Chapter VIII.At No. 407, Praed StreetAlthough the unexplained murders which had taken place in Praed Street were soon forgotten by the general public, their shadow hung heavily over the neighbourhood in which they had been committed. The fact that the three deaths had taken place within comparatively few hundred yards of one another could not fail to have its effect upon the local imagination. A very noticeable change came over the usual cheerful and careless life of Praed Street. The evening pavements were no longer blocked by a strolling, noisy crowd. Women and children were rarely to be seen abroad after dark. Even men, traversing the street upon their lawful occasions, had a way of keeping close to the inner side of the pavements, and crossing the road upon the approach of any unfamiliar form.Christmas passed in this atmosphere of intangible fear; the old year died and the new year came in with a welcome spell of clear and frosty weather. But, in spite of the fact that no further tragedies occurred, the shadow still lay heavily upon the district. Ludgrove, listening to the whispered and entangled stories of his clients, became more and more certain that, even in the hidden depths of the underworld, there was no knowledge of the agency by which the crimes had been committed.Had such knowledge existed, it must inevitably have been divulged to him. The police, under the direction of Inspector Whyland, were engaged in passing a fine-toothed comb through the Paddington district, and the minor offenders disturbed in this process were as concerned as a colony of ants unearthed by a spade. Mr. Ludgrove was visited furtively late at night by anxious people seeking advice how to conceal the evidence of their misdemeanours from the prying eyes of the police. He questioned each of these closely, but the more he did so the more he became convinced that none of them had the slightest inkling of the perpetrator of the murders.Another section of his clients, however, equally furtive and mysterious, had clues in plenty, which they seemed to think entitled them to some reward. These, after assuring themselves that no one could overhear them, would produce an incoherent story of how one of their neighbours must be the criminal. He had been heard to utter threats that he would do some one in some day, he had been in Praed Street on the night when Mr. Tovey was murdered, in the neighbourhood of Paddington station when Mr. Pargent was killed. Others, again, had met a muffled figure brandishing a knife, or had seen a dark man with a beard standing in the shadow thrown by a projecting wall. Two or three searching questions were always sufficient to prove that their suspicions were baseless.The murders in Praed Street were thus peculiar in the annals of crime. In nearly every case of a crime being committed, there are others besides the criminal who know all the facts. The police know this, but their great difficulty is to secure evidence sufficiently convincing to lead to a conviction. There is a certainesprit de corpsin the constant strife between the professional criminal and the police, and those who know are careful to keep their knowledge to themselves. But in this case, had there been any of the inhabitants of the district in the secret, Mr. Ludgrove would have obtained some hint of it. It seemed conclusive that the criminal was either working alone and independently, or came from some other district.This was the state of affairs towards the end of January. The police were completely baffled; Inspector Whyland, although he still favoured the theory he had evolved in the picture-house, had failed to find any evidence upon which he could act. He hardly knew whether to attribute Mr. Copperdock’s story of his meeting with the black sailor to pure hallucination, or to an attempt to divert suspicion from himself. In either case, it could be made to fit in with the theory that he had murdered Richard Pargent under the influence of what the psychologists called an imitative complex. Whyland redoubled his activities, and a most accurate watch was kept upon Mr. Copperdock’s movements. A month had elapsed since the murder of Richard Pargent when Mr. Jacob Martin, the prosperous wine merchant of the Barbican, opening his morning post in his comfortable office, came upon a typewritten envelope, marked “Private and Confidential.” He ripped it open with the paper cutter which lay upon his desk, and unfolded the letter it contained. It also was typewritten, on plain paper. Only the signature “John Lacey” was in ink.Mr. Martin, a portly, grey-haired man of between fifty and sixty, read the letter through twice, with a gathering frown upon his face. He had prospered exceedingly since the day when he had first set up in business for himself as a wine merchant, so much so that his competitors wondered at his success. There had, from time to time been rumours, quickly suppressed, to the effect that Mr. Martin had other means of livelihood than his ostensible business. But Mr. Martin was a remarkably astute man, and had hitherto managed to avoid undue inquisitiveness.And now, like a bolt from the blue, came this extraordinary letter. Confound John Lacey, and his prying habits, whoever he might be. That little cellar under the back office! How well he remembered it. It had been the scene of many most profitable transactions, had harboured treasures for which the police of two continents had searched in vain. For Mr. Martin was a receiver of stolen goods, not a mere general practitioner of the art, but a specialist whose services were utilized only by the aristocracy of thieves, and whose particular function was turning into cash only the most valuable jewellery.With an exclamation of annoyance Mr. Martin turned once more to the letter. “Dear Sir, I venture to address you upon a subject which will no doubt interest you,” it ran. “I have recently acquired a lease of the premises No. 407, Praed Street, which I understand, were in your occupation up till some fifteen years ago. Since you vacated them, these premises have been occupied by a clothier, who did not require the extensive cellarage, which was boarded up. In the course of certain alterations which I am having made to the premises, the entrance to the cellars has once again been opened. In the course of my investigations I have made a most interesting discovery in the small cellar beneath the back office.“I should perhaps report this discovery to the authorities, but I have thought it best to consult you upon the matter before doing so. This letter should reach you by the first post to-morrow (Saturday) morning. I should be glad if you could make it convenient to meet me on the premises at 2 p.m. that day, when the workmen who are at present employed there will have gone. I can then show you my discovery, and we can consult upon the most suitable steps to be taken in the matter. Should you not find this convenient, I shall assume that the subject does not interest you, and shall report the matter forthwith to the police. Yours faithfully, John Lacey.”A blackmailing letter, without a doubt, Mr. Martin could see at a glance. But what on earth could the fellow have discovered? Fifteen years ago, when Mr. Martin moved from Praed Street to the Barbican, he had taken the utmost care to destroy every trace of the purpose to which that little cellar had been put. He racked his brains to try and think of anything that could possibly have been overlooked, but without success. Even those ingeniously contrived recesses in the walls had been torn out, leaving nothing but the bare brick. Mr. Martin had done the work with his own hands, not caring to trust anyone else with so delicate a matter. Yet, after all, in spite of all his care, he must have left some clue, which this infernal fellow Lacey had somehow blundered upon.He brushed aside as absurd the suggestion that “Lacey” could conceal the identity of one of those with whom he had done business, who knew the secret of the cellar and had adopted this clumsy plan to blackmail him. The circle of his secret clients was a very narrow one; he knew them all and was well aware that blackmail was neither in their line nor in their interest. The expert in acquiring jewellery concentrated upon his particular art; he did not descend to blackmail, especially of the one man through whose agency he was able to dispose of his spoil. No, there was no doubt about it, a slip had been made, a slip which had lain undiscovered all these years, through the circumstance that his successor, the clothier, had found no use for the cellars and had boarded up the entrance to them.There was nothing for it but to carry out the suggestion contained in the letter, and meet the man in Praed Street at two o’clock. He must find out the nature of this mysterious discovery, and take steps to ensure that all evidence of it be securely destroyed. Lacey, of course, would demand some compensation for holding his tongue. The sum he demanded would depend upon the importance of what he had found. Well, they would discuss terms, alone in that empty house, in the very cellar which Mr. Martin remembered so well.Mr. Martin stroked his chin reflectively. What sort of fellow was this Lacey, he wondered? He himself was a powerful man, proud of his own powers of intimidation. It ought to be simple enough for him to destroy the evidence first then to tell Lacey to go to the devil and do his worst. He unlocked a drawer of his desk and drew from it a small automatic pistol, which he slipped into his pocket. It was with a smile that he remembered that Praed Street had recently acquired a sinister reputation. Well, if any accident should happen——Mr. Martin’s office closed at one o’clock on Saturdays. He left a few minutes before that hour, having put John Lacey’s letter in his pocket and examined the mechanism of his automatic. Then he consumed a hasty lunch at a chop-house near-by, and walked down the street to Aldersgate Metropolitan station, where he took a ticket to Paddington. He emerged into Praed Street at about five minutes to two, and began to walk along that thoroughfare in the direction of Number 407.Praed Street, at this time on a fine afternoon, wore its usual air of busy activity. The exodus from central London was still at its height, the crowds still passed along in bus or taxi towards the portals of Paddington station. On the other hand, the inhabitants of the neighbourhood, released from work, were beginning their week-end shopping. The pavement was crowded, and Mr. Martin, who had some distance to walk to his destination, looked about him curiously. Since he had put up his shutters for the last time, fifteen years ago, he had rarely revisited Praed Street, and even then he had only traversed it in a taxi, going to or from Paddington. The street had changed a little since he had been an inhabitant of it. Certainly there were fresh names over many of the shops, and, here and there, there had been alterations to the buildings he remembered. He glanced at a board on the opposite side of the street. Elmer Ludgrove. That was new since his day. The rather musty-looking shop was conspicuous among its neighbours by being closed. Praed Street, as a rule, does most of its business on Saturday afternoon.Mr. Martin walked on a step or two, then hesitated for an instant. So Sam Copperdock, from whom he bought his cigarettes in those early days, was still here. Mr. Martin had long ago abandoned cigarettes for cigars, but he felt a momentary impulse to go in and renew the old acquaintance. Sam Copperdock had been a good customer of his, he remembered. Many a bottle of whiskey had he sold him. But on second thoughts he refrained. Perhaps it would be just as well, in the light of what might happen during the next half hour or so, that his visit to Praed Street remained unsuspected.Mr. Martin walked on, and in a few minutes found himself outside Number 407. It was much as he remembered it, but that it was lying empty, and showed signs of being refitted for a new tenant. The windows were almost obscured with patches of white-wash, but peering through them he could see trestles, timber, shavings, all the litter which betrays the presence of the carpenter. So far, then, the letter was correct. Mr. Martin, after a furtive glance round about him, walked up to the door and tried it. It was locked.He drew out his watch and consulted it. It was nearly five minutes past two, but he remembered that he had noticed that morning that it was a trifle fast. Lacey, whoever he was, would doubtless be along in a moment. Mr. Martin hoped he would be quick; he had no wish to be recognized outside the premises by any of his old acquaintances. A sudden thought struck him. Perhaps Lacey was already inside, waiting for him. There was an electric bellpush by the side of the door. Mr. Martin pressed it firmly, but could hear no answering ring above the roar of the traffic. Then all at once he became aware that a small girl was standing by his side, looking up at him with an appraising expression.As he turned to look at her, she made up her mind and spoke. “Is your name Mr. Martin?” she asked.Mr. Martin frowned down at her. “What’s that got to do with you?” he replied.“ ’Cos if you are, Dad told me to give you the key,” she continued, quite unabashed. “And there’s a message from Mr. Lacey that you’re to go in and wait for him, as he’ll be a few minutes late.”“Oh, I see,” said Mr. Martin with a smile. “Yes, my dear, I am Mr. Martin. How did your father come to have the key?”She jerked her head towards a sweet shop two or three doors away. “We lives there,” she replied curtly. “Mr. Briggs the builder, what’s working here, leaves it with us because he’s my uncle. His men come and get it in the morning. And Mr. Lacey, him what’s coming here, telephoned just now to say you was coming to see the drains and I was to give you the key.”“Oh yes, that’s right,” said Mr. Martin, completely reassured. “Thank you, my dear, I’ll see that either Mr. Lacey or myself brings you back the key so that your uncle’s men may get in on Monday morning. That’s the shop, there, isn’t it?”He waited until the child had disappeared into the shop, then opened the door of Number 407 with the key which she had given him, walked in and closed the door behind him. Here he paused for a moment, thinking rapidly. He felt that he was up against a brain as agile as his own, and that the coming interview would demand all his skill if he were to bring it to a favourable issue. This man Lacey had taken steps to advertise the fact that Mr. Martin had entered the premises, obviously as a precaution against foul play. His automatic would be of no use to him, he would have to rely upon his brains instead.Then suddenly it flashed upon him that he had been given a very fortunate opportunity. It was not to be supposed that Lacey had left his discovery, whatever it was, lying about the cellar in full view of the workmen who had been there that morning. But, if he could have a quiet look round by himself, he might gain some clue to the nature of the discovery, and so be prepared to meet Lacey when he arrived.Mr. Martin was not anxious for Lacey to come upon him unawares while he was searching the cellar. Fortunately, the possibility of such an event could easily be guarded against. He bolted the door top and bottom, and noticed with satisfaction that the bolts were brand new, evidently part of the alterations which the new tenant was making to the premises. Then, after glancing round the ground floor, and making sure that nobody was hidden there, he made his way to the top of the stairway which led down to the cellars. The upper part of the house had no connection with the shop, and was approached by a separate entrance.He saw at once that the letter had been correct as to the alterations being made. During his tenancy the cellars had been lighted by gas, but now electric light was being installed throughout. Mr. Martin could see the run of the wires and the fittings for the lamps, but he noticed that the lamps themselves had not yet been inserted. This fact did not worry him. He had a box full of matches in his pocket, and one of these he lit as he cautiously descended the stairs. The builders’ litter was here, as everywhere, and he picked his way among it until he stood in the main vault below the shop. It smelt close and musty, as though it had only recently been opened up after a long period of disuse. Mr. Martin, holding a lighted match above his head, glanced rapidly round. Nothing had been altered here since he remembered it, except that a new brass switch stood behind the door, and two empty lamp sockets projected downwards from the ceiling.The way to the little cellar below the back office lay along a narrow passage, and this Mr. Martin followed, striking a fresh match as he went. Every detail came back to him, as though he had last passed this way yesterday, instead of fifteen years ago. The door of the little cellar closed with a spring; as he pushed it open the spring creaked with a note which he remembered so well, and the door closed behind him with the same muffled bang. Again he raised his match and looked around him anxiously. The cellar appeared to be the same as he had left it, even to a mildewed packing case against the wall, which had sometimes been used as a table. Only here, as in the larger cellar, the electricians had been at work. There was a lamp holder on the ceiling, but this time it held a lamp. It was evidently by the light of this lamp that Lacey had made his discovery. There was no reason why he should not use it too.The match had burnt down very near his fingers, but as he dropped it he caught sight of the switch. Without troubling to light another match he groped his way towards it and turned it on. There was a flash and a sharp report, but the cellar remained in complete darkness. Mr. Martin, with a gasp, leapt for the door in sudden panic. Someone hidden in the cellar must have fired at him. Then, after a moment, the absurdity of the idea forced itself upon him. The report had not been nearly loud enough for a pistol, and the cellar was far too small to conceal anybody. With a short laugh, but with trembling fingers, he felt for his matchbox and struck a light.Then at once he saw what had happened. The globe had burst as he turned on the current, and only the butt remained in the holder. He turned to look at the switch, and then for the first time he noticed that something white was hanging from it by a string. He bent down and held his match close to it. It was a white counter, bearing the figure IV in red ink.With a sudden access of fear he clutched at it, in order to examine it more closely. The string broke, and he stared at the counter in his hand, fascinated. He began to realize his position. He had been lured to this empty house, and the assassin was no doubt even now in the passage outside, waiting to plunge his deadly knife into him as he emerged. Thank heaven, he had brought his automatic with him!Mr. Martin was no coward. His plan of defence was quickly made. Throwing the match away, he took his stand on the far side of the cellar, facing the door, his automatic in his hand. If his assailant came in, he would hear the creak of the spring, and could fire before the man could reach him.For a second or two he waited, tense and with ears strained for the slightest sound. It was very quiet in the cellar; the rumble of the traffic in Praed Street came to him but faintly. Then, all at once, he caught his breath as a pungent and unfamiliar smell reached him. Suddenly he found himself choking, dizzy, his senses leaving him. An overpowering impulse to escape from the cellar swept through him, drowning his fear of what might be awaiting him outside. He staggered towards the door, his hands clawing wildly over its damp surface. There used to be a string by which one pulled it open, but Mr. Martin could not find it. Vainly he strove against the awful numbness which closed in upon him. He must find the string, must——With a crash Mr. Martin fell down at the foot of the door. The little cellar resumed its accustomed silence.
Although the unexplained murders which had taken place in Praed Street were soon forgotten by the general public, their shadow hung heavily over the neighbourhood in which they had been committed. The fact that the three deaths had taken place within comparatively few hundred yards of one another could not fail to have its effect upon the local imagination. A very noticeable change came over the usual cheerful and careless life of Praed Street. The evening pavements were no longer blocked by a strolling, noisy crowd. Women and children were rarely to be seen abroad after dark. Even men, traversing the street upon their lawful occasions, had a way of keeping close to the inner side of the pavements, and crossing the road upon the approach of any unfamiliar form.
Christmas passed in this atmosphere of intangible fear; the old year died and the new year came in with a welcome spell of clear and frosty weather. But, in spite of the fact that no further tragedies occurred, the shadow still lay heavily upon the district. Ludgrove, listening to the whispered and entangled stories of his clients, became more and more certain that, even in the hidden depths of the underworld, there was no knowledge of the agency by which the crimes had been committed.
Had such knowledge existed, it must inevitably have been divulged to him. The police, under the direction of Inspector Whyland, were engaged in passing a fine-toothed comb through the Paddington district, and the minor offenders disturbed in this process were as concerned as a colony of ants unearthed by a spade. Mr. Ludgrove was visited furtively late at night by anxious people seeking advice how to conceal the evidence of their misdemeanours from the prying eyes of the police. He questioned each of these closely, but the more he did so the more he became convinced that none of them had the slightest inkling of the perpetrator of the murders.
Another section of his clients, however, equally furtive and mysterious, had clues in plenty, which they seemed to think entitled them to some reward. These, after assuring themselves that no one could overhear them, would produce an incoherent story of how one of their neighbours must be the criminal. He had been heard to utter threats that he would do some one in some day, he had been in Praed Street on the night when Mr. Tovey was murdered, in the neighbourhood of Paddington station when Mr. Pargent was killed. Others, again, had met a muffled figure brandishing a knife, or had seen a dark man with a beard standing in the shadow thrown by a projecting wall. Two or three searching questions were always sufficient to prove that their suspicions were baseless.
The murders in Praed Street were thus peculiar in the annals of crime. In nearly every case of a crime being committed, there are others besides the criminal who know all the facts. The police know this, but their great difficulty is to secure evidence sufficiently convincing to lead to a conviction. There is a certainesprit de corpsin the constant strife between the professional criminal and the police, and those who know are careful to keep their knowledge to themselves. But in this case, had there been any of the inhabitants of the district in the secret, Mr. Ludgrove would have obtained some hint of it. It seemed conclusive that the criminal was either working alone and independently, or came from some other district.
This was the state of affairs towards the end of January. The police were completely baffled; Inspector Whyland, although he still favoured the theory he had evolved in the picture-house, had failed to find any evidence upon which he could act. He hardly knew whether to attribute Mr. Copperdock’s story of his meeting with the black sailor to pure hallucination, or to an attempt to divert suspicion from himself. In either case, it could be made to fit in with the theory that he had murdered Richard Pargent under the influence of what the psychologists called an imitative complex. Whyland redoubled his activities, and a most accurate watch was kept upon Mr. Copperdock’s movements. A month had elapsed since the murder of Richard Pargent when Mr. Jacob Martin, the prosperous wine merchant of the Barbican, opening his morning post in his comfortable office, came upon a typewritten envelope, marked “Private and Confidential.” He ripped it open with the paper cutter which lay upon his desk, and unfolded the letter it contained. It also was typewritten, on plain paper. Only the signature “John Lacey” was in ink.
Mr. Martin, a portly, grey-haired man of between fifty and sixty, read the letter through twice, with a gathering frown upon his face. He had prospered exceedingly since the day when he had first set up in business for himself as a wine merchant, so much so that his competitors wondered at his success. There had, from time to time been rumours, quickly suppressed, to the effect that Mr. Martin had other means of livelihood than his ostensible business. But Mr. Martin was a remarkably astute man, and had hitherto managed to avoid undue inquisitiveness.
And now, like a bolt from the blue, came this extraordinary letter. Confound John Lacey, and his prying habits, whoever he might be. That little cellar under the back office! How well he remembered it. It had been the scene of many most profitable transactions, had harboured treasures for which the police of two continents had searched in vain. For Mr. Martin was a receiver of stolen goods, not a mere general practitioner of the art, but a specialist whose services were utilized only by the aristocracy of thieves, and whose particular function was turning into cash only the most valuable jewellery.
With an exclamation of annoyance Mr. Martin turned once more to the letter. “Dear Sir, I venture to address you upon a subject which will no doubt interest you,” it ran. “I have recently acquired a lease of the premises No. 407, Praed Street, which I understand, were in your occupation up till some fifteen years ago. Since you vacated them, these premises have been occupied by a clothier, who did not require the extensive cellarage, which was boarded up. In the course of certain alterations which I am having made to the premises, the entrance to the cellars has once again been opened. In the course of my investigations I have made a most interesting discovery in the small cellar beneath the back office.
“I should perhaps report this discovery to the authorities, but I have thought it best to consult you upon the matter before doing so. This letter should reach you by the first post to-morrow (Saturday) morning. I should be glad if you could make it convenient to meet me on the premises at 2 p.m. that day, when the workmen who are at present employed there will have gone. I can then show you my discovery, and we can consult upon the most suitable steps to be taken in the matter. Should you not find this convenient, I shall assume that the subject does not interest you, and shall report the matter forthwith to the police. Yours faithfully, John Lacey.”
A blackmailing letter, without a doubt, Mr. Martin could see at a glance. But what on earth could the fellow have discovered? Fifteen years ago, when Mr. Martin moved from Praed Street to the Barbican, he had taken the utmost care to destroy every trace of the purpose to which that little cellar had been put. He racked his brains to try and think of anything that could possibly have been overlooked, but without success. Even those ingeniously contrived recesses in the walls had been torn out, leaving nothing but the bare brick. Mr. Martin had done the work with his own hands, not caring to trust anyone else with so delicate a matter. Yet, after all, in spite of all his care, he must have left some clue, which this infernal fellow Lacey had somehow blundered upon.
He brushed aside as absurd the suggestion that “Lacey” could conceal the identity of one of those with whom he had done business, who knew the secret of the cellar and had adopted this clumsy plan to blackmail him. The circle of his secret clients was a very narrow one; he knew them all and was well aware that blackmail was neither in their line nor in their interest. The expert in acquiring jewellery concentrated upon his particular art; he did not descend to blackmail, especially of the one man through whose agency he was able to dispose of his spoil. No, there was no doubt about it, a slip had been made, a slip which had lain undiscovered all these years, through the circumstance that his successor, the clothier, had found no use for the cellars and had boarded up the entrance to them.
There was nothing for it but to carry out the suggestion contained in the letter, and meet the man in Praed Street at two o’clock. He must find out the nature of this mysterious discovery, and take steps to ensure that all evidence of it be securely destroyed. Lacey, of course, would demand some compensation for holding his tongue. The sum he demanded would depend upon the importance of what he had found. Well, they would discuss terms, alone in that empty house, in the very cellar which Mr. Martin remembered so well.
Mr. Martin stroked his chin reflectively. What sort of fellow was this Lacey, he wondered? He himself was a powerful man, proud of his own powers of intimidation. It ought to be simple enough for him to destroy the evidence first then to tell Lacey to go to the devil and do his worst. He unlocked a drawer of his desk and drew from it a small automatic pistol, which he slipped into his pocket. It was with a smile that he remembered that Praed Street had recently acquired a sinister reputation. Well, if any accident should happen——
Mr. Martin’s office closed at one o’clock on Saturdays. He left a few minutes before that hour, having put John Lacey’s letter in his pocket and examined the mechanism of his automatic. Then he consumed a hasty lunch at a chop-house near-by, and walked down the street to Aldersgate Metropolitan station, where he took a ticket to Paddington. He emerged into Praed Street at about five minutes to two, and began to walk along that thoroughfare in the direction of Number 407.
Praed Street, at this time on a fine afternoon, wore its usual air of busy activity. The exodus from central London was still at its height, the crowds still passed along in bus or taxi towards the portals of Paddington station. On the other hand, the inhabitants of the neighbourhood, released from work, were beginning their week-end shopping. The pavement was crowded, and Mr. Martin, who had some distance to walk to his destination, looked about him curiously. Since he had put up his shutters for the last time, fifteen years ago, he had rarely revisited Praed Street, and even then he had only traversed it in a taxi, going to or from Paddington. The street had changed a little since he had been an inhabitant of it. Certainly there were fresh names over many of the shops, and, here and there, there had been alterations to the buildings he remembered. He glanced at a board on the opposite side of the street. Elmer Ludgrove. That was new since his day. The rather musty-looking shop was conspicuous among its neighbours by being closed. Praed Street, as a rule, does most of its business on Saturday afternoon.
Mr. Martin walked on a step or two, then hesitated for an instant. So Sam Copperdock, from whom he bought his cigarettes in those early days, was still here. Mr. Martin had long ago abandoned cigarettes for cigars, but he felt a momentary impulse to go in and renew the old acquaintance. Sam Copperdock had been a good customer of his, he remembered. Many a bottle of whiskey had he sold him. But on second thoughts he refrained. Perhaps it would be just as well, in the light of what might happen during the next half hour or so, that his visit to Praed Street remained unsuspected.
Mr. Martin walked on, and in a few minutes found himself outside Number 407. It was much as he remembered it, but that it was lying empty, and showed signs of being refitted for a new tenant. The windows were almost obscured with patches of white-wash, but peering through them he could see trestles, timber, shavings, all the litter which betrays the presence of the carpenter. So far, then, the letter was correct. Mr. Martin, after a furtive glance round about him, walked up to the door and tried it. It was locked.
He drew out his watch and consulted it. It was nearly five minutes past two, but he remembered that he had noticed that morning that it was a trifle fast. Lacey, whoever he was, would doubtless be along in a moment. Mr. Martin hoped he would be quick; he had no wish to be recognized outside the premises by any of his old acquaintances. A sudden thought struck him. Perhaps Lacey was already inside, waiting for him. There was an electric bellpush by the side of the door. Mr. Martin pressed it firmly, but could hear no answering ring above the roar of the traffic. Then all at once he became aware that a small girl was standing by his side, looking up at him with an appraising expression.
As he turned to look at her, she made up her mind and spoke. “Is your name Mr. Martin?” she asked.
Mr. Martin frowned down at her. “What’s that got to do with you?” he replied.
“ ’Cos if you are, Dad told me to give you the key,” she continued, quite unabashed. “And there’s a message from Mr. Lacey that you’re to go in and wait for him, as he’ll be a few minutes late.”
“Oh, I see,” said Mr. Martin with a smile. “Yes, my dear, I am Mr. Martin. How did your father come to have the key?”
She jerked her head towards a sweet shop two or three doors away. “We lives there,” she replied curtly. “Mr. Briggs the builder, what’s working here, leaves it with us because he’s my uncle. His men come and get it in the morning. And Mr. Lacey, him what’s coming here, telephoned just now to say you was coming to see the drains and I was to give you the key.”
“Oh yes, that’s right,” said Mr. Martin, completely reassured. “Thank you, my dear, I’ll see that either Mr. Lacey or myself brings you back the key so that your uncle’s men may get in on Monday morning. That’s the shop, there, isn’t it?”
He waited until the child had disappeared into the shop, then opened the door of Number 407 with the key which she had given him, walked in and closed the door behind him. Here he paused for a moment, thinking rapidly. He felt that he was up against a brain as agile as his own, and that the coming interview would demand all his skill if he were to bring it to a favourable issue. This man Lacey had taken steps to advertise the fact that Mr. Martin had entered the premises, obviously as a precaution against foul play. His automatic would be of no use to him, he would have to rely upon his brains instead.
Then suddenly it flashed upon him that he had been given a very fortunate opportunity. It was not to be supposed that Lacey had left his discovery, whatever it was, lying about the cellar in full view of the workmen who had been there that morning. But, if he could have a quiet look round by himself, he might gain some clue to the nature of the discovery, and so be prepared to meet Lacey when he arrived.
Mr. Martin was not anxious for Lacey to come upon him unawares while he was searching the cellar. Fortunately, the possibility of such an event could easily be guarded against. He bolted the door top and bottom, and noticed with satisfaction that the bolts were brand new, evidently part of the alterations which the new tenant was making to the premises. Then, after glancing round the ground floor, and making sure that nobody was hidden there, he made his way to the top of the stairway which led down to the cellars. The upper part of the house had no connection with the shop, and was approached by a separate entrance.
He saw at once that the letter had been correct as to the alterations being made. During his tenancy the cellars had been lighted by gas, but now electric light was being installed throughout. Mr. Martin could see the run of the wires and the fittings for the lamps, but he noticed that the lamps themselves had not yet been inserted. This fact did not worry him. He had a box full of matches in his pocket, and one of these he lit as he cautiously descended the stairs. The builders’ litter was here, as everywhere, and he picked his way among it until he stood in the main vault below the shop. It smelt close and musty, as though it had only recently been opened up after a long period of disuse. Mr. Martin, holding a lighted match above his head, glanced rapidly round. Nothing had been altered here since he remembered it, except that a new brass switch stood behind the door, and two empty lamp sockets projected downwards from the ceiling.
The way to the little cellar below the back office lay along a narrow passage, and this Mr. Martin followed, striking a fresh match as he went. Every detail came back to him, as though he had last passed this way yesterday, instead of fifteen years ago. The door of the little cellar closed with a spring; as he pushed it open the spring creaked with a note which he remembered so well, and the door closed behind him with the same muffled bang. Again he raised his match and looked around him anxiously. The cellar appeared to be the same as he had left it, even to a mildewed packing case against the wall, which had sometimes been used as a table. Only here, as in the larger cellar, the electricians had been at work. There was a lamp holder on the ceiling, but this time it held a lamp. It was evidently by the light of this lamp that Lacey had made his discovery. There was no reason why he should not use it too.
The match had burnt down very near his fingers, but as he dropped it he caught sight of the switch. Without troubling to light another match he groped his way towards it and turned it on. There was a flash and a sharp report, but the cellar remained in complete darkness. Mr. Martin, with a gasp, leapt for the door in sudden panic. Someone hidden in the cellar must have fired at him. Then, after a moment, the absurdity of the idea forced itself upon him. The report had not been nearly loud enough for a pistol, and the cellar was far too small to conceal anybody. With a short laugh, but with trembling fingers, he felt for his matchbox and struck a light.
Then at once he saw what had happened. The globe had burst as he turned on the current, and only the butt remained in the holder. He turned to look at the switch, and then for the first time he noticed that something white was hanging from it by a string. He bent down and held his match close to it. It was a white counter, bearing the figure IV in red ink.
With a sudden access of fear he clutched at it, in order to examine it more closely. The string broke, and he stared at the counter in his hand, fascinated. He began to realize his position. He had been lured to this empty house, and the assassin was no doubt even now in the passage outside, waiting to plunge his deadly knife into him as he emerged. Thank heaven, he had brought his automatic with him!
Mr. Martin was no coward. His plan of defence was quickly made. Throwing the match away, he took his stand on the far side of the cellar, facing the door, his automatic in his hand. If his assailant came in, he would hear the creak of the spring, and could fire before the man could reach him.
For a second or two he waited, tense and with ears strained for the slightest sound. It was very quiet in the cellar; the rumble of the traffic in Praed Street came to him but faintly. Then, all at once, he caught his breath as a pungent and unfamiliar smell reached him. Suddenly he found himself choking, dizzy, his senses leaving him. An overpowering impulse to escape from the cellar swept through him, drowning his fear of what might be awaiting him outside. He staggered towards the door, his hands clawing wildly over its damp surface. There used to be a string by which one pulled it open, but Mr. Martin could not find it. Vainly he strove against the awful numbness which closed in upon him. He must find the string, must——
With a crash Mr. Martin fell down at the foot of the door. The little cellar resumed its accustomed silence.