— that you, Maitland? Go to 375 St. John Street, and take into custody Count Ivan Poltavo on a charge of murder. Take with you fifty men and surround the place. Detain every caller, and every person you find in the house.”
He hung up the receiver. “It is a bluff, as my gay American friend says,” he remarked to the editor, “because, of course, I have no real evidence against him. But I want a chance to ransack that studio of his, anyway.
“Now, my friend,” he said in French, “what shall we do with you?”
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders listlessly.
“What does it matter?” he said. “They will have me — it is only a matter of hours.”
“I take a brighter view,” said T.B. cheerily; “you shall walk with us to Scotland Yard and there you shall be taken care of.”
But the Frenchman shrank back.
“Come, there is no danger,” smiled T.B.
Reluctantly the engineer accompanied the detective and the editor from the building. A yellow fog lay like a damp cloth over London, and the Thames Embankment was almost deserted.
“Do you think he followed you here?” asked T.B.
“I am sure.” The Frenchman looked from left to right in an agony of apprehension. “He killed Hyatt and he killed Moss — of that I am certain — and now—”
A motorcar loomed suddenly through the fog, coming from the direction of Northumberland Avenue, and overtook them. A man leant out of the window as the car swept abreast. His face was masked and his actions were deliberate.
“Look out!” cried the editor and clutched the Frenchman’s arm.
The pistol that was levelled from the window of the car cracked twice and T.B. felt the wind of the bullets as they passed his head.
Then the car disappeared into the mist, leaving behind three men, one half fainting with terror, one immensely pleased with the novel sensation — our editor, you may be sure — and one using language unbecoming to an Assistant-Commissioner of Police.
19. The Book
The house in St. John Street had been raided. In a little room on the top floor there was evidence that an instrument of some considerable size had been hastily dismantled. Broken ends of wire were hanging from the wall, and one other room on the same floor was packed with storage batteries. Pursuing their investigations, the detectives ascended to the roof through a trap door. Here was the flagstaff and the arrangement for hoisting the wires. Apparently, night was usually chosen for the reception and despatch of messages. By night, the taut strands of wire would not attract attention. Only in cases of extremest urgency were they employed in daylight.
Count Poltavo was gone — vanished, in spite of the fact that every railway terminus in London had been watched, every ocean-going passenger scrutinised.
Van Ingen had been given two days to get the “book”; this code which the unfortunate Hyatt had deciphered to his undoing. Moss had said Hyatt’s sister had it, but the country had been searched from end to end for Hyatt’s sister. It had not been difficult to trace her. Van Ingen, after half-an-hour’s search in Falmouth, had discovered her abode, but the girl was not there.
“She left for London yesterday,” he was informed.
From that moment Miss Hyatt had disappeared. A telegram had reached her on the very day of Hyatt’s death. It said “Come.”
There was no name, no address. The telegram had been handed in at St. Martin’s-le-Grand; unearthed, it was found to be in typewritten characters, and the address at its back a fictitious one. One other item of news Van Ingen secured; there had been a lady on the same errand as himself.
“A foreign lady,” said the good folks of Falmouth.
He had some two days to discover Eva Hyatt — this was her name.
He paced the room, his head sunk on his breast. Where was the girl?
The telegram said “Come.” It suggested some prearranged plan in which the girl had acquiesced; she was to leave Falmouth and go somewhere. Suppose she had come to London, where would Catherine Dominguez have placed her? Near at hand; a thought struck Van Ingen. Smith had told him the tale of the deportation of the dancing girl. He would search her flat. He took down his overcoat and struggled into it, made a selection of keys from his pocket, and went out. It was a forlorn hope, but forlorn hopes had often been the forerunners of victory, and there was nothing to be lost by trying.
He came to the great hall of the mansion in Baker Street and asked the number of the dancer’s flat.
The hall porter touched his cap.
“Evening, sir.” Then, “I suppose you know the young lady hasn’t come back yet?”
Van Ingen did know, but said nothing. The porter was in a talkative mood.
“She sent me a wire from Liverpool, saying that she’d been called away suddenly.”
The young man nodded. He knew this, too, for T.B. had sent the wire.
“What the other young lady couldn’t understand,” continued the porter, and Van Ingen’s heart gave a leap, “was, why—”
“Why she hadn’t wired her, eh?” he asked.
“Well, you see, she was so busy—”
“Of course!” The porter clucked his lips impatiently.
“She’s upstairs in Miss Dominguez’ flat at this moment. My word, she’s been horribly worried—”
“I’ll go up and see her. As a matter of fact, I’ve come here for the purpose,” said Van Ingen quickly. He took the lift to the second floor, and walked along the corridor. He reached No. 43 and his hand was raised to press the little electric bell of the suite when the door opened quickly and a girl stepped out. She gave a startled cry as she saw the stranger, and drew back.
“I beg your pardon,” said Van Ingen, with a pleasant smile. “I’m afraid I startled you.” She was a big florid girl with a certain awkwardness of movement.
“Well-dressed but gauche,” thought Van Ingen.
“Provincial! she’ll talk.”
“I was a little startled,” she said, with a ready smile. “I thought it was the postman.”
“But surely postmen do not deliver letters in this palatial dwelling,” he laughed. “I thought the hall porter—”
“Oh, but this is a registered letter,” she said importantly, “from America.” All the time Van Ingen was thinking out some method by which he might introduce the object of his visit.
