For a moment French hesitated as to which of his two quarries he should follow. He would have given a good deal not to have been playing a lone hand at that moment. Rightly or wrongly, he decided on the car.
Once again to his amazement a similar scene was enacted. From Charles Street the car ran by Berkeley Street, Piccadilly, Grosvenor Place, and Vauxhall Bridge Road to Tachbrook Street. There another girl was waiting who in her turn jumped into the back of the car. She was driven through Bessborough street to Grosvenor Road, and set down at the end of Page Street.
Still another time French followed the car and still another time the same thing happened. A fourth girl was picked up in Darwin Street, off the Old Kent Road and near Bricklayers’ Arms goods station. She was taken to Long Lane in Bermondsey and there set down, while the car went on to Newington Causeway.
French began to wonder if the whole day was to be spent in giving rides to girls. It was now nearly , the hour at which most of the cinemas opened, and if the girls picked up were engaged in cinema box offices there would scarcely be time to deal with any more. With keen interest he settled back in his taxi, anxious to learn the next development.
But this fourth girl, it turned out, was the last. The grey car ran on westwards till it reached Waterloo. Then it turned to the left into York Road and again to the right into a narrow street labelled Tate’s Lane, disappearing finally into a gateway about halfway down the street. French’s car ran on past the gateway, and turning into the cross street at the end of Tate’s Lane, stopped. Telling his driver to keep him in sight, French walked back to the corner and watched the gateway.
He had noticed as he came past that the latter was surmounted by a signboard bearing the legend: “Thos. Cullan, Coachbuilder.” A glimpse through the open gate revealed a dilapidated yard in which stood a number of carts and lorries. Evidently Mr. Thos. Cullan was not in too successful a way of business. French wondered if the man he had shadowed was Cullan himself. At first he thought not. That untidy, ineffective looking yard did not accord with the forceful, decided face of the driver of the car. Then he saw that if the business with the girls was the serious factor in the man’s life, coachbuilding might be merely a blind to mask his other activities.
For fifteen minutes or more French hung about the corner. Then the man appeared, well dressed and prosperous looking, and set off striding with assured steps down the Lane to York Road. He turned to the right into Waterloo Road, and French had to sprint at his highest speed to avoid losing him at the corner. He was just in time to see him disappearing into the station and with a rapidly increasing sense of satisfaction he followed him to the restaurant.
At opposite ends of the big room French and his quarry lunched, then the chase was once more resumed. This time the trail led down Waterloo Road, past the Old Vic and into Webber Street, where the man vanished into a doorway.
French hung back until he thought the coast was clear, then lounged forward and entered also. The doorway led into a dilapidated passage with a flight of stairs rising at the end to offices above. On the jambs were the names of the occupants. Seven persons or firms French counted. There were two solicitors, an estate agent, an engineer and architect, a commission agent, a wholesale tea merchant, and a firm of electrical suppliers. Having noted the names, French passed back to the street and took up a position from which he could keep the entrance in view.
For the best part of an hour he waited, sitting in his taxi for the most part, while the driver busied himself with his engine. Then suddenly the quarry reappeared and strode off in the same forceful and determined way. French shadowed him to Waterloo and down to the Bakerloo tube. Booking to Watford, which he thought should cover any journey that the unknown might make, French followed him to the platform. The man took a northbound train and French, slipping in his usual way into the next carriage, settled down to await developments.
At Harrow the man got out. French noted that he was evidently a “season” and a man of some standing, for the ticket collector touched his cap respectfully. He turned out of the station on the down side of the line and set off towards the Hill.
“Can you tell me if that is Mr. Pointer?” French asked the collector as he gave up his own ticket.
“No, sir. Mr. Welland is his name.”
Curtice Welland, Commission Agent, was one of the names on the office door in Webber Street. So far, so good.
On these comparatively deserted roads shadowing was no easy task. French had to drop a long way behind to avoid attracting his quarry’s attention. Every time the man turned a corner French was therefore at a disadvantage and had to run to reach the crossroad before the other disappeared from view. This again brought him too close and he had suddenly to loiter until the necessary distance again intervened—a by no means unobtrusive mode of progression.
The last turn led into a recently made road. Its end, in fact, vanished into the fields and fresh earthwork showed that it was in process of being extended. The houses along it were all quite new. Several were unfinished, while a few vacant building lots still remained.
About halfway down on the right were a couple of small semidetached houses, mere bungalows. Into one of these the man turned, letting himself in with a latchkey.
French was approaching a cross lane, and down this he immediately
