As Alan drove westward in the taxi-cab he had picked up, many thoughts were spinning through his mind. Bit by bit, he pieced together the talk he had heard between Tom Young and Mr. Lewin, then he went back to that oddly-assorted group he had seen in the room upstairs on the previous night. Here surely was the explanation of much that had been puzzling! It was the popular idea that the great Lord John played a lone hand. And yet the most notable fact about all his recent coups had been the faultless detail of his information—information so comprehensive that it was almost impossible for one single person to have gathered it. Was it too wild a guess to assume that the people he had seen in that room on the night before were members of the Lord John organization? And who would have thought that Tom Young, the half-caste keeper of a riverside tavern, was his principal lieutenant? With the shrewdness of the really great criminal, he appeared to have successfully concealed his identity even from those he employed to help him.
Alan’s cab swung round the Embankment through the open gates of Scotland Yard. The uniformed man on night-duty at the forbidding doorway recognized his name, and withdrew the buff inquiry-slip he had pushed forward.
‘Chief Inspector Tripp is expecting you, sir,’ he said, handing Alan on to a messenger, who took him upstairs to a long, narrow room in ‘C’ Branch, and asked him to be seated.
The room was plainly furnished. A flat-topped desk stood in the centre; on the blotting-pad lay a pile of folders tied with blue tape; against one wall was a large steel filing-cabinet; and the only thing which suggested to Alan that he was not in an ordinary business office was the Metropolitan Police Almanac on the wall. It was the first time he had been in Scotland Yard, and he was looking around with interest when the door opened and Inspector Tripp came in, the familiar briar pipe between his teeth.
‘So you’ve got news for me, Gilmour!’
‘Extraordinary news,’ nodded Alan.
The Inspector knocked out the ashes of his pipe, and began to refill it from a large and ancient leather pouch.
‘From the south side of the river?’
Alan blinked at the detective. ‘How the dickens did you know that?’
With a smile, Tripp continued to load his pipe. ‘Do they keep good beer at “The Green Lantern”?’
Alan half-rose to his feet, and sank back again into the worn leather arm-chair with a laugh. ‘You’ve got me completely whacked, Inspector.’
‘You didn’t tell me Tom Young was an acquaintance of yours,’ remarked Tripp, holding a match to his pipe as he cocked a quizzical eye at Alan Gilmour.
‘You know Tom Young?’ said Alan.
‘The name is not unfamiliar,’ replied Tripp.
‘And how the devil did you know I was at “The Green Lantern” to-night?’
Inspector Tripp laughed good-humouredly. ‘No mystery about that. One of my men saw you in the public bar.’
Alan began to comprehend. ‘Then you’ve had your eye on Tom Young?’
‘We’ve had several pairs of eyes on him,’ nodded Tripp. ‘But I’m anxious to hear your story. Smoke?’
‘Perhaps I’d better begin at the beginning,’ said Alan, accepting a cigarette, ‘and that was last night. I had reason to go to “The Green Lantern”, and I suppose they must have mistaken me for somebody else. Anyhow, I was allowed indoors. Do you know who I saw? Mrs. Lydia Prideaux of Carbery Square. Does that surprise you?’
‘Go ahead, Gilmour,’ said Tripp quietly.
‘I suppose it was a damn-fool thing to do, but I went back again to-night for a look round. Ever heard of a bloke called Lewin?’
‘Lewin?’ The detective pondered for a moment. ‘Mr. Carlo Lewin, possibly. . . . A solicitor with a rather shady practice on the south side of the river. Carlo Lewin—h’m, that’s interesting.’
‘Not so interesting as what’s to come,’ said Alan, and he proceeded to give the gist of what had occurred. While he talked, the detective was smoking thoughtfully and making an occasional note on his desk-pad.
‘Well, Gilmour,’ he said at the end of the recital, ‘in my opinion you’re a very fortunate young man. By all the rules you should be at the bottom of the Thames with a heavy weight round your ankles. But you haven’t mentioned what took you to “The Green Lantern” in the first instance.’
Alan had been expecting this question.
‘I’m in a damnably awkward position, Inspector. The fact is, I happen to have passed my word not to mention that point.’
Tripp was tapping the edge of the desk with a pencil. Clearly he was dissatisfied.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Alan; ‘it isn’t that I’m keen to keep anything back. I’ve got no option.’
Inspector Tripp looked at him shrewdly.
‘Your first visit had nothing whatever to do with the Lord John case?’
‘Not so far as I know,’ Alan assured him.
‘So far as you know?’ Tripp frowned. ‘I hope somebody isn’t taking advantage of your good-nature.’
Alan moved uncomfortably in his chair.
What was Tripp driving at? The topic was a dangerous one: it would be so easy to let slip the very name he was so anxious to conceal. Then, with relief, he saw that the Inspector had dismissed the matter, and had turned to the notes on his writing-pad.
‘What you’ve found out to-night may be of immense value to us, Gilmour,’ he said, and there was a generous warmth in his tone. ‘But it would be a fool’s game to congratulate you,’ he went on, ‘in case you take further risks, and this is a question I want to talk to you seriously about.’
‘Risks? That’s all rot,’ said Alan off-handedly; but the detective demurred.
‘If you take my advice, Gilmour, you’ll drop quietly out of this case. I’ll be frank with you. It isn’t merely advice I’m giving you; it’s an order. It comes from the Assistant Commissioner himself. Naturally, I’ve mentioned you in my reports, and made a note of the help you’ve given us. But this must be the end of it. We can’t—and I’m talking officially—we can’t be responsible for your personal safety any longer.’
‘Who’s asking you?’ said Alan cheerfully.
‘Last night, at the Marquise Hotel, an attempt was made on your life,’ the detective reminded him gravely, ‘and you received an anonymous warning to clear out. Have you taken the hint? Have you changed your hotel?’
Alan lay back and laughed. ‘No, but I’m sleeping with a revolver under my pillow in the future.’
‘I’m serious, Gilmour,’ said Tripp slowly. ‘A few days ago I asked you to help me. I’m asking you now to retire. If you don’t, I’m afraid there’s serious trouble ahead for you. I can put on a man to watch you, but the police can’t work miracles.’
Alan hunched himself up in his chair. ‘Sorry, Inspector, but I’m not quitting. I can’t prevent you from dropping me, as far as this case is concerned, but I don’t propose to leave the Marquise Hotel except of my own free will. If I bump into trouble it’s my own look out. But I’m not going to be either cajoled or scared away by anybody.’
Tripp looked puzzled for a few moments. ‘I think I understand,’ he said at last, biting his short, grey moustache. ‘You want to help Miss Marlowe?’
The faintest tinge of colour rose to Alan’s face, but he did not reply.
For nearly a minute Tripp stared at his blotting-pad; then with a sudden impulse he rose and went quickly over to the filing-cabinet. Pulling open a steel drawer, he took out the faded photograph which was all that remained of the Lord John evidence stolen from Sir Richard Templeton. The detective toyed with it for a moment, as if unable to make up his mind, then slipped it back into the envelope and replaced it in the cabinet.
‘Yes, we’ll discuss that later,’ he murmured, and, walking slowly back, seated himself on the edge of his desk. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m ungrateful, Gilmour. What you’ve found out to-night opens up a line of inquiry. You see, for some time we’ve suspected this man Tom Young of being a “fence” on rather a big scale. That is,’ he explained, ‘a receiver of stolen goods. Unfortunately, we’ve never got any further than suspecting. None of us at the Yard ever dreamt that Young might be “fencing” for Lord John!’