Chapter XXIIISteadman read the note over twice. Was it possible that they had an unknown friend in this haunt of the Yellow Gang? Or was it just another trap laid for them like the other communications that the inspector had received?However, there was no time for deliberation. He turned to the inspector, knife in hand. To cut the bonds that bound the detective was an easy matter, even for his stiffened hands, in comparison with the difficulty of freeing himself. Then, taking the gag from his mouth, he saw that the lips were bruised and swollen both inside and out, and the gag had been thrust in with such brutality that the tongue had been forced backwards and several teeth loosened. As the inspector began to breathe more freely the blood poured from his mouth. But there was no time to be lost.Steadman left his fellow-prisoner to recover himself while he padded across to the bars. In a moment he saw that his unknown informant was right. The bars would move upwards in their groove, easily enough. Evidently this window was used as a means of egress to the river. Inconvenient things could be pushed through and lost too! When the bars had gone, the window frame was quite wide enough to let a man get through. He leaned out. The moon was shining brightly, and he could see various small craft riding at anchor. As he spoke he heard the splash of oars and realized that at all hazards they must get into the river while the boat was about. Therein lay their hope of safety. He turned to the inspector, who had just struggled to his feet.“Can you swim, Furnival?”“Got the swimming medal at the Force Sports in 1912,” the detective replied tersely. “I haven't quite forgotten the trick.”“I wasn't bad as a young man,” the barrister said modestly. “We must do our best, you see.” He held out the note. “There is no time to be lost.”“If we are to turn the tables on the Yellow Dog,” the inspector said, speaking as plainly as his sore mouth would allow. He looked at the note. “Who wrote this?”“I haven't the least idea,” Steadman replied truthfully.The inspector stooped stiffly and picked up the knife. Then he looked at the door which opened inwards.“We might keep them back for a bit with this, perhaps.” He went back and stuck the knife under the door, so that anybody trying to open it would inevitably jam it on the handle.In the meantime Steadman had twisted himself, not without difficulty, up to the window frame. He peered down. The water was still some distance below them, and it looked particularly dark and gloomy, but at any rate it was better than falling alive into the hands of the Yellow Dog. He tore the note into tiny fragments and let them fall into the river. Then he called out:“Come along, inspector. Pile up the rugs. They will give you a bit of a leg up.”Furnival pushed them along before him.“Now, Mr. Steadman, are you going first?”“I suppose so,” said the barrister dubiously. “You had better look sharp after me, inspector. They may hear the first splash, and then——”At this moment they became aware of steps and voices in the passage. The inspector almost pushed his companion off and hoisted himself in his place on the window frame. Steadman had no time to dive. He went down, it seemed to him, with a deafening splash and a roar of churning paddles. The inspector came down at once almost on top of him. The water felt bitterly cold, but after the first shock it braced their jangled nerves; its very cold was grateful to their bruised bodies.The two men came up almost together, and moved by the same impulse struck out for the middle of the river. The moonshine was lying like silver sheen on the surface of the water. Steadman realized that their heads must afford a capital target to any members of the Yellow Gang who were in the house they had left. The thought had barely formulated itself before a shot rang out and he felt something just rush by his ear and miss it. There came another shot and another, and a groan from the inspector. Steadman realized that he was hit, but the injury must have been slight, for the inspector was swimming onwards. Meanwhile the shots were not passing unnoticed. From the small craft around, from the houses on the bank there came shouts; lights were flashed here, there and everywhere. Steadman became conscious of a familiar sound—that of the rhythmic splash of oars working in concert. He trod water and listened.There came a gasping shout from the detective.“The police patrol from the motor-launch down the river! They have heard the shots.”He struck out towards the on-coming boat, Steadman following to the best of his ability. The inspector's shout was answered from the boat. It lay to and waited, and the two in the river could see the men in the boat leaning over peering into the water. There came no more shots, but as the inspector swam forward Steadman knew that the police boat had sighted them, and in another moment they were alongside.Willing hands were stretched out, and they were hauled up the boat's side. The inspector's first proceeding as soon as he had got his breath was to order the boat to lie to so that he might locate the house and if possible the window by which they had escaped. The police officer in charge looked at him curiously; it was evident that he resented the authoritative tone; and as he met his glance Steadman at any rate realized something of the extraordinary figures they must present to his eyes. Stark naked, bruised from head to foot, with faces bleeding and in the inspector's case swollen out of all recognition they looked singularly unlike Inspector Furnival, the terror of the criminal classes, or John Steadman, the usually immaculately attired barrister.But they were being offered overcoats; as the inspector slipped into his, he said sharply:“Inspector Furnival, of the C.I.D., Scotland Yard.”The police officer's manner underwent an instant modification.“I beg your pardon, sir. You have been conducting a raid down here?”The inspector would have smiled if his bruised face had allowed him.“I fancy the raid has been rather the other way about,” he said ruefully. “We have been trying to make some discoveries about the Yellow Gang, laying a trap for the Yellow Dog, but unluckily we fell into the trap ourselves, as you see. Now, will you give me a bit of paper, officer. I want to take the bearings of this place. It is evidently one of the outlets of the Yellow Gang.”He looked across; on that side for quite a considerable distance the buildings abutted right on to the river. Farther along there appeared to be small boat-building plants, but just here there seemed to be only tall warehouses, and in almost every case the doors and windows were barred. Look as they would neither Steadman nor the inspector could identify the building from which they had sprung, and curiously enough no one in the boat had seen them until they were in the water. Some little time was spent in making fruitless inquiries of the small craft at hand. Though it would seem impossible that their plunge had been absolutely unseen, yet to discover any witnesses would evidently be a work of time and time was just then particularly precious to the inspector. Giving the search up as useless he had the boat rowed back to the police launch. Distinct as the C.I.D. is from the River Police, the different branches of the service are frequently brought into contact. Inspector Furnival found friends on the motor-launch at once, and he and Steadman were soon supplied with clothes and everything they needed. Then, declining the police officer's offer of rest, the inspector asked to be put on land. It was still dark but for the moonlight, but their various adventures had taken time. It was later than the inspector thought, and all along the river bank the various activities were awaking.The inspector chartered a taxi; when they were both inside he turned to Steadman.“I believe I owe you my life, Mr. Steadman. But I think I shall have to defer my thanks until—I am out to catch the Yellow Dog and I mean to have another try this morning before he has had time to get away.”“I am with you,” John Steadman said heartily. “And as for thanks, inspector, why, when we have caught the Yellow Dog we will thank one another.”The inspector had directed their taxi to drive to Scotland Yard, but half-way there he changed his mind and told the man to drive to the scene of their late experience.They got out as nearly as possible at the same place, but from there the inspector only went a little distance before he blew his whistle. It was answered by another and a couple of men in plain clothes appeared.“Ah, Murphy, Jackson,” said the inspector. “Well, what news?”The men stared at him in a species of stupefaction, then the one whom he had addressed as Murphy spoke with a gasp:“Why, inspector, we have been round the house all night—every means of egress watched. And yet—here you are!”“Umph! You didn't see me come out, did you?” the inspector said gruffly. “Never mind, Murphy, you are not to blame. What have you to report?”Murphy saluted.“Nothing, sir. No one has come in or out since you were admitted last night.”“Good!” The inspector turned to Steadman. “Now, I think we will go in again by the front door, sir. And come out the same way this time, I hope. Murphy, bring six of your best men along, and post others all round the house. We shall probably have to rush it.”He and Steadman walked on, realizing to the full how stiff and bruised their limbs were as they went. Once the inspector spat out a couple of teeth. Steadman's sides and back felt absolutely raw. His borrowed clothes chafed them unbearably.Thecul-de-saclooked absolutely quiet and deserted when they entered it. The inspector's thunderous knock at the door roused the echoes all round, but it brought no reply. In the meantime Murphy and his men had marched in behind them.The inspector knocked again. This time as they listened they heard lumbering steps coming down the passage. There was a great withdrawal of bolts and unlocking of locks and the door was opened a very little way, just enough to allow a man's face, heavy, unshaven, to peer forth.“Now what is the—all this 'ere noise abaht?” a rough voice demanded.The inspector put his foot between the door and the post.“Stand aside, my man!” he commanded sternly. “I hold a warrant to search this house.”“Wot?” The door opened with such suddenness that the inspector almost fell inside. “Wot are you a goin' to search for? We are all honest folk here. Anyway, if you was King George 'imself you will have to give my missis and the kids time to get their duds on, for decency's sake.”This eloquent appeal apparently produced no effect upon the inspector. He stepped inside with a slight motion of his hand to the men behind. Four of them followed with Steadman, the others stood by the door in thecul-de-sac. The man who had opened the door backed against the wall, and stood gazing at them in open-mouthed astonishment.Meanwhile the inspector was looking about him with sharp observant eyes. He threw back the doors one on each side of the passage. The first opened into a small room with a round table in the middle, a few books that looked like school prizes ranged at regular intervals round a vase of wax flowers in the middle, and an aspidistra on a small table in front of the window, from which light and air were rigorously excluded by the heavy shutters.With a hasty glance round the inspector and his satellites went on, speaking not at all, but with eyes that missed no smallest detail. Not that there was any detail to be observed, as far as Steadman could see. This commonplace little house was absolutely unlike that other which had been but the threshold of the headquarters of the Yellow Gang—as unlike as its stupid-looking tenant was to the silky-voiced, slippery-handed members of the Yellow Gang. The passage into which that first door of mystery had opened had been much longer than this, which was just a counterpart of thousands of houses of its type.The passage, instead of lengthening out as that one of Steadman's recollection had done, ended with the flight of narrow stairs that led to the upper regions and over the balustrade of which sundry undressed and grimy children's heads were peering. The barrister began to tell himself that in spite of the certainty the inspector had displayed they must have made a mistake. Doubtless in this unsavoury part of the metropolis there must be manyculs-de-sacthe counterpart of the one in which was the entrance to the home of the Yellow Gang. The master of the house began to rouse himself from his stupor of astonishment.“This 'ere's an outrage, that's wot it is,” he growled. “Might as well live in Russia, we might. No! You don't go upstairs, not if you was King George and the Pope of Rome rolled into one.”This to the inspector who was crawling up the staircase as well as his stiffened limbs would allow. He looked over the side now.“Don't trouble yourself, my man. I have no particular interest in the upper part of your house at present.”Something in his tone seemed to cow the man, who opened the kitchen door and slunk inside.The inspector beckoned to the man behind Steadman.“Simmonds, tell Gordon to come inside, then send a S.O.S. message to headquarters.” Then he hobbled downstairs again. “This grows interesting, Mr. Steadman.”The barrister looked at him.“It seems pretty obvious to me that we have made a mistake. And I can't say that standing about in cold passages at this hour in the morning is exactly an amusement that appeals to me; especially after our experiences in the night.”The inspector looked at him curiously.“You think we have made a mistake in the house?”The barrister raised his eyebrows.“What else am I to think?”For answer the inspector held out his hand, palm uppermost. It was apparently empty, but as Steadman, more short-sighted than ever without his monocle, stared down at it he saw that in it lay a tiny yellow fragment. For a moment the full significance of that bit of silk did not dawn on John Steadman, but when he looked up his face was very stern.“Where did you find this?”“Wedged in between the stairs and the wall,” the inspector answered. “There is a larger piece higher up, but this is enough for me.”“And for me!” Steadman said grimly.“Gordon is the best carpenter and joiner I know,” the inspector went on. “We keep him permanently available for our work. He will soon find the way to the Yellow Room and then—well, some of the Yellow Gang's secrets will be in our hands at any rate.”As the last word left his lips Gordon came in with another man. Both carried bags of tools. The inspector gave them a few instructions in a low tone, then he pointed to the staircase.“Last night that was not there. Where it stands an opening went straight through to the next house.”Gordon touched his head in salute.“Very good, sir!” He looked in his basket and chose out a couple of tools—chisels, and a strange-looking bar, tapering down to a point as fine as a knife, but very long and several inches thick most of the way to the other end. Then, apparently undeterred by the magnitude of his task, he walked up to the top of the staircase and sat down on the top step. His assistant followed with a collection of hammers ranging from one small enough for a doll's house to the size used by colliers in the pits. They held a consultation together, and then Gordon inserted his chisel in a crack. The other man raised one of the mighty hammers and brought it down with a crash that rang through the house. It did not rouse the master of the dwelling, however. He seemed to have taken permanent refuge in the kitchen. There were no children's heads hanging over the banisters now. The house might have been absolutely deserted but for the inspector and his party. Presently the inspector went up to the couple on the stairs and after talking to them for a minute or two came back to Steadman.“The whole staircase is movable, Mr. Steadman. They have loosened it at the top. Stand aside in one of the rooms in case it comes down quicker than we expect. No doubt the Yellow Gang had some way of opening it which we have not discovered, but this will serve well enough.”“What about the children upstairs?” Steadman asked.The inspector smiled in a twisted fashion.“Little beggars! They will be taken care of all right. The parents were well prepared for some such eventuality as this, you may be sure.”Steadman said no more. He stood back with the inspector, while the others of their following went to Gordon's help. There was more crashing, quantities of dust and a splintering of wood, and at last the staircase came suddenly away. Behind it a locked door the width of the passage blocked their way.To open it was only the work of a minute, and then the inspector and Steadman found themselves in the scene of last night's exploits. The Yellow Room looked garish and shabby with the clear morning light stealing in. The chairs in which they had sat had gone, otherwise everything looked much the same.But time was too precious to be spent in examining the Yellow Room, interesting though it might be. The inspector was out to catch the members of the Yellow Gang; but, though, once the staircase was down, to get from one room to the other of the perfect rabbit warren of small houses which had been devised for the safety of the Yellow Gang and its spoils presented little difficulty, the inspector, standing in that room by the river, had to acknowledge that the Yellow Dog and his satellites had outwitted him again. The only member of the Gang that remained in their hands was the man who had opened the first door to them. Not a sign of any other living creature was to be seen. Even the wife and children had disappeared.But, as Furnival and John Steadman stood there talking, a tiny wisp of grey vapour came floating down the passage, another came, and yet another.“Smoke!” the inspector cried.And as the two men turned back, and heard the clamour arise, while the smoke seemed to be everywhere at once, and over all sounded the crackling of the flames and the ringing of the alarm bells, they realized that the Yellow Gang was not done with yet.
Steadman read the note over twice. Was it possible that they had an unknown friend in this haunt of the Yellow Gang? Or was it just another trap laid for them like the other communications that the inspector had received?
However, there was no time for deliberation. He turned to the inspector, knife in hand. To cut the bonds that bound the detective was an easy matter, even for his stiffened hands, in comparison with the difficulty of freeing himself. Then, taking the gag from his mouth, he saw that the lips were bruised and swollen both inside and out, and the gag had been thrust in with such brutality that the tongue had been forced backwards and several teeth loosened. As the inspector began to breathe more freely the blood poured from his mouth. But there was no time to be lost.
Steadman left his fellow-prisoner to recover himself while he padded across to the bars. In a moment he saw that his unknown informant was right. The bars would move upwards in their groove, easily enough. Evidently this window was used as a means of egress to the river. Inconvenient things could be pushed through and lost too! When the bars had gone, the window frame was quite wide enough to let a man get through. He leaned out. The moon was shining brightly, and he could see various small craft riding at anchor. As he spoke he heard the splash of oars and realized that at all hazards they must get into the river while the boat was about. Therein lay their hope of safety. He turned to the inspector, who had just struggled to his feet.
“Can you swim, Furnival?”
“Got the swimming medal at the Force Sports in 1912,” the detective replied tersely. “I haven't quite forgotten the trick.”
“I wasn't bad as a young man,” the barrister said modestly. “We must do our best, you see.” He held out the note. “There is no time to be lost.”
“If we are to turn the tables on the Yellow Dog,” the inspector said, speaking as plainly as his sore mouth would allow. He looked at the note. “Who wrote this?”
“I haven't the least idea,” Steadman replied truthfully.
The inspector stooped stiffly and picked up the knife. Then he looked at the door which opened inwards.
“We might keep them back for a bit with this, perhaps.” He went back and stuck the knife under the door, so that anybody trying to open it would inevitably jam it on the handle.
In the meantime Steadman had twisted himself, not without difficulty, up to the window frame. He peered down. The water was still some distance below them, and it looked particularly dark and gloomy, but at any rate it was better than falling alive into the hands of the Yellow Dog. He tore the note into tiny fragments and let them fall into the river. Then he called out:
“Come along, inspector. Pile up the rugs. They will give you a bit of a leg up.”
Furnival pushed them along before him.
“Now, Mr. Steadman, are you going first?”
“I suppose so,” said the barrister dubiously. “You had better look sharp after me, inspector. They may hear the first splash, and then——”
At this moment they became aware of steps and voices in the passage. The inspector almost pushed his companion off and hoisted himself in his place on the window frame. Steadman had no time to dive. He went down, it seemed to him, with a deafening splash and a roar of churning paddles. The inspector came down at once almost on top of him. The water felt bitterly cold, but after the first shock it braced their jangled nerves; its very cold was grateful to their bruised bodies.
The two men came up almost together, and moved by the same impulse struck out for the middle of the river. The moonshine was lying like silver sheen on the surface of the water. Steadman realized that their heads must afford a capital target to any members of the Yellow Gang who were in the house they had left. The thought had barely formulated itself before a shot rang out and he felt something just rush by his ear and miss it. There came another shot and another, and a groan from the inspector. Steadman realized that he was hit, but the injury must have been slight, for the inspector was swimming onwards. Meanwhile the shots were not passing unnoticed. From the small craft around, from the houses on the bank there came shouts; lights were flashed here, there and everywhere. Steadman became conscious of a familiar sound—that of the rhythmic splash of oars working in concert. He trod water and listened.
There came a gasping shout from the detective.
“The police patrol from the motor-launch down the river! They have heard the shots.”
He struck out towards the on-coming boat, Steadman following to the best of his ability. The inspector's shout was answered from the boat. It lay to and waited, and the two in the river could see the men in the boat leaning over peering into the water. There came no more shots, but as the inspector swam forward Steadman knew that the police boat had sighted them, and in another moment they were alongside.
Willing hands were stretched out, and they were hauled up the boat's side. The inspector's first proceeding as soon as he had got his breath was to order the boat to lie to so that he might locate the house and if possible the window by which they had escaped. The police officer in charge looked at him curiously; it was evident that he resented the authoritative tone; and as he met his glance Steadman at any rate realized something of the extraordinary figures they must present to his eyes. Stark naked, bruised from head to foot, with faces bleeding and in the inspector's case swollen out of all recognition they looked singularly unlike Inspector Furnival, the terror of the criminal classes, or John Steadman, the usually immaculately attired barrister.
But they were being offered overcoats; as the inspector slipped into his, he said sharply:
“Inspector Furnival, of the C.I.D., Scotland Yard.”
The police officer's manner underwent an instant modification.
“I beg your pardon, sir. You have been conducting a raid down here?”
The inspector would have smiled if his bruised face had allowed him.
“I fancy the raid has been rather the other way about,” he said ruefully. “We have been trying to make some discoveries about the Yellow Gang, laying a trap for the Yellow Dog, but unluckily we fell into the trap ourselves, as you see. Now, will you give me a bit of paper, officer. I want to take the bearings of this place. It is evidently one of the outlets of the Yellow Gang.”
He looked across; on that side for quite a considerable distance the buildings abutted right on to the river. Farther along there appeared to be small boat-building plants, but just here there seemed to be only tall warehouses, and in almost every case the doors and windows were barred. Look as they would neither Steadman nor the inspector could identify the building from which they had sprung, and curiously enough no one in the boat had seen them until they were in the water. Some little time was spent in making fruitless inquiries of the small craft at hand. Though it would seem impossible that their plunge had been absolutely unseen, yet to discover any witnesses would evidently be a work of time and time was just then particularly precious to the inspector. Giving the search up as useless he had the boat rowed back to the police launch. Distinct as the C.I.D. is from the River Police, the different branches of the service are frequently brought into contact. Inspector Furnival found friends on the motor-launch at once, and he and Steadman were soon supplied with clothes and everything they needed. Then, declining the police officer's offer of rest, the inspector asked to be put on land. It was still dark but for the moonlight, but their various adventures had taken time. It was later than the inspector thought, and all along the river bank the various activities were awaking.
The inspector chartered a taxi; when they were both inside he turned to Steadman.
“I believe I owe you my life, Mr. Steadman. But I think I shall have to defer my thanks until—I am out to catch the Yellow Dog and I mean to have another try this morning before he has had time to get away.”
“I am with you,” John Steadman said heartily. “And as for thanks, inspector, why, when we have caught the Yellow Dog we will thank one another.”
The inspector had directed their taxi to drive to Scotland Yard, but half-way there he changed his mind and told the man to drive to the scene of their late experience.
They got out as nearly as possible at the same place, but from there the inspector only went a little distance before he blew his whistle. It was answered by another and a couple of men in plain clothes appeared.
“Ah, Murphy, Jackson,” said the inspector. “Well, what news?”
The men stared at him in a species of stupefaction, then the one whom he had addressed as Murphy spoke with a gasp:
“Why, inspector, we have been round the house all night—every means of egress watched. And yet—here you are!”
“Umph! You didn't see me come out, did you?” the inspector said gruffly. “Never mind, Murphy, you are not to blame. What have you to report?”
Murphy saluted.
“Nothing, sir. No one has come in or out since you were admitted last night.”
“Good!” The inspector turned to Steadman. “Now, I think we will go in again by the front door, sir. And come out the same way this time, I hope. Murphy, bring six of your best men along, and post others all round the house. We shall probably have to rush it.”
He and Steadman walked on, realizing to the full how stiff and bruised their limbs were as they went. Once the inspector spat out a couple of teeth. Steadman's sides and back felt absolutely raw. His borrowed clothes chafed them unbearably.
Thecul-de-saclooked absolutely quiet and deserted when they entered it. The inspector's thunderous knock at the door roused the echoes all round, but it brought no reply. In the meantime Murphy and his men had marched in behind them.
The inspector knocked again. This time as they listened they heard lumbering steps coming down the passage. There was a great withdrawal of bolts and unlocking of locks and the door was opened a very little way, just enough to allow a man's face, heavy, unshaven, to peer forth.
“Now what is the—all this 'ere noise abaht?” a rough voice demanded.
The inspector put his foot between the door and the post.
“Stand aside, my man!” he commanded sternly. “I hold a warrant to search this house.”
“Wot?” The door opened with such suddenness that the inspector almost fell inside. “Wot are you a goin' to search for? We are all honest folk here. Anyway, if you was King George 'imself you will have to give my missis and the kids time to get their duds on, for decency's sake.”
This eloquent appeal apparently produced no effect upon the inspector. He stepped inside with a slight motion of his hand to the men behind. Four of them followed with Steadman, the others stood by the door in thecul-de-sac. The man who had opened the door backed against the wall, and stood gazing at them in open-mouthed astonishment.
Meanwhile the inspector was looking about him with sharp observant eyes. He threw back the doors one on each side of the passage. The first opened into a small room with a round table in the middle, a few books that looked like school prizes ranged at regular intervals round a vase of wax flowers in the middle, and an aspidistra on a small table in front of the window, from which light and air were rigorously excluded by the heavy shutters.
With a hasty glance round the inspector and his satellites went on, speaking not at all, but with eyes that missed no smallest detail. Not that there was any detail to be observed, as far as Steadman could see. This commonplace little house was absolutely unlike that other which had been but the threshold of the headquarters of the Yellow Gang—as unlike as its stupid-looking tenant was to the silky-voiced, slippery-handed members of the Yellow Gang. The passage into which that first door of mystery had opened had been much longer than this, which was just a counterpart of thousands of houses of its type.
The passage, instead of lengthening out as that one of Steadman's recollection had done, ended with the flight of narrow stairs that led to the upper regions and over the balustrade of which sundry undressed and grimy children's heads were peering. The barrister began to tell himself that in spite of the certainty the inspector had displayed they must have made a mistake. Doubtless in this unsavoury part of the metropolis there must be manyculs-de-sacthe counterpart of the one in which was the entrance to the home of the Yellow Gang. The master of the house began to rouse himself from his stupor of astonishment.
“This 'ere's an outrage, that's wot it is,” he growled. “Might as well live in Russia, we might. No! You don't go upstairs, not if you was King George and the Pope of Rome rolled into one.”
This to the inspector who was crawling up the staircase as well as his stiffened limbs would allow. He looked over the side now.
“Don't trouble yourself, my man. I have no particular interest in the upper part of your house at present.”
Something in his tone seemed to cow the man, who opened the kitchen door and slunk inside.
The inspector beckoned to the man behind Steadman.
“Simmonds, tell Gordon to come inside, then send a S.O.S. message to headquarters.” Then he hobbled downstairs again. “This grows interesting, Mr. Steadman.”
The barrister looked at him.
“It seems pretty obvious to me that we have made a mistake. And I can't say that standing about in cold passages at this hour in the morning is exactly an amusement that appeals to me; especially after our experiences in the night.”
The inspector looked at him curiously.
“You think we have made a mistake in the house?”
The barrister raised his eyebrows.
“What else am I to think?”
For answer the inspector held out his hand, palm uppermost. It was apparently empty, but as Steadman, more short-sighted than ever without his monocle, stared down at it he saw that in it lay a tiny yellow fragment. For a moment the full significance of that bit of silk did not dawn on John Steadman, but when he looked up his face was very stern.
“Where did you find this?”
“Wedged in between the stairs and the wall,” the inspector answered. “There is a larger piece higher up, but this is enough for me.”
“And for me!” Steadman said grimly.
“Gordon is the best carpenter and joiner I know,” the inspector went on. “We keep him permanently available for our work. He will soon find the way to the Yellow Room and then—well, some of the Yellow Gang's secrets will be in our hands at any rate.”
As the last word left his lips Gordon came in with another man. Both carried bags of tools. The inspector gave them a few instructions in a low tone, then he pointed to the staircase.
“Last night that was not there. Where it stands an opening went straight through to the next house.”
Gordon touched his head in salute.
“Very good, sir!” He looked in his basket and chose out a couple of tools—chisels, and a strange-looking bar, tapering down to a point as fine as a knife, but very long and several inches thick most of the way to the other end. Then, apparently undeterred by the magnitude of his task, he walked up to the top of the staircase and sat down on the top step. His assistant followed with a collection of hammers ranging from one small enough for a doll's house to the size used by colliers in the pits. They held a consultation together, and then Gordon inserted his chisel in a crack. The other man raised one of the mighty hammers and brought it down with a crash that rang through the house. It did not rouse the master of the dwelling, however. He seemed to have taken permanent refuge in the kitchen. There were no children's heads hanging over the banisters now. The house might have been absolutely deserted but for the inspector and his party. Presently the inspector went up to the couple on the stairs and after talking to them for a minute or two came back to Steadman.
“The whole staircase is movable, Mr. Steadman. They have loosened it at the top. Stand aside in one of the rooms in case it comes down quicker than we expect. No doubt the Yellow Gang had some way of opening it which we have not discovered, but this will serve well enough.”
“What about the children upstairs?” Steadman asked.
The inspector smiled in a twisted fashion.
“Little beggars! They will be taken care of all right. The parents were well prepared for some such eventuality as this, you may be sure.”
Steadman said no more. He stood back with the inspector, while the others of their following went to Gordon's help. There was more crashing, quantities of dust and a splintering of wood, and at last the staircase came suddenly away. Behind it a locked door the width of the passage blocked their way.
To open it was only the work of a minute, and then the inspector and Steadman found themselves in the scene of last night's exploits. The Yellow Room looked garish and shabby with the clear morning light stealing in. The chairs in which they had sat had gone, otherwise everything looked much the same.
But time was too precious to be spent in examining the Yellow Room, interesting though it might be. The inspector was out to catch the members of the Yellow Gang; but, though, once the staircase was down, to get from one room to the other of the perfect rabbit warren of small houses which had been devised for the safety of the Yellow Gang and its spoils presented little difficulty, the inspector, standing in that room by the river, had to acknowledge that the Yellow Dog and his satellites had outwitted him again. The only member of the Gang that remained in their hands was the man who had opened the first door to them. Not a sign of any other living creature was to be seen. Even the wife and children had disappeared.
But, as Furnival and John Steadman stood there talking, a tiny wisp of grey vapour came floating down the passage, another came, and yet another.
“Smoke!” the inspector cried.
And as the two men turned back, and heard the clamour arise, while the smoke seemed to be everywhere at once, and over all sounded the crackling of the flames and the ringing of the alarm bells, they realized that the Yellow Gang was not done with yet.