“Inspector French, sir?” said the larger of the two. “I’m Sergeant Biggle and this is Mr. Boland. No one has entered or left the house since we got your phone, but one of our men saw a car leave as he was on his rounds.”
“At what hour was that?”
“, sir. It was too dark to see details, but he believed it was Mr. Trevellian’s green Armstrong Siddeley. They turned in the direction of Farnham.”
“Could he say how many people were in it?”
“No, it is a saloon and it was too dark to see more than the outline.”
French nodded. “Now as to Mr. Trevellian. Describe him, please.”
“A rather stout, undersized man with bright red hair, a pale complexion, and blue eyes.”
French felt a sudden thrill. This could surely be none other than that Jim Sibley of whom Cullimore and Dove had spoken, the engineer who had been dismissed from the Mint for theft.
“Anyone else live here?”
“Mrs. Trevellian. She’s a tall, well-built woman with fair hair and complexion, blue eyes, and a strong chin.”
Better and better! Gwen Lestrange, for a certainty!
“Right. They’re the people we want. Anyone else?”
“There’s Mr. Marwood, Mr. Elmer Marwood. He’s brother to Mrs. Trevellian and lives with them. He goes into town every day, mostly in Mr. Trevellian’s car. A thinnish, pale-complexioned man with a small straw-coloured moustache and glasses. That’s all.”
Style! That made four, including Welland. French would have betted long odds it was the lot. He turned to Carter.
“Take charge, Carter,” he directed. “Surround the house and go in and search it. If they don’t open immediately, break in. You needn’t mind making a noise. Only look sharp. Now, Mr. Boland, you told me your son found these darts between and , but you didn’t ring up till after . I’m not finding fault, sir, but could you not have done better than that?”
“Awfully sorry, Inspector, but you see I didn’t know about it. My wife and I were dining out and the servant was on leave. The boy was alone in the house. He’s only eight. Against orders he waited up for me, and though I thought it was a hoax, I rang you up at once.”
“I understand, sir. It was not your fault, but it was a pity all the same. Now, sergeant,” he went on to Biggle, “I want you to go back to your office and put through a general call to all surrounding stations. Describe the car and the party and give their direction as far as we know it. Where would you get to if you went through Farnham?”
“Southampton or Salisbury, I should think, sir.”
“Southampton it’ll be,” said French. “They’re making for the ships. Well, ring up, will you, especially to Southampton and places on the way there. Tell them all to report to you if there is news, and do you stand by to repeat it to me when I ring up. That all clear?”
The sergeant repeated his instructions, and French hurried after Carter. In some way the latter had obtained entrance, for a constable stood guarding the open hall door. Within a rapid search was in progress.
“Got in through the pantry window, sir,” said Carter, appearing suddenly in the hall. “The house is deserted, but they’ve been coining in the cellar, though the machines are gone. Down there, if you’d like to have a look.”
“I’ll run down for a moment. Make sure that girl’s not in the house and meet me in the hall.”
French’s “look,” brief though it was, left him still more impressed with the amount of thought and labour that had been put into the coining scheme. The cellar, a large, whitewashed room, had been fitted up elaborately. The windows had been built up, but a system of Tobin’s tubes had been installed for ventilation, and the place was brilliantly lit with electric light. On the benches lay hundreds of partially finished coins, tools and other debris. The places where presses had stood were clearly marked, but all the machines had been removed. There had been several of these, some, the foundations suggested, of a considerable size.
The sight cleared up a point which had been bothering French, why the gang had not made off more quickly after becoming suspicious that the police were on their track. The removal of these machines supplied the reason. These people were not going to give up coining because that particular pitch had grown too hot for them. Clearly they were going to break fresh ground and start again. In some other great city the mortality among box office girls would soon be on the up-grade—unless he, French, stopped it.
When he reached the hall Carter was descending the stairs. No, there was no trace of anyone in the house, but there was a partially furnished attic, the only room above the ground floor which showed signs of recent occupation, in which the young lady might have been imprisoned.
“And that,” went on Carter, “is next the field where Mr. Boland said the darts were found. I expect she was there all right.”
“Very well; let’s get on.”
As none of French’s party knew the roads, they took a local constable as guide. Warned of the urgency of the case, the driver put on every ounce of power and they snorted on at a breakneck pace through the night. Fortunately the road was good and other traffic practically nonexistent, or disaster might have overtaken them. French sat in front, tense and watchful, though with his mind full of the problems which still remained. He believed that this was the last lap and that the party in front represented the entire gang. He could now see the function of each. Trevellian, or Sibley, to make the stuff; Style to take it to town and to obtain and bring down the raw materials; Welland to see to its distribution; Gwen to trap the necessary girls and doubtless do other odds and ends as might be required.
