He had chosen the room beyond that of the interview in the hope that Style would not see him, so that he could trail him with more ease and security. Now he began to wonder if Style had met the girl at the door and altered the venue to some other room. If so, he might pick them up as they were leaving the building. He therefore strolled to the entrance, and there taking up an inconspicuous position, watched those departing.
For over half an hour he waited, then remembering that Miss Darke began work at the Milan at , he concluded his luck was out and went along to the cinema.
It was a fine new building in Oxford Street, not more than a hundred yards west of the Circus. Palatial was scarcely the word with which to describe it, as it was built in a vastly more lavish and ornate manner than ninety percent of the palaces of the world. French entered a huge hall of marble and gold in which were a row of box offices and from which massive bronze doors led to the auditorium. Only two of the six box offices were open. French glanced into each, but in neither was his friend.
Having learnt from an attendant that though the girl was due for duty, she had not yet arrived, he sat down to wait. Time crawled slowly on. came, then , then , and still she did not appear.
At French could stand it no longer. He saw the manager. But from him he learnt nothing. Miss Darke had no leave of absence nor had she sent any apology. She was a reliable girl and had never before missed an attendance. The manager had no explanation to offer.
“I should be obliged if you would let me know at the Yard if she turns up,” said French as he took his leave.
He was now acutely anxious. Fears of the worst filled his mind as he drove rapidly to the boarding house in Orlando Street, Clapham.
In a few minutes he was sitting with Mrs. Peters, the landlady. At once he obtained news. On the previous evening about an attendant had rung up from the Milan. He had explained that Miss Darke had asked him to say that her sister had unexpectedly turned up from Manchester and that she was going to spend the night with her at her hotel.
As a matter of form French rang up the Milan. But the reply was only what he expected. Miss Darke had left at her usual time without giving any message to anyone. Sadly French found himself forced to the conclusion that there could no longer be any doubt that the gang had got her.
The thought of her disappearance profoundly upset him. It hurt like a personal affront. An appeal had been made to him for help. He had promised help. And he had not given it. …
“They’ve been too much for her,” he thought. “That ruffian Style saw that she suspected him of Eileen Tucker’s murder and no doubt he shadowed her to the Yard. He’s told his friends that she’ll blow the gaff and they’ve done her in, or I’m a Dutchman.”
In accordance with his usual custom he had added a description of his caller to the papers which already formed the beginning of the dossier of the case. It was the work of a few seconds to call up the Yard and direct that an urgent call for four wanted persons should be circulated—those described under the names of Thurza Darke, Gwen Lestrange, ⸻ Westinghouse and ⸻ Style in the file in the top left-hand drawer in his desk. Then he turned back and with the landlady’s permission made a detailed search of the missing girl’s bedroom. But with the exception of a photograph of the girl herself, he found nothing useful.
On his way back to the Yard he called at Mr. Arrowsmith’s and interrogated Miss Cox, Miss Darke’s boardinghouse friend, once again without result. Nor did a visit to telephone headquarters in the hope of tracing the mysterious call lead to anything.
By the time he had completed these inquiries it was getting on towards . As the hours passed he had been growing more and more despondent. But there was nothing more he could do that night. By now the description would be in the hands of the police within at least fifty miles of London, and that he had not heard from any of them seemed to confirm his worst fears.
He was just about to leave the Yard when the telephone in his room rang.
“Call through from Portsmouth about that Thurza Darke case,” said the officer in the Yard private exchange. “Will you take it, Mr. French?”
“Right,” said French, an eager thrill passing through him. “Scotland Yard. Inspector French speaking.”
“Portsmouth Police Station. Sergeant Golightly speaking. Relative to the inquiry as to the whereabouts of a young lady named Thurza Darke received this evening, I think we have some information.”
“Right, sergeant. Go ahead.”
“At about today a report was received here that the body of a girl had been found in the sea at Stokes Bay, some three miles east of Portsmouth. A party of yachtsmen leaving for a day’s sail had seen it floating about a mile from the shore. They brought it in and we had it medically examined. The cause of death was drowning. So far we have been unable to identify the remains or to find out how the girl got into the sea. It looks like suicide. We had already issued a circular when we saw yours. The remains answer the description you give.”
“Girl been in the water long?”
“Six or seven hours, the doctor thought.”
“Has the inquest taken place?”
“It’s arranged for
