CHAPTER II

FRENCH MAKES AN ASSIGNATION

IF Thurza Darke had surprised French by her dramatic declaration, he
surprised her even more by his reply.

“Miss Darke,” he said gravely, though the irresponsible twinkle showed
in his eye, “you’re a born story-teller!”

The girl started and flushed angrily, but he held up his hand.

“No,” he said with a smile, “I don’t mean it that way. I believe
everything that you have said. But I really must compliment you on the
way you’re telling your story. You did that climax uncommonly well. And
I’m not laughing at you either,” he went on as her expression changed
once more. “I can assure you I consider your statement very important
and am following it closely. Go on now and tell me what happened after
that. By the way, do you smoke?” He took a box of cigarettes from a
drawer of his desk and held it out.

His little ruse succeeded. Miss Darke had become very much excited, and
though he liked artistic narrative, he felt it would be too dearly
purchased at the price of accuracy. His intervention brought her back to
earth. She lit a cigarette and went on more soberly.

“I just sat and stared at the mark while I thought what poor Eileen
Tucker had said. This must be the man she had described. I thought of
what had happened to her and I shivered with fear. It was clear what her
trouble had been.”

“Well now, it’s not so clear to me. Just say what did you think it was?”

The girl looked at him in surprise.

“I supposed that Style had made her rob the till of the Hammersmith
Cinema, and I supposed he would try and make me rob the Milan.”

“Not so easy as it sounds,” French declared. “But perhaps you are right.
Yes?”

“Mr. Style evidently saw me looking at the mark, for he seemed annoyed
and he covered it up with his sleeve. I felt I had been rude and I
looked away. But his manner was not so pleasant afterwards.”

“Do you think he had any idea you had known Eileen Tucker?”

“He asked me the question. That was afterwards, after we had talked for
some time. Just as I was going away he said: ‘By the way, about a year
ago I met a young lady in your line of business—a Miss Eileen Tucker. A
very nice girl she was too. I suppose you never came across her?’”

“And what did you say?”

“At first I was going to say Yes, then something came over me and I
thought it might be safer if I said nothing about it. So I said No, that
the name was strange to me.”

“H’m. Do you think he believed you? Did you hesitate before you answered
him?”

“I 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 good-bye 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 to-morrow—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. To-morrow 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 any one 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 sign of
either of the principals. As the minutes slipped away French suddenly
grew anxious. Had he bungled the affair already?

He had chosen the room beyond that of the interview in the hope that
Style would not see him, so that he could trail him with more ease and
security. Now he began to wonder if Style had met the girl at the door
and altered the venue to some other room. If so, he might pick them up
as they were leaving the building. He therefore strolled to the
entrance, and there taking up an inconspicuous position, watched those
departing.

For over half an hour he waited, then remembering that Miss Darke began
work at the Milan at one o’clock, he concluded his luck was out and went
along to the cinema.

It was a fine new building in Oxford Street, not more than a hundred
yards west of the Circus. Palatial was scarcely the word with which to
describe it, as it was built in a vastly more lavish and ornate manner
than ninety per cent. of the palaces of the world. French entered a huge
hall of marble and gold in which were a row of box offices and from
which massive bronze doors led to the auditorium. Only two of the six
box offices were open. French glanced into each, but in neither was his
friend.

Having learnt from an attendant that though the girl was due for duty,
she had not yet arrived, he sat down to wait. Time crawled slowly on.
One-thirty came, then one-forty-five, then two, and still she did not
appear.

At two o’clock French could stand it no longer. He saw the manager. But
from him he learnt nothing. Miss Darke had no leave of absence nor had
she sent any apology. She was a reliable girl and had never before
missed an attendance. The manager had no explanation to offer.

“I should be obliged if you would let me know at the Yard if she turns
up,” said French as he took his leave.

He was now acutely anxious. Fears of the worst filled his mind as he
drove rapidly to the boarding-house in Orlando Street, Clapham.

In a few minutes he was sitting with Mrs. Peters, the landlady. At once
he obtained news. On the previous evening about half-past eleven an
attendant had rung up from the Milan. He had explained that Miss Darke
had asked him to say that her sister had unexpectedly turned up from
Manchester and that she was going to spend the night with her at her
hotel.

As a matter of form French rang up the Milan. But the reply was only
what he expected. Miss Darke had left at her usual time without giving
any message to any one. Sadly French found himself forced to the
conclusion that there could no longer be any doubt that the gang had got
her.

The thought of her disappearance profoundly upset him. It hurt like a
personal affront. An appeal had been made to him for help. He had
promised help. And he had not given it. . . .

“They’ve been too much for her,” he thought. “That ruffian Style saw
that she suspected him of Eileen Tucker’s murder and no doubt he
shadowed her to the Yard. He’s told his friends that she’ll blow the
gaff and they’ve done her in, or I’m a Dutchman.”

In accordance with his usual custom he had added a description of his
caller to the papers which already formed the beginning of the dossier
of the case. It was the work of a few seconds to call up the Yard and
direct that an urgent call for four wanted persons should be
circulated—those described under the names of Thurza Darke, Gwen
Lestrange, Westinghouse and Style in the file in the top left-hand
drawer in his desk. Then he turned back and with the landlady’s
permission made a detailed search of the missing girl’s bedroom. But
with the exception of a photograph of the girl herself, he found nothing
useful.

On his way back to the Yard he called at Mr. Arrowsmith’s and
interrogated Miss Cox, Miss Darke’s boarding-house friend, once again
without result. Nor did a visit to telephone headquarters in the hope of
tracing the mysterious call lead to anything.

By the time he had completed these inquiries it was getting on towards
eight o’clock. As the hours passed he had been growing more and more
despondent. But there was nothing more that he could do that night. By
now the description would be in the hands of the police within at least
fifty miles of London, and that he had not heard from any of them seemed
to confirm his worst fears.

He was just about to leave the Yard when the telephone in his room rang.

“Call through from Portsmouth about that Thurza Darke case,” said the
officer in the Yard private exchange. “Will you take it, Mr. French?”

“Right,” said French, an eager thrill passing through him. “Scotland
Yard. Inspector French speaking.”

“Portsmouth Police Station. Sergeant Golightly speaking. Relative to the
inquiry as to the whereabouts of a young lady named Thurza Darke
received this morning, I think we have some information.”

“Right, sergeant. Go ahead.”

“At about nine-thirty a.m. to-day a report was received here that the
body of a girl had been found in the sea at Stokes Bay, some three miles
east of Portsmouth. A party of yachtsmen leaving for a day’s sail had
seen it floating about a mile from the shore. They brought it in and we
had it medically examined. The cause of death was drowning. So far we
have been unable to identify the remains or to find out how the girl got
into the sea. It looks like suicide. We had already issued a circular
when we saw yours. The remains answer the description you give.”

“Girl been in the water long?”

“Six or seven hours, the doctor thought.”

“Has the inquest taken place?”

“It’s arranged for ten to-morrow morning.”

“Right, sergeant. I’ll go down to-night, if possible. Wait a moment till
I look up the trains.”

“There’s an eight and a nine-fifty, sir, from Waterloo.”

French glanced at his watch.

“I’ll get the eight. Can you meet me?”

“Certainly, sir.”

The hands of the station clock were pointing to ten minutes before ten
when French, armed with his emergency suitcase, left the train at
Portsmouth. A smart looking sergeant of police was waiting on the
platform and to him French introduced himself.

“The girl was with me on the previous day sergeant, so I can identify
her myself. Otherwise I should have brought some one who knew her.”

“Quite so, sir.” The sergeant was deferential. “We believe she was a
stranger. At least, we haven’t been able to hear of any one missing from
anywhere about this district. And your description just covers her. The
body’s lying at the station, so you’ll know in a few minutes.”

“Right, sergeant. Let’s walk if it’s not too far. I’m tired sitting in
that blessed train.”

French chatted pleasantly as they stepped along, true to his traditional
policy of trying to make friends and allies of those with whom he came
in contact. The sergeant was evidently curious as to what there might be
in this girl’s death which so keenly interested the great Yard. But
French forbore to satisfy his curiosity until he should himself know
whether or not he was on a wild-goose chase.

The remains lay on a table in a room off the yard of the police station.
The moment that French raised the sheet with which the head was covered
he recognised the features of the girl he sought. Poor pretty little
Thurza lay there still and peaceful, her small peccadillos and troubles,
her hopes and her joys, over and done with. As French gazed upon her
pathetic features, he grew hot with rage against the people whose
selfish interests had led to the snuffing out of this young life. That
she had been deliberately murdered there could be little doubt.

“It’s the girl right enough,” he declared. “Now, sergeant, as you may
have guessed, there is more in this than meets the eye. I have reason to
suppose that this is neither accident nor suicide.”

“What, sir? You mean murder?”

“I mean murder. As I understand it, this girl was in the power of a gang
of sharpers. She got to know more about them than was healthy for her
and this is the result. I may be wrong, but I want to be sure before I
leave here.”

The sergeant looked bewildered.

“There is no sign of violence, as you can see,” he suggested
hesitatingly. “And the doctor had no suspicion of murder.”

“There has been no post-mortem?”

“No, sir. It wasn’t considered necessary.”

“We’ll have one now. Can you get the authority from your people? It
should be done at once.”

“Of course, sir, if you say so it’s all right. There will be no
difficulty. But as a matter of form I must ring up the superintendent
and get his permission.”

“Certainly, sergeant, I recognise that. Can you do it now? I should like
to see the doctor as soon as possible.”

While the necessary authorisation was being obtained French examined the
body and clothes in detail. But except that a tiny bit of skirt had been
torn out, as if it had caught on a splinter or nail, he found nothing to
interest him.

A few minutes later he and the sergeant were being shown into the
consulting room of Dr. Hills, the police surgeon.

The doctor was a short man with a pugnacious manner. To French’s suave
remarks he interposed replies rather like the bark of a snapping
pekinese.

“Murder?” he ejaculated when French had put his views before him.
“Rubbish! There were no marks. No physical force. No resistance. Not
likely at all.”

“What you say, doctor, certainly makes my theory difficult,” French
admitted smoothly. “But the antecedent circumstances are such that
murder is possible, and I’m sure you will agree that the matter must be
put beyond any doubt.”

“No doubt now. Made my examination. What you want next?”

“A post-mortem, doctor. Awfully sorry to give you the trouble and all
that, but Superintendent Hunt agrees that it is really necessary.”

The doctor was full of scorn at the idea. He had made an examination of
the remains in his own way and that should be sufficient for any layman.

But it was not sufficient for French. He held to his point and it was
arranged that the post-mortem should take place immediately.

“A word in your ear, Dr. Hills,” French added. “Keep the idea of subtle
murder before you. These are clever people, these three whom I suspect,
and they’ll not have adopted anything very obvious.”

“Teach grandmother . . . suck eggs,” barked the doctor, but there was a
humorous twinkle in his eyes at which French could smile back with a
feeling of confidence that the work would be done thoroughly and
competently.

“He’s always like that,” the sergeant volunteered. “He pretends to be
annoyed at everything, but he’s really one of the best and a dam’ good
doctor too. He’ll make that examination as carefully as the best London
specialist and you’ll get as good an opinion when he’s finished.”

If time was a criterion, the job was certainly being well done. French,
sitting in the nearest approach to an easy chair that the sergeant’s
office boasted, had read the evening paper diligently, had smoked three
pipes, and finally had indulged in a good many more than forty winks,
before Dr. Hills returned.

“Kept you up, Inspector?” he remarked, glancing at the clock, whose
hands registered half-past three. “Ah, well, been worth it. Found
something. You’ll not guess. No sign of murder. No force applied. No
resistance made. Death by drowning only. All as I said. _But_——” He
paused in his stream of explosives and waited impressively. “But—water
in lungs and stomach—_fresh_, Inspector, _fresh_. What do you make of
that?”

French was considerably impressed.

“What do you make of it yourself, doctor?” he asked.

“Drowned in the sea. Fresh water in lungs. Pretty problem. Your
funeral.” He shrugged his shoulders, gave a quick, friendly smile,
barked “Night!” and was gone.