“This brings us up to date, Dr. Petrie,” he said in a few moments, looking up and removing his glasses. “Sir Denis, and Detective-sergeant Murphy—attached to the Criminal Investigation Department—visited a restaurant in Lime-house to-night, posing as sailormen. Sir Denis——” he added, in parentheses,—”has a gift for make-up. For my own part I don’t believe in disguise at any time or in any circumstances. However—Chief detective-inspector Gallaho, one of the best men we have here—you agree with me, Faversham?—”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Chief detective-inspector Gallaho was in charge of raiding operations, assisted by . . .” there was a momentary pause, but the wonderful,memory functioned . . . “Inspector Forester of the River Police branch.”
“So I understand,” said Petrie eagerly, “but what happened?”
“The agreed signal was given,” said the Commissioner, slowly, “and the party entered the premises. But the suspects had slipped into some underground cellar, and I regret to say—for no such report has ever reached me—that an iron door was encountered.”
“An iron door?”
“I was notified by Detective-sergeant Trench, at——” he readjusted his glasses and turned over a page in the folder— “11.49 p.m. Detective-sergeant Trench,” he added, laying his glasses upon the blotting-pad, “is attached to the Flying Squad—that Gallaho was proceeding to the Kinloch Works in Silvertown in order to secure expert advice upon the forcing by explosives of this iron door, or of the wall adjoining it.”
“You will notice, sir,” said Faversham coughing respectfully, “that a party with chemical equipment according to your instructions, left at 12.15.”
The Commissioner nodded.
“I have noted this,” he replied. “The latest news, then, Dr. Petrie——” he fixed his rather tired looking blue eyes upon the latter—”is this: Sir Denis Nayland Smith, presumably accompanied by Detective-sergeant Murphy is, we must assume, a prisoner in the cellars of this place; and according to a report received not more than ten minutes ago, from Chief detective-inspector Gallaho, experts from the explosive works were about to blast a way through the concrete wall, adjoining the iron door. The party to which wing Commander Faversham refers had not then arrived.”
He paused, folded up his spectacles and placed them in a green leather case.
“I am strongly disposed,” he said, slowly, “since this is a case of major importance, to proceed to Limehouse myself;
unless definite news is received within the next five minutes. Should you care to accompany me, Dr. Petrie?”
CHAPTER 45
THE MATCH SELLER
Fey stared reflectively down from the bay window to where beyond the misty Embankment, the Thames flowed. A small steamer was passing, and Fey found himself calculating how long a time must elapse before that steamer would be traversing Limehouse Reach.
To-night, he was assured, his monotonous duty was also a useless duty. These yellow devils knew that Sir Denis was in Limehouse, but stoically Fey continued to smoke the large briar, and to walk up and down in accordance with orders. Dr. Petrie had set out for Scotland Yard not long before. It was trying, even to so patient a man, to stand so near the edge of the arena and yet be unable to see what was going on.
Fey was worried.
He had not said anything to the doctor, but through glasses from a darkened bedroom window, he had been studying an old match seller whose place of business on the Embankment almost immediately faced these flats.
Sir Denis, before leaving on that mysterious affair which still occupied him, had told Fey to watch this man and to note what he did. The man did nothing for five minutes or so, merely remaining seated against the parapet. Then he stood up.
Since Fey had assumed him to be a cripple, this was a surprise. But almost immeditately, the match vendor sat down again.
Fey continued to watch.
One of those derelicts who haunt this riverside thoroughfare came shuffling along, paused for a moment, talking to the man seated on the pavement, and then retraced his steps.
Fey had been wondering, right up to the time of Dr. Petrie’s arrival, if this had been a mere coincidence, or if it had been a signal to a second watcher that there was something to report. For the entrance to the mansions was visible from that point, and Fey was disposed to believe that Sir Denis, in spite of his disguise, had been recognized as he went out that way, and that the news of his departure had been passed on.
His theory was confirmed shortly after Dr. Petrie’s departure.
At about the time that the doctor would have been walking down the steps, the match seller stood up again . . . and again the derelict shuffled along, spoke to him and disappeared.
The match seller was in his usual position again, now, but Fey from time to time slipped into the adjoining room and inspected him through binoculars. Had orders not forbidden it he would have slipped out and had a closer look at this suspicious character. However, he had discovered something.
The apartment was under close observation—and to-night the enemy was aware that Sir Denis was not at home; aware, furthermore, that Dr. Petrie had been and had gone . . .
Dimly Fey detected the sound made by the opening of the lift gate, and knew from experience that someone was alighting on that floor. He stood still for a moment listening.
The door bell rang.
He went out into the lobby, placing his pipe in an ashtray on a side table, and opened the door.
Fleurette Petrie stood there, her hair wind-blown, her face pale!
He observed that she wore a walking suit with the strange accompaniment of red bedroom slippers. They were combing the slums of Asiatic Limehouse for her, and here she was!
Fey’s heart leapt. But his face betrayed no evidence of his Joy.
“Oh Fey!” she exclaimed, “thank heaven I have got here!”
“Very pleased to see you, Miss,” said Fey composedly.
He stood aside as she entered, noiselessly closing the door. Her excitement, intense but repressed, communicated itself to him. Its effect was to impose upon him an almost supernatural calm.
“Is Sir Denis in, Fey?”
“No, Miss. But your father was here less than twenty minutes ago.”
“What!”
Fleurette seized Fey’s arm.
“My father! Oh, Fey, were has he gone? He must be in a frightful state of mind about me. And of course, you had no news for him.”
“Very little, but I tried to reassure him.”
“But where has he gone, Fey?”
“He rang up the Commissioner, Miss, and then went across to interview him.”
“He may still be there. Could you possibly get through for me, Fey?”
“Certainly. I was about to suggest it. But can I get you anything?”
“No, Fey, thank you. I am so anxious to speak to my father.”
Fey bowed and went out into the lobby. Fleurette, tingling with excitement, crossed the room and stared out of the bay window down at the misty Embankment. She retraced her steps, and stood by the lobby door, too anxious even to await Fey’s report. He had just got through to Scotland Yard, and:
“Sir Denis Nayland Smith’s man speaking,” he said. “Would you please put me through to the Commissioner’s office?”
There was an interval which Fleurette found barely endurable, then:
“Yes, sir. Sir Denis Nayland Smith’s man speaking. Dr. Petrie left here recently to call upon the Commissioner, and I have something urgent to report to him.”
“Bad luck,” said a voice at the other end of the wire; it belonged to Faversham, the immaculate private secretary. “Dr Petrie and the Commissioner proceeded to Limehouse not more than five minutes ago.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Thank you, sir.”