Trastevere, and that, believing the attention of the police was concentrated on his flat, he had decided to risk a visit to his office at the restaurant. All Arkwright could hope was that, if Civita had gone there, he had not managed to get in and out unnoticed by the three men he had placed on this premises.
The theatre dinners were in full swing when he reached the Trastevere, and already a string of motors was parked beside the kerb. Arkwright went round to the service door and asked for the detective who had been taken on earlier in the week as a temporary waiter. There was some delay before the man could found, during which he chafed helplessly. At this juncture he did not dare to declare himself, and he tried to quiet his misgivings with the reflection that he had covered the interior of the restaurant to the best of his ability.
Before leaving the Yard he had done his best to block all the obvious channels of escape. Both the air and seaports had been notified, and, counting on the fact that up to this evening Civita had considered himself outside the pale of suspicion and could there-fore have made no very elaborate plans for evasion, the chances, even now, were against his getting away. But Arkwright was harassed, to put it mildly, and saw himself in for a very unpleasant quarter of an hour with the powers that be if he failed to bring off the arrest to-night.
His man came at last with the news that nothing had been seen or heard of Civita at the restaurant. He was expected to turn up, as usual, between six and seven, but, so far, he had failed to do so.
“Wace and the girl have come,” he reported. “They’re in the lounge, and Ferrars is dining in the restaurant. I’m keeping this part of the building pretty well covered, though, of course, I’m on the run most of the time. Do you want me to declare myself? I can answer for a couple of the waiters, I think, but Civita’s in pretty close touch with the kitchen staff, and I wouldn’t put it past one of them to give him the office.”
Arkwright shook his head.
“We can’t risk it,” he said. “We’ve got to get him now, and in a place this size you can’t answer for anyone. I’ve taken a chance in coming here now, but I had to see you. Can you put the others wise to what has happened?”
“I’ll see Ferrars at once, and he can pass the word on to Wace. Where can we find you, sir?”
Arkwright gave him the telephone number of Civita’s flat and told him to ring him up immediately should anything transpire, then made for the nearest Public box and rang up the number himself. The detective he had left at the flat answered him.
“No sign of him, sir.” he reported.
“Carry on till I come,” Arkwright instructed him “I’m taking that garage of his on the way. I may get a line on to whether he’s taken the car out or not.”
He got into a taxi and paid it off at the entrance to the mews which contained Civita’s lock up garage. He had hardly turned into it when he met a constable pacing slowly over the cobbles, flashing his lamp on the locks of the garage doors.
“What’s your trouble?” he asked, guessing that the man was off his beat.
The constable cast a fishlike, disapproving eye on him, which flashed suddenly into alertness at the sound of his name.
“I can’t see anything suspicious, sir,” he said. “But a car came round the corner five minutes ago with three men and a ladder in it. I didn’t get more than a glimpse of them, but they went off mighty quick once they get into the road, and it looked a bit queer to me. I thought there’d be no harm in havin’ a look. This place is pretty well deserted at this time in the evening.”
He glanced round as he spoke. With the exception of a chauffeur engaged in cleaning a car at the far end of the mews, there was not a soul to be seen.
“Been round the corner here?” asked Arkwright, leading the way into the cul-de-sac in which Civita’s garage stood.
“I flashed my lamp down it, sir,” answered the man, “but there’s no sign of anything.”
Arkwright tried the door of the garage, and, with the help of the constable’s lantern, examined the lock.
“This hasn’t been tampered with,” he said, “but I’d give something to know whether the car’s still inside.”
“There’s a chap lives over the garage at the corner there,” the constable informed him. “He might have noticed it going out.”
He crossed the yard and knocked on one of the side doors. There was a pause, then a window was thrown up overhead and a tousled head appeared.
“Didn’t hear you at first,” said a voice. “What is it?”
“I want a word with the owner of Number Fifteen,” said Arkwright. “Do you happen to know whether he’s taken his car out to-night?”
“He came back about half an hour ago,” answered the head. “I see ’im pass ’ere and I ’eard ’im open the garage doors. A nasty squeak they’ve got. Then I ’eard ’im drive off again. Came back for something, I should say.”
“He hasn’t been back since?”
“Not that I know of, but I’ve been out and only just come in.”
Arkwright thanked him and went on the flat. He found detective still keeping his gloomy vigil.
“Nothing doing, sir. I’m thinking he’ll have to be pretty hard pressed before he comes back here,” he volunteered morosely.
“We’ve done our best,” said Arkwright. “I’ll hang on here for the present. I’m banking on his having no money and finding a difficulty in raising any at this time of night. He must have been badly rattled to have gone without it.”
&nbs
p; He placed a chair against the wall near the front door and settled himself to wait. Through the open door of the bedroom he could see the attaché-case on which his hopes were based. The minutes passed drearily enough, and, in spite of himself, he found his eyelids drooping.
He was fighting the increasing drowsiness that threatened to overcome him when he was startled into full consciousness by the sound of the telephone. He raced up the stairs and into the sitting-room.
“Hullo,” he called, keeping his voice as low as possible till he knew who was at the other end.
A high, rather querulous voice, with a marked foreign accent, answered him.
“Is that the Argentine Embassy? I want the Consulate, please.”
“Wrong number,” said Arkwright gruffly.
He replaced the receiver and sat back in his chair, a grim smile on his lips. So that was Civita’s game. Clever enough, too, if he had not been on the alert for something of the sort. The exaggerated accent had been an inspiration, for, excellent as Civita’s English was, he had never quite lost his foreign intonation and could not possibly have concealed it if he had attempted pose as an Englishman. He did not trouble to trace the call, knowing too well that it would be from a public telephone box. He went back to the hall.
“The fat’s in the fire,” he said. “He knows the flat’s occupied. I wonder what his next move will be?”
The question answered itself about a quarter of an hour later. From his post in the hall become conscious of a movement on the other side of the front door. Stepping lightly as a cat he approached it, noiselessly slipped the catch and threw it open.
A spare, lean-faced, middle-aged man in a dark overcoat stood outside. Behind him hovered the hall porter, with the expression of one who scents interesting developments and proposes to share them.
“A gentleman from Mr. Civita,” he said. “Come for a suitcase, he says. I’m to let him in with my key.”
Arkwright cast a quick eye over the man. He looked innocent enough, standing there with his soft hat in his hand, a look of genuine surprise on his face.
“Mr. Civita didn’t say that there would be anyone in the flat,” he said. “My instructions were to ask the porter to let me in.”
“When did you see Mr. Civita?” demanded Arkwright.
“I haven’t seen him,” answered the man, evidently puzzled by Arkwright’s manner. “He rang up the Trastevere and gave orders that I was to fetch a suitcase that I should find ready packed in the bedroom and meet him with it at Victoria Station.”
“When was this?”
“About fifteen minutes ago. I came on here at once.”
“What’s your connection with the Trastevere?”
“Wine waiter. Beg your pardon, but are you the police, sir?”
Arkwright grinned.
“A bit divided in your mind, weren’t you? Thought Mr. Civita was going to jump his bail and weren’t sure whether you hadn’t better put yourself right with us?” he queried.
The man’s face reddened.
“I was in a bit of a difficulty,” he admitted reluctantly, “I’m in Mr. Civita’s employ, and it didn’t seem my place to go behind his back. Am I to take the suitcase, sir?”
Arkwright did some quick thinking. He had no doubt in his mind that the telephone call had come from Civita, and it was obvious to the meanest intelligence that if he knew that the flat was already in the hands of the police he would hardly send openly for his luggage.
“Did he say anything about an attaché-case?” he asked.
The waiter shook his head.
“Only a suitcase was mentioned,” he said. “He said it was ready packed.”
Arkwright went into the bedroom and came out with the suitcase in his hand. He drew the detective aside and gave him his instructions.
“Go with him,” he said. “I’ll get on to the Yard at once, but you’ll have to carry on by yourself till I can get a couple of men down there. You’ll have the station police behind you if he does turn up, but I don’t think you’ll see him.”
He turned to the waiter.
“Got a taxi outside?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Right. This officer will go with you, but not a word about him to Mr. Civita, you understand. You’ll follow your instructions and hand over the suitcase. We’ll see to the rest.”
He watched them go, followed by the disappointed porter, then applied himself to the telephone. He arranged for the dispatch of two men to Victoria and ordered another to join him as soon as possible, then made his way slowly back to the empty hall, trying to put himself in Civita’s place and fathom the meaning of this new move. He had been forced to cover Victoria Station, but he felt convinced that Civita would not show up there. He had been through the suitcase and knew that there was nothing in it that could be of any value to him at this juncture. The money was in the attaché-case, and it was significant that he had not sent for it. Arkwright could only conclude that he had staged this last little scene in a desperate attempt to draw the police away from the flat, but he did not feel satisfied. Unless Civita’s nerve had failed him lamentably he was not acting true to type. The whole thing was clumsy to a degree, and not at all on a par with the man’s usual standard of intelligence.
Arkwright settled himself once more in his chair. All desire for sleep had left him, but he was not happy. Civita had put in a useful ten minutes on the public telephone, but with what object he was not yet clear.
When the explanation did come it was a complete surprise to him. The telephone bell broke the silence again, and this time Ferrars, the detective who was among the diners at the Trastevere, was speaking.
“Our man’s just come in,” he said guardedly. “Everything’s all serene so far. He’s in the main restaurant. According to Wace, who’s in the lounge, he came in quite openly, but he thinks he meant to go straight to his office. He got caught by a party and was pretty well forced to go into the restaurant with them. Any instructions?”
“Before you go back call up Headquarters, report to them and get them to send a second man down here in case of accidents. After that, don’t make any move until I come, unless you have to. I’m on my way now,” ordered Arkwright.
“Got you, my lad,” he murmured, as he made for the stairs.
CHAPTER XVII
ARKWRIGHT’S uneasiness had vanished. He could follow the workings of Civita’s mind now and give full credit to the cleverness of his attempt to concentrate the attention of the police on the flat while he collected the money he needed from the Trastevere. He had guessed that the police would see through the little comedy over the suitcase, and was no doubt gambling on their having omitted to cover the Trastevere, which, in fact, was the last place he might be expected to visit.
For sheer audacity this move took a lot of beating, reflected Arkwright, as he paid off his taxi and entered the restaurant.
He was hailed boisterously by a couple, a man and a girl, who were sitting in the lounge, facing the wide double doors that led to the main restaurant. He waved to them, went back into the foyer, shot his hat and coat across the counter, and joined them.
Bulky enough in the plain blue serge he habitually wore, he looked enormous in the black and white of his dress clothes, and the girl shot him a mischievous glance as he fitted himself creakingly into a totally inadequate cane chair.
Under the cover of offering him a cigarette the man spoke.
“He’s still in the restaurant. Must be feeling like a cat on hot bricks by now, but those people have got him and he hasn’t had a chance to break away. Had a positive reception when he went in.”
The girl’s nose wrinkled expressively.
“Not surprising,” she said, “from this crowd. They’re the limit!”
“Seen Ferrars?” asked Arkwright.
“He’s in the restaurant, waiting to follow him up when he comes out. That’s our cue.”
They sat chatting idly, their eyes alert. Then the girl rose to her feet.
“This is where I fade out, I suppose?” she suggested rather reluctantly.
Arkwright grinned at her.
“Sorry,” he said, “but it’s time we cleared the decks. You might pass the word outside that all’s going well so far.”
She nodded, drew her cloak about her and sauntered to the door, chatting to her companion as she went. He saw her out, then returned to his table. Arkwright had produced an evening paper and retired discreetly behind it.
For a time the two men sat smoking in silence, covertly watching the steady stream of people coming and going through the swing-doors. If Constantine had been there he would have agreed with the Duchess that the tone of the place had hardly improved during the past few months.
The big doors of the main restaurant were open, and through them came the sound of a band, almost drowned by the unceasing babel of the diners.
“If we could get at the facts,” said Arkwright in his companion’s ear, “I bet we should find that Civita’s bled most of this little lot pretty freely.”
He jerked his head towards a particularly noisy group that had just come in, half a dozen boys and girls barely out of their teens.
The two men watched them as they stood in the doorway impatiently waiting for the head waiter to find them a table. They were apparently in the highest spirits, but Arkwright noticed that the moment the conversation dropped for a second a curious lassitude fell on them, only to be dispelled by an obvious effort on the part of one of the group. None of them was quite sober, and the glazed eyes and chalk-white faces of at least two members of the party indicated that very little more would be their undoing. He observed, too, that the hand with which one of the girls was incessantly plucking at her heavily smeared lips was dirty, and, as he looked at her, he saw a shudder run through the whole length of her figure. It jerked her restless fingers away from her mouth and caused her to clutch at her companion for support, as, with an effort, she joined once more in the babel of high, incoherent voices.
“It’s when one sees the youngsters that one realizes to the full what a filthy traffic it is,” murmured Arkwright. “It’s easy to see why some of that little lot come here. I wonder where they’ll go now that the supply’s cut off!”
