XIV
The Property Adjoining
The two men halted when they had relocked the door behind them, looking around and listening.
The night was intensely dark. There was no moon and a thick pall of cloud cut off even the meagre light of the stars. Above the wall bounding Tate’s Lane they could see the upper stories of the houses opposite lit up faintly by the street lamps. Elsewhere not a gleam of light showed. It was silent also. Save for the complaining call of a marauding cat and the distant whistle of a train, no sound broke the stillness.
Satisfied that they were unobserved, Ormsby made a “back” and French swung himself up on to the wall dividing the two properties. Ormsby followed and both men dropped softly to the ground at the other side.
“This is what we want,” whispered French as he felt along a building beside them. “Here’s where our pipe goes to all right.”
It was another shed, identical, so far as they could make out in the darkness, with the garage and set end to end with it.
“We must get in,” went on French. “Have a try at the lock.”
“It’s a chubb like the other,” returned Ormsby. “There’s not much chance of getting it open.” He fumbled for a moment, then: “By Jove! I can do it after all. The same key fits both. Here you are, Mr. French. A bit of luck, that is.”
“It’s proof the same parties are running the two, though we scarcely needed that. Come in and close the door.”
The door shut, French cautiously turned on his torch. The shed was a garage, identical in design with Welland’s. Here were the same cement finished walls and floor, the same window, pit and bench, the same manhole cover and ventilating pipe. There was no car, but there was something a good deal more interesting. Hanging from hooks beneath the bench was a twelve-foot sewer cleaners’ “serpent,” a flexible rod with a pair of toothed jaws at one end operated by a bowden wire from the other.
“There,” said French, pointing to the rod. “There’s the proof we wanted. That’s what he uses to get the bags of half crowns through the pipe. But to set the thing beyond doubt, Ormsby, you better go back into that other garage and flash your light into the pipe. I’ll watch this end.”
While he was away French made a sketch of the pipes for his report. A copy is given here.
Presently a muffled voice came from the drain and French, crouching down in the inspection chamber, saw Ormsby’s torch in the distance.
“That’s that,” French whispered down the pipe. “Come back and we’ll have a look round here.”
They now essayed a more difficult task. Starting from the garage, they felt their way along the various walls, pacing their lengths and estimating the angles between them. It was not easy work in the dark, but French was too much afraid of being overlooked to use his torch. When they had worked round to their starting point they returned to the garage, where French made a sketch from his measurements.
The area appeared to be a yard, irregular in shape and surrounded by buildings. From the nature of the debris which filled one corner, old crates mostly, the place seemed more like a shop or works than a private house. Opposite the garage an arched roadway passed under one of the buildings, ending in a pair of close-sheeted gates. A gleam of light beneath the gates indicated that they opened on to a street.
“I want to mark that entrance gate,” French said as he put away his sketch. “We must locate it in the street outside.” He paused in thought. “I have it,” he went on. “Here is a penny. We’ll push it out underneath and then go round and see if we can find it.”
They carried out this programme. Having made sure that they had left no traces of their visit, they locked the garage, pushed the penny beneath the large gate, and climbed back, first into the builder’s yard and then into Tate’s Lane. Then walking round the block to the parallel street, Killowen Street, they began searching for a likely gateway. There were a number of such, but at the third they found their penny and knew that they had reached their goal.
The entrance stood beside a shop, and when French read its signboard he felt amazed and puzzled. It bore the legend, “Theobald & Grudgin. Working Silversmiths.”
“Je‑hoshaphat! Can it be coining after all?” he whispered in bewilderment. If so, what about the report from the Mint? That report amounted to practical proof that counterfeit coins were not being passed. And now here was at least extremely suggestive evidence that they were! He swore his comprehensive oath, but it scarcely brought its customary relief.
“Looks to me as if those Mint people had been diddled like ourselves,” he muttered. “Well, Ormsby, that’s all we can do now. We’ll get off home.”
He wondered if it would be wise after all to return to the silversmiths’ next morning, or rather that morning, for it was after . What he wanted was to get his hands on Style; the activities at the silversmiths’ could wait. If he went to Theobald & Grudgin’s he might be seen by some member of the gang. The alarm would then be given and the members might disperse, greatly increasing the difficulties of rounding them up. No, on second thoughts he would lie low for the morning. He would visit the bank at and there either arrest Style or shadow him to his home,
