CHAPTER XIII
THERE was an air of serenity about Harlboro Street station house; a calmness which had been disturbed all that day by the chip and jangle of steel on stone; for the commissioners had belatedly agreed that the charge room was ill-lit, and a wide gap had appeared in one wall—covered now at the end of the working day, with canvas and laths—and not all the industrious sweepings of the housekeeper had removed the white of plaster from the door.
Station Sergeant Carter had no views on the æsthetic; he was a little tetchy as to tidiness, and held very strong views indeed upon draughts, which blew about his legs as he worked at his high desk. There was a silence in the bare charge room, broken only by the sober ticking of the clock and an occasional tinkle as a cinder fell in the steel-bottomed fender.
Wembury stood with his back to the fire, an evening newspaper in his hand, his derby hat on the back of his head. He was reading the story of the Ringer. The newspapers had only just awakened to the fact that drama was walking in its midst, and when he returned to the station house he had found three reporters waiting to be misinformed.
The sergeant dropped his hand on a bell-push and a policeman came through the door leading to the cells.
"Get that sack out of the way," said Sergeant Carter testily, pointing to the offending article that was draped over a trestle. "And push the trestle up to the wall."
As the policeman obeyed, he turned to the twinkling Wembury."The place is more like a pig sty than a charge room. This is no place for honest working men who only work seven hours a day."
Wembury looked up over his paper.
"Expecting company?" he asked, and the sergeant grunted.
"No. We haven't a good night club in this district, worse luck! Now, when I was up west, you couldn't pass ten minutes without somebody being brought in. Ugh!" He shivered.
Wembury looked at the gap in the wall approvingly.
"It was about time they put in a window. This is the darkest station house I've ever been in," he said.
"You've had a bit of luck," growled the sergeant. "Personally, I'd rather have a station dark than chilly. There's a draught coming through that hole that's paralysing. Good story, sir?"
Wembury had put the newspaper down and had taken a little book from his pocket and was turning the leaves slowly. He looked up.
"This? No."
"Novel, sir."
Wembury shook his head.
"I don't believe in novel reading. It puts ideas in your head," said the sergeant disparagingly. "I wonder whether the doctor's got any romance out of that job?"
Wembury smiled.
"Where is he?"
"He's in the cells, putting a bandage round the head of a nut who tried to climb a lamp-post with a two-seater Rolls. The doctor thinks he's drunk—I certainly had suspicions myself when he wanted to shake hands with me after he was charged. No, he's not a local. Is there anybody in Deptford that owns a two-seater Rolls?" he asked sarcastically. "Said his steering gear went wrong. Maybe he was right—his steering gear! It certainly slipped the drum when he tried to walk across the charge room."
Wembury was evidently not inclined for conversation. His mind was intent upon the closely-printed pages of the little book. Presently the sergeant put down his pen.
"Do you believe the Ringer's in town, sir?" he asked.
"Do I believe it?" said Alan Wembury in surprise. "Why, of course I believe it! Even Peter thinks so."
The sergeant smiled tolerantly.
"Peter would think anything for a pint of beer," he said. "No, I haven't tried it—beer's dear."
Doctor Lomond came up from the cells a little importantly, and the sergeant, getting down, made room for him at his desk.
"Drunk, doctor?" Alan asked the question with a smile.
"Undoubtedly, in spite of his being a member of two good clubs. He'll probably plead neurasthenia and shell shock, but for the moment he's vulgarly intoxicated."
"Nothing romantic?" asked Alan innocently and the doctor glared at him over his glasses.
"If you're going to roast me every time I have to examine a boozer" he began, and then laughed. "I asked for all this trouble. Nevertheless, I hold on to my theory. I believe that if anybody brings about the arrest of the Ringer it will be me!"
Sergeant Carter looked pathetically at his superior, and the doctor, raising his eyes quickly, intercepted the glance.
"You feel almost sorry for me, don't you? But unless I'm greatly mistaken, I'm going to give you clever people the shock of your lives. I'm wasting my time because I'm talking to a wholly sceptical audience," he said reproachfully, and went on with his work.
Alan Wembury resumed his study of the book until:
"The constable wants you, Mr. Wembury," said Sergeant Carter.
Looking across to the open door, Alan saw that the officer on duty was making signs.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Peter, sir. You told me to keep an eye open for him."
"Peter!"
Wembury put down the book and walked to the entrance of the police station.
It was not Peter's habit to come direct to headquarters. He was generally satisfied to show himself in the street. Usually he passed by the station, made a signal to the man on the door and walked slowly on, to be followed by any detective who happened to be on duty at the moment. But now, to Alan's surprise, the little man came straight to the steps and mounted them.
"Can I see you a minute, Mr. Wembury?" he muttered as he passed, and Alan followed him into the charge room. "In your office, sir?"
The inspector nodded, opened the door of the office and they went in together.
"Well, Peter, what have you found?"
"They're going to do that warehouse in Hinton Street tomorrow night—Ben Skoffer's doing the job. Lenley's out; he came up to London this morning."
"I know that."
Peter was nervous—a curious phenomenon in him. These minor details were the merest cloak to hide the real purpose of his coming.
"Sam Haggitt—him that works for Meister, the lawyer—he's hopping it to Canada."
"Going to Canada? When?" asked Alan quickly.
"To-night," was the astounding reply. "I had it from the girl he goes with. She's leaving, too. I saw him yesterday come out of the C.P.R. offices on Cockspur Street."
"Are you sure?" asked Alan incredulously.
"Yes, yes. He's bought his ticket," Peter went on. "He's got the money off Cora Milton for that, but he's got some more coming from somewhere else."
He walked to the door, tried the handle and returned to the table.
"The Ringer's back," he said, lowering his voice. "I've got it straight."
"Anybody seen him?" asked Alan in the same tone.
Peter Litt shook his head.
"No, nobody's likely to see him. But his landlord""
"I know all about his landlord. He may have been mistaken. One voice sounds very much like another. Besides, the Ringer would 'ring' his voice too, Peter."
The little man looked round the tiny office uncomfortably, nervously.
"I've been looking for you all day," Wembury went on. "You can forget the little thieves and the small burglars—Haggitt and the rest of them—but keep your eyes skinned for this man. There's big money for you if you detect him. Wait!"
Peter had made a protesting noise.
"I don't want you to walk up and lay your hands on him. I hardly imagine you'd be such a fool. But when you see him," he dropped his voice, "go to the nearest 'phone, call me up and tell me what he looks like."
Peter shook his head vigorously as they passed out into the charge room.
"I'm not going to nose on the Ringer." He was very definite for Peter. "Meister wanted me to do it, and I kidded him I would. But not me, Mr. Wembury!"
He was shivering stupidly.
"And so would you be if you was me," said Peter, when the detective remarked upon his condition. "The Ringer's death to a nose! Here—there was a feller who nosed on him once—a feller named Toby Law—ever heard about him?"
"That's right," said the sergeant unnecessarily. "They took Toby out of the river a week later. Found drowned. Is that the murder he's wanted for, Mr. Wembury?"
Alan agreed.
"They done him down at Silvertown," Peter went on. "All the boys know it, don't they, sergeant?"
"Don't ask me," said the sergeant. "I'm not a 'boy.'"
"We know it, at any rate," said Wembury. "But you need not be afraid that anything like that will happen to you."
"I'll watch that it doesn't," said Peter hurriedly. "I'll be going now."
He was obviously anxious to avoid a repetition of Alan's request. It was not like Peter to come openly to the station house. He was by nature furtive, had in him something of the cat. But to-night the little man took a view of the station house which was novel in him. The ugly building with the blue lamp stood for safety and sanctuary. There was a cheering sense of strength in its very grim solidity.
He slunk out of the door again and was lost to view. The sergeant looked at Wembury.
"What do you think about that?" he asked. "I've never seen him in that state before. Maybe he's taken to drugs. All these 'grasshoppers' get that way if they don't drink themselves to death."
The doctor blotted one of the many puzzling forms which he had to fill up, and stepped down from his stool.
"Here is the certificate, sergeant," he said briskly. "Now what about Meister?"
"What about him?" asked Alan, secretly amused.
"I've got a theory," said the doctor, "but I realize I shan't be able to work it out single-handed. You told me yesterday that underneath the Lane is a subterranean passage."
"I told you that the tenants had knocked down the cellar walls and made a run from one end of the road to the other. But that is only on the south side of the Lane."
"Which is the same side as Meister's house," said the doctor promptly. "Where does the passage end?"
Alan wrinkled his brow in thought.
"I think about fifty yards from Meister's house; certainly not nearer."
Dr. Lomond smiled blandly.
"It isn't fifty yards if it's the end house. Exactly twelve feet continuation would bring a man into the passage underneath Meister's garden. I've been to the trouble of going up to the Borough Surveyor's office, and I examined the plans. And I have reached this conclusion: You've got a man outside the house—in my judgment that is perfectly useless. He should be posted inside, midway between the tree and the northern wall. I should have the ground bored—not so thoroughly as you're being bored now!—and unless my judgment is at fault, you'll find that the cellars of the Lane are the best way in for any person who has designs upon our friend's life. When I was district surgeon at Bulalli, we had a party of Tommies who were being held for some civil offence, and they made their way down into a storehouse...."
Alan listened with exemplary patience. But it was always Dr. Lomond's fate to be interrupted in the most interesting portion of his narrative. A telegraph boy came in, looked round somewhat awe-stricken at finding himself in such an unusual and fascinating environment.
"For you, sir," said the sergeant, taking the message.
Wembury opened the envelope and read the two closely-written pages, folded them up and put them in his pocket.
"You can save yourself a great deal of speculation, doctor," he said, with a twinkle in his eye. "The Ringer is in Australia, and the Melbourne police think they will arrest him to-night!"