Читать книгу The Man Who Was Not - John Russell Fearn - Страница 5

CHAPTER TWO

IN Chief-Inspector Hargraves’ office there was comparative silence. It was just twelve hours since Trudy had died. Nine in the morning, with the dingy view of the Embankment outside the office window, and a slow drift of drizzle over the autumn scene.

“And that’s how it happened, sir,” Forsythe said, seated at the desk. “The Divisional Inspector thought I should let you have the details personally. There’s little more to add to the official report which I delivered here last night.”

“On the contrary,” Hargraves said grimly, turning. “There is a great deal more! Trudy Dawson was murdered.... That is if we dispense with the conception of suicide.”

“But that isn’t possible, sir! There was nobody in the room except the family, and her fiancé. Or perhaps you mean that her general emotional state brought on heart failure?”

“I mean that she was poisoned!” Hargraves came across to the desk and picked up a sheet of paper. “Here is the post mortem report. Rightly, on Trudy’s death, you informed the Divisional Inspector and he ordered a post-mortem in readiness for the coroner. This report means the coroner will simply adjourn the inquest whilst we make inquiries.... Read it for yourself.”

Forsythe took the report and scanned it:

For the attention of C.I. Hargraves.

Report on Trudy Dawson, Deceased.

It is plain from preliminary post-mortem examination that the deceased died from a heavy dose of hyoscyamus, though the exact time of it being administered is difficult to determine. When one considers the various strengths of hyoscyamus, one has also to allow varying times for its peak effect, which could be anything from twenty-four hours to a few minutes. This depends upon the dilution of the poison, the quantity used, and so forth. The final effects of the poison are intense excitement, dry mouth, thirst, dilated pupils, and then sudden death.

Boyd Lester,

Divisional Surgeon

“Hyoscyamus is in the atropine and belladonna group. I know that much,” Forsythe said, tossing the report down on the desk. “But that’s all I do know—Anyway, when was it administered? At dinner?”

Hargraves shrugged. “No idea. But we’ll find out...the lounge and dining room have been sealed off pending investi­gation, I understand?”

“Yes, sir. The Divisional-Inspector ordered it until after the post-mortem. If Trudy had died from natural causes that would end the matter...but now I guess the matter passes to you.”

“Right.” Hargraves sat at his desk and made an irritated movement. “If only I’d taken more notice of that girl’s presentiment! She knew—instinctively—that trouble was coming to her!”

“Can’t blame yourself for that, sir,” Brice said, seated at his desk. “We can’t rely on presentiments: only facts.”

“Yes, how true.” Hargraves gave a sigh; then he alerted again. “We’ll start getting busy right away—but first of all, Forsythe, I’d like an amplification of this report of yours. You say that Trudy did not behave rationally in the hour before she died?”

“No, sir. Now I’ve seen the medical report I know why. It was obviously the effect of the poison. She was extremely talkative, very excited, and nearly on the verge of hysterics. Dr. Mason, her fiancé, did all he could to—”

“Dr. Mason?”

“Yes, sir. It’s all there in the report. He’s a hypnotherapist in the same hospital as Sir Robert Dawson.”

“I see.” Hargraves thought for a moment, then glanced through the rest of the report. “All right, Forsythe. Thanks. I’ll be in touch again if anything more puzzles me.”

Forsythe nodded and went on his way. Hargraves continued to glance through the report, then he looked across at Brice who was waiting attentively.

“I don’t like it,” Hargraves said, his mouth setting. “This was cold-blooded murder, and anybody who’d murder a nice girl like Trudy Dawson has a lot to answer for...in fact it’s perhaps two murders,” he finished, musing.

‘Two?” Brice raised his eyebrows.

“Yes. Didn’t Trudy tell us that her brother had died at nine o’clock in a motor smash not long ago? I thought then it was coincidence: now I’m beginning to wonder. Anyway, we’ve got to get busy. Tell the fingerprint boys and photographers to get ready and we’ll start moving.”

So, towards ten o’clock, the full panoply of the law descended on the Dawson residence. Every detail was recorded, true to police routine, then Hargraves set about the task of interrogation. This presented no problem since all the family was present—even Sir Robert, who was far too upset by the death of his daughter to think about his normal work.

One by one, in the privacy of the study, Hargraves instituted a cross-examination of the family, Sergeant Brice taking everything down in shorthand. The last one to be interviewed was Sir Robert himself, unusually quiet and clearly depressed.

“I realize how you must be feeling at this time, Sir Robert,” Hargraves said quietly. “Naturally I will try to make things as easy as possible for you—but you will appreciate that I must have every fact if I am to got at the truth.”

“Naturally,” Dawson agreed. “I’ll help out as far as I can.”

“Good. Then tell me this: You are a doctor of considerable renown. You know now that your daughter was killed by hyoscyamus. Did you not recognize symptoms of poisoning in her general behavior prior to her death?”

Dawson shrugged. “Had I been alert for them I certainly should have done so—but having no reason to suspect anything of the kind I just assumed that she was in a highly emotional state, which considering the circumstances was not to be wondered at.”

“Quite so.... It would seem that Trudy had a bitter enemy. Have you any idea who this might be?”

“Not the remotest, inspector. As far as I know, Trudy was liked by everybody. She never mentioned any enemies. I could better imagine June having enemies than her—people who might resent her sophisticated attitude, if you understand me. No, Trudy was a happy girl—a good-time girl in fact, and as you will have gathered she was all locked up in her forthcoming marriage to Herbert Mason.”

“Quite....” Hargraves reflected for a moment. “Concerning this Dr. Mason: could you give me a few more facts about him? I know he’s at the same hospital as yourself, but there my information ends.”

“He’s been at the hospital for about two years,” Dawson said. “He met Trudy about a year ago and they became engaged just recently. I gave their engagement my blessing since I know Herbert intimately. He’s a clever man at his work, and privately he’s the complete gentleman.”

“He’s a hypnotherapist, I believe?”

“That is so. He’s doing great work in the field.”

“Mmm. There are a few things more I’d like to know about him, but that’s a matter for he himself to attend to. I take it I can reach him at St. Luke’s Hospital?”

Dawson nodded. “Any time. He’s the resident hypnotherapist.”

Hargraves got to his feet and strolled round the big study for a while before he asked another question.

“Have you any enemies that you know of, Sir Robert?”

“Enemies?” The surgeon looked vaguely surprised. “I don’t know about that, but I daresay there are plenty of people who don’t like me. The jealous ones, for instance—which are inseparable from a profession like mine. Or maybe there are some people who are a little piqued because I’ve failed in this or that operation. Not,” Dawson added, “that I can see what that has to do with the murder of Trudy.”

“In confidence, Sir Robert, I begin to suspect that Trudy was not the only one to be murdered. What about your son Gerald?”

“But that was a motor smash.”

“Perhaps.... The point I’m making is this. Perhaps some person has notions about revenge upon you—but instead of taking that revenge upon you personally it is falling on those who are near and dear to you. There is nothing unique about the idea: there have been cases of it before.”

“But I still don’t see how Gerald’s smash and Trudy’s murder can be interlinked.”

“They both happened at nine o’clock. It may be coincidence: on the other hand it may not. I’m going to make it my business to find out, because if they were both deliberately murdered our viewpoint shifts. We begin to see that the murders have not an individual reason, but are part of something larger. Something which may involve the whole family if it isn’t stopped.”

‘You can’t throw any light on the incidents immediately prior to your son’s death, I suppose?” Hargraves continued, as the surgeon remained grimly silent.

“No, I’m afraid not.” Dawson forced himself to attention. “I was away at the hospital all day and evening. In fact I believe June was the last one to see him as he left the house prior to his fatal accident.”

“He didn’t perhaps receive a mysterious death warning?”

Dawson started. “I’ve no idea: such a thought never occurred to any of us. If he did, I assume it would be by telephone. The maid might know something.”

Hargraves moved over to the bell-push and depressed it. Then he stood thoughtfully waiting until the maid arrived. She was entirely respectful, but obviously nervous.

“Yes, sir?”

“I want you tell me something, if you can—er—”

“My name’s Baines, sir.”

“Thank you. You know, of course, why I am here—conducting an inquiry into the mysterious death of Miss Trudy. I have reason to believe there may be an offshoot to the matter in connection with Mr. Gerald.”

“I understand, sir.”

“I want you to think back, Baines—very carefully. Before Mr. Gerald went out on the evening of his death, can you recall if he received a phone call?”

Baines nodded promptly. “Yes, sir—about twenty to eight.”

“You seem very sure of this, Baines,” Hargraves murmured.

“Only because it is part of my job to answer the phone, sir. Somebody asked for Mr. Gerald, so naturally I put the call through to his room.”

“And he answered?”

“Almost immediately, sir.”

“You don’t happen to know what the call was about, I suppose?” The maid looked faintly indignant. “Certainly not, sir. When Mr. Gerald answered I put the phone back on its cradle.”

“I see.” Hargraves smiled a little. “Have no fear, Baines: I am perfectly sure you behaved properly—but on this occasion it might have helped us had you not done so. Incidentally, you mentioned this at the inquest on Mr. Gerald, I suppose?”

“Why, no!” The girl looked worried. “Should I have done so? Nobody asked me. I never thought—”

“Never mind; it’s passed now,” Hargraves interrupted. “Let us go back for a moment. What kind of a voice had this caller? What did he say? Incidentally, I suppose it was a man?”

“Oh yes, sir, it was a man all right. He had a—a very soft, gentle voice. Sort of soothing, it was.”

“Mmm. Can you recall what he said?”

“He simply asked for Mr. Gerald Dawson—nothing more.”

Hargraves nodded. “All right, Baines: that’s all I need to know. You can go.”

The girl departed and for a moment Hargraves stood in silence; then he glanced across at Sir Robert.

“I think we may safely assume, Sir Robert, that your son received a telephone warning, just the same as Trudy did. The only difference was that there was not as much time lag between warning and event—and of course the fact that your son apparently did not take any precautions, like calling for police protection, for instance.”

“Why on earth do you suppose he suddenly decided to head for the south coast?” the surgeon asked, puzzled. “And how was it that, despite the decision he had made, he ran into death at nine o’clock just the same? Suppose he’d gone north? Do you think he’d have died just the same?”

“That is one of the imponderables, Sir Robert: I just don’t know the answer—yet.” Hargraves moved with sudden action. “Well, I think I’ve got all I want here for the moment, Sir Robert. My inquiries will have to branch out a bit since apparently I’m covering two murders instead of one. I think I’ll have a word with Dr. Mason next. If anything unusual happens just ring me at the Yard. In the meantime carry on as usual.”

The surgeon rose slowly, his face haggard. “Thanks for all you’re doing, inspector.... About the funeral, what is the procedure?”

“Normal,” Hargraves said. “We have all we need now the post-mortem has been made.... Oh, I would remind you that there is need for care in regard to yourself, your wife, and your daughter June.”

“Care?”

“As I said before, this seems to be a matter aimed at the entire family, and not one person in particular. The rest of you are therefore in danger. Anything, no matter how slight, that gives rise to suspicion should be reported immediately.”

“I’ll remember that, inspector.”

Hargraves nodded, shook hands, and then departed with Brice. They were in the police car on their way to St. Luke’s hospital, before Brice ventured a comment.

“From the look of things, sir, this business goes a lot deeper than we’d thought at first sight.”

“No doubt of that.”

“Think you’ll get anything out of Dr. Mason?”

“No idea. Chiefly I want to find out what his relationship was with Trudy. I know he was engaged to her, but there may have been deeper issues.”

Clearly, Hargraves was not in a particularly communicative mood so Brice let the matter drop. He drove as swiftly as possible through the crowded London streets until he finally reached the sweeping drive-in outside St. Luke’s hospital.

“Okay,” Hargraves murmured, opening the car door. “Let’s be going.”

Once they had identified themselves to the reception sister there was no difficulty in obtaining an interview with the young hypnotherapist. The two men were conducted to a private ante-room, and presently the white-coated Mason put in an appear­ance. He had an air of business about him, but he certainly did not seem perturbed at finding two men of Scotland Yard waiting to see him.

“We’re police officers, doctor—” Hargraves began, display­ing his warrant-card; but Mason cut him short.

“Yes, I’m aware of that. The sister told me. I suppose it has something to do with Trudy?”

“Exactly so,” Hargraves assented. “Routine inquiry, you understand.... I think you might be able to help us. You have not been told yet what caused the girl’s death, have you?”

“No idea.” Mason’s lips tightened for a moment. “There seemed to be no sense in it. Last I remember was that the Divisional Inspector had ordered a post-mortem.”

“Exactly. That post-mortem revealed that Miss Dawson died from poisoning—hyoscyamus. I have the task of trying to determine how it was administered, and by whom.”

“Hyoscyamus,” Mason mused. “That’s one of the narcotic irritants.”

“Yes, it is.... Tell me, did you observe any opportunity for that drug to be administered last night during dinner?”

Mason shook his head. “No; I certainly didn’t, inspector. But now you have mentioned the cause of death I recollect that all Trudy’s symptoms were in conformity with having taken such a drug....” he stopped, thoughtful. “Come to think of it, I believe the poison might have been administered before the evening.”

Hargraves alerted. “What makes you think that?”

“She told me during conversation that she had been intolerably tired all day, and once or twice caught herself out falling asleep. We just passed it off as reaction after the party we attended the night before. I might remark that I was rather surprised because as a rule Trudy was the kind of girl who could take parties in her stride. She had tremendous energy.”

“I infer from this that hyoscyamus poisoning produces drowsiness?”

“Certainly. I’m not much up in poisons since that isn’t my field—but I do know that much.”

“Thank you,” Hargraves said, musing. “Very interesting. Though you are not an expert in poisons, perhaps you can give me some idea how long it would take a dose of hyoscyamus to do its work?”

Mason shrugged. “I’ve no real idea. It would depend on the strength of the dose and the resistance of the victim to it. Resistance would be high in a girl as young as Trudy.”

Hargraves glanced towards Brice who was in the midst of making his usual shorthand notes—then, after a brief pause, Hargraves started on a different track.

“This party you’ve referred to, Dr. Mason? Where was it?”

“The Café Criterion—just off the Strand.”

“I know the place.... Was it a celebration, an evening of fun, or what?”

“A mutual friend of ours—Trudy and me, I mean—threw the party to celebrate his engagement to a socialite. It was quite a big affair.”

“About how many guests?”

“Quite a lot—mainly stage people. David Warlock—the chap who threw the party—is a small time West End actor, and you know what pros are when they throw a party.”

“Was there anybody there whom you would describe as enemy of yourself, or Trudy? Or even of Sir Robert?”

“Good heavens, no!” Mason laughed rather incredulously. “They were all good friends, full of the party spirit...or are you suggesting that somebody there administered the poison?”

“I’m not suggesting anything,” Hargraves answered calmly. “I am simply exploring possibilities.”

“Then I’m afraid you’re up a tree there, inspector. It was a perfectly happy party.”

“By invitation, of course?”

“Yes. By ticket—or rather invitation card.”

Hargraves nodded slowly and seemed to be thinking about some­thing. Then he apparently changed his mind. He picked up his hat from the side table, considered it, then asked another ques­tion.

“You know of course that Trudy was warned that she would die? A telephone message?”

“Yes—I know.” Mason was grimly serious now. “When we first discovered she was dead I jumped to the conclusion that she had had a fatal heart attack due to her emotional upset prior to nine o’clock. Now we know that it was the poison causing the trouble.”

“You can’t think of anybody likely to send such a phone message, even for a practical joke?”

Mason reflected for a long time, then finally he shook his head

“All right—never mind,” Hargraves said. “But I don’t see any harm in telling you that Trudy’s brother, Gerald, had a similar phone call before he died in a motor smash on the south coast road.”

Mason looked genuinely astonished. “He did? But how do you know?”

“The maid told us. She should have given the information at the inquest, but nobody asked her about it—and she’s not a girl of immense initiative.... So you see, doctor, it looks as though whoever killed Trudy also killed Gerald—but the ‘how’ is the big problem. Anyway, thanks for your help.”

Hargraves put on his hat and moved to the door with Sergeant Brice beside him; then he turned.

“By the way, doctor. How much regard has Sir Robert for his family?”

“That’s a bit of an odd question, isn’t it?” Mason gave a rather grim smile. “You don’t suspect Sir Robert, surely?”

“I suspect everybody, doctor; that’s my job.”

“I see.... Well, in regard to Sir Robert, I should change my opinion, if I were you. There couldn’t be a more devoted husband or kinder father than Sir Robert. At least, that’s been my experience.”

“You work in this hospital with him. How do you get along?”

“Fair enough. Sir Robert’s quite popular with the staff.”

Hargraves nodded. “Right! Thanks for the information, doctor. I’ll be on my way now. I know where you are if I want you again.”

With that Hargraves shook hands and took his departure. He remained in grim thought as Brice drove back to towards the Yard. On the way they stopped for lunch, which Hargraves ate mostly in silence; then they continued on their way to the gloomy office overlooking the Thames embankment.

“What’s the next move, sir?” Brice asked.

“I don’t know yet.” Hargraves put hat and coat on the hat stand. “I’ve got to think a bit. Get your notes typed out into a report and let me have it quick as you can.”

“Right, sir.”

Hargraves lighted a cigarette, drew at it thoughtfully for a moment or two, and then sat down at his desk. He pulled towards him the photographs that had been made of Trudy’s death fall in the lounge; and then the fingerprint report. From the latter it appeared that the prints on glasses, crockery, and various articles of furniture, were those of the family—but of course absolute proof of this could only be obtained by taking the prints of each person for comparison tests.

“And the law does not permit of taking prints without a conviction first,” Hargraves muttered. “Wonder how many more regulations they can think up to hamper a hard-working policeman?”

“Pardon, sir?” Brice glanced up from his keyboard.

“Nothing—just thinking out loud. Look, sergeant, what strikes you as the most puzzling thing in this case?”

“Well, sir, there are quite a few puzzling points—but most outstanding of the lot is the matter of time. The nine o’clock business. Take Gerald Dawson first—If he had been warned that he would die at nine—and presumably he was—how was the killer so sure that he would meet with a fatal accident at that moment? Again, how did the killer know Gerald was going to take the road he did? Presumably, from what we know now, the smashup on the road was deliberately planned—and for nine o’clock. What on earth made Gerald go in the right direction? It kind of savors of witchcraft, clairvoyance, or...or something.”

“I agree; though I don’t think either possibility is likely. Certainly, it would seem that our killer has an all-round know­ledge of when and where his victims will die, enough knowledge to tell them beforehand. He even gets away with it with police protection all round, as in the case of Trudy.”

“In that case, sir, I think she was poisoned at the party the night before, and the killer knew how long the poison would take to act on a girl of her physical reactions.”

“I incline to the same belief,” Hargraves said. “Somebody was at that party for the especial purpose of poisoning Trudy—and to find that somebody will be no easy job, but we can make a start. Since everybody was by invitation it ought to be poss­ible to get a list of the guests from—er—” Hargraves snapped his fingers indecisively.

“David Warlock?” Brice suggested.

“That’s the fellow. Make a note to track him down—either through the stage managements, the Café Criterion, the telephone directory, or something. Even Actors’ Equity could probably give you his address. I don’t want to get it direct from Dr. Mason.”

“I’m rather curious, sir. Why not?”

“Because I don’t want him to know my moves any more than I can help. Reason: he’s a doctor. A hypnotherapist, true, but that wouldn’t stop him getting supplies of poison if he wanted them, and no questions asked. We’ve absolutely nothing to pin on him as yet, but I don’t agree with putting him in the picture too much.”

“For that matter, Sir Robert is a doctor too.”

“A fact which had not escaped me,” Hargraves said, stubbing out his cigarette. “But, as in the case of Dr. Mason, I’ve no reason for suspecting him of dirty work—yet. If it comes that, I think Sir Robert will have more trouble to face before long—even as I told him.”

Hargraves meditated through an interval, then he said:

“We’d take a definite short cut ii we could catch our murdering friend red-handed at the telephone—and unless I’m dead off the mark he’ll certainly repeat his actions. Criminals always do. There may yet be one more call—”

Hargraves thought further for a moment and then picked up the telephone.

“Post Office Engineering Section,” he said briefly. “Get me Larry Hayes.”

There was an interval, then Hargraves spoke again. “That you, Larry? Hargraves here. Look, I need your special help.... Can you come round and I’ll explain...? Yes, that’s right. Okay, soon as you can.”

Hargraves rang off and glanced across at Brice. “Maybe a hunch worth playing,” he said. “Meantime I’ll track down David Warlock. You get on with that report.”

“Okay, sir.”

Hargraves picked up the telephone again, and for several minutes was in the midst of making inquiries. It was only when he contacted the Criterion that he got a result. The address of David Warlock was given to him instantly. After that it was a matter of getting Warlock himself—and as it happened he was lucky. The private hotel where Warlock was residing announced that he was in, and in another moment he came to the phone.

“The police?” Warlock exclaimed, when Hargraves had identified himself. “But what do you want with me?”

“Just a matter of routine, sir,” Hargraves said, reflecting how beautifully the man spoke—as became his profession of an actor. “I believe you gave a party two nights ago at the Café Criterion and invited several guests?”

“Why yes, I did. There was nothing wrong with that, was there? The premises of the Criterion are licensed for—”

“I’m not concerned about that, Mr. Warlock. Just let me do the talking please. I’m inquiring into the murder of Trudy Dawson, about which you probably know.”

There was a gasp. “Trudy murdered! Murdered, did you say?”

“I did. Evidently you didn’t see the stop-press notices in this morning’s paper.”

“No I didn’t, as a matter of fact.”

“You can read the full report in this evening’s papers.... Now to the matter on hand: Can you supply me with a full list of all the guests present at your celebration party?”

“Sure I can. Take a little time, though. There were nearly a hundred of them.”

“No matter. Just submit the list to me as soon as possible—Chief-Inspector Hargraves, Scotland Yard. I want that list today if at all possible.”

“You can have it in an hour. I’ll bring it myself.”

“Fair enough.”

Hargraves rang off and gradually lost himself in thought again as Sergeant Brice typed energetically in the corner. Then, presently, the arrival of Larry Hayes, the chief telephone engineer, brought an interruption.

“Afternoon, inspector,” he greeted breezily. “What can I do for you this time?”

“You can explain a few things to my woefully non-technical mind,” Hargraves responded. “Sit down, Larry. Have a cigarette.”

“Thanks.” Hayes lighted up and then waited—a keen-faced, short man who had rapidly climbed to the top in his career as an engineer.

“First, I must put you in the picture,” Hargraves said. “It’s a case of murder—possibly two murders. You’ll read the bare facts later in the press.... To cut it short, a girl named Trudy Dawson, and her brother Gerald, have both been murdered. Where you come in is that they were informed beforehand, by telephone, when the murder would happen.... Now, to trace a call from a dial phone is impossible. I have reason to think there will be more attempts at murder yet and I want to nab the person sending the telephone warning. How do I do it?”

“You don’t know if the warning came from a telephone box, I suppose?”

“I haven’t the least idea.”

“Hmm.” Hayes pondered for a moment and then asked a question. “What’s the telephone set-up at the receiving end?”

“It’s on the automatic line.”

“Yes, yes. Practically all phones are automatic these days. I mean are there extensions and so forth?”

“There is one main phone in the hall, and extensions to every bedroom.”

“It isn’t a party line, shared with somebody else?”

No—direct. It’s the residence of Sir Robert Dawson, the resident surgeon to St. Luke’s hospital.”

“I see. Is there a direct line from the hospital for emer­gency calls?”

Hargraves shook his head. “No. Just the normal line.”

“Then that makes it simpler,” Hayes mused. “We can concentrate on the main incoming line. What we can do, inspector, is have some men use an electronic detector hitched to the main line. When a call comes through one can tell from the strength of the signal, and the direction, the approximate point of origin. It isn’t foolproof by any means, but it will give you the source of origin within, say, five miles.”

“You can’t narrow the field a little? Five miles is the hell of a lot of territory to cover to pinpoint one caller—and murder could be done in the interval.”

Hayes shrugged. “Sorry, inspector, but that’s the best I can promise. In some ways the automatic exchange has proved a bit of a drawback to the law.”

“You’re telling me!” Hargraves growled.

“There’s one other way,” Hayes said, pondering further. “It would be surer, but it’s damned complicated. It would mean several men on night and day watch at the telephone exchange—”

“Okay if we have to,” Hargraves said. “What’s the angle?”

“The unit containing the Dawson number would have to be watched, and every time it started to function from an incoming call we should have to trace it. We could do it by the pulsa­tions and discover the exact source—But like I said, it’s complicated.”

“Nothing’s so complicated when you’re trying to catch a murderer and prevent a further murder,” Hargraves said. “Do that, Larry, and I will satisfy the Postmaster General if it be necessary. If he won’t believe me, I don’t doubt the Assistant Commissioner will be able to reassure him.”

Hayes nodded and got to his feet. “Sir Robert Dawson, you say? Okay—we’ll get his number.”

“And don’t advise him, or anybody else, of what you’re doing,” Hargraves added, as he accompanied the engineer to the door. “Absolute secrecy is essential, and the same goes for the men employed on the job.”

“Rely on us,” Hayes smiled. We’ve helped the Yard before and we know how to keep our mouths shut.”