He disappeared for some minutes, while Cheyne fretted and chafed and tried to control his impatience. Then he returned, and slipping an automatic pistol into his pocket, invited Cheyne to follow him.
He led the way downstairs and out into a courtyard in the great building. Two motorcars were just drawing up at the curb, while at the same moment no less than eight plain clothes men appeared from another door. The party having taken their places, the two vehicles slid out through a covered way into the traffic of the town.
“We shall go round to Chelsea first,” French explained, “and make sure there is no news of Miss Merrill.”
As they ran quickly through the busy streets, French asked a series of questions on points of Cheyne’s statement upon which he desired further information. “If this trip draws blank, as I fear it will,” he observed, “I shall want you to tell me your story again, this time with all the detail you can possibly put into it. For the moment there’s not time for that.”
At Horne Terrace there was no trace or tidings of Joan. It was by this time , half an hour after the time at which Blessington had promised she should be there, and Cheyne felt all his forebodings confirmed. But he was not surprised, feeling but the more eager to push on to Wembley.
On the way French made him draw a sketch map of the position of Earlswood, and on nearing his goal he stopped the cars, and calling his men together, explained exactly what was to be done. Then telling Cheyne to sit with the driver and direct him to the front gate, they again mounted and went forward. At a good rate they swung into Dalton Road, and Cheyne pointing the way, his car stopped at the gate, while the other ran on down the crossroad to the lane at the back. The men sprang out, and in less time than it takes to tell, the house was surrounded.
Cheyne followed French as he hurried up to the door and gave a thundering knock. There was no answer, and walking round the house, the two men examined the windows. These being all fastened, French turned his attention to the back door, and after two or three minutes’ work with a bunch of skeleton keys the bolt shot back, and followed by Cheyne and two of his men, he entered the house.
A short search revealed the fact that the birds had flown, hurriedly, it seemed, as everything had been left exactly as during Cheyne’s visit. On the table in the sitting room stood the glasses from which they had drunk their whisky, the box of cigars lay open beside them and the chairs were still drawn up to the table. But there was no sign of Sime or Dangle, and a hurried look round revealed no clue to their whereabouts.
“I feared as much,” French commented, as he sent a constable to call in the men who were surrounding the house, “but we have still two strings to our bow.” He turned to the others, and rapidly gave his orders. “You, Hinckston and Tucker, remain here and arrest anyone who enters this house. Simmons, go to Locke Street, off Southampton Row, and find Speedwell, of Horton & Lavender’s Detective Agency. You know him, don’t you? Well, find him and tell him this affair has developed into attempted murder and abduction, and ask him can he give any information to the Yard. Tell him I’m in charge. The rest of you come with me to—what did Speedwell give you as Sime’s address, Mr. Cheyne? … All right, I have it here—to 12 Colton Street, Putney. We shall carry out the same plan there, surround the house, and then enter and search it. All got that? Come along, Mr. Cheyne.”
They hurried back to the cars and were soon running—somewhat over the legal speed—back to town. French, though he had shown energy enough at Earlswood, was willing to chat now in a pleasant, leisurely way, though he continued to interlard his remarks with questions on the details of Cheyne’s story. Then he took over the tracing, and examined it curiously. “I’ll have a go at this later,” he said, as he put it in his pocket, “but I can scarcely believe they would have given you the genuine article.”
Cheyne would have questioned this opinion, reminding his companion he had seen the tracing pinned up to be photographed in the house in Hopefield Avenue, but just then they swung into Colton Street, and the time for conversation had passed. Contrary to his expectation they ran past No. 12 without slackening, turned down the first side street beyond it, and there came to a stand.
“There’s the end of the passage behind the house,” French pointed when his men had dismounted. “Carter and Jones and Marshall go down there and watch the back. No doubt you counted and know it’s the eighth house. You other two men and you, Mr. Cheyne, come with me.”
He turned back into Colton Street and with his three followers strode rapidly up to No. 12. It was like its neighbors, a small two-storied single terrace house of old-fashioned design. Indeed the narrow road, with its two grimy rows of almost working-class dwellings, seemed more like one of those terrible streets built in the last century in the slum districts of provincial towns, than a bit of mid-London.
A peremptory knock from French producing no result, he had once more recourse to his skeleton keys. This door was easier to negotiate than the last, and in less than a minute it swung open and the four men entered the house.
On the right of the hall was a tiny sitting
