The Box Office Murders

And Sibley’s guise of an author was just what might have been expected. It would account for his living in the country as well as for his long absences during the day. French could imagine the casual caller. “Where is Mr. Trevellian? I should like to ask him so-and-so.” “Oh, he’s writing. He doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s at work.” It was a good, well-thought-out scheme. These people had deserved to succeed.

Presently there came houses⁠—Farnham.

A hurried call to Elmford told them that there was no news and the chase was resumed. French was now much more anxious. He was running on towards Southampton on the mere strength of his summing of the probabilities. But he might be wrong. That start towards Farnham might have been a blind, and every mile might easily be increasing his distance from the quarry. If so, Molly Moran’s chances would be pretty thin⁠—assuming, indeed, that she were still alive.

But there was nothing else for it, and they hurried on. French glanced at his watch; it was just past two o’clock. If the gang had gone this way they must have passed nearly two hours earlier and nearly an hour before he telephoned. If they had been seen it would only have been by the merest chance.

At five minutes past two they ran into Alton and stopped at the police station. Again no luck! The Elmford sergeant telephoned that he had heard nothing.

The difficulty of French’s problem was now increased tenfold. Should he go on? If the others were not making for Southampton, to do so would probably mean losing them altogether. But there was no time for hesitation. Rightly or wrongly, he would back his judgment.

“On towards Southampton,” he ordered, and once again they began their mad rush through the endless night.

At twenty minutes to three they reached the suburbs of Winchester and a couple of minutes later French was again ringing up Elmford. Then his weight of fear and doubt was suddenly eased and he felt a thrill of the keenest satisfaction. There was news!

On receiving Sergeant Biggle’s call the officer in charge at Southampton had instantly sent men round the roads in the vicinity to warn the patrols who were already out on their beats. Just five minutes earlier one of these men had returned to say that a car answering the description in question had passed through the village of Old Netley at about two a.m. It had come from the direction of Hedge End and gone on towards the sea. Hedge End was in a direct line from Winchester to Netley.

“Netley! Hard as you like!” French cried as he swung himself back into the car.

Luckily their guide had once been stationed at Southampton and knew the district. They ran on at full speed to Botley, then turning back west, went south through Hedge End. There they left the main road and at a necessarily reduced speed ran through Old Netley and down to the shore of Southampton Water at the end of the little town of Netley.

Here was another problem for French. The road down which they had come debouched at right angles into a road running parallel to the shore. Should they turn up or down channel?

“Where does that road go to?” he asked the guide, pointing down towards the sea.

“Just to Netley town and the hospital, sir, though you can get on to Hamble. But they wouldn’t have gone that way because there’s a direct road from Winchester to Hamble through Hound.”

“Very well; turn to the right.”

This, the guide explained, would bring them in a couple of miles to Southampton, through the suburb of Woolston. French, deciding that he would make for the police station, nodded.

After passing a grove of trees at Hilton the road ran down along the sea, being separated from the actual beach by a strip of unfenced grass some thirty yards wide. To be so near a great port, the place was extraordinarily secluded. The clouds had now uncovered the quarter moon and so far as French could see in the dim light, there was not a house in sight. Away in front were the lights of Southampton and out on the water were the riding lights of steamers, with an occasional twinkle from the Hythe shore opposite. But the nearer shore was dark and deserted. Anything, thought French, might go on there and no one would be a bit the wiser.

As he looked out over the black water his face suddenly grew grim. He thought he could now account for the route the others had taken. They were going to Southampton all right, but they had something to do first. There was dangerous evidence⁠—to be destroyed. There in the water, somewhere out in the darkness towards Hythe he dared swear was now floating the body of the poor little Irish girl. He sighed as he thought of the narrow chance on which the thing had turned. If only that man Boland had not been out when his son found the darts! Ah, well, it couldn’t be mended now. But there was still one thing to be seen to and French set his teeth as he thought of it. They should pay, these ruffians, pay in full measure, pressed down and running over. Until all four were either in jail or dead, he would not rest. Poor little Molly!

And then something happened which completely altered his outlook and set him thinking furiously. The road turned sharply inland and as they swung round the bend they passed a man.

He was walking to meet them and owing to the curve he momentarily got the full benefit of their headlights. But that moment was enough. In spite of the fact that his hat was pulled down over his eyes and his collar turned up about his cheeks, French recognized him. It was Style!

French had never seen Style, but he had had so many descriptions of him that no doubt was possible.