Despite the protests of the landlady, both men threw themselves on the door. With a tearing sound the screws of the keeper drew out and the door swung open.
The room was empty.
It was a large room, comfortable furnished as a bed-sitting room. It was not disarranged in any way, but the lower sash of the window was fully up. French hurriedly crossed to it and looked out. It gave on the yard, and about four feet below the sill was the roof of a small shed. This shed ran along the side of the yard at right angles to the main house, its further gable being against the wall between the yard and the lane which passed at the back of the houses. The roof of the shed formed a direct passage from the room to the lane.
Though French had no doubt that Pyke had escaped by this route, he dropped out of the window and crawled over the roof tiles, searching for traces. These he speedily discovered. Someone had passed a short time previously.
His chagrin was too deep for words. Even the lurid phrase with which in times of stress he was wont to relieve his feelings now proved utterly inadequate. He was aghast at the extent to which he had been hoodwinked.
For it was now evident that Pyke had known he had been shadowed to Hampstead Heath and that the whole conversation there had been designed to put him, French, off the track. Pyke was a cleverer man than he had thought. It seemed scarcely possible that the interview had been prearranged, and yet French could not imagine its being an improvisation. The whole thing was very puzzling.
However, at least one thing was clear. Jefferson Pyke and Mrs. Berlyn were the criminals for whom he was seeking. And he was on a hot scent. He would get Mrs. Berlyn at once, and Pyke with very little delay. The man had less than twelve hours’ start. He turned to Carter.
“Wait here for me, Carter,” he directed. “Have a look round and learn anything you can, but without disturbing things. I shall be back presently.”
He ran out of the house, and calling up his taxi, was driven to Park Walk. There he soon spotted the man who was shadowing Mrs. Berlyn.
“Anything to report, Jefferies?” he demanded, quickly. “She’s still there, all right?”
“Still there, Mr. French. No one left the house since I came on duty.”
“Good. Then come with me.”
He rang at the door and, when the servant opened, asked for Mrs. Berlyn.
“She’s not up, sir,” the girl returned. “Last night she said she had a chill and did not want to be called or disturbed this morning. She said she probably wouldn’t want anything until lunch and not to bring up breakfast, as she was going to take a sleeping-draught and might not be awake.”
Though still inadequate to relieve his feelings, French swore his lurid oath.
“Go and wake her now,” he ordered the scandalised girl. “Here, I’ll go to the door with you.”
The girl seemed about to object, but French’s tone overawed her. Hesitatingly she led the way.
“Knock,” said French. “Or wait. I will.” He gave a rousing knock at the door.
There was no answer.
“She, too, by thunder!” he growled, rattling the handle. The door was locked.
“Your shoulder, Jefferies!” and for the second time in half an hour French burst open the door of a bedroom. As in the former case, the room was empty.
But here there was no open window. Not only was the sash latched, but when French opened it and looked out he found that it was thirty feet above the pavement and that there was nothing to assist a descent.
A glance at the door explained the mystery. The key was missing. Evidently the occupant had left the room by the door, locking it behind her and removing the key. And the maid was able to supply the further information required. The girl, on coming down that morning, had found the yard door unlocked. Though she thought she had fastened it on the previous evening, she had supposed she must have overlooked it.
French hurried down the narrow yard to the door which led out on the passage behind the houses, only to find that here again the door was locked and the key missing. Again and again he cursed himself for having underestimated the ability of these two people. Had he had the slightest idea that they had followed his progress so minutely, he would have employed very different methods. Even if he had not arrested them, he would have seen to it that they did not escape. The shadowing he had adopted would have been effective under normal conditions, but not where the victims were alive to their danger and ready to make a desperate bid for safety.
But French was too sensible to cry over spilt milk. He had blundered. Very well, it could not be helped. What he had to do now was to retrieve his error, at the earliest moment possible. How could he most quickly get on the track of these criminals?
He returned to the house and made a rapid search for any clue that the lady might have left, but without result. Then leaving Jefferies in charge, he drove back to Kepple Street.
XIX
The Bitterness of Death
“Any luck, Carter?” French asked, quietly, as he reentered Pyke’s room.
“No, sir. He has taken a suitcase with him, a brown leather one of medium size. I got the description from Mrs. Welsh. She says she noticed it here yesterday afternoon and it’s gone now. And he has taken all his outer clothes, his suits and overcoats and shoes, but most of his socks and underclothing are here in these drawers. I’ve been through everything, but I’ve not found anything useful.”
“Let’s have a look.”
French hastily ran through the missing man’s effects. “Most of this stuff is foreign,” he observed, as he glanced over the clothes. “You see
