“None, sir. But there’s a big heap of burnt paper in the grate.”
“So I saw. We’ll go through it later on. Now ask the landlady to come here. Just sit down, Mrs. Welsh, will you? I want to know if you can tell me anything to help me to find your lodger. I’m sorry to say he is wanted on a very serious charge—murder, in fact. Therefore, you will understand how necessary it is that you should tell me all you know.”
Mrs. Welsh was thunderstruck, declaring again and again that she would not have believed it of so nice a gentleman. She was also terrified lest her rooms should suffer through the inevitable publicity. But she realised her duty and did her best to answer French’s questions.
For a long time he gained no useful information, then at last an important point came out, though not in connection with his immediate objective.
Having given up for the moment the question of Pyke’s destination, French was casting around to see if he could learn anything connecting him with the crime, when he chanced to ask, had Mr. Pyke a typewriter?
“Not lately, he hadn’t,” Mrs. Welsh answered, “but he did have one for a time. I don’t know why he got it, for I never knew him to use it. But he had it there on the table for about three weeks.”
“Oh!” said French, interested. “When was that?”
“I couldn’t say exactly. Three months ago or more, I should think. But my daughter might remember. Vera is a typist and she was interested in the machine more than what I was. I’ll call her, if you like. She is at home on holidays.”
Vera Welsh was the pretty girl with fair hair and blue eyes whom French had already seen. She smiled at him as she appeared in answer to her mother’s call.
“We were talking of Mr. Pyke’s typewriter,” he explained. “Can you tell me what make it was?”
“Yes. I noticed it when I was dusting the room. It was a Corona Four.”
“And when did he get it?”
The girl hesitated. “Between three and four months ago,” she said at last, with a reserve which aroused French’s interest.
“Between three and four months?” he repeated. “How are you so sure of that? Was there anything to fix it in your mind?”
There was, but for some time the girl would not give details. Then at last the cause came out.
It seemed that on the day after Vera had first noticed the machine she had had some extra typing to do in the office which would have necessitated her working late. But on that day her mother had not been well and she had particularly wanted to get home at her usual time. The thought of Mr. Pyke’s typewriter occurred to her, together with the fact that he had left that morning on one of his many visits to the country. She had thereupon decided to borrow the machine for the evening. She had brought her work home and had done it in his sitting room. She did not remember the actual day, but could find it from her records in the office.
“Very wise, if you ask me,” French said, sympathetically. “And what was the nature of the work you did?” He found it hard to keep the eagerness out of his voice.
“Just a copy of some tenders we had from America. I am in a hardware shop in Tottenham Court Road and it was about American lawnmowers and other gardening machines.”
“I understand. I suppose you don’t know what the copies were required for?”
“Just for filing. The originals had to be sent away, and these were wanted for reference.”
French rose to his feet. Certainly the luck was not entirely against him.
“Put your hat on, if you please, Miss Welsh, and come along with me to your office. I must see that copy. I can’t tell you how much you have helped me by telling me of it.”
The girl at first demurred, as she feared her employer might have views of his own as to the taking of important papers home from the office. But French assured her that he would see she did not suffer for her action. In fact, before she knew what was happening to her she was in a taxi on the way to the place.
On reaching the senior partner’s office, French was as good as his word. He explained the importance of his seeing the typescript, and saying that Miss Welsh had risked her job in the interests of justice, begged that the matter might not be held against her.
Mr. Cooke shook his head over the incident, but, admitting to French that the girl was satisfactory, he agreed to overlook it. Then he rang for the papers in question.
Ten seconds with his lens was enough for French. Here at last was the proof he had been looking for! The typing was that of the notes to the Veda works, to the Swansea garage, and to the magneto company.
“I’m pretty glad to get this paper, Mr. Cooke,” he declared. “Now do you think you could let me keep it? Miss Welsh could perhaps type another copy for you?”
Mr. Cooke was obliging, and in ten minutes the precious document was handed over. Stopping only to get the girl to certify on it that she had made it with Pyke’s machine, French hurried her away.
“I’ll drive you home, Miss Welsh,” he said, with his pleasant smile. “You have been of the greatest help. Now I wonder if you could do something else for me,” and he began repeating the questions he had already put to her mother.
Almost at once he got valuable information, though once again not on the matter immediately at issue.
It appeared that on the previous afternoon Pyke had called the girl into his room and asked her if she would do a small commission for
