The Trail of Fear (2 page)

CHAPTER II

THE WATCHER IN THE STREET

About the same time that some officials in Scotland Yard, rejoicing over Harrison's captive and the long-sought information that had been squeezed out of him, were hurriedly issuing certain orders, a man was standing before the door of a tall dingy-looking house in one of the narrow streets between the Strand and the Embankment. As he fitted a key to the lock he gave a swift and almost furtive glance up and down the street as though expecting pursuit or observation. The next moment he was inside, making his way along the ill-lit hall to the stairs at the far end.

The hall was that of a lodging house of unprepossessing character. There were two or three doors on either side of the passage, one of these with the name of the occupant pinned up on a piece of paper. At the end of the passage where the stairs to the basement began, a stout slatternly woman was carrying a tray loaded with a pot of tea, a fried kipper, and bread and butter.

“Evening, Mrs. Gibson,” remarked the man. “Are there any letters for me?”

“Three,” replied Mrs. Gibson shortly. “Two of 'em big 'uns,” she added with a touch of asperity. She did not approve of struggling authors renting her rooms and this one, though he paid his money more regularly than her other lodgers, seemed certainly to be unsuccessful enough, judging by the amount of “big 'uns” that came by post. Mrs. Gibson had had authors and journalists before and knew what a returned manuscript looked like.

She put the tray down and fumbled in the large pocket of her dirty apron.

“I suppose you wouldn't be wanting any tea?” she asked as she handed the letters over.

“No, thanks,” said the man already half-way up the stairs, and Mrs. Gibson sniffed. The fact that he had no meals from her, but always cooked what he wanted on a gas ring in his bedroom was to her an unattractive proposition, if not a positive insult; though it was mitigated by the fact that he hardly ever required anything done. He never wanted a jug of hot water or the loan of a paper or similar things that were not “included.” Except for the click of his typewriter she would hardly have known he was in the house. The door of his room was invariably locked, whether he was in or out. She was only allowed inside for an hour in the morning to clear up the place under his eye, and half the time he wouldn't allow her to touch anything for fear of dirtying his “mannyscrips.” It was certainly rather mysterious, but then writing gents were apt to be mysterious. Though just as curious as the rest of her sex, Mrs. Gibson had in Mr. Carlyle struck a wall which she could not scale. Many times had she tried to read his letters or get into his room when he was not there, but each time she had been baffled. At last she had given up trying. After all, the possession of a lodger who gave such little trouble and paid so promptly without querying his bill was an asset to be carefully guarded.

She sniffed again, and picked up the tray.

“Well, good-evenin', Mr. Carlyle,” she said, and resumed her journey with the hall bedroom's tea.

Mr. Carlyle went slowly upstairs to his room on the first floor. He was a small man well made and carrying himself well, with a sharp featured face and restless bright eyes. The spring in his step showed that despite his sedentary occupation he was in perfect health. He looked, and was, very clever—certainly cleverer than Mrs. Gibson knew.

Arrived at the first floor, dimly lit by a half turned gas jet, he unlocked the door of a room on the front side of the house. Once inside, his first act was to lock the door behind him and slide a bolt across. He had long ago guessed that Mrs. Gibson had another key, and he had particular reasons for never wishing anyone else to enter his room, till he had in a measure prepared it for the inquisitive stare of outside eyes. Then he took off his hat and heaved a sigh of relief, before lighting the gas and looking at his watch. It was noticeable that he softly drew down the blind while the room was still in darkness.

Seen in the light, it certainly was not an ordinary room. On a table by the window stood a small typewriter surrounded by masses of typed pages and manuscript, some of which had drifted to the floor.

A half-finished page was actually in the machine. A pile of dusty books stood on a shelf and despite the air of work just left for a moment, all this paraphernalia of the author's craft seemed to be but little used. In addition to the usual appurtenances of a bed-sitting-room there was against the wall opposite to the door a big wardrobe; while a table in a corner piled high with some objects under a big cloth completed the furniture.

Whistling softly to himself Mr. Carlyle went across to this table and lifting the cloth displayed a large number of oblong cardboard boxes. One of these he picked up in a casual fashion for a moment and looked at it with a smile on his face. It was a box such as toy soldiers are packed in, labeled on the outside “The Warwickshire Regiment.” All the other boxes on the table had the same label, almost as though Mr. Carlyle had a partiality for that particular branch of the Service. On the end of the box, very small, were the words “Made in Germany.” The boxes were all of them empty but a big basket in the corner contained the lead figures that once had filled them, all of which strangely enough were headless. Either Mr. Carlyle was a harmless maniac with a passion for decapitating in miniature the Warwickshire Regiment, or else—there was something inside the hollow figures, put in by their maker in Germany, which Mr. Carlyle seemed anxious to obtain. It seemed to be rather a mystery, and Carlyle smiled to himself again as he looked at the results of his labors.

Then he looked at his watch once more and walking across the room to where the typewriter stood, took out of a drawer a small machine that looked rather like a clock. This he wound up and fixed onto the keyboard of the typewriter. Releasing a spring a small whirring noise was heard, and the room was at once filled with the steady clicking of the keys actuated by this small machine. Anyone listening outside the locked door would have said that the struggling author, Mr. Carlyle, was hard at work on his latest masterpiece.

The author, however, was quite differently engaged at the moment in very obviously changing his appearance in the most intimate fashion. A dark morning coat and grey trousers instead of the baggy untidy brown suit, smooth-back hair, instead of a ruffled head, clean linen and a tie pin. From a tumbler he took little rubber pads which, put into the mouth, filled out his cheeks from their normal hollowness to the puffy fatness of the man who takes little exercise; while a few almost invisible touches with paints brought his other features into conformity. Further pads increased his person to match, particularly in the waistcoat region across which now dangled a prosperous gold chain. Within a very few minutes Mr. Carlyle the author had ceased to be and a new personality was present in his place. A cheery-looking short stoutish gentleman, one of many hundreds in business in the city, well groomed, correct in every detail. Nothing was wrong save perhaps that the wrists and ankles where they showed under cuff and trousers were a bit too bony for a man of his apparent build.

With a final look at himself in the glass the late Mr. Carlyle reduced the gas jet to a blue pin point and opening the wardrobe door pushed aside the clothes hanging there and fumbled with a catch behind them. In a moment the whole back of the wardrobe swung out and he stepped through a concealed door out of the darkened room into still more complete darkness.

Evidently, however, he knew well where he was, for in a moment a gas jet sprang into life lighting up the new room. He then closed behind him the secret door by which he had entered from the next house, which in this room wore the guise of a large file cabinet set against the wall and sat down in a chair by a central desk.

The room was furnished like an office, with desks, trays, typewriter, file cabinet, and all the other fixtures. It had two doors on the opposite side of the room, one being of ground glass on which was painted on the outside “James Robinson, Agent.” Stacked all over the room and on two more tables were the same long boxes of soldiers that had been piled up in the room in the other house; but while here they comprised nearly every regiment in the British Army, there were none of the Warwickshire Regiment. It appeared that, though James Robinson's Agency dealt with a German firm in the supply of toy soldiers to the English public, that particular regiment had some cachet which gave it the right of instant entry into the room of Mr. Carlyle the author in the next house.

Mr. James Robinson, stout, prosperous-looking owner of an agency importing German toys into post-war England, looked into a pocket mirror and finally adjusted his person. Then strolling to the window he peeped stealthily out. Previously he adjusted the light so that it did not fall directly on the blind and also approached the window from the side. Then he gave a little start of surprise and annoyance.

The road outside was nearly empty. It was not at the best of times a busy street, being lined with decayed offices, cheap lodgings, or empty houses; but to James Robinson's practised and prejudiced eye it at the moment might have been as crowded as Piccadilly, for besides a stray passer-by there was on the opposite pavement, leaning up against the railing, a man. James Robinson studied him carefully. He was to all intents just a loafer, for he was dressed in rags, had hands thrust deep into his pockets and smoked a short clay pipe. He was apparently staring vacantly into nothingness, but returned to this world at intervals in order to expectorate. Innocent though he seemed, it was obvious that Robinson did not like him at all. A man does not loaf in a half-deserted side street off the Strand on an April evening, looking at nothing special, but always opposite the same house, unless he has some reason for doing so; and if there is a reason the occupation ceases to be loafing. Nor was there any object in his watching a house made up exclusively of offices and storerooms at a time when it would be normally empty, unless he was watching for something rather particular. Also the fellow's shoulders seemed squarer than was usual in men of his type and his attitude rather more tense than natural. Robinson readjusted the blind noiselessly and went back to the chair where he sat with a frown on his smooth puffed out face.

He was worried. There was no doubt in his mind as to what the presence of the watcher meant. In a word, the police were at last wise to him. He sighed, for he had not expected it quite so soon. Something in his carefully organized scheme had gone wrong. However, he was quite ready; his line of escape was prepared; it only remained to put it in final working order. He took up the telephone, and asked for a number. After a while a Jewish voice answered him.

“Hullo!”

“That you, Levy?”

“Yes, Mr. Carlyle.”

“Got my check?”

“Yes, and O. K. The deal is through about that motor launch that you asked me to get. She's a war-time M. L. twenty tonner.”

“What about crew?”

“I've got hold of Smithson—the man I spoke about—as mechanic in charge and two others. They went aboard this morning. They're now lying at Southampton and ready to do anything you want.”

“Southampton?” Robinson hurriedly drew toward him a map of the south coast and studied it. Then he said softly: “I would like to go a trial trip in her tomorrow evening.”

“In the evening?” There was surprise in the other's voice and to allay it Robinson fell back upon one of his old tricks, that of confessing to a small crime in order to put people off the scent of a big one.

“Yes. I want to go on a night cruise. You understand, eh, Levy? I may have a little—er—friend with me.”

“Oh!” A fat chuckle came down the phone. Robinson could imagine him wagging a fat be-ringed finger. “You boys!”

“Well, you understand. Secret, eh?”

“Yes. Smithson shall be clearly instructed. He's a good man on a job like that. Mum as an oyster. When and where?”

Robinson, who had just pulled a letter from a pocket and glanced through it, leaned forward and in a soft voice spoke very carefully and distinctly: “About half a mile down the Beaulieu River from Beaulieu and five miles from its mouth in the Solent, there is a small quay—a flat gravel jetty…”

“Here, half a minute,” came the other voice, “let me get that down… Right!”

“Got that. He can't mistake it. Going up the river, it's just before”—he consulted the letter again—“before he comes to the first house of a bunch on the right hand side—called ‘Joyner's End.'”

“I expect he'll know it. He knows all that part.”

“Good! I want him to be there by eleven o'clock and wait till I come. There is a double tide, but he can lie at the quay even at low water. Oh, and he should have some provisions on board, in case I'm away a day or so. Is that quite clear?”

“Right!” replied the other. “It'll be done. Good-night, Mr. Carlyle. I wish I was an author and could afford these luxuries.”

Robinson smiled to himself as he replaced the receiver, and put the letter down on the table. Author indeed! His writing did not bring him in much, nor did the German-made toy soldiers—as soldiers. There were indeed only four people who knew that Mr. James Robinson's most profitable source of income was the white powder that came inside the Warwickshire Regiment. But of those four even, there was only one—a woman—who knew that Mr. James Robinson and Mr. Carlyle the mysterious little-seen author were the same person, and further that both these two characters also bore the name of Jimmie Rezaire, a name fairly well known in the upper strata of the underworld. The man sitting at the desk was well aware of the value of secrecy, and knew how to ensure it.

James Robinson,
alias
Carlyle,
alias
Rezaire, unlocked a drawer and drew out a little note-book. The book seemed to be a record of the movements of various substantial sums of money. There were statements of receipts, heavy ones, from four names—“Sam, Joe, Harrap, and Vivienne” and these items were balanced by payments to a continental firm and further by other payments, also heavy, to the name of Carlyle in a well-known bank. On another page were notes of items transferred from this bank to a bank in Paris. The lines of figures made quite a satisfactory array and at all of them Rezaire looked, smiling to himself. He had not done badly for four or five months. He had expected a slightly longer run, but apparently something had happened.