'They confirmed that Rogan had always been rather secretive.'
'But they must have known where his abode was,' said Tallis, returning the sheet of paper to Colbeck. 'A police constable would have to register a correct address.'
'That's what he did, sir.'
'Did you visit the place?'
'There was no point,' said Colbeck. 'When he was dismissed from the police force, he moved from the house. Nobody seems to know where he went. Luke Rogan is not married so he has only himself to consider. He can move at will.'
'He must live somewhere, Inspector.'
'Of course. I believe it will not be too far from Paddington.'
'Then roust him out.'
'We are doing all that we can, sir.'
'How many men are out looking for him?'
'Hundreds of thousands.'
Tallis glared at him. 'Are you trying to be droll?'
'Not at all,' said Colbeck. 'I'm working from the figures in last year's census. London has a population of well over three million.'
'So?'
'We can discount the large number of people that are illiterate and any children can also be taken out of the equation. It still leaves a substantial readership for the daily newspapers.'
'Newspapers?'
'You obviously haven't read your copy of The Times this morning,' said Colbeck, indicating the newspaper that was neatly folded on the desk. 'I took the liberty of placing a notice in it and in the others on sale today.'
'I was about to suggest that you did exactly that,' said Tallis, reaching for his newspaper. 'Where is the notice?'
'Page four, sir. Why restrict the search to a handful of detectives when we can use eyes all over London to assist us? Somebody reading that,' he said, confidently, 'is bound to know where we can find the elusive Luke Rogan.'
When the cab reached the railway station, Sir Marcus Hetherington alighted and paid the driver. He then bought a first class ticket and walked towards the relevant platform. On his way, he passed a booth from which he obtained a copy of The Times. Stuffing it under one arm, he marched briskly on with his cane beating out a tattoo on the concourse. A porter was standing on the platform, ready to open the door of an empty first class carriage for him. Sir Marcus gave him a nod them settled down in his seat. The door was closed behind him.
While he enjoyed travelling by rail, he hated the hustle and bustle of a railway station and he always tried to time his arrival so that he did not have to wait there for long in the company of people whom he considered undesirables. Sir Marcus was not so aristocratic as to believe that trains should be reserved exclusively for the peerage but he did consider the introduction of the third class carriage a reprehensible mistake. It encouraged the lower orders to travel and that, in his opinion, gave them a privileged mobility that was wholly undeserved. When he saw a rough-looking individual, rushing past his carriage with a scruffy, middle-aged woman in tow, Sir Marcus grimaced. To share a journey with such people was demeaning.
Moments later, the signal was given and the train sprang into life, coughing loudly before giving a shudder and pulling away from the platform. Another latecomer sprinted past the carriage to jump on to the moving train farther down. Sir Marcus clicked his tongue in disapproval. Now that they were in motion, he was content. He had the carriage all to himself and the train would not stop until it reached his destination. Opening his newspaper, he began to read it. Since he took a keen interest in political affairs, he perused every article on the first two inside pages with care. When he turned to the next page, however, it was a police notice that grabbed his attention.
'What's this?' he gulped.
The notice requested the help of the public to find Luke Rogan, the prime suspect in a murder investigation, who operated as a private detective from an office in Camden. A detailed description of the man was given and, to his chagrin, Sir Marcus could see that it was fairly accurate. Anyone with information about Rogan's whereabouts was urged to come forward.
'Damnation!' cried Sir Marcus.
He flung the newspaper aside and considered the implications of what he had just read. It was disturbing. If everyone in the capital was looking for Luke Rogan, he could not escape arrest indefinitely. The trail would then lead to Sir Marcus. He began to perspire freely. For a fleeting second, the shadow of the Railway Detective seemed to fall across him.
'If you come down to Euston Station with me,' offered Caleb Andrews, 'I'll show you how it was done.'
'I think I already know,' said Colbeck.
'There are some empty carriages in a siding, Inspector. I could demonstrate for you.'
'Robert is far too busy, Father,' said Madeleine.
'I'm only trying to help, Madeleine. What you have to do, you see, is to prop the door open while the train is in motion. Someone did just that a few months ago on a train I was driving from Birmingham,' he explained. 'Some villains got on with a strongbox they'd stolen. After a couple of miles, they jammed open the door and flung the strongbox out so that they would not be caught with it.'
'I remember the case,' said Colbeck. 'When they came back later to retrieve their booty, the police were waiting for them. A farmer had found the strongbox in his field and raised the alarm.'
'The point I'm trying to make is that the box was heavy – almost as heavy as that Frenchman. Yet it was slung out with ease.'
'How do you know?' asked Madeleine. 'You weren't there.'
'I was driving the train.'
'But you didn't actually see them throw anything out.'
'Stop interrupting me, Maddy.'
'You make a fair point, Mr Andrews,' said Colbeck, trying to bring the conversation to an end, 'and I'm grateful. But we've moved on a long way from the Sankey Viaduct.'
'You should have come to me at the time, Inspector.'
'I'm sure.'
Colbeck had paid a return visit to Luke Rogan's office to see if there had been any sign of the man. The uniformed policeman who had been keeping the place under surveillance assured him that Rogan had not entered the building by the front or rear doors. Since he was in Camden, only a few streets away from her house, Colbeck decided to call in on Madeleine but it was her father's day off so he had to contend with Caleb Andrews. It was several minutes before he was finally left alone with Madeleine.
'Can I make you some tea, Robert?' she asked.
'No, thank you. I only popped in for a moment.'
'I'm sorry that my father badgered you.'
'I never mind anything that he does,' said Colbeck, tolerantly. 'But for him, we'd never have met. I always bear that in mind.'
'So do I.'
'You were the strongbox thrown from that particular train.'
'I'm not a strongbox,' protested Madeleine with a laugh.
'I was speaking metaphorically.'
'You mean, that I'm very heavy and difficult to open.'
'No,' said Colbeck, giving her a conciliatory kiss. 'I mean that you possess great value – to me, that is.'
'Then why didn't you say so?'
'I was dealing in images.'
'Well, I'd prefer you to speak more directly,' she chided him. 'It would help me to understand you properly. I still don't know what you meant about my drawing of the viaduct helping you to solve a murder. All you would tell me was that it was symbolic.'
