French glanced at his watch.
“Nearly finished, Ormsby?”
“Just about, Mr. French. See here.”
He turned his new key in the lock and the bolt shot back.
“Good. We can get in now any time.” French pointed to the pipe which ran up the wall. “What’s that thing for?”
“Vent pipe,” Ormsby returned. “That’s all right. Required to ventilate the drain.”
French nodded.
“I’m satisfied with everything here except the drains. Best have this inspection chamber cover off and see that all is OK.”
Beneath the cover the drain from the pit ran across the cement bottom in a channel, ending up in a drop or well full of water, above which was a round plug about four inches in diameter. Still higher up an open four-inch pipe led to the base of the vertical one.
“All perfectly OK,” Ormsby pronounced. “Here is the drain from the pit leading into its disconnecting trap, and here”—he pointed to the plug—“is the inlet for clearing out the pipe if it should get stopped. This,” indicating the high level open pipe, “is the vent pipe. It turns up the wall and has an outlet above the roof. All perfectly correct.”
With a sigh French helped him to lift the inspection chamber cover into place. On the whole he was disappointed with his visit. He had hoped that it would have given him the solution of the mystery, but beyond proving that there really was a mystery, he had learnt nothing.
“Get that glass in,” he said shortly.
Once again he held the torch and coat while Ormsby worked. Quickly the window was glazed and the fresh work painted with rapidly drying paint, which in its turn was dusted over with various coloured powders until it had practically resumed its original appearance. Then watching their chance, the two men climbed back into Tate’s Lane and so to their respective homes.
The discovery of the secret pocket in the car seemed to French to rule out one of his theories. The scheme was not for the purpose of keeping members of an organization in touch with headquarters. Something material was being handed over. What could it be?
The girls’ occupation suggested money, some scheme for robbing the tills of their various establishments. But then, so far as his information went, they weren’t robbing their tills.
There were two ways, French saw, to settle the matter. The first was to arrest two of the girls on some trumped-up charge, one just before she was picked up by the car, and the other immediately after she was set down. One or other would necessarily be carrying the stuff. The second way was to shadow Welland more closely than ever and take him in the act of receiving or parting with it.
Of the two, French preferred the second. To take the girls to the Yard on suspicion would precipitate events too rapidly. He would no doubt find out what was being passed as well as getting Welland, but Style and the girl Lestrange would probably give him the slip. And he must get all three, for all, he felt positive, were concerned in the murders. No, he was not yet ready to take action. He must first find out what was going on.
A more intense shadowing of Welland seemed therefore to be indicated. French went over in his mind what he had already learnt of the man’s movements.
Observation had shown that on his journeys between his house, his office, his garage, and the golf links he had held no communication with any other person. His entire time, therefore, was accounted for except the periods spent in those four places.
French called in two of his men and instructed them to get what help they required and watch the office and the garage day and night, shadowing to his home anyone other than Welland who might enter either.
The house and links he decided he would tackle himself, and he settled down to think out a scheme for doing so.
XI
The Happy Paterfamilias
Some fifteen minutes later he sent once more for Sergeant Ormsby.
“You have a son, haven’t you, Ormsby?” he asked. “A nipper of about ten?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“A smart lad, able to put through a bit of playacting?”
Ormsby smiled.
“If you had seen him doing Tom Mix in Miss Hook of Hollywood at a children’s show out our way you wouldn’t need to ask.”
“The very thing. Could you spare him for an hour or two tomorrow?”
“Of course, Mr. French. He’s on holidays now in any case.”
“Then how would this work?” French outlined his plan and the other laughed.
“Suit the boy first class,” he observed with a chuckle, “and suit me too for the matter of that.”
“Good. Then we’ll leave in time to be at Harrow Station before the in the morning.”
Next day French, and an intelligent but somewhat mischievous looking boy, alighted at Harrow shortly before . They were dressed for their parts. French was obviously a landed proprietor on a visit to town, while Freddie Ormsby was a convincing study of a preparatory school boy. Having seen Welland leave by the , they strolled into the town.
“Now, sonny, we’ve got to kill an hour or two. What would you like? Coffee or an ice?”
Freddie’s predilection being for ices, they found a shop and gave a bumper order. French sipped coffee and smoked a lengthy pipe, and then they went for a walk. It was not till nearly that they found themselves at the end of Acacia Avenue.
“Now, Fred, here we are. Do your best, like a good chap.”
They strolled down the road, evidently strangers to the place, and as evidently father and son. At all vacant lots they stopped, clearly discussing a possible dwelling. Next door to No. 39 was such
