An idea struck Alan; he hurried back to the street, and retraced his steps eastward. What he wanted now was the use of a small rowing-boat for half an hour; and, after driving a bargain with a rather dubious waterman, he succeeded in obtaining it.
He pulled gently upstream, feeling his way in the dark between barges moored abreast and loaded lighters. His rowing-boat was little more than a skiff, and with a final stroke Alan brought it alongside the timbers of the old pier that ran out from ‘The Green Lantern.’ Mooring his boat on the farther side, he mounted the flight of narrow steps and looked around him.
Overhead there were several lighted windows, and from them came bursts of talk: they were obviously the back windows of the public-house. A shed had been built on the pier, and its walls seemed to go right down to the water’s edge. He suspected that this was a boat-house, and that it communicated with Tom Young’s private quarters. Groping his way forward, Alan found that his guess about a boathouse was correct. He could hear the water gurgling and sluicing inside the wooden structure, and caught the gentle creak and chafe of some craft inside. Standing there in the darkness, Alan began to wonder if he had come on a wild-goose chase. Concerning Tom Young there was even less to be learned here than among those loungers in the public-house. He was on the point of crawling down the slimy steps to his boat when something attracted his eye.
Alan hesitated. He was on private property now; if caught lurking here at this hour he might find it difficult to avoid being conducted to the nearest police station. Dare he take a further risk?
An empty packing-case decided the matter. It lay conveniently beside the boat-house, and the next moment Alan had clambered on the roof and was crawling forward towards the main wall of the building.
It was a window that had attracted him—the only window within reach. The room was in darkness, and Alan pulled himself up until he was seated on the broad stone sill. The window itself was a double casement and several of the leaded panes were missing. It was the simplest matter in the world for him to slip his hand through an opening, undo the catch, and pull the casement open.
A damp, musty smell came from within. He wished now that he had brought a pocket torch, but in setting out he had had no idea his curiosity about the proprietor of ‘The Green Lantern’ might lead him to the length of taking an uninvited glance into the man’s house. Scratching a match, he looked round the room. In the flickering light he saw that it was furnished; the wall-paper hung in shreds, and a pile of soot lay in the fire-place. A little surprised at his own temerity, Alan lowered himself into the room, but he left the window wide open in case he was compelled to make a hasty exit. He smiled to himself in the darkness. Having come so far, he had no thought of turning back, for the slightest detail might give him the hint he was seeking. Elizabeth Marlowe was in touch with the man Julius Brown, who apparently lived here with Tom Young. Mr. Brown had obviously the manner and clothes of a gentleman: why in heaven’s name was he lodging in such a place as this? . . .
Alan tiptoed across the bare boards of the room, and fumbled about in the darkness for the door. It was locked, and he paused to listen. He could hear no sound in the house, and he scratched another match. There was a second door which he had not previously noticed. It appeared to lead into the next room. This too was locked, and the key was missing. But the metal plate had almost parted from the rotting woodwork, and with a gentle tug it came away, and the door creaked slowly open.
Alan listened again. Still he could hear no sound, and he cautiously stepped through the doorway, but as he did so he heard a sudden scuffle behind him. He could see nothing; yet he was certain he had heard a low pattering sound, almost like the light, quick feet of an animal. Hurriedly he lit a match, and across the room saw two evil pin-points of light, which flicked aside and disappeared. With a chuckle of relief, he turned away. A few riverside rats were not likely to worry him! He stepped more confidently into the next room, and struck another match.
This place was little more than a cupboard; it was long and narrow, with a small square window. There was a door, but it was locked, and no amount of tugging would make it budge. However, through the partly open fanlight above, Alan could see the gleam of firelight playing upon the ceiling of the next room. This looked a little more civilized! The only piece of furniture he could see was a worm-eaten table, and pulling it quietly towards the door, he mounted it and looked through the fanlight.
The room beyond was large and gaunt. Though part of it lay in heavy shadow, Alan could see that it was furnished in an ornate Victorian fashion, as though nothing in it had been altered for fifty years. Through the partly open fanlight he could hear the hiss and crackle of the newly-lit fire; then the flames seemed to burn low, for the room grew darker, with an occasional shaft of brightness darting out across the faded carpet. He drew back as he heard the door opening, and the next moment the lights in the room had been switched on.
Alan decided to beat an immediate retreat. But second thoughts suggested that the new-comer would be unlikely to have any reason to enter this unfurnished closet, and he ventured to take another survey of the room.
Tom Young himself was crossing to the big roll-top desk, which stood between the two large curtained windows on the right. Alan watched the man with considerable curiosity. He was well and carefully dressed in a dark lounge suit. He turned for a moment, his hands behind him on the back of a chair, and he seemed to be deep in thought. But for that touch of the Asiatic about his eyes and cheek-bones and lips Alan would have denied that this man had any tincture of Eastern blood in his veins. Yet the very name ‘Tom Young’, though English, sounded like a corruption of Chinese words. With a slow movement Mr. Young turned and seated himself at the roll-top desk. The lid slipped noiselessly upwards; and, picking up a quill pen, he began to write. But a few minutes later he was interrupted.
There was a knock on the door. Shuffling across the room came the sullen-faced man who had conducted Alan upstairs the previous night. He was an unkempt specimen, in shirtsleeves and with a dirty green apron. He muttered something, and Tom Young gave a quick gesture of assent.
The other shuffled out, and presently returned with a stranger.
‘Mr. Carlo Lewin!’ he announced, closing the door behind a short man dressed in carefully-brushed black clothes. He had iron-grey hair, small pale eyes that moved uneasily behind highly-polished pince-nez, and restless white fingers.
To Alan there was something vaguely familiar about the shape of that head and the stoop of the black-coated back. Could this have been one of the people he had seen in the upper room on the previous night? But there was no time to decide this point, for the two men began to speak.
CHAPTER XVIII
A NARROW SHAVE
With alacrity Tom Young had arisen from his chair, and he went forward with a polite smile to meet Mr. Carlo Lewin.
‘Will my friend be seated?” He bowed in the direction of an arm-chair beside the fire. ‘It is an unexpected honour, this visit to my humble house. If my friend had warned me of his coming I would have received him with greater ceremony.’
‘Cut out the ceremony, Tom,’ replied the solicitor, with a faint sneer in the pale eyes behind his polished pince-nez. ‘I’ve come on business.’
Young rubbed his yellow hands slowly together.