Читать книгу The India-Rubber Men - Edgar Wallace - Страница 5

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IT was not until the next morning that Wade remembered the would-be suicide and her photograph. Business took him to Scotland Yard, and he went on to the near-by hospital to make inquiries. To his amazement he found that the woman had left. By a mistake, which might have been the sergeant's, no charge had been preferred against her, and when she had demanded that she should be allowed to leave, no obstacle was offered.

"A creature of the most amazing vitality," said the house surgeon. "I thought she was dead when she came in, but in twenty-four hours she had walked out on her own two feet...attempted suicide, was it? Well, we had no intimation. The policeman who brought her here thought she had fallen into the water by accident. By the way, she was frantic about a photograph she had lost. In fact, she got so hysterical that I nearly detained her."

"Did she give any name?"

The young surgeon shook his head. "Anna. She didn't tell us her surname. My own opinion is that she's slightly demented—not so bad, of course, that one would certify her, even if one could."

John Wade was mildly puzzled. He was not very interested in this unknown drab, and, but for the photograph, she would have slipped from his mind instantly.

Conference followed conference at Scotland Yard. The India-Rubber Men had become a leading feature in quite a number of newspapers. There were the inevitable questions in Parliament and the as inevitable suggestion for a commission to inquire into the operations of the Criminal Investigation Department.

The bank's loss was not so heavy as it might have been, for the men had been disturbed in their work, but the robbery which followed was serious enough. A small factory, the property of a group of jewellers, was burgled; a safe, set in a concrete wall, was forced, and manufactured jewellery to the value of between eighty and a hundred thousand pounds vanished.

The first intimation the police had was a telephone message, evidently from one of the members of the gang, saying that the night watchman might need attention. A police tender was rushed to the factory, and the man was discovered unconscious on the ground. He could give no account of what had happened; he had seen nobody, he remembered nothing, and the police were left without a clue, for on this occasion the India-Rubber Men left not so much as a chisel behind them.

John Wade could read the account of this new crime without discomfort. He belonged to the river, and only by accident had been in the earlier hold-up. The usual inquiry had been put through, but the river police could contribute no information. Nevertheless, he was called in to the interminable conferences, and had little time to satisfy his own curiosity.

If the mysterious Anna passed quickly from his mind, the incident of the photograph recurred again and again. It was not until a week after the jewel theft that he was able to spare time to call at 'Mecca'.

Mum was out when he climbed up to the crazy wharf and made his way to the open window. From the woodshed came the howl of Golly's melancholy voice and the clump-clump of his hatchet. John Wade found the serving-room empty, and waited patiently, quite prepared to see Mum's disapproving face at any moment.

"Hallo, Lady Jane!"

Lila came into the room so quickly, noiselessly and unexpectedly, that he had the illusion that she had materialised out of nothing.

"Mrs. Oaks is out." She volunteered the information. "And please don't stay long, Mr. Wade. Auntie doesn't like you coming here, and really you were very unkind about Golly. He wouldn't dream of buying stolen goods—"

John Wade smiled.

"'If you see that man Wade, you tell him that your uncle is a good, honest citizen,'" he mocked, and by her quick flush knew that he had hit truly.

Then, while she was still embarrassed, he asked: "Who is Anna?"

She turned her head and stared at him.

"Anna?" she said slowly. "I don't know—I told you I didn't know a long time ago, didn't I?"

"No, you didn't."

John Wade had a very excellent memory, and he was fairly certain that the name of Anna had never occurred between them.

The wonder he had glimpsed in her face was more apparent now; she was looking past him at a small tugboat thrusting its way against the falling stream.

"I'm often puzzled who Anna was...I don't know anybody by that name. Yet I know it so well. Isn't it curious?" Her sensitive lips twitched in the faintest smile. "She's a dream, I suppose."

"Like the experience?" he bantered her, and saw her mouth open in consternation.

"No, that isn't a dream," she said hastily. "It was silly of me to tell you about it...I really mustn't."

It seemed to her that she had spoken of 'the experience' many times to him; in reality, she had only made two references to the occasional adventure in which she was the central figure. She did not know that the first time she had mentioned it he had been amused, and not very greatly interested. He had thought she was exaggerating some little jaunt, setting a commonplace happening in a shrine of romance. The second time he was arrested by a note in her voice and had made a blunt inquiry. The more unwilling she was to tell him, the keener he was to know.

He was too experienced a cross-examiner to pursue his questions, and when she asked him gravely whether he was very busy, he accepted the turn of the subject.

"I don't think you are busy," she said. "It seems a terribly lazy life. You do nothing but ride up and down the river—I often see you. What do the Thames police do?"

"Ride up and down the river and lead a lazy life."

"But truly?" she insisted. "People say there are thieves on the river, but I've never seen one. Nobody's ever stolen anything from 'Mecca'. I suppose there's nothing of value here—"

He laughed at this, and that laugh was an extravagant compliment.

Such occasional visits as he paid to 'Mecca' were invariably spoilt for her by a sense of apprehension that Mum would make an unwelcome and embarrassing appearance, and usually she was secretly praying that he would leave almost as soon as he had come. On this occasion, when it seemed there was no reason why he should go, he made an early departure, leaving her with a feeling of disappointment, which changed very quickly to relief, for he had not been gone for ten minutes when she heard Mum's voice.

Mum had been to the City and had returned with a visitor—the one man whom Lila Smith actively disliked. Mr. Raggit Lane very rarely came to 'Mecca'. A tall, spare man, with a thin, ascetic face, he would have been good-looking but for the lift of one corner of his lip that produced the illusion of a permanent sneer. He was always well dressed, finickingly so. He wore none of the ostentation of ephemeral wealth which was expressed by other habitues of the home in scarf-pins and rings and heavy gold watch-guards. Lila's dislike of him was based upon his use of perfume. Nobody had ever told her that it was bad form in a man to scent himself: Mum rather approved the practice.

Mr. Lane's hands were always well manicured, his black hair brilliantly polished. He wore a small signet ring upon one finger, but no other form of jewellery whatever.

Mum was very vague about his profession, but Lila gathered that he followed the sea; she gathered this because Mr. Lane, with remarkable condescension, had once given her a small embroidered shawl which he had picked up in China.

Almost as soon as Mrs. Oaks arrived, Lila was summoned to the sitting-room. Mum's sitting-room was the holy of holies, into which only very privileged people entered. It was a large room with two long, opaque windows. The walls were painted, the floor covered with parquet.

Lila came in, drying her hands on her apron, and met the long scrutiny of Raggit Lane's glass eye.

"Hallo!" He looked at her with unfeigned admiration. He had not seen the girl for a year, and in that year a remarkable change had occurred in her. "She's got pretty, Oaks."

He always called Mum 'Oaks', and she never showed the least resentment.

"Let's have a look at you."

He caught her by the shoulder to swing her round to the light. A sudden anger shook the girl, and she disengaged herself violently.

"Don't touch me. How dare you touch me!"

Her voice had a new note. Mum gaped at her, amazed.

"Why, Lila—" she began.

"The girl's right. I'm sorry, Lila. Forgot you were grown up."

But Lila seemed not to hear. She turned and walked quickly from the room. It was her first demonstration of independence that Mum had witnessed, and she was speechless with astonishment.

"What's the matter with the girl?" she demanded shrilly. "I've never seen her like that before! If she starts giving herself airs with me she'll know all about it!"

Raggit Lane chuckled, took a cigarette from a thin gold case and lit it.

"She isn't a kid any more, that's all—there's nothing to make a fuss about. I didn't believe you when you said she'd got pretty, but she's all that."

"The last time you were here, I said: 'Come and have a look at her,' but you wouldn't believe me," said Mum, with the satisfaction of one whose predictions had been justified.

Mr. Lane blew a cloud of smoke to the ceiling. "The last time I was in London there were many reasons why I shouldn't come," he said slowly.

There was an awkward pause.

"Where have you come from now?" she asked.

"The Black Sea—Constantia."

He was evidently thinking of something else, and answered her questions mechanically.

"How is the old man?" she asked after a long silence.

"Eh? The old man? Oh, he's all right." And then, bringing all his attention to her: "I don't want him to know I've been to-day."

Mum smiled. "You don't want him to know you've been at all, do you? You can trust me, Mr. Lane—I never discuss anything with him except Lila; and I don't see him more than an hour every year."

The smooth brows of Mr. Lane met in a deep frown. "He's getting touchy, very difficult. Of course I could always say that I came here by accident. It's an officers' club. But I don't want to use that excuse until it's necessary. Where's Golly?"

She listened.

"Chopping wood," she said.

Another long silence. Then: "Who is this Lila girl?"

Mrs. Oaks would do much for her good-looking visitor, but he had asked her a question which she could not with safety answer. "The thing that worries me about Lila is this fellow Wade. He's always hanging around the house. I don't know whether it's because he's after the girl or what. You never know what a copper's doing."

"Inspector Wade?" Mr. Lane fingered his chin thoughtfully. "He's a pretty clever man, isn't he?"

Mum smiled derisively. "Ain't they all clever by their own account? From what I hear, they nearly got him the other day, these India-Rubber people. I wish they had!"

Lane laughed softly.

"The India-Rubber Men seem to be rather busy," he said. "Who are they?"

She shook her head. "I don't know anything about 'em," she said decisively. "I keep myself to myself and mind my own business. It's hard enough to get your own living without troubling about how other people get theirs. Half of it's newspaper lies—they'll say anything for a sensation."

"Now what about a trade, Oaks?"

She got up from the chair in which she was sitting. "I'll see what the girl's doing," she said, and left the room. She was back in a few minutes, closed and locked the door behind her and, going to the fire-place, rolled back the hearth-rug. With a bodkin she pried up an irregular section of the parquet floor. Beneath was a patch of felt, which she lifted, disclosing a steel trapdoor set in the floor. It was less than a foot square and was fastened with a patent lock. Inserting a key, she turned it, and with some difficulty raised the heavy steel door. The receptacle beneath was evidently much larger than the opening and, groping, she brought to light half a dozen little canvas bags, which she handed to the man one by one. He placed these on a table beneath the opaque glass window, and opened them carefully.

"That's a cheap lot," she said, as he unrolled the strip of cloth and disclosed a variety of articles that ranged between cheap ear-rings and big, flamboyant brooches of low-grade gold. "The one with the red ribbon's the best."

He looked at the stuff disparagingly until he came to the package tied with red ribbon. There were several good pieces here: a ten-carat emerald, a cushion-shaped diamond ring, a necklace, a pendant, and five fairly large-sized pearls. He looked at these curiously. "I suppose the string broke when they snatched?"

She shook her head, her thin lips set in a straight line. "I don't ask any questions. I don't know where they come from. If I'm offered a bargain I buy it. I always say, if you ask no questions you hear no lies."

He was examining one of the pearls through a small magnifying-glass. "That one you'd better throw in the fire," he said, handing the gem to her. "It is marked and would be recognised anywhere."

Obediently she threw the pearl, which must have been worth six or seven hundred pounds, into the fire. She never argued with Mr. Raggit Lane, having learned by experience the futility of questioning his judgment.

He made his choice, dropped the selected articles into his pocket, and returned the remainder to the woman.

"The gold isn't worth much—it is hardly worth boiling," he said. "I should drop these things into the river."

Mrs. Oaks sighed. "It's a waste," she said plaintively, "but you know best—"

There was a sharp rap of knuckles on the panel. Mrs. Oaks looked up. "Who's that?" she asked shrilly.

"I should like to have two words with you, Mrs. Oaks."

It was the voice of John Wade! Not a muscle of the woman's face moved. "Who are you when you're at home?" she demanded.

"Inspector Wade."

"One minute." Quickly she gathered the packages together, dropped them into the safe, closed and locked it, replaced felt and parquet and rolled back the hearth-rug. While she was doing this, Lane had opened the big wardrobe at the end of the room, had entered and closed it.

Mrs. Oaks gave one glance at the fire, poked a round, glowing globule that had once been a pearl, and unlocked the door. "Come in, Wade," she said coolly.

John Wade walked into the room and shot a swift glance around. "Sorry to interrupt your prayer meeting," he said.

"I was changing my stockings if you want to know," snapped Mum tartly.

"I don't want to know anything so indelicate, Lady Godiva." He sniffed. "Having a quiet little smoke? Naughty, naughty! You're getting quite fast in your old age."

Mrs. Oaks bottled her wrath. "What do you want?" she asked.

But John Wade was looking round the apartment with every evidence of admiration. "Charming room," he said. "Your ladyship's boudoir? And you smoke Egyptian cigarettes, too—that's bad for the heart, child."

"What do you want?" she demanded. To her alarm, his eyes were glued on the big wardrobe. "I came to ask you a question, but I seem to have arrived at a very awkward moment. Quite an unimportant question—nothing whatever to do with my professional duties—but I won't wait."

He walked to the door, beaming back at her with that delightful, smile of his.

"I'm afraid your boy friend will be suffocated unless you let him out very soon," he said, and closed the door with extravagant care.

She flung it open after him and followed him to the front door of 'Mecca'. His crowning insult was left to the last. Bending towards her, he murmured sympathetically: "I shan't tell Golly!"

Before she could tap her coherent stream of invective he had gone. She came back to her room and locked the door behind her.

"Come out, Mr. Lane," she said, her voice tremulous with anger. "It was only that fly policeman."

Mr. Lane came into the room a little dishevelled. He smoothed his hair, and it was patent that he was less angry than concerned.

"He knew I was here. Does he know who I am?"

"God knows what he knew!" snapped the woman. "One of these fine mornings that fellow's going to be picked out of the river with his head bashed in. And the day that happens I'm going to church for the first time in twenty-five years."

"Wade—h'm!" Lane was fondling his chin. Then he began to empty his pockets. "Put those back; I'll take 'em another time."

"There's no danger—" began Mrs Oaks.

Raggit Lane smiled. "I don't take risks. Send a boy with 'em...you know where...I'll have them picked up."

He adjusted his tie, collected his hat and cane from the wardrobe and, Mrs. Oaks having reported all clear, went out into the street and made his unhurried way to the main thoroughfare where his taxi was waiting. Once or twice he looked round, but there was no sign of a watcher. Yet, even when his cab was entering the City, he found no relief from the uncomfortable feeling that he was being followed.

That afternoon Wade went personally to Scotland Yard for information.

"Do you know a, dark-looking gentleman who smells like a flower-shop and dresses like a duke?" he asked Inspector Elk, who was an authority on all strange people.

"Sounds like everybody to me," said Elk wearily. "Can't understand this craze for scent. A brother-in-law of mine—"

Wade cut short his reminiscences. He drew from his pocket a sheet of paper. He had a taste for drawing and could sketch a very respectable likeness of Mr. Raggit Lane.

Elk studied the sketch, scratched his ear and shook his head. "It might be anybody. I don't know him. What's his name?"

"That I'll find out. At present I'm without information," said Wade. "None of the servants at 'Mecca' knows him—one of my men has been making inquiries. I have never seen him before. I only saw him by accident. I remembered an inquiry I wanted to make about some stolen whisky—one of those fellows who'll come up at the Sessions this week put up a half-squeak. I landed at the main stairs and went round to the front of the house, and then I saw him with the old lady. They drove up in a cab just as I got there. She was so darned friendly with him that I thought he couldn't be much good."

Mr. Elk sighed and closed his eyes. "You can't charge him with being a friend of Mum Oaks," he said. "That's no offence—you haven't got a cigar in your pocket, I suppose? I didn't think you had. You young officers smoke too many cigarettes—now that brother-in-law of mine—"

"It wasn't he," said Wade, and made his escape.

The rest of the day was his own, and he employed it in a characteristic fashion. In reality John Wade had no spare time. He was a man who loved his profession, lived for it, and thought of nothing which did not touch at some angle upon police work. His ideal occupation was to loaf through the busy streets of the West End, watching people. The study of human beings was an absorbing hobby; their gestures, their facial expressions, the conventions of movement. He collected them as other men collect stamps. He would sit for hours in a teashop, watching two men talk, and jotting down oh any odd scrap of paper their peculiarities of expression. He knew the gesture which accompanied a lie, the droop of eyelids inseparable from vanity. He could tell at a dozen yards whether a man was talking of himself or of somebody else.

Towards evening it came on to rain, not heavily but a chill, uncomfortable drizzle. He made his way to a small restaurant in Soho at an earlier hour than he intended. Usually he liked to sit over his dinner, ruminating upon such events of the day as needed examination; but to-night dinner proved to be an uninteresting meal; because of the early hour the restaurant was almost deserted, and it was eight o'clock when he came into the street.

The rain had ceased, but it was quite dark. He wandered aimlessly towards Shaftesbury Avenue, intending to make his way back to his little house in Wapping on foot. He crossed Shaftesbury Avenue, and, passing through Leicester Square, came to one of the streets that lead into the Strand.

There was a newly fashionable restaurant here—a discreet place which had been lately discovered by the epicure. In London the reputations of restaurants rise and fade inexplicably.

He was sauntering along the rain-soaked pavement when a big limousine came noiselessly from the other end of the street and stopped before the restaurant. John Wade halted. He was not curious as to the people who were being assisted from the car by the stout commissionaire; his chief desire was not to barge into them as they crossed the pavement.

The man who got out was tall and broadly built; his head was bald, his hard, old face was covered with a hundred wrinkles.

"Come on, my dear," he said impatiently.

He had a deep, booming voice which interested the detective.

The old man put out his hand and assisted his companion to the pavement. She was dressed in white, over which was a coat of silver tissue with a deep ermine collar. A slim, radiant figure of youth; from her coiffeured golden hair to the tips other silver shoes she was a vision of loveliness. For a moment John Wade did not see her face, and then, as she came under the overhead light, she turned her head. She did not see John Wade, but he saw her and his jaw dropped. It was Lila Smith!

They had passed into the restaurant before he could stir himself into movement. All thought of his little home in Wapping had vanished from his mind. He waited till the obsequious commissionaire had returned to his station at the door, and then strolled up to him.

"Was that Colonel Martin I saw go in there?" he asked.

The commissionaire looked at him suspiciously. It was not the first time that some stranger had endeavoured to establish the identity of ladies and gentlemen who dined at that restaurant. "No, it wasn't," he said.

"Queer. I could have sworn it was he," said Wade, and would have passed the man, but the commissionaire blocked his way.

"This isn't the way to the restaurant, sir. These are the private rooms and banquet halls. The restaurant opens on to the next street."

John Wade saw that the man and Lila were disappearing through a glass door and had turned left, evidently to a staircase. "Now perhaps you'll tell me something I want to know." His voice was authoritative. "My name is Wade; I am an inspector of police. If you will call the constable who's standing at the corner of the street he can probably identify me."

"That's all right, Mr. Wade." The commissionaire was almost apologetic. "I recognise you now—I've seen your face in the papers. You quite understand I couldn't answer questions—"

"I quite understand that," said Wade amiably. "Who was that man who went in just now?"

The man shook his head. "I haven't the slightest idea, sir. He and the young lady dine here about once a year—certainly not more often. The last time she came she was only a kid. I think he must be her father. One of the head waiters said he's an officer in the Indian Army and only comes home every year."

"He always brings her here, does he?"

"He may take her somewhere else, but I've seen them here together.''

"And she's always well dressed?"

"Why, yes, sir," said the commissionaire in surprise. "She's quite a young lady. She's at school somewhere."

John Wade considered the situation quickly. "What room have they got?"

"Number Eighteen." Then the commissionaire remembered. "I can tell you his name, sir—it'll be in the book." He disappeared down the passage and returned very soon. "Brown—Mr. Brown. He's a rich man, according to the head waiter. Is there anything wrong about them?" he asked anxiously.

There had been something wrong about quite a number of people who dined at the Lydbrake.

"I don't know," said the detective shortly. "I suppose there's no way of getting a glimpse of them? I don't want you to see the head waiter or make a fuss about it that'll start people talking."

The commissionaire thought.

"Number Nineteen isn't occupied. You might walk up into that, Mr. Wade. I can easily tell the head waiter that you want to write a letter. But you understand, sir, I don't know who you are—I'd probably lose my job."

John Wade was assuring him on this point when there came on to the scene one whom John Wade was to meet again in less pleasant circumstances. The meeting was coincidental. Neither had sought the other. In such a way men meet their future wives and other men meet ruin.

Wade was aware of the swaying figure in evening dress. He stood beyond the patch of light thrown from an overhead glass canopy. As the detective moved to the entrance—

"I say—tha's a pretty girl! Tha's a beauty!"

He lurched into the light, a thick-set young man, red of face and with a small red moustache. His pale blue eyes stared owlishly down the corridor.

"Whosh that, Bennett?"

"I don't know their names, m'lord."

He was rather drunk, this coarse-handed, coarse-featured young man. John Wade gave him one glance before he turned into the restaurant, and a few seconds later was walking up the softly carpeted stairs. A waiter was entering Number Eighteen as he came into the corridor, but took no notice of him. Wade opened the door of Nineteen and stepped in, closing it behind him. He felt for the light switch and found it.

He was in a small, rather ornately furnished dining-room; the walls were panelled in rosewood. At the farther end, near window, was a door which evidently led into Eighteen. He went softly to this. There was no sound of voices, and, turning the handle with great caution, he pulled the door slightly ajar, and found, to his annoyance, that there was a second door beyond.

Voices were faintly audible; the deep, gruff note of the man, the softer voice of Lila. So this was 'the experience'! Every year, like a modern Cinderella, she doffed her old clothes and her worn-out shoes and, dressed in the best and most expensive of fashions, dined with this old man.

The whole of the evening must have been spent in preparation for this little jaunt. There must have been hairdressers called in secretly... months of preparation, of dress-fitting, all carried out secretly, under Mum's supervision. She had not known she was going out that night, he could swear; she would have been more excited, less her placid self. He listened at the panel, could hear nothing; tried the keyhole, with no better result. Greatly daring, he turned the handle softly, but the door was locked.

He went to the light switch and turned it off, and, tiptoeing back, lay prone, his ear to the floor. There was a slight space between the bottom of the door and the carpet, and he could hear scraps of the conversation.

"...no, Mr. Brown, she's very good to me..."

He heard the man say something about education and France; but there was curiously little conversation. From time to time the door of the room opened and closed when the waiter came in and set new dishes. Once he heard the man say something about Constantinople. He was describing the place to the girl.

If anything was said which had the slightest bearing upon their strange relationship, John Wade did not hear it. Always she addressed him as "Mr. Brown." There was nothing to suggest they were father and daughter.

At last Wade heard the man demand his bill, and, rising, he dusted his knees, slipped out of the room, and was sitting in a taxi when the big limousine drew up to the door, and the girl and her strange companion came out. 'Mr. Brown' stopped only to slip a Treasury note into the commissionaire's hand, and then the car moved off.

Both Wade's taxicab and the driver had been well chosen; the cab was just behind the bigger car as it sped through the deserted streets of the City. They passed Aldgate, along the Mile End Road, and were near to Wapping when the car turned into a side-street and stopped. Fortunately, Wade's cab had been a little out-distanced; he overshot the road, stopped the cab, and, springing out, reached the end of the street in time to see Lila pass into a house. Almost immediately the car moved on, disappearing round a second corner, and Wade made his way to the house.

It was a one-story villa. The windows were dark. He waited a little while, and then a second taxicab came into the street and stopped at the door. The detective strolled on, crossed the road and came back to where, from a doorway, he was able to watch what followed.

Five minutes later the door of the villa opened and Lila and a woman came out. She was wearing a black raincoat, and he guessed rather than knew that she had resumed her shabby attire. The woman he had no difficulty in recognising as Mum, even if he had not heard her sharp voice directing the cabman.

Waiting until they were gone, he again crossed the road and, opening the little iron wicket-gate, passed up the flagged path to the door of the house. By the light of his small electric torch he found the bell and pressed it. He heard it ring, but no answer came, and he rang again.

The door was fastened by a Yale lock. He went into the little forecourt and tried the front window, but the catch was fastened. Running down by the side of the house was a narrow pathway which led to the back of the premises. There was a little door here, the lock of which was easily forced with a penknife. Presently he found the kitchen door; it was locked and bolted; but he had better luck with the kitchen window, which had not been fastened.

It took him a few minutes to open this. The sash squeaked noisily, and if there had been anybody in the house they must have heard. But when he flung his leg over the sill and dropped into the darkness of the kitchen, there was no sound.

Nobody knew better than John Wade that he was satisfying his curiosity at the expense of the law, which he was most outrageously breaking; but this knowledge caused him not the slightest uneasiness, even though at that moment the police force was passing through a period of unpopularity.

The kitchen was unfurnished; the permanent dresser fixed to the wall was covered with dust. There was not so much as a strip of linoleum on the bare boards.

He opened the door and stepped into the passage. Here he had evidence that the house was used, for he found a thick carpet under his feet, though apparently nobody had ever troubled to clean it, for his feet stirred up little clouds of dust. There were pictures hanging on the wall; cheap engravings which were hardly visible under the coating of grime which covered the glass.

He opened the door of the back room. There was a bed here, covered with a dusty quilt, and the cheap furnishings of the place were in an equal state of neglect. In the front room the blinds were drawn. It had once been a very commonplace parlour, but here also the tawdry furniture had not been used for years.

Going up the carpeted stairs, he reached a landing from which three doors opened. One led to a bathroom; this had been recently used, for, as he opened the door, there came to him a waft of delicate perfume. The bathroom floor was clean; the bath itself had been used that evening, and there were towels, still damp, hanging over the back of a chair. The big mirror, too, was polished, and on the little table before it somebody had left a washleather pad and an orange stick. He found a paper bag half filled with bath salts; the soap in the dish was of a most expensive brand and was hardly used. It was here, then, that Cinderella had prepared her toilet.

He passed into the front room. It was scrupulously clean, and laid out on the bed was the dress he had seen Lila wearing, even to the silver shoes. There were no stockings; she must have been wearing those when she went away.

He made a more careful search of the room. The windows were covered with thick felt, so that it was impossible that light should escape. There was no electric current in the house; light was evidently supplied by a big paraffin table-lamp, which, after closing the door, he lit, the better to conduct his investigations.

Near the bed, let into an alcove of the wall, was a long, sunken cupboard. He tried to open this, but it fastened with a patent lock and the door was obviously of very solid construction. A table, two chairs— one of them very comfortable—a long mirror leaning against the wall and performing the function of a cheval glass—these were the only articles the room contained.

He turned out the light and made an examination of the back room. Evidently this was not used, for it bore the same appearance of neglect that he had seen in the other rooms. It contained an untidy bed which was covered by a dust-soiled linen sheet.

Wade went down the stairs slowly and thoughtfully. This house puzzled him. Did Brown, or Mum, or whoever was concerned, keep this villa vacant all the year as a changing place for Lila? And if they did...

He had reached the foot of the stairs when he heard the sound of a key being inserted in the lock of the front door. Swiftly he went back to the cover of the kitchen, and waited. The front door opened; he heard a man whispering, then the door closed. They were coming towards him. For some reason winch he could not explain, a shiver went down John Wade's spine. He was not a nervous man, and this was an uncanny experience—more uncanny than Lila's furtive outings.

One of them stopped at the back room, opened the door and went in. Neither showed a light, but presently Wade saw a gleam of yellow under the bottom of the closed door. There was a queer, musty smell in the house; his nostrils were very sensitive, and, even before he listened and heard the fierce chatter of a voice, he knew that the men who had passed into the back room were Chinamen.

Even as he listened, he heard a quick step on the flagstones outside, and had only time to get back to the kitchen when a third man came through the front door. He asked something in Chinese; the door opened and one of the men came out. Wade did not see the face of the newcomer, but he was European and wore a black raincoat turned up over his ears. Then he too disappeared into the room; the door was closed and locked.

The newcomer was at any rate European—that was evident from his height. Wade crept forward and listened at the door. Two voices were talking urgently; the third did not speak. There was a menace in the deeper note of the new arrival, almost a plea in the whine of the one Chinaman who spoke. Somebody came to the door and turned the handle, forgetting it was locked, and again John Wade retreated to the kitchen. Presently the lock snapped back, the handle turned and the three went out. They passed through the front door together, the last man closing it gently.

They were hardly in the street before Wade was after them. They walked together across the main arterial road, turned down a narrow street, with the detective on their trail. Presently they reached one of the waterside streets, a place of warehouses, narrow entries that gave to worn, slippery stairs leading to the dark waters of the river. They stood for a while, talking together, then one of them sat down with his back to the wall. In the uncertain light it was difficult to see which of the three it was, but he was hardly seated before the other two men moved on and became indistinct blurs in the light of the street lamps as they passed.

John Wade was in a dilemma. Did they suspect he was following them? Had this man been left to check the shadow? John walked on, came nearer and nearer to the man sitting against the wall. It was one of the Chinamen, he saw. The pavement glistened from a recent shower, but it glistened more brightly in the place where the Chinaman sat, for three little rivulets of blood were trickling down to the gutter.

John Wade's police whistle shrilled through the empty streets. He blew as he ran swiftly in the direction the two men had taken, and presently he came upon a policeman running towards him. The policeman had met nobody. In a few minutes a dozen policemen were searching the neighbourhood, but the tall European and the Chinaman were not found.