The dangerous game
“It’s that house with the ivy on it on this side of the way, sir. The
blinds are still down. They don’t get up very early, eh?”
With covert glance Darville examined the place, wondering what secrets
it contained, and, further, whether Caborn and his wife were actually
hidden there.
Soon they set to work in real earnest, and, unscrewing parts of the
engine, Darville cleaned them well, and slowly replaced them. Now and
then he made a mistake, being surreptitiously corrected by the young
driver.
Presently a young police-constable wandered along to the corner, and,
after a glance, bade the pair good-morning in his pronounced accent of
the North.
“What’s up?” he asked inquisitively.
“Oh, an infernal breakdown,” was McLay’s reply. “I brought a gent out
here from the Waverley Station and dropped him, and now I can’t get
back. This taxi’s always breaking down. I’m sick of it!”
“Get somebody to tow you home,” was the officer’s friendly advice. “I
would”; and he passed slowly along upon his beat.
An hour passed, but no sign of life appeared at No. 286. The house
with the ivy seemed to be closed and deserted. Paton, who had watched
the constable’s interest from afar, now strolled up.
“What’s that ass want to put his nose into it for, I wonder?” he
remarked with some annoyance. Paton, great detective that he was,
always resented any inquisitiveness shown by any uniformed man.
Then, without waiting for a reply, he strolled along the Strathnairn
Road in order to thoroughly explore it. He found to his relief that it
ended in a cul-de-sac. Therefore, anyone coming out must pass the
broken-down taxi.
Time still went on. Noon passed. People came from various houses and
went out upon their Sunday morning walks, some with their children,
and others with their pet dogs, most people being dressed in their
best, for, though cold, the sun now shone.
The constable returned, crossed again to the broken car, and chatted
to Darville, who was kneeling beside it pretending to tighten up a
nut. Then again the uniformed officer moved away, watched from the
distance by the lounger Paton.
“It’s a waiting game, isn’t it, sir?” remarked McLay, lighting a fresh
cigarette.
“Yes,” replied Darville. “I’m afraid we’ll never be able to put all
those parts together again”; and he grinned at the row of bolts and
nuts and other small parts which he had arranged in a row along the
curb.
“Oh, that’ll be quite all right, sir,” was the taxi-driver’s cheery
answer. And Darville again glanced along that dull, gray street, so
dismal and dispiriting after the blue sky and brilliant Adriatic
sunshine he had so recently left.
At about half-past one o’clock, just as Darville was bent double in an
effort to unloosen an unusually tight nut, his quick eye noticed the
door of No. 286 open and the well-dressed figure of a man descend the
flight of steps. The newcomer glanced up and down, and then commenced
to walk in the direction of the taxi.
Instantly Darville recognized him as the man Caborn, Joan’s husband,
though he was now clean-shaven, so that his features seemed to possess
a marked Hebraic cast. Next second the novelist took out his
handkerchief and mopped the perspiration from his brow. That was the
signal prearranged with Paton, who, in a moment alert, covertly
watched the stranger’s progress.
Caborn, as he approached the taxi, glanced at it with interest, and
then passed along and, turning the corner, walked airily and entirely
without suspicion along the broad road which led back to Stockbridge
and Edinburgh.
Was Joan in that house also? Darville, delighted with his success,
rose and stretched himself, saying:
“That’s the man! We were not mistaken after all!”
“Has he run away with a girl?” asked the driver, full of curiosity.
“Yes. With a young woman. And we suppose she’s in the house now. Let’s
wait a bit longer. We might see her, too.”
“Right you are, sir. I’m quite game for it,” the young fellow answered
him. So they paused in their pretended work and indulged in another
smoke, though they were very hungry and thirsty.
After an hour Caborn suddenly reappeared, repassed the taxi, and
reëntered the house.
“In any case, the lady won’t come out yet,” Darville remarked.
“They’ll have lunch. So let’s go and have a bite of something
ourselves”; a suggestion to which McLay at once agreed.
Paton was signaled to and joined them.
“Well,” asked Darville, “where did he go?”
“To a house about half a mile away. There are three foreigners
there--working men, apparently. I’ll have the place watched as soon as
I can get a ’phone message through to London. I didn’t like that
darned young constable putting his nose into the business. He annoyed
me.”
“Yes. But we’re just off for food. Stay here and look after the wreck,
in case that fool comes along again and raises trouble--taxi left
unattended and so on! I’ll bring you back a sandwich or something,
Sandy. The lady may be with him. We must find that out by some means.”
“I only wish I could deliver that jewelry. But if I gave her a dud box
it would give the game away,” Sandy said to himself as Darville and
the driver walked away in search of food.
CHAPTER IX.
ON DANGEROUS GROUND
On Darville’s return he found Paton sitting in the taxi, apparently
asleep. Nothing had happened, so the detective, directed by Darville,
went off to get something to eat.
The afternoon crept slowly by. The sun had disappeared, and the mists
were fast appearing in the silent, deserted street. Presently Paton
returned, and they all resumed their patient vigil, Darville ever and
anon tinkering and hammering at the engine.
“We’ll never get the thing to work again,” he remarked to the young
driver. “We’ll have to be towed home eventually.”
But, just as dusk was falling--and fortunately before the street lamps
were lit, for the car was standing beneath one, and the illumination
would have been very unwelcome--the door of No. 286 opened again, and
down the steps came Joan and her husband. She wore a well-cut beaver
coat with a little black cloche hat, and carried in her hand a small
leather attaché-case.
In an instant Darville turned and hid his face, so that he should not
be recognized, and as they passed, McLay remarked loudly to him that
they had better telephone for another taxi to tow them home. The
moment the pair had turned the corner, Paton became interested in
their movements, and strolled in the direction they had taken.
Meanwhile, in Darville’s quick brain there arose a thought. Was the
house occupied? If not, it would be as well to enter and search it. So
he sent McLay along to knock at the door and beg for some water to
refill his radiator. He rang several times, but there was no reply. A
servant had left by the downstairs door at about three o’clock,
therefore it was apparent that nobody was at home.
Darville felt in his pocket and found the little portable tool-case
which he usually carried. That decided him. He drew from the case a
thin piece of steel about an inch broad and five inches long, which he
fixed into a handle. Then, instructing McLay to remain on watch, he
slipped down the steps into the basement, and went to the kitchen
window, finding it securely latched. For a few moments he examined it,
then, drawing the useful little tool from his pocket, he inserted the
blade between the sashes, and, after some difficulty, he pushed back
the latch, allowing the window to open.
In a moment he was inside, and, finding the stairs, ascended to the
first floor. In the dining-room were the remains of the tea which the
Caborns had taken, but the drawing-room was closed, and by the dust
everywhere it showed that it was not used. Indeed, about the place was
a close, musty odor, as of a house that had been closed for a long
time, and as he investigated room after room, neglect and decay seemed
apparent on every hand. Two bedrooms only were in a habitable
condition, no attempt having been made to clean the others. In the
center of the bed in the back room of the first floor lay four new
rubber hot-water bottles filled to their utmost capacity.
Darville gave vent to an ejaculation of surprise when his eyes fell
upon them.
He took one in his hand and found it quite heavy, crossed with it to
the fading light, where he regarded it with considerable curiosity,
turning it over and over and weighing it in his hand.
“H’m!” he muttered to himself. “More interesting than I expected.”
Then, replacing the hot-water bottle, he made a tour of the room,
opening the drawers in the dressing table and then the wardrobe,
where, concealed in the bottom drawer of the latter, he found four
little tin boxes something like those containing one hundred
cigarettes, and painted gray. At the ends of each box were brass
electrical terminals for the attachment of wires. The boxes were
securely soldered up, therefore he was unable to decide what could be
within.
One of them he took to the window, and, after making a thorough
examination, he stood for a few moments hesitating and perplexed.
By the discoveries he had made he fully realized the seriousness of
the situation, and that it was as well that he had followed the
mysterious pair to Corfu and away again. They had taken every
precaution to cover their tracks, but he had successfully traced them
to their hiding place.
Downstairs on the mantelshelf of the dining-room he had noticed a tube
of liquid glue, and this decided him how to act. He rushed down and
obtained it. Then, removing the brass screw cap of one of the
electrical terminals, he cut a tiny disc of paper to fit the
under-part of the cap and gummed it to the brass. Each of the eight
terminals he treated in a similar manner, and when the caps were
replaced in position the paper discs were hidden.
Then he carefully put everything back as he had found it and descended
to the hall. Hardly had he reached the bottom stair when he heard the
rattle of a latch-key in the front door; therefore he fled down to the
basement, escaped through the open window, and, closing it after him,
swiftly reached the street.
He found Paton and McLay chatting.
“They’ve been round to see those friends to whom Caborn paid a visit
this morning,” Paton said. “There’s something tricky going on, I’m
certain.”
“Yes,” replied Darville. “I’ve been in the house, and I’ve made some
very interesting discoveries. Let’s get back to the hotel. I must get
on the telephone.”
“The car’s all right, sir. I can drive you,” said McLay. “I’ve been
able to fix her up again,” he added with a laugh.
So the two men got in, and McLay drove back into Edinburgh, depositing
them before the North British Hotel, where he duly received a handsome
reward.
Just before eight on the following morning, Seton Darville entered his
secret headquarters, that big suite of businesslike offices which were
believed to belong to the Spanish mining corporation. He went in by
the back entrance, and opened the door of his private room with his
key.
Upon his table lay several letters which his secretary had not dealt
with, for they were in distinctive envelopes, showing that their
contents were for the director’s eye only.
On ringing his bell there appeared a tall, thin, middle-aged man, a
Foreign Office official named Gordon Howard, who had been lent to
Darville, and who was head of the night staff.
A visit from the chief at that hour was not unusual, for Darville,
when in England, had a habit of turning up at all sorts of hours, when
he would refresh himself on the old brown sherry and dry biscuits he
kept in his cupboard and work for hours, going over and digesting the
piles of reports which arrived in such an ever-flowing stream by all
sorts of channels.