“Go on!” said Hetherwick.
“The stationer, Calkin, didn’t know the name of the man who ordered this paper and gave this address,” continued Mapperley. “He knew him well enough as a customer, though, and described him. Baseverie, without a doubt! Calkin says that Baseverie, during the last few months, bought various items of stationery from him—notebooks, duplicating paper, office requisites, and so on. He never knew his name, but as he always carried away his own purchases, and paid spot cash for them, that didn’t matter. Calkin supplied him with ten quires of this paper and envelopes to match, a couple of months ago. So—there you are! And there I was—sure at last that Baseverie’s mysterious hiding-place was 56, Little Smith Street!”
“Good—good!” said Hetherwick. “What next?”
“Well, I thought we could do with a bit of help,” replied Mapperley, smiling. “So I left Calkin—bound to secrecy, of course—and telephoned to Issy Goldmark. Issy is just the sort of chap for games of this sort! Issy came—and he and I took a stroll round. Do you know Little Smith Street?”
“Not I!” answered Hetherwick. “Never heard of it!”
“Oh, well, but it is a street,” said Mapperley. “It lies between Great Smith Street and Tufton Street, back o’ the Church House—not so far from the Abbey. Bit slummy down those quarters, round about—sort of district that’s seen decidedly better days. Still, there’s good, solid houses here and there—56 is one of ’em. From outside, it looks the sort of house you can’t get into—dark, silent, heavily-curtained windows—sort of place in which you could murder anybody on the quiet. Very substantial front door, painted dark green, with an old-fashioned brass knocker—that sort of house. We took a good look at it.”
“See anything?” asked Hetherwick.
“Nothing but what I’ve told you—lifeless sort o’ place,” answered Mapperley. “However, having once seen it, I wasn’t going to leave it unwatched, so I posted Issy there, in the window of a convenient public-house, and came away to telegraph to you. And there Issy is—either in his pub, or loafing round. And now we ought to go and hear if he’s anything to report. And if he hasn’t—what then?”
“Just so,” said Hetherwick. “That’s it—what then? But before we do anything at all, Mapperley, I’d better post you up as to what’s happened elsewhere this morning. You see,” he continued, when he had finished his story, “if Matherfield’s theory is correct, and Baseverie has already gone to Southampton to collect that parcel on its arrival, and if Ambrose has gone with him, we shan’t find Baseverie at this address. But—we might inquire if he’s known there.”
Mapperley reflected a while. Then an idea seemed to suggest itself.
“Pay your bill, sir, and let’s get out to a Post Office Directory somewhere,” he said. “We’ll get the name of the occupier of 56, Little Smith Street.”
Ten minutes later they were looking down the long columns of names in a directory; Mapperley suddenly pointed to what they wanted.
“There we are!” he said. “Mrs. Hannah Mallett—boardinghouse proprietor.”
“Come along!” said Hetherwick. “We’ll see Mrs. Mallett, anyhow.”
But on arrival at Little Smith Street, Mapperley looked round first, for his friend, Mr. Goldmark. Mr. Goldmark materialised suddenly—apparently from nowhere—and smiled.
“Afternoon, mithter!” he said politely to Hetherwick. “Lovely weather, ithn’t it? Ain’t theen nothing, Mapperley, old bean! Ain’t been a thoul in or out o’ that houth, thinth you hopped it! Theemth to me it’th locked up.”
“We’ll see about that,” remarked Hetherwick. “Come with me, Mapperley. You stay here. Goldmark, and keep your eyes as open as before.”
He advanced boldly, with the clerk at his heels, to the door of number 56, and knocked loudly on the stout panel, supplementing this with a ring at the bell. This dual summons was twice repeated—with no result.
“Somebody coming!” whispered Mapperley, suddenly. “Bolted—inside—as well as locked!”
Hetherwick distinctly heard the sound of a stout bolt being withdrawn, then of a key being turned. The door was opened—only a little, but sufficiently to show them the face and figure of an unusually big woman, an Amazon in appearance, hard of eye and lip, who glared at them suspiciously, and as soon as she saw that there were two of them, narrowed the space through which she inspected her callers. But Hetherwick got a hand on the door and a foot across the threshold.
“Mrs. Mallett?” he inquired in a purposely loud voice. “Just so! Is Doctor Baseverie in?”
Both men were watching the woman keenly, and they saw that she started a little, involuntarily. But her head shook a ready negative.
“Nobody of that name here!” she answered.
She would have shut the door, but for Hetherwick’s foot—he advanced it further, giving Mrs. Mallett a keen, searching glance.
“Perhaps you know Dr. Baseverie by another name?” he suggested. “So—is Mr. Basing in?”
But the ready shake of the head came again, and the hard eyes grew harder and more suspicious.
“Nobody of that name here, either!” she said. “Don’t know anybody of those names.”
“I think you do,” persisted Hetherwick sternly. He turned to Mapperley, purposely. “We shall have to get the police—”
“Look out, sir!” exclaimed Mapperley, snatching at Hetherwick’s arm. “Your fingers!”
The woman suddenly banged the door to, narrowly missing Hetherwick’s hand, which he had closed on the edge; a second later they heard the bolt slipped and the key turned. And Hetherwick, as with a swift illumination, comprehended things, and turned sharply on his clerk.
“Mapperley!” he exclaimed. “Sure as fate! Those ladies are in there! Trapped!”
“Shouldn’t wonder, sir,” agreed Mapperley. “And as you say—the police—”
“Come back to Goldmark,” said Hetherwick.
Going lower down the street and retreating into the shelter of a doorway, the three men held a rapid consultation, suddenly interrupted by an exclamation from the Jew, who still kept his eyes on the house:
“Th’elp me if the woman ain’t leavin’ that
