As the night wore on his plan took a definite shape. For the consequence he cared nothing. Here was his opportunity, here was his enemy. He seized a moment, slipped through the service door and passed down a flight of stone steps to the crowded kitchen filled at that moment with a babble of sound as the orders were repeated across the steaming brass pots and the blistering hot plates. He passed through the kitchen to the larder department, and found what he sought in the big cool vault where the butchers worked. It was a long thin knife. He waited until the butcher’s back was turned and slipped it up his sleeve, passed rapidly through the kitchen, ignoring the chef’s demand as to his business, and reached the warm, bright restaurant again.
He had no time to waste.
The butcher might at any moment detect the theft and the thief hauled into the service room to explain his conduct. He made his way across the room to where Mr. Reginald Boltover and his fair companion sat.
Reggie thought the man had a message, but Vera, looking up, saw the man’s evil face—and knew. She half twisted, half flung herself against Reginald Boltover as the waiter’s hand came up to strike. She saw the knife glitter for a space of a second and closed her eyes, then there was the sound of a struggle and she opened them in time to see the vengeful man flung backward to the floor and an immaculate Michael Pretherston standing over him examining the knife with some interest.
She met the inspector’s eye and smiled, though the smile was forced, for even as he bowed, she heard the mockery of his surprise.
“Why, Kate!” he murmured. “I’m always meeting you.”
VI
Kate Came to the Flat
At 9:40 on the night of the 15th instant I was present at Sebo’s Club. The room was full of diners and amongst them was Mr. Reginald Boltover and a girl giving the name of Miss Vera Flemming, who was in reality Kate Westhanger. At 9:52 an Italian named Emil Tolmini, employed as a waiter at Sebo’s Club, attempted to stab Kate Westhanger but was prevented and taken into custody. In the course of the struggle in which he was disarmed he sustained a slight scalp wound and permission was given for him to be taken to the kitchen to have the wound dressed. I regret to state that he succeeded in making his escape. He is a convict on license (record No. P.C.A./C.C.C. 85943). He is an old associate of the Crime Street gang and was obviously attempting to avenge himself upon the girl for some injury, real or imaginary, which he had suffered.
I made no attempt to warn Mr. Boltover as to the character of his companion, but subsequently calling at his flat in Piccadilly on the pretence that I wished to get information about the attempted murder, I discovered that he had been introduced to the girl at a theatre where she was posing as a chorus girl. She had evidently laid a deep plan to meet him, for what reason it is not clear. He is a very wealthy man and it may be necessary at a later stage to warn him, but at present I have taken upon myself the responsibility of refraining from that act.
Michael Pretherston ended off the report with his neat signature, folded it and inserted it into an official envelope which he addressed to his chief. By good fortune he met that brilliant man coming into Scotland House as Michael was going out.
“I think you did right,” said T. B., after he had heard the story; “I wonder what her game is? I have a good mind to detail a man to take the whole case up.”
“Let me do it,” said Michael, eagerly.
T. B. Smith pursed his lips.
“You are rather a big man for a job like that, Michael,” he said, “it may turn out to be nothing more than a common or garden chorus girl’s romance.”
“Kate isn’t the chorus girl type,” said Michael, “if it is big enough for her to be in it, it is quite big enough for me.”
The chief thought for a moment.
“Very well then,” he said at length, “you can take on the job. Do it by yourself if you possibly can, I haven’t any men to spare. But keep in touch with me. Blowing a whistle won’t be of any service to you if these people mean business and get after you.”
He hesitated again.
“Confound Kate!” he said. “I suppose you have circulated a description of the ice-cream merchant?”
All Latin criminals came under this generic description with T. B.
Michael nodded.
“Well, good luck,” said the chief, “but be careful!”
When the young man had gone T. B. beckoned to an officer who was passing.
“You’re the very man, Barr,” he said; “pick up Mr. Pretherston and don’t lose him—you may choose your own opposite number.”
The sergeant saluted and hurried out after his charge.
Michael went back to his rooms with a light heart. It was the kind of job that he liked better than any other. He had not told the chief all his suspicions. Kate’s game was a big one. High-flyer as she was, she was out for a height record—that he realised. There was some association between her month with Lord Flanborough and the careful cultivation of Reggie Boltover’s acquaintance. When he came to think of it she must have met Boltover while she was still with Flanborough. He had taken it for granted that the girl was a resident secretary but possibly he had arrived at this conclusion in error. So it proved next morning
