Right at the end of the unfinished portion of the road, a couple of hundred yards beyond the house, he had noticed a small clump of low growing trees. He thought if he could reach this it would suit his purpose.
Passing down the cross lane to the back of the row of houses, he came into open fields. These were separated by thorn hedges, one of which ran parallel to the street. French crept along behind the hedge until he came to the clump. There he found that, while himself completely hidden from view, he had an excellent view of the house.
He lay down at his ease on the soft grass, and taking out his pipe, began a leisurely smoke. It was a perfect summer’s day, warm and balmy, with a bright sun, a brilliantly blue sky and in the distance a few faint, fairy-like streaks of cirrus cloud. The meadow behind him had recently been cut and the soft breeze bore a delightful scent of fresh hay. The air was quivering with the songs of birds, with as a pedal bass the hum of innumerable insects. It was all so peaceful and soporific that after a few minutes. French deliberately sat up in a somewhat strained position lest he should fall asleep and miss his quarry.
Up to the present he had been too busy to think over what he had seen, but now he began to turn the facts over in his mind. That he was on to some very peculiar happenings there could be no doubt, but as yet there was no evidence to show that these were criminal. Still less was there proof that they were connected with the murders. But he was at least satisfied that the affair was sufficiently suspicious to warrant further investigation.
What, he wondered, could be going on? It looked as if the unknown man had an interview each day with each of these four girls. This, of course, was not proved, as you could not argue to the general from two days’ experience. But it seemed likely; and if so, what could be the object of these interviews?
It was improbable, he thought, that the man could be interested in the girls themselves. Rather he imagined that they must represent channels by which something was passed between the man and still other unknowns. Whether that something was material, such as stolen goods or money, or whether information was being conveyed between the members of some organization and headquarters, he could not imagine. In any case it was desirable that Scotland Yard should know more about it.
It would not be his fault, he resolved grimly, if before long Scotland Yard did not know all there was to be known.
VIII
The Grey Car’s Round
The remainder of that day came to French as a sort of anticlimax. He put in a wearisome afternoon’s work with, so far as he could see, no result whatever.
After some half hour in the clump of trees he suddenly saw his man appear at the door of the house, wearing plus fours and with a bag of golf clubs over his shoulder. He turned towards French and when he reached the end of the road, struck off along a footpath across the fields. This brought him near French’s retreat, not so near as to risk discovery, but near enough to allow French to fall in behind him with the minimum of trouble.
The chase lasted for nearly a mile, the unknown striding easily along as if he enjoyed the walk. At last they reached the links for which the other had been aiming. Welland disappeared into the clubhouse, emerging a few minutes later with a companion. The two strolled to an adjoining green, teed off and in a leisurely way followed the balls.
That a round of golf offered a favourable opportunity for the interchange of small objects or of confidences between conspirators French was well aware. He therefore hesitated as to whether he should try to keep the men in view with the object of seeing whether they acted suspiciously and of learning the identity of the partner. Eventually he decided that the game would probably prove to be a side issue and that he would be better employed in finding out as much about Welland as he could.
Returning to Harrow, he called at the police station and asked the sergeant for information.
“I can’t give you much, I’m afraid, sir,” the man answered, “but if you can wait a little I’ll make a few inquiries.” He called a subordinate. “Here, Colgate, you know that man Curtice Welland, of 39 Acacia Avenue? Isn’t his housekeeper a local?”
“Yes, sir. Sister of Jacques, the confectioner.”
“I thought so. Then go down to Jacques and pick up anything you can about Welland. Quietly, you understand. Or would you rather go yourself Mr. French?”
“No,” said French, “I’m supposed to be shadowing the man himself. I left him on the links and I’ll get back there.”
“Very good, sir. Nothing wrong, I hope?”
“I don’t know yet. He’s been acting suspiciously, but it may not amount to anything. Well, sergeant, I’ll call in later on for your man’s news.”
Arming himself with a packet of raisins and chocolate, French returned to the approach road to the golf links and settled down to wait his man’s appearance. It was nearly before he saw him and then the earlier proceedings were reversed. French shadowed him back to his house along the path over the fields. Once more French hid in the clump of trees and once more he settled down to watch.
Fortunately the magnificent day had turned into an equally delightful evening or French’s lot would have been less pleasant than it actually proved. Hour passed after hour and Welland made no sign. Hungrily
