Alan walked downstairs with him, and Tripp turned towards the Embankment, then cut across towards Westminster pier.
‘I’m going down river on a police-boat,’ he explained. ‘They’re sending up one of the big launches from Wapping. Weston of “M” Division has a cordon round “The Green Lantern”. Tom Young’s there now, and if he leaves the place they’ll take him without further fuss.’
‘Won’t this give Lord John a scare?’ inquired Alan, after they had carefully picked their way across one of the most dangerous thoroughfares in London and safely arrived on the pavement beside the river wall.
‘It’ll give him a shake up,’ agreed Tripp. ‘I meant to hold my hand with the smaller fry until we got Lord John himself. But murder is murder; we’ve got to act.’
‘Look here,’ broke in Alan, as they paused at the top of the steps and looked down at the launch that was gently shouldering the pier on the choppy water of a rising tide, ‘can’t I come with you?’
‘Sorry,’ said Tripp. ‘This mightn’t be exactly child’s play. If Mr. Young refuses to come quietly, there may be some nasty weather blowing up at “The Green Lantern”.’ He tapped his mackintosh pocket, where a service Webley lay snug. ‘Well, good night, Gilmour. Thanks for coming along. Let me have your new address to-morrow. Don’t forget.’
He ran down the stone stairway and stepped over the rail into the stern of the launch, where four of his own men were already seated, in addition to the sergeant in charge and two constables in the reefer-jackets of the River Police.
‘Evening, sir,’ said the sergeant. ‘Yes; we’re all ready. Cast off there!’
The engine burst into a low hum; and the launch swung out into mid-channel and swept downstream towards Hungerford Bridge. There was little traffic in these upper reaches, but the sergeant dropped his speed to six knots when they entered the Pool. The gaunt shapes of warehouses uprose on either hand, and both banks glistened with the riding-lights of anchored craft. Below Tower Bridge several big steamers had swung round by the bows, waiting for the tide; at midnight they would creep downstream to the estuary and the open sea. The sergeant leant down and switched out the lights of the launch.
‘We’re getting near, sir,’ he explained. ‘That’s “The Green Lantern” over there—you can see the lights of the place. These are the back windows of the public bar.’ He stooped down until his eyes were almost level with the gunwale. ‘There should be one of our boats from Wapping over there. She’s lying close in. Sergeant Blake’s in charge. Shall I get in touch, sir?’
‘Yes,’ said Tripp; ‘I’ll go ashore at once. The sooner we get this job over the better. I’ll leave two men with you to watch the back of the place, in case he makes a bolt across the river. . . . Where are you going?’ he inquired.
‘We’ll get downstream a bit, sir, and creep up inshore,’ explained the sergeant. ‘We’d better not draw in just here—the Tower Bridge lights are on the water behind us.’
Tripp, who had no knowledge of river-work, nodded, and they slid downstream for another two hundred yards. Then the sergeant gave a quick order, and the launch swung round, heeling over as she turned, and made towards the deeper shadows at the bank, where lines of barges and lighters lay moored below dark warehouses. They were crawling upstream at less than walking-pace now, and the sergeant was again leaning down, trying to pick up the exact position of the other police-boat.
‘I’ve got her,’ he announced, and then his voice sharpened. ‘She’s moving, sir—she’s moving fast! There’s something happening.’ He jumped up on the step and put a pair of service glasses to his eyes.
Inspector Tripp scrambled beside him. ‘Can you see? What the devil’s going on? . . .’
‘It’s a rowing-boat, sir—it’s just put out from that old pier behind “The Green Lantern”. But Sergeant Blake’s got it—he’s alongside now. We’ll be there in a jiffy.’ He rapped out an order, and with a splutter the launch leaped forward, swung away from the bank, and drifted towards the two boats that lay jostling together with the motion of the tide. Gripping his Webley, Inspector Tripp clambered forward to the bow and peered into the darkness.
A little earlier that evening Tom Young was sitting before the fire in his big, ornate, faded room overlooking the river. His thin, yellow hands were folded together, his eyes half-closed, and he was deep in thought. During two whole hours he sat without moving; for Tom Young had an immeasurable gift of silence. Sometimes he passed whole nights thus, rising only to replenish the dying fire. Though he was a rogue, Tom Young was also a philosopher.
But to-night his thoughts were uneasy. Although his lean body was quiescent, his lips moved now and then, and his eyes were restless.
Suddenly he rose to his feet, and, going along the corridor, called out a name: ‘Jack!’
A short man with a sullen face appeared, and Tom Young gave him instructions: ‘I’m going upstairs, Jack. See that I’m not disturbed. Savvy?’
He mounted the creaking stairs until he came to the third floor, and went along the passage. The room occupied by Mr. Julius Brown was in darkness, for Mr. Brown had been absent during the last three days. Tom Young unlocked a door, which took him into the eastern portion of the house. Here were the bare, shabby bedrooms of the inn; but on this floor only one of these rooms was occupied. It was at the distant end of the corridor, and Tom Young entered it without knocking.
He did not switch on the light, but, using an electric torch, went to a cupboard built into the wall. On the dirty floor was an old tin trunk and other rubbish, apparently the property of some long-forgotten occupant of the room. Stepping over it, Tom Young inserted his fingers in a narrow crack in the wooden partition and gave it a sharp tug. Part of the boarding swung open on a concealed hinge, revealing an aperture wide enough to admit a man. Scrambling through, he pushed the panel back into position, and his torch revealed a wooden ladder leading upwards.
Mounting, he applied his knuckles to the trap-door overhead, and presently it was raised. The squat figure of a man peered downwards. He had a broad, bearded face and tiny bright black eyes, and he stood aside while Tom Young clambered up beside him, then lowered the trap-door silently into position.
The room was so narrow that Young could have touched the opposite walls by extending his arms. But it was very long, and seemed to extend from the front of the house to the back. Nobody could have guessed that such a room existed, for it had been skilfully cut off from the attics on the other side of the partition. In the low, sloping roof there was a small skylight over which a heavy blind had been drawn.
‘How is the work going, van Reuth?’ asked Tom Young.
‘I haf worked hard, Mr. Young, but there is much to do.’ He spoke in a broken Dutch accent, and in a shuffling walk he led the way to the other end of the chamber. Here stood a bench of stout beechwood, on which was a complete set of lapidary’s tools—strange-looking knives and hammers, a horizontal emery-wheel, soft solder in a tall vessel like a champagne glass, bottles of olive-oil, and tiny jars of diamond-dust. From overhead a powerful daylight lamp was suspended, and there was a faint hum of the little motor that drove the emery-wheel, on which several precious stones had been clamped with infinite care. The Dutchman picked up a large diamond, from which he had been removing the cement, and held it below the pallid rays of the lamp.