Seeing that no further information was to be had, French explained that he did not think he could wait for Mr. Welland that day, but that he would call again. Then wishing the old man good day, he left the yard.
Ormsby was waiting for him in the archway.
“Style’s running this place under the name of Welland,” French said to him in a low tone. “Took it over about a year ago. It seems there’s a boy in the office. I’m going to make a search. Come in with me.”
Ormsby nodded and the two men, passing out into the street, turned into the shop.
A glass door, which rang a bell on being opened, led into a dark and untidy showroom. Across the front was a counter, with behind it a row of show cases containing plaster models. These cases acted as a screen, cutting off the office portion behind. In the background were a small green safe, a letter file and two desks. One, a roll-top, was closed, the other was a high desk with a brass rail bookstand above. The back wall was pierced by a window giving on to the yard, while in the side wall was the door leading to the entry. Some dirty calendars and advertisement plates hung crookedly here and there.
At the high desk sat a youth of about twenty with a pen in his hand and a ledger spread out before him. French thought he had never seen anyone in the position of clerk who looked so utterly devoid of intelligence. He watched him make a clumsy attempt to hide a well-thumbed novelette with a lurid picture on the cover, then said pleasantly: “Could I see Mr. Welland, please?”
The youth pushed the novelette into his pocket and slowly advanced to the counter.
“ ’E ain’t ’ere,” he replied succinctly.
“So I observe,” said French, looking carefully round the room. “Do you know when he will be in?”
“Naw.”
French fixed the youth with a severe eye.
“Now, sonny,” he said sharply. “We’re police officers and we’re looking for Mr. Welland. When was he here last?”
The youth gaped and it took a repetition of the question in a still sharper tone to wake him up.
“Yesterday morning,” he answered sullenly.
Style, it appeared, had arrived at the works at his usual hour, about . Customarily he remained till , when he left for lunch. But on this occasion he had only waited a few minutes. He had sent the youth out on a message, and when the latter returned half an hour later he had disappeared. The youth had not seen him since.
French was not satisfied.
“What was the message?” he asked.
It was a bow drawn at a venture with the general object of amassing detailed knowledge, but to his amazement the arrow got in between the joints of Style’s armour.
“Postal order for two bob,” the youth returned.
“That shouldn’t have taken you half an hour.”
“ ’E didn’t want no order,” the youth declared, and his eyes looked sly and furtive. “ ’E only wanted me out of the way.”
“What makes you think that?”
The youth smiled, a sort of sickly leer, unpleasant to look upon.
“The gal,” he remarked laconically.
“The girl? What girl?”
“The gal as came in with him.”
“A tall, strong, well-built girl with fair hair and complexion and blue eyes?” French suggested eagerly, believing he was on the track of Gwen Lestrange.
“Naw. Small and dark.”
French leaped to his feet.
“What!” he roared, scaring the youth almost into fits.
Molly Moran! He paused, thrilled at the thought, then sat down again.
“That’s all right,” he declared. “I was surprised for the moment. Now tell me all about this girl. When did she come?”
Getting information from the youth was like getting treacle out of a test tube, but by the exercise of all his patience French managed it.
It seemed that when Style arrived he had driven his car into the yard in accordance with his usual custom. It was a dark green Armstrong Siddeley saloon. But instead of garaging it he had turned it and run it back into the entry, stopping opposite the office door. Then he had hurried back to the street. Evidently Molly—further questions had left French in no doubt as to the “gal’s” identity—had been waiting for him, for both came at once into the office. Style had asked her to sit down and had then excused himself on urgent business in the workshops. A few moments later the speaking tube from the workshops had whistled. It was Style and he had instructed the youth to go out immediately and buy a two-shilling postal order. Such a thing had never been asked for before and the youth did not believe it was required. He had therefore assumed that the errand was to get him out of the way in order to allow the tender passages between Style and his caller which he imagined were desired. In this belief he had improved the opportunity to visit a friend, the message boy in a neighbouring shop, and he was not back for half an hour. Style and the young lady had then gone.
French made a despairing gesture.
“After my warning! After my warning!” he lamented in a low voice to Ormsby. “How under the sun did that scoundrel get her into his power?”
He turned again to the youth.
“We’re going to search this place,” he said sharply. “Here’s our warrant, if you’d like to see it. Now hand over any keys you have, then sit down there and don’t interfere.”
As he spoke he shut and bolted the heavy outer door. Then ruthlessly silencing the clerk’s timid protests, the two men began the search.
The safe was beyond them and French put through a call to the Yard for an expert. The roll-top desk,
