‘He’s still out on the job, sir,’ said Holtby, heaving his stout bulk upright in his chair. ‘He should be back any moment now.’
The Assistant Commissioner resumed his remarks, but had not spoken more than a couple of sentences when, with a sharp preliminary knock, Tripp himself entered the room. His rain-coat, buttoned to the neck, was dripping, and a tiny stream trickled from the hat in his hand.
‘A vile night, sir,’ he remarked pleasantly, and then looked with surprise at the other officers in the room. ‘A conference?’
‘An inquest,’ said the Assistant Commissioner gravely. ‘An inquest on ourselves, Tripp.’
‘And I guess I’m the chief corpse, sir,’ remarked Tripp, wiping the rain from his face with his handkerchief. ‘I don’t suppose the fact that we’ve got Mrs. Prideaux will altogether turn the inquest into a glee-party?’
‘Got Mrs. Prideaux?’ exclaimed the Assistant Commissioner. ‘When?’
‘A message has just come through to my room from the Sussex police. They found her near Hastings. She was intending to get over to the Continent in a motor-boat. Thanks to the weather’—he glanced towards the window, against which the rain was lashing fiercely—‘she was held up.’
‘Has she anything to say?’
‘The message from Thursby was rather brief, sir, but apparently she knows very little—not even the identity of Lord John. But that’s been his game all through. The man has made use of different people, and kept them completely in the dark about himself.’
The Assistant Commissioner was frowning. ‘We know that, Tripp; it doesn’t help us. Even though we’d got the whole gang, it wouldn’t be worth a pinch of snuff to us. The real question is—and the only question—where are we going to look for Lord John?’
‘Perhaps the Marquise Hotel?’ suggested Tripp, with a smile. ‘I’ve got another piece of news for you, sir.’
There was something in his tone that made the Assistant Commissioner look at him with renewed interest. ‘Take off your wet coat and sit down, Tripp.’
‘Thanks, sir, but I’m going out again immediately. I’ve been able to trace Lord John—at least, up to a point. I know where the stuff from the “Marquise” strong-room is, and I propose to go for it now. When he left the hotel Lord John put in some pretty quick work. To start with, he went to Charing Cross Station. There he changed into a taxicab, and drove to a small hotel off the Strand, paying in advance for a double room, and leaving twelve minutes later in a new disguise—he drove away, as a matter of fact, in a small two-seater, left there by some unknown person half an hour before. This two-seater car has disappeared, but I’ve traced it as far as a small house in Shepherd’s Market.’
The Assistant Commissioner was on his feet now, his taut fingers resting on his desk. ‘Proceed, Tripp,’ he said shortly.
‘That’s all, sir,’ replied Tripp, ‘or nearly all. I’ve made one arrest in the vicinity, but that’s a long story. If you don’t mind, I’ll push off. I’ll be back here in half an hour. There’s a young fellow who has given some valuable help to the Yard—I’ve mentioned him before: Gilmour’s his name—and he’s helping me to-night.’
From this juncture Tripp’s movements were rapid. A police-car swept him up Whitehall, along Pall Mall, then into Piccadilly. A little beyond the Queen’s Walk he dismissed it, making through the rain on foot towards Shepherd’s Market. At the corner a man stepped forward, whispered a few sentences, and Tripp nodded and hurried on. Under the next lamp-post he paused and turned into a doorway, making for the small flat on the second floor. The brief message at the corner had told him all he wanted to know—that the flat was already in the hands of the police—and he knocked gently.
The door was opened at once. ‘That you, sir? This is Barton. We’ve got the stuff, but no signs of our man.’ The sergeant’s voice was quiet in the darkness. ‘Close the door and come along here, sir; it’s worth seeing.’ An electric torch played on the floor. ‘I won’t turn on the lights.’
Sergeant Barton led Tripp into a small room at the back. Making certain that the curtains were drawn, he indicated a lock which he had forced, then pushed back a sliding door where a huge wardrobe, built against the wall, occupied the entire width of the room. Inside, carefully arranged on hangers, were suits of clothes, dozens of them, ranging from dress-suits to the roughest corduroys and patched and tattered overcoats. On the floor were shoes and boots of all descriptions. Leaning forward, Barton lifted the lid of a small trunk; it contained as elaborate materials for makeup as could be found at any theatrical costumier’s in London.
‘He couldn’t have chosen a better spot, sir,’ remarked the sergeant. ‘Right in the centre of the West End, and that passage downstairs gives him an exit into the street behind. You’re going back now, sir?’
‘I’m going to the Yard.’
‘You’ll take the “Marquise” stuff with you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hadn’t I better send a patrol along with you, sir? Even now, Lord John may have a last go for it——’
‘He may!’ said Tripp, and laughed. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve every hope I may take back Lord John himself with me to the Yard!’
Sergeant Barton gave vent to a deep chuckle.
‘Good luck to you, sir! Anyhow, if he comes back here we’ll have him—I’ve got three men ready in the front room.’
‘Lord John won’t come back here,’ said Tripp confidently. They spoke in the tiny hall for several seconds, then the detective hurried downstairs with a grey suit-case in either hand. He had dismissed the police-car, but he picked up a taxi-cab a dozen yards away, and ordered the driver to go as quickly as he could to the Marquise Hotel.
When they drew up at the lighted portico, Tripp sat still in the cab. ‘Will you wait a moment?’ he asked the commissionaire who came forward to open the door. Scribbling a few lines in his note-book, he tore out the page and carefully folded it several times. ‘I believe Sir Richard Templeton is in the hotel. Will you have this sent up to him at once? I’ll wait here for an answer.’
But nearly five minutes had passed before the barrister appeared and hurried across the wet pavement under the commissionaire’s umbrella.
‘I was in the middle of a telephone conversation when your note was sent up to me,’ said Templeton. ‘You want me to come with you?’
‘Yes, I would like you to come, Sir Richard,’ said Inspector Tripp quietly. ‘There’s a rather important conference on at the Yard, and I’m sure your presence would be appreciated.
He pushed aside the two suit-cases, and after a momentary hesitation the barrister got in beside him.
‘Scotland Yard, please!’ said Tripp, and the commissionaire repeated the words in a slightly awed voice.
Inspector Tripp was silent on that brief drive down Whitehall. He knew the ensuing few minutes were probably the most critical of his entire career. The least slip . . . But he refused to think of failure at this, the eleventh hour.