“Well, that’s that, Ormsby.”
“Sorry I couldn’t get more, Mr. French.”
“We may do our best to cook up evidence,” French said, with the twinkle in his eye showing even more clearly than usual, “but I draw the line at inventing it if it’s not there.”
Here was another disappointment. French had been building more even than he knew on Ormsby’s search of the house, and when this also had drawn blank his chagrin was correspondingly great. The affair was certainly exasperating. It was a long time since he had felt so completely puzzled.
There was nothing for it, however, but to carry on with the plan he had made, and that afternoon saw him at the clubhouse of Welland’s golf course, inquiring for the secretary.
“This is a confidential matter, Mr. Allan,” he began when he was seated in that gentleman’s office, “and I do not know that I can claim your help in it. I can however ask for it, and that I am going to do.”
The secretary murmured politely.
“It concerns a member of your club,” went on French, “Mr. Curtice Welland. Now I may say in confidence that we have reason to suspect that Mr. Welland may not be all that he appears to be. In fact we think,” French dropped his voice, “that he is one of a trio involved in no less a crime than murder.”
The secretary stared.
“Curtice Welland?” he repeated incredulously. “Surely not, Inspector. Curtice Welland involved in a murder! You can’t ask me to believe that.” He shook his head decisively.
“Then you know him well?”
“As a matter of fact, I don’t. I really scarcely know him at all. But he has always seemed so quiet and inoffensive; the last type of man that one would associate with such a crime.”
“So was Dr. Crippen, and so was many another murderer, Mr. Allan,” French said seriously. “Manner and appearance are unfortunately no guide, as you would know if you had my experience. But I make no accusation against the man. It may be that the Yard is mistaken in its view. And that’s what I have been sent here to find out. I am investigating Mr. Welland’s life and character. And it is in that capacity I have come to ask your help.”
Allan hesitated, frowning.
“Mr. Welland is a member of the club,” he said at last. “He is in a sense my employer. I don’t know that I feel at liberty to discuss him even if I knew anything against him, which thank heaven I don’t.”
“Well, sir,” said French with a smile, “if you don’t know anything that settles the matter, doesn’t it?” Then he came to his real objective. “But there is a bit of quite harmless information that perhaps you could give me. It is a list of Mr. Welland’s particular friends among the members or of anyone with whom he plays regularly. This will not be giving anything away on your part, because you must see that I could find it out for myself by simple observation.”
Allan replied with evident relief. He would be glad to help the Inspector, but there were no such persons. Mr. Welland had catholic tastes. He played with anyone who was available, not with anyone in particular.
French was more than ever worried as he returned to the Yard. Almost in despair he redoubled his efforts. He put a number of men on to watch Welland’s house, others he had shadow him while golfing and at other free times, but all without avail. As the days passed and he found that no one visited the garage or the office, and that Welland came into no regular touch with any human being other than the four girls, he became almost ill from anxiety. Gone was his usual cheery optimism, his suavity, his pleasant words for his subordinates. “Soapy Joe” was soapy no longer.
And then quite suddenly, as he lay one night racking his brains over the problem, an explanation of the whole business shot into his mind. Tremulously he considered the idea, and the more he thought over it the more certain he grew that he was right.
Material objects were being carried in the secret pocket of the car. Material objects were being put in by Welland and taken out by the girls, and cash was being put in by the girls and taken out by Welland. The affair was a commercial proposition of a highly lucrative, but highly immoral and illegal type. These people were selling prohibited drugs!
And a good scheme it certainly was! Welland in some way as yet unknown was getting the “snow” or other stuff in bulk and making it up into small packages. Every morning he would start out with four bundles of such packages in the pocket of his car. Every day each girl would remove a bundle and replace it with a roll of notes. Every night, on some preconcerted signal from her customer, she would pass out with the metal disc of entrance to the cinema a package of the stuff, pocketing the notes given in exchange. The illicit sale of drugs had increased by leaps and bounds, and of all the methods of which French had yet heard, this was certainly the best.
Here was ample motive for murder! Let the gang get wind of communication between any of their victims and Scotland Yard and the victim’s fate was sealed. Both the gains of success and the penalties of failure were too great to permit of any risks being run.
In a few moments French’s whole outlook on life had changed. Gone was his weariness, his lassitude, his depression. Once more he was the optimist, about to add one more laurel to the many he had achieved in his career.
For
