Fifteen minutes later French and Ormsby turned into Killowen Street and walked in a leisurely way towards Messrs. Theobald & Grudgin’s establishment. The big gate under which they had pushed the penny was open and without hesitation they entered. The entry led through the house to the yard at the back. In the corner immediately opposite stood the garage, and from it, across the back end of the yard, ran the wall separating the premises from the coachbuilder’s establishment adjoining. The remaining sides were bounded by buildings, all dirty and in bad repair. Three doors, one open, gave on the yard. Another door, apparently from the office or shop, opened into the side wall of the entry. The yard also was dirty and heaps of old boxes and other rubbish lay in corners.
French stood for a moment motionless, taking in these details and noting with satisfaction the accuracy of his sketch plan. Then he walked slowly to the open door.
He found himself on the threshold of a fair-sized workshop, fitted up with several benches and a few simple looking machines. In one corner stood a gas oven with crucibles, presumably for melting the silver. Close by was what looked like a tiny foundry. Several of the benches bore small lathes but most of the simple machinery was for smoothing and polishing. The place looked as if at one time it might have been busy and successful, but now it had been allowed to go to seed. Like the yard it was dirty and untidy and its entire staff consisted of three old men, dirty and untidy also and clearly past their work. One was busy at the gas oven as if about to make a cast, the others were filing up and polishing silver ornaments.
“Could I see the manager?” French asked after giving the men a pleasant good morning.
The man from the gas oven turned off a tap and slowly approached.
“ ’E ain’t in yet, so far as I knows,” he said. “You’ve tried the office?”
“Not there,” French declared mendaciously.
“Aye. Well, ’e ain’t come in. ’E usually comes in in ’is car abaht or , but this morning ’e ain’t turned up yet. Was you wanting anything?”
“Yes. I want a quotation for a silver trowel and casket for laying a foundation stone. But I expect I’d better see the boss about it.”
“Aye,” said the man again. “There ain’t no one ’ere as could tell you abaht that. Take a seat in the office, mister. The boss won’t be long.”
“I can wait. I’m not in a hurry.” French took out his cigarette case and held it out. “I think I know your boss,” he resumed conversationally, “but I’m hanged if I haven’t forgotten his name. He’s a rather slight man of middle height with a pale complexion and a small fair moustache, isn’t he? Rather staring eyes?”
“That’s ’im, mister. You’ve ’it ’im off abaht proper. Welland, they calls ’im. Mr. Curtice Welland.”
“Welland! Of course. I remember now. Lives out at Harrow?”
“Blowed if I could tell. ’E ain’t never asked me ’ome to dinner.”
“That’s his loss,” said French with a smile. He glanced casually round the workshop. “Fine place you have here. Too big for three men surely?”
The old man shook his head despondingly.
“It were a good shop once, but times is not wot they were. I’ve seen the day when there were twenty men working in this ’ere shop and doing good work and plenty of it. And now there’s only three of us left and there ain’t much for us to do neither. It were a bad day for us when the old master sold out.”
“Then the works have changed hands?”
“Aye, abaht a year ago. Old Mr. Grudgin ’ad it; Mr. Theobald, ’e were dead this five year. I s’pose Mr. Grudgin were feeling it too much for ’im; ’e were seventy if ’e were a day. So ’e sold it to this ’ere Mr. Welland, and”—the old man paused, finally adding—“some’ow the work fell off and most of the men were sacked. But Lord knows I ain’t got no cause to complain! I’m ’ere still, though younger men than me got the boot.”
“It’s been a terrible time for trade right enough,” French declared sympathetically. “And yours is what you might call a luxury trade, so you would feel bad times worse than most.”
“That’s right, mister.”
“What kind of work do you do mostly?” went on French with the forced interest of a man who has time to put away.
“We used to do all kinds, statuettes and plaques and trophy cups and vases and medallions and suchlike. But we don’t do much now; lids for inkpots and penholders and backs for fancy clothes brushes and stoppers for toilet bottles for suitcases: that’s abaht all.”
“I suppose Mr. Welland looks after sales himself? You haven’t a traveller?”
“No, there ain’t nobody now but Mr. Welland and the boy wot you saw in the office.”
French chatted on in a leisurely way, moving about the shop as he did so. He did not learn much from the man’s conversation, but he satisfied himself that, except possibly in some secret cellar, no coining was in progress. Such articles as still were being made, so the old man assured him, went from the workshop to the office, where Welland, to give him that name, disposed of them. Of this side of the business
