The line went dead; the plug at the switch-board upstairs had been withdrawn.
Haydon’s eyes were straining into the passage. Half-way along, at the foot of the staircase, he could see somebody standing in the shadow; and, as he looked, the figure detached itself from the patch of darkness and came slowly forward into the room.
The stranger’s hands were in the pockets of his overcoat, but the cloth where his right hand rested was jutting out in an ugly knob. Between the folds of his white muffler and the low brim of his soft felt hat, the only feature Haydon could make out was a singularly unpleasant pair of eyes.
Without a word the man walked over to the desk and pulled open the top drawer. He picked up the small, nickel-plated revolver that lay there, and dropped it into his pocket.
‘Sit over there,’ he said tersely, pointing across the room and seating himself in Haydon’s place, where he could see down the long passage to the front of the shop.
Haydon could hear many tiny sounds from the floor above, the occasional jingle of a key, the brittle snap of breaking steel, the faint shuffle of rubbered feet, the murmur of intent voices, and presently a low bubbling hiss, followed by the acrid smell of burning paint and metal.
Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed.
And then, as suddenly as the drop of a curtain, the hum of the activity upstairs ceased. Haydon started up in his chair. But the man at the desk sat motionless, his eyes, below the brim of his hat, fixed on the other end of the passage. In the wall of fog which pressed against the front door and windows of the shop, he could make out two figures—one a policeman in uniform, the other in plain clothes—and from the rear of the building there came the quick blast of a whistle.
Feet pattered on the stairs, and in the passage a voice called out softly.
‘Right,’ answered the man at the desk. Springing towards the door, he closed and locked it behind him. As he ran upstairs, all the lights in the shop and passage went out.
Meanwhile, from a small window at the back, a man was slipping down a thin silk cord to the courtyard below. A lamp on a wall-bracket made a dim yellow blotch in the fog; and he paused for a moment, then rushed to the mouth of the alley.
‘That way—quick! You’re wanted,’ he cried to the constable who stepped forward, and at the same time swerved into the darkness towards the left, and made a jump for the top of the wall.
He seemed to know the geography of the place perfectly. From the roof of a low building he stepped on to another wall, crawled along it, dropped into a narrow passage, and emerged in the open street.
The fog seemed to have drifted down even more thickly during the last half-hour. The traffic had come almost entirely to a standstill. A string of motor-buses were marooned by the kerb, and the few pedestrians who were still out of doors were trying to grope their way homewards along pavements that the fog had rendered as unfamiliar as the streets of a foreign city. The man put out his hand to open the door of a taxicab, but the driver laughed in his face. ‘No good, guv’nor.’
He drew back with a shrug. As he did so there was the tap-tap of a stick, and somebody collided with him from behind.
‘Sorry, sir, sorry,’ said a whining voice. ‘I ain’t to blame, sir.’
‘Of course not,’ replied the man, with a laugh. He was about to turn away when a dirty piece of cardboard, which hung on the other’s chest, attracted his attention. He was able to read the inscription in the light of a street lamp above. ‘Hallo,’ he said, ‘you’re blind.’
‘It’s the likes of me that’s best off to-night, sir. Dark or light, it makes no difference.’
‘I’d never have thought of that!’ The man laughed again. ‘Look here. I want to get to Trafalgar Square. Heaven knows how long it’ll take me in this damned fog. Do you want to earn a couple of half-crowns? Then lead me there—quickly as you can.’
He put his hand on the blind match-seller’s arm, and they set out at a steady pace.
‘Fine night this for Lord John, sir,’ remarked the match-seller with a chuckle. ‘He’ll be having a go at the Bank of England next.’
‘Lord John?’
‘That cracksman gent. Got the police fair barmy, he has. Bet you he’s up to some game to-night.’
‘I wouldn’t be a bit surprised,’ said the other, with a smile. ‘I dare say we’ll see in the papers to-morrow.’
Presently the match-seller halted. ‘Trafalgar Square, sir.’
‘Are you certain?’ asked the man doubtfully, trying to peer into the fog. It seemed as thick as curdled milk just here, and stung the skin, and tasted bitter in the throat.
‘Trafalgar Square, sir,’ the blind man assured him. ‘National Gallery over there. Can’t you see it?’
‘I can see nothing,’ replied the man. ‘Nothing. Do you know the Marquise Hotel? Take me there.’
‘The Markis Hotel, sir? Right you are. This way,’ he said confidently.
But it was now the blind man’s turn to be led, for the street was blocked with motor-buses and taxi-cabs; and when they had reached the opposite pavement the match-seller took charge once more.
‘Here you are, sir. That’s your hotel. Can you see it?’
A pool of light hanging in the dense yellow vapour indicated the main entrance. But the man avoided it. Slipping a ten-shilling note into the match-seller’s hand, he made for the railings and groped his way round to a doorway at the side. A glance told him that the short corridor within was, for the moment, empty. He hurried through the swing-door and, instead of making for the lift, turned sharply to the right and ran up the emergency staircase.
Entering a room which was in darkness, he closed the door and pressed home the tiny catch. He paused to listen, then touched a button on the wall. A shaded lamp on the table suddenly glowed with dull orange light. He strolled towards it, and let something trickle gently through his fingers—something that winked and gleamed in a million points of brightness. And he gave a quiet laugh as he leaned forward to admire the flawless jewels of a magnificent Eastern necklace.
Twice within eight hours, Lord John had scored heavily against the Metropolitan Police.
CHAPTER II
IN WHICH ALAN GILMOUR TAKES A CHANCE
‘By Jove, it’s good to be alive!’
He was a tall, fair-haired, sunburned young man with laughing blue eyes; and he stood below the statue of Eros in the centre of Piccadilly Circus and looked at the scene around him.
London: the beating heart of London: the London he hadn’t known for the last six years. So he kept reminding himself as he stood on this spot drinking it all in—the colours of the motor-cars and women’s clothes, the noise of the traffic, the old friendly smell of the streets—drinking it in and glorying in it, even rolling the word ‘London’ round his tongue like an old and worthy wine, to taste with a deeper gusto the familiar and beloved sound.
Alan Gilmour felt a sudden impulse to fling up his hat and offer three hearty huzzas to the gods for his amazing good fortune. Six years ago he had stood on this spot, before setting out for Calcutta, with barely a bean in his pocket after paying his passage-money. That was on his twenty-first birthday, he remembered. And now, back in good old London; free to do what he liked; free to roll like a colt in lush grass; adequate funds to make the day when a job of work must be found seem infinitely faraway. Could a man’s luck be better? he asked himself. Could anything be more exactly right? Was there a person in the world that he’d have swapped places with at that moment? No: a thousand times, no. . . . He saw the sharp, smiling eyes of a flower-seller fixed on him.
‘Lovely roses, sir?’