The dangerous game
That night at half-past eleven Darville and Paton entered the
Edinburgh sleeping-car at King’s Cross. The platform inspector, who
knew Paton well, came into the car to see they were all right,
scenting some mystery, of course. He knew Sandy Paton to be the chief
inspector of the Special Branch, and had more than once chatted to him
when he had been lounging on the platform at the departure or arrival
of the Prime Minister or other members of the Cabinet, against whom
all sorts of cranks write daily threats.
“Well, Sandy,” said Darville, “I’m going to turn in. I’ve had a heavy
day, like you. I’ll see you in the morning. We’re due at the Waverley
Station at 7.30. I’ll have my tea at seven. Tell the conductor to
bring it to me, will you? Gad! I’m tired--and so you must be, Sandy.
Good-night.”
And he nodded to the great detective, who rose and left the
sleeping-berth.
Seton Darville slid the bolt and threw off his coat.
Had Peke O’Brien, the man of mystery up to the present, really given
away Joan’s hiding-place? Was he to be able to effect a coup, and
obviate the terrible disaster which the enemy had so cunningly
arranged, and which Caborn and his wife had arrived in Britain to
carry out?
CHAPTER VIII.
A DELICATE ERRAND
At eight o’clock on a Sunday morning there is hardly a dog astir in
Prince’s Street, Edinburgh, that wonderful thoroughfare of splendid
shops on the one side and the valley gardens on the other, often
declared by travelers to be one of the most picturesque streets in all
the world.
As Paton and Darville ate their breakfast in the big dining-room of
the North British Hotel, above the Waverley Station, they looked out
across the valley to the gray old castle, perched on its cliff, to the
left, and the handsome Scott Memorial, a prominent figure in the hazy
landscape.
They were there upon a very delicate errand. During the night, as
Darville tossed restlessly in his sleeping-berth, he evolved a plan.
He knew that a Sunday was the worst day on which to attempt to keep
observation upon any house. Therefore, he decided to try another ruse.
After breakfast they obtained from the hotel-porter a guide to
Edinburgh which contained a map, and together pored over it. They
found that Strathnairn Road was, apparently, in one of the most select
and respectable districts on the outskirts of Edinburgh, in the
direction of the great Forth Bridge. It lay about a mile out on the
highroad from Edinburgh towards South Queensferry, and was, it
appeared, a somewhat new district.
So early was it that there was no immediate hurry, hence the two men
from London took a stroll along Prince’s Street to the Caledonian
Station and back again. In their whole walk they did not pass more
than twenty people, for the ancient Scottish capital lies dormant each
Sunday morning, when no trains move out of the stations, and the only
signs of life are milkmen and vendors of the Sunday newspapers.
Back again at the North British Hotel, that handsome building
dominating the end of Prince’s Street, Seton Darville halted near a
taxi-stand, where four taxis stood waiting to be hired. He surveyed
the drivers critically. They were all elderly save one--a dark-haired,
cheery young fellow, who wore his peaked cap at an angle, and who was
joking with a gray-bearded man whose cab was in front of him.
Darville regarded him for a few moments, and quickly decided that he
was the man of whom he was in search. He went up to him, and said:
“I want to speak to you for a moment. Come over here.”
The young fellow, somewhat surprised, crossed to the steps of the
hotel.
“Look here, are you open to a bit of an adventure this morning?” asked
Darville, with a good-humored smile upon his broad, clean-shaven face.
“What sort of adventure, sir?” asked the cautious Scot.
“Well, only just a bit of fun--in order to watch somebody. That’s
all.”
“I can watch anybody,” was the young fellow’s response, eager to earn
something, for Sunday is always a thin day with taxi-drivers in
Edinburgh. And he glanced inquiringly at Paton, who was standing at
Darville’s side.
“Well, do you think you’ve got an overall to fit me?” asked Darville,
laughing.
“I don’t know, sir,” he said surveying his burly, thickset figure. “We
might have one round at the garage. You’re a bit of an out-size, you
know.”
“Very well. We’ll wait an hour. Then you’ll take us both round to your
garage and see if you can fit me up. I’ll engage you from now, so
start up your ticker. We’ll go for another walk, and be back here at
ten o’clock.”
“Right, sir,” answered the taxi-man, quite ripe for any adventure. He
had eyed the two strangers suspiciously at first, but Darville’s
_bonhomie_ had impressed him, and he now saw that some humor was
intended.
The pair walked back through the deserted gardens as they chatted.
Though questioned by Paton, Darville told him nothing of what he knew
concerning the projected activity of the Caborns. Seton Darville was
ever secretive. He never allowed others to know of his intentions, or
suspect his devilish ingenuity before he had carried his clever,
almost uncanny, maneuvers into practice. To his friends he was always
most loyal, honorable, and sympathetic. His age passed unnoticed
because of his never-failing buoyancy of youthful spirits. Every
woman, young or old, pretty or ugly, he treated as a little child,
forgiving every feminine whim and foible; to men he was the very soul
of honor, even against his own interests. But to his enemies--and
especially the enemies of Great Britain--he was harsh, unrelenting,
terribly vindictive and cruel. He carried out his frightful
vindictiveness by those irresistible means that were in secret at his
disposal, for his hidden hand was indeed one of the most powerful ones
in the British Empire.
When again the adventurous pair met the jaunty chauffeur outside the
great façade of the hotel, Darville asked:
“Do you happen to know the Strathnairn Road?”
“Yes, sir. It’s out towards South Queensferry as you go forth to the
Forth Bridge.”
“Well, we’ll be going there this morning,” remarked Paton, speaking
for the first time in his broad Scotch. The taxi-driver, who had given
his name as McLay, instantly realized the presence of a
fellow-countryman.
“I’ll take ye there all right, sir. And I’ll do whatever ye want,” he
assured them.
“Well, now take us to your garage,” said Darville, and they both
entered the taxi, which started out along the Portobello Road. Their
destination proved to be about a mile out of the city, and there
certain matters of payment were at once arranged. A greasy blue suit
of overalls was provided, and Darville fitted them on, but they were
hopelessly too small. Several other suits belonging to the other
chauffeurs were tried, but none were sufficiently broad in the chest,
until at last a suit owned by a driver whom McLay referred to as
“Fatty” Duncan was produced, and proved fairly satisfactory.
“Now, you two go along to the corner of Strathnairn Road,” said
Darville. “Before you get there Mr. Paton will get out. At the corner
you’ll break down the taxi, and then ’phone to me to come along and
mend it. Give me a bag of tools.”
“All right, sir. I’ll ’phone in about half an hour, and you can take a
taxi out to me. That’s all right! I’ll play the game. Rely on me. I
can see a bit of fun in this.”
“And I’ll make it fully worth your while,” declared Darville,
laughing. “Yes, you’re right! We shall have a bit of fun. I want to
watch for somebody.”
“Who?”
Darville hesitated.
“Well, to tell you a great secret, we’re looking for a runaway couple.
But, of course, don’t you mention it to a soul.”
“H’m! You’re divorce detectives, eh?” remarked the cautious Scot,
laughing.
Darville smiled, in order to give color to the suggestion.
“I wish I could tell you all about it,” he said, “but you’ll know
everything afterwards. I only want to ascertain if they are really in
the house we suspect. You’ll read all about it in the papers later
on.”
“Right you are, sir. This gentleman and I will carry on till you come
and mend the breakdown,” said the driver. “But”--and he hesitated--“do
you know anything about engines?”
“Nothing whatever,” replied Darville with a laugh, “so it will be the
more easy.”
All three laughed heartily, whereupon Paton got into the vehicle,
which drove out, back again through the misty streets towards
Edinburgh, and out on the other side of the city.
As soon as they had gone, Darville smeared his hands with grease and
made a few dirty marks upon his face, transforming his usual neat,
perhaps dapper, appearance to that of a hard-working motor mechanic.
His overalls were very dirty and very worn, with an ugly patch on the
right elbow, and he had removed his tie, so that he only wore a rather
dirty collar, giving him an appearance of negligence, and, with a
seedy old golf cap a size too large for him perched upon his head, his
disguise was complete. Only he himself knew the extreme seriousness of
the result of his journey there to Scotland. He went out into the
yard, lit a cigarette, and then lounged out into the deserted
Portobello Road. A silence that is almost uncanny lies about a Scotch
town on Sunday morning, and that occasion was no exception.
Presently he strolled back impatiently, until at last the telephone
bell rang and was answered by the man in charge of the garage.
“You’re wanted at Strathnairn Road!” he shouted to the new mechanic.
“Robbie will drive you. Robbie! Robbie!” And he shouted the name
several times before a short, gray-faced, hobbling old man put in an
appearance, and five minutes later Darville was traveling out over the
road which Paton had taken.
After a quarter of an hour Darville, leaning out of the window, said:
“Don’t go too near Strathnairn Road. Drop me about ten minutes’ walk
away, and then go back to the garage.”
“All right!” answered the gray-bearded, little old man, and they
continued their way.
At last, at a point in the broad highway leading to Bonnyfield, the
taxi pulled up, and Darville lugged out his heavy tool-bag.
“Straight on. First on the right,” said the old driver, who then
turned his taxi and started to return.
In a few moments the mechanic--as Darville had now become--espied
Paton lounging along, pipe in mouth, apparently quite self-absorbed,
and taking no interest whatever in anything. The man who had crossed
Europe so hastily plodded on, finding the bag unusually heavy, until
at last, turning the corner suddenly, he found McLay with the bonnet
off, examining his dilapidated engine.
Darville glanced up the long, gray thoroughfare of regular stone-built
houses of similar architecture, each with its flight of steps leading
to its front door, with a bay-window at the side.
He was always afraid of a bay-window. The watched-for person could so
easily be concealed behind heavy lace curtains, or, worse still, those
dusty Victorian abominations called venetian blinds.
“I’ve been watching, sir, but nobody’s come out of the house, except a
girl who opened the front door and took in the milk. They get up
pretty late, it seems,” McLay remarked, his face still bent upon his
engine.
“Well, let’s carry on,” said Darville cheerily, throwing down his
tool-bag with a bang. “You screw off things, and I’ll clean them up.
We may have to play this little game quite a long time, so don’t let
us be impatient.”
Glancing behind him, he saw Paton, a rather crestfallen object,
passing the end of the road.
Darville lit a cigarette, and both men, smoking leisurely, discussed
the breakdown. The novelist pretended not to glance at the house, but
in reply to his question _sotto voce_, the taxi-driver said: