G. D. H. Cole · Chapter 12 (2/2)

Ellery saw that Inspector Gibbs was not quite sure whether to believe or disbelieve his story. After all, it did sound a bit fishy. It would be awkward, and quite fatal to his plans of acting as an amateur detective, if the police began seriously to suspect him of having had a hand in the murders. That would put a visit to Liskeard House⁠—and to Joan⁠—more than ever out of the question.

Ellery promised to devote the day to an attempt to trace his missing acquaintance, and the inspector departed, with a last word of advice given as by one man of the world to another. But Ellery had an unpleasant feeling that until that fellow⁠—what the devil was his name?⁠—was run to earth, his movements would be carefully watched by the police. Which was not at all the development he had been expecting.

The Chelsea Arts Club, where he had certainly sometimes met the fellow, seemed the best place to begin the search, and Ellery accordingly went round there to make his inquiries. But he drew blank. No one could place a fellow who lived in Chelsea⁠—probably an actor⁠—whose name was neither Foster nor Forrest nor Forrester, but something more or less like that. Everyone he asked said it was too vague a description, or offered him suggestions which he at once rejected. Ellery began to feel that his job was not going to be easy. As he left the Club he was more than a little depressed, especially as he felt sure that a heavy-footed individual, who kept some distance behind, was under instructions to follow him. The police boots were unmistakable; he noticed them across the road as he came down the Club steps, and turning round a moment later, he saw their wearer following none too discreetly in his wake. “If that is the police idea of shadowing a man,” he said to himself, “I don’t think much of it. But perhaps they don’t mind my knowing.” Then he considered whether it was worth while to try giving his watcher the slip. But that, he reflected, would only make things worse, and get him suspected all the more. He must let himself be followed, and he might as well take it cheerfully. “With catlike tread, upon the foe we steal,” he whistled, and laughed as he heard the feet of the law clumping along behind him.