don’t think I hesitated, or not very much at all events. He seemed to believe me all right.’
Ugly, thought French. If this somewhat rambling statement were true, it looked distinctly ugly. Indeed Thurza Darke’s fears as to her personal safety might not be so misplaced after all. If this Style had murdered Eileen Tucker, Thurza’s obvious recognition of the scar would give him a nasty jar. He would realise that she must have heard of it from Eileen herself, and the very fact that she had denied acquaintanceship with the deceased girl would tell him that she suspected him. For the first time French began to think the matter might be serious.
‘Before Style asked you if you knew Miss Tucker you say you talked for some time,’ he went on. ‘Tell me what you said.’
‘Not very much, Mr French. I didn’t like his questions about the cash arrangements at the Milan, and he saw I didn’t. He said he would like an answer from me, as if I didn’t want the job he could find plenty of others glad of it. I mightn’t like the feeling it was something I couldn’t tell my friends about, but that was what the pay was for. The actual work was nothing.’
‘He made no secret that it was criminal?’
Miss Darke seemed shocked.
‘Such a thing never entered my mind,’ she declared. ‘The worst I thought was that it mightn’t be quite straight.’
‘Well, what did you say?’
‘I said I didn’t like it, and he replied that was perfectly all right and that he respected people who said what they meant. Then he got up and said goodbye and began to walk off.’
‘But you didn’t let him go?’
‘I didn’t,’ Miss Darke admitted. ‘While I had been talking to him I had almost forgotten about my debt to Mr Westinghouse. But when I saw him going the remembrance of it seemed to come down over me like a great cloud. I said to myself: “If I do what Mr Style wants I may be ruined, but if I don’t I shall be ruined without doubt.” It seemed the lesser evil and I called him back intending to agree.’
‘And did you not agree?’
‘No. When it came to the point I just couldn’t, and I begged for a day or two to think it over. He said certainly, and for me to meet him at twelve o’clock on Friday—that’s tomorrow—in the small room to the left of the Turner Room in the National Gallery. I could give him my answer then.’
‘Well,’ said French, ‘there’s one thing certain and that is that you’ve done a wise thing by coming here and telling your story. And you’ve told it exceedingly well, if I may say so again. Go on, please.’
‘That’s about all there is. I was in absolute misery all that day. In the evening my friend at the boarding house, Jennie Cox, noticed that there was something wrong with me and pestered me so much about it that at last I told her everything. She said I should ask Mr Arrowsmith’s advice, but I said I would do nothing of the kind. That was all last night.
‘This morning about half past ten she came back to the boarding house and said that in spite of my objection she had told Mr Arrowsmith the whole story. At first I was real mad with her, then I saw that Mr Arrowsmith might help me out. So I went to his office with Jennie and told him everything, just as I have to you.’
French nodded. For a moment he remained silent, then leaning forward, he spoke with decision.
‘Now, Miss Darke, I may tell you at once that you’re not to be alarmed about yourself. We’ll see you through. But you must do exactly what I tell you.’
‘You may trust me, Mr French,’ the girl said earnestly.
‘Very well. Tomorrow you must go to the National Gallery, as Style asked you. You will tell him that you have thought over what he said and that you have decided to do as he asked, provided he will give you an undertaking to pay you the money he promised. Don’t show any hesitation so far as the moral side of the matter is concerned, but be stiff about the payment. You understand what I’m after? I want him to think he has got you. Finally agree to his terms and say you are willing to start at once.’
Miss Darke looked rather scared as she promised.
‘Please remember that you have nothing to fear. As a matter of fact you will be watched at the National Gallery by one of our men and you will be perfectly safe. But don’t go away anywhere with Style or Westinghouse or Miss Lestrange. Just do as I’ve said and I’ll look after the rest. Now I’ll say good day, and again I congratulate you on your wisdom in coming to tell me your story.’
That he really was on to something serious, French was now inclined to believe. It was worth looking into at all events, and he determined he would not only follow up Miss Darke’s adventures, but also investigate the death of Eileen Tucker.
His first inquiry could be made immediately. Picking up his telephone, he put through a call.
‘That the Bijou Theatre in Coventry Street? Scotland Yard speaking. I am trying to trace the movements of a young lady called Gwen Lestrange. She states she was barmaid with you up till about a month ago. Can you give any information about her?’
‘Must be some mistake,’ came the reply. ‘There never was anyone of the name here.’
‘She might have been with you under another name,’ French went on. ‘She was tall and well built and fair with blue eyes and a heavy chin. Always well dressed—a fur coat and so on.’
‘No, we had no one answering to that description. Besides, no barmaid left here about a month ago.’
French next repeated his inquiry to the Waldorf Theatre in Birmingham. But no one of the name was known there either, nor had a new barmaid been employed within the last four months.
It was what he had expected to hear. Methodically he turned to the next obvious inquiry. Sending the descriptions of the three suspects to the Record Department, he asked if anything was known of them.
But here again he drew blank. The gang was not known to the police nor was any of the three an habitual criminal.
So far as he could see nothing more could be done till the next day. He therefore put the affair out of his mind and took up the routine matters with which he had been engaged before Thurza Darke’s call.
About 11.30 next morning French, after an interview with his immediate superior, Chief Inspector Mitchell, left the Yard and turned his steps in the direction of Trafalgar Square. As he walked his thoughts were occupied with a revolting and mysterious murder which had taken place the previous evening near Skipton. He thought it not unlikely that the help of the Yard would be requisitioned, and he wondered, if so, whether the case would fall to him. None of the other men, so far as he knew, were disengaged, while he, except for this trifling business he was now concerned with, was at a loose end. He hoped he would get it. He liked the country, especially in summer, and he was getting accustomed to working away from his base. His two last big cases, at Starvel in Yorkshire and down in Devonshire at that Dartmoor affair, had been completed without the help of his staff at headquarters, and he had found little difficulty in working alone.
He reached the National Gallery, and going into the Turner Room, became engrossed in the splendid exhibits hung therein. Though technically ignorant of art, he liked pictures, and of all the pictures he had ever seen, Turner’s gave him the most pleasure. The fact that Miss Darke’s interview was to take place in the adjoining room did not prevent his making the most of his opportunities before she and her dubious acquaintance arrived.
He moved round, looking at canvas after canvas, and returning again and again to the Fighting Temeraire, which was to him a source of never-ending delight. But all the time he kept half an eye on the door, resolved that when once Mr Style should appear, he should be kept in sight until he reached his office or his dwelling or some place from which he could be picked up again when and if he was required.
Time passed quickly under such pleasant conditions and soon twelve o’clock, the hour of the interview, arrived. But there was no