Here was food for thought. The Starvel lane after passing through the Hollow almost petered out. As a rough track it wound on past one or two isolated cottages, debouching at last into a cross road some four miles farther on. It was therefore most unlikely that Whymper could have been coming from anywhere except Starvel. But if he had been coming from Starvel he had lied, as he had stated that he had not been there within a week of the fire.
This fact made French’s next step all the more imperative. He went down to the police station and saw Kent.
“Look here, sergeant,” he explained, “I want to search that young man’s rooms and I want your help. Will you do two things for me? First, I want you to find out at what time he goes home in the evening and let me know, and second to make some pretext to keep him half an hour later than usual at the church tonight. Can you manage that?”
“Of course, Mr. French. You may count on me.”
Kent was as good as his word. When French returned to the hotel in the afternoon a note was waiting for him, saying that Whymper always reached home about six. Accordingly found French once more knocking at the door of 12 Stanhope Terrace.
“Has Mr. Whymper come back yet?” he asked the stout, good-humoured looking landlady.
She recognised her visitor of the night before and smiled.
“Not yet, sir. But he won’t be long. Will you come in and wait?”
This was what French wanted. It was better that she should suggest it than he. He paused doubtfully.
“Thanks,” he said at last, “perhaps it would be better if you think he won’t be long.”
“He might be here any time. Will you go up, sir? You know your way.”
French thanked her and slowly mounted the stairs. But once in Whymper’s sitting-room with the door shut behind him his deliberation dropped from him like a cloak and he became the personification of swift efficiency. Noiselessly he turned the key in the lock and then quickly but silently began a search of the room.
It was furnished rather more comfortably than the average lodging-house sitting room, though it retained its family resemblance to the dreary species. In the centre was a table on half of which was a more or less white cloth and the preparations for a meal. Two dining-room chairs and two easy chairs, one without arms, represented the seating accommodations. A sideboard, a corner cabinet laden with nondescript ornaments, a china dog and a few books, together with a small modern roll-top desk completed the furniture. On the walls were pictures, a royal family group of the early eighties and some imaginative views of sailing ships labouring on stormy seas. A gilt clock with a bell glass cover stood on the chimneypiece between a pair of china vases containing paper flowers.
French immediately realised that of all these objects, only the desk was of interest to him. It was evidently Whymper’s private property, and in its locked drawers would lie any secret documents the young man might possess. Silently French got to work with his bunch of skeleton keys and a little apparatus of steel wire, and in two or three minutes he was able to push the lid gently up. This released the drawers, and one by one he drew them out and ran through their contents.
He had examined rather more than half when he pursed his lips together and gave vent to a soundless whistle. In a small but bulky envelope at the back of one of the drawers was a roll of banknotes. He drew them out and counted them. They were all twenties. Twenty-four of them—£480.
With something approaching excitement French took from his pocket the list given him by Tarkington of the numbers of twenty-pound notes sent to Starvel. A few seconds sufficed to compare. Every single one of the twenty-four was on the list!
VI
Talloires, Lac d’Annecy
Having noted the twenty-four numbers, French hurriedly replaced the notes and with even more speed looked through the remaining drawers. He was now chiefly anxious that Whymper should not suspect his discovery, and as soon as he was satisfied that he had left no traces of his search, he silently unlocked the door and then walked noisily downstairs. As he reached the hall the landlady appeared from the kitchen.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said politely, “that I cannot wait any longer now. I have another appointment. Please tell Mr. Whymper that I’ll call to see him at the church .”
The door closed behind him, but he made no attempt to return to the hotel. Instead he hung about the terrace until he saw Whymper approaching in the distance: Then walking towards him, he hailed him as if their meeting was accidental.
“Good evening, Mr. Whymper. I’ve just been calling at your rooms to ask if you could see me at the church tomorrow. One or two points occurred to me in connection with our discussion of last night, and I wanted to get your views on them. Unfortunately I have an appointment tonight, and cannot wait now.”
Whymper, evidently not too pleased at the prospect, curtly admitted he would be available, and with a short “Good night,” passed on.
French went his way also, but when in a few seconds the shadowing constable put in an appearance, he stopped him.
“Look here, Hughes. I have a suspicion that Whymper may try to get rid of some papers tonight. Be specially careful if you see him trying to do anything of the kind, and let me hear from you about it in the morning.”
He reached the hotel and in his pleasant way had a leisurely chat with the landlord before turning in. But when once he reached his room for the night he lit a cigar and settled down to see just where he stood.
It
