The Box Office Murders · Chapter 7 (2/2)

But this fourth girl, it turned out, was the last. The grey car ran on westwards till it reached Waterloo. Then it turned to the left into York Road and again to the right into a narrow street labelled Tate’s Lane, disappearing finally into a gateway about halfway down the street. French’s car ran on past the gateway, and turning into the cross street at the end of Tate’s Lane, stopped. Telling his driver to keep him in sight, French walked back to the corner and watched the gateway.

He had noticed as he came past that the latter was surmounted by a signboard bearing the legend: “Thos. Cullan, Coachbuilder.” A glimpse through the open gate revealed a dilapidated yard in which stood a number of carts and lorries. Evidently Mr. Thos. Cullan was not in too successful a way of business. French wondered if the man he had shadowed was Cullan himself. At first he thought not. That untidy, ineffective looking yard did not accord with the forceful, decided face of the driver of the car. Then he saw that if the business with the girls was the serious factor in the man’s life, coachbuilding might be merely a blind to mask his other activities.

For fifteen minutes or more French hung about the corner. Then the man appeared, well dressed and prosperous looking, and set off striding with assured steps down the Lane to York Road. He turned to the right into Waterloo Road, and French had to sprint at his highest speed to avoid losing him at the corner. He was just in time to see him disappearing into the station and with a rapidly increasing sense of satisfaction he followed him to the restaurant.

At opposite ends of the big room French and his quarry lunched, then the chase was once more resumed. This time the trail led down Waterloo Road, past the Old Vic and into Webber Street, where the man vanished into a doorway.

French hung back until he thought the coast was clear, then lounged forward and entered also. The doorway led into a dilapidated passage with a flight of stairs rising at the end to offices above. On the jambs were the names of the occupants. Seven persons or firms French counted. There were two solicitors, an estate agent, an engineer and architect, a commission agent, a wholesale tea merchant, and a firm of electrical suppliers. Having noted the names, French passed back to the street and took up a position from which he could keep the entrance in view.

For the best part of an hour he waited, sitting in his taxi for the most part, while the driver busied himself with his engine. Then suddenly the quarry reappeared and strode off in the same forceful and determined way. French shadowed him to Waterloo and down to the Bakerloo tube. Booking to Watford, which he thought should cover any journey that the unknown might make, French followed him to the platform. The man took a northbound train and French, slipping in his usual way into the next carriage, settled down to await developments.

At Harrow the man got out. French noted that he was evidently a “season” and a man of some standing, for the ticket collector touched his cap respectfully. He turned out of the station on the down side of the line and set off towards the Hill.

“Can you tell me if that is Mr. Pointer?” French asked the collector as he gave up his own ticket.

“No, sir. Mr. Welland is his name.”

Curtice Welland, Commission Agent, was one of the names on the office door in Webber Street. So far, so good.

On these comparatively deserted roads shadowing was no easy task. French had to drop a long way behind to avoid attracting his quarry’s attention. Every time the man turned a corner French was therefore at a disadvantage and had to run to reach the crossroad before the other disappeared from view. This again brought him too close and he had suddenly to loiter until the necessary distance again intervened⁠—a by no means unobtrusive mode of progression.

The last turn led into a recently made road. Its end, in fact, vanished into the fields and fresh earthwork showed that it was in process of being extended. The houses along it were all quite new. Several were unfinished, while a few vacant building lots still remained.

About halfway down on the right were a couple of small semidetached houses, mere bungalows. Into one of these the man turned, letting himself in with a latchkey.

French was approaching a cross lane, and down this he immediately turned. So far he felt satisfied with his progress. The man, he was sure, had not seen him. Now he must find some cover from which he could keep the house under observation.

Right at the end of the unfinished portion of the road, a couple of hundred yards beyond the house, he had noticed a small clump of low growing trees. He thought if he could reach this it would suit his purpose.

Passing down the cross lane to the back of the row of houses, he came into open fields. These were separated by thorn hedges, one of which ran parallel to the street. French crept along behind the hedge until he came to the clump. There he found that, while himself completely hidden from view, he had an excellent view of the house.

He lay down at his ease on the soft grass, and taking out his pipe, began a leisurely smoke. It was a perfect summer’s day, warm and balmy, with a bright sun, a brilliantly blue sky and in the distance a few faint, fairy-like streaks of cirrus cloud. The meadow behind him had recently been cut and the soft breeze bore a delightful scent of fresh hay. The air was quivering with the songs of birds, with as a pedal bass the hum of innumerable insects. It was all so peaceful and soporific that after a few minutes. French deliberately sat up in a somewhat strained position lest he should fall asleep and miss his quarry.

Up to the present he had been too busy to think over what he had seen, but now he began to turn the facts over in his mind. That he was on to some very peculiar happenings there could be no doubt, but as yet there was no evidence to show that these were criminal. Still less was there proof that they were connected with the murders. But he was at least satisfied that the affair was sufficiently suspicious to warrant further investigation.

What, he wondered, could be going on? It looked as if the unknown man had an interview each day with each of these four girls. This, of course, was not proved, as you could not argue to the general from two days’ experience. But it seemed likely; and if so, what could be the object of these interviews?

It was improbable, he thought, that the man could be interested in the girls themselves. Rather he imagined that they must represent channels by which something was passed between the man and still other unknowns. Whether that something was material, such as stolen goods or money, or whether information was being conveyed between the members of some organization and headquarters, he could not imagine. In any case it was desirable that Scotland Yard should know more about it.

It would not be his fault, he resolved grimly, if before long Scotland Yard did not know all there was to be known.