IX
French Makes a Second Assignation
About the next day French knocked at the door of No. 27 Nelson Street, and sending in a card inscribed “Mr. Joseph French,” asked if he could see Miss Molly Moran.
He sat waiting in the plain, somewhat comfortless sitting room until after some minutes the girl he had shadowed entered.
“Miss Moran?” he asked, with his pleasantest smile. “My business will not take long. Will you sit down, please?”
She was a prettier girl than he had realized. Rather below middle height, she had a graceful figure, with small shapely hands and feet. Her hair and eyes were dark, her nose tilted delightfully, while a stubborn little chin showed she had no lack of character.
“First,” French went on in low tones, glancing at the door, “I must tell you that I am a detective officer from Scotland Yard,” and he handed her his official card.
He was accustomed to seeing apprehension appear in the faces of those to whom he made this announcement, both innocent and guilty, but he was not prepared for its effect upon Miss Moran. For a moment an expression of absolute terror twisted her features. Her eyes dilated and her face became a chalky white. Then with an obvious effort she pulled herself together and murmured “Yes?”
“You were expecting a visit of this kind, were you not?” French went on. “You felt that sooner or later it must come?”
“Oh, no, no, no,” she cried hoarsely, but with delightful suggestion of an Irish brogue. “Whatever do you mean?”
“I think you know. If you didn’t, why should my visit terrify you?”
“I am not terrified,” she declared in tremulous tones which belied her words. “Why should you think a thing like that anyway?”
“How can I think anything else, Miss Moran? There is no use in your taking that line. Your manner leaves no doubt of your feelings.”
She made a determined effort to pull herself together.
“Well,” she retorted with more confidence, “and can’t you understand that the very appearance of a detective gentleman like yourself would be enough to frighten anyone?”
French shook his head.
“It won’t do, Miss Moran,” he said, not unkindly. “You apprehend danger to yourself from my call. You cannot deny anything so obvious. But I want you to understand I’m not here to harm you. You have some information that I require. That is all.”
She waited without speaking, evidently in no way reassured.
“First,” went on French, still speaking in low tones, “my business is private. Are you sure we shall not be overheard? If there is any chance of that I shall ask you to come out with me and we can discuss the matter on a seat in one of the parks.”
She nodded quickly. “That’d be better,” she agreed. “If you go on, I’ll follow.”
French rose. “Right then. What about the Charing Cross Gardens near the Villiers Street entrance?” He remembered that this was where poor Thurza Darke had met Westinghouse.
To his delight the shot told. She gave him a quick, terrified glance as she faltered: “I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“Good.” Then loudly for the benefit of anyone who might be listening. “Well, goodbye, Miss Moran. I’m glad to have had the pleasure of meeting you.”
He had little doubt that the girl would keep her appointment, but he was not so sure that she would not first communicate with some member of the gang. Therefore as soon as he was out of sight of the house in the direction she would expect him to take, he turned quickly down a side street, and by making a short detour, regained Nelson Street on the opposite side of the boarding house. Stepping into a shop, he laid a shilling on the counter and asked if he might use the telephone.
“Scotland Yard speaking,” he called softly. “Please keep a note of any calls from Gerrard 4763C during the next few minutes. Official demand to your headquarters following.”
He had noticed the telephone in the hall of the boarding house. Luckily for him it was one of those old-fashioned instruments which bore a plate with the words “Your number is—,” followed by the digits in question.
He left the shop quickly, so as to make sure that Miss Moran should not give him the slip. She had not appeared, and once more becoming an aimless lounger, he watched the boarding house door.
In about ten minutes she emerged and set off down the road. Slowly French followed. But she attempted no excursions aside and within a minute of the time appointed they met in the Gardens.
“Here is an empty seat,” French said, when he had gravely complimented her on her punctuality. “Do you smoke?”
She accepted a cigarette, which he lit in silence, only continuing when she was comfortably settled.
“Now, Miss Moran, you mustn’t be alarmed, but I have to tell you this is a serious matter that you’ve got mixed up in. And I may tell you too that your only chance of keeping out of personal trouble is to be frank with me. If you tell me everything, I’ll do my level best for you. But I assure you that I’m not threatening when I say that if you mislead me you’ll bitterly regret it.”
The girl had evidently been thinking during her walk, and she replied with some show of assurance.
“Och sure, Mr. French, I wouldn’t dream of not being frank with you. But there’s nothing I have to tell.”
“I’m sorry to hear you say so,” French returned, “because your face shows me the exact opposite. However, pass that for the moment. Will you tell me why you travel every morning for a few hundred yards in Mr. Curtice Welland’s car?”
The girl’s white face paled still further, but she made no reply.
“Do take my advice, Miss Moran,” French went on earnestly. “I may tell you in confidence it is not you that I want, but Welland.
