The detective himself opened the door of his modest ground-floor flat. He wore a thick camel-hair dressing-gown, and was smoking a briar pipe.
‘Ah, come in Gilmour,’ he said affably. ‘My housekeeper goes off at ten, so I’m alone. She gave me your message. I must say you’ve done wonders in the time!’ He led the way into a cosy sitting-room, where a cheerful fire was burning, and long pipe-rack occupied nearly the entire length of the mantelpiece. ‘Sit down. Whisky and soda?’ He pushed a large, business-like tobacco-jar across the table.
While Tripp mixed the drinks, Alan was thoughtfully filling his pipe. His first impulse had been to tell the detective about his recent experience at ‘The Green Lantern’; but with some dismay he now realized that this would bring Elizabeth Marlowe rather prominently into the picture. It was a devilish awkward situation. She had told him that the letter was purely a personal one, and she was obviously trusting him to regard it as confidential. Not for one moment had he dreamt of what it might lead to, and he began to wish to heaven he had never undertaken the commission. He saw that, for the time being at least, he would have to maintain silence about what he had seen in that upper room of Mr. T. Young’s inn on the south side of the river, though the idea of keeping anything back, even temporarily, went very much against the grain.
‘Tell me about Mr. Paul Stainer,’ said Tripp, handing Alan a tumbler. ‘How did you get in touch with him so quickly?’
‘I had a waiter at dinner who was keen to talk,’ replied Gilmour with a laugh. ‘He gave me the lie of the land.’ And he recounted what details about the old American he had been able to glean. ‘I wish I could have seen the man’s valet as well,’ he continued. ‘Somehow, I fancy he’d be as interesting as Mr. Stainer himself. But the Mrs. Prideaux business was a pure stroke of luck—I happened to get a glimpse of a telephone number that was handed to him.’
Inspector Tripp settled himself in his arm-chair on the opposite side of the hearth.
‘I don’t know that it was altogether luck,’ he remarked. ‘You had the good sense to remember the phone number after you saw it. Lydia Prideaux——’
‘Who is she?’ asked Alan curiously.
Tripp gave a shrug. ‘You see her name occasionally in the gossip-columns of the newspapers. She’s photographed a good deal, and knows an enormous number of people in fashionable and Bohemian circles. Gives expensive parties.’
He stopped abruptly, and Alan had an idea that something further was on the tip of the detective’s tongue, but Tripp sat staring thoughtfully into the fire.
‘Stainer didn’t say where he had come from?’ he inquired at last.
‘Yes, he said he came across from the Continent to-day.’
Tripp shook his head.
‘He didn’t. Do you know what happened to him to-night after he went to the telephone? Did he go out?’
‘Sorry, I’ve no idea. I waited for a solid hour, but he didn’t come back to the lounge, and I thought it a bit indiscreet to make inquiries.’
‘Quite right.’ Tripp smiled. ‘You’ve got the hang of this job, my dear chap. More cases fall to bits through tactless inquiries than for any other reason—even than failing to seize one’s chance. And, by the way, Paul Stainer himself was a pure chance; I’m glad we took it. I got the name this afternoon from Hanson of the Special Branch—they work the aliens’ side, and look after the foreign ports, and other different jobs. Hanson had the name from Paris, and I happened to see it on the “Marquise” visitors’ list.’
‘Visitors’ list?’ queried Gilmour.
‘Yes; I’ve got a complete list from Leopold King, the manager. He’s keeping it up to date for me every twenty-four hours. You should meet Leopold, by the way. Interesting character. Amazingly interesting. He has all the qualities required to make a first-rate crook.’ Tripp laughed. ‘Don’t misunderstand me. He’s a great man, in his own way. His success in London has been sudden—and positively amazing. But meet him for yourself.’ And he added quietly: ‘I’ll be glad to hear what you think of him.’
‘He knows about Lord John being located in the “Marquise,” and the burglary in Templeton’s suite?’
‘Beyond the bare facts of the burglary I’ve told him nothing. And he doesn’t know what was stolen—nobody must know that. Incidentally, he doesn’t know you’re helping me—nobody does—so keep your thumb on it.’
Gilmour nodded.
‘There’s one thing I want to ask you,’ he said. ‘It’s about Elizabeth Marlowe.’
‘Well?’
The detective gave him a quick look, and Alan shifted uneasily in his seat.
‘Have you given any instructions about her—about having her watched?’
Tripp knocked out the ashes of his pipe.
‘When exactly do you refer to?’
‘Since this morning.’
‘On my word of honour—no.’ The detective set his pipe down on the table with a gentle click. ‘But as to the future I can make no promise.’
‘I see.’
Alan bit his lip in perplexity Elizabeth Marlowe had confided in him her belief that she was being followed. If the police were not keeping her under observation, who on earth was doing so? He rose to his feet.
‘I’m glad you’ve come along,’ said Tripp. ‘I rang you up at the hotel just now, but they said you’d gone out an hour ago.’
‘I did go out,’ Alan admitted with a short laugh, ‘but it had nothing to do with Paul Stainer.’
It was with a strong sensation of relief that he left Tripp’s flat and turned up Whitehall towards Trafalgar Square. But he came away with one firm determination: to find out more about that old riverside tavern ‘The Green Lantern’ and the gaunt, dark house that towered above it.
CHAPTER XIV
IN THE UPPER ROOM
Alan might have been surprised at the scene which followed his departure from the room at ‘The Green Lantern’ that looked down over the lights of ships and barges gently stirring in the waters of the Pool.
The man who called himself Julius Brown crushed the letter into his pocket and returned to his seat at the table.
‘Nothing wrong, I trust, Mr. Brown?’ asked the thin-faced man opposite him. This was Mr. Carlo Lewin, a solicitor with a nondescript practice on the south side of the river. He had represented many criminals, petty and otherwise, in the courts; and among the police of ‘The Borough’ divisions he had carefully built up for himself a reputation for integrity, though the malefactors whom he had defended might have been surprised if they could have overheard some of the telephone conversations that passed between his dusty little office near the Surrey Commercial Docks and the head-quarters of the ‘L’ and ‘M’ divisions of the metropolitan force.
‘Nothing wrong, Mr. Brown?’ repeated Carlo Lewin, his long fingers tapping the edge of the table.
‘No,’ returned Julius Brown brusquely; ‘it’s a personal matter.’ He looked at the man with the narrow eyes who sat beside him at the head of the table. ‘Let’s get on with our business, Tom. You said you had something to tell us.’