Tom Young shook his head. ‘They may find this place—then you’re caught like a rat, my friend. Pack up every stone that is valuable. Take them with you. Jack will row you across the river to the Van Biesen. One of my friends is waiting on the ship—he’s waiting now. Give him the stones. Then Jack will land you down at Palmer’s Stairs, and after that you must look out for yourself. It’s to be good-bye, van Reuth.’
The Dutchman drew in a shuddering breath. ‘But the police on the river——’
‘Yes, they’ll search you, but they’ll find nothing. They’ll find nothing, do you hear? Listen!’ Tom Young spoke rapidly, and at the same time his yellow fingers snatched down a small leather case from a nail on the wall. He opened the small japanned tin box on the floor, and lying there in cotton-wool were several handfuls of precious stones which had been cut from their settings of platinum and gold. There were garnets of pure purple-violet, rubies the tint of pigeon-blood, sapphires of cornflower-blue; but mostly there were diamonds—diamonds that shimmered in Tom Young’s hands as he transferred them to the leather case. ‘These any good?’ he asked quietly, pointing to the stones on the emery-wheel. The Dutchman nodded, but his fingers were trembling, and it was Tom Young who unscrewed the clamps and dropped them among the others in the leather case.
‘Come, van Reuth,’ he said, gripping the Dutchman’s arm, and pointing to the trap-door.
It was exactly twelve minutes later that the wooden gates of the boat-house below ‘The Green Lantern’ swung inwards, and a rowing-boat nosed out over the dark waters of the river.
But the sullen-faced man at the oars had been warned what to expect. Almost at once, a police-launch swung alongside, and the voice of the sergeant in charge rapped out an order.
It was a strange sight that met his eyes as he played his flashlight over the two occupants. Besides the man at the oar there was a squat, bearded figure in the stern. He was now dressed in a dirty blue jersey, his blue reefer jacket was open, and he was lying back on the seat breathing heavily.
‘Who the devil’s this?’ demanded the sergeant, turning to the sullen-faced man.
‘Drunk sailor,’ was the reply. ‘Got to take him back to his blasted ship.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the other side of the river.
‘Grip hold,’ said the sergeant tersely to the policeman standing behind him. A boat-hook was dug in the gunwale, and the sergeant jumped down into the rowing-boat, which rocked violently under the impact. ‘Stand up, you!’
With a surly grunt the man relinquished the oars and got to his feet, while the river-policeman searched him.
‘Get for’ard,’ was the next order, and when the man scrambled into the bow with a muttered complaint, the sergeant pulled up the floor-boards and played his torch around the bottom of the boat. Then he turned his attention to the inert figure in sailor’s garb lying in the stern.
The Dutchman’s breath was coming thickly. Stepping over to him, the sergeant went rapidly through his pockets. Van Reuth’s clothes were reeking of gin, and when the torch was flashed into his face he half opened his eyes and muttered an incoherent oath. The sergeant jerked him forward, and lifted up the seat, but the tiny locker below was empty.
‘Launch coming up!’ announced the policeman who held the boat-hook. ‘Must be Number Three—she’s been up to Westminster for the Scotland Yard people.’
Presently the big launch drifted alongside, and the plain-clothes officer stood at the rail beside the sergeant in charge.
‘What’s happening here?’ It was Inspector Tripp’s voice.
‘Nothing much, sir. Drunk sailor they’ve chucked out from the pub—taking him back to his ship, to avoid a bit of trouble in the morning. Care to have a look, sir? I’ve searched the boat, and there’s nothing on either of the men.’ He played his torch over the man at the bow, then at the figure that was huddled up, his head between his knees, in the bottom of the boat where he had fallen. ‘Soused to the bung, sir,’ added the sergeant.
‘If you are satisfied, I am,’ said Tripp sharply. ‘Get rid of them as quick as you can, sergeant. I’m going ashore now.’ He looked around to take his bearings; the lighted windows at the east of ‘The Green Lantern’ were thirty or forty yards away. ‘Hang on here—you’re lying about right. Stop anything that tries to pass.’
Cutting a narrow circle round the other craft, the big launch edged in towards the timbers of the old pier beside the inn, while the man in the rowing-boat settled down again to his oars, responding to the cheerful good night of the river sergeant with an angry growl.
The Dutchman did not move from his huddled position until the other had whispered that they were clear of the danger zone; then he sat up and wiped his forehead, which was damp with cold sweat. Fifteen minutes later they were drifting under the black hull of a big steamer that lay out from Hennecker’s Wharf.
‘Are we right, Jack?’ asked van Reuth.
‘Think so,’ muttered the other, standing up. ‘Yes; we’re right. The Van Biesen.’
He gave a gentle hail, and a quiet voice responded from above.
‘You’re late, Tom.’
‘Mr. Young ain’t here, but we’ve got something for you. . . .’
The Dutchman was leaning down low over the stern. Plunging his arm up to the elbow in the water, he fumbled for a moment underneath the boat and found the tiny hook he sought for. Attached to this hook was a short length of thin wire, and van Reuth pulled out of the water the small leather case which had been fastened to the end of it. With a grunt of satisfaction he handed the case to the other man, when it was drawn up to the deck of the ship on the cord that had been lowered. There was a quick good night, and the rowing-boat moved quickly away from the steamer’s side, heading downstream for Palmer’s Stairs. . . .
Meanwhile the police had closed round ‘The Green Lantern.’ But though they searched the house and all the bedrooms of the inn, they found no trace of the proprietor. Tom Young had put into operation the plan of escape over which he had spent many hours of deep and careful thought.
CHAPTER XXX
STOP PRESS NEWS
‘They’ve gone, Gilmour,’ said Inspector Tripp. ‘Vamoosed—cleared out!’
‘The whole gang?’
‘Every one of them.’ He nodded grimly, and waved Alan to a chair beside the fire.
The hour was ten o’clock next morning, and Inspector Tripp sat at breakfast in his little flat at Westminster. He had been out all night, partly at ‘The Green Lantern,’ but most of the time at Scotland Yard at the end of a telephone.
‘I’m damned glad to see you, Gilmour,’ he added, smiling wanly. Alan could perceive that his grey eyes were tired and his face haggard: the incessant strain of the last week was beginning to tell. ‘I’m glad to see anybody who isn’t giving orders—or waiting to get ’em. It’s been nothing but orders, orders, since nine o’clock last night—over twelve solid hours of it on end.’
‘How did Tom Young manage to get away?’ inquired Alan, after a pause.
Inspector Tripp shook his head. ‘They may know at the Yard by now. Trust your wily Oriental to keep a last shot in his locker! However, we’ve discovered this much, though it isn’t any consolation now—we were right about Tom Young. He was Lord John’s “fence”, for we found a secret room in the attics with a set of diamond-cutter’s tools.’
‘And Julius Brown?’
‘Not a trace of him. As for Adrian Lister and Mrs. Prideaux, Lord John must have warned them: they’ve slipped us.’
‘Slipped you?’ exclaimed Alan. ‘But I thought the Yard had an eye on that pair.’
‘Don’t rub it in, Gilmour,’ muttered Tripp, finishing his coffee, and selecting a briar pipe from the long rack on the mantelpiece. He stood staring down into the fire for several minutes, then turned slowly to Alan.