On his way back to town he called at the police station to learn the result of the pumping of Jacques. It had not proved very successful. All that the sergeant had discovered was that Curtice Welland had come to the neighbourhood some twelve months previously, buying the house in which he lived. He was believed to be well to do, for though he had some job in town and went in every day, he was able to get home early and to play a lot of golf. Apparently he was unmarried, at least no woman other than his elderly housekeeper had been seen about the place. He lived a retired life, going out but little in the evenings and doing practically no entertaining. He took no part in the public life of the place, but was understood to be popular among the golfing set and to be generous in the matter of subscriptions to charity. So far as the sergeant knew he was not connected with any church or other local organizations. He went to town daily by the train and usually returned about .
With this French had to be content. Admittedly it did not back up his suspicion that the man was a criminal. But he reminded himself that if a criminal were wishing to lie low he would comport himself in just such a way.
Next morning French had three helpers, Carter, Harvey, and a third man called Pickford. At they boarded the Bakerloo train at Harrow, having first seen Mr. Curtice Welland seat himself in a first-class carriage. They were close behind him when he left the train at Waterloo and separately followed him to his office in Webber Street. There he disappeared while the four made themselves as inconspicuous as possible, French engaging a taxi to wait within call.
About their man appeared and strode off in his slightly important, prosperous-looking way. He followed the route he had covered on the previous evening until he reached York Road and Tate’s Lane. The coachbuilder’s yard gate was open and he turned in and was lost to view. French and his helpers thereupon got into their taxi and making a circuit through the neighbouring street drew up at the far end of Tate’s Lane, ready to follow the saloon car should it make its appearance.
For half an hour they waited, which suggested to French that Welland did his own chauffeuring. Then the grey car came slowly out of the yard and turned towards York Street. Immediately the taxi followed. The chase led northwards. Over Waterloo Bridge it passed into the Strand, and turning to the right through King William Street, led into Orange Street. There the proceedings of the previous day were repeated. On the footpath stood Molly Moran. The car drew in opposite her, she stepped into the tonneau, and the car drove off. It turned into Whitcomb Street, crossed Coventry Street, and in Wardour Street stopped. Miss Moran got out and it drove on.
French’s bewilderment was reflected in the faces of his companions as the taxi followed. This thing, whatever it was, happened day after day and was apparently carried out on a definite system. For four consecutive days Welland had picked this girl up in his car, carried her for a few hundred yards, and set her down again. Each day it was in the same part of London, but in a different street. What could the object be?
As on the previous day the car now drove westward. Its second stop had then been in Grosvenor Square. This time it stopped in Berkeley Square, five minutes’ walk away. There the girl with the red hair was waiting. She jumped in and two minutes later, in Grafton Street, jumped out again, while once more the car drove off.
“Now, Carter, your shot. Follow her,” French directed, and Carter, slipping out of the taxi, vanished.
The third girl, who had been picked up in Tachbrook Street on the previous day, was waiting in Rochester Row, scarcely five minutes away. She had a three-minute run, alighting in Regency Street. As she walked off Harvey slouched after her. Then the car crossed the river and stopped for the fourth girl in Upper Grange Road, again close to Bricklayers’ Arms station. She and Sergeant Pickford got out five minutes later, while French cautiously trailed the car back to Tate’s Lane and Mr. Curtice Welland from there to his lunch and then to his office.
Shortly before Welland reappeared and walked, precisely as on the previous day, to the tube station at Waterloo. After a momentary hesitation French, on seeing him enter the Harrow train, gave up the chase. He thought he could do better elsewhere.
He returned to Webber Street, and mounting the stairs, took quick stock of his surroundings. The house was five stories high and on each upper floor were two sets of tiny offices. “Curtice Welland, Commission Agent” was housed on the third floor, with “Harold Tozer, Engineer and Architect” opposite. The whole place was dirty and dilapidated and suggestive of unprofitable businesses.
French approached Welland’s door and knocked. There was no response. Guardedly he examined the lock. It was old and he thought it might prove amenable to the persuasion of a bent wire. But obviously he could not attempt any burglarious exploits at the moment, even if sounds of movement in the engineer’s office had not warned him off.
For a moment he paused, then crossing the landing, he knocked at the engineer’s door. A lanky young man opened.
“Sorry to trouble you,” French apologized, “but I am looking for a Mr. Fairchild, an engineer. I’m
